I landed in 2003 Tuesday. You may also know this as Hampton, VA. Home with my family for the first time since December 2009, and I'm loving it. With my move to Panama approaching, it is important to connect with as many people as possible by June. Aside from seeing familiar faces, I intend to do a great deal of eating. And seeing my nieces. And cooking for mama. And dealing with the other person who just so happened to inhabit my mother's womb at one point, their other offspring, my...(deep sigh, loud swallow)...sister.

...who I've seen wear gray or blue contacts on various occasions, but whatever.

Had breakfast at Cracker Barrel yesterday. Haven't been there since 2005. Weeks after being diagnosed with lupus, i had one of many let's-pretend-all-is-okay dinners with Andre and Tiffany. I was still using a cane then, and at the end of the dinner, Tiffany reveals that my mom asked her to ensure that I took my medicine after our meal. Priceless.

Then I broke down in tears in her car.

The french toast was that good.

Today, though, I reconnected with Jaems, the son of one of my grandmother's close friends. Here in Hampton Roads, my grandmother is a Panamanian socialite, if there is such a thing. As a caterer, her house parties are the stuff of legend. Soca, calypso, magical arroz con pollo, and her life-altering empanadas. Oh, the empanadas. My earliest memories certainly include burning my tongue on fresh-baked empanadas. Around here, getting the last empanada is a gift from God. It's not uncommon for gold-toothed, gold-laden hungry Panamanians to make the three-hour drive from Washington, DC or the trek from Richmond to secure a few dozen of the celestial meat-filled pastries. Last year, a cousin I was to meet for the first time returned to Los Angeles from Hampton, carrying a dozen empanadas intended for me. They somehow "disappeared." We don't speak anymore.

"And no, you can't have the recipe."

At any rate, our grandmothers met here in the 1980s, and he fills me in on local happenings and the like. Essentially, he sees my grandmother more than I do. And while we're practically related, and have connected via Facebook and Twitter as of late, we've spent very little time together.

So, we headed to Cracker Barrel. An actual general store greets patrons before entering the restaurant. It's filled with all types of mass-produced country-themed goodies like pure maple syrup, huge rocking chairs, biscuit mix, and barrels of candy. Very Andy Griffith.

White-haired white people everywhere. A bewigged colored hostess floated around, checking up on tables, greeting them with "Hey suga" and "How yall doin?" and such. I fully expected there to be a "colored" section. The waitress approached.

"HEY YAWL."

I waited for Motormouth Maybelle from Hairspray to mosey up and sing about how a change is gon' come. Anywho, we ordered, caught up. We've more in common than I realized. We discussed his recent trip to Panama, my upcoming venture. We ordered, caught up, ate, talked shit. All the while, I'm realizing that this place perfectly embodied the feeling that overwhelms me when I come home. It never seemed this old-fashioned before. The people never seemed this behind. With each visit home, I am more and more thankful that I left. I can't imagine life in Hampton as a 20-something that's never ever left.

That is another blog entirely.

However, it's so so good to be home. Being able to look at and laugh with my Mom and Dad is so fucking great. Seeing my grown ass nieces, feeling some kinda way that the older one is just a few inches shorter than I, showering my sister (who also just started locking her hair) with side eyes and eye rolls, trying in vain to convince my grandmother that my hair is real and without extensions, being in walking distance of Chick-Fil-A and WalMart, seeing people I grew up with, running around the house with my sister's bitch ass miniature dog, having my parents remind me where the bathroom is as if I didn't live here from 1989 to 2006, sleeping in the same twin bed in my newly repurposed bedroom, and so on: all priceless, amazing experiences.

I have to soak up as much as I can before June 30th. I will no longer be a $40 bus ride or six-hour flight away. Though my parents have accepted what's approaching, I can tell they long for me to call and say that I'm moving back to Virginia. They do, though, respect my wishes and don't constantly hit me with "You know, you should just move back here," the way some of my friends in New York do. You think I enjoy being away from people I love? I wonder if they realize how hard it is hearing about all the amazing, fun, unique experiences and generally awesome shit I'm missing out on, and not being able to hop a train and be with them.


Ah well. Such is life.


Off to peel potatoes for my Mama...even though she hated on my macaroni and cheese yesterday. THAT is another blog altogether.


peace.


-chris.alexander

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In my attempt to post more regularly, allow me to delay the act of writing by recapping some of my favorite blogs from my time up until now in Califerny. Rereading some of these, I found myself reliving the various scenes, wondering why Saint Selena allowed me to end up in these predicaments. Join me on a heel-toe down memory lane and shit?

Here are my thoughts from the window seat as I left New York for Los Angeles...

...some vidjo from my 2nd week here. This is maybe my 2nd or 3rd dance class in LA.

A day at the beach with my cousin. The term "Mexicunt" is introduced to the world.





And THEN I had a series of soul-killing jobs.
Here's my first day at "MexiMart."
Then, I started temping. read that foolishness here and here.

Luckily that ended. Then, I was reunited with my book collection.


...and then. I professed. My love. To the creator. of....


ZEBRA CAKES. (well, actual Zebra Cakes are scares in this fuck ass state, so I took what I could get. Sue me.)





Me + Red Velvet = Happiness.









So, then I lived with a Compton-bred brother and sister. Yeah. Things I Will Never Do Again #431


The brother was a rapper. "Dirty Dez." Caveman swag on 100 dozen thousand. Jumpoffs, Bodily Fluids, and Free Advice. 
 








...then I gave a wig-snatching tutorial...






















 And then, Uncle Nethaniel and the remainder of the Real Housewives changed my life last year. And then, I wrote about it.





Good damn times, man. California's been...a learning experience if nothing else. Love it so much that I already have my exit date on the calendar. And yeah, I slacked on the blogging in 2010 as compared to 2009. I have a handful of posts scheduled, so...yeah, hopefully I won't desert this bitch again any time soon. Thanks for reading.

Off to procrastinate on writing.

-chris.alexander




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I'm not sure how I've overlooked this song for so long, but this week's newest music obsession is Ryan Leslie's "You're Not My Girl." Though apparently released in 2009, I just heard the song for the first time over the weekend, after watching the following video about 13 times consecutively:



The video is a collaborative piece between choreographer David Moore and Marty Kudelka, the man who makes Justin Timberlake move. Though their styles can appear similar at times, the piece does a great job of showcasing the differences between David Moore's work (which I love) and Marty's work (who does some of the best partnering in modern commercial choreography).

Then...I found this video from Candace Brown, one of the most consistent choreographers in Los Angeles. Few people can find a groove in the music the way she does, and she put a different spin on the song:



Sigh. The fluidity, the great sequencing. She really hurts my feelings. And Karon Lynn, the tall, slender bitch in the middle of the last clip here, HE really hurts my feelings. Her choreography always just feels natural. Not necessarily EASY, but it always feels good on the body...if you can capture the grooves.

At any rate, this is about the songs itself. Justin Timberlake comparisons be damnned, "You're Not My Girl" is the funkiest, most enjoyable "Bitch, know your role" song I've heard in a minute. Ultimately he's telling her that they can enjoy the perks of a relationship, quality time, probably hunchin', but um, Thou Shalt Not Be Claimed. Who doesn't love a gift-wrapped insult? I know I was too busy two stepping with my imaginary Long Island Iced Tea to initially catch the face kick.

Dah well. Check it out:



stay tuned....

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 No, I did not write this. But I wish I had.

I found this on Thought Catalog, a wonderful way to make an hour of your day disappear. It was written by Madison Moore, the latest object of my obsession. (judgemenot.com)

I laughed. I pondered. I proposed marriage via email.

Have a gander.

How To Be Black.

Join a gay hook-up site such as Manhunt or Adam4Adam. Send a friendly message to “Dannyc888” (white) saying, “Whoa, aren’t you cute!” Wait for him reply, “Too bad you look like you have been burnt by the sun LOL!” He blocks you so you can’t respond which proves he knew he was saying something racist and offensive. Click on another boy with a cute profile and get sad when it says,  “NO BLACK” or “ONLY INTO WHITE AND LATINO. AND LIGHT SKINNED MIXED. I’M NOT RACIST, IT’S JUST A PREFERENCE!!!” Sit back and think, um, it’s racist, dude. Write him anyway.
 Thoughts?

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*rummages for keys*

*flips switch*

*swats spider webs*

oh. hello.

If you're reading this, you've made it to 2011. *applause* It also means I have not forgotten the login info for this site. Well, after a string of insults and inquiries as to weather I a)had abandoned this blog or b)was dead, I figured I should get off my ass and start the year on a good note. I had a grand idea to do this wonderful "Ten Things I Learned Last Year" situation, but it's lost its charm, and I am not really motivated to force that out.

I can say that the year is of to a promising start. Lots of interesting things are in motion, and I am certain this year will be memorable.

For one, I'm a few months into writing for soul music site, Soulbounce and I love it thus far. I get to write about under-the-radar artists alongside some pretty dope ladies (and gentleman) and it's been a great ride. Previously I'd only really written for this blog, and its other versions. I've learned a lot about my value and ability as a writer, and about consistency, as I'm required to write something new daily. I've challenged myself, and I am digging the results thus far. In December, I wrote one of the best things (in my opinion) that I've ever written, this piece on Janelle Monae's The ArchAndroid, our album of the year.
Check out all of my work for Soulbounce thus far: here.


The other thing I'm really excited about is The Page Turners. Essentially, it's a site for book discussion, reviews, recommendations, etc. Birthed by Nakia and I, we've brought together a handful of bookwhores for some group nerdery and awesomeness. We talk about our favorite books, favorite authors, our book collections, and so forth. I really really really dig it. Stop on over and check us out, loser.

I'm managing a cool restaurant, helped cast a pilot for a family dance show, blah blah blah. Life is good.

Alright, now that I've got all of that out of the way, here's what I'm most hyped about.

Moving, to me, is nothing new. I've had 13 addresses in the last eight years. I've lived with exes, deluded and  batshit crazy late-thirties negro hair care company executives, subway car benchpressing vaginal bandits named "Sweetback", junkie dancers, and so on.

Now, though, I'm six months into life in my own apartment, something I haven't been able to say since I was 18 in Virginia. I love it blah blah blah fuck roommates blah blah blah...This week I bought a one-way ticket to Panama.

Yes.

I am moving to Panama. Where my mother was born. Where my Grandmother's eldest brother and a great deal of relatives I've never met (including an uncle with over 50 kids) still live.

Me and Grandma.

I couldn't be more excited. The trip began as a few weeks at a school in Boquete, where I'd study Spanish, live with a family, and be completely immersed in the culture. I figured I'd learn more living in Panama than I would in an American classroom. Attaining fluency and learning about that side of my family is important to me, as my Grandmother is reluctant to discuss her childhood, and I'm one of the few in my family who wasn't born and hasn't visited there.

Then, I figured that, if I didn't attempt to see the ENTIRE country/region, I'd be selling myself short. To go for eight weeks of school, come right back and start school again, and not get to wander, hump the locals, and soak it all up, would be a bummer. So, a brief stint became a one-way journey. I'll do school down there for a bit, hunt for an English-teaching job, meet my family, and hell just try something different.

It's time. Since I've backed out of the dance world, I've been attempting to come to terms with my purpose here in California. Yes, I've matured, become more socially independent, met some amazing people and fallen back in love with writing. But being the analytical jerk I am, I needed something bigger than that. Well, I don't have it. So, whatever. Besides, while I am truly spoiled by the weather (not including these recent, racist ass 40-degree nights), there's not much here in Los Angeles that I'd miss enough to stay any longer than necessary.

The way many coloreds feel a pressing need to visit Africa and reconnect with their past and bridge a gap across generations and all that PanAfrican jazz, that is how I feel about Panama. As weird as it may sound, I feel like I am going home.

I'm going for my mother, who hasn't been back since she left as a teenager. A few years after landing in Virginia, she met my father and started a family. Combine that with her struggles with lupus, and she hasn't been made the trip I know she wants and needs to make. A life goal of mine is to make the trip with her some day, and this may be the chance. Perhaps I'll be in a position to fly her down so she can be reintroduced to the land of her birth, decades later.

Connecting with my heritage is important to me. Whereas my sister (more on her raggedy ass later) opted to learn (and never use) French, Spanish has always been my priority. What better way than to live where I have no choice but to utilize the language. While English is spoken heavily in the capital, I am geeked about living simply and modestly, the way the locals do.

stranger ass woman, paternal grandpappy, dad (standing), mom, stupid ass sister.

So, in the days and weeks leading up to June 30th (exactly two years from my arrival in this city), I will sell and surrender as much as possible. Dishes, furniture, everything. Well, except books, clothes, and porn. Let's not get crazy. I'll make a final trip back East, and spend a few days in various cities, and then, at 1:15 PM, it's a wrap.

I'm not on some, "I'm never coming back to the states" shit, but I just have to continue this streak of taking risks and ultimately doing what makes me happy. If a teaching gig lasts 3 months, cool. If it's a six-month contract, fine. If it lasts a year or more, fantastic. There's not much in Califerny that I'm thrilled about besides school. I just want to be able to tell my long-haired children with their perfectly curled eyelashes that I followed my dream and did exactly what the fuck I wanted to do. I've heard, "Man I wish I could do something like that" from countless people, and I'm glad I don't have that fear. Picking up and moving to New York at 20 caught many by surprise. Same for relocating to Los Angeles in 2009, sight unseen. My thinking is: "WHY NOT?" What's the worst than happen? I could hate it, declare myself Mexican, and settle in Tijuana, dodging kidnappers, living off $1.85 a day. No biggie. What have I got to lose?

Then there's this: Not to get preachy and emo, but six years ago, I was in a coma. Not a fried chicken-induced food coma, but a real ass "you-should-probably-start-making-final-arrangements" coma. I went from healthy, active dancer, to comatose lupus patient in TWENTY FOUR FUCKING HOURS. I wasn't supposed to live. I wasn't supposed to walk...or dance...or be independent...or have hair...or move across the country. None of that. But after carpal tunnel, dialysis, months of chemo, hair loss, learning to walk, public humiliation, and so on, your perspective on life will surely change. At 20, I figured I may not have the two years I wanted to wait before leaving Virginia. A long life of dance, independence, and normalcy was no longer guaranteed, so I started thinking, "Fuck it. Why not?"

And so, the same applies now. Why not? Why be miserable? Why kick yourself in the ass years later saying, "What if I had humped that fine ass pastor I met in that bar that one time?" Not that that's happened to me or anything, but you get my point. Fuck it. Do it. Whatever it is.

I must admit, much of my attitude comes from reading the essay Self-Reliance by Ralph Waldo Emerson. He discusses the importance of acknowledging, believing in, trusting, and running with your ideas, regardless of how unconventional or unpopular they may be. So true. So necessary. It's okay, shock someone. Do something you didn't think you could. Shave your head. Live on a farm. Fart in public. Dump that deadbeat. I promise, nobody will explode based on your decision. Who cares?

Anywho, I intend to fully document the experience, via writing, photography, and the like. I may downplay this process to stave off more panic attacks, but this is absolutely fucking goddamn huge. I am absolutely fucking elated.


So now the hard part begins: making this trip financially possible. I have no fear that I can handle it, as I'm a firm believer that you can accomplish most things in six months time.

Now, since I must open said supercool restaurant in...*checks clock*...four hours, I suppose I should get some rest.

Oh, I won't ever leave this blog unattended for this long again. Blame Sarah Palin, or something.

Live your motherfucking life.

-chris.alexander