When I was little, I did every single thing my mother told me to do. Okay, maybe not EVERYTHING she told me to, but I was known amongst the family as the child who had the most sense: I tried to talk brothers, cousins and friends out of every wrong thing they wanted to do and may (or may not) have participated in the relaying of information to an adult when I saw just cause. The jury will remain out on that one, though. The point is, I was the definition of a goody-two shoes who never knew she was living in subsidized housing, never pitied herself for not having a father in her household, and never wanted for anything when it came down to the bare essentials of survival. It was only when I would watch movies that I realized just how uncommon my life was compared to these moviemakers. Films like Clueless and Little Giants held my attention fiercely and I watched them as often as cable networks would allow me to. Still, I knew something was off because I definitely wasn’t into football to the point where I wanted to be Icebox – though she was pretty bad ass – and from the looks of my tiny three-bedroom apartment in Richmond, VA that I shared with my two brothers, mother and whichever relative that needed “guidance” or a place to hide I knew that the chances of me having a closet like Cher Horowitz’s were slim to none. I liken most of my initial film choices to my affinity for MTV in its prime: I got what I fantasized about through fluffy movies and the predominately rock music channel, but I was fed my reality through black films and hip-hop music.