Passing as white in a racist society was more commonplace than many would think and generally enabled the passer to thrive if not survive. As in the case of Belle DaCosta Greene, passing enabled her to receive renown as the librarian of the J.P. Morgan Library. The truth of her race wasn’t uncovered until long after her death. Hannah Elias never claimed to be white, but never acknowledged her blackness either. When asked what she was she’d say either Sicilian or Cuban. The discovery of her true race didn’t lead to admiration and accomplishment but to trial and tribulation.
Hannah was born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, in 1865. Her father was mixed-race (African-American and Native American). Her mother was light enough to pass for white. An enterprising “better-to-ask-forgiveness-than-seek-permission” type, Hannah “borrowed” a dress from her employer in 1884 to wear to her sister’s wedding. The act landed her in Moyamensing Prison and thrown out of her family’s home.
She made a living as a sex worker in Manhattan’s Tenderloin neighborhood, where she met rich glass factory owner John R. Platt, who was forty-five years older than she. She left the brothel and engaged in an affair with him, although some resources state they were married. Platt lavished her with gifts and money, enabling her to amass wealth through investments and real estate. She moved into a mansion on Central Park West. Their happy-for-now existence was shattered in 1903 when famous city planner Andrew H. Green was shot to death in a case of mistaken identity. The killer, Cornelius Williams, a former tenant in one of Hannah’s boardinghouses, mistook Green for Platt.
The case brought to light Hannah’s true racial identity. Her home became a stop on a sightseeing tour, and she found herself harassed and assaulted by White New Yorkers outraged that a black woman could be living in Central Park West, own various real estate properties, and be worth millions of dollars. In 1904, Platt’s family bullied him into filing a blackmail complaint against Hannah to strip her of her wealth. She took the stand in her own defense, prevailing against Platt at the original trial and in the appeal.
In 1915, she lived in the penthouse of one of her own buildings and by then had joined in business with African-American real estate developer John E. Nail to turn Harlem into a mecca for African-Americans arriving from the South in search of decent housing.
She went to live in Europe and died there of a heart attack at the age of 73.
As a New Yorker I’d always heard of or read accounts about the murder of Andrew H. Green but not until reading Shomari Willis’ Black Fortunes did I learn of Hannah Elias and her role in his death. Another great account of this phoenix who rose from the ashes is the Barbara Chase-Riboud novel, The Great Mrs. Elias.
Discovering hidden histories like that of Hannah Elias feeds my hunger to learn all I can about the lives of African-American women and fuels my desire to help put the spotlight on them.
For your chance at a $10 Amazon gift card, comment on Hannah’s life and/or share similar hidden histories of women you’ve learned about.
Better To Marry Than To Burn
Freed Man seeking woman to partner in marriage for at least two years in the black township of Douglass, Texas. Must be willing and able to help establish a legacy. Marital relations as necessary. Love neither required nor sought.
Excerpt:
She sidled up to him, cupped his erection and fondled his balls.
“Ready for bed or ready to bed me?”
He moaned, placed his hand atop hers and increased the pressure. Already hard, he hadn’t imagined he could get any harder.
“Is that beautiful brass bed new?”
He gulped. “Ye—yes. Bought it—bought it for the honeymoon.”
“I’m ready to be bedded now,” she whispered. “Or is that something we must negotiate?”
All thoughts of dinner vanished.
“No,” he rasped, leaning forward, as hungry for her lips as he was to be inside her.
“Good.” She stepped back, out of reach. “But, let’s be clear…” She bent over, so her butt protruded toward him. She massaged each buttock so her crack parted invitingly. “Tonight it’s the Greek way or no way.”
He blinked, stunned by this demand to be taken anally. His master had had books filled with drawings, depicting naked Greeks wrestling. Those pen and ink depictions flashed before him now. Arms constrained by arms, legs entwined with legs, butts and groins enmeshed in snug contortions. He’d love to take Queen that way, experience first- hand the erotic intimacy etched in the men’s struggle-laden features.
He took one step toward her then stopped. No. One day, he would…but not tonight. Not their first time. Their first time would be the nose-to-nose, chest-to-breast, cock-to-vagina coupling he’d hungered five years for.
I grew up during the time when supermodels were on the cover of practically every magazine. I can remember my friends and me scouring the pages to find out what makeup shades they used to try and recreate the looks as if the right lipstick shade would transform us into Christy Turlington.
But as fun as it was to try and recreate the makeup, there was another thing that wasn’t so fun and that was the treatment we often got at the cosmetic counters. I remember going with friends to purchase new makeup only to walk away with a shopping bag and a complex. How many times did we go for help with our teenage skin only to feel worse about ourselves after the encounter? I had oily skin growing up and used powder during the day as well as what they called oil-absorbing foundation and mattifying lotion before that. Yes, I did get shiny and my skin wasn’t perfect, but I would go to the counter for help only to be told I’d need a slew of products to help with my, “problem skin.”
I would use money I saved up to buy products I probably didn’t need, but it was the sense of feeling gross without the help of these pricey items that hit my self-esteem. I can remember the cosmetics workers wiping harsh astringent on my face that physically stung as much as their words as they complained about my shiny skin. Then they’d apply thick layers of oil-free foundation making sure none of my real skin texture would show through. I was told I had large pores and that I needed to use base all over to cover them as well.
I believed this until I got sick in college and went a week without makeup. I had to pick up a prescription, and I was too exhausted to put on makeup, so I ran in with just lipstick on—something I never did because I had been led to believe I needed a full face of base to be presentable. And while I was there, someone complimented me on my complexion. I thought they were making fun of me and wondered why a stranger would do that.
I mentioned it to a friend who said she also spent years wearing heavy foundation due to things she had been told by beauty counter workers as well. She said she wouldn’t go to the grocery store without concealer. I admitted the brand of foundation I used in high school was also used by actresses on camera…as if that kind of coverage was necessary for sitting in a classroom.
I started to ask more friends who all shared something they were insecure about that had come from a stranger selling them a product. One said she was told she had to wear mascara because of her, “tiny hamster eyes,” and cried when she was told by a doctor that she’d have to go without it while she healed from an eye infection. Another was told how bad her skin texture was that she still won’t even do a Zoom meeting without makeup on.
A friend asked if I remembered us going to pick up huge bottles of that stinging pink astringent to try and save our skin and being told we also needed primer, moisturizer that was more like butter, and a mattifying lotion…as if all of that wasn’t going to clog our overactive teenage pores. I did remember because I was told how primer was a necessity for me with my problem skin and I felt bad about myself every time I took that tube out. Oddly, when I worked with professional makeup artists doing fashion shows, no one criticized my skin at all. It never occurred to me that they weren’t selling me anything. They had no reason to chip away at my self-confidence to get me to buy a product.
The thing is, my skin was actually pretty good for a teenager. And if anything, stripping away the oils and then piling on chemicals probably wasn’t the way to go anyway. I wonder how many of us still have the judgmental words of a cosmetic salesperson in the back of our minds when we look in the mirror. I applaud the salesperson at the Lancome counter who once refused to sell my nineteen-year-old friend an anti-aging cream she was convinced she needed. And I’m grateful to the makeup artist at Barneys who built up of the confidence of an eighteen-year-old me by complementing me instead of trying to make me feel like I needed to buy more makeup to look presentable. My mom sent me photos she found of me in my teens, and I was surprised that my skin looked smooth. That certainly wasn’t how I felt it looked back then.
It wasn’t until I started questioning the treatment my friends were getting in front of me by salespeople. I knew they were fine without the items being pushed. While I couldn’t see that for myself, but I certainly could for others.
So, I decided to write a scene where my fourteen-year-old character, Landry Albright, goes to the cosmetics counter in Best Friends…Forever? I decided to hit on two things in the scene which showed her trying to emulate model’s ad look only to find out the taupe lip gloss that the model is wearing looks terrible on her. She questions why Talisa can look so beautiful in it, while she looks like the undead. Landry’s also convinced that the gloss is all Talisa is wearing because of what the magazine says. However, she soon finds out a lot more makeup went into making Talisa look “naturally perfect” in that ad.
I also have Landry encounter a sales person much like the ones that have impacted so many of us over the years by preying on our insecurities. Only this time, Landry gets clued in about it being a sales tactic to get people to buy more. She also encounters a kind person behind the counter who helps boost her self-confidence and find something she’d like to wear instead of making her feel she needs makeup to look “presentable.”
A friend told me how she hated getting matched for a foundation color because the people behind the counter would stand there and scrutinize her and she felt hideous and judged. I put that in the story as well to let my readers see that others have had encounters like that so maybe they’d feel less insecure. When I read these scenes in my writing critique group every woman in the room shared they had had an experience similar at a cosmetic counter. All the men in the group were shocked by the way we had been treated.
I can only hope that reading what Landry goes through will make the readers feel less alone should they go through that same situation. It took me years to get to that place and it makes me sad to think of how many preteens had our self-imaged shaped by a sales tactic. So here’s to embracing how we were created and leaving the judgments of others behind us.
Krysten Lindsay Hager writes about friendship, self-esteem, fitting in, frenemies, crushes, fame, first loves, and values. Her work includes YA contemporary novels and middle school fiction. She received her BA in English and master’s degree in liberal studies from the University of Michigan-Flint.
Krysten’s work has been featured in USA Today, The Flint Journal, the Grand Haven Tribune, the Beavercreek Current, the Bellbrook Times, Springfield News-Sun, Grand Blanc View, Dayton Daily News and on Living Dayton.
Never descend a staircase with both hands full and no view of your feet. Last night, I made it nearly all the way down when I stepped on something that shifted, and down I went in perfect slow motion. I had time to tell myself not to tense up, go with the flow… As I landed, I kept my head raised but sacrificed my hand to protect my noggin. I fractured a metacarpal bone, wrapped it myself for the night then hit the emergency room this morning. After x-rays, they gave me a temporary cast. I’ll get a permanent one in a few days after the swelling subsides.
The minute I got home I headed to my computer, moved my mouse to the left side and opened a document I was editing to see whether I can still work. Working left-handed only is a PITA, but it’s doable. When I opened my own document to write, the lack of speed really hit me. I’m going to have to think about transcription to get my pages written.
And let’s not talk about all the little inconveniences—blow-drying my own hair was a disaster. Pulling up my own leggings after going to the bathroom—okay, nuff said. I’m going to be the grumpiest bitch for the next while.
So, I’m not in the best mood typing one-handed. I better get used to it. Sorry no puzzle, folks.
Originally, I was titling this piece “Conquering Change,” but I haven’t conquered anything. Instead, I’m chipping away at needed changes. The biggest chunk I’ve chiseled off is making the decision that I had to change my job.
I’ve been a published author since 2016, but for almost three decades I’ve been a sports journalist. As a reporter, I’ve covered professional events, college events, and even taken some photos at a few NFL games. I spent twenty years covering a real love of mine, the Indianapolis 500. I covered my last race in 2016 to concentrate on being an author.
After six months, I missed being a sports reporter and found a compromise. I decided to cover high school sports for the local weekly newspaper whose coverage area included two high schools in my community. In a way, it was a dream job, because I had the freedom to continue being an author but still have the extra income of being a reporter.
I fell in love with being a reporter for high school sports. I developed wonderful relationships with coaches, athletes and others in the community. I watched some incredible events and athletes who never gave up, but more than anything, I loved seeing how these coaches were more interested in guiding kids to be good people more than winning games.
Then something happened.
I was diagnosed with cancer. I went through treatment and went into remission, but the lingering effects of treatment changed the game for me. I did go back to work, but it was difficult with the exhaustion and chemo brain causing trouble in interviews. It got better, but I was never like I was before treatment. Nine months again, the cancer returned. Now, I’m on a different treatment which is not as draining as chemo.
I still couldn’t keep up. The late nights, weekends, hard bleachers, press boxes with no heat or air took its toll, and I had to make a difficult decision.
I couldn’t do it anymore.
But what else could I do? Reporting was all I knew.
A CPA firm took a chance on me even though I had no experience working in an office or working with software other than Word. I think I nailed the interview when I said I was used to unhappy people yelling at me. Grandmothers at sporting events can be pretty scary.
I’m in my fifth month at this job, and I love it. I don’t work nights or weekends. I work indoors with heat and air conditioning, and my two other coworkers are already like family. I have a cozy chair to sit in, and the owner comes into the office maybe once a week. I’ve been yelled at twice over the phone by people who still haven’t received their tax refund. (The IRS is six or more months behind in processing paper returns). The yelling doesn’t bother me because it’s not something I did, and since I have the health issue I have, most problems seem pretty minor to me.
I guess what I want to say is big change is scary, and something we don’t want to do but are sometimes forced to do. At this point in my life, it was the right decision, and in doing so I have a whole new set of people who care about me and are fun to be around.
My writing has stalled a lot during the last two years, but I haven’t given up completely. I’ve had some short stories in anthologies and have another story in a Valentine anthology from the Indiana Romance Writers group which released February 1st.
Once I adjust more to my new normal, I hope the writing juices began to flow as opposed to trickle. Until then, I’m going to enjoy this change.
CLOSE ON – a pock-marked face rippling as if something is alive underneath it. Unnatural black veins pop out on forehead and temples as ALAN BIGBY, 50’s, bucks and writhes against the iron shackles chaining him to a chair.
Behind him through the big bay windows you can just glimpse the HOLLYWOOD sign.
ALAN
I’m going to rip out your innards, Butcher, and eat them raw.
He spits. Viscous green phlegm lands on the toe of a black DOC MARTEN.
PAN UP to see CADEN BUTCHER, 18, unkempt but cool with it, trying to hide a scrawny frame in layers of clothing, and a black wool cap to hide a mess of brown wavy hair, a large Saint George MEDALLION hangs around his neck.
CADEN
Not today, sweetheart.
He unscrews the sliver cap on a bottle of holy water and sprinkles it on Bigby in retaliation.
BLACK SMOKE curls up from BLACK SPOTS on his skin.
Off to the side, Bigby’s WIFE cringes as her husband twists in obvious pain.
TREY (O.S.)
Dude, is he going to hurt himself?
Caden turns to SEE hipster guy with perfectly messy locks holding the camera trained on Alan Bigby. This is TREY SUMMERS, 20’s.
CADEN
For the last time, dude, shut up. I’m the only one supposed to be talking.
And now we SEE that the house is full of people, crantinis and mini wienies being served by uniformed waiters. It’s the party only a name on a guest list can get you into.
*~*~*
That was a quick snippet from my script DEMON WHISPERER, based on my book DEMONS OF THE RICH AND FAMOUS, that I’m going to be developing into a web series this year.
I have three other scripts, two features and a TV pilot, that have been optioned and will hopefully, after rewrites and lots of meetings with various people for funding, will get into development in the next year or two (it takes years for this stuff to happen). Out of those 3 projects, one of them is also based on a book I’ve written that isn’t published yet, and the other two I’m planning on adapting into books. I love that I have that option and the skills to know how to do it.
The ability and skills to adapt books into scripts, and scripts into books. It’s not easy that’s for sure as they each use a different set of skills to write. But they are skills a person can learn.
The main differences between scripts and novels:
length – the average script is 100 pages, about 11,000 words, the average novel is 50,000 words
format – a script is very structured in that way, with sluglines, character tags, dialogue, action lines, etc. while novels are separated into chapters
action/dialogue – everything in a script is visual or audible, there is no room for introspective or description, where as a novel is rich with descriptive detail and deep POV
setting/budget – the simpler the setting the better, if you can tell a story in one room with one character, you’re a genius, with a novel grander is better, if you can tell a story in a huge world populated with 100 characters, you’re a genius
structure – this is the biggest one, and sometimes the hardest to learn, scripts operate on a rigid 3 or 5 ACT structure, like a skeleton to hang all the story bones onto it, novels don’t have a strict structure to be adhered to, you have a story with a beginning, middle and end
In March, I’m teaching a SCRIPTWRITING FOR BEGINNERS course online through the Alberta University of the Arts and will teach all of these five things and more. The course is perfect for a complete beginner to writing scripts, and perfect for authors who want to adapt their own work.
It’s an in depth 8-week course, and at the end I will be offering a critique on your finished work.
I hope you will check it out, and maybe I’ll see you there.
(I’m also offering a second course WORLDBUILDING FOR WRITERS)
You know me and my taste in movies. I love quirky, funny, action movies. (It’s why I’m rooting for Everything Everywhere All at Once for the Best Picture Oscar—and why I bought my own copy of the movie!) Nic Cage’s Renfield is on my “must watch” list, but so is Cocaine Bear, which releases THIS MONTH on the 24th! I love the title—it’s like Snakes on a Plane (another fave of mine). It tells you exactly what you’re in for.
Have fun watching the trailer. It hurts to see Ray Liotta, but what a movie to end his career with. Epic! Enjoy! And be sure to check out the numerous contests still open on this blog, some of which are ending soon!
It’s crazy to think we’re already in February. Here in Australia, we have one more month of summer and to be honest, it hasn’t been much of one. We’ve had a lot of mild, overcast days which I’m hoping is a sign of another mild winter to come.
Like our gracious host, I also enjoy reading about National days (regardless of where I live) and have featured a few on my Instagram during January. My fave so far—12th Jan, Kiss a Ginger Day. My sister is a redhead, and my nephew (not a redhead) got a big kick out of it. They were on holidays at the time, and he was quick to report that he kissed his mum for me.
Today is National Weather person’s day which I like because the FMC in my current work in progress is a weathergirl. Cassidy is a bubbly, happy-go-lucky twenty-two-year-old who has been doing the nightly weather segments for the past year.
We meet Cass in the middle of the action and rather than tell you about it, I’d love to share this little teaser:
As Cassidy Symons entered the lavish foyer of the Whitney Resort and Spa, her daily mantra rang in her head. You’ve got this. You’re a strong and confident woman.
On any other day, she was. But she was about to face her toughest challenge to date, the thought causing her insides to somersault.
She’d practically grown up in this sophisticated and open foyer, with its sweeping polished marble staircase, crisp white columns and mahogany reservations desk. The clusters of white, plush sofas and armchairs where she’d sat waiting for her father to finish work for the day. The plush teal carpet, a perfect contrast against the super shiny white marble tiles. This space had been her home away from home.
She spied her father across the hallway, invested in a conversation with Gordon and Paul Whitney. Over the years, all three men had loomed as large figures to her pre-teen self and now, while she wasn’t exactly tall, she no longer needed to crane her neck for eye contact.
Her father had summoned her here and she knew why. She had her arguments at the ready. There was no way she’d accept the proposal that was about to be put to her.
The three men turned their attention to her and her footsteps slowed as hesitation swelled, engulfing her with one swift bite. She… she couldn’t do it. She’d let them talk her into the absurd arrangement and her happy-go-lucky, spirited persona would be no more. She’d be pulled into a world of duty and propriety. Panic took its hold.
With a desperate breath, her gaze stalled on a guy about her age and height standing in front of the staircase, camera in his hand as he perused the screen.
‘There you are, honey!’ The words tore from her mouth as cute, hazel eyes met hers. Well aware the three men were watching; she pressed her lips against the cute guy’s mouth and kissed him with passion worthy of a role on Home and Away.
#
Zane Browne fell into the kiss with ease. If a woman wanted to kiss him like that, who was he to argue? With closed eyes, his other senses gained control. Her lips were lively, friendly. She tasted like strawberries and smelled like pears, the fruity combination nourishing his insides. Giggles corrupted the moment and he knew they belonged to the three young girls he’d just finished photographing as part of a family portrait package.
When those soft and vigorous lips left his, his eyes opened to the most beautiful, baby blues he was sure he’d ever seen. They were his weakness but right now, hers were wild bordering on frantic. There was definite panic within their gorgeous hue. Was she trying to avoid someone?
‘Please help me,’ came the whispered plea.
‘Okay.’ He let his gaze widen, taking in her tight mouth and brunette coloured hair that stopped just above her shoulders and was full of soft curls. And had her shoulders just dropped with relief at his acceptance? He took in the red sundress with white polka dots as a thought crossed his mind. The woman looked familiar but that lip smacking moment had him unable to put a name to her face.
‘Follow my…’
‘Sweetheart.’
He and Miss Sweet Lips turned in unison and he locked eyes with an older guy in a seriously expensive looking suit.
‘Hello, Dad.’
He’d never kissed a woman in front of her father before, so this was getting interesting. When her fingers touched his bicep, curiosity and the temptation of an adventure had him by the balls.
That excerpt was from The Freelancer, Book 3 of 5 Shades of Brothers Browne series. This fake relationship, contemporary romance will be due for release later this year, but in the meantime, books 1 and 2 in the series are available through Amazon and KU – Buy both for $2.35
And if you have a thing for Tradies, be sure to check out Mister Tradie, an Instalove vs. slow burn, steamy novella for 99 cents on Amazon and KU
About Deb Robinson
Deb’s just a humble little writer who loves what she does. She lives with her lovely husband in their little haven in Melbourne, Australia. She loves all things romance and believes it takes many forms. Her current catalogue consists of hot, contemporary romance under two series: 5 Shades of Brothers Browne and A Sexy Tradie Novella.
She very recently joined TikTok and you can follow her @debrobinsonbooks Follow Deb Robinson on her official Facebook page Follow on Twitter @DRobinsonbooks Follow on Instagram @debrobinsonbooks
