Oh My Gobble, Gobble

Ok, so when was the last time you ate stuffing/dressing or whatever you personally call it? I think the last time for me was last Christmas. Why is that? I like stuffing, but I never prepare it. I suppose that would be because I eat enough of it between Turkey Day and Dec. 25 that I use up my stuffing allocation for the year. We have a big family so the last of the left-overs are gone except for one lone bowl of dressing, with the mushrooms and chili peppers sitting there waiting. Ok, so I did it and now I have made my usual vow of going on a diet tomorrow. I had this thought that if I could lose one-eighth of a pound for every time I have vowed to go on a diet tomorrow, I would be anorexic. So here I sit the stuffed with stuffing Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Invisible Me

Yesterday I was sitting with a publicist who believes she can do great things to brand me and make me more visible. The trick here is that I don't want to be visible. A long time ago, I think about the time Ray and I were running through hotel lobbies, I realized that I didn't want people to be able to recognize me on sight. Ray couldn't get anywhere for people rushing up to him to ask for his autograph. Too often, I would snap, "Please, He doesn't sign autographs." Of course not, he was blind, but that seemed impossible for so many people to believe. In fact, there are 'official autographs' of Ray Charles for sale on eBay, which are sooo not official. I think Joe Adams used to sign things and send them off. But I'm wandering. I know there are many people who seek the limelight, but not me. I just basically want to write and be left alone so I'm decling the notion to get branded. I'm the invisible Ruth Adkins Robinson.

cowards behind email

Today I learned someone had been posting malicious things about a friend of mine, even going so far as to set up a gmail account in his name. After I read through some of the posts, I realized I knew who this was. Now the dilemma is --what do I do about it? Do I let her know that I know? Do I expose her to our friends? Do I tell him? Now I love the internet but suddenly, coldly, I realize how dangerous it can be. I'm a big girl and can take what comes --face to face, but how do fight a bundle of anonymous lies like this bitter old two faced woman is posting? What if she turns her vitroil towards me, hiding behind the blinking cursor like the coward she is. Anybody got an ideas on this one?

Freegan Me?

I've been watching the Freegan Movement for about a year now, since it poked its head up out of the dumpster and onto the news cycles. When you first hear about it, you think oh my god, half eaten sandwiches drug out of the garbage! that's nasty. That part is nasty, but that's not what this is all about. I watched a segment on "Oprah" (shut up, it was the last night repeat and the tv was just on) and I left it on when they said, coming up: The Freegans. Lucy Lui, the broadcaster, went around with one of the groups and drug enough "to feed a small country" out of the garbage from behind supermarkets and restaurants. It was odd to see all that wrapped up, in perfect condition food, thrown out. But here's the part that really interested me. A middle-aged professional woman making a six figure salary and a doctor husband and engineer wife team who lived their entire lives in support of Freeganism (did I make up a word?). The couple had furnished their apt with cast offs from the trash and ate most of their meals (sometimes from 'mystery' cans with no labels. With all earnestness imaginable, they explained why. But what resonated with me are the questions "How much do we need to buy to make us happy?" "If we didn't work that second job, could we spend more time with our children?" and others of that ilk. I have too much stuff (sometimes I think I have the hoarder gene) but I've taken a vow to consume less. I will not be buying any new clothes for the next YEAR. I'm going to wait a second before I throw food away and I'm about to give away tons of things. I'd say I will have a garage sale, but that would be a lie. I am going to take a bunch of clothes to my Military Women's Shelter. Maybe other junk in here as well. I'm going to try to be the freegan Ruth Adkins Robinson

I'm Back

I took a break to give myself a think or two. I wondered for a while if I was just spilling my guts on here, for no good reason and for no one else's enjoyment. But I've been told by the people who were reading it that I should get with it once again, so I'm going to do that. Beginning tomorrow, you will see a once a week post from Ruth Adkins Robinson

In Love with the Pajauds

My association with the California African American Museum has brought me great joy and wonderful experiences in the last six years. One of those most treasured is meeting William Pajaud, the most imminent living black watercolor painter. These days I often go to the home Bill shares with his ball of energy--the lovely June. We sit around like folks of a certain age and talk about life as we know it and have seen it. When you hear stories like the one about Bill's mother who graduated from a university in Louisiana, but couldn't get a higher degree because the state didn't let Black people do that back then, you shake your head. They were a big family, roots sunk deep in Louisiana soil and so many of them turned out to be significant politicians, musicians, and of course some had to go away, like Bill's elegant, strong-willed mother. She went to GA, got her next degree and became involved with the Civil Rights movement there. Then there's Bill. If he never put brilliant brush to paper, he would still deserve a place in art history because he was the curator of the Golden State archives. If you never went into that magnificent building on the corner of Western and Adams, you missed something. That place is a repository of Black History, with works from the major artists of our time. Breathtaking murals and art hung everywhere. Right now there is a strange dance being done with the insurance commission, building owners and others to figure out what will happen with the art work left. I think about half of it has been sold off, auctioned away. The fate of these amazing works troubles the art loving heart of Ruth Adkins Robinson

The Rich Get Richer

Racial Wealth Gap Quadruples in Since Mid 1980s

The Institute on Assets and Social Policy published a report on Monday based on economic data from the same 2000 families from 1984 to 2007 (hat tip Michael Powell). Its sobering results likely understates the case, since it does not include the post financial crisis period. The study found that the median wealth gap between white families and black families rose from $20,000 in 1984 to $95,000 in 2007. As they say in my 'hood, 'what's up with that?'

Mother, Oh Mother

No one is neutral about the word Mother. It's a subject that is glorious and agonizing. Somewhere between the perfect mother "Margaret" on "Father Knows Best" and the monster who sticks her baby's hands in scalding water or stabs her son twenty times and throws him down the stairs to his death.--might be the truth. Mother is a designation that doesn't rest easy on my tongue. I stubbornly avoided using it for the entire time I lived with my Daddy and his wife. She soooo was not my mother. Yes, I got twisted as a kid because I didn't have a Mother. Ruth had abandoned me when I was about three or so. Mildly, I have always wondered if there shouldn't be a test of sorts to see if people are qualified to have children. What would the test contain? Would it be physical? emotional? mental? Who would decide anyway? Not me, certainly. No doubt before my daughter was born, I would have failed such a test myself. When she was born I was hysterical all the time because I'd never been around kids and just cried when she did. I struggled through it and on this mothers day, I will be surrounded by the loving children of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Don't get sick

If you've missed me here, it's because I've been sick. It's a miserable thing to be. When you are little and hear old people talk about whatever ache or pain they've got, it's a puzzlement. Why do they do that you wonder? Well, having hit the mark where talking about it jumps into almost every conversation, I finally have an answer. You talk about it because you can't believe it. When I was a girl on Rose Drive in Louisville, I could climb higher, jump farther and take more chances than any boy because I was dubbed "Tomboy" from the moment I could climb up on something. I have always thought of myself as healthy, the polio and other assorted childhood problems notwithstanding. Up until I was about 40, I still wildly did all those daredevil things at breakneck speed, plus I took dance class almost every day, so I felt good. What happened?? Part of it I offer for consideration is the computer. I sit here instead of running, jumping and climbing. And my body is complaining about it. Ray Charles used to say "The body rules the brain, not the other way around." I didn't agree with him then or now because if my body ruled my brain, I'd be up and out of here at a fast clip, instead of moving slowly from couch to computer. However, after this last trip the hospital, my grandchildren have decided to take charge of my 'movement' schedule. One twin has me at the gym Wed Thur and Friday. My guy JP has me on the Pilates Gym for 15 minutes a day. I'm trying to make myself walk in these silly toneup shoes at least a half a mile a day. We will see what we see in a month about the conditioning of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

A Childhood Gone

You know childhood is really gone when those who peopled your youth are gone. Two such left us this week: Peter Graves and Robert Culp. I had crushes on both of these guys because I love spy series. Graves was so suave and brilliant in "Mission Impossible." But Robert Culp represented a whole other dimension to me. I liked him when he was the cowboy, Hoby Gilman, in that series, I think it was called "Trackers." But when he became Kelly Robinson, the tennis player, in "I Spy," he became more than a hero. Of course, Sheldon Leonard who originally cast Culp and Cosby earns a big round of applause. This was in the early 60s -- still a time when TV Land was so ultra-white that people all across the country would yell at each other to hurry up and watch if there was anybody black on TV. The scripts were written to show the two spies as co-workers and perhaps pals, but Culp was so genuinely affectionate, he and Cosby really did seem like best friends. He always said great, insightful things about Cosby--for all the years afterward, he spoke with reverence of Cosby's talent. I think he was always an under-recognized talent and man. I am the admiring Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Who do you write for?

Somebody said, "Better to write for yourself and have no public than to write for the public and have no self." So what does that mean for somebody like me who writes for the public, for a living? What it means is that I also write poetry, which nobody much has seen, nor will anyone else ever read. Those poems, some of which were written while I was in high school live in a box that I have carried around with me all these years. The fancy handwriting remains the same, but I can almost tell what I was going through at the particular time by the difference in the tone of the poetry. The top of that box says destroy if you are going through this because I am dead. There is another box that contains my autobiography. On its lid it says, take this one to my agent/publisher. I figure the thrills, intrigue and adventures on those pages cannot hurt the girlfriend of the Mafia don, the murdered Jose Mendendez or the Genius. But I don't want to share the poetic soul of Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Save Me From Amateurs

Do I have a target painted on my forehead? Or my backend? I must. It must say, all amateurs who want to get in show business, hit this idiot right here. And that blow must trigger an automatic response from me. Sure, let me open up my head full of knowledge, my mouth full of advice, the whole kit bag of experience gained over the past thousand years. Let me take my time in the trenches, the all night 'get the magazine out marathons,' the rat infested backstages and other delights and give it to them for free. I get stuck, suckered by the seemingly innocent person who just wants a word or two of guidance. I know how hard it is to get started, I do. Nobody much wanted to give me a hand and I've tried to ease that for a whole lot of people. This most recent experience has cured me, though and now I'm done carrying people up the mountain on my back. So take note, if you know anybody at all who thinks they can write for print, produce a hit series, write a million selling song, be the editor in chief of something--all things I know how to do in the dark.....please tell them you don't know anybody named Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Whatcha' Drinkin'

I got my nice red water bottle and filled it with water from my Britta filter; then I got my nice silver water bottle and filled it with water from the reverse osmosis pump attached to my kitchen sink. Each day, I try to figure out which one of them tastes better than the bottled water I have forsaken in the wake of reading that to get one bottle of er, bottled water, it's necessary to burn, churn, fire up three liters of nasty old ordinary water and that takes a lot of oil. Ok. A used to be friend of mine once told me that George Bush (the ugly) and Dick Cheney (the criminal mind) were running around South America buying up water and that was a long time ago. She is a real greenie so I sort of didn't really pay any attention to her, but maybe it's past time that we all should be paying better attention. Check this out: More people die from polluted water every year than from all forms of violence, including war, the U.N. said in a report Monday that highlights the need for clean drinking water. The report, that came out yesterday to coincide with World Water Day, said an estimated 2 billion tons of waste water — including fertilizer run-off, sewage and industrial waste — is being discharged daily. That waste fuels the spread of disease and damages ecosystems. The report is called "Sick Water" and to say that it makes me sick to read about it is an understatement. 3.7 percent of all deaths are attributed to water-related diseases, translating into millions of deaths. More than half of the world's hospital beds are filled by people suffering from water-related illnesses, it said. So I'm asking, whatcha' drinkin? And more importantly, does what you are drinking have water in it? Where did that water come from? I know one person who is not trying to be contaminated and that's Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Pictures and a Thousand Words

One picture is worth a thousand words, somebody said. This writer cannot agree with that. Here is what I think: If the picture is accompanied by several hundred words, it is enhanced. I was just looking at a batch of photos of me. I plan to post them on here a few at a time, with the stories that go with them. But the first photo isn't even a picture of me. It's a picture of an ice sculpture of the logo of the California African American Museum. The night was in October of 2007 and that night I was really celebrating being dubbed CAAM's "Visionary Writer." I love my Museum life, having been the co-curator of two important shows, plus writing many catalogs, producing many videos, editing all the issue of Museum Notes, our newsletter and being able to contribute wall text panels and just about any other writing assignment needed. Plus I am surrounded by great art! Pretty nice stuff for Ruth Adkins Robinson

Me and My Royalties

When my old friend Sigidi posted up the lyrics to my song "MS" on FaceBook, it brought back some memories--good and bad. I worked very hard on David Oliver's albums, writing most of the songs with him, including "MS." and "Friends and Strangers" later a hit for the wonderful Ronnie Laws. Nice to see the lyrics, sad to think that i have never, ever been paid a penny for my publishing or writing royalties because David died and the music is in the hands of two very shady people, Martin Cohen (known as Mutt for obvious reasons) and Wayne Henderson of Crusaders fame. When all this went down in 1977, I was just a kid with no power and no connections, although I written some songs with Ray Charles a few years earlier. So, the two guys laughed at me and I thought there were two things for me to do --get a gun and blow the bastards to the hell they deserve or just stop writing songs for the rest of my life. I chose to stop writing music and moved into writing things I could control. The bottom line here is that for the next 30 odd years those nasty men have no doubt enjoyed spending the money that was mine (and David's) I wonder if there is anyone with any suggestions on how royalties could get in the hands and bank of Ruth Adkins Robinson

Mo' Mo

As promised, I dug through my transcripts and found all that Mo'Nique had to say about some other folks winning an Oscar, back in 2002. At the time, there was a lot of chatter goin' around that Denzil and Halle had both been awarded their Academy Awards as some kind of conspiracy within the Academy to recognize "black actors." And there was chitchat within the black community that they only got them for playing bad characters. Mo' got right into it, "Nothing was given! Nothing! They earned those Oscars. Nobody did them a favor!" She went on to say that Denzil played a bad cop, but he played the hell out of that bad cop "I believed him!! I believed him!! And that nobody should say anything about Halle's character either. "You don't have to like the people they played, but you have to respect how well they played them!" Ok, now. So if you flash forward to 2010 and all the negatives that folks have been saying about the character that Mo' played. It was hard to watch, no doubt she was a monster in a mother suit, but there was no conspiracy within the Academy this year, either. Mo' leaned into it and played it like she was born to it. People believed she was that character--just like she believed Denzil was that bad cop. And like she said about the other people in 2002, Mo' earned it and I can always say, I know somebody that got cursed out (but at least didn't get beat up) while on the set by a future Academy Award winner and that would be Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Mo'Nique Talking Hard

It's funny how, er, stars line up. Back in 2002, eight years ago or so, I was writing and producing a show called "Oscar's Black Odyssey: From Hattie to Halle," and I asked Mo'Nique to come and be interviewed about what Oscar means, who has won the Golden Man, who hasn't, why they haven't, who should have at least been nominated and who has not. And while nobody in their wildest dreams ever thought she was going to ever get an Oscar worthy role (yeah, I don't care what she said in all those interviews, she didn't think it back then anyway). She had something to say which I found really interesting and she made it into the final cut. So tonight I'm going to look at the show and read the transcript of the interview and see if she was lining up the stars way back when. Stay tuned. This fascinates Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Another Wonderful, Surreal Day in L.A.

Laying face down on the massage table, a traditional Chinese masseuse works the stress knots out of my back, Outside I can hear the clanging, chanting Hare Krishnas six feet away. As the tourists pass by this tiny, tented stretch of the Venice Boardwalk, a dozen languages are audible, barely covering the rush of skateboard wheels, barking dogs challenging each other and the Island walker-on-glass trying to scare up a crowd, offering that this was his last performance of the day all in that lilting voice that suggested tropical breezes somewhere.
I sit up and the gentle masseuse helps groggy me into my shoes and jacket, we bow to each other when I pay him and he promises to be there on Wednesday when I return with a brand new bunch of knots. I wrap up pulling my scarf close. There are no warm breezes today in Venice. It is a blustery March afternoon. The sand is whipping against the bare skin of those silly enough to think this stretch of beach by the Pacific is 'pacified' at all. People start stepping up their pace as the sun falls suddenly into the ocean, streaking the sky pink. I sit at the ocean's edge and watch for a while and Elijah stops on his fixe bike to show me one of the tricks in his growing arsenal. The ocean, the sun, the sky, the sounds --this sensory bombardment is one of the joys of living in Los Angeles. I came from a place in time where everyone mostly looked and sounded alike and when I got lost in books as a child, I decided when I grew up I wanted adventure and strangeness, a wide cultural and racial mix, different accents, different impressions and different worlds. The 10 mile drive home is an easy run and it's good to know that all this waits just a click or two away when I need to get my head clear. I love this city and all it has to offer Ruth Adkins Robinson

Writing for a Living

I write for a living. I am very proud of that. Back in the day, When people would tell me they were also a writer, my arrogance would cause me to say some self-aggrandizing nonsense like, "You are not a writer unless you cash checks at the bank with 'writing' noted on it. Like I do." What a ass. Part of that was youthful silliness, part of it sheer gratitude that I did get paid to write. Let's face this truth: Not all people get to do the thing they do best and get paid for it. I guess that's why I was/am so insecure. Imagine stringing words together that people really like and really pay you for? Giggle. Like getting paid for eating or watching TV or sitting in the library. I like to do those things and frankly, I do them well, but nobody is going to pay me to do them. I do expect to be paid to write. Which brings me to another new development. I have become the queen of barter, sort of. People are forever asking me to write something for them, just because I write for a living. Because I am a big softie, sometimes I do that. But more often these days, my conversations go something like, 'what have you got to trade me for writing something for you?' My Uncle Hawk must be laughing out loud at the whole Indian notion of this, but trading does work. I've gotten a massage, an oil change and condo for a weekend in Palm Spring. All good. Now if I can just keep anybody from trading me a small pox infected blanket, I'll be the bartering Ruth Adkins Robinson

New York City Rides

I love to travel and have been to 120 cities around the world, according to one of those games on FaceBook. The city I go most often for work is New York. When I was getting ready to go there to tape again, I kept pushing down this little bubble of excitement that threatened to overtake me. It's been a couple of years since "Showtime at the Apollo" went belly up and I miss it. Jumping in a cab and directing "125th St and Frederick Douglass" seemed like such a thrill for those six years. When I first went to NYC way back in the day, I nearly got killed because I stepped out in a crosswalk, expecting the traffic to screech to a halt like it does in LA. Happily I was with a friend who snatched me back on the sidewalk before I was mowed down. Lesson learned. A little shell shocked, I adopted a method of sort of lurking around corners until crowds gathered to cross the street so I could slip into the middle of the throng and get to the other side. I still laugh at how long it took me to really know how to aggressively flag a cab in Manhattan and catch it so it was going in the direction I needed to go -- but finally I got it. This past Thursday, I left my hotel and walked for a bit and ended up on the same corner by the Warwick Hotel where I'd caught those Apollo cabs all those years. I was smiling when I jumped in the cab and responded to the cabbie's query, "how do you want to go," I said, "Take me through the Park if it's open." It was and away we went, once again Uptown to Harlem. Call me nuts, but I love New York in the winter. Just the day before when I walked out of JFK, the snow was falling as I made it to my driver. Cabs are great in that town, but for certain things, Towncars are better. Airport trips and getting back out of Harlem are two such examples. There are gypsy cabs that you can catch to get back to Midtown, but who knows what you might also catch in one of them. So when the day was winding down, all the cast and crew were heading out, I got into the SUV which has replaced the Towncar as the ride of choice these days and headed for Midtown, my hotel and some much needed rest. A long day's taping, meeting with my new literary agent and the conversation about editorial for a new magazine, left me weary and happy. Los Angeles called my name the next day and after one more meeting it was me and the SUV to the airport. Call me the traveler, Ruth Adkins Robinson.

Super Superbowl

I have to say a lot of screaming was going on at my house today. Me for the Saints and my grandson for his main man Peyton Manning. Superbowl 44 is the kind of game all us loony fans love. There was not one dull moment and plenty of hold your breath ones. Of course, the SuperBowl is the one place where you sit and watch the ads. I played the Snickers ad with Betty White and Abe Vigoda over and over and laughed out loud every time. Gotta say though, most of the rest of them were just ok. I was disappointed in the GoDaddy ads because they play into the fact that Danica Patrick is hot, not that she is a fierce race car driver who routinely beats the socks and pants off the male race car drivers. And damn sitting here writing this, I can't remember any of the others. Does that mean they were not memorable? Guess so, at least to Ruth Adkins Robinson.

For Love of Mother's Milk

Watching the dead and dying, moments of brief heroics, seeing normally stoic men weep at the devastation, I've tried not to break out in tears over the fate of the Haitians. I was mostly successful until today. The story that mothers of young babies here had donated their breast milk for the hurt little ones in Haiti made smile and cry at the same time. When you think humanity pretty much sucks (ok, I live and work in Hollywood) then such things as this happen. 140 small but powerful bottles of relief arrived Thursday afternoon: breast milk donated by American mothers.The bottles are tiny, but full of life saving nutrients for babies suffering from injuries and illness or born prematurely in a disaster area. But after surviving a commercial plane flight, a charter ride, a helicopter trip and two days on dry ice, the milk ran headlong into red tape. Some stupid Navy pinhead complained about the idea of distributing donated breast milk and issued a statement calling it an "unfeasible and unsafe intervention." Mother of God, can it be more unsafe than dying of starvation..or catching some disease because the little bodies have no immunity system developed yet? Does he think junkies are running in off the street gripping their breasts and offering milk? There had to have been some oversight in the collection of these bottles, wouldn't you think? Part of the recovery operation that sits and does nothing while food, medical supplies, shelter and other aid piles up on docks is the kind of bureaucratic atrocity that is often worse than the disaster. It certainly fuels anarchy. And it makes people like Ruth Lavida Adkins Robinson furious. What can we do?

My Brainiac Friend Slapped My Emotional Wrist

One of my smarter friends who lives in Norway, but is an American, wrote: "If I can offer one word of advice, you have to stop loving (or hating) politicians, or judging them based on their personalities. Politicians should be judged by what they do and what they achieve, and whom they serve, not by their personal histories, or their like-ability, or skill at mesmerizing us with dazzling speeches. If American politics is reduced to Republicans fawning over people like themselves, Bush and Palin, for example, while Democrats become ecstatic over "you get 'em girl" Clinton or the inspirational African-American Obama, then the vast majority of this country is going to experience a very bleak future. All of these politicians are personally driven by their own will to power, putting their own political futures above any considerations of what is right for Americans. (Well, Bush may have actually believed in what he was doing as deluded as it was.) In particular, Clinton and Obama, as with so many of their fellow elected Democrats, are complete tools of the powers-that-be, especially what Eisenhower quaintly called "the military-industrial complex" and corporate America in general. The current administration has only continued America's slide into plutocracy (and even worse, the police state).
I am wrong? It is my fault that you are struggling to keep your household afloat, while Wall Street bankers are earning larger bonuses than ever after they just brought the global economy to its knees. Just look at Obama's appointees - Geithner, Summers, Bernanke. Why not appoint Cheney as a good-will ambassador? Oh my, dear Bruce, you've just made Ruth Lavida Adkins-Robinson's head hurt.

Nobody's Following Me

I'm puzzled. I keep getting emails saying they love my blog, but where are the 'followers?' I've done more than 138 posts. I'm told they are well written, wide in scope and interesting. If you are reading this, sign up as as follower and you will get a thank you from Ruth Lavida Adkins Robinson.

Woman's Brains vs Men's Brawn

I was reading today all the hurrah over Kelly Kulik winning the PBA Tour, the first woman to do so and the comments gushed and crowed...now doesn't that prove that women can do anything as well as a man?? No, it actually only proves that a woman bowler can beat the pants off of men bowlers. Make no mistake, Kelly won by 70 pins and if you've ever bowled, you know how many pins that really is!!! But in a championship competition it's just bowler vs bowler, and game strategy , composure and smarts win. There is the eternal argument that finesse can beat out brute strength every time. I believe that wholeheartedly and will say it to anyone, any time. I remember having a conversation at a gathering at Brock and DiDi Peters house back in the 70s with Muhammad Ali and a bunch of other people. Now, readers here know I am a superfan of the Champ. He's my homie, and I always say 'Yeah, I'm from Louisville, me and Ali.' Now that makes what happened that night even a little more outrageous to some and really typical Ruth. We were still a little edgy over the recent bad earthquake here and the conversation had gone to what we all would do if one hit right at that moment. Somebody said we'd be glad the Champ was there because he was strong enough to lift the house up off of us so we could get out. Of course I said, well what if the way out does not depend on who is the strongest, but who is the smartest? Talk about heads swiveling in my direction, complete with real glares. Not Ali though, he just grinned and asked what I meant. I said, what if the house had fallen in on us and you could lift the roof off of us, but I knew where there was an exit door and we could get off without any heavy lifting. Ali graciously said, he hoped that I was around when the next earthquake hits and we all laughed. I understand the realiance on muscles thoughts. I was the number one tomboy in Louisville KY and could be counted on to throw a ball harder, take any dardevil dare, climb a tree higher and jump into anything that required some physical challenge, even when my brain cautioned. That I never listened of course is the reason, I broke my left arm, ran a spike through my right leg, split my head open several times and sailed ass over elbows off my bike half a dozen times to bruises, bumps, cuts and scars. Then I got sidelined by polio and had to rely solely on my brains. I'm happy I did or I might have been a woman's sports champion (not bowling, though)....who knows what the fate of the sidetracked Ruth Lavida Adkins Robinson would have been?

Betrayal Is An Ugly Word

Today I found out in a casual phone conversation that someone I had trusted for a long time had betrayed me. Say the world out loud and it sounds ugly--Betrayal. Roll it around on your tongue Betrayal... it makes your tonsils and teeth hurt. As I heard this friend of mine recount a story that happened a couple of years ago, I got quieter and quieter, my breath was shallow and from the other end of the phone came the query, 'you still there?' Parts of me were, other parts were shattered, beneath me on the floor in fragments. He wanted to know what was wrong and was surprised at my anger over what she had done. After all, what she did was directed at him, not me. Perhaps she didn't think it would hurt me, more likely she didn't think of me at all--collateral damage is all I was. Betrayal is an ugly word. Revenge is a beautiful word and Ruth Lavida Adkins Robinson will have hers.

What Weather?

I watch the BBC's "Cash in the Attic" every time it's on and recently watched a woman who was selling off her stuff in London so she could return home to Australia after 20 or 30 years. The reason she was leaving was given as some kind of disorder caused by the winter weather. She fell into a funk from lack of sun and just couldn't stand it as she got older. My first reaction was how silly that seemed, but then I realized where I've lived my entire life has been regulated by the weather. When you are young and fearless, you ordinarily don't give much thought to the weather, but when I was deciding which direction to head in when I ran away from Kentucky, Southern California was very appealing for what it didn't have --Kentucky weather. It's dead in the center of the Ohio River Valley and has one of the highest pollen counts in the world. So imagine trying to breath in the stinking humidity and having to suck up pollen too. I wanted to get out of that weather and came here. I love this weather. Every time I think I could live somewhere else--which is frequently, I realize the weather holds me here. I did move to St. Thomas on the Fortuna end of the Island. That was one of my stupidest impulses ever. There I got to try to manage the heat, humidity, bugs and hurricanes. So I moved to San Juan living on the ocean front in a high rise on Avenida Ashford. The humidity followed me there and combined with the robbers who stole everything including the frozen food in the fridge drove me back to Los Angeles, where the sun was shining and I wasn't sweating. Then the weather in LA betrayed us all this week. Today I found myself weepy and depressed because of the endless rain, storms, hail, thunder and lightening. I'm weather-spoiled Ruth Lavida Adkins Robinson

Ruth Lavida Burns

Who was she? I never knew. She has always been a stick figure. Just a girl whose face I wear. I spent many years in the search for Ruth Lavida Burns. I wonder who she was, this young girl who was 17 years old when I was born, who died in Baltimore when she was not yet 40. There are nights I run the past like an old ricky ticky movie in my head. So add this January night as another sleepless night to the list. I'm the daughter of Ruth Lavida.

What A Year

This time last year, Suzanne de Passe, Suzanne Coston and I were happily freezing our buns off in Washington DC as the harried and hurried women working on the Commander-In-Chief's Inaugural Ball. It seems such a short year. I'm sure the man who became President of the United States on that fateful day has wondered "what was I thinking" when he determined to be President. I love him even more today than I did on that historic day. The challenges dumped on him by those exiting republican fools would have brought a lesser man to his knees. But he keeps moving forward. It's interesting that people rarely speak of temperament when talking about what it takes to be the most powerful man in the world. But it's worth noting that it takes a resolute and calm character to remain in charge and devoted to executing intentions in spite of all the garbage thrown in his direction. Ever more often I wonder at what point in his life that he decided to be a Black man. He didn't have to embrace the African father's name. Raised by his white grandparents, he could have been Barry and taken their last name and moved in some different circles. But he chose Barack. Charismatic, handsome over-achiever he is, he could have picked a glamor blond, but he didn't. He chose a woman of dark color to stand beside him, not behind him. And she ain't doing so badly either. She is clearly who she is and will leave a deep imprint on history. How either of them deals with the horrible hatred hurled at them makes me want to lift them up even more. I'm proud I lived long enough to see them in the White House and one of the most glorious times of my life was standing under the Presidential Seal at the end of the night and grinning at being part of history. I'm still the smiling Ruth Adkins Robinson

History, History Who's Got the History

How did I get labeled the historian? Somehow long ago, I started correcting assertions based on "somebody said." I became editor-in-chief at BRE simply because I hated the fact that one writer didn't know the history of what he was writing about and did not know who Albert Ammons was or Meade Lux Lewis. I no longer have any connection whatsoever with BRE, but the knowledge that got me labeled the Historian still is stuck in my head. If you want to see something funny, sit in the room with me and Wren Brown as we struggle to out-history trivia each other!! Truth is, Wren has me beat, but he does have the advantage. After all his entire family as far back as Grandfather Troy forward has been making entertainment history. Troy Brown was in that first group of five Black actors who signed up with the Screen Actors Guild! I can recall the exact emotions I felt when I first got my Writers Guild Membership card, thinking it was an monumental achievement. Imagine how Troy Brown felt holding that SAG card in segregated Hollywood. Wonder what Grandfather Troy had to endure?? Back to sitting in the room with Wren. We are talking about the project "Blacks In Entertainment" with Blair Underwood, his producing partner Tommy Morgan and director Naisa Wong. On the history tip--Blair was actually the first Black leading man (read Hunk)in primetime TV with his role in "L.A. Law." There's a deep story with Blair and if what we are working on comes true, we'll get to tell these stories in a series in works. I am in fine company and this is a fine project. Let's see what history unfolds now for Ruth Adkins Robinson.