Happy holidays everyone! Welcome to Issue #7 of THE GAME weekly newsletter! 

With the holiday season officially upon us, it is both a time to think about presents, including all kinds of games, yes; but also a time for reflection, who we are, where we’ve been, where we want to go. And how we do so. 

Evangeline Lawson does that with our tip-off piece, entitled “The Hair Game,” about the personal struggles of Black women to be their natural selves in spaces that often de-value who they are. Maritri Garrett flips it in another direction, about the meaning and blessings of life, to not take time and the magic of breath for granted.

13-year-old Hapi Sa Shekhem wrote a short essay that brought a huge smile to my face, as a fellow big lover of sports. He not only reviews basketball’s premiere video game, but offers us some dope life lessons, too.

Likewise with Allen Callaci and Charlie Braxton, who both wax poetic about games brought to them by beloved family members when they were kids, that are with them to this very day.

And multimedia legend and pioneer Tavis Smiley is this week’s “Leaderboard” interviewee, his short answer both poignant and funny.

Please read and share this issue, please go back and digest the previous six issues, and please make sure, per all these great writers, you let someone know you care about them, that you are thinking about them. Peace and blessings….

Kevin Powell, The Game Editorial Director, is a GRAMMY-nominated poet, humanitarian, author of 16 books, filmmaker, and writer of forthcoming biography of Tupac Shakur.

In high school, I wanted hair like the R&B singer Aaliyah. Long and straight. At that age I was just starting to define my personal style and celebrities gave me an abundance of inspiration. In order to achieve that look, I got a chemical relaxer for the first time at 16-years-old. I was not desiring to align with whiteness, but to mimic the women I looked up to. Those famous to me—my Mom, aunties, older cousins—and those famous to the world. They all had straight hair.

This is what started the hair game.

Playing into what was popular and unobjectionable, regardless of what it cost me, carried on through my college and corporate lives. Pre-Fortune 500 company, I wore intricate cornrows like Alicia Keys. My older white-woman-landlord at the time had the audacity to tell me she wasn’t very fond of them. More often though, my hair was styled straight. Flat-ironed into submission.  Because it allowed me to blend in. Because it was easier to maintain. Because it was what I was told was polished and professional. Ironically, I was curious about what my natural hair would do. What did it even look like? I had been straightening it for most of my life at that point. But how would my curly hair be received?

In a recent clip from Michelle Obama’s special podcast episode, The Look, the former first lady talked about Black women being “trapped” by European beauty standards when it comes to how we style our hair. It is what led her to wearing straight hair for years, despite loving braids and natural styles, because it was socially acceptable.

It’s no coincidence that I chose to start wearing my hair completely natural once I stopped working for any organization. I no longer had to explain my choices, especially one so deeply personal. I was free from physically conforming to the expectations of anyone outside of myself.

Now, I’m the woman with the big, curly, coily, and sometimes-even-frizzy hair.

It may seem ridiculous to think that some women are still bending and flexing their appearance to fit societal norms. However, it will continue until we redefine what that standard is. Black women are still having to defend wearing their hair in its natural state. Despite the 2019 passing of the Crown Act (first in California). Despite it being 2025 and everyone having way more pressing things to be concerned about. Hair is such a sensitive topic for Black women, but it shouldn’t be. Because hair is not just an expression of personal style, it is a reflection of our cultural identity. One that is not less appropriate or beautiful just because it is big, curly, coily, and sometimes even frizzy.

Evangeline Lawson is a multi-media storyteller who loves preserving the culture through writing, photography and filmmaking. Her work can be viewed on her website: https://www.evangelinelawson.net/

Several years ago, I received a call from a dear friend that her life was at its end. She was young and vibrant but had called to share with me that the doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with her, but they knew the signs of a body breaking down into finality. I was stunned, humbled, saddened, and a whole bunch of other emotions. She is still here, had been misdiagnosed, and with some physical damage, but still fighting to live. I watched my brother die and come back to life so many times that I could never even imagine him actually dying until he did it. And I was so shocked when he did, as was everyone else, because he would simply take a break, coma-style, then resurrect as if nothing had happened.

I work at a hospital as a minister of music and spiritual care. I am leaning towards being a death doula and am someone who has been around death my entire life. And have always been fascinated by it. We prepare for birth but rarely for death. At least not as a joyful transition. I have been looking at different ways to celebrate and help people prepare not just the legal part of things, but the actual spiritual and physical process.

This weekend, I had the honor of singing at a funeral for a young woman who left behind a six-year-old and a very loving husband, and many family members who loved her. The love was palpable in the room. She had chosen her music, her slide show, the readings… everything. And it was as joyous a homecoming as one could have. A woman came up to me afterwards to tell me that she was hard of hearing, but when I sang she could feel it in her soul and that was what made her weep. And I felt gratitude again for this work.

As always, death is nearby. As always, life is here for those willing to live. We come here with numbered breaths, numbered heartbeats… and what do we do with them? Do we waste them or write like we are running out of time, write day and night like we’re running out of time… you can replace write with any verb you’d like. Or are we caught up in the mundane beauty of everyday life? Or somewhere in between? It’s certainly not a test, not a drill but real life flying by.     

I saw two posts this morning by two dear friends. One posting about three friends of hers. One had lost the love of her life, the next her home, and the third given a terminal diagnosis. The second, her husband had been given a diagnosis of a very aggressive form of dementia. She sent out a post letting people know to come see him and be with him because they don’t know how long he will be functioning. I recalled my dear uncle Al calling me and telling me he had gotten a diagnosis of an aggressive form of dementia and wanted to see me as often as possible because he didn’t know how long he would remember me. I obliged. And dragged my mother to Texas to see him. He lived another eight years. And I was grateful. Zero regrets. And maybe that’s always the moving goalpost.

Why am I telling you all of this? At five am the Monday before Thanksgiving? I don’t even know. Maybe this is your reminder to live. Maybe it’s your reminder to be kind because everyone is going through it. Maybe it’s your reminder and recommitment to purpose. Or just the reminder that this time of year the migration of souls both ways is real. I know this time every year there are just as many lullabies played in the hospital as code blue announcements. I know I’ll be there making music for both. Maybe it’s your gratitude reminder. Or your love reminder. To love harder, bigger, out loud, more honestly and transparently and to turn that love on yourself. Maybe it’s about forgiveness, survivor’s guilt or acknowledgement, who knows. Maybe it’s just a quiet period of reflection and a reminder not to get caught up in things that aren’t real and just live. Because it’s all just a matter of time. Time which can be beautifully spent or taken for granted. 

And look for the daily miracles. Don’t forget that a healthy body is a miracle in and of itself. To breathe is literally to live. And the number of things required for one breath isn’t small. And be in gratitude. Have a beautiful day and make this a beautiful season in any way you can. 

Maritri Garrett is multi-instrumentalist, vocalist, composer/arranger, and music minister in spiritual care at a hospital in Southern California.

My love for basketball goes deeper than comprehension, and beyond explanation. Basketball brings me joy, happiness, and comfort. When I was three-years-old, my uncle bought me a mini-basketball and a toddler-sized basketball hoop. The first time I put the ball through that hoop everything changed for me. It was more than just the satisfaction of making the basket. I was genuinely happy. That’s when I knew I wanted to play basketball for life.

When I can’t get on the court, I find joy in playing NBA 2K26, which debuted in September.  I can clear my head and still be me. 2K26 has a feature where you can build your own player: he could be a 7-foot point guard or 5’9” center—your only limit is imagination. My love for basketball stretches even further with this game. I imagine myself in the arena, with the crowd cheering me on; this motivates me to keep playing in real life. I often learn something that I can apply on the court. For me, basketball IRL and 2K26 go hand-in-hand, bringing me peace without a doubt.

NBA 2K26 is one of the most popular and creative video games. You could be LeBron James, current or in 2016… Michael Jordan in 1993… or Kobe Bryant in 2008. You can play WNBA, regular street ball, the list goes on. The best is building your own foundation. With “MYTEAM” mode, you can build a team from your own NBA draft. You could have MJ, LeBron, and Kobe all on the same team! You can design your own shoe, have sponsors, and play against other people online, which builds a sense of community. 

My favorite NBA player is Damian Lillard, so I’ve made a “MyCareer” character who plays with him. The same way he hits buzzer beaters, I can too… creating my own iconic moments, breaking records, and winning an NBA championship. NBA 2K26 is limitless, inspiring me to work hard and strive for success.

Basketball is the most reliable thing in the world. You bounce it, it comes right back up. It doesn’t complain or ask any questions. Basketball—whether on the court or in NBA 2K26— brings out the best in me.

Hapi Sa Shekhem is a 13-year-old young leader with a passion for basketball, learning new things, and being the best possible version of himself. He loves to help others as much as he can.

My mom was a single working mom who labored as a police dispatcher to support her three kids. Dinners consisted of frozen pizzas, casseroles, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and perhaps the occasional Louie-Bloo Raspberry Otter Pop for dessert.

Our frequent treks to the local Kmart in her disheveled Station Wagon were exotic “blue light special” retreats. Going to the electronics section and gazing at the Atari 2600 display was akin to walking by a bakery just to bask in the aroma of freshly cooked and cinnamon. My siblings and I were young, but old enough to know, the $200 asking price for the console made it something we knew not to bother putting on our Christmas list.

And so, we didn’t bother.

Then, on Christmas Day like Manna from Heaven, an Atari 2600 appeared beneath the artificial tree addressed to myself and my brother.

As God as our witness, we would never be bored again.

Until we were.

We became numb to the charms of the 2600 across a latchkey summer spent fighting dragons in search of magic chalices.

Our interest in Atari 2600 waned, our passion redirected to the Heavy Metal thunder of Ozzy, Judas Priest, and Iron Maiden. Pac-Man was the first cartridge we’d bought for the system in a stretch. A cartridge we immediately found to be a deflated imitation of the arcade game. We cursed ourselves for not spending our hard-earned cash on Scorpions records instead.

My non-metalhead mom had a different reaction to the game. She was instantly drawn like a proverbial moth to the 128-byte light of the yellow dot with the insatiable appetite. Her lunch breaks increasingly were spent racing home to plop herself in an aquamarine lawn chair to indulge on her new power pellet diet.

The Atari 2600 was now officially more hers than ours.

A fate that seemed destined.

Being chased by flashing ghosts trying to earn some extra life in a series of mazes that never ended, and never changed except for the degree of difficulty, was simultaneously a reflection and temporary respite from the struggles of being a single working mother of the Reagan era.

She played it well.

And she played it tirelessly.

Allen Callaci has been a contributor for BK Nation, Huffington Post and the SF Amateur. He is also the author of the memoir Heart Like a Starfish, and also the books 17 & Life, Louder Than Goodbye, and the upcoming YA Novel God, Please Save Me From My Crazy, Sicilian Grandmother.

I was born and raised in a small town called McComb, Mississippi, just 15 minutes from the Louisiana border. Growing up, I loved playing card games. Made no difference whether it's poker, bid whist, smut, or blackjack; you name it, I played it. I learned to play cards thanks to my maternal grandfather, Jack Ashley, who was, as the old folks would say, a sporting man, which meant that he was a gambler. Grandpa Jack’s game of choice was cards. According to my uncles, Grandpa Jack was pretty good at playing cards. While I wouldn’t call him a card shark, I would say he understood the fine art of playing cards better than most. 

One of the highlights of my childhood was going to my grandpa's house when he was throwing one of his card parties which, incidentally, fell on the Saturday before the first of the month. Each person would pay five dollars to come gamble, eat good food, talk smack, and listen to music provided by the family record player.

Those parties were the bomb to me. Besides the great music and good food, I got a chance to catch up with my cousins who lived in another part of the county. The front portion is where the adults would play cards and talk grown-folk talk; the back section is where we would play and discuss the latest happenings in our world. This went on until Grandpa Jack would call either me or my brother to come into the living room to perform the most important test of the evening, as far as he was concerned: pulling from the deck of cards. Sometimes we pulled one card, sometimes two or three, but rarely four. Grandpa wanted us to draw from the deck because he felt that our luck was better than his. Sometimes it was; sometimes it wasn't. Either way, he never blamed us when the wrong card was pulled; he’d simply say, "Oh well, it just wasn't in the cards for me this time.” 

The game they were playing was called Pitty Pat. Pitty Pat is almost universally known among African American households. The way you play the game is simple. Each player is dealt five cards, with the rest of the deck set aside and the top card left face up. Each player takes turns pulling from the deck until they get all of their cards to match. The object of the game is to be the first to match all five cards. The last one to do so loses.

As I grew older, I learned to play various card games: gin, bid whist, poker, smut, and blackjack. Of all the games that I learned, the one I really like is Pitty Pat. I love the game for its simplicity.  Pitty Pat is a game that is so easy to learn, and it is fun for kids as well as adults. However, the main reason why I love Pitty Pat is because it reminds me of the times I spent at my Grandfather’s house, pulling cards from the deck, hoping I’d bring him good luck.  

Charlie R. Braxton is a poet, playwright, and cultural critic from Mississippi. His latest book of verses, entitled And the Earth Cried Blood, is available on Jawara Press.