THE ANTHOLOGY

I have Tribe fever. So does the rest of the country it seems. I haven’t seen the documentary, but there have been too many nods to Beats, Rhymes & Life: The Travels of A Tribe Called Quest lately not to rekindle my long-standing love affair with ATCQ.

I’m not a jealous person. In relationships, I feel like the man I’m with is with me because he wants to be; other women have little bearing on that. Jealousy seems like a wasted emotion. But “jealous” is the only word befitting of my feelings for other people’s affinity for my band. A Tribe Called Quest is mine. They are my precious.

I spent my summers ‘back in the day on the Boulevard on Linden.’ While Chaz Michael Michaels was summering in Cape Cod, I was with my brother on 229th Street in Queens. I was the only girl on the block, as always trying to fit in with the boys. While I loved Barbie and Jem with the passion of the girly-est of girls, my summers were reserved for riding bikes, playing war games, jumping fences, climbing trees and (when we could scrounge up the money) walking two blocks to Linden Blvd to buy some Jamaican patties and coco bread. So you see, “Check the Rhime” was obviously written for me.

I left New York in the summer of 1988. I moved to Kentucky. There was no more diversity in my life. The rest of my adolescence was completely surrounded by Becky’s and Todd’s. And they did not like me or my ‘black hair and fat-ass thighs.’ So when ATCQ shook the hip-hop world in the 90’s, they reminded me of a time when I fit in. Their music made me feel like my brown skin and full lips (which Becky made fun of every day) were the standard of beauty, not shame. In a school where New Kids on the Block was the standard of cool for girls with blonde hair and blue eyes, I found a standard of cool that would come to transgress race and time.

ATCQ sort of fills my quotient of cool. I mean, I do not have a single dance move past the year 1992. I believe the Running Man is both an excellent workout and an effective way of expressing one's feelings of joy when an awesome song is playing. Additionally, the snake is such a natural movement that I imagine Bach did it as he was composing the Cello Suites. But when I left New York, all those many years ago, it was like my cool injections stopped. Forget the girl who peaked in high school. I leveled out at the age of nine. But at least I don’t need lip injections.

So go ahead and throw on your copy of The Anthology. Replay “Electric Relaxation” one or two or ten times. But remember, they don’t belong to you. ATCQ is mine.

BURN THE WITCH. BURN HER!

I feel like my life would have been better served having attended the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (as a witch, not a wizard) rather than The United States Naval Academy (as a midshipman, not a goat). I hate to rag on my Alma Mater, but the ability to cast spells and transfigurate would be way more useful to me than knowing the General Orders of the Sentry or being able to kill a man with my bare hands (which I have done on occasion as part of Seal Team 6-126). For example, I could have stopped all of my body weight (mid-fall) from landing squarely on my bum when I was rollerblading this morning simply by chanting: “ARRESTO MOMENTUM!” Instead, I know things like ‘Set Condition Circle Zebra’ and ‘Red Over Red, the Captain is Dead.’ I don’t even own a boat.

When I fall, it is equal parts embarrassing and a relief. I don’t really have to explain the embarrassing part except to elaborate that every time it happens I am in the middle of thinking, “I am sooo cute…” in my short shorts, high heels, tight jeans, etc. (It’s like I bring these things on myself, really.) The relief comes from being able to restart the clock, lengthening the time until my next fall or accident. But when Hermione Granger restarts the clock she actually gets to travel back through time. Life as a muggle can be so unfair.

I ended an era last Friday, sobbing through the last of the Harry Potter films; wailing as Severus Snape was violently murdered and then later (yes, this is a world of magic) confessed his love for the boy who lived. The crying I did at the Naval Academy was not quite as cathartic.

I think there is a little bit of magic in this life, though sometimes disguised. Lately, I have been unable to maintain any semblance of a diet. Obviously, this was some form of unconscious divinity, preparing me for the extra “cushioning” I so desperately needed during my fall this morning. It’s just that as a witch I could chant “LIPO-SUCTIONOUS” and instantly return to my ideal weight. As it stands, I am not allowed to eat anything but iceberg lettuce until September, when I will gather with my classmates for my Naval Academy reunion (since being skinny is the only thing I will have going for me). I mean, I still have some sequencing to work out for my Cold Fusion formula and my cure for cancer is still pending FDA approval. So until then, I’m relying on my looks to get me through unscathed. It’s just that if I could turn someone into a toad or even perform a cruciatus curse on just a couple of ever deserving tools, it’d be a lot cooler.

I think my clumsiness is perhaps due to an inner ear infection. The Navy doctors obviously missed this. The examiners at Hogwarts would have spotted and treated my major malfunction with a flick of their wrist, making me as graceful as a Veela. Harry Potter, I’m gonna miss you so much it hurts. Almost as much as my scraped palms and bruised tailbone.

“REPARO!”

Nope. Still hurts…