What's in a name?

"You can write me down in history with hateful, twisted lies, you can tread me in this very dirt, but still, like dust, I'll rise."
Maya Angelou


Names. such an interesting topic when doing family research like this. Please, please, please future child bearing humans of the wolrd, do your kids a favor and DO NOT name them after someone in your family that's already been named after too many times to count already! I know that it's a sentimental thing to do, but lord it makes digging for records and keeping said records organized just a total pain in the you know what ! The Louisianan Catholic strain of my family has so many repeats of biblical names that it just makes me wanna renounce the Catholic church on this basis alone. How many people can you name Matthew or John or Paul in a family tree? gazillions, it seems. It made me so grateful when i started digging into my Mississippian side where at least I could keep most of the names straight because there were no duplicates of say a "Sally Bell" or "Lessie Emma". In my Tennessean tree there are some original names like "Veatrice" for instance- but because that name is so close to the regular seen "Beatrice" it means I have had to look a little more carefully at records that may have gotten it wrong. I guess if you are going to get creative you should just go all out? There's a limit to that too though...

It does get amusing however-- last year i came across a family member long gone, most likely a slave, whose mother actually named him "Scales". I don't how that was pronounced in his day, but in terms of how it relates to me, it's pretty ironic...Then there are others I have stumbled across that has made my imagination blossom at times-- like a "Lawless", who according to the records I have was married at least 6 times,widowed twice within those 6 in his lifetime- a hustler for sure. Or unusual sounding names like a little one I found who died way too early-- "Eulalie". Something about that one sounds so sweet and musical to me.... I've even found a "Miles" who passed around the turn of the century. And then there's a host of others-- Jacquet,Eulix,Kermit, Conchita,Meligan, Adelaine, Floresten, Abba, Kersaia. But these folks are encased around a pretty long list of repeats-- mostly biblical repeats and some days it drives me insane.

I remember as a little wee person hating my birth given name "Matana". It sounded funny, it looked funny. I looked funny to match at one point and so it was just godawful traumatic sometimes. But as a teaching artist I have at times run across names that I am so glad I never had to deal with. Like there was that weird period in the late 70's early 80's when american black people started getting a little to creative with the "going all out" name thing for my tastes-- you know Shaquita, Monesha, Ronesha, Jayquan, etc etc until it seemed like anything was possible. Now it seems like with the rise of stars like "beyonce" and her sister "solange" I have run across little ones named not only after them but things like Shinaiyate, Quiance, Destinaya, Lexiance (named so because her dad likes lexus cars) Jiandre etc etc. Even met a little "Alizé" ( and if u don't know what that is, good for you, I'm not even gonna link to that). I mean some care should be taken when naming a kid right? And i know its not just a black american issue as a friend was telling me about a white canadian kid whose "back to lander" parents named him, i kid you not, "Revolutionary Starchild". It's nice to be reminded that questionable taste is, and will always be a universal human trait regardless of race, color or creed or geographic logistics...And who am I out of all people to question folks stab at creativity when naming their kin?

A few years back I was doing roll call for a group of bronx 5th graders at a music creativity workshop I was teaching. I got to the bottom of the page at the very last name and mumbled it out because I assumed I had said it wrong- "alchtruno jackson" or something like that. For obvious reasons I hate getting names wrong. As soon as I said it all the kids perked up and said as if in chorus " noooooo, that's ALPACINO jackson" ( i've changed the last name for the purpose of this essay but the last name was definitely one of which an american president carried, which made it just as depressing). It took all i had, to muster up a straight face, and say calmly "Alpacino?", "one word?" and the kids informed me that yes, his parents liked the movie Scarface so much they decided to combine the name of that leading man's name as a tribute. "Alpacino Jackson". man. luckily that kid was absent. I remember leaving that day feeling kind of hopeless for the state of humanity, just by the observance of a name.


Today, I looked up my name in one of those name statistic search engines. Here is what came up:
"There are 2 or fewer people in the U.S. named Matana Roberts."
This makes me kind of happy, unhappy some days though. As we all know there are some times in life that you actually don't want to get found you know? But with the advent of the internet and all these social networking sites etc etc, it's almost impossible. It makes me groan some days because I can't even play it off like I'm someone else as there is no one else.

It could be worse though. My first name could be Alpacino, or i could the 15th Mary in my line that 200 years from now my own cousins will be banging their head against the genealogy wall, just like I am currently banging my mine...



postscript.
interesting article here on the statistics of how folks name their kids, with particular attention to possible chasms created by skin color? I get a little nervous with statistical data compiled and interpreted in books by academics about the African American community though
( thats my memphis grandmothers natural southern style suspicion of such things speaking through me in some ways)... remember chapters 13 and 14 of academic harvard crackpot Hernstein's Bell Curve? I certainly do... The academic cited is an economist employed by the University of Chicago though, so I'd like to think he must have some sense. Home town pride is a powerful thing....

having to ask?

“Creativity takes courage.” -- Henri Matisse ...

It's hard to figure out what the proper etiquette is when doing this type of family research--in terms of making contact with people that know they are family and people who may have no idea they are family. I find myself at a crossroads with this. For both sides of my maternal line I have the confirmed names of some of the european american ancestors. Both really powerful families that have in some cases created pretty powerful political legacies for themselves in the states they reside. In one case, my connection may have happened because my blood relative was a maid in a southern irish american household for a very, very long time and gave birth to possibly more than one child that looked nothing like her very dark complected husband-- were as pale as the sky is blue. At the same time, because of the many mixes within an African American family tree, African American women can have a serious rainbow of complexions among their children, some of which can skip generations. I've often marvleled at this. But in this case in every census I have found of the only documented living child ( it's other siblings supposedly died in childhood) of this possible secretive union, it is listed as mulatto, but the man listed as it's father is listed as black and it's mother is listed sometimes as mulatto, but other times as black. A mulatto is defined as someone who has one parent that is white and one parent that is black. A person of color who has one parent that is mulatto and one parent that is black is not defined as such. I'm so confused.... In any case, I've tracked down the relatives of this aforementioned employer, I know their names, I even have some phone numbers now, but I just don't know how to make that call you know? What do you say? "Hi my name is so and so and your well heeled, highly esteemed pillar of the community great great grandfather possibly required sexual favors from my great great grandmother as an employment skill?" or " Hi, I think your grandfather might have been a rapist?" or "Hi, your great great grandfather who was married to your Great great grandmother for eons might have actually been a serial cheater?" I'm not even 100% sure the stories that have been whispered for generations in my line are true, I mean whose to say? Supposedly Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemmings loved each other? I'm not a believer, but my own mother thinks it's possible, so why should i project so darkly on my own history? Maybe my grandmother instigated his advances? And why even put someone else's family through that kind of trauma? But it's just that the power dynamic really bothers me-- a powerful politician who rubbed elbows with Roosevelt and other powerful men and a female servant? Who would have needed their job more? That's the critical feminist instinct radar ringing off the charts at the moment.....question, questions, questions.


I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings but i want to acknowledge my heritage--the good and the bad that in the end makes
up the best that is left. In this case, I'm just not sure how.

Just a short rant. needed to get that off my chest today.

---
the photo above are unknowns from my paternal mississippian side ( click on it to get a closer look). I so love the defiant look in the eyes of the unknown woman. I appreciate that part of my family's legacy so much.

One for you, Three for Me? a privileged Soliloquy?

I am, was, and always will be a catalyst for change.
Shirley Chisholm


At a Coin Coin performance this past summer I was asked by a well meaning witness the following question:

"How does it feel to perform a work like this for an audience of privleged white kids?"

I was a bit taken aback by the question as no one had ever asked me that before in such an open, frank manner( it should be noted that the questioner herself was also white). This particular show was at a canadian loft space that catered to all types of music and so the crowd was a crazy wonderous mix of sound purveyors.... I remember feeling really good about this that night as i looked out into a sea of faces that looked like a cross of people as comfortable with Bad Brains as they might be with Coltrane, and later had some witnesses come up to me saying that they had no idea what to expect and what they got was totally not what they thought might be probable. I so loooooooooooooved this....that this is even possible you know? Maybe it's the canadian drinking water or something that brings out such an intelligent cross section of folk, but these are the types of crowds I really like to play my sounds for because I feel like this kind of cross section is very representative of my own person as well as being some of the folks that will be the eventual messengers.....pushing this music onward to new listeners you know? But at that moment that I was approached with the aforementioned question I wasn't really thinking about race, social class,privelege. I was just basking in the aftermath of what felt like a decent uplifting surface scratching rendering of my own artistic vision.

In the act of doing this work, the idea of privelege in America has come to mean something much different to me than before I started this journey. As an African American identified person who has gotten to experience on more than one occasion what it feels like to be the literal black sheep in a sea of american whiteness, I have witnessed first hand the possibilties of what privlege based on something as ridiculous as skin color can mean in all it's possibilties. It's not always a negative experience either, as in some instances it has meant that I have been able to develop some wonderful realtionships with people that I might not have met otherwise if their access, or my access to certain ideas had been restricted.( i have a lot to hate on about the Chicago public school system, but the fact that free music programs for kids existed at all has made all the difference in my life in some ways, now looking back...) In other instances it has meant I have at times been made to feel like the odd person out, and at this point in my life I feel like I have to be more wary about making sure I'm not projecting past painful experiences on certain situations that end up forcing me to be that odd person out by mental default... But the idea of privlege and what it means has changed for me because digging into records, tracing these people has opened up a new area of privelege that was able to exist in a sort of an "under the table" way at times for some black americans in the dark annals of the american race "politic". It's why I have records of these folk. I am descnded from slaves yes, but I am also descended not just from white privleged folks but from many privleged folk of color too-- African American land owners, doctors, lawyers, educators, and a lot of middle class working class black folk who for the most part were able through chance, luck, and in some cases pure cunning skill and almost obsessive desire, able to carve out a piece of the cream/dream pie--American style. My family tree looks like incredibly expensive chocolate box sampler-- a rainbow of brown, white, cremes,pale pinks and dark dark chocolates. And regardless of what they claimed or did not claim there were a lot of folks prospering despite what was at one time considered a serious handicap. Now its an asset that could get you elected president! How about that? how about that!!!!!!! ( can i get an amen?)...( i have so much to write about this, especially the wierd icongraphy of the first black american first lady thats been floating around the world these days...more on that in upcoming posts)



Anyway, so then what's perceived privlege all about? Maybe it's a bit of luck at play too? maybe its an extension of my own people's slave history? Being originally owned by powerful white southern families( one of which I've been trying to contact and seem to be getting the cold shoulder which makes me really sad btw) that also did well which means in the end thier slaves recieved, despite the chains, beatings, and pro bono sexual services, the better residuals of white american privilege, and so it all began? I have had friends who come from generations of folk contunually restricted regardless of skin color and sometimes that lack seems to continue on for eons, in almost a wierd cycle that can not be broken. I grew up pretty broke, most of my immediate family's supposed wealth gone by the 50's, but at least not the lack of exposure to resources and ideas that could grow from the exposure to certain ideas of privilege.( and all the gross trappings that can come with that in some ways too. Being a musician does not make my family as proud as if i would have chosen a career in law or medicine for instance.)
I don't like the supposed phenomena of white privlege-- the american "male" attachment bothers me most-- sometimes it completely pisses me off, but the fact remains that without the privilege that my family experienced so long you might not even know my name. So whats that say about privlege? What's it really mean? Performing what is in my own personal history an actual display of my own historical privilege for a group of white privileged kids? We really are more closely connected than history sometimes wants to give credit for. A lesson I keep learning over and over and over again. And I'm glad to know it.



postscript.

1. On december 9th at the Issue Project Room in Brooklyn NY, you can help me try and add to closing the chasm of real class privlege and poverty, something I have learned from research into my family story that many of my folk believed in and inasmuch actually fought for in a myriad of different ways, by coming to my very first drive for the homeless--aptly named Can Can 4 Coin Coin... a little cheesy sounding yes but in some ways speaks to the joy, hope and good times that i think can be possible in just having an idea to try and help any way you can...more info here

2. If you don't know who Shirley Chisholm is, than you don't know really know who or how Barack Obama became to be how he is...

Feelin' tomorrow like I feel today

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
- Mark Twain


I find art life to sometimes to be an isolated,overly complicated existence that requires a wide open patience about human process that I'm not always sure I actually have. I have been thinking a lot about my trajectory and how i missed the signs that might have made this realization a lot clearer to me before I got myself in so deep...so deep that honestly at times I feel I am drowning. It's not as if I didn't know, sitting in a 4 walled room for hours on end trying to hone my craft back in the day, that to take a vow in art is to take a vow in poverty, that to take a vow in art is to take a vow in unforeseen ( and sometimes thrill of) risk, that to take a vow in art is to take a vow in the constancy and borderline madness of change.I read tons of biographies, interviews etc, hung out with elder mentors,saw (and continue to see) some of my peers really suffer. I guess it's easy to romanticize all that garbage when you are not really in it, and now that I'm in up to my neck really I feel slightly ridiculous.

To choose this life is to choose a life of perpetual psychotic motion, jagged ebb and flow, that is not for the weak. But some days I am so weak, weak beyond my wildest dreams, that I stand in shock of it all, unable to think logically or feel that I am existing on solid ground. Lately I have felt that I am way too sensitive for my own good, that I feel things too deeply, with such a blinding intensity that I in the end submit my self to a steam train of (unnecessary) hard times. Voluntarily moving through madness in order to get to the little moments of stillness that happen for me in the act of performing/creating/sharing my work, of trying to stage my own mini inner revolution so that I can feel and experience what is for better or worse my life based on decisions I actually chose--some circumstantial sure, but most decisions that I, erring on the side of jumping in the well with eyes tightly sealed shut, CHOSE. How audacious is that? Eyes tightly shut for fear that if I dare open them, I might not have the wherewithall in the first place to even try. It's as if I actually instinctively prefer the shattered glass model you know? Shatter the glass on purpose in order to see beauty and possibility reflected in new light... pick up the pieces later, and hope that for better or worse I can still manage to prop myself up,dust myself off, still standing, relatively unscathed. But sometimes it feels like I am chipping off a part of my soul, almost giving it away in a sense, and in a way that feels like I might never ever get it back. This scares me.

When doing research for this project the same aforementioned metaphor applies. I am picking up pieces of shattered and sometimes discarded glass, trying to see through them, inside of them, and hopefully in the end-- beyond them. Beautiful in their broken renderings yet weighed down with so much trauma that when i pick them up too fast I am afraid I might actually hurt myself and it makes me again wonder why I chose this life? Or did it really choose me in the way a welsh american slave buyer by the name of Roberts chose one of my family members so long ago? I have an auntie who has said to me on more than one occasion that in most families, it takes many generations for artists to show up in a family tree. That it is the result of an intricate networked web of hard working, hopeful lives rendering the creation of just a single one that will in the end, create for them all. This is a beautiful thought to me and it gives me much hope but it also makes me feel a supreme and colossal weight that some days I find really hard to translate. But yet here/hear I am. Here/hear we are. Can you hear me?


The video above features the great songtress Bessie Smith. In a conversation I had not too long ago with my Mississippi farm raised grandmother she mentioned to me that her family owned a victrola and would often times listen to Bessie Smith. The idea of a sharecropping/traveling preacher helmed family of 14 out in Mississippi country, working their land so that one day they might get to have a little they can call their own, listening to Bessie Smith records maybe while making quilts, as was a tradition in that household, warms my little heart. I started looking at the old videos just to get some sense of what hearing her voice might of been like which led me to refresh my memory, and digg for details on her artistic existence only to be reminded that once again, this life is not for the weak. It was never meant to be. Bessie Smith sung hard, lived hard, died hard. It's just my estimation, but from the stories I have found on her, it sounds like she had a damned good time in the process most days, despite the trials and tribulations of it all that were probably way worse than anything I will ever have to really face head on in the way she obviously did. A many faceted, exciting at times, yet richly complicated life she had yes? In some ways maybe, just maybe, not unlike my own? hmm.

Suzanne Fiol.

"it's called "Project Room" for a reason. It's important to have a space where you can try something new and, if you don't succeed, you don't succeed. I have issues with artists who are afraid of failing." S. Fiol
------

I have never gotten to experience the loss of death in the way that many of my friends have. I have many artist friends who walk through their days shackled by the memories of compatriots gone way before they were supposed to leave. That's how it always is isn't it? I am experiencing that today. Suzanne Fiol is gone. Suzanne was the founder,instigator,head hustler, (an artist extraordinaire in her own right) for the Issue Project Room where I am artist in residence this fall.In my previous entry I spoke of being up all night because I was obsessing over the piece i was going to be presenting in Issue's space in the coming days. The obsession was definitely there, but what i didn't mention for the sake of IPR privacy was the drive behind that particular night's obsession--it was all about Suzanne.

I had just seen her a few months before. She had been battling a pretty agressive cancer scenario but like the total rockstar, she always seemed to me, she was beating it, and when i saw her looked fabulous, healthy and strong. Sprawled on that lovely vintage couch in the back of Issue she complained light heartedly of missing her long flowing lifeofthierown locks but I remember thinking at that moment how even more chic she looked with her new short shorn do. Just as lovely as ever really. Instead of staying in the space that day she wanted to go have lunch at some new Brooklyn spot together, but I--on hectic NYC gotta do a double lifetime of errands in one hour--mind frame declined.like a fool. I so regret that now. I just thought I'd get a chance to have some hang time with her on another day, for many days to come. She was someone i so looked forward to having more heart to heart talks about life,art,womanhood. Over the three years I have known Suzanne, those talks have meant a lot. She had a perspective on wo(e)man as artist/artist as wo(e)man, that was so wise, so comforting, so full of possibility and most of all self forgiveness and fun! Making me really excited about the possibilities of maturing into my work and becoming just as vibrant,confident,sophisticated and wise as she was. Even if she did not always feel this way she had a presence that constantly defied any insecurity to the outside observer. And she fought fiercely for art! hands down a hero in my book.


It was with utter dismay when her wonderful staff and kindred compatriots filled me in last week on the new sadness. That the doctors had done everything they could do and there was no more they could do. The members of her staff that I had the most contact with, Zach Layton,Michelle Amador, Andrew Smith,Lawrence Kumpf, were running things so smoothly at the space between visits to the hospital. They looked so tired yet made sure that the sadness of the moment did not impinge on my development activities in the space. I was constantly amazed by their generosity,patience and ability to remain present and even on occasion-- smile at me and give me in the end a platform to investigate notions of courage through art.


And so there i was late night in Issue, working, burning the midnight oil because I realized that i wouldnt be able to do half of what i am doing if it wasn't for people that run wonderful venues like the Issue Project Room believing in me. Prior to that day I wasnt feeling very good about my piece. There were a lot of holes and it just seemed doom filled honestly. i was also a little spooked that night too--couldn't help but think of all the Suzanne touches that the IPR space encumbers. From the incense on the cabinet next to her mystical collection of owls, to the old candle holders, bottles of vino in the cabinet to that comfy vintage couch that seemed in many ways to remind me of her. And as i laid on it to take various breaks that evening i felt her support.She believed in me, and even though I had a hard time believing in myself that night I was determined not to let her down.If she was going to lose her life fighting for art i could surely lose some sleep fighting with her/for her/for myself...

To me, Suzanne had a very mystical view of the world and the order/chaos of things, but yet was never afraid to follow her instincts in real time,investigate a hunch,challenge the world. Though i never talked to her about it I'm pretty sure that in the end she saw her suffering and forced entrance into new worlds as part of a larger destiny that had to be unfortunately realized.I also know that she was pissed as hell at the situation--as all of of us were, watching her in this battle, and if she had to leave she was at least not going to leave without a fight. But I suspect/I hope that she in the end died in a new peace-- ready to take on whatever was next with eyes wide open, ready to challenge, investigate, interrogate and celebrate a new world. So elegant, sophisticated, funny as hell, strong minded,staunch liberated feminist, warrior woman with crazy,crazy unpretentious flair, yet comforting and welcoming to so many different types of people, places and ideas, willing to be the delicate cradle that rocked it all.

Most of all she was a walking celebration in my eyes, of the possibilities of loving,living and creating a life in art--Suzanne Fiol-- to me in a nutshell.

Lets celebrate her life by continuing to take steps forward no matter how small; in essence to TRY. That's all she ever asked of us really. To try fortifying the ranks. To try exploding the standards. To try with as much charm as we can muster to challenge the status quo. To try seeing creativity without boundary. And lastly: To try generously speaking up loudly and proudly for art and all it's exquisite madness. Because in the end tomorrow is not a guarantee to any of us.Suzanne had that presented to her in the hardest ways possible, and yet look at all the wonderous possibilities she left behind for so many people only because she took those little steps forward that created larger steps for us all.

In the end the notion of "trying", whether we succeed or fail is really the tip of the iceberg. It's our ability to have the courage to "try"....to do those things we think we can not do. We all miss her dearly, but she would be annoyed if we over focused on her absence, I'm sure. So with her spirit, in her memory lets get back to work, and lets work hard and rise beyond the sadness to a new era of inquisitive artistic interrogatory challenge.It's really the least we can do for someone like Suzanne. She was just the best, really the best.

---------------
Suzanne Fiol's New York Times obituary.

another great writeup on Suzanne by Christopher McIntyre.
one more nice one that will give you links to all the other nice writeups about Suzanne can be found here:http://charmicarmicat.blogspot.com/

counting sheep.

Burgundy Street Blues- George Lewis 1959
by boberwig

"You shouldn't have to justify your work."
Judy Chicago

It's 8 am and I  still have not been to bed yet. Up all night obsessing over this new compositional framework I am trying to finish putting together for this next performance (www.issueprojectroom.org), based on my COIN COIN work. As a sound improviser i could easily just slap something together in the name of "improvisation" and  probably no one would know the difference maybe? but my insides would rot from that kind of deception. Or maybe that's not deception really ? i just feel like sometimes for those of us sound makers that get stuck in the  experimental/avant box that some people associate it with a lax work ethic-- or as one talented musician i dare call my friend called it--"grant music". This annoys me, but it inspires me too also to work a little harder. Just because music sounds complex doesn't necessarily mean it is so below the surface level. ( take that!)

Lots floating in my head about this project. Finally making phone calls to total strangers  that I am related too and have been afraid to call because sometimes it's just a strange feeling being that stranger on the other end. But the  beautiful wealth of sharing that happens instantly (almost everytime)  seems worth trying to move over that fear in my head. Last night I got to speak with a wonderful 82 year old cousin  who when talking about our collective grandmother-- his grandmother and my great great great grandmother , you could hear his 10 year old self and how much he still misses her , though she passed in 1937.  I was able to hear first hand more than I thought I would ever know about her. Mother of 14,  born on a plantation that was possibly a part of one of the battles in the civil war ( larouche crossing). A tough  little woman ( by physical description) who loved to cook, make jelly preserves and though the queen of voodoo--Marie Laveau lived in her neighborhood for a time-- she prefered packing a pistol rather than dabbling some spell that would not always protect in the way a bullet might....
I learned last night that though she was born on a plantation in the 1850's she could read and write. She apparently spoke French creole, which is different  from the standard louisiana"creole" her husband spoke I was told( Louisiana, y'all have got my head spinning--the languages, the neighborhoods- parish vs. ward vs etc etc)) And I learned that she is an aunt of another musician in the family line- jazz/dixieland pianist Joseph Robichuax(!), whew!   and thats just a tid bit of what i learned.  Though i get so wrapped up in all the info that sometimes converting that all into sounds becomes paralyzing. Which is most likely why i didn't ever make it to bed last night. But it's all so fascinating you know? It's a joy to be able to tell my mother details about her great grandmother and  a side of her family that due to all sorts of different circumstances she never got to really know.

So there are joys. lots of sorrows though too. One such instance is seeing recent video  of Chicago kids running around some of my old stomping grounds killing each other  without  malice...feeding stereotypes about black american youth,regardless of their background, in a way that just makes some peoples hatred of color all that much stronger in this country.

In some ways digging into these stories allows me a little buffer with that madness,but trying to be unattached--almost sleepwalking through  it ironically-- makes me sad  all the same.

 that being said i should probably try to get some sleep.


more soon.


--------------------
the video above:
joe Robichaux piano, Slow Drag Pavagau bass and Joe Watkins drums and of course george lewis killing it on the clarinet!

Questions of Womanhood.... Part I

"Where there is woman there is magic"
Ntozake Shange



It’s quite fitting that in a period where  the idea of strong women and transgender women of the African Diaspora is being deeply analyzed and crticized –Semeya, Serena, Kanye ( kidding, sorry, I have a right to knock anything south side  Chicago bred), etc …. that I  spent the past week  watching Treasures III—Social Issues in American Film 1900-1934. I had checked  it out of the library( remember those?), looking for more historical context that I could place some of the research I have been doing on my roots into better artistic context, so that I could finally wring the music out of it.

I was particularly interested in a segment of the 4 DVD box set called "New Women". No African diasporic women to speak of in any of these films  ( it was nice to see white maids for a change honestly), but still worth watching.  Each film  dealing with some area of  the weirdness that was/is the classic American tradition of cock blocking the social growth of the American woman,  using  caricature to call out  the rampaging woman( a.k.a. The outspoken woman) ,the gambling woman ( a.k.a. the financially independent woman),  the promiscuous woman ( a.k.a. the woman with freedom to choose).  I was both amused, intrigued, and aghast all at once, at the ridiculousness and questionable variety that was put before me in the name of artistic license.

In my life as a performer, when doing press and the like,  I try to shy away from  questions  that deal with what or what is not  between my legs whenever I can, unless they are offensive and I have to “school” somebody. I did an interview in Europe last year where the journalist  was using the  gender  thing  as  a jump off  into asking really personal details about  my sexual orientation, claiming that it would give the readers a better understanding of my music. What?  I don’t mind talking about my sexual orientation, but within the context that this interviewer was trying to frame it, I naturally was insulted. So as I had seen my Memphis raised  Grandmother Veatrice do  countless times when I was growing up, I had to, with as much  old school grace  and skill as I could  calmly muster, “school” him. Such odd experiences the  wo(e)man artist must tend too at times.....

Like an old  record that forever skips, but never ends, it gets pointed out to me that I am involved in  an art form that used to be over-saturated with the male musical variety.  In all honesty I have found the discussion, and my inclusion in it,  sometimes regurgitated to the point of  circus proportions. My own contributions   sometimes used out of context to make a pretty complex situation seem alarming in a simple and self glorifying way that just doesn’t add much to the dialogue for me.  One of the reasons I had moved to New York city in the first place, was because there seemed to be so many female musicians who were bringing their “A game” at all times, to the point of where gender was really an after thought.  And to a point where I thought dealing with the complexities of gender would be an afterthought for me too—or at least  kept at a larger distance —until I started this COIN COIN project. Art be damned. ( sorry mom.)

Part II in a minute....