“If you walked by a street and you saw a rose growing from concrete, even if it had messed up petals and it was a little to the side, you would marvel.” – Tupac Shakur, Harlem, NYC.
I’ve been to NY many times now, but Louis introduced me to Harlem. Before my Sunday night flight, I revisited and found more than enough reasons to return.
This beauty was just one of them.
Thank you, followers, for indulging my Blackstory side journey.
And my thanks to you, NYC, for the first-hand reminder that Black History is thriving all around us, and for gifting me so many unique experiences with some of your most quintessential history makers.
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
Last night in NYC & the city had me fully feeling myself.
Valerie June, Louis Mendes, Joe Hammond, Tiffany & Co., Selena Nelson, Spike Lee.
By this point, you couldn’t tell NYC Joy nothinggg.
And she had a thought.
That first night, no one expected Valerie June to exit into the main hotel.
On my last night, I could use that knowledge to squeeze one more drop of magic from the Big Apple.
Worst case scenario, I was all dressed up for a Saturday evening in NYC. Oh, no.
So I called a car to take me back to Café Carlyle where this all began.
For the next 15 or 20 minutes, I slunk around their lobby trying not to be weird. Temperatures were in the 30s most of my time in NYC, and I’m too old to choose cute over comfortable, so to hotel guests and passersby, I was just some creep in a coat.
Just as I was reaching peak levels of awkwardness, the café door swung open and Valerie June rushed out in a wave of pink tulle…
Until her dress snagged on someone/something along the way, jerking her back like a pull-string doll.
It was the most adorably ordinary thing I may have ever seen.
And snapped me back to the reality that I was WOEFULLY unprepared.
Another fan nearby clutched a VJ album and book with a blue Sharpie.
I’d shown up with absolutely nothing but a story about how I’d seen her in Austin just the week before and my NY-given swag.
You ever looked back on a moment and realized that your brain was the real MVP, working faster than you were actually processing thought?
Did I have any writing utensil? No.
Did I have a single scrap of paper? Of course not.
Would it be silly for her to sign a key card from a totally different hotel? Absolutely.
But Valerie June’s setlist had included one of my favorites, “Workin’ Woman Blues.”
And what I DID have was a $20 bill. And somebody else’s Sharpie.
“Can I ask you to sign something too… And can it be a twenty-dollar bill?”
With an infectious giggle that rippled through her curled locs and pink tulle dress, VJ remarked that nobody had ever asked her that before.
After the way NYC met me, it made my heart happy to leave behind a lasting impression of my own.
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
“Spike Lee is having a signing at the Brooklyn Museum on Saturday if you want to go.”
(Tbh, Louis could have asked me to go to Mars at this point, and I’d ask what time.)
So bright and early, we popped up from the Eastern Pkwy station into an entirely empty museum lobby.
OF COURSE only members were allowed before 11. Us plebes were ushered outside where Louis did the mental math. “I’m thinking. Wondering if we should join.”
I reached for my phone. $64 for a dual membership. Joy Barnett & Louis Mendes could swing that.
So with two hours until the signing, we talked. As fans & families gathered, we watched. And through it all, we sat comfortably after Louis pulled the elderly card like he doesn’t put in miles across NYC every day. And when the museum shop opened, we rose to our rightful place at the very front of the line.
Around 11:45, a famous face poked out from a black velvet curtain, scanned the crowd, and did a double-take in our general direction.
That’s when Spike Lee marched over, shook Louis’s hand and picked up the stanchion himself to usher us in.
The two of them fell in so fast it almost felt scripted. Spike posed, Louis clicked. Spike handed Louis a bill, shook his hand again and thanked him. Then Louis went off-script.
“I wondered if I could get a picture of you and Joy.”
“Come on, baby.”
I scurried over like a rat to a charcuterie board. It’s almost literally written all over my face.
As Louis tucked the photo into his usual cardboard frame, Spike slid it across the table, and wrote without a word: “Love, Spike Lee.”
He began his goodbyes when I awkwardly chimed in to ask if he’d sign our books too.
The relief when he took it as a timely reminder vs. clumsy begging.
“Oh, tell all them people to open their books to THIS page,” Spike pointed a pink spread out to his manager. “I’m only signing THIS page.”
I flipped like my life depended on it, taking the opportunity to thank him for his work. He received my words graciously and signed both books before Louis & I started to slip away.
“Oh…” he called to his manager once more.
“And tell them NO PICTURES either. This is a BOOK SIGNING.”
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
After a day of the VIP experience with Louis Mendes, a girl had developed certain expectations. The kind of expectations only another icon could deliver.
Cleaned up from a long day, I stepped into the newly remodeled Tiffany & Co. flagship (branded “The Landmark”) positively shining. Following a quick introduction to the seven floors awaiting me, I naturally started at the top.
It took about 5 steps for me to be absolutely dazzled.
A diamond-encrusted dome ring with a single sapphire set in the center winked in my direction, and I was done for.
“Let me know if you’d like to have a closer look at anything,” a voice offered from behind me.
I turned to meet Daniel, a 12-year Tiffany veteran who recognized my excellent taste and rolled out the red carpet in response.
Together, Daniel and I chose jewels from several floors before returning to the 7th floor where champagne, printed chocolates, and the most adorable pink macarons waited for me.
Two hours later, I’d tried on well over a million dollars worth of diamonds before the sales team and security discreetly closed the building.
And people who try on millions of dollars worth of diamonds don’t walk out the front door at Tiffany & Co.
The only other Black woman in the building, their head of security, escorted me out via a hidden elevator through a velvet curtain, granting us the only moment we’d have alone.
We shared the sweetest conversation that one day I’ll tell you all about in my future book. But for now, I say it was so good, that I asked how I could stay in touch with her.
She rattled off a few contact details, and I promised she’d hear from me soon.
“But if you forget, you can just Google my name: ‘Selena Nelson’.”
With my curiosity solidly peaked, I stood outside at a side door on 57th Street and did exactly that.
Selena Nelson held a starring role during the 2-year run of Sesame Street’s “Big Bag,” before moving on to more mainstream features like “Law & Order: SVU”, “Daredevil”, “The Blacklist”, and “New Amsterdam.”
I walked into Tiffany’s hoping to be treated like a star. I never guessed I’d walk out having met one.
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
Most people who interact with Louis Mendes fall into two categories: the perfect strangers who become totally enamored with him and the long-time locals thrilled to finally spot him. Every now and then, they fall into both and realize who he is mid-conversation.
But one particular exchange at Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace caught me WILDLY off-guard, right in front of my grits and bacon.
While Louis and I chatted over the merits of chocolate cake for breakfast—he’d flatly refused toast or a biscuit in favor of cake at 9am—another older gentleman quietly entered.
A black cane supported his long arms and broad shoulders that hinted at a once imposing physique. He’d been staring at us since he walked in, and sank himself into a chair at the opposite table.
“Legendary cameraman.”
He spoke so softly and deliberately that Louis thought he said “legendary camera, man.”
“How old are you?” Louis asked.
“73.”
“Oh, it’s younger than you.”
“I know. I remember that camera.”
“You know who I am?”
“Yeah, I know who you are. You used to shoot me & my boys ballin’ down at Rucker Park.”
A man (unintentionally?) eavesdropping from the diner countertop spun on his stool quick and exclaimed, “Man, I KNEW you were Joe Hammond!”
Joe “The Destroyer” Hammond, who once put up 50 points in a half against Dr. J, is widely considered one of the greatest street basketball players of all time. This year, he’ll be inducted into the New York Basketball Hall of Fame alongside Carmelo Anthony. That morning, he watched me shove eggs in my mouth. 🥴
In his soft-spoken but thick and charismatic New York accent, Joe regaled me with a few Harlem streetball stories, some tinged with regret, but all so proudly recounted. And I listened so intently, I barely remember him walking out the door.
I turned in my chair, hoping to catch one last glimpse of a New York great and spotted him just under the restaurant’s awning, waiting out the rain. Joe lingered there just long enough for me to snap a single photograph—something Louis constantly pesters me to do—before Harlem took him back.
It might be one of my favorite portraits I’ve ever taken. 🖤
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
Already doing the most before I’ve landed in the City.
A work leadership program kicked off in NYC on the same day I was scheduled to pitch a new client.
I could have thought, “That’s plenty. I’m good.”
But a week before, @thevaleriejune stole my heart live in Austin before mentioning she’d be in New York the following week. WELL, OK GIRL, ME TOO!
When she revealed her venue as the Cafe Carlyle, a tiny hotel cabaret that had once hosted David Bowie, Eartha Kitt, Judy Collins and so many more, I couldn’t even pretend I wasn’t trying to go.
OF COURSE the only tickets available were on the night of my arrival, the night before the pitch and the leadership launch.
And OF COURSE I BOUGHT ONE ANYWAY.
So we came into NYC HOT, changed in the JFK bathroom, and headed straight to the Cafe Carlyle, luggage and all.
And man, did the city rise to meet me.
I’d stressed over how late I was arriving. I was the first person at the bar with my pick of stage view seating in a room capacity of 90.
I’d worried I’d sit there falling asleep after a long travel day, or worse, small-talking with a stranger. Instead, two separate and vibrant Black women sat down next to me, and became my new friends.
And when the show started, Valerie June appeared in a doorway all of 5 feet away from us, singing a capella, playing a tambourine, and channeling every bit of her southern Black roots.
Time stood still until without any warning, she whisked all her sequins out the venue’s main door, leaving her audience pinned to their seats and still pending checks.
Valerie June reads her poem “A Fairy Tale” live at the Café Carlyle
Both times I’ve seen Valerie June now, it’s felt like those dreams you wake up from and try desperately to fall back asleep into. It’s so good, then it’s just… over.
My new friends and I tried to hold onto the night as long as we could, chatting with GRAMMY-nominated Little Richard documentarian and VJ’s friend @misscortes and slow-sipping our (outstanding) cocktails before retreating to our respective beds.
Luckily for me, NYC is full of dreams and mine with Valerie June wasn’t done quite yet…
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
So, it’s February 5 and y’all got crickets from me?
It’s because I’ve been full of butterflies.
2024’s Black History Month theme is “African-Americans and the Arts.” And most years, I write the history, but this time, despite my best-laid plans, the ancestors decided that this Black creative would be living it instead.
Chills fr.
I traveled to New York for work last week, and went fully intending to launch on 2/1. Abandoning that plan to accept my ancestors’ gift was the greatest decision I could have made.
Here’s a little teaser of my unforeseen adventure in NYC, starring singer Valerie June, photographer Louis Mendes, luxury house Tiffany & Co., and multi-hyphenate Spike Lee.
Even I can’t believe this was only the beginning of February and there’s still so much more to come.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again:
I. FEEL. INFINITE. ✨
See ya back here real soon living Black art out loud. 😘
[Ed. Note: This post is part of a one-time February 2024 mini-series that took me to NYC where I was treated to an abundance of Blackstories first-hand. In place of my usual February content, I chose to share my own real-time (-ish) lived experience to honor the vibrant people New York put in my path.]
THE AMERICAN BLACKSTORY 