Monte Carlo, Darling!

Monte Carlo, Darling!

You, me, Audi and Monte Carlo, Darling.

  

It was the dead of Winter in America, but for me, it was Spring Break.  I, an American professor, and my mother on vacation in Monaco to celebrate my 50^th birthday.  Oh so chic and ooh-la-la!  My dream trip during my favorite time of year.  I love Winter and I loved Monte Carlo!

Months ago, I had decided to finally see for myself what I had envisioned for decades.  I could only imagine the lives of the super-rich and the often famous and fabulous.  Full-powdered faces drenched in luxury and living the life of pampered princesses had played out in many of my fantasies. Gentlemen and ladies dressed in labels with prices starting in the thousands residing in homes, second homes and even five or six homes located all over the globe were the people I had expected to see. I had not anticipated though that several would live on yachts, docked at the Marina jutting slightly out into the Mediterranean Sea.

Did someone mention a cruise to the French Riviera?  Not now.  We’re in Monte Carlo, Darling.

Zoom-Zoom, Audi sports cars flying by.  I had no idea it was almost time for the Monaco Grand Prix race through Monte Carlo.  By extreme luck, Mom and I were booked at the Monte Carlo Bay Hotel and Resort, the home base that year for the corporate team preparing for the world-renown racing spectacular.  Aside from us, the Audi team were the main guests of this 5-star hotel overlooking the calm deep blue sea.

We felt royal and privileged. 

Our room was the size of a large midtown Manhattan studio apartment.  The hallway leading to the bedroom was as long as my budget.  We both had closets lining the hallway, double the size needed for the few garments we had packed.  I had suggested we limit our attire to the pattern of cheetah, the shade of black and the accent of turquoise jewelry.  We looked divine!  Like upper-middle class Americans with a little money to spend.  Simply divine.

Walking in and out of the various locales was indeed half the pleasure.  Well-groomed garcons, Monsieurs actually, opening doors for fortunate heiresses--and us--was a constant joy…and expectation for some.  Having no real access to a fortune, we trotted across the street to the bus stop to ride like the help to the famous Place du Casino.  It was a dose of humility in our daily excursion to rub elbows with the super-super-rich. 

Adorned in the accepted garb of working America, Mom and I wore fashionable shawls to keep us warm for our hike through the famed courtyard.  Stepping off the bus, we headed each day for lunch to our “spot,” Café De Paris.  For us, it was like having free fourth-row tickets for a sold-out opera.
Each day, once the Maitre D’ realized we would be dining at the Cafe for lunch throughout our trip, he would seat us in the banquette facing the door, about two rows inward.  This designated location within the Café was an optimum spot for viewing the barrage of hundred-thousand dollar furs strolling through the front door.  We saw rare red foxes, silver foxes, dark sables, triple-colored minks, and even bi-colored ermines with metallic leather trims.  The furs, the furs, the furs!  My eyes had never seen such a parade of furs!

Dazzling maxi-length furs and over-sized vests of gorilla or monkey hair. The fur spectacular was a show in itself. Woman nor man was without a show-piece of a fur.  Poor Vanessa and her Mother were relegated to cotton-acrylic blends of faux cheetah cloth shawls.  How gauche.  How sad.

We were in Monte Carlo and stuck out like Hippies in a Black Church.

I wanted more.  I wanted to see more.  I wanted those Sophia Webster shoes.  For just one moment more, I wanted to live out my fantasy to the fullest. 

Enter the Casino.

The Casino de Monte Carlo was exactly like in photographs.  Immediately beyond the Place du Casino courtyard and central fountain was a multitude of custom-designed and handmade Rolls Royces and Bentleys parked for all onlookers to see.  To the left and the right were high-end cars I could not identify, staged in positions as eye-candy incentives for those of us who dared to climb the regal stairs.  

Observing the rules and exchanging my meager funds, I was escorted to the area behind the red velvet stanchions.  My preferred game of chance was Roulette and I was about to play the Monk’s wheel at the famed Casino de Monte Carlo. 
It was happening.

Allowing my mother to have a seat on the dainty, gold-painted chairs, her role had been defined and accepted by Management.  She was my assistant, a purse and shawl holder.  She defined my class, so I was accepted as a Monte Carlo table player.

Taking a seat and taking it all in, I braced myself and made a first bet.  I could not believe where I was playing.  It was almost too much to comprehend.  I felt like a female Bond, a daring woman of adventure who would leave three hours later with a $300 profit.

Nice work, if you can get it.

A day later, we ventured on to the South of France.  Boarding a metro-liner riding on the edge of the Mediterranean, we, like the locales headed to other destinations situated along the yacht owners’ playground.  Passing through Beaulieu, Saint Jean Cap Ferrat, and Vieux Eze, we finally arrived in Nice.  Taking a short journey on narrow streets directed us to the pot of gold---Cannes.

It was lunchtime and the brilliant Carlton Hotel was an inviting option for dejeuner. Placing us in coveted seats facing the water, the waiter allowed us to feel what half of Hollywood elite would feel in roughly four months.  We felt important.  If only there was a motion picture deal for us to sign.

Knowing there was a pit stop to make before spending a few more hours in Cannes slot machine-filled casino, Mom and I darted in and out of tiny designer boutiques a short distance before the glamourous staircase.  It was magnificent!  The red carpeted staircase of the Cannes Film Festival.  No one would stop us from playing out our fantasy.  The sign announcing the event was already hung above the staircase so we took the opportunity to pose on the red carpet. 

Where are the paparazzi when you need them?

Back in Monaco, one night left on a trip not-to-be missed, we waltzed into the exclusive Hotel de Paris.  Boldly planted next door to the Casino de Monte Carlo, Hotel de Paris was an intimidating place to order a drink. The bartender spoke English well.  He was gentle and kind to us, unable to ignore our nervousness.  We stumbled through our orders of coffee, but he brought out a full tray of petit desserts which accompanied our two café au laits.  So chic.  So chic.  

You are in Monte Carlo, Darling.  Relax. 

Hours of packing up.  Moments of travel through airports and on airplanes.  The people of America looked different.  The black limousines and the stretched whatevers just did not have the appeal of what we had seen on a tiny municipality in the cobalt sea.  American style was now uninspired.  The bland nature of business suits on countless blank faces pulled me back into a mundane existence. 

I’m no longer in Monte Carlo.  Darling, I’m back to reality.  


*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 24, 2017,  "Monte Carlo, Darling!", Volume 5, Blog 1b [vol. 5, 1a-1c].

Charlie Rose: Living His Dream

Charlie Rose: Living His Dream

 

 

I woke up the year my father passed and realized that I was broke.

I wasn’t broken, just penniless and unfulfilled.  My parents had lived their dreams and ended up with something to show for it.  My brother had lived his dream and ended up with a multitude of blessings.  Vanessa had compromised her dreams and ended up with nothing, except what was in my memory bank and a storage locker that I could no longer afford. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped living my dreams and started living the dreams and chasing the goals society had placed upon me.

Life.

Sometimes, life doesn’t work out the way you imagine.  You end up 75 years old, not married and without any children.  Many people might find that type of life miserable, a failure, extremely unimaginable and disappointing, but not me.  And not Charlie Rose.

To be honest, I had no idea that Charlie Rose wasn’t married or that he had no children to inherit his incredible legacy.  It was only in researching for my tribute to him that I learned these aspects of his life.  Funny.  I thought I was the only person who wasn’t going to let the absence of typical existence hold me back from living out my dreams.

I knew Charlie Rose was on my radar for decades for some reason.  I always felt a connection to him, as well as a high-level of respect.

Having no passion for the field of medicine, Charlie Rose changed his life mid-college at Duke University.  At first, he graduated in history and then law (finishing the Juris Doctorate) then later changed to pursue business in New York, but then finally realized what his first and only wife was doing was far more interesting.  Her field of interest was broadcasting.

After working for various stations, making a name for himself along his journeyed path, Charlie Rose found himself divorced and living in Dallas, Texas.  Texas wasn’t an awkward place for him, I bet.  He was born in the South, in Henderson, North Carolina.  He was apparently comfortable enough with the Southern scene that he was given his own namesake show.    

Living out his dream in the “Big D” went on for years.  Although, New York beckoned again for the bigger opportunities being offered at NBC, PBS and CBS.  Working as a team player moving into the role of producer and executive producer, Charlie Rose at the mid-life age of basically 49, ventured back into the host chair and anchored his own namesake show, The Charlie Rose Show.

 

Over the past 26 years, since 1991, Charlie Rose has interviewed and challenged several experts and gifted people in the fields of Humor, Brain Studies, Performance, Technology and even recipients of the Nobel Laureate.  From George Carlin to Google’s CEO, Rose has prodded the minds of our most intriguing humans.  Hosting panel discussions on President Obama’s Brain Initiative to the ins and outs of the internet, Rose has made us aware of the most complex and emotional topics many are afraid to face.

 

Charlie Rose is now roughly 75 years old.  He faces each day with a sense of accomplishment.  Rarely, I’m sure is there time to feel defeated for not having children or getting married again.  For like Charlie, I too, find very little time to stop and wish I coulda, shoulda, woulda. 
 

My life, I hope, is at mid-stream now. I’m just realizing I must face the world of social media and lay claim to my space.  I, like Charlie, have already ventured deep into my first loves of fashion, entertainment, writing and teaching.  At this time in my life, I want to express my thoughts, my opinions and my views.  I want a chair at the table.  In fact, in a few months, I will launch my new YouTube Channel under the name Wroxfair 395 Communications.  And, my first video will be the premiere video of my new talk show, entitled, “At the Table with Vanessa Brantley.” 

I’m not going to wait for someone to write my obituary for the world to know my story.  I’m writing my story.  I’m documenting my life…the good, the bad, the unconventional, and the just plain me.  I’m inviting you to take the journey with me.  To ask me questions and to challenge my mind. So reread my blogs and get your questions ready.  For beginning in a few months, I’m stopping the mass market chatter and walking in the path of one of my intellectual heroes, Charlie Rose. 

Soon, I will bring you exceptional and deep monologues from the intriguing and intellectual crevices of my mind.  No more fear about what others might say about my beliefs and opinions.  No more fear about my losing my livelihood and career because I disagree with some boss or politician.  And definitely, no more fear about going broke if my house doesn’t sell.  Let them have it. 

No more stress. 

I have a life to live and oh so much more learning to do.  I want to know more, do more, meet more people and talk about my experiences to the world.  Like Charlie Rose, I’m prepared, credentialed and ready.

So, let’s talk.

 

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 6, 2017,  "Charlie Rose: Living His Dream", Volume 5, Blog 1a [vol. 5, 1a-1c].

Celebrating Women's History Month-March 2017-ANNA SUI: THE "HIPQUAKE QUEEN"

CELEBRATING WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

(This is my last blog for Women’s History Month-March 2017)

“Anna Sui:  The HipQuake Queen"

What is Hip?  Ask Anna Sui. 

 

For 24 years, Anna Sui has been the quintessential fashion designer for folks who are young and hip who have a cutting-edge disposition on life and all things retro, especially the 1960s and 1970s.

As a second time resident of Los Angeles, in the 1990s, I learned about the funkafied stylings of fashion guru and designer, Anna Sui.  She had been to Parsons School of Design in NYC and had made a name for herself back in the 1980s.  Although, it wasn’t until the early 1990s when I paid attention to her youthquake-inspired, no century limitation of design.  Choosing to make a collection of timeless designs channeling the tastes of wealthy youth from different time periods, Los Angelans (Hollywood and music elite) were obsessed with the garments sported by half of SoHo in New York City.

Anni Sui had managed to bridge the bi-coastal gap of style between funky New York City and bad-to-the bones L.A. proper.   She had created what I call a “HipQuake.”

 

Just as in her current Fall/Winter 2016-2017 collection, she has always highlighted a colorful mix of fabrics and patterns turning each collection into a kaleidoscope spread of Hippie whimsy.  Combining androgynous styles and delicate girly clothing to form a thought-provoking line of rock and roll tour costumes, Sui has kept up the beat of the Hendrix crew long after his fascination with the play on layered vestment.

Anna Sui, in her Fall/Winter 2016-2017 collection, is digging the scene of red with orange on grape-purple paisley to black and white overtures of velvet and lace.  Cloaking boys and girls in heavy vest and monkey fur looking coats, she has doubled-down on her aesthetic this time around.  Like the weather, calling for the last hoorah of Winter, it’s your last weekend to make the Sui look, your look.  April showers might hold off a bit for one last blow of Winter’s chill.  Make haste and find comfort in a faux fur vest with floral-print stockings and matching shoes.  For Sui style is always “on fleek” and the moment is here.  Tie-up your lace-front boots one more time.  Throw a belt on your hip and make the buckle slip.  Anna Sui is what Philadelphian Vincent King calls “seasonless”. 

                       

Whether boy or girl, Anna Sui calls for Mod, child.  Calling all flower children to shout-out for peace and place a flower in your hair.  Wear your granny dress in layers from maxi to midi to mid-thigh, but don’t hold back.  Bell bottoms are in and now is the time to wear your round, colored glasses and opaque socks.  Match a pattern or not.  Sui doesn’t care.  Just be you, all layered and pattern true.

 

 

Mix your gender, your race, your hair, your style, your size.  Fluffy vests give you a figure, while Anna Sui chiffon dresses give you sway and motion.  Rock on in your orange. 

Anna Sui is and always will be that “woman.”  She is an energetic inspiration of fearless wonderment and classic designer style. 

I take my cue from Anna Sui.  Always feel free…to be thee.

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  April 2, 2017,  "Anna Sui: The HipQuake Queen"   Volume 4, Blog 1c [vol. 4, 1-1c].

Celebrating Women's History Month- "You Can Bet On It: Women Build Casinos!"

CELEBRATING WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

(This is my second blog for Women’s History Month-March 2017)

 

“You Can Bet On It: Women Build Casinos!"

For everyone celebrating a birthday, wedding or anniversary, you hear the phrase, “Let’s go to Vegas!”  Sure, Las Vegas is the typical destination for most people who want to drink, dance and gamble all night, but very few women truly profit from the casino business.  When you think about, the standard casino-owner is male.  The Management team is dominated by men.  The Dealers are normally men.  The Valet staff, the Chefs, the Accountants, the Auditors, Vendors and Construction teams.    

Urrr…not so fast.  I bet I know of one casino-building construction company that is owned by a WOMAN!  That’s right, a woman.   

A few months ago, my mother and her sister went to Biloxi to get away.  It was cool, but I just wasn’t in the mood for the same old getaway.  While they were gone, I did some research and learned about a casino 5 hours from Atlanta, Georgia.  Waiting for the perfect weather and leisure time, I made plans to drive to Cherokee, North Carolina.  Sure, it’s a scary drive for a first timer.  Pretty flat driving until you reach the dreaded, steep mountain hills of North Carolina.

The views from high on top of those green grass, tree-covered mountain ranges is spectacular.  It’s a sight no painter can copy.

I suspect in Autumn--when the leaves are morphing from shades of gold to red to wine to brown—the view of nature transforming from hot Summer days to cool Winter nights is well worth the drive.   

Pulling into the small, remote town of Cherokee, I noticed a sign that brought pride, jealousy and curiosity to my heart all at the same time.  Pure wonderment for a moment.  It was a sign that I had seen many times…in Arizona, the state of Connecticut, Alabama, or Florida.  “Welcome to the Cherokee Indian Reservation,” it basically read.  “Welcome to the Seminole Indian Reservation or the “Mohegan Indian Reservation.”  It was a sign of ownership, of strength.

I had dreamt of this type of ownership for my own people a thousand and one times.  Imagine a sign over the combined 40 acres and mules for thousands of African-Americans in the 50 U.S. states.  For Native Americans, through a shared vision and unquestionable unity, the dream had become a reality decades ago.  Their battle had been won.  They were able to build and operate businesses on their own land.  And I had driven 5 hours, to see with my own eyes, what a Native-American, woman-owned business had built on the Cherokee Indian Reservation in North Carolina. 
 

It was a spiritual experience.  Owle Construction, LLC had built Harrah’s Cherokee Casino. 

The casino was a modern, architectural wonder built high on Cherokee land overlooking waters sacred to the Tribe.  Art and crafts from their tribal nation were displayed with inspirational stories placed under photographs of respected artisans. 

The resort was more than bells and whistles with a spa and a buffet, it was a museum, a shrine, an opportunity for employment and a tribute to Cherokee culture that highlighted authentic Cherokee Indian aesthetics and values.

Why can’t African American people do the same?

I challenge my people.  I challenge African-American women to lay ground for their daughters, to leave land and values so that one day there will be a multitude of African-American, woman-owned businesses built too on our own land. 

Our proof of possibility stands on top of Cherokee, North Carolina.  Perhaps, it’s time for you to take that drive.  And yes, Mother’s Day weekend would be a great time to visit.

 

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  March 25, 2017,  "You Can Bet On It: Women Build Casinos!"   Volume 4, Blog 1b [vol. 4, 1-1c].

 

 

Celebrating Women's History Month- "Fashionista Extraordinaire: The Powerful and Quirky Suzy Menkes"

CELEBRATING WOMEN’S HISTORY MONTH

"Fashionista Extraordinaire: The Powerful and Quirky Suzy Menkes"

 

 

(This is my first blog for Women’s History Month-March 2017)

I once dreamt of being part of the fashion industry, the one described in the pages of Women’s Wear Daily, Daily News Record, and “W”.  It was the 1980s and I was a Black girl in Atlanta, Georgia.  Just the thought of speaking my dreams out loud was frown upon by the mainstream Black folks living in southwest Atlanta.  You know, they were the ones everyone yakked about on the pages of Ebony and Jet, the Blacks living in the Black Mecca that most African-Americans could only fantasize about from afar. 

Even so, strangely enough, those same Black folks were tied to hopes and dreams of one day being part of corporate and governmental America. Although, they didn’t want inclusion in all parts of corporate and governmental America, they seemed to only want to make a wave in just the accepted streams, like local Education or Fortune 500 company divisions where degrees in Business, Law, Science, Math and Engineering would land you a good job.  Few, and I mean few, even considered the notion of entrepreneurship. 

Arenas of business ownership in Medicine, Law, Retail, Cosmetology, Insurance, Financial and Business Consulting, Real Estate, Investing, Sports or Entertainment were rarely discussed as options.  So you could imagine the general community reactions when I was asked, “So what are your career goals?”

Being pretty shy about my family and background, mainly relying on my accomplishments in high school, I would give the standard answer of “I’m probably going to Howard University and majoring in Corporate Law.”  They would smile big smiles and give accepting nods of the head.  But inside, I was shaking my head and laughing at how people would beam over the thought of another robotic high school graduate off to pursue the hopes and dreams of average Black America.

Truthfully, my real response would have been, “I’m going straight to New York City to see and engross myself in the industry of conspicuous consumption—FASHION!  I want to know about the social registry and why most of my people want to emulate the appearance, adornment and lifestyle of wealthy White folks and Europeans.  I want to know how to sell designer everything to everyone.”

And, “I want to drool at the fabulous people in fabulous cars, dripping in jewels and living in luxury.  I want to know what is glamourous and glitz-filled out there in the world of wealth.  I want to live, not like Mike, but like Suzy Menkes!” 

Her name is synonymous with Fashion.  She’s been everywhere and seen everything in the fashion world.  At the age of 74, yes 74, no one in the celebrity world of sho’ biz or pretentious red carpet fashion events can rival the AUTHENTIC world of Fashionista Extraordinaire, Suzy Menkes.  After 25 years with the International Herald Tribune as the Fashion Editor, she is now the International Vogue Editor for its 19 online global fashion websites. 

She is the grand dame of all fashion review and critique.  If she likes it, we love it.  If she says it will sell, we buy it. If she sees it and thinks we need to take a second look at it, we do.  Her word is power. 

She is a plus-sized British woman with a quirky hairdo and unconventional style.  She is daring, unapologetic, aggressive, judgmental and daunting.  She cares not for bull nor applauds what’s fake.  She is highly intelligent, travelled and cultured.  She has been a mentor to many and a role model for all who stand in her shadow. 

 
To praise her is to thank God for sending her to Earth, namely for those of us, especially young girls, who knew internally that the fashion world was waiting to be explored.  Suzy showed us women how to maneuver a male-dominated field for over 50 years. 

Suzy Menkes is my Fashion icon.  A woman making history. 

I have heard her roar for decades.  So go Suzy go!  This Atlanta woman “gets you” and admires your undeniable gumption.

 

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  March 12, 2017,  "Fashionista Extraordinaire: The Powerful and Quirky Suzy Menkes"   Volume 4, Blog 1a [vol. 4, 1-1c].

Celebrating Black History Month: "Blacker in My Boots"

CELEBRATING BLACK HISTORY MONTH

"Blacker in My Boots"

This is my last blog for Black History Month of February 2017.  You have learned about my passion for wearing Black apparel in previous blogs on Fashion.  However, you probably didn’t know my passion for wearing Black footwear has nothing to do with the myth that wearing Black apparel makes one appear slimmer.  Such a pedestrian notion is far from the truth.

Black is a visibly powerful shade of confidence.  It’s bad-ass.  Period. 

A single note from head-to-toe.  Walk in my shoes, my boots, and you’ll know.  Feet and soles (soul) covered in fabric, keeping me protected, letting me strut my scared, smart, fat stuff with pride.  Letting me be Black.  Letting me be a bad-ass Black woman, winning the life game at times, losing often and awfully, yet failing to feel one bit of remorse.  Hell, I didn’t create this game called Life.  I’m just a Black woman, wearing Black boots, determined not to live a life of expectations, but of grand adventures. 

Hasn’t always been smooth for this old sista/sister girl.  Frankly, it ain’t never been too easy either.  Sure, I wish I could call Yohji Yamamoto

and tell him to send me a pair of those Fall/Winter 2016-17 black lace-up calf-high boots with the gold hooks so I could march through D.C. like a Japanese fashionista.

Or tell Donnatella Versace I could sure use a pair of her Black pointed-toed, front zipper boots to stump out a couple of electoral-college voters.  But, I can’t. No, not this year.    

With society anxious to put me in “my place,” wearing good-looking, bad-ass Black boots from morning to night (yes, Ralph Lauren has us wearing them with Black evening dresses at night) is a call for some straight up, full coverage.  I’m talking about the one and the only—Chanel.  That’s right.  Her name sake label did it again.  Chanel understands what a woman has to go through.  Marching in the streets to get her point across.  Marching in her tweed boots, full up the leg, full coverage.  Full coverage even in Black.  Looks like Chanel got my Black boots firmly in this here reality. 

So, “Yeah,” I tell myself.  Pulling on my Coach brand, side-zip, to the knee Black boots with a top buckle and tassel. “V”, keep your head focused on the goal and wear a powerful shade of confidence.  Come out like a Black Panther on Seventh Avenue.  “Yezzz.”  From head to toe, drape yourself in Black and feel even Blacker in your Boots.

No one is going to take my future away.  No one.  No one’s going to slow down my stride.  I’m standing firm in my boots.  My Black Boots.  “Yeah.”

 

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  February 20, 2017,  "Blacker in My Boots"   Volume 3, Blog 1c [vol. 3, 1-1c].

 

Paying Homage to Southwest High School

CELEBRATING BLACK HISTORY MONTH

"Paying Homage to Southwest High School"

Each month, my goal is to write three blogs--one each about People, Places and Things--that I feel have grand style.  One of my basic rules is that I do not write about People who are deceased, mainly because I prefer to acknowledge grand people while they are alive.  Likewise, I chose not to mention grand Things that one cannot currently attain.  Yet, on the other hand, in reference to Places, this month I’m making a one-time exception in honoring a grand place that is impossible to visit.

Thus far, I have revealed my love of Paris, France and my spiritual retreat location of Annie Ruby Falls.  However, the one place that stands high in my memory of grand places is a place that can no longer be experienced, no matter how much money you have earned or how much power you have garnered.  This place is so exclusive, only a precious few have been granted entry, and even fewer people in the world given its prized diploma.  This place in the 1970s.... was Southwest High School in Atlanta, Georgia,

A place that now stands only in the memories of the mighty, mighty Wolves. 

From a fairytale army of attendance-charting students, averaging 93% daily attendance rates to Atlanta’s first cohort of Advanced Placement students, of which I was a member of the first historic 14, Southwest High School in Atlanta, Georgia can never be forgotten.  Our nationally-ranked athletic teams and our envied cheerleaders, band members, majorettes, and bannerettes set a standard of excellence no other local high school, rather public or private, could contend with the mighty Wolves.

With a well over 80% college attendance record, the mighty Wolves have today become entrepreneurs, managers, professionals, credentialed technicians, supervisors, educators, politicians, public speakers, leaders, advocates and change-agents.  We are artists, singers, writers, publishers, dancers, directors, actors, and musicians.  We are travelers and doers.  We have spouses and special loved ones.  We have children and grandchildren and nieces and nephews. 

We own houses and cars and vacation homes and dream of even more.  We are the backbone of a society that gave us the halls of ivy even while in a secondary-level of school.  We were more than a high school.  Southwest High School was more than a high school.  It was a place filled with true life stories of the fictional Cosby Show. 

Yes, America, there was a place where African-American students were just that fabulous!

We did not have security checkpoints on campus for there wasn’t a need to bring a weapon to school.  We did not fear one another.  We didn’t need your new gold chain or fresh Air Jordan’s.  We were fine in our Nik-Nik shirts and freshly styled ‘fros.  We were Wolves.  The mighty, mighty Wolves.

And no, we were not coked-out druggies waiting for the next hit of meth.  Nor did we disengage from our families and friends, avoiding face-to-face conversations, in turn to become robotic zombies swiping screens from left-to right.  We were talkers and thinkers, and students who laughed.  We were flirters and daters and planners for our futures.  We had no time for idle jive.  We were the brothas and sistas of the future.

We were the Wolves and we walked the halls of the mighty, mighty Southwest High. Say it loud and proud!

*Vanessa Brantley  Style395.blogspot.com  February 8, 2017,  "Paying Homage to Southwest High School"   Volume 3, Blog 1b [vol. 3, 1-1c].