Poitier-Carroll Love Child Surfaces!

One of the things that Diahann Carroll left out of her recent revealing biography, "The Legs Are the Last to Go," was the fact that she and ex-lover Sidney Poitier had a secret love child who was conceived during the filming of "Paris Blues."

The child, let's call her Baracka, tracked down her bio parents at an A-list Hollywood event in the '90s and watched while Mr. Poitier and Ms. Carroll argued about her paternity. A bystander at that Women in Film event honoring Ms. Carroll reported that the actress accused Mr. Poitier of being a "Calypso-loving, brown-bagging ho" who knocked her up in the prime of her career.

Upon hearing himself described in that way, Mr. Poitier claimed that sisters like Ms. Carroll were the reason why "black males gravitate toward the white women who adore them."

"It got pretty ugly," the source said. "And I felt so bad for their daughter. She didn't even have enough money to valet her car and had riden her bike."

While Ms. Carroll did spend some time talking with Baracka--telling her she should stop dressing like she shopped at a "Compton Flea Market"--Mr. Poitier totally ignored his alleged child and began chatting up Jane Fonda.

Today Baracka (who preferred not to reveal her real name) spends a lot of time on the couch critiquing her parents' early films. Peep-Ho magazine tracked Baracka down at The Grove recently where she was perusing the sale racks at the Nike store. Dressed in Nike sweat pants, a hoodie and last year's Ugg boots, Baracka said that she was hurt that her mother didn't mention her in her new memoir.

"She spent half the book trashing my father, a man who did her so wrong," Baracka said wistfully. "Yes, I am hurted. I could have brought her so much joy. We could have done a mother and daughter spread in Essence, or a photo spread in Ebony standing in front of our big house with our 10 cars. Instead I have to stand in line at Book Soup just to see her.

"I'm not bitter though. My adoptive parents did the best they could. Last year they gave me a 1967 Ford Country Squire station wagon for my birthday. I was cruising. This year, they forgot to call, but that's OK. That night I had sex with an old head I met at Lucy Florence and he left me some McDonald's coupons in the morning. He didn't have to do that."

Baracka says that she has no plans to reach out to either of her parents in the near future. Instead, she plans on writing her own book.

"I'm going to call it 'The Parents Are the First to Bolt: Dirty Diahann and Sorry-Ass Sidney."

Yes We Did

When I was a little girl growing up in Cincinnati, Ohio, every Sunday my mother would transform me from an ashy-legged, nappy-headed tomboy into a Sunday morning debutante. She’d press and curl my hair, dress me up in the obligatory uniform—starched dress, anklets and black patent leather Mary Jane shoes so I could watch history unfold while sitting in the pews of the Mt. Zion Baptist Church.

The man who had a dream was a frequent visitor as were Fannie Lou Hamer, Andrew Young, Fred Shuttlesworth and other icons of the Civil Rights era. On Tuesday, in the hours preceding what is probably this nation’s most defining moment, I thought a lot about them, along with my wheelchair-bound 93-year-old dad who has voted in 18 presidential elections dating back to Franklin D. Roosevelt and couldn’t wait to get to the polls to cast his vote for a man who really wasn’t supposed to be on the ballot.

As a child I couldn’t really grasp the importance of that parade. I knew they were special people because whenever they’d stop by to tell us that we were on the verge of overcoming, we’d have a few nervous white (reporters) visitors, too, lining the back wall. I had no way of knowing, however, that those journeymen would be part of the relay team handing off the baton to Barack Hussein Obama.

As an adult the importance of this moment in time is not lost on me. I get it. Yet, several hours after Obama was elected to become the 44th President of our diverse and complex nation, it still hasn’t sunk in.

It’s not that I’m surprised, I’m not. I’ve been predicting an Obama victory for more than a year. It’s just that after bearing witness to the struggle for so many years Obama’s victory is something that must be realized in every fiber of my being.

Right now it’s just a little difficult to comprehend this reality because in America sometimes it’s hard to believe what you see. It’s like a wow, wow, wow moment that has yet to resonate.

A true African American has become the first President of color in the United States.

For those of us in my generation Tuesday night was the culmination of centuries of opportunities deferred. After watching Obama stroll on stage with his family to make his acceptance speech at Chicago’s Grant Park, I had to wonder if the Middle Passage, the habitual exclusion, the abject discrimination, the dogs, the fire hoses, the bombs, the horrific lynchings, the loud cries and the silent tears were all worth it.

Was that what it took to get to this point?

I’m not sure because those were ungodly acts orchestrated by ungodly people. Evil, as those who experienced the horrors of the Holocaust know all too well, does not discriminate. But here’s one thing I’ve learned about being black in America. We have a natural resolve. Despite everything that has happened to us since arriving on these shores, we still smile.

And the one thing that all of those years in Sunday school taught me was that sometimes God takes you through some storms so that you can truly appreciate the sunny days.

Tuesday was a very sunny day.

On Tuesday night America, a nation of immigrants, elected one of its own to unite it so that this country, which has yet to achieve its true greatness, could perhaps rise above the internal battles that have been raging here for the past 221 years.

Yes, those of us who cheered Obama’s victory last night can see brighter days ahead but it would be foolish of me to suggest that just because a black man will occupy the White House in January that those who harbor hate in their hearts will immediately embrace those who don’t look like them. Or that the economy will bounce back by Jan. 20, and the war in Iraq will be over by Valentine’s Day.

Not going to happen.

What Obama will do, however, is challenge the way people think. He represents change, hope and progress. He will inspire all of those who dare to dream and draw upon those who died while trying.

After hearing his acceptance speech tonight I’m pretty sure that Obama knows why he’s here and what it is he has to do. He said he needs our help and he surely does. In this new America we are the bricks and he is the newly appointed bricklayer. The America that Obama is inheriting is a troubled nation that seems more intent on being politically correct than just simply correct.

Brother Barack has some serious mountains to climb.

But you know what? I have a feeling that he’s going to find a way to get over—just like the others who ran the good race before him on Sunday morning.

the view from the couch

honestly, the week that was kind of wore me out.

it wasn't because i was abnormally busy because i wasn't. it was just that most days i couldn't get up off the couch because i was so mentally exhausted. so, when i had to write stories on deadline, i wrote them in a slumped position on the couch with my laptop, uh, on my lap, and with my feet up on my teak coffee table. when i had to edit video, ditto. when i had to deal with my dad's doctors and caregivers, i sat up, put my feet on the hardwood floor, held the phone in one hand and my head in the other. and when it was time to eat, i pushed my computer to the left and repositioned my masai coffee table book to make room for the tray with my homemade vegetable soup and pita samwich.

i know, it sounds kind of pitiful, but it really wasn't. i was surrounded by my books, my cds, photos of friends and family, my masks, my art in a room awash with sunshine. it made me feel kind of warm and fuzzy in a one-flew-over-the-cuckoo's-nest-kind-of-way.



one day i watched three un-riveting hours of a pbs documentary on the royal family--because i had to--and then another six hours of cnn while my musician neighbor downstairs banged away on his drums. on another day i took a short nap, waking up just in time for "gossip girl," which has quickly become more than just the gulity pleasure it used to be.

when friends rang, i'd sometimes get a little animated and start pacing around the couch. at least i got up!

and on the day he rang--surprise, surprise--i got up--again--grabbed a bottle of wine out of the cooler, sat back down, put my feet back on the table, giggled and joked my way through a 40-minute conversation and then went back surfing the web for plane tickets to london.

ok, i did have fleeting thoughts of going on sabbatical (from the couch), hopping in the saab and heading north on the 5. but that would mean i would be without a couch for at least five hours.

i knew i couldn't deal with the separation anxiety in my fragile state.

then there was the day a friend from cincinnati rang and said she was in san francisco. that news caused me to jump up from the couch because i realized that i was supposed to be in SF, too. not to see her--i had no idea she'd be there--but to attend the "milk" premiere in the castro.

alas, since the film was starting in two hours there was really nothing i could do. i began pacing again, but was lured back to the couch by the couch.

"miki," the couch said. "come back. i am here for you. there's no need to worry about all those 'senior moments' you've been having lately. your career will survive. come. lay down. relax. have more soup. watch 'krazee eyz killah' for the 35th time. baby steps."

yes, i was indeed the prototype for the couch potato this week. but considering that i had day-long headaches nearly every day the week before, it was time well wasted.

i'll do the laundry next week.