• O. J. Simpson: “I’m not black. I’m O. J.” Mmmhm ’til they locked yo’ black ass up!
• Jonathan Capehart: Pushing the narrative that the “Hands up don’t shoot” slogan was built on a lie, because he asserts that the late Mike Brown did not have his hands up when he was murdered by officer Darren Wilson that fateful day in Ferguson, Missouri. This cat found his way from the Washington Post to TV in the midst of the ongoing travesty of the case and felt this was a valuable concept worthy of discussion in spaces where Mike Brown was being vilified and was part of undermining the very necessary movement against police brutality of unarmed black people born out of his death. Before @CapehartJ blocked me on the Twitters for telling him his actions were coon-worthy, I tweeted him, and I quote, “You have no idea who I am. But u will & you will feel very uncomfortable that ur matched intellect is checkin’ your BS.”
BETTED ON BUYING IN:
• Oprah: You already know.
• Ava DuVernay: Pivoted from PR to director/producer, beginning a track record of seminal work from Selma to 13th and using her influence to create Array, a grassroots distribution, arts, and advocacy collective focused on films by people of color and women.
• Magic Johnson: Retired from the NBA and uses his fortune to bring franchises to underserved neighborhoods, providing jobs and bringing a higher quality of life experiences to these communities.
• Charles D. King: Elevated through the ranks of William Morris with a practice of hard work and reliability before leaving to create MACRO and using his access to open doors for black creative entrepreneurs to flourish via their craft.
• Issa Rae: Created her own show on YouTube, took the brand all the way to big business without compromising her own creative vision, and used the inroads she made to give other creatives space to do the same without compromise.
Listen, I get it. In times of hardship, selling out can feel like the only option. In the process of progress you need funds, you need support, and you need creativity. We are in a capitalist country. Everybody is trying to get on, and everybody is trying to make ends meet. You’ve got kids and a family to support. You have dreams that you want to achieve. You’re tempted to say, “Damn, if I just take this lil bit over here, I could probably do this whole thing over here.” Sometimes that’s true, but it’s only true if this lil bit over here doesn’t also take the bottom out from what you’re trying to do over there. Remain conscious of that. Snakes will come for you all up and through the grass. I urge you to use the creativity within you to try and take different modes to get those needs met without forsaking your integrity. If you can wait it out, when you buy in you have the autonomy to determine your product’s value versus bundling it with your integrity, which is priceless. When you sell out, you’re letting someone make you believe that what they have to give you is worth more than your integrity. It’s not. Don’t let anyone sell you that lie. For years, I was surrounded by so many examples of selling out and it got tougher and tougher to encourage young women, and my peers, to stick to their integrity when they could see so many folks that seemed to be shining and winning for doing the opposite. Nonetheless, I knew that if I could eventually get here without doing that, I could be yet another example of buying in. I am so thankful and honored to say that I have never had to compromise my principles and sell out in the process of getting here. Surround yourself with the right people and fill yourself full of resolve so you, too, can come up without coming out your worth.
Death of the Diva
THAT ONE TIME
I’m a little fuzzy on when exactly folks started calling me “Diva.” I was in a crew called “Da Divas” while at Dr. Phillips High School in Orlando, Florida, and I used to tag it EVERYWHERE. Literally. So, I’m pretty sure it was born out of that. Once I moved to New York and started school at SUNY Purchase, it continued as a nickname and in some cases was shortened to simply “Deev.” It is astonishing to me how many people didn’t even bat an eye at my desire to be referred to as “Diva,” which is a testament to not only how free-thinking NYC can be but also to how full of artsy weirdos my college campus was. That said, I still had a lil insecurity about it, and when I went to the Sugar Shack, a restaurant in Harlem proper, and signed up for their weekly spoken word open mic, I wrote “Diva” on the sign-up sheet and added (Amanda) in parentheses, to let them know I wasn’t buggin’ by asking to be called “Diva.” When the host introduced me she saw the two names pushed up against each other like trying to parallel park on St. Nicholas Ave. in the middle of winter, and said soothingly into the mic, melodic and warm, with a melted-See’s-caramel-candy-in-hot-chocolate timbre, “Amanda Diva.” From that day forward, that was me.
The name Amanda Diva had its ups and downs, but for a new name with an old connotation, I wore it well. As a poet, it set me apart as more hip-hop than neo-soul and simultaneously sent a message that though I was young, I was to be respected. Some folks made it very clear with their stank faces and shaded hellos that they weren’t feelin’ that message, but it was clear nonetheless! Once I transitioned into hip-hop as a career, serving as a radio personality at Sirius Satellite Radio (pre-XM merger) and writing for AllHipHop.com, XXL, and the like, the name became as much a part of my brand as the array of Kangols I insisted on wearing. Sidenote: Y’all, there were so . . . many . . . Kangols. Line up pics of me from ’03–’08 and my head looked like a bag of skittles. But I digress. In a game of pseudonyms meant to aggrandize and define what matters to you before anyone knows you, Amanda Diva worked. What mattered to me was that you knew I was larger than life, I was not for the nonsense, and I was a true talent. For me, that is what “Diva” was about. The opera sopranos of their time, like Maria Callas, who played no games, and demanded her needs be met because she was going to go on stage every time and give the audience everything, now she was a DIVA! However, in the age of my donning the moniker it had begun to lose its luster. Sure, VH1 Divas did its best by bringing the divas of our age together to belt their wigs off in full sequined numbers, but simultaneously the term was being used as a descriptor for a woman with all of the needs and demands of a world-renowned theatrical force of nature and none of the talent. The moniker was tossed around like video chicks creepin’ on a come up. If, at a shoot, you made any request, no matter how minimal, you were called a “diva.” If you had a point of view differing from the group think, like, “Nah, I’m actually not really feeling folks wearing Chinese slippers in the club” you’d get a, “OHHH, OKAY DEEEEVVVUUUHHHHHH!” It was really annoying. Nonetheless, I had planted my flag.
I remember going into a meeting at Hot 97 that the homie DJ Envy had secured for me. I was already doing radio at Sirius but to be on Hot was a dream. It was a New York staple at the time, the home of Angie Martinez, and a mecca of hip-hop greatness. It was Hot 97 that Jay-Z raced to to tell his side of the story when R. Kelly was maced backstage at their Best of Both Worlds Madison Square Garden concert. It was Hot 97 that first delivered to me the horrifying news that we had lost Aaliyah to the ocean from above. It was the mixtape era, and every Saturday a different DJ would do a set for Takin It to the Streets. It was DJ Green Lantern that had me end a date early and run up to my dorm room so I could hear the first post-“Ether” record off of Nas’s Stillmatic. My roommate and I sat on our extra-long twin beds in awe as “You’re da Man” reverberated throughout our suite in the Outback (or as I called it, The Wack Back) at SUNY Purchase.
So, to be going there for an interview to possibly join this illustrious cavalcade of icons riding the backs of hip-hop greatness was momentous. I sat down across from the man in charge, Ebro, and after a brief exchange about what I was doing and wanted to do, he got to my name. “It’s corny,” he said. It was like a swift jab to my proverbial sternum. “Corny?” I asked. “Yeah, nobody wants to listen to somebody with ‘Diva’ in their name. It’s played out,” he said, with his bearded fine nigga arrogance spilling all over the desk like a garbage bag bursting before you make it to th
e curb. Envy, the homie who had been the mouthpiece so I could get this sit down, chimed in here as well saying, “She’s been doing great for listeners over at Sirius with her show, Breakfast at Diva’s.” Ebro wasn’t tryna hear it. “Meh, it’s tired. If you’re trying to come over here you’d have to lose the name.” Now, y’all, I was young, but this was just stupid. At this point I was a VJ on MTV2 and had a global radio show on Sirius under the name Amanda Diva. I was twenty-two and thriving! People were recognizing me in the street and I was getting press and bylines under the name Amanda Diva. It simply made no sense to leave my name, which was gaining traction with the masses, behind at a point when I was ascending in the same field. Yet, here I was being told that in order to pursue the dream of being a part of this formidable family I would have to toss it to the wind like a loose weave track now languishing on a sidewalk. I am not a stubborn person. I am a best-idea-wins person. At that juncture, it was not the best idea. I left feeling deflated, but defiant. After all, I was Amanda DIVA, and no real Diva let a nigga diminish her shine simply because he didn’t recognize it.
I would go on to work at Sirius for three more years, four years in total, while writing and doing spoken word, then transitioning into pursuing a career as a recording artist myself. Independently releasing four projects and a mixtape, touring as a member of Floetry, appearing on a number of albums including Slim Thug’s Already Platinum, Pitbull’s El Mariel, Curren$y’s This Ain’t No Mixtape, and Q-Tip’s album The Renaissance, along with opening for The Roots, who, from day one, welcomed me into their illafifth dynamite family with open arms and always willingly gave me a stage to spread my musically inclined wings. At the same time, I was producing my own web series, DivaSpeak TV, on this new website YouTube, and another called Diva Diva Ya’ll on streetwear-savvy Karmaloop.com. The point is, Diva was ingrained in my presence, whether I was singing, rapping, writing, or hosting. I felt married to the name. All that said, I was a no-nonsense person in a FULL-nonsense industry. Lemme tell y’all something, hip-hop was (I can’t speak for the climate now) not made for type-A personalities, ESPECIALLY if you’re a woman. I am a very direct, very smart, very free thinking, very on point, very detail-oriented, very particular person. The hip-hop music business is exactly the opposite of all of this. It’s a lot of folks passive-aggressively or over-aggressively posturing their limited scope of knowledge and views while far too often being wildly inefficient and unreliable. If you’re reading this and getting mad, I’m talking about you. On top of that, it’s a cockfest, and as a woman, you’re the party favor. As this was the climate, over time I became conditioned to having to exert said “Divaness,” which gained me a reputation for being “difficult,” “stank,” and “extra.” In actuality, I just possessed a keen eye for fuckery and lacked the alacrity to address it with finesse—a skill I’m honestly still working to commit to muscle memory. Before I knew it, Diva went from the fun flamboyant addendum to my government name to an albatross around my career’s neck. It was even brought to my attention that I was losing out on opportunities because of the name. Before I’d even have a chance to speak for myself or let my work do the talking, my name would repel interested parties who were disinterested in dealing with a woman who carried a pseudonym that, by then, had become synonymous with reality TV stars known for throwing “diva-like tantrums” without cause or skill to support them. It got really real when I was cast in a pilot for a new hip-hop show and the executive producer called me the night before our first day. Along with words of encouragement and regular prep, she offered me the advice, “Your job is to go in there and prove you’re not a diva.” Remember that proverbial sternum? Yea, mollywhopped once again. Cuz yo, that absolutely was not my job! My job was to go in there and be the funny, witty, opinionated, hip-hop knowledge cannon that I am! So to consider that this name had so much weight that it overpowered my actual skill set was horrifying for me! If I were on my full Sunset Boulevard Norma Desmond diva-level shit I would have gazed into a mirror watching my soul vanish as I smeared my lipstick. Instead I got off the phone and spent the next couple hours reassessing my life.
I had turned thirty a few months earlier, and it was like I had walked through a door to another dimension. Nothing looked the same. Maybe it was the Saturn Return* or simply entering a new decade, but I IMMEDIATELY felt a shift in my consciousness. Though Ebro was the first to tell me my name was lacking in luster, he wasn’t the last. The biggest champion for the eradication of Deev turned out to be DJ Green Lantern, the same DJ who ten years earlier had me cutting a kiss short in order to hear Nasir’s premier. Over the years, he, along with DJ Self, Q-Tip, late manager of The Roots Rich Nichols, Nelson Taboda, Swizz Beatz, Ron Stewart, Erik Pettie, Dwight Willacy, and Lenny S, had become a glowing standard of purely platonic brotherhood in a sea of sharks who made sexual harassment a daily affair in a fraternal field that had little to no sororal safe spaces. On a regular basis DJ Green Lantern would chide and cajole me to “Drop the diva.” “You don’t need it,” he’d say. “It’s limiting,” he’d urge, and I’d admonish him about how it’s a part of my brand and it’s how people know me and all the logical reasons I had given Ebro in that office at Hot 97 so many years before. However, after walking through the door into the Narnia of my thirties, they admittedly began to feel more like excuses than explanations. Hip-hop suddenly wasn’t speaking to me the way it once had, and I could feel something greater pulling at my purpose. I didn’t know yet that it would be comedy, but I knew, intrinsically, that a shift was coming. Change. Something so dreaded yet inevitable. I began to toy with the notion of reinvention. What did that look like? What did it entail? I’d seen major celebrities do it before—Gaga when she toned down, Badu when she turned up, Janelle when she broke from the monochrome, Prince when he became the symbol, etc. But I didn’t have the sturdy following they had. Would people even notice if I switched up?
It came to a head in the spring of 2011 when I was doing a show called The Spark, which I hosted and created for AOL Black Voices. The first shapeshifting moment was when Nick Cannon came on the show. It was a comedy-based current events show where two guests and I discussed topics relating to the black community through the lens of humor. After his guest appearance, me and my old homie chopped it up and he told me, “It’s time for you to come back to TV. You have a voice and people need to hear it.” I was taken aback but I knew he was right. I just didn’t know how that was going to happen. After talking to him about it, it weighed on me. Doing The Spark, I had begun to find my comedic tone and learn how to channel my passion through its lens. I knew that I needed to pivot, and I felt that the universe had sent me someone I trusted to give me a sign about where to pivot to. Shortly thereafter, I was simultaneously haranguing Wiz Khalifa’s “people” for an interview while the legendary Quincy Jones’s people were reaching out to us for one. It was surreal. I was talking to Green about it and he laid it plain: “Wiz is super dope and would be a great look and interview, but Quincy is an icon and his people are coming to you. That’s who you need to be aligned with and in order to be taken seriously in those circles you’ll need to drop the ‘Diva.’” For the first time, I heard him. Because for the first time, I could see even a glimpse of truly realizing my dream of being a voice of value for and of the black community. Something about the juxtaposition of where I was at the moment versus someone like Quincy Jones, a living legend of stature and merit whose work I have loved my whole life, awoke in me a clarity that I had yet to experience previously. Reinvention was not only near, but inevitable. About a week later, I was walking up to an event and when the woman holding the list asked my name, I told her, “Amanda Diva” and she exclaimed, “OKAY GURRRLLLL!!!!! OK MISS DIVA! I SEE YOU!!!!” Yeah, at the point I knew it was time. “Diva” had to go.
The next day I changed all my social media handles and that was that. Amanda Seales was back. Some folks said it was a bad idea, that “Diva” was an integral part of my brand. Once upon a time, they would have be
en right, but I had simply grown out of that brand. Though I didn’t know exactly what direction I was going in, I knew innately, in my gut, that in order to find my purpose I would need to relieve myself of the past to make room for a rebirth. I guess it was my own type of Baptism, except instead of being saved by Jesus I was being saved from myself. My brand wasn’t based on my name, it was based on my work. In trusting the transition to my new truth, changing my name, and reinventing myself, I began a new path and trajectory that allowed for my voice to find its purpose without a name drowning it out. The reality was reinvention. Though a daunting, seemingly impossible concept for some, the change, drastic in nature, was an essential step in the right direction to unlocking my purpose and stepping into my full self as the funny, world-changing, spirit-empowering, no-nonsense diva I was truly meant to be.
SIDE EFFECTS OF
Being a Multihyphenate
So much we do,
but there’s so little time
Folks may not understand our hustles,
but they can’t hate on our grind.
SYNERGIZE
As a multihyphenate, the goal is to be able to utilize all of the gifts at your disposal. This requires synergy. Synergy is achieved when you unearth the skeleton key that unlocks access to all of your skills and instead of operating as energy moving in different directions, they feed each other. If the skeleton key makes the skills available, synergy is the thread that strings them together. It’s like looking at the hem of a pair of pants and seeing the thread keeping things in place—those stiches look like hyphens. When you start to look at your various trajectories under the same scope, you begin to see how they connect, and the synergy emerges.
Small Doses Page 13