Deanna Topics: Sparkle, the remake.

I am figuring out one of the hardest parts about no longer having Deanna just a phone call away. All of us are. And, of course, there's just her unmistakable presence and that dazzling smile of hers--but I'm talking about something altogether different. I call them the "Deanna topics."

See, there are things that happen or that you see and the natural order of things involves calling Deanna. Almost always these things are highly, highly unimportant. Nope. Nothing earth-shattering, although if you needed her ear on something earth-shattering she'd surely be there for you with excellent counsel and tender replies. The "Deanna topics" are more. . . .everyday craziness things. . . like. . .like what I wanted to call her about yesterday. 

Now. Let me tell you . . . . the tough thing about these moments when those Deanna topics come up is that it's still been so soon since all of this happened. It sucks because you forget for a split second or two and find yourself already chuckling at her potential response. Because her response was guaranteed to make you laugh.

Every. Single. Time.

So yesterday. Yeah, that. So, even though I'm not much of a television watcher at all, I decided to order the remake of the old school blaxploitation film, Sparkle. You know--the one that was Whitney Houston's last on screen performance. Yeah, that one. 

But I must admit that, to us, Sparkle isn't just "the movie that was Whitney's last movie." It was Sparkle. And see, for us, the original Sparkle from the seventies was the first "bad" movie we ever saw on our own. Back in the day, we had this movie theater in our neighborhood called "The Imperial." I am convinced that they only had three movies that ever showed there:

1. Sparkle.
2. Mahogany.
3. Cleopatra Jones.

I think maybe they had Super Fly and Foxy Brown, too. But hey--you get the picture. The Imperial was all about blaxploitation cinema. And, like, nothing else. At. All.

So, yeah. The Imperial was just a ride on the handlebars of somebody's bike away. Two dollars got you some exposure to slick talk and maybe even a few really bad words. For some crazy reason, though, even though Tounces and Poopdeck didn't let us do too much--The Imperial somehow slipped under the radar and became a frequent thing back in the day.

So yeah. We were good for some blaxploitation on a summer afternoon. Yeah, we were.

Deanna and I were both pretty excited when we saw the trailer for a Sparkle remake. Wait--I take that back. We were intrigued by the possibility of what they could do with it. See, we were remembering the original through the lens of elementary school kids who'd just slipped into one of the only air-conditioned buildings in the 'hood. And also who watched Soul Train on Saturdays and had pop-locking contests under street lights. 

Any time we saw Sparkle, you could count on us having this exchange:

"I'm Sparkle this time! Tap-tap!"

"I'm Sister!"

"Nuh uh! I'M Sparkle! I said it before you!"

"No! You DID not! You said you was Sister!"

"Nuh UUUHHHH!!! Sister was on drugs! I ain't her! I said I was Sparkle!"

"Well. You got to be the other sister today. 'Cause you ain't Sparkle."

"The not cute sister? Nuh UHHH!"

"Uh huhhhh!"

"Hmmmph. Well, I'm just gon' be Cleopatra Jones then. Even though that ain't what we watching." 

And yes. We had no regard for subject-verb agreement when away from the ears of our parents back then. 

Mmmm hmmm. 

So this is why I wanted so badly to talk this over with Deanna once it went off. I needed the after game breakdown and to hear her remind me of some tiny piece of retro minutia that I'd totally forgotten. And I needed to get her take on the whole thing. 

For exactly two seconds, I forgot. Those credits started to roll and I forgot. Looked around for my phone and started wondering whether she'd caught this bootleg remake yet. Then I remembered.

Damn.

Okay. So listen, y'all. I'm going to need a couple of things from you. I realize that you all represent a world of special and experienced souls -- with a little bit of crazy sprinkled on top. This is what I need when these Deanna topics come up. So please--will you be there for me to chime in with some nonsense when I need it? And some funny reminders and ridiculous tidbits? I know. Nothing will ever replace Deanna's take on Deanna topics. But I do think she'd approve of y'all helping me this way. 

I do. 

The other thing I need--that you're already doing--is that you allow me to keep sharing these funny aspects of life with Deanna. I hope it doesn't seem too morose that I keep talking about all of this so much. I actually don't mean for it to be because nothing about her was that way. She was always light and funny and airy. She loved living and talking and chiming in. Writing about her like this keeps that on the front burner for me--and lets all of you sample from the pot. 

JoLai was awesome last night. I called her up and said, "Dude. A Deanna topic just came up for me and I need you to weigh in." 

"I got you. What's up?"

"I just watched this Sparkle remake. And what the eff? What's up with Satin Struthers being a comedian? A comedian? Wasn't Satin a big time dope dealer, hustling, pimp dude? Maaaaan. And the woman who played Sister couldn't even sing, dude!"

the original "Satin"

I could see her smiling through the phone even though she was all the way in Los Angeles. Smiling because she knew that this was totally a Deanna topic. But we both know that we'll just have to step up on helping each other with the Deanna topics. That or just hold the phone and laugh about what Deanna would say in such a situation. JoLai took a deep breath and jumped right into it. Just as Deanna would do at midnight on a Tuesday.

Man, I was glad that she did.

"Since when does Sparkle'n'em's mama have money? Money? I thought she was a maid! They lived in the GHET-TO, right? What was up with that big azz house and those fly azz clothes? And didn't Stix get beat up at the end?"

Loved. It.

Sparkle (Irene Cara) and Stix (Phillip Michael Thomas) in the original

"I'm saying! And hey--tell me--who in the original said, 'Brotha, you dropped a dime on me!'" 

"Uuuuhh, what?" Now JoLai and I were both laughing. Because we knew that this ignorant retro minutia question on blaxploitation movie lines would only be answerable by Deanna.

Or maybe one of you. 

"Was that from Super Fly?" 

"I thought somebody said that to Stix in the original Sparkle movie. Didn't they?" I wanted to know. Why I did, I do not know. But I did. Then I kept repeating the line with my raspiest, throatiest, most blaxploitation-y voice. "Brothaaaaaa, you dropped a diiiiiime on me!" 

We exploded in more laughter. 

"Man, this new Sparkle broke all the rules of blaxploitation films," I told her. "Back then, no happy ending was necessary. The pimps were extra pimp-y, the drug addicts extra strung out, and the language . . . oh my gosh!" 

"Yeah, you JIVE TURKEY!"

"Brothaaaaaaa, you dropped a diiiiiiiiime on me, ya dig?" (I just added "ya dig" for good measure.)

And with that, we just laughed and laughed until our sides ached. 

See, this? This is what makes me both love and miss Deanna so much. Stuff like this. But can I just say this even though I have before? You all have been so good to me. You've been patient. You've listened. You've chimed in. You've laughed, too. I love that you held my hand through a rehash of nineteen seventies black cinema even if not one of these movies means a single thing to you. 

Which reminds me--my friend and fellow Grady doctor, Stacie S., told me that she'd never even heard of the movies Sparkle or Mahogany. Now she is significantly younger than me, but still. I put her African-American membership on probation the minute I heard that. I will be quizzing her on Cleopatra Jones, Which Way is Up, and Good Times quotes. If she doesn't score at least 75%, then this probation period could become something more serious. 

Ha.

Yeah, so that's all I got. I miss my sister today. But in the very, very best kind of way. Does that make sense?

***

Happy Wednesday.

Now playing--from the original Sparkle--"Giving Him Something He Can Feel." Yes, mom, we were singing these horrible lyrics in the 1970's while in elementary school. Epic fail on your part. Ha ha ha.

Doing the doggone thang.

"Here I am baby
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours
(You got my future in your hands)

Here I am baby
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm yours
(You got my future in your hands). . "

~ from Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered"

 

Do you have any idea how it feels to sit on your couch and see and hear an African-American woman (with whom you can fully identify) speaking to the entire world with such poise and eloquence? Of course, you do. Because, unless you were under a rock, you were watching when this one did.

Now.

Imagine seeing and hearing this in 2012 as someone who looks like her. Imagine knowing that in your own parents' lifetime that a woman just like her would have been publicly called "nigra" or "gal" straight to her beautiful face. Which means I would have, too. Publicly (not cowardly-privately as is still done to this day.)

Look.

I do have some political opinions. I do. But that's not the point of this. The point is that this shows some evolution. This. An era where Michelle Obama can take the stage baring her fit arms and shaking her beautiful hair (that you all have a better understanding of just how it got that way as readers of this blog) AND with Stevie Wonder (Stevie Wonder, y'all!) blaring in the background.

Wow.

Seeing her up there made me think of the day that I reflected on what it would have been like if I'd worked at Grady or been on the Emory faculty fifty years ago. If you read that post, you already know the answer to that: I wouldn't have been. Period. End of story. For one very simple reason that I happen to have in common with this woman pictured above.

And let's just be clear. This is not her first time on that stage. Yet  something about hearing her last night felt pivotal to me. Especially as one who looks like her. And no, she is not the first black woman to stand on a stage at the convention for a major political party. Even this year.

But.

She is the first one to take that stage this year that happens to be one with whom we can identify. And by we, I mean me. But honestly? Probably a whole lot more than me, too.

Now.

Let me just go ahead speak on this as one black woman who happens to be closely connected to many, many other black women. This woman is one that my friends and me and most sisters that I know personally can truly see pieces of ourselves in. She is our homegirl, our sorority sister, our girlfriend in the hair salon, our mentor, our double dutch buddy in the neighborhood, our style icon, our fellow mama, and our college classmate. She seems to be the one that most represents us. And while I really don't spend much time tearing down those reality housewives-slash-reality baby-mamas, I am putting my foot down and saying dammit, those black women do not represent me or any of my sista-friends.

No, they do not.

So let them entertain you. And sure, we'll admit that they entertain us (but mostly embarrass us) a little bit, too. But those women? Not a single one of them makes me stand to my feet and say, "Now that's what I'M talking about!"

No, they do not. But she did. Last night she sure did.

But I digress.

Look. I know that there's a whole world full of Michelle Obamas out there. Sisters with their terminal degrees who love their husbands and fight for their kids and try to get their exercise and who, as the sistas say, "do the doggone thang!" every single day. There is also a world full of Michelle Obamas who don't share her cocoa complexion or her educational accomplishments or even her marital status, but who identify with her "realness" just like I can.

So as for yesterday? All of us were proud. Every last Michelle Obama was on her feet and snapping her fingers. The short ones. The tall ones. The old ones. The young ones. The black ones. The white ones. And all the ones in between. 'Cause yesterday she did the doggone thang. Which pushes us to do it, too.

(Insert finger snap here.)

***
Happy Wednesday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . what Mrs. Obama came strutting out to the podium to. YAAAASSSSS!