I love a parade

In honor of the African American Day parade, here in Harlem, I've decided to officially launch this digest-- In honor of the accomplishments, musings, failings and moments of Black folks and those who have soul's best or worst week ever. It will be a weekly recap of sorts; a colored folks' twist on "Stuff White People Like" (I love that blog...) and I'll issue a weekly award to those, who in my opinion, demonstrate the most soul for the week. Or just should get it because they deserve a shout-out. And for that up to the moment tidbit: The Cheese Doodle Daily. Long overdue.

And I was supposed to launch this digest weeks ago. It's late. I know. But so is the Cotton Comes to Harlem parade start-time every year. Every other ethnic, social and group of varying sexual orientations has a parade here in NYC. Parades hosted by a multitude of groups and celebrating ones pride in ones heritage, beliefs, food items and the like, are celebrated in various parts of the country. That is our American right. To parade around and be happy. To rejoice and to let folks know we're comfortable with our choices. It even makes the news or someone's local pub's Datebook or PSA. But not the parade up in Harlem. You never know it's coming. It always starts late and ends when the street lights go on. (Actually quite funny to see errant marching bands and purple-thonged-plastic-suit-clad members running down the street trying to be seen in the dark of night!)
The one big annual moment for the good folks of Harlem USA has to start late. And I'll go one better--it never is on the same day every year! In fact, I came up on the parade by accident 2 years ago trying to make it to the bank. 125Th seemed more alive than usual. The vendors and bootleggers were out in droves. I figured it was a final effort after Labor Day to end the summer on a high note; When all you'll be looking for in coming colder-than-hell months is a good umbrella, some magic-grow gloves and a hat from that savvy street hustler. To my surprise the street was blocked off and I find myself smack in the middle of the parade. Prime barricade view; right at the intersection of 125th and Adam Clayton Powell Blvd.

Wow...and what a view. Not mad at Black people, just mad at the organizers. Not mad at the little girls and boys who worked all year to be in the parade; just mad at their mamas and daddies who told them it was okay to shake it like a salt shaker , have their butts hangin' out and work it down the block for the whole world to see. Not mad at artists who want to connect with their fans; just mad that they didn't think enough of me to have a decent sound system, better decorated float and their hair did (female rapper with the horrible weave who's now locked up for losing her cool over $2000); Not mad at the legions of Masons from every lodge this side of the Mississippi in their creepy hats and pasted on smiles (as little kids innocently ask if they are doormen); just mad that you couldn't find some more relevant and colorful participants or corporate folks with their over the top floats to throw me samples of mints, gum and passes to the gym. I guess I'm not really mad at Black folks who come out and rejoice in the streets and have some positive attention cast on a community that is still seen as Frank Lucas' Harlem of old. A community who's face has changed and yet remains the same. Not mad at a beautiful sunny day in Harlem. Just mad that they can't all be like this.

So my first Soul Glo' award this season will go to....drum roll please....The good folks of Harlem for having the wackest parade ever, but I wouldn't miss it for the world. Congratulations.

And now for this week's moments in Black folks' history: What the hell is Jennifer Hudson thinking getting betrothed to Punk of I Love New York reality-show fame? He was a punk on the show and no doubt a world class scene f'er. I give it 2 years and predict a Star Jones, Terry McMillan type revelation . And Ocho Cinco. WTF? Like you couldn't get some more acceptable and commonly used Black folks' spelling of your new name? Is there something remotely disturbing about Bow Wow's mother who was featured on Top spoiled mothers of the stars? (I love those countdowns about the excess of stars) and lastly (I've got to get to the parade) --why do our cousins insist on acting like crabs in a barrel? That might be a weekly question until I get some satisfactory answers.

Until next time: pop it!