Welcome to
The Sunny James Show

(00:50)

-- A Dream Deferred? Taking Some Time to Ask "Now What?" Sent The First Born Off to College, How to Wring a Teabag's Neck, North of the Border and All Frenchie and finally Miss Adele and I celebrate Birthdays. Soooo, what did you do on your summer vacation?





(24:52)

--  Obama in Asia. A Hand Out or Hands Up?

--  Massachusetts' Over-Inflated Stimulated, (that was my last date) er, I mean Stimulus Numbers

--  Women in the Military. Same Song, Three or Four Different Wars

--  Sexim Kills

--  The Hague's Hung Up Trial of Charles Taylor

--  Code Talkers in New York and a new Embassy of Tribal Nations in Washington DC

--  University of Texas El Paso, Closing the Brown/White Gap

--  A Fortunate Few South African Children

(1:13:59)

-- For the Musically Stuck in a Rut . . . Sweet Honey in the Rock "On Children." I Miss My Girl, Even if Her Frontal Lobe Hasn't Matured

(1:15:43)
-- Sunny's Good Word - polemic • \puh-LEM-ik\

(1:16:02)
-- Where In the World is . . .  Trois-Pistoles Quebec. The pics will be posted to facebook shortly.

(1:16:43)
Taxation Without Representation--Yes, Again! And I Didn't Even Know She Was Listening. My Blue Hen Does Me Proud.

Also, you can find the entire Q&A with David Axlerod at the University of Delaware on my website, www.sunnyjames.net

See ya next time,
Sunny

OK, so, it's been a while.

I know, I know, the absence of my mellifluous voice has left a longing and a gaping hole in your heart and on your reading list. But despair no longer--if I don't get off my hiatus havin' butt by the end of this week, you can find me and let me have it with the Sunday New York Times. But as you probably know the NYT is not what it used to be.

I vaguely remember what to do with the headphones and mic. So much has happened since I last joined you. But I think I'll pull it together by the end of the week to share what I do with you. So check your RSS feeds and make sure you put me back on your subscribed podcast list on iTunes--I'm coming baaack!

Talk to you soon,
Sunny

Welcome to
The Sunny James Show

(00:50)

-- Where the Hell Has Sunny Been? See Below

-- Thrilla in Manilla and Rumble in the Jungle Ain't Got Nothin' on the Smack Down on the Potomac. From an Only Child--Siblings Suck

-- Graduations and Promotions

-- The Original Badass: Sunny Does Storytelling Open Mic and Lives to Tell About

-- Happy July 4th and Happy Le Quatorze Juillet, You'll Figure It Out

--  The Washington Post: Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures. Put Another Way--Somebody Fucked Up!
7/5/09 UPDATE: This is a huge story for newspaper journalism and for the lobbyist and politician inside the beltway. So much so that The Washington Post publisher ran an apology on the op-ed section of the paper today. The apology is bullshit from a company that got caught doing dirt. But here's the course of events as written by a Post reporter.

--  Sunny Adopts Brightwood Elementary 1st Graders and Now it's Time to Start Standing on Faith

--  Do You Know Who Dempsey Travis Was?

(20:34)

--  The Justice Department Gets Its Teeth Back

--  INS Putting the Responsibility Where It Belongs

--  Full Figured Fashion Week: Necessary or Looking the Other Way on Health Issues Just Like the Fashion Industry Has Done For Years--Can You Say Anorexic Stick Figure? See Next Story
7/5/09 Correction: the Newsweek article reference read "Cesar Chavez." I referred to Hugo Chavez, a "South American dictator." Thanks to sharp listeners who points out my errors.

--  US Obesity Issues Growing
7/5/09 Update: Here's another piece from the University of Delaware which is conducting a study on children, diabetes, obesity and self image.

--  L'Oreal Says Only BBR Need Apply--BUSTED!

--  Sarkozy Racial Profiling On the Streets of France and Undressing Muslim Women

--  South African Slums Descend Deeper into Hell

-- Are You Raising a Rich Daughter?

--  Lost Events Soon Found

(1:12:39)

--  The Original Badass. In Honor of My Grandmother, Miss Adele.

(1:19:49)

-- For the Musically Stuck in a Rut . . . D'nce Boogie by Vibe. French Rap. It's a Wonderful Thing--even if I can't understand every word--It's Music, Baby!

(1:21:33)
-- Sunny's Good Word - al·tru·ism - \ˈal-trü-ˌi-zəm\

(1:22:12)
-- Where In the World is . . .  Marseilles, France. Where I would love to be six months a year and Paris the other six months.

Closing Rant--It's Not Just Me Singing the Washington DC, the taxation without representation capital of the United States Tune

See ya next time,
Sunny

Hello All and Happy 4th of July

No, hell hasn't frozen over and no, I've not been abducted by aliens. I'm working right now to bring thought provoking, relevant news, information and entertainment to your soggy ears. While you're busy munching on holiday hot dogs and splashing about at the pool I'm thinking, "why didn't anybody invite me to the festivities?"

Anyway, you thoughtless communal bathers, I'll have a new show up in at least 48 hours.

Now didn't you miss me?

Happy 4th
Sunny

It would appear that I'm on a roll today. 

Anyway . . .

I've almost given up watching TV when the networks want me to watch. I'm a Hulu kinda girl. When the day comes, and it will be soon, that I give up my cable service, you'll hear about it right here. But tonight I thought I'd give NBC Nightly News a go, for sentimental reasons of course.

Well, what do you get when you cross a media conglomerate's entertainment division with its news division? You get NBC's Nightly News with Brian Williams anchoring a newscast that slams a story about Jay Leno's absence from his nightly perch, on the same network, between a rather interesting story about an underwater national park and the passing of a World War II veteran.

What Shameless Self Promotion. SSP, the acronym of choice of the greedy, self-obsessed or perhaps of a floundering, once great media organization trying to make its way across the ever-changing media delivery landscape--and not having a good go of it.

Enough said.

til next time,
Sunny

Welcome to
The Sunny James Show


(00:50)

-- Bon jour a tous. To my Guy Canadian kin. Thanks for helping to add a few more branches to my family tree.

-- Laid off and not feeling quite like myself, but still holdin' on

-- What do Jimmy Choos and Starbucks coffee have in common? I can't afford either one. I'll have a $5 triple, grande, non-fat caramel macchiato,extra hot, extra caramel with those $300, 3-inch-open-toe-pumps, please!

--  If so many great people at great media organizations are listening to The Sunny James Show, Why the Hell Ain't I on the Radio Yet? My grammar perhaps?

--  One more time for good measure--The media landscape is changing, you'll have to (should be already) program your own life

--  Who is that flipping between For the Love of RayJ and Rachel Maddow?

(24:00)

--  Check out how The Daily Mail covered, in graphic detail, President Obama's Cadillac One, Air Force One and Marine One. God, I Love the Foreign Press

--  We don't need no stinkin' Tea Party. We need a friggin' pork bar-b-que or at least a bag of pork rinds. Read the Annual "Pig Book" to see $19.6 billion reasons why. More from the pig barrel. This issue and tea party protestors just irk me to no end. This article from the 4/21/09 Washington Post highlights the king of pork, Rep. John Murth (D-Pa), spending habits for his consitituents.

Like I said during the show, Barak Obama is a politician. And politicians say and do whatever they have to in order to get what they want. In Europe he was one thing and in Latin America he's something else. As noted by the following excerpt from The Washington Post. Just wanted to prove my point!

UPDATE 4/18/09

"PORT-OF-SPAIN, Trinidad and Tobago, April 18 -- In presenting himself at a summit here as an equal partner to Latin America, President Obama is drawing on his race as evidence of U.S. social progress and of his own affinity for the region's poor.

Race occupies a far larger and more troubled place in Latin American politics than it does in Europe, where Obama rarely mentioned his ethnic background this month during his first overseas trip as president.

He is doing so more often here at the Summit of the Americas, in part to push an agenda that, among other issues, seeks to address the region's income disparity between rich and poor, the widest in the world.

In talking about his race and the backgrounds of his counterparts, Obama is associating himself more closely than his predecessors did with Latin America's indigenous, black and mixed-race underclass, which has long identified the United States with economic policies that benefit the elite of European descent far more than them."

--  10 ways the economy will look different. And you just might like it.

--  Oakland, Dying for Respect. Also check out Bryant Gumble's Real Sports program featuring a segment on the murders of Black athletes in and around Hampton Roads, Virgina

--  After 500,000 Black men go to jail for selling crack, the justice system says there may have been some bias in doling out sentences --Ya Think?

--  Is Jodi Picoult Just for White Girls? Is Zane Just for Black Lovers?

--  Is Colonel Sanders Spinning in his Special Recipe?

--  Mike Tyson with his guard down

--  The bible says that a child will lead, I pray that in Liberia, a woman will. Ellen Sirleaf Johnson's Autobiography "This Child Will Be Great: Memoir of a Remarkable Life"

--  The Television Networks Just Ain't What They Used to Be (again, I say, learn to program your own damn life!)

(1:12:00)

-- For the Musically Stuck in a Rut . . . Years ago I could listen to Al Jarreau all the time. Then the road got bumpy and I had to mend a broken heart--sorry that's Al Green--and music took a backseat to my tale of woe. But I've recently revisited my love for Al Jarreau and rediscovered his ability to smooth out the rough moments in my life. Al Jarreau new, old or in between and in keeping with the positive believing and faith sprinkled throughout this show, you should give Al Jarreau's "Could You Believe" a listen with fresh ears.

(1:14:20)
-- Sunny's Good Word - specious  \ˈspē-shəs\

(1:15:28)
-- Where In the World is . . . Shelburne, Nova Scotia? And one more time for good measure, Washington DC, the taxation without representation capital of the United States

        The Leftovers (Still Good the Next Day)
Stuff I Just Couldn't Get to Or I'd Still Be Talking
--  If you haven't given up your cable service yet please turn into "Trouble the Water" on HBO on Thursday April 23 @ 8:30. Those in the 9th Ward are still living with Katrina every day.

-- Another step closer to this long overdue project. The Smithsonian announced that Freelon Adjaye Bond/SmithGroup is the architectural team chosen to design the National Museum of African American History and Culture to be located on the National Mall near the Washington Monument. The selection was made by a jury chaired by Museum Director Lonnie G. Bunch III. They will now be asked to respond to an official Request for Proposal to design the new building, scheduled to open on the National Mall in 2015.

Advertising Age presents an interesting and well-researched article titled "Don't Bypass African-Americans, Marketers Make Mistake by Failing to Expressly Target Nearly $1 Trillion Market." The piece focuses on the spending power of the Black consumer. Catch it while you can. Ad Age indicates that the article is the first in a series for Black History Month. For the uninformed or recently back from under a rock, February is Black History Month. You should be able to tell because there'll be more Black folks on the tube.

It's certainly no secret in the black community how much is spent on everything from liquor to cars. For me, the problem is the type of advertisers that seems to skip the Black community and/or consumer. For a demographic that spends $193 billion dollars annually, where are the ad campaigns directed at the Black consumer featuring high-end home furnishings, jewelry, couture and ready to wear fashion etc? But let me be very clear at this point, this is not the economic environment that we need to be thinking about being wooed and seduced so that Madison Avenue can dig its grubby paws deeper in our pockets.

Welcome to
The Sunny James Show

Are there breast in your future? Read or Listen to "The Breast Kept Secret"

The Inaugural of Barack Hussein Obama, the 44th President of the United States of America. What a wonderful time it was. Now it's time to get some work done.

Overheard: "We're here, we're home. It looks great over there."      Michelle Obama upon entering the inaugural parade reviewing stand

Show 44-09

(3:00)
--  Mr. President, Can the Resident's of the Nation's Capital Get A Vote in Congress? And Better Schools and . . . and  . . . and . . .

-- He's already complaining about Washingtonian's inability to maneuver in the snow and ice.

--  A Wardrobe Change Too? Can You Say "Cool"?

--  So what has he done for us--TEN DAYS in?

--  Rahm's Republican Chicken's Coming Home to Roost? The Daily Beast

--  Karl Rove's Cubicle Envy The Wall Street Journal

--  Is There a Lobbyist in the House or HHS or Treasury or the SEC?

--  Obama Remembers His Elders New Yorker

--  What Does Obama Owe Black Folks? TIME

--  A Perfect Storm Caused Economic Crisis CNN.com

--  Race Won't Hurt Alabama Governor's Race Montgomery Advertiser

--  Line Forms Where? Tucson's Unemployed Turn Out for Career Expo Arizona Daily Star

--  High School Students Get Started on Nursing Careers Savannah Morning News

--  Girlfriend, How Shallow Can You Go? The New York Times

--  Rape in Congo

--  Mo'Nique's Push

--  Ellington Does DC Coin

--  Made in China: Not at US Capital Visitors Center

(1:19:34)
-- For the Musically Stuck in a Rut . . . Anthony Hamilton, sounds like home to me

(1:20:24)
-- Sunny's Good Word - lothario  \lo·thar·io\

(1:20:37)
-- Where In the World is . . . Reykjavik? And one more time for good measure, Washington DC, the taxation without representation capital of the United States

      The Leftovers (Still Good the Next Day)
Stuff I Just Couldn't Get to Or I'd Still Be Talking
--  France to Immigrants, Give us your DNA Daily Mail
--  High Schooler's Raunchy Half-time Show. Jonesboro, Georgia high school dance team give lap dances on the court at half-time. It's just entertainment, right? The video even made it on to The Daily Beast. Where the f#$#$%^ were the adults?


See ya next time,
Sunny

Welcome to
The Sunny James Show

Thanks to Celisa and Daphnee. Thanks to Rick Gray at www.steelbeachpost.com

Have you listened to The Breast Kept Secret?

One short rant: Trying to save the world one podcast at a time.

Show 43-09

(13:45)
-- Ok, he's been elected, now what? Clips from the January 8 speech

--  Political Ruminations, Speculations and Resistance


-- Gay High Schools Offer a Haven from Bullies US New & World Report

-- Nine Senegalese Convicted of Homosexuality International Herald Tribune

-- Put Differences Aside, Let Us Pray Together Atlanta Journal Constitution

-- An Inexact Analogy Newsweek

-- Plus Some Stuff From Last Summer



-- Obama Swearing-in to Shine Light on City Birmingham News

-- State Offices Will Shut Two Fridays a Month Sacramento Bee

-- What's Race Got to Do With It?

-- Racist Attitudes

-- Massachusetts Addressing Obesity

-- Dr. Gupta, America's Dr.; Now America's Surgeon

-- American Pimp in Korea International Herald Tribune

-- Ethiopia and Smolia, No Peace, No Justice Economist

-- Somali Pirates vs US-led Naval Forces

-- Harley-Davidson Still Kick Ass in Cuba

-- Charter School for Immigrants

-- Women & Money

-- JD Jakes Not Easily Broken on the Big Screen

-- Diary of a Mad Atlanta Housewife

(1:26:17)
-- For the Musically Stuck in a Rut . . . Samba or Bosa Nova or anything else Beautiful and Brazilian--Alex Martin's Amerique Latine Nostalgia for Terra Incognita.

(1:29:50)
-- Sunny's Good Word - meander • \mee-AN-der\

(1:30:00)
-- Where In the World is . . . Sao Paolo? And one more time for good measure, Washington DC, the taxation without representation capital of the United States

See ya next time,
Sunny

This is the audio version of The Breast Kept Secret - Sunny's Almost Daily Commentary.

And what's that pictured to the left? You'll have to listen to find out.

Since October 2008, I've kept a secret.

Like hundreds and thousands of other women, I observe October as Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It's easy for me to remember because my birthday is in October also. But October 2008 found me working the full-time job from hell while trying, unsuccessfully, to find my little piece of on-air radio heaven. Little pink ribbons were distributed which I promptly affixed on my always black lapel. I even purchased a pink leather wrist band to show my support for the cause. When worn with my two other pink rubber bracelets, it makes the ultimate fashion and social statement. My employer, which laid me off a month later, encouraged the wearing of the pink. Kind of like the wearing of the green but without the Guinness and Beamish—and definitely not as much fun. I believe the consent was afforded only to sell more pink goods to customers who over the last several years have become inundated with stuff emblazoned with the pink ribbon logo or pink packaging.  All with the promise that a small portion of the proceeds will go to some organization that's fighting breast cancer. Want to sell recycled toilet seats to women?  Package them in pink!

It had been three years since my last mammogram and I knew the matter needed to be tended to. After all, I had a family history that included a grandmother who"d had her left breast removed about ten years ago. She's 92 today. I remember the first time I saw her mastectomy scar. I tried not to look but I wanted to and I needed to. I was obviously younger and dumber than I am now. My thoughts were selfish. In the privacy of her bedroom I asked her if I could touch her scar. My grandmother"s ever-present, not quite raunchy, humor flashed. Sure, she replied. I might as well because nobody else was showing any interest. My grandmother’s interest in men had not waned with age. Even to this day, if there’s a man of any age in the room, she may not be able to see him very well, but her smile brightens, she sits up taller and straighter and fully expects that any favors—and she will ask—will be granted. I hope I’m so lucky. Her scar was a rough, raised keloid. I remember wanting to know what happened to her discarded breast at the hospital—the breast that had fed four babies—the breast that had always been propped up and jammed into huge architecturally constructed bras, but in which Adele always managed to leave more than a bit of cleavage showing for the ever-present and ever-changing boyfriend. Adele was my model for living out loud. But was this my fate? Was this the misbehaving and recalcitrant gene pool from which I was formed?  Was a scar like this lurking just around the corner waiting for me? Waiting until "the man” had entered my life and adored me and my lovely breasts, almost better than I could adore them myself. Then "wham.” One of them is gone. Would he be repulsed and bolt and thus prove he was not, in fact, "the man,” or would he love me anyway?

The first of October found me sitting quietly in a very un-pink and claustrophobic RV, an urban Valkyrie--all armor, with antenna instead of wings. A place for the uninsured and the lucky.  Would the Valkyrie strike me down and escort me to Valhalla? Or would she find me worthy to battle another day? I will be forever grateful to the George Washington University Hospital Mammovan service. They provide life-saving services and reach women who, like me, would otherwise go without. While I sat, I questioned whether I had really lived out loud—lived my best life since that day in my grandmother’s bedroom. The answer was a resounding and disappointing “no.” And yes, I did the cliché, earnestly repeating “dear God, get me out of this.” My Catholic-school education kicked in. I offered interminable Hail Marys and Our Fathers, I couldn’t keep track of the Glorious Mysteries. I tried to think of the saints whom I was supposed to pray to in my situation: St. Jude, St. John, St. Christopher. I reached across religions to Ganesha, Buddha, Shiva, Mohamed, Jehovah. I even thought of deceased family members who might be looking down on me and take mercy on my poor, humble 36DDs. And when you’re uninsured like I have been for five years, you pray doubly hard that you will be spared a slow and agonizing death. None of the prayers and supplications in that armored hulk that day won out over the prayerful and constantly meditative state in which I lived for the next two months.

Just to be sure that I kept up my sunny disposition after my mammogram, I had scheduled a lunch date at Busboys and Poets with a guy I dated my senior year in high school. I had just stumbled upon him on the Internet while looking for advice at the Small Business Administration. He was a thin, 6’6” dark chocolate-colored bit of fun. He was a great distraction for that one day but turned out to be a major arrogant, dishonest ass a month later—something else I certainly didn’t need on my plate, but still a challenging distraction from what was possibly going on in my body.

Two weeks later a notification arrived in my mailbox: “demonstrated an abnormality in both breasts.” For the last several years I had come to hate my mailbox. I hated the bills that landed there that I struggled to pay and most recently I hated the bailout check that was never contained therein. Now it was certain, the U.S. Postal Service was an agent of the devil. “Both breasts.” “What the fuck?” This was not a WTF moment. It was a “what the fuck?!” moment. If ever there was a time to be vulgar out loud, really loud and really vulgar, this was it. No demure SMS shorthand. It turned out I wasn’t even going to be allowed to keep one breast.

January 5 seemed so far away. But that was as early as they could see me again. I asked to speak to a doctor; perhaps an explanation over the phone would allay my fears. But it didn’t. I promised myself, reformed hypochondriac that I am, that during the second mammogram I wouldn’t care how hard the machine clamped down on my breast, I would yield to the pain. I needed that machine to do its job and not see what it had seen before.

Shortly after I made my second appointment, I realized that sharing even the possibility of my having breast cancer with friends was not a burden I wanted to spread around. Notice that I say nothing of family. Unfortunately, for me, my family is synonymous with warped, mean-spirited, self-loathing, xenophobic, small-minded and physically and sexually abusive people. Not your A-list in times of trouble. For many years I believed my biggest offense to them was that I was born in Boston. Many years ago, an aunt by marriage gave me a sweater for Christmas. It was a light gray acrylic. Woven into it was a pattern of three rows of four, mostly, white sheep. Except for the last sheep, number 12. That sheep was black. Even then the 13-year old got it. The message wasn’t lost. I have that sweater to this day. I do have two minor children, though, that I love dearly. I opted not to tell them either. My daughter is so emotionally fragile and volatile I worried that she might not finish her senior year if I shared my information with her.  My son, with his tender heart, would have been crushed. I told the children’s father, my ex-spouse, for obvious reasons. During that conversation, I heard genuine concern in his voice and it pleased me. I have long since forgiven his mistakes as a husband and I hope he has forgiven mine. He is diligently working on the dad thing. If anything were to happen to me, I knew the kids would be alright with him 24/7.

So, I soldiered on. Going through each day, stoic. The stress and fear building, but always internalized. I was just going through the motions. And when I was laid off, I had even more time to dwell on what was at stake on January 5. But behind the fear something was missing. I couldn’t put my finger on it. There was a deeper uneasiness that wasn’t connected to the fear of death. With the dawn and at the evening of each day, I felt empty. When the children weren’t home, I’d allow my sadness to show. And when I expected them back, I would feign being busy or start preparing dinner and checking homework. Some days I’d get paralyzed in one position in front of the TV. Hours would pass. Precious hours. It seemed none of the things that fortified me worked. Prayer and meditation had no effect, but I continued to do both, if for no other reason than because I’m a creature of habit. I felt lost looking to find what used to be my always available mystical and spiritual center. I attempted to read The Power of Now for the fourth time, a book I adore. But time was always measured in tomorrows. Again, I tried When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron but the attempt fell flat. Music didn’t move me. Those very personal comfort songs—In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning or Someone to Watch Over Me—left me cold. Buddy Guy, Marvin Gaye, Buckwheat Zydeco, Michael Buble didn’t move me. Music had always moved me. There was something else at war internally, not just the possibility of breast cancer. I took to taking showers just so that I could give myself another breast exam. I constantly stood in front of the mirror naked from the waist up, looking for flaws, trying to see what that damn machine saw, that damn evil machine.

I called my grandmother just before Christmas. I knew she would be glad to hear from me. My grandmother never made a secret of her love and affection for me. She would say it publicly and in front of cousins and sons and daughters, friends and neighbors. I don’t know why I rated such favor. Maybe I was her strange fruit. And I knew I hadn’t fallen far from the tree in more ways than one. A stranger answered her phone. I’ve always called my grandmother “mama” or “momma.”  When I was feeling especially respectful, I’d called her Ms. Adele, like a properly brought up southern child, although I was neither. This day it was “let me talk to Ms. Adele.” The stranger on the other end said, “She ain’t here; they took her to the hospital. She was doin’ a lot of bleedin’.” I questioned the stranger further in that weird clipped tone that says, “If you don’t answer me fast enough, I’m going to reach through the phone and choke the life out of you.” You know that voice, right? Ok, maybe it’s just me. But I got some answers and I hung up the phone knowing I just had to wait. The dysfunctional family dynamic wouldn’t allow me to call anyone else who might know something about the situation. I waited several hours to call again. During that time I tried not to think about losing her. I thought about the larger than life, out loud living, take-your-breath-away loving, you-better-hold-on-to-something-or-you’re-gonna-get-hurt laughing that my grandmother had done in her 92 years. And, slowly, I began to recognize the uneasiness that I had been feeling. I grew embarrassed at the time I had wasted in the short month since my demonic mailbox experience. I was living in fear. I had betrayed Ms. Adele and most of all I had been betraying my self by not living, as she taught me, by example, to do . . . . out loud.

The children and I visited with Ms. Adele for a while on the Saturday preceding my hospital visit. She was in good spirits and glad to be home and as she would say “tickled” to see me and her great-grandchildren. If you’ve listened to my podcast, you know how many lessons I learned from her and how I pass them on to my listeners. Back in the day, she was what people used to call a “looker.” Although she spent many hours on her feet she always wore high-heeled shoes. She knew she had great legs and she showed them off. She was almost 80 when the doctor suggested that she stop wearing the heels. She did so begrudgingly. She is small and less imposing now, barely filling her favorite chair, which has been around since I was a little girl and from which she would quite regally direct goings on in the house. From the direction of the chair, we never wanted to hear, “Don’t make me get up and come in there.” The chair is showing its age much like Adele—frayed and torn around the edges and the original upholstery barely detectable. The seat now layered with multiple towels and pads, some for comfort, others for necessity. But, oh my, her humor and mind are so sharp. She asked about my love life, of course, and what happened to the guy that came with me to visit her several years ago. Adele admonished me to pick a good man and stick with him.  But take my time picking. Now, I should say here that the “man” conversation was pure Adele and rather salty. There is, indeed, lots of her in me. I’m reminded that I got some good stuff out of her gene pool too. At the end of our visit she held on to my hand as we walked to the door—not because she needed to but she wanted to. I, on the other hand, was holding on to hers just a little tighter because I needed to. I kept my upcoming hospital visit to myself. My grandmother has claimed this time in her life just as ferociously as she has all the others and she readily admits that she’s tired. Death is nearer to her now and I believe she willingly walks with it without fear. I am proud that she is my grandmother and I hope I can live as fearlessly as she. Do you remember what the character Red from the Shawshank Redemption said, “Get busy living or get busy dying”? I saw my grandmother live. And while she may not be busy dying, her house is in order.

On January 5, I went to GW Hospital alone. No husband, no kids, no boyfriend, no girlfriend, no family. Just me and my grandmother’s spirit—ready to live loudly and fully, wanting the world to know I’m here. The mammogram technicians handled my breast like so much honey-colored Play-doh. The doctors were thorough and patient. I didn’t even flinch at the sight of an aspiration needle for the biopsy. I waited for the test result. If I had cancer, would I fall apart? Fortunately, I don’t have to answer that. After three mammograms, a sonogram and biopsy, I was sent home with, at least, a clean bill of breast health.

I started to cry as I walked along 22^nd and I streets. It was ok to let the tears go. I was relieved and felt that I could take back the illusion of control of my body. And to exert that control, I headed straight to the tattoo shop! I had waited long enough. I decided several years ago that I wanted a tattoo. I laid down face up and let the artist get to work on an understated sunburst with two X’s in the middle. I’ll let you figure out what the meaning is. But after years of other people imposing their will on me, it felt really good to unleash the badass and lay claim to my own body.

Change indeed! In 2009, in the Nation’s Capital, that sound you hear, that’s not a celebration of President Barack Obama—that’s me living out loud. Feel free to say, “Sunny, What The Fuck?!”

'til next time

Sunny

The union members were demonstrating against builders using piecework as a way to save costs and avoid paying union wages.