Waiting to Exhale Made Him Misty But the Daddy Didn't Cry

Listen up. The daddy wants to ask you something. Have you ever been awaken late a night to the sound of a woman screaming? The daddy was; and he said to himself:

“Okay, daddy, a woman may be getting assaulted just outside your front door! You talk about being a man. Be one!

"Be a good citizen!

Do your duty! Help a woman in distress!

"Quick! Get dressed!

"Quick! Get out there...and take your piece!”

Hold up! Hold up, citizen. It hit the daddy. The phony scream and the damn cable tv brought him back to reality, helped him to figure it out. The daddy went to bed with the tv on, rolled over onto the remote and woke up to a sorry porno flick.

The daddy watched a woman having sex with two men for a minute. Okay, maybe two or three minutes. And he came immediately to one inescapable conclusion: These were the worse actors he had ever seen. Even old Ronald B-grade-movie Reagan or a drugged up Brittany Spears could do better than this. Maybe this is why they were in porno movies.

Now, the daddy hates bad acting, porno or no porno. The only possible exception of course are bad actors who firebomb buildings, chase bad guys through dark, dangerous streets at breakneck speed, mow them down in the middle of the street with a trusty AK 47, then trap the thug leader in an alley and face off against him one on one, rearranging his nose and sexual organs via the route of some serious ass-kicking, karate style.

Ha!

Ha! Ha! Ha!

My Boy Wesley!

So the daddy punched the remote just once and there he was, Wesley Snipes, one of the baaadest ass-kickers of all times. But what’s this? Instead of chasing a bad guy down an alley, he’s sitting in a hotel, talking to a woman, his voice barely carrying over elevator music worse than the phony jazz of Kenny G.

What’s this? Instead of standing up to a bad guy on a dark street in the hood (probably called Martin Luther King Drive or Avenue. When thugs want to dance, they don’t let no preacher stop them, even if he got the Nobel Prize!), Wesley is sitting close to a lady at this hotel bar. And no karate kicks or nothing. He’s not even talking; he’s listening!

(Note:: Listen to a woman without undressing her with your eyes. Hmmn. Could be a lesson for the daddy).

But a brotha knew that Wesley would soon spring into action, that some eye-roving, woman-leering, drug dealing thug was going to come up and touch Angela (She so fine-Lawd, have mercy!) Bassett and Wesley would mop the floor with him and his two sidekicks, sweep a fainting Angela (She so fine-a little mercy, if you please!) Bassett off her feet, take her to his hotel room, do The NASTY and some serious screaming for real!

But what’s this? Instead of rearranging the nose of a drug dealer, Wesley is talking, ratting on hisself, confessing that he’s married to a white woman, that he loves her, that she’s dying but that he intends to see the situation through (I never heard a brotha give a pick-up line like this). And she didn’t throw a drink in his face, curse him out, call him a traitor to his race or anything!

(Note: Be open and honest with a woman. Hmmn. Could be a lesson for the daddy).

The Scene That Did It

But this is the scene that kind of got to the daddy. See, It’s about a year later, Angela (She so fine-Lawd, I’m on bended knees!) Bassett is divorced from her husband, and she’s back home spending a little quality time with her beautiful daughter. Then, while her daughter is checking out

mommy's makeup in the bathroom, Angela (She so fine-Lawd, I’m getting dizzy!) Bassett reads the letter from Wesley. He says he's still watching his wife die day by day, that he still loves his wife, that he’s still going to see it through, but that he'll never forget that night-- that night when they met in the bar, forgot about ass-kicking and spent time with each other. And You can see from the water in her eyes that she agreed with him...a brotha gotta say that this scene brought a little water to the daddy's eyes...made him... a little misty...He had to step back and remember that he was an ass-kicker himself back in the day, that he held his own between the ropes boxing at the neighborhood vet club, that he dunked a few times in a high school basketball game, that he was a young terror catching balls and scoring touchdowns on the football field (Sigh). The daddy had to check hisself.

(Note: A woman loves it when a man is loyal to a relationship. Hmmn. Could be a lesson for the daddy).

Okay, the movie was alright. The writing was good, with no phony ending or predictable solutions but more like life itself: incomplete. You learn from mistakes and try to do better in the next relationship.

Okay, the acting was good by all, even by those who weren’t the big stars. Okay, the directing by Forrest Whittaker was alright. But that was expected because, when it comes to movies or the theater, that brotha can do anything. And, okay, the daddy learned that ole Wesley can do more than kick ass. He can do some serious acting and maybe dispense a lesson or two.

But don’t go badmouthing the daddy, saying he had to use a bunch of Kleenex, because he got weak-kneed and started boo-hooing over some chick flick. A little bit of water welled into his eyes is all.

The daddy is a man.