People I Don't Want To Be: Solange Knowles

Did anyone catch Solange Knowles on Letterman Monday night? I caught a glimpse of the performance on accident and was reminded, yet again, how much it sucks to be in the shadow of a sibling/spouse/parent who is bigger, badder and better than you at everything. An individual you will be compared to and will never be good enough to satisfy those who became enamored with your loved one/rival.

Solange is an average, but pretty performer who tries really, really hard and because of this I know that if she weren't the other daughter of Tina and Matthew Knowles, the parents who produced Beyonce, she would be doing anything but singing. She'd be in college. Or she'd be working at a bank or sewing in your weave. But she wouldn't be singing for her supper.

Not everyone can be Janet Jackson. Most are Tito Jackson. Not everyone is Eddie Murphy, but if Solange is lucky she can find her own niche like Charlie Murphy whose career was reborn once he started playing a thug life version of himself on the Chappelle Show and famously recounted tales of slap fights with Rick James.

Maybe Solange had slap fights with Rihanna or Jamie Lyn Spears or something. Maybe she got in a scuffle with Jennifer Freeman or Kyla Pratt or Meagan Good or Jurnee Smollette or [insert young blacktress here]. Maybe she's a better actress than her sister? Or designer? Or she could run for senate? But by singing and performing she is just ramming her head into a giant brick wall of Beyonce.

Every performance Solange gives will be like she just had to come on stage after her sister ripped it up dress in an homage to Josephine Baker while singing "Crazy In Love." It doesn't matter if Beyonce isn't anywhere in the room. That's what everyone is thinking.

She's a cute kid. It's a shame really. Especially the dancing. The dancing looked extra crazy. Some described it as "Suge Avery-esque." I would have gone with seizure-esque, but see, this, this is what happens when you're Beyonce's sister and you have no hips because you're skinny and you look ridiculous trying to dance like a wild woman like she does.

But shake that weave any ol' way. You'll figure it out on your own.

"The Flat Iron of God": Who Did Michelle's Hair

In all the excitement over Michelle's speech, dress and kids I forgot to add this tip I received from a reader, Sandra, more than a week ago on a story on the hairstylist responsible for Michelle's Denver 'do.

His name is Johnny Wright and blog Bella Sugar interviewed him July 29. Here's a snippet.

How did you start working with Michelle Obama?
It kind of happened on a whim, and I’ve been doing her hair now for a year. My agent out in New York booked me for her Ebony magazine shoot, and she liked it so much that she had her people book me. I actually just got a call today from her saying I’m booked with her for August a whole week — I’m going to do her hair in Denver.

Denver! Denver is important.

You know, I was very nervous with that particular booking. I was highly screened before I was even allowed to walk into her room — and I totally understand that. Whatever it took for me to be booked with her, she is a very normal person. She has two young children, and I think that her staying normal keeps them normal too. It’s just great working with her. She’s never picky; she never asks me for things I probably can’t do. She’s very understanding.

Isn't She Lovely, But Politics Are Ugly

I couldn't get over how radiant she looked.

Played out to Stevie Wonder's ode to his daughter, "Isn't She Lovely," Michelle Obama was like a glistening emerald oasis in a sea of Democrat blue. She shined and was flawless and in her mother's tears, we celebrated. When her husband, the presidential candidate, saw her there was an awkwardness that was out of both longing and pride. He fumbled his words and confused what city he was in because he really had nothing to say. She left him just as speechless as the audience who celebrated and wept her every word.

It was perfection for millions of black people who watched amazed to see what they have longed to see.

A black woman, in full bloom, exalted by throws of people not for her singing or dancing or abilities to tell jokes and soothe feelings. She was a woman in full bloom exalted for who she is, for her intellect, for her poise, for what she represented in her father, her mother and herself. In one woman there was the representation of a hundred years of blood, sweat and tears.

People cried and sighed and wept at the beauty and marveled in her radiant glow. Relished Michelle Obama's moment for black girls everywhere. Barbara Jordan, Shirley Chisholm and Fannie Lou Hammer would be proud.

Michelle Obama's feat was extraordinary as she described a life both poignant and ordinary.

Being black in America means that by being "ordinary" (re: mainstream), you are extraordinary. You are treated as if you are a unicorn. You cannot possibly be real. Black people don't live normal, happy lives. That doesn't fit the program.

The images we see of ourselves are so dark, so debasing, so violent and so ugly you feel deviant even if you are divine. Pro-athletes are featured over and over telling stories of mothers in jail or on drugs or on welfare and fathers who were phantoms, ghosts, haunts in their lives. This is what popular culture has told America and other blacks. It has told us that our "ordinary" is of the most desperate, disgusting things. Functional loving homes with black faces were the things of "Huxtable" fiction.

The black community has its share of problems, but Monday night was the first night in a long time where the story of the black woman, of a particular black woman was not about dysfunction, but love. It was of a story about a working class family who worked their way up through determination and the education of their children.

It was a normal, ordinary story that became extraordinary because of the stature and status of the individual telling it.

But while I reveled in this, seeing black self-actualization take place, there was something that nagged at me.

The fact that Michelle Obama had to give the "normal, ordinary" just like you speech.

The common insinuation from the Obamas critics is that they are not just like you. They are not one of us. They are unpatriotic. They are racists. They are up to something. And they don't know what this mythical something is, but they know it is not good. And the only way a black woman is supposed to get into the White House is with a dust mop and a frying pan. The black maid makes the bed, she doesn't sleep in it.

I fear that the more and more the Obamas and their supporters spend time "defining" their candidate they will fall into the trap the opposition has set. The Republicans and John McCain want to make this election about Obama, who is he is and why "true Americans" should be concerned. They want to do this because they have nothing, not one issue to run on. The economy? Bad. The president? At 28 percent. The war? People want it over. All they have are "we'll appoint conservative judges" and beware of the black guy.

When people demand, falsely, that they don't know who Barack and Michelle are, the Democrats should charge back with the fact that we know the Republicans all too well. The mistakes and crimes are plentiful and overripe, spoiled fruits to be plucked and lobbed directly into the faces of the opposition.

I loved what Michelle Obama did for black America. But I'm ready for the Democratic Party and the Obama campaign to make this race a referendum on what nearly eight years of Republican Party rule have done to America. They are the ones who should be on trial and explaining who they are and how they made the mistakes they made.

If you wonder what, who Michelle Obama is, she is ordinary and extraordinary. And she has nothing to explain.

The Kids Are All Right

Here's the daddy/daughter moment from last night, and as a bonus, Sasha having fun with a gavel from a video I forgot to post Monday.

First the Dessert: Michelle! WeeMichelles! Clothes! Happy! Pictures! Weeee!

Before I put my serious writer hat on I need to get this out of the way ... the thing we all want, no scratch that, NEED to see!

Pictures of Michelle shining like an emerald with her jewel-toned dressed, perfectly heart-melting, adorable daughters, and a proud Barack and Michelle almost crying when she saw how proud he was, and the "I love you, Daddy. Daddy, where are you?" ... and Craig.

I actually don't have that much to say about Craig Robinson, the La Femme Obama's brother. I hope he's a better basketball coach than a public speaker. Michelle was the only one making slam dunks Monday night.

Wrap it up, Craig! We want to see the big show!

Hubby watches with rapt attention in Kansas City, Mo.

First off, the dress? Loves it! Michelle always looks gorgeous in jewel tones. (Or any solid color. I don't think she has a bad color. The woman rocked ORANGE. That's just how we do.) I don't know who the designer is yet, but I bet it's Maria Pinto, her girl in Chicago. The dress is similar to the purple sheath and an orange dress she's worn previously that were also made by Pinto. I would have preferred a necklace over the beaded flower on her chest, but other than that I have few complaints. Over and over last night, myself, my dad, mother, pundits on TV, even on FOX News couldn't get over how gorgeous she looked. The best Republican strategist Leslie Sanchez on CNN could come up with was it was too "evening gown" like. Um ... seriously, Leslie.

Game. Set. Match. Michelle.

And the hair? It was like it was touched by the flat iron of God.

Now the makeup? Even more flawless. It photographed well and made her look youthful and gorgeous on TV. (She was magically forehead wrinkle free on TV.) She was radiant and rumor has it cosmetics maven Bobbi Brown did Michelle's makeup herself. I wouldn't be surprised. Michelle is the most coveted fashionistas' fantasy in politics right now.

And they'd take Barack too if they could get their hands on him. Speaking of Barack ...

This is the portion where I read Barack Obama's mind as he watches Michelle's speech.

"She's doing great. I'm so proud."

"Man, she looks beautiful."

"I NEEDS my WOMAN! Damn St. Louis ... I mean Kansas City! Just wait 'til I get to Denver."

And I'm going to stop reading his mind now, because I think the rest of those thoughts should be private. Hint. Hint. Wink. Wink

Um ... nothing to say here. Just beautiful. And all the "Michelle" signs. Can we vote Michelle O. for president? Should SHE have been vetted as a possible veep for Barack? I may be moving from Michelle fan to Michelle stan. Michelle O. in 2012!

Squeeeee! The girls! All dressed like jewels, just like mommy. And all their shoes are the same color. And man, Malia's tall for a 10-year-old (no surprise with super tall parents). And I swear, I can't look at Sasha and not see my baby sis, Baby Snob. You know she runs it at home, like all babies.

Also, it was a pretty brave thing to bring the girls out in front of such a huge audience, but they were just as natural and happy and sweet as they always are.

"Hi Daddy!"

This was the point where I started crying. It wasn't Michelle's touching story of her life, but seeing this very real moment that could not be faked. While Michelle and Barack have become larger than life political figures, the girls make them "mommy" and "daddy" again. They're the evidence that they come from a loving household and are flesh and blood people.

Both girls were extremely happy to see their daddy, happily talking to him, saying they loved him and asking where he was. I could feel how much they all miss being together. And seeing Michelle tear up when she saw how proud Barack was and ... you just can't fake that. That was love, people. Love.

Blowing kisses. "Bye, Daddy!"

Again. Game. Set. Match. Team Obama wins.

Tonight's the Night!

While the adults prepared for speeches did a walk through and answered the stray media question, Sasha Obama seized the gavel and gave it a bang on the podium.

It's Michelle "Mommy" Obama's big night. She's the one giving the speech, but for the youngest Obama, who always looks a little bored during such events, this was a rare delight any six-year-old can appreciate.

From Huffington Post:

After emerging from the backstage area 15 minutes behind schedule, Michelle posed at the podium, wordlessly, with one hand on Sasha's shoulder, for the benefit of various convention staff who worked on lighting and camera placement. Then, Michelle took the gavel at the podium and raised it halfway into the air, posed again for a moment, and then set the gavel gently back down.

At which point Sasha stood up on her tippy-toes and grabbed the gavel herself. After raising it as high in the air as her arms would allow, Sasha brought the gavel down hard, and let out an accompanying squeal of delight.

Also, the girls' dresses and sweaters are very lovely and colorful in these shots. The adorable factor is at an 11 here.

I've Been A Bad, Bad Snob!

I forgot TJ Holmes' birthday! Eeeeee! It was Aug. 19. He turned 31. Sorry TJ! The Black Snob still loves you!

Doomed Romance: Skin Deep

"Reasons To Be Beautiful," Hole

To get over my divorce seven years ago, I drove myself, my cat and our things to St. Louis playing nothing but No Doubt's "Return of Saturn" and Hole's "Celebrity Skin," two rock albums about the absence of love, death (actual and romantic) and self-loathing.

As big of an R&B lover I am, the amount of turmoil I'd gone through seemed beyond the platitudes of Toni Braxton's "Another Sad Love Song" and "Breathe Again." I needed songs about angst and being assaulted in my mind by a poisonous person. In the realm of Pop R&B (with soul as the exception), there were songs about cheating and songs about heartbreak. But where was the song about someone turning you into a perversion of yourself?

When I read the story of "Skin Deep," I could only think of two songs from my post-divorce playlist, No Doubt's "Magic In the Makeup" and Hole's "Reasons To Be Beautiful."

Hole won because Skin Deep's story is that of a woman who in love was prized only for her appearance, and the superficiality of her man's commitment drove her to change everything about herself in the hope love would not go unrequited.

SKIN DEEP

He invades my dreams at night, making them more like nightmares. The man who I swore to love for life is now my boogeyman.

It started four years ago. In a new city for an internship, I begged a friend to introduce me to some of his classmates. A few weeks and several hours' worth of phone calls later, I found myself on a date with a beautiful young man. We walked, talked and ate ice cream. He put his arm around my waist and told me about his family. I put my head on his shoulder and told him about my goals. He walked me to my door and kissed me on my lips. I called my best friend and told her about my new summer love.

Things didn't go as planned. After weeks of picnics, late night talks and love making, it was time for a goodbye that wouldn't come very easily. Phone calls and emails turned into cross-country visits.

We fought during his first visit when he took one look in my closet and announced that my clothes were outdated. I explained that poor graduate students like myself didn't have time or money for shopping. Besides, everyone in my program was too depressed or stressed to care. It didn't matter. He wanted someone with style and class. Where was the fashionable lady he met over the summer?

We fought again in the car on the way to the mall. I asked, "What do you really love about me?" His reply? "Well, you have a beautiful body." This statement would color our relationship for the next two years.

Instead of running away, I stayed around; convinced I could do no better. The distance we had from each other did not ruin our unhealthy bond, and I found myself relocating to live with him and be his ideal woman.

My love for him soon became a competition with ghosts: the "just a friend" phone buddy who never wanted to meet me, the images of naked women on his computer, starving myself to became the black version of bobble-headed starlets. My "sista-girl" hips, thick backside and full breasts vanished, turning me into an emaciated woman I didn't know.

His recognition of me was only the tip of the iceberg when it came to our Titanic relationship. His mother moved in with us unexpectedly. My protests were met with his lament that it wasn't "our home" anymore and he didn't need my approval for anything.

I packed my bags and left the next day. I cried on the way to my new apartment, angry that I put up with it for so long. The unconditional love that I wanted didn't exist with him.

He creeps inside my mind when I least expect it. He's the boogeyman who makes me scared to find love again. My curves are back and sometimes I don't even bother to comb my hair. When I look in the mirror though, I see a fat girl in need of a weave. He stands behind me, giving me makeover pointers while he flips through the latest girlie magazine. He's right, what man would want me?

And then I climb in to bed, close my eyes and pray he doesn't return again.

Michelle and the Girls Arrive In Denver Sunday

Everyone's here and everyone's adorable. Michelle, Malia and Sasha are showing the family flag, representing for the man who may be the 44th president of the United States. Per usual, the girls looked charming and were causal. Michelle went casual too, white blouse and what appears to be skinny black pants with a pair of daring red flats.

Once there they were greeted by Colorado Gov. Bill Ritter, his wife and others.