I have driven past the Obama Presidential Center more times than I can count since it opened. I live on the Southwest Side. Hyde Park is not far. But 100 days into a new job as Executive Director o

f an investigative newsroom — the Investigative Project on Race and Equity — I haven’t had time to do much of anything that isn’t work.

My leadership coach keeps reminding me that you can’t pour from an empty cup.

I keep nodding and then going back to my desk.

But when my sister Ayoka told me that Chancellor Juan Salgado had asked if I could come to the Obama Presidential Center for an evening with Mark Bradford — one of the most celebrated artists in the world — I said yes before she finished the sentence.

I parked in front of Hyde Park High School and walked in with a ticket and an invitation. The air felt different. I felt like I belonged.

I had never been inside before.

The Elie Wiesel Auditorium was intimate in the way that the best cultural spaces are intimate — close enough to feel the room breathing, grand enough to remind you that something important was about to happen. The After School Matters students filled the front rows. Dr. Louise Bernard, the Director of the Obama Presidential Center museum, sat across from Bradford in a pair of shoes so spectacular I photographed them immediately. Multicolored, beaded platforms. Joyful and intentional and completely unbothered. Everything about the evening, I would come to understand, was going to be like that.

Mark grew up in his mother’s Black hair salon in Los Angeles. He came to art at 30. He is now one of the most celebrated artists in the world, and his work lives inside this very building. He wasn’t just a guest at the Obama Center. He was home.

He talked about being 20 during the AIDS crisis. Everybody was dying, he said. And everyone still wanted to go to the nightclub. In the 1980s, he said, being young and partying with abandon could also kill you. He also remembered “performing” being a bad teenager. But then he grew up and went to art school at 30. He became Mark Bradford.

When asked for advice, he told the students to put down their phones. Stop comparing themselves to others. Try everything. Don’t give yourself limits. Not yet.

He said Black women in hair salons are Black feminists.

He said bring a folding chair to the table if you have to.

He said making a living and being an artist are sometimes two different conversations — and he is third generation 1099.

He said you have to learn about embarrassment and how to own it. Sometimes you need to be embarrassed and just get over it.

And then he said the thing that I am still turning over:

“Build a fence of people who think you are amazing. The people who don’t think you are amazing can stay outside the fence.”

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He was talking to teenagers. But I am 100 days into one of the more difficult professional chapters of my life, and I needed to hear every word.

I love art. I always have. It is one of the great joys of my career — covering artists like Bradford and Amy Sherald, writing about the architecture of the Modern Wing at The Art Institute of Chicago, serving as an interlocutor and a writer for the Museum of Contemporary Art, finding the story inside the creative process. Somewhere in the last few years of executive roles and institutional responsibilities I let that part of myself get quiet. It’s on my vision board to bring it back. To spend time with artists like Bradford, like Hebru Brantley. To revisit prints by Elizabeth Catlett, whose work has long been celebrated by the artists I’ve interviewed. To find enough inspiration to even retrofit my office into a space that feeds me.

This evening was a step back toward that version of myself.

Mark made eye contact with me a few times during the conversation. I don’t know if he was just working the room or if something passed between us. But I felt seen in the way you feel seen when someone is telling the truth loudly enough that it finds you specifically, even in a crowd.

I drove home full. Not just informed — full. Fed in the way that only art and music and the right room at the right time can feed you.

My leadership coach is right. You cannot pour from an empty cup.

I finally went to the Obama Center. Mark Bradford met me there.

And I left with a full cup and a folding chair.

It’s a simple way to remember those we’ve lost. Speak their names into the air and we remember them. We honor them. For those who practice ancestral veneration, this is the way. For those that don’t, this is still a way.

Until recently, I hadn’t much considered what it means to sing their names. But when the Chicago Symphony Orchestra asked me to write a profile on opera superstar Joyce DiDonato, a critically-acclaimed mezzo-soprano, I immediately said yes. I’ve been covering the arts and culture for a long time, and an interview with Joyce is not one I’d miss.

What I didn’t anticipate was that one of the many projects the CSO’s 2025-2026 Artist-in-Residence would be singing down was one about slain children in Chicago. The program is called Notes for Peace, and working with the Irene Taylor Trust out of London, famous artists and songwriters team up with families who are still mourning the loss of their children. For Chicago, this means an album.

I sat in a number of Joyce’s more traditional operatic performances in Chicago and then I sat in on a rehearsal for Notes for Peace.

There was this one song. And it drove me to tears even though I didn’t know this little girl or her family. Joyce trilled: “Olly olly olly oxen free, those are the words you said to me.” And I heard this as I was sitting at a table directly in back of the parents of this beautiful little Mexican girl who was shot and killed a few years ago. I don’t know the exact circumstances behind her death, but I could imagine because I’ve covered hundreds of shootings. Hundreds.

And most of the stories simply state the facts according to what the police have detailed. If I was lucky I was able to find a neighborhood or a parent who could shed more light But usually, in the aftermath of a shooting while the blood still congeals on a sidewalk, that’s just a terrible time to ask or expect anyone to talk to you about their loved one.

I learned early on to come back in a week, in a month, in a year. That’s how you get the real story of the essence— the story that a parent can tell without breaking down mid sentence. I wrote a series for The Boston Globe once, where I mapped out the relationships between every single person murdered in one year. And most of the murders had three degrees of separation. Everyone knew someone, dated someone, broke up with someone, went to school with someone or used to babysit someone. And I did my best to tell the stories of these someones so that they were more than a list and a date of death and an age and a street corner.

This project won an award from our parent company the New York Times. I was happy about that but also the trauma of that intense reporting has never left me.

So I listened to Joyce sing this little girl’s name and her daily morning habits and her hugs and her kisses. And I could see this sweet little child. Happy and alive and ethereal. Her parents cried gently, holding on to a framed photo that looked to be from a first or second grade class.

I interviewed the parents of Kendall White, who was murdered in 2024 in Chicago. The Chicago Sun-Times bluntly reported that he was a man found shot in the head on a street corner on the West Side. The article was two paragraphs tops. But Joyce worked on a song for Kendall, and I was able to see the man who was killed. He loved to drive his car around the block. He loved to disagree with his dad about the Bulls. He loved his family.

It was a gift to see how the CSO put together a program that doesn’t extract from the community, but rather attempts to help in the best way that the arts can. It’s unconventional. I’d never heard of this program before, though WBEZ has reported on it in the past. And I learned that Kendall’s mom learned about CSO’s Notes for Peace program through a support group, Purpose Over Pain, offered by St. Sabina Catholic Church. And I learned that Joyce’s entire career has focused on singing the names of the slain.

And it all made sense. Your last memory of your child can be them on the street corner or the coroner’s office on a slab. Or, you can replace that memory with an intentional earworm that attaches itself to a happy moment.

“Olly olly oxen free free free… Wish you could be here with me….”

And a morning smile.

You can read my interview with Joyce at the CSO website. I don’t know that the parents or anyone really, is trying to sell this music. But I’d buy it if offered.

Joyce and I took this selfie - below - after rehearsal as the sun set in the room. I think we had both been crying. She said this work — our work — is difficult, but not as difficult as being the parent of a slain child. Writing. Singing. Organizing. This is the least we can do.

Sing their names.

Watching Michael B. Jordan take the stage last night to accept his Best Actor statue for Sinners, my mind went straight back to 2012.

I was on the set of our cover shoot for George Lucas’ Red Tails, serving as the Entertainment Director for EBONY. I spent the afternoon interviewing Michael in his trailer—long before he was the global icon we know today. We snapped this candid pic just after we wrapped a really long, really fun shoot.

What I remember most about the interview and the shoot wasn’t just MJB’s presence, but his reverence.

We talked about the Tuskegee Airmen and the heavy lifting required to represent Black excellence on screen. He told me something then that I never forgot:

“We had to be pros before we ever stepped into a plane... we had to be flawless just to be seen.”

Even then, Michael wasn’t just embodying a pilot. He was practicing the very discipline he described. He understood that you don’t become a pro when you get the trophy; you become a pro in the library, in the trailer, and in the quiet moments when the cameras are off.

The “Everything is Interesting” Lens

I’ve always believed that success is a trailing indicator of discipline.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about those “trailer moments”—the years of quiet work that happen before the world decides to pay attention. Whether I’m documenting the stars of our culture or investigating the world around us, I’m always looking for the truth behind the shine. I’m an expert at finding the star — or the story — in a crowded room.

I saw the Oscar in that trailer 14 years ago because I knew how to spot excellence. Jordan was so bright, he almost shimmered. That’s why I pitched that story, fought so hard for that story and did everything in my power to ensure the story of Red Tails — and the entire cast — was on the February 2012 cover.

There are for sure people who never heard of this film, never saw that cover and have no idea who the Tuskegee Airmen are or were. But the movie told an important story, and it provided an important role for someone who was destined to win an Oscar.

I’ve always said that everything is interesting, but the real work is in knowing which stories are going to stand the test of time. Fourteen years later, the receipts are in.

— Adrienne

Hey there I go! There I be!

Right there in Hawkins, Indiana, by way of a Stranger Things Pop up that pulled into Chicago. I dug out these photos because Stranger Things is returned to Netflix. Plus, I’m a fan of the genre in general and also interested in any story that combines the Midwest with the ‘80s of my youth with the horror that (back then) sustained me as I read “Hellraiser” and “It” even though I probably should have stuck to more kid-appropriate fare like “Choose Your Own Adventure.”

It’s been a strange, upside-down type of fall for me. My mother-in-law passed away after a fight with blood cancer, and though this isn’t my first experience with such loss, it still hits hard. At the same time, my oldest child was accepted into a STEM early high school program in Chicago, and he is earning all As in his high school algebra in seventh-grade and writing lab reports about the chemical makeup of spinach. He has never - EVER - been happier in school. And on Halloween, a bunch of teens in costumes came to our door and serenaded us when we opened up. A whole choir at our door for Halloween. Give them all the candy!

Between these tent pole moments, I reported and wrote a few stories that I hope you will read and share yourself.

First up, I penned a cover story about the Leo Choir Boys’ star turn on America’s Got Talent for Chicago magazine. Talk about Black (Teen) Boy Joy! I visited Leo High School and met with the choir director. It was exhilarating to hang out with a bunch of kids who had no formal music training, but somehow captured the heart of Simon Cowell. They didn’t win the competition, but they made it all the way to the finals! And now? They can’t even go into Dollar Tree without folks asking for their autographs.

Do me a solid. Read the piece here.

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But wait, there’s more!

After watching the video of the Chicago mom and her children who were walking home from school when they were attacked and beaten by a group of kids, I couldn’t move on to the next story as if this assault never happened. I followed the story of Corshawnda Hatter and her children, horrified because she was in the hospital and stunned that a group of littles aged eight to 13 were capable of committing such an action. That two people in that group of kids recorded the beating and posted it to social media was pretty incredible - and the way the community responded to this video was jaw-dropping.

When Essence magazine asked me to write about this situation from the perspective of a Chicago mom with her own kids in Chicago Public Schools, I was happy to do so. This, despite giving up my free weekend to pull together interviews and sources.

You can read the story here. Unlike other “content pieces” you might have seen about this issue, my reported essay contains reportage and exclusive quotes from the Chicago police, sources who are working with the family, and local experts on juvenile justice and trauma. I don’t write about things without doing the research and conducting the interviews. After I confirmed that the mom was moved to a new housing project, I was able to talk with sources such as and Youth Advocacy Services to figure out what might be the next steps for these kids.

You can read more about this Essence story here.

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What these two stories have in common is the through-line of Chicago children. On one hand, you have big, boisterous teen boys who found their voice and told the world about the South Side of Chicago via a very popular television show. On the other hand, you have small, boisterous elementary and middle-aged kids who bullied a mother and her child, and their aggressions led the mom and her son to be hospitalized.

These are two versions of the kids I always see around here. I’m grateful to have the opportunity to connect with everyone involved and to share their stories. Hopefully, it provides insight to you as you evaluate or re-evaluate what’s going on in the Chi.

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When I’m not writing Everything is Interesting, I’m writing for others or helping business owners and high-profile individuals figure out what to write, where to share it, and how to tell their story. If that’s you, let’s get in touch.

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[This is Part II in a series of posts about the first night Chicago experience of Beyoncé’s Cowboy Carter Rodeo Chitlin’ Circuit Concert Tour. To read part I, go here.]

As you know, the tornado watch, torrential downpours, downed power lines and briefly flooded streets put a three hour delay on the concert. Fans had arrived at the stadium at 5 p.m. and weren’t allowed to go to their seats until 10:15 p.m. That’s a long time to be standing around and walking.

Despite that delay, the evening of Thursday, May 15 got started afresh when we made our way through the tired yet energized crowd to the United Lounge and eventually took our seats. (Pro tip: the pre-sale United Club is a nice way to pre-game your concert at Soldier Field. The merch tables are more private and have shorter lines, the bathrooms are more abundant and cleaner, plus there is a lounge and a full bar every 30 feet or so.)

We found our section and were surprised to see what a nice view we had of the stage and of the Chicago skyline at night. But whew was it WINDY baby. Hold on to your hats! I saw quite a few Stetsons tumble over the edge and blow all the way away…. Our leading lady also didn’t need a wind machine. The Hawk (even though it was warm air) sufficed.

If you’re a TLDR type of person, then you should know that the concert—in a word— was magnificent. It started late and ended even later but it was worth it; many of us didn’t get home until after 3 a.m. and many of us (yall) hung out in the streets around the city, dancing and singing until the sun came back up. (If you prefer to skip to video, just scroll down but I HOPE you stay to read some!)

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Beyoncé started at 10:15 p.m. due to the tornado delay and she ended just before 1 a.m. on Friday, the next day. In those final moments she directly acknowledged the crowd and told us we were “ride or die” for sticking it out. She said she knew we had to get our babies to school the next day and get to work, since it was Thursday afternoon when we entered the stadium and Friday morning when we exited.

Outside of the music and outfits, quite a few things stood out to me during the concert.

This tour had a number of video vignettes, or mini movies, between each act. These vignettes were pointed and hallowed. They did a few things at once. They honored Black history, Black music, Black women, Black poetry, Black art and Black power. They also recast the “traditional American cowboy” imagery that fuels our nation’s historical disconnect from its Black and Indigenous truths.

She opened the Rodeo Chitlin Circuit Concert Tour with the first two tracks from Cowboy Carter, “Ameriican Requiem” and “Blackbiird.” These are two powerful songs that, to me, offer a cultural and political reset to the anti-Black madness overtaking this nation.

Here’s a verse of the churchified “Ameriican Requiem:” “You change your name, but not the ways you play pretend / American Requiem / Them big ideas (yeah), are buried here (yeah)”

The church organ fades away and after a guitar lick, she then asks can you hear me, or do you fear me? She also mentions the folks who said she wasn’t country enough, though she is from Texas.

She moves into “Blackbiird,” a remake of a Paul McCartney song honoring Black folks who fought during the Civil Rights Movement. Here’s a verse if you hadn't already heard this song: “Blackbird singing in the dead of night / Take these sunken eyes and learn to see /All your life / You were only waiting for this moment to be free.”

As a Black woman in the audience who is the progeny of ancestors who were once enslaved, these series of songs impact me in a way that few could understand. The topics Beyoncé touches in Cowbow Carter are ideas I often contemplate as I navigate my neighborhood, my work spaces and the world. Here’s just one example: The Black Chicago accent stereotype, where we are often negatively described as being “country” because so many of our Great Migration grandparents came from Mississippi and Arkansas. Of course we sound like them. What’s wrong with that? Still, not city enough. Not country enough. Bump all that criticism. Chicago, and embracing our heritage, over everything. Yes, I feel you Beyoncé. It’s nice to be seen.

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One thing I didn’t see coming was her singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but it felt very apropos for a football stadium. Black Americans have such a complicated attachment to the imagery of America and to the patriotic songs we export. But the Texas-born star was out there reclaiming it. For us. My takeaways from her rendition and that modulation that she snuck in there? We live here. We built this. We might have dropped into a minor key for a hot second, but we didn’t start this mess. Instead, we are going to finish this righteously, decently, in order and with freedom.

Queue the Kendrick Lamar mash up beat and song “Freedom” that ushered Vice President Kamala Harris across the stage at the Democratic National Convention which took place not even a year ago at Chicago’s other big stadium, the United Center.

At the beginning of this concert, the American flag was on the larger-than-life LED screen backing the stage. As time went on, it became tattered and torn, and was eventually replaced with the words: “Never ask permission for something that already belongs to you.” The crowd exploded into cheers. This was confirmation and affirmation for many.

Bedazzled in glittering gold and leather chaps, Mrs. Carter changed songs while the LED screen showcased a beaded and braided Beyoncé wearing nothing but a country beauty queen red, white and blue sash stating “The Reclamation of America.”

This concert was as visual as it was aural.

The Grammy-winning singer would go on to bring out the iconic and fun bits: the mechanical bull, a flying and lucky horseshoe, a strong catwalk scene, a Voguing interlude, an electrical dress that changes colors and outfit changes that inspired a nation to buy Western-inspired outfits and perk up the local Mexican-owned western store Chicago economy. All that was amazing, but it’s just a small portion of what makes this concert so memorable.

Beyoncé did something very spiritual and very, very Black. The video vignettes that stuck with me are the ones that acknowledged our music ancestors and invited them into the stadium when we - in the audience - called out their names. Then there was the video documenting the hurt, pain, downfall and eventually the uprising of Black folks. To see the floods, the freedom marches, the pay inequality, the fires and the inequities visited upon us flash across the screen was an important visual.

To see a Godzilla-sized Beyoncé stomp across the land and light her cigar with the flames from the top of the Statue of Liberty was a delight. I laughed. And that spaghetti Western spinoff of Beyoncé busting someone over the head with a bottle in a saloon made me cackle. As an adult who used to be the kid who watched these Westerns with my grandparents, I saw exactly what Bey was doing there.

A portion of Newark Mayor Ras Baraka’s pre-politics prose, “American Poem,” was an interlude all by itself. Baraka performed this work at Def Poetry Jam, a popular 1990s HBO show created by Russell Simmons. (Baraka is running for governor of New Jersey, so his inclusion in this tour is likely a huge boost for his campaign.)

He says: “I want to hear an American poem…. Something American, you know.”

When you read the poem (you can find the words here on Genius.com) you realize it’s about stereotypes and the misuse of genres. What is American anyway? This spoken word artform is placed dead in the center of a country concert. It takes up space in this Western milieu just like the album intros by Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson.

These images and these thoughts are living rent free in my mind for days after the concert. For perspective, consider this: What I just described to you was maybe the first 30 minutes of a three hour show that was just stuffed to the brim with meaning.

What about Blue and Rumi?

People asked me a lot about seeing Rumi and Blue Ivy perform. They were present, and I was surprised Rumi came out during “Protector” because I figured that child was all the way in bed and asleep. Bey and I have kids the same age and in my mind we parent similarly and we host PTA playdates together, so surely that younger girl child was knocked out. But she wasn’t! (Ah Rumi, just like my own youngest, who takes advantage of any opportunity to stay up all night.)

I was legit happy to see Rumi perform and she did so well! According to my video time stamps, she came out at 11:01 p.m. CT. As a mom, I know how hard it is to get a young kid to stay on task when they are wired and up past their bedtime in a strange city. I don’t envy the handler who had to keep her awake (? or maybe take her down for a long nap earlier in the day) and then get her ready for her shining moment. Well done yall!

[head to Part I of this series to watch the video of Rumi]

Manager Blue Ivy danced and looked lively despite the late hour. Her solo was closer to 12:15 a.m. or so. It’s easy to find her in the crowd of dancers; she’s taller than even her mom. She handled an earring catching her mom’s hair mishap with style and grace. If you weren’t watching closely you would not have even noticed it.

From where I was sitting it looked as if Blue sat some pieces out and that seemed appropriate for a 13-year-old. “Tyrant,” though my third favorite song on the album, gets pretty damn sexy with all that gold-plated mechanical popping, grinding and bullriding. (Again, the fiddle, the “giddy up giddy up,” the sultry bassline and all those beautiful Black women on stage riding bulls? John Travolta and Debra Winger’s turn in Urban Cowboy was sexy imagery, but Beyoncé and team got them beat by a long shot.)

For another interlude, as a Chicagoan who lives in one of the city’s most Irish of neighborhoods, I appreciated seeing (either) Morgan Bullock and (or) Kaitlyn Sardin kick their heels up. (I’m not sure which one was dancing on night one.) Both ladies, who are Black, made a name for themselves on tiktok and in the world by being accomplished Irish dancers. I’m fairly familiar with the art form because, well, Chicago and well, friends who embrace the Riverdance. And I dunno… I’m coming off a week of re-watching Sinners and also living through that sometimes tense relationship between Chi town Irish and Chi town Blacks, and it’s nice to just see Black women bring a blend of culture to the city’s largest stage. It was super pretty.

Another highlight was watching the dancers. They rock. I can’t wait to read what choreographers and other dancers have to say about this particular show. The dancing seemed strangly accessible, like “hey I can do that two step too!”

In retrospect, it’s remarkable that it rained like a bitch and Beyoncé still performed. Given the dampness and whatnot, I didn’t think she’d get up on the horseshoe or in that car and sing “16 Carriages” as she traveled over the crowds and got up close and personal with all 63,000 fans in the stadium. But she said, during the concert in Chicago, that she wanted to see “each and every one of you.” She strapped in and flew around. No wind machine needed! Mother Nature handled that.

The tornado-delayed Cowboy Carter Chicago Night 1 was still a three hour show. As far as I can tell, there were no cuts or significant changes. As a local, I know that there are sound ordinances for our open-air stadium. I’d love to learn just how Beyonce found a way around those rules or how much she paid to stay as long as she did. Finding a new date would have been a logistical headache.

“Ameriican Requiem” ends with an Amen. The stadium sang this part alongside their star. We’re done being tired of being tired. We’re burying the racist bullshit that exhausted us. We’re reclaiming our time, our joy, our dance, our music, our history, our legacy, our poetry, our art, our humanity and our right to an abundant existence. America is us now, and always has been. This is why the visuals that go along with this concert are a key part of re-affirming what Black folks already know about American history and introducing or re-introducing to others what they ought to know about American history.

That country two-step beat and country twang in the slide guitar is also ours. The drums and the wails and the harmonies and the hip rolling is ours too. Gospel is country is R&B is pop is blues is Black is American as apple pie.

Regardless of where our kin wound up, the vast majority of us started out as country folk. And at least in the Chi, especially if you take a listen to our Drill and our Blues and our House and our Gospel music, the country shines to and through.

We are (the) country.

Post Script

After the storm – it was difficult to get to my South Side home.

My Soror Allison Powers and I left Soldier Field on a high. It was around 1:45 a.m. before we were able to access an exit. Then we walked to the pedestrian bridge at 18th street, which took another hour to access and cross, given the thick crowds. And then we walked to my truck, about a half mile more.

Our fairy purse mother was still awake, so the bags were swapped again. (Thanks Meg!!!) I headed home. Or tried to. It became clear that the city was trounced by that storm that no one has officially called a tornado but clearly there were micro bursts that damaged areas.

I couldn’t stay on the highway, because most of the lanes were closed and there were no lights, so around 3 a.m. I got off the Dan Ryan and took side streets home. I cruised through some broken and blinking stop lights and drove in a darkness that is unusual in this always-bright city. The wind had died to nothing. As I approached my house I saw entire trees fallen in the road and electricity lines dangling on the ground.

Here’s what I saw when I woke up to take my kids to school a few hours later.

The local news doesn’t often report on the South Side, especially the far South Side. But I live here, so I witnessed it. So many beautiful trees toppled. House windows crushed. This all happened while we were huddled in the hallways at Soldier Field. The city reported that even two days later several hundred homes were without power.

Hours later, I headed over to the Cécred popup at Evergreen Plaza, hoping to snag more merch. Instead I topped off my hair oil stash and took some pix with Ceyoncé , the shampoo bottle-turned-IG-character. I couldn’t spend a lot of time there, since I had a sneaker ball to attend that night with the husbae. Of course, as we walked in to his Postal Worker Credit Union ball - wearing matching green and white outfits plus super dope sneakers - a dust storm rolled through Chicago an hour before the Friday night Cowboy Carter concert.

I’m sure when it all settled, an epic time was had.

Post Script to the Post Script to the Post Script

I’m writing this at 10 a.m. on Monday May 19, 2025. It is 40 degrees outside and the heat is back on. I’m wearing a hot pink coat. Remember when I said in part one that I was planning to wear a mink coat to the concert to stay warm at night? THIS IS THE WEATHER that is typical for May in Chicago. Yet Beyoncé came in, during the weekend of Malcolm X’s 100th birthday, and she brought the heat. Now she’s gone from the city and it’s cold again, baby.

I can’t wait for Act iii.

One more thing…

I write for me, and I can write for you too. Hit me up at my website and let’s talk about what you need and how we can work together.

Chicago x Beyoncé wound up being one of the best weeks of 2025 for me so far.

The experience had all the trappings of an ancestor-approved extravaganza.

We started with a full moon and weird weather that morphed into a tornado watch, an actual factual dust storm, toppled trees and general destruction in my South Side neighborhood, Mexican-owned Western stores seeing an influx of customers, a dangerously fun tuktuk ride, an American flag scarf left to me by my deceased mother, hiding out in the annals of Soldier Field while watching tornado funnels form and dissipate and form again, finally, ending with a concert that exceeded my expectations because it was, frankly, ethereal and grounding and unapologetically pro-black in a time where some folks want to erase our creations and contributions to society and the world.

That was a really long sentence. But it was an exceptional time. And sometimes you gotta break the rules when the exceptional moment calls for it.

Here then, is my accounting of Thursday - Night One of the Cowboy Carter and the Rodeo Chitlin’ Circuit Tour in Chicago. If you want to know what it was like to be there, in that weather and in that wind and in that moment, let’s begin.

(And if you’d rather just scroll down to a super sweet video, taken by moi, of Rumi practicing backstage for her moment in the spotlight on “Protector,” I totally understand. That video is near the end of this piece. For those that are unaware, during “Protector,” Rumi is sweetly serenaded by her mom — Beyoncé Giselle Knowles Carter— while her big sister Blue Ivy and all the dancers swirl around.)

Let’s start with the drive downtown. As you head north on the Dan Ryan expressway, there are several electric signs overhead. You drive under maybe four of them as you wind your way from the South Side to downtown Chicago. I noticed the first sign as it flipped between regular traffic alerts and then this: “Even Cowboy Carter wears her seatbelt.”

Ha. The state highway system folks who write these notes to drivers are fantastic. Sometimes those messages be hitting. They’re often campy and on-the-nose great. Cowboy Carter weekend did not disappoint on the highway signage front.

Along the way I stopped by Walgreens to buy red, white and blue ponchos for $2.99 each and cheap $5 umbrellas. I knew it would rain before the concert, so I figured we would toss those umbrellas into the trash at the security line. The weather was strange. It was suddenly sticky, humid and 95 degrees outside after a 40 degree night. My thought bubble: “It’s never this warm in May in Chicago. Just a few days ago, I had the heat on in my house. This weather is about to cut up.” (I was right!)

I got close to downtown, in the South Loop.

Parking was an issue for most folks, but not for me! I’m a local. And I got friends - or more specifically, a mentor, who was absolutely clutch in helping me secure free parking near Soldier Field. So I pulled up, parked my whip and got into an Uber with my concert girlfriend, who is also my Soror from Northwestern University. She was coming from work, so the plan was to change clothes, hit up the super sexy tapas spot Mercat a la Planxa in the historic Blackstone Hotel, and then walk over to Soldier Field from there.

Imagine our surprise at entering the Blackstone lobby, enroute to Mercat, only to discover that the hotel was Marriott Bonvoy’s official concert hotel, and they had a photo booth, a deejay and plenty of Sir Davis to pass around for us to taste. We slipped on into the VIP experience, took some pics and wafted up the velvet-lined stairs to the restaurant. (When asked how did it taste, I said the first notes were fairly sweet before it settled down into heating the bottom of throat. Yes, it’s easy to sip.)

Most of the Mercat crowd was ready for Cowboy Carter. Glitter, boots, silver shingles and chaps abounded. It was during this early dinner, around 4 p.m., when we discovered that we needed a smaller purse. A clear one. What to do? Just as our squid ink paella came to the table, we met our Fairy Purse Godmother, aka my former Chicago Sun-Times editor-turned-most-excellent-girlfriend Meg Moore. She was close by and had clear, designer purse options in various sizes, as is customary for all fairy purse godmothers. We exchanged and secured new bags. Fabulous! (Unbeknownst to us at that time, we wouldn’t be back to see our fairy purse godmother until nearly dawn… but that’s coming! Keep reading.)

At Mercat we met Dawn and Devin, two sisters from Atlanta. They heard me yelp when I got a text from my mentor. The text said that the concert was being delayed due to weather. Now, I knew it was going to rain but what?

I read the text out loud to Dawn and Devin. Other fans ear hustled. Eventually everyone within ear shot of me got on the Chicago Sun-Times website to read the news: tornado watch!

We ordered more drinks and another course. We knew it would be a long night, and I’d rather have steak than hot dogs at the stadium. Mercat is the perfect place to go before a concert because the food and service are excellent, and it’s located about a 15 minute walk to the stadium. We had a window seat where I watched the skies grey rapidly and observed clouds speeding out to the lake. Yep. Bad weather loading.

That wind got gnarly around 6 p.m. But it wasn’t raining! I texted some reporter friends who had been at the Stadium for hours. They said they were in the hallways, not allowed to sit in their seats due to the tornado watch, but nothing really was happening. Cool cool, I said. Let’s go. Let’s start walking. See y'all shortly!

We got as far as the Hilton hotel on Michigan Avenue when it was clear rain was imminent. My Delta Soror made an executive decision: Let’s hop in the tuktuk, I mean, the pediway bike. We hopped on and held on for dear life as this man turned up his Renaissance music, turned on his decorative string lights and bobbed and weaved between humans and cars through Grant Park. We got as far as the underpass about three blocks from the stadium, where police wouldn’t allow him to go any further. He tried to charge us $60. Nope. We needed a discount. So we got one!

About that scarf I’m wearing in the photos. It’s my moms and she is deceased. She died 12 years ago. I almost sent that scarf to Goodwill last year because I felt a need to get rid of things, and I couldn't imagine a future where I’d EVER WEAR an American flag scarf. Like never, ever. But I kept it.

Earlier that day, my Houston-based bestie and I discussed outfit options for a thunderstorm. (Originally it was going to be cold outside, and I was planning to wear Levis, Dingo boots and my mink jacket. But given the sudden heat index shift I needed an outfit remix.) Given that my favorite Deaconess-hairdresser had washed, blowdried and two-strand twisted my natural hair that morning, we decided to find a scarf and a cowboy hat.

After I put the giant scarf on my head I joked I was cosplaying American, even though I AM American. (Yes, let that sink in.) As American as apple pie. Anyhoo.. I’m glad I didn’t toss the silk! I put it on. Let the ends hang over my shoulder and put that cowboy hat on top. The scarf was THAT GIRL during the storm.

We hopped out the tuktuk near the stadium, ran to the underpass and watched the drops begin to fall. It wasn't too bad. Let’s go! We ran past the Field Museum of Natural History (one block from Soldier Field) and then the lightning began cutting up. All those folks in shiny chaps and thigh high boots started running for trees but not us. I lived in Miami too long to seek out trees in a lightning storm. (My first front page story there was about two guys struck by lightning on Fort Lauderdale beach. That story changed my life.) We hustled to Soldier Field and didn’t really even get wet.

But then? The sky opened up.

We started singing: “There’s a tornado, in my city…but it’s Chicago, this shit ain't pretty....”

It rained. It poured. The wind swirled. The rain ran sideways. The temperature dropped. My ears popped. The sticky feel of the air disappeared. And folks were mad dashing into the stadium but had to stop and pull out their phones and scan their tickets and get searched by security and all that.

We watched the cacophony yet spirits remained high and everyone had on waterproof makeup, so no disasters occurred. The merch area had sweatshirts and hoodies! So outfit changes were happening left and right.

About sheltering in place in Soldier Field’s hallways….

It was hot inside the halls of Soldier Field. Some 60,000 people were on the first floor, standing all together. You couldn’t hardly move in those halls, and we weren’t allowed to go to the second or third floors – only the ground floor. The wind and rain wafted through the entrances. You could hear the thunder if you were by an exit. Everyone sheltered in place. But everyone was kind.

People ate hotdogs and chili dogs and Chicago style popcorn and cheese fries. They had beers and waters and pops. They dried off completely, reapplied makeup, restyled hair. And the fans! The Fans! People were strutting and popping them fans and freestyle singing and doing two steps as the thunder rolled. A time was had.

Some people sat down on the concrete floor. It was a long wait if you had arrived when doors opened at 5 p.m. – especially for the children that I saw.

By 9 p.m. we figured Beyoncé just might have to cancel this concert. I called my sister, who had lost power to her South Side home. I called my husband and kids, who said they were watching the trees bend over and lightning strike the ground out South. I knew the city was in a bad way with this sudden rain.

We were surprised when told we should head to our seats.

Bey is on the way.

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(This is part one of the Cowboy Carter Chicago post. Subscribe to Everything is Interesting for Part ii of the concert review and learn how the night, er morning, ended for Night 1 of the Cowboy Carter tour in the Chi. Also, since I promised, here is that Rumi video. If you share, please be sure to credit me. → )

Part ii of the Beyonce Cowboy Carter experience is here.

p.s. If you liked this recap and if you have enjoyed the recaps and analysis I’ve written for Forbes, Ebony, the Sun-Times and the Miami Herald over the years, let’s talk about adding this type of content to your magazine or site. I’m an interviewer, writer and editor for hire, so visit my website, send me an email and let’s talk.

Documenting culture is one of the most important things a writer can do. That’s what I do — I specialize in telling the stories that explain and deepen our understanding of our culture and our connections to each other. A lot of my work is in the world of art. I’ve profiled SoundSuits star Nick Cage, Flyboy’s daddy Hebru Brantley, Currency Exchange red’s Amanda Williams, esteemed poet Amanda Gorman, Kehinde Wiley, Elizabeth Catlett and more. I love this part of the job. Artists are literally amazing.

As I was thinking about the art and artists that I’ve covered over the years, I thought about this one piece I wrote for VICE. The story is about Margaret Taylor Burroughs. She's a Chicagoan, like me. She also founded the DuSable Museum of African American History, which is based on the city’s South Side.

She's important for lots of reasons, but for me, she stands out as the godmother of the Chicago Renaissance. She used to hold writerly events in her parlor at home. Can you imagine all those historical figures, just hanging out with each other, painting and writing music and poems and editing each other's short stories? Seems like a dream.

Here’s a portion of the story:

“It was during that fruitful period that Thomas Dorsey created gospel music in Bronzeville, Richard Wright wrote Native Son, and Katherine Dunham opened a school of dance that celebrated the African Diaspora. And within this swirling sauna of Black thought and social action, Burroughs produced mini books on Black history and assembled a massive art collection that provided crucial historical underpinnings for Black contemporary art canon blossoming into existence.”

She and her friends created the famed South Side Community Arts Center. It’s still active today, and home to artists both new and experienced. It’s a great place to visit if you get a chance to swing by.

Here’s another story excerpt:

“…after extensive fundraising, Burroughs and members of her artistic community bought a building across the street from her home to start the South Side Community Arts Center, a three-story mecca for writers and artists. The center’s operations were initially funded by the Works Progress Association, and the opening ceremony was broadcast nationwide on CBS radio and attended by the likes of Eleanor Roosevelt. In fall 2017, it was heralded as a National Treasure by the National Trust for Historic Preservation.”

Telling and retelling these stories is vitally important to the preservation of culture and history, but it also speaks to what we could be doing right now to advance our own art.

Here’s my story about Mother Margaret:

( https://www.vice.com/en/article/margaret-taylor-burroughs-chicago-art-1940s/ )

I’d also love for you to add the following stories about the Black arts collective to your reading list. (Where possible, I added my own gift link so you can still read if it’s in the New York Times, for example, and you don’t already have a subscription.)

The Creative Collectives Finding Strength in Numbers

Born out of the American civil rights movement, Black artists’ coalitions thrived in the 1960s and ’70s. Now, a new generation is discovering their power.

https://www.nytimes.com/2021/10/13/t-magazine/black-art-collectives-creators.html?unlocked_article_code=1.3U4.OLBY.okEkr2lIWiIC&smid=url-share

The 312: Color Theory — a Real Live Art Intervention

Harold’s Chicken Red. Ultrasheen Blue. Pink Oil Moisturizer Pink. Currency Exchange Yellow.

Perhaps you chuckled. If you did, then you’re familiar with the culturally historical colors of Chicago’s black community. And if you’ve noticed that those very colors are popping up on random, abandoned houses on the South Side, then you have artist Amanda Williams to thank for her tongue-in-cheek “color theory.”

(The above story is penned by me in the Chicago Sun-Times, but now this story lives on the 3arts website.

11 Contemporary Black Artists You Should Know

Throughout history, countless ethnic groups and marginalized people have not been given the attention they deserve from the art world. This slideshow is dedicated to black, contemporary artists that we believe our readers should know more about. Many of these artists' works both acknowledge the art world's exclusionary history and subvert it. The artworks highlighted here span drawing, painting, quilting, and sculptural practice.

https://www.artandobject.com/slideshows/11-contemporary-black-artists-you-should-know

16 Black Artists to Know

Looking to deepen your knowledge of Black artists? Explore the connections between eight pairs of artists in our collection. Some share a similar approach to artmaking, others a specific subject. A few even knew each other personally—two were roommates and two are closely related.

https://www.nga.gov/stories/16-black-artists-to-know.html

— — —

Also! I’m a freelance writer and editor so if you need a story written or a story edited, let’s talk! I work with non profits, corporations, media and individuals. You can learn more about my services here.

Right after “Avatar” hit the big screen, I knew that Zoë Saldaña – who last night became the first Dominicana to win an Academy Award after starring in “Emilia Perez” – was one to watch. At the time I was the Senior Editor of Ebony magazine, en route to being the Entertainment Director. I took note that she needed to be on a cover. Years later, I got word from her publicist (whom I kept in touch with because, well, I KNEW it would be a good thing to have a relationship) that she was starring in “Colombiana.”

I'm a fan of Luc Besson, so I figured this film would be hot to death and sexy-strong, much like his other work. (And it was. I viewed an early director's cut pretty early, before it even had music.)

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When I watched the early edit of the film, I knew Ebony had its next cover darling. So I pitched her publicist a cover story in Ebony. I pitched the film and a cover profile to my editors. Both sides said yes.

I worked a bit to explain her heritage to some of my leadership. She’s Afro-Latina, so I knew she was a perfect fit for Ebony – after all, the African Diaspora includes the DR, and if you’ve ever been to New York, well, the DR is definitely present in the U.S.

Zoë is from Queens and is of Dominican heritage. That’s Ebony all day.

After I saw Colombiana, and I talked with her, I fully understood the risk she took in making such a film. At the same time, it saddened me to see the hubbub over U.S.-born viewers who didn’t understand that black/multi racial folks can be native Spanish speakers and hail from Central/South/Latin America. There’s a reason why the term African Diaspora exists! Anyhoo. At the time I said to myself: "One day, she is going to win an Oscar. She just needs the right role, plus the audience needs to mature a bit."

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That was the summer of 2011. Fast forward a dozen years. Zoë has starred in some of the top films of our generation. Her star turns in Star Trek and the Guardians of the Galaxy franchise cemented her in sci-fi and adventure genres even though she had to endure critics who couldn’t get over her playing aliens. But she did the damn thing. Then, she mixed things up. See: From Scratch; that was such a beautiful love story.

For Ebony’s cover story, which ran back in 2011, we headed to Hollywood, where she took photos in an outdoor garden on a not very warm day, wearing gauzy gowns. Later that evening, we headed to dinner - both in our leather jackets - where we ate oysters and drank Malbec in a corner. We talked about her aspirations, her abuela, her sisters, her nieces, her desire to have children and her vision to kick ass in every role, to not be so ladylike all the time. A few folks recognized her, but no one interrupted.

Here’s part of what she told me:

"When I go after a part, [people] better watch their backs,” Saldana [told Adrienne Samuels Gibbs. “Not because I’m going to crush everybody, but because I’m going to give the best that I can because I strive for excellence.... Once I have something on my plate, I will not stop until it’s devoured and digested ..."

We also talked about her being a proud Afro-Latina. We had to spell it out.

She told me that she didn’t necessarily plan out her next three to five years. She goes with the flow and just gravitates toward roles that allow her to kick ass. This brought me immense peace after having interviewed several stars who planned out their riches and projects quite meticulously in a calendar. Those folks mastered manifestation before it became an IG buzzword, but Zoë felt like she didn’t need to be quite that specific. She just needed to keep acting and keep her eyes on her values.

This isn’t to say that all her films were media darlings. Some of them were highly criticized, including “Emilia Perez.” And others fell under the radar because, in my opinion, audiences weren’t ready for her. This is to be expected and is par for the course. If we were to talk now, amongst a great many things, I’d want to discuss her thought process behind some key roles, from where she started to where she is today. I suspect that Hollywood has matured a tiny bit, and expanded a teensy bit more for women of color, for women and for immigrants in recent years, and all those changes helped elevate Zoë to where she is today.

A few pages from inside the magazine are included in this post, so you can zoom in and take a look. The photographer is Daniella Federici. For the shoot, she wore Oscar de la Renta and Dolce and Gabbana gowns. Neil Lane jewelry makes an appearance too.

Zoë’s speech, as she accepted the Oscar and made history, sent chills down my spine.

“I am a proud child of immigrant parents with dreams, dignity, and hardworking hands,” she said, in defiance of an ongoing and growing anti-(brown) immigrant mentality in the United States. “I am the first American of Dominican origin to accept an Academy Award.”

I’ve heard that fierce gratitude before, years ago over oysters and Malbec.

Far too often people think the only items of historical significance are the loud, sad items: The wars, the lynchings, the cross burnings, the assassinations. Other times folks think the only qualifiers of history are the super loud tales of overcoming all the odds and bootstrapping a crazy amount of success.

For what remains of this Black History Month I challenge you to view the everyday, the mundane and even the family Sunday night dinner as an historical and cultural element that one day will be studied and written about because such events define our current lives. I teach at a university, and I often tell my students that the quiet stories are just as necessary as the loud ones.

This then is the vein upon which I wrote a story about my grandfather, who worked at the Chicago Post Office in the mid 1900s. He was one of a few Black folks who snagged such a job, and he worked alongside a “young fella” named Richard Wright. That young fella became famous.

History is all around us. I hope you enjoy the essay. It’s just below the subscribe button.

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My Grandpops, Richard Wright, and the Chicago Post Office

Not all history makes headlines, and that’s okay

It wasn’t until I was a grown woman that I fully realized the significance of my grandfather working alongside — and befriending — a guy named Richard Wright at the Chicago post office. My pops, a church elder, and Wright, a writer becoming, were both sorters at the old main post office — a cavernous multistory building overlooking the highway, downtown and not too far from the Sears Tower. Then, as it is now, working at the post office was a “good job.” A very good job. It was the kind of job that, along with being a Pullman porter or an elevator operator, helped to create the Black middle class in Chicago that was so instrumental in creating the Black political machine and finances that eventually paved the way for Barack Obama’s ascension to the White House.

My grandad died in 1988, and I’m sad I didn’t have enough foresight then to ask him all the questions I have now. If I could, I’d inquire: How did you meet Mr. Wright? What did you all talk about? Did you realize he was writing Native Son in his mind? How did you, a Black man, get this job at the Chicago post office in this era of history? Was it racist? Was it dangerous? Was it glorious?

All that history lost to death and time and inattention. But I’m a determined sort, so I asked my uncles and aunt, the only living children of Peter Samuels, what the story was. I faintly remember hearing about Wright being my grandpop’s roommate in a lodging house. There’s another version of the story where my great aunt owned a house on South Vincennes Avenue where she welcomed lodgers and Wright lived there for a spell. (Sit on that for a moment. A Black woman owned a lodging house in 1930s Chicago during the Great Migration, and she welcomed people in.) Census records clearly show Wright living on Vincennes Avenue with his own family, but the records don’t show where he lived prior to becoming a permanent postal employee. I believe my pops worked alongside Wright after the soon-to-be-novelist got a permanent United States Postal Service job as opposed to the temp one he held down for a short while.

My pops was born in 1908 or so, and the reasons the family fled Georgia are murky. Hush hush. Something to do with a White man disrespecting my great-grannnie and my great-grandpa stealing away in the dead of night in order to avoid a lynching. Back then, White folks would lynch Blacks for damn near anything. And who could stop them? My line wound up in Chicago thanks to White terror. But White terror didn’t stop us.

This is the casual nature of Black family history. Mine is not unique. Everyone I know from Harlem or from the South Side of Chicago or from Los Angeles or from Tampa has a story of their grandparents and their great-grands and the amazing things they overcame. Or didn’t. But that’s also the glory of it. The pride.

When you are a Gen Xer who is Black and from the South Side of Chicago, your granddad will be driving down the street and tell you that he met Nat King Cole at this dry cleaners or hung out with Quincy Jones at this corner store. Your father will tell you about the time Martin Luther King came to the West Side and he witnessed an angry White mob throwing a bottle at his head, injuring him. Your mom will casually drop the knowledge that she — a Black woman — desegregated the teaching staff at a Chicago public school and she caught all kinds of hell for it, but she did it because the children deserved a single Black teacher.

Your uncles will tell you that your grandpops hung out with Emil Jones, the senator, and oh, by the way, Pops and Emil helped found the largest Black-owned credit union in the city of Chicago. Within two weeks of opening, the group of Black men founders had gathered $225,000 from neighbors to start their Black bank.

When you go through your parents’ and grandparents’ things decades after they die, if you are like me, you might find handwritten letters from Shirley Chisholm, Order of the Eastern Star memorabilia, church leaflets that show that a twentysomething gospel legend Albertina Walker sang a solo at your great aunt’s funeral, and newspaper cut-outs of everything surrounding the death of Emmett Till.

When we study Black history as teens or even as college kids, it’s easy to think that this stuff happened in the “before times.” But really, in the grand scheme of things, this happened yesterday and just last week. My uncle Billy, an esteemed theologian and pastor for a South Side church and something of a historian himself, regales me with stories of my pops. Of course I remember dinner at Pops’ house and Sunday family football games on the campus of the University of Chicago and trips to the South to see family members who always, for some reason, lived to be 106. Whew. The questions I wish I had asked.

But I did ask Uncle Billy about Pops and Wright.

“Stories about James Baldwin and Richard Wright would have been strange to somebody growing up in my era,” said my uncle. “The really hip people knew Du Bois. Richard Wright and James Baldwin were just regular guys who were hip. We had no idea the impact they would have on America and the shaping of Blackness.”

“Richard Wright and my dad would throw mail, and they would talk while they were throwing mail,” said my uncle, who was eight or nine at the time. “To me, he was just a post office guy who worked with my daddy. But my daddy said, ‘That Richard is a smart fella, and I like talking to him.’”

The history surrounds us and is us. And not all of it is a big breakout moment, a march, or a headline. Some of it is quiet and takes place in a cavernous mailroom in downtown Chicago, where two Black men made pleasant work chitchat and eventually earned enough money to buy their own homes and make their own fortunes. All because they somehow made it north of the Mason Dixon line and got a job sorting mail at the post office.

My mom died eight years ago and it hurts less than it used to but probably more than it should.

I am frequently soothed because I live in the home I grew up in, surrounded by memories and ghosts. They wink at me and I wink back. When I walk in my kitchen, in the late fall, and hear the crickets outside the back door while the fireflies flit around, I am instantly transported to a night spent playing with my Transformers on that linoleum floor while my parents watch Knight Rider in the next room.

Kit was the robotic star of that show and my favorite. He was a midnight black, 1982 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am armed with artificial intelligence. His “I’m listening” sound of whir-whir-whir-whir blended with the crickets and became something of a soundtrack for that moment of my childhood. The crack and hiss of a Pepsi can opening usually followed, as did the sound of the human star, David Hasslehoff, saving the day.

I think I remember the sounds around Knight Rider so vividly because everyone I loved was alive at that time, and I felt safe. Kit’s whir is a mental receipt.

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My dad died a few years before my mom did. For a long while, she kept the house as is. I overstood. It was hard work going through the office of a deceased attorney, sorting through reassignment of his court cases, shredding his documents and gifting his law library. She passed before she could finish.

That’s how reallocating or destroying all the paper things — for both parents — became a task that fell to me.

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Part of what comes with living in the house I was raised in is the paperwork. My parents were meticulous receipt keepers. There are files and files of color coded, folder and subject sorted, alphabetical-always papers. Filing cabinets full of receipts stapled to the bills stapled to a note stating when the check was mailed for payment. Then there are the carbon copies of each check; back from when carbon copies were a thing. Back before digital banking existed. There are so many receipts that I still find new (to me) boxes in the recesses of the attic, or the cellar or the garage.

Just when I think I’ve finally finished sorting through parental things, I find something else.

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This is why this past weekend I tackled the sordid task of shredding the medical records. While I was shredding I came across the receipts for new tires from Sears, a washer machine and other odds and ends from stores long gone. Zayre. Carson Pirie Scott. Marshall Fields. I found an American Express receipt for the black pearl choker my father gifted my mother. A can of Pepsi at Walgreens. Tacos from Pepes. A business dinner at the Signature Room. I found a Worldwide Personal Travel Accident Insurance plan for my father, which coincided with the time we drove around the country for two months and visited every state between Illinois and the Pacific Ocean.

Yes, my father believed that I should see the amber waves of grain, the purple mountains majesties, and the oceans white with foam. This Midwest girl saw her entire country (except for Alaska — that came later) and understood it by the time I was 10. When we drove to the Great Salt Flats and climbed down into the Grand Canyon, saw the Hoover Dam, got out our car to to see Mount Rushmore and came face-to-face with a moose in California, I realized he wanted me to understand that this is my country and to see it for real — not just read about it in a book.

The receipts tell stories.

Toyota recalled mom’s green Avalon because of an accelerator pedal reinforcement bar installation gone awry. She had them come tow it, and she kept the receipt from the tow company for reimbursement. She saved Home Depot receipts, storm window repair receipts and roof repair receipts in a folder she addressed to me — instructing me to keep it for warranties. The folder also included her “daughter-do” list from the Great Beyond. (I’m nearly done but still working at it. Slowly.)

The listings of her oil changes paired with her grocery receipts paired with letters of thanks from places where she volunteered paired with letters from students she tutored paired with her oncology appointment blood panels tells me a lot about how she spent her time as she died from stage 4 metastatic breast cancer that spread from her bones into her blood. I thought I knew all there was to know about my mother. I saw her every other day. But the receipts showed me how she always kept it moving; always doing something for somebody despite being ill.

I saw the receipts from my father’s medical plan. All the issues that eventually decreased his quality of life and led him to die, eventually, of complications from diabetes. $4.22 for a blood panel. His portion, of course. $14,565 for a hospital stay. I think that was the time I was pledging Delta Sigma Theta, and I wanted to stay by his side but my dad, a member of Kappa Alpha Psi, told me to go back to my line. He said my soon-to-be Sorors would sustain me even if he was gone. And like all things, he was right about that too.

Eventually I got to Alaska. It was a bucket list trip with my mom. We tackled it after my father died. She’d gone to see the Panama Canal with my sister and next she wanted to see the glaciers and Tokyo. So we went. Alaska was beautiful and not as cold as you might think. We saw whales and lots of ice. I almost nearly gave her a heart attack, she said, when I got caught in a waterfall that gushed from a suddenly-cracked glacier while I was taking pictures from the bow of a catamaran. I can’t recall exactly how this went down, but the blurry pictures and video on my cell phone are a series of chunky blue objects paired with shrieks drowned by the roar of water.

I didn’t fall into the ocean because my legs were somehow, bizarrely, tangled up in a rope. But I was soaking wet — my wet long johns, my wet hair, my soggy puffy coat and my waterlogged snow pants adding pounds to my frame. Someone helped me up, pulled me up. I don’t know who. My mother and sister hugged me. Dragged me. The captain had me sit in front of a heater. The upside, I joked, was that I tasted shockingly fresh, rejuvenating water that was frozen long before B.C. The downside was the chill.

My mother, who knew her days were numbered, took off her coat and put it on me as I shivered and we hustled back to the mainland. I accepted hers without thought. But now I wonder how cold she must have been while she watched me drip. She bought a second winter coat while we were in Yukon territory about to board an old rickity mountain train. “Just as a precaution.” She carried it with her every time we went out on another excursion. She kept that receipt too. I found it.

Amongst the pile of things I set aside to shred was something I forgot that I had kept: the receipt of the belongings my mother wore to the hospital that were returned to me the day she died. I don’t know why I held on to this macabre document. It read like she was permanently checking out of life. Sweatshirt. Gold ring. Diamond earrings. Bracelet watch. Jeans. Time of death. I signed the paper unconfidently. You can tell. The scribbled signature fades and drops. I don’t remember that day at all, but look, here is the receipt.

What a thing to be reminded of.

I shredded it.

This piece originally appeared on Medium in 2020, where I served a global audience as the Director of Content. I'm sharing it here because my mom deserves to be remembered, and because some things don't expire.

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When Stevie Wonder released the song “Happy Birthday,” in 1981, he made a political and social statement that changed the course of United States history. The musical genius penned the song to remind U.S. lawmakers and voters that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr deserved to be recognized with a national holiday. Up to that point, there was no clear majority of lawmakers ready to stand behind the vote needed to implement the holiday.

What Wonder did there was nothing short of a miracle. He penned a lively, lovely song — a legit ear worm — that publicly acknowledged a slain civil rights hero. That same lively, lovely song led the nation to a deep reflection. For most, it was an unforgettable bop that highlighted the best parts of King’s legacy. For many, it led to enlightenment. For others, it led to shame. The multiple Grammy-winning artist plainly asked: What on earth is wrong with y’all? Why can’t our nation grant a day to celebrate a Black man whose work changed the course of history and helped make America even better?

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Read a transcript of this podcast on Everything Is Interesting by Adrienne Samuels Gibbs.

When Stevie Wonder released the song “Happy Birthday,” in 1981, he made a political and social statement that changed the course of United States history. The musical genius penned the song to remind U.S. lawmakers and voters that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr deserved to be recognized with a national holiday. Up to that point, there was no clear majority of lawmakers ready to stand behind the vote needed to implement the holiday.

What Wonder did there was nothing short of a miracle. He penned a lively, lovely song — a legit ear worm — that publicly acknowledged a slain civil rights hero. That same lively, lovely song led the nation to a deep reflection. For most, it was an unforgettable bop that highlighted the best parts of King’s legacy. For many, it led to enlightenment. For others, it led to shame. The multiple Grammy-winning artist plainly asked: What on earth is wrong with y’all? Why can’t our nation grant a day to celebrate a Black man whose work changed the course of history and helped make America even better?

Of course, it goes without saying, our nation also sanctioned, legalized, and profited from anti-Black violence for hundreds of years. Still does, in fact. King’s treatment and his assassination in 1968 was a very visible example of said violence, and it was impossible to hide. His lifelong work to increase equity and equality deeply challenged the limited minds of many.

Today, on King Day, I’m asking you to pause the song between the verses and really listen to it. For real. LISTEN to it.

Let’s consider the first verse.

“You know it doesn't make much sense

There ought to be a law against

Anyone who takes offense

At a day in your celebration…”

Wonder plainly kicked off the song taking the anti-King lobby to task for their small mindedness. Keep in mind the history here. Congressman John Conyers had, for 15 years, repeatedly reintroduced a bill to celebrate King Day. Every year, it stalled – despite the full support of the Congressional Black Caucus.

It over a decade and six million signatures on a petition, to finally kick off the momentum needed to turn the tide by the 1980s. Then? Wonder released his song with that iconic first set of verses that made everybody dance - and made everybody think. The song, on Wonder’s certified platinum Hotter than July album, was an instant hit though it was never released as a single for U.S. radio. However, in the U.K., it rose to the number 2 spot.

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Then, in 1983, after the 20th anniversary of King’s legendary “I Have A Dream” speech (also the anniversary of the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, and the 15th anniversary of King’s assassination) something positive finally happened. The naysayers were ready to vote down the King Day measure, except their plan to use FBI files against King fell flat. On October 19, 1983, the bill passed Senate and on November 2, 1983, President Ronald Reagan signed it into law.

Wonder released his song in 1981, if you remember.

Let’s consider the second and third sections of “Happy Birthday.”

“That there ought to be a time

That we can set aside

To show just how much we love you

And I'm sure you would agree

What could fit more perfectly

Than to have a world party

on the day you came to be”

Though the vote passed, some states - and many companies - still refused to honor Dr. King. Arizona was amongst them. However, by the year 2000, all states were in compliance. (New Hampshire was the last, in 1999, using it to replace Civil Rights Day.) Yet, it’s 2025 and not all companies are in compliance, though

those same companies often happily place Memorial Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas as non negotiable holidays on the corporate calendar. In fact, fewer than 50% of American companies recognize King Day. Some, however, do offer it as a floating holiday for employees.

Another verse:

“I just never understood

How a man who died for good

Could not have a day that would

Be set aside for his recognition”

Regardless of the day off or on, it is a federal holiday and federal employees do not work on King Day, which is usually the third Monday of January. Sometimes it even falls on his actual birthday of January 15. Also, despite being signed into law in 1983, the federal government first celebrated King Day on Monday, January 20, 1986.

Wonder started a wave with a song. It speaks to the power of music, the power of the people and to the power of ancestral alignment. King Day just couldn’t be stopped. King, with the help of thousands, had accomplished too much and come too far to be stopped by a few companies or a few people who preferred to ignore civil rights history.

I’d also like to note, that since I wrote the first version of this story (for Forbes, years ago) I’ve now come to understand how Wonder’s ode to King is a form of ancestral veneration. By singing to King, singing of King and placing a song about King in everyone’s ear, Wonder makes King unforgettable. Even if a child has never heard of King (which is possible, actually, now that education is being turned on its head) that same child has definitely heard the song. How often do you go to a restaurant and, if a Black family is celebrating a birthday, they break out into the Stevie Wonder version of “Happy Birthday?” I see it all the time, every time I go out. The song never gets old. And no one is ever off key.

Remembering our ancestors who worked for our highest good is essential. Without King and others, we wouldn’t be the great nation that we are. King sharpened us. To be clear, he didn’t work alone. There were thousands of civil rights workers and fighters and dreamers and doers. But as the lions of that era become ancestors themselves, it’s important for the story to continue to be told. The song accomplishes that. You are going to learn this American history no matter what, because music sticks to the brain in a way that almost nothing else can.

The older that I get, and the more I contemplate the verses of the song, the more I wonder about the power that led Wonder to write this piece. It’s powerful. It’s infused with some sort of cosmic balancing weight; something that changed the minds of an entire nation. The last verse instructs us to say and remember King as loud and proud and as often as possible. Music changes the mood. I know this for sure, because my eight-year-old knows the story of the song about Dr. King that we sing every year on his own birthday. My son feels connected to King because they share the same birthday song and because it’s joyful - not sad. As he grows older and as he learns more about the terrible reasons why we had to embark upon the civil rights movement, he will always be able to fall back on King’s song for a jolt of joy.

Today, King Day is largely used as a day of service for many. Some companies gave King Day off for the very first time this year. But better late than never. Often it’s the employee resource groups that are the reason why management adds the day to the calendar. Whatever the reason, I’m grateful for it, for everyone.

Consider the last portion of the song.

“It should be a great event

And the whole day should be spent

In full remembrance

Of those who lived and died for the oneness of all people

So let us all begin

We know that love can win

Let it out, don't hold it in

Sing it loud as you can

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday to you

Happy birthday”

My beloved Sorority sister, Black Arts Movement poet extraordinaire and genius-level writer Nikki Giovanni has gone on to become an ancestor. In the short hours since reports of her death, I’ve read dozens of tributes to her life and her poetic lineage. But here’s a story you haven’t heard yet.

I once commissioned a piece by Giovanni, for a special edition collector’s edition magazine. The collector’s edition was about President Barack Obama and his ground-breaking wins. As senior editor, it was my job to reach out to writers, artists or celebrities and then to commission works or set up shoots or interviews. So that’s what I did! I found her email, I found her phone number, and I asked. (Well, it was more than that — I had to carefully craft an email. I had to edit said email. I deleted and rewrote that email like 15 times because THIS IS NIKKI GIOVANNI AND IT HAD TO BE A PERFECT EMAIL.) Perhaps I did obsess over the inquiry but eventually I sent it. That’s it. And she immediately said yes.

We had to work through some (very minor) contract issues, but that’s par for the course and to be expected. To be honest, we asked more of her than she did of us.

Working with Giovanni wasn’t difficult. She wasn’t one of those divas who you have to cajole and make ultra promises to in order to get things done. She made her deadline for the magazine and she didn’t ask for extensions or try to negotiate additional money for her contribution. She understood the assignment. This was EBONY, asking for some of her precious work so that we could share it with the masses and also commemorate this moment. And she, in her pro-Black way, emphatically said yes.

I was thrilled. This was 2016. I was a young editor commissioning work and talking to and emailing with and texting with THEE Nikki Giovanni, and her assistant. I was a Chicagoan, a South Sider, a Black woman writer working with the literal Blueprint. Again. Thrilling. I was very protective over the piece in layout, which in retrospect I’m sure had to have made our (very experienced) designer chuckle. (Don’t change it! Don’t move one period. Don’t delete one space. She wrote it how she wrote it.) Over the years, when I wanted to set up a profile of her in the magazine with a corresponding home visit and photos, she responded with an affirmative. I’ve worked with a lot of writers and celebs and politicians and honestly, Giovanni was just super chill. She valued Black media. She understood her quiet power on us all. She “got” it. She told me to keep writing.

Giovanni wrote a poem about and for President Barack Obama in a special presidential edition of Ebony, where I had the good fortune to be a senior team member. I would later go on to do similar books for First Lady Michelle Obama, Whitney Houston and Prince – albeit none of them had newly-commissioned poems.

Giovanni was happy to write for Obama and for Ebony. It was simple and beautiful.

Giovanni died December 9, 2024 at the age of 81.

Join me in this conversation. Let’s talk about it. The newsletter doesn’t tell you how I resolved the situation, but this podcast most certainly does.

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Once upon a time I was backstage with TV personality and health guru Dr. Mehmet Oz, preparing to go on stage and conduct an interview. We had breakfast in the greenroom but there was only ONE yogurt left and one spoon.

As the esteemed guest I gestured for him to take it. He took two spoonfuls and offered the spoon to me. He said I needed to eat as well.

Of course I said no thank you.

He wouldn't let it go.

He pressed on. He offered the science.

He said that the yogurt wouldn't allow for the transfer of germs and as long as we both dipped into the yogurt, we could finish the yogurt together. He offered the spoon again to me, asking me to give it a try. To trust him. He then took a bite of my food on my plate, to show that the spoon itself was safe and he wasn’t worried about germs from my own person.

Licking a spoon and sharing it ranks up there with the top five things I dislike doing - even with my own kids. Even with my sister.

But there we were (in a greenroom at a journalism convention) and here we are (with Oz shortlisted for the Presidential Cabinet.)

If confirmed by the United States Senate in 2025, Dr. Oz is soon going to lead the nation's Centers for Medicare and Medicaid Services, or CMS. President-elect Donald Trump wants him in this position. Back in the day, Oz was also the TV-ready doctor of choice for Oprah Winfrey. He hosted the Emmy-winning “The Dr. Oz Show” for 13 seasons, despite critics stating he offered “quack” medicine. He was beloved by many and due to his ethnic background, some folks thought his TV visibility was a good sign for people of various colors and cultures.

In 2022, Oz became a Trump ally in the midst of his failed 2022 Senate run. The heart surgeon is also a graduate of Harvard University, the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine, and Wharton Business School.

Out of all the things I remember about him, this yogurt situation stands out the most. It happened at an NABJ convention.

But the question remains years after our moments backstage: Would YOU have licked the spoon?

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