Shannon J. Effinger

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soweto blues…

By ShannonJEffingerMarch 27, 2019in blog0

It’s hard to imagine that my writing career started from the “little blog that could.”

Picture it (in my Sophia Petrillo voice): It was the summer of 2008. I was armed with an MFA from Sarah Lawrence and a “runners high” from writing like mad for two years straight. But somehow, I found myself stuck again with the thought, “How the hell am I going to put this degree to good use?” Then it came to me: I’ll just work part-time so I can have more time to write. But then, the recession hit, so part-time quickly transitioned into a full-time gig, working as an office manager at a Midtown hedge fund. It paid my mounting bills, rent and also supported my ex-boyfriend/aspiring trumpeter (eye roll) for five (of the seven+) years we were together. Much like sex at that time, writing was all but a faded memory.

Can’t quite pinpoint the single moment that made me decide to give professional music, let alone jazz writing a shot. But it’s been my experience that a circumstance in one’s life can only change with focused action. I was just tired of complaining about never having time to write or to work out. And if I continued to just binge-watch “SNAPPED” on the weekends, I could very likely be writing this from a prison cell right now, for killing my deadbeat boyfriend. (SIDE NOTE: Remember that one episode when the woman DISSOLVED her man in a barrel full of acid? Sick as hell, yes, but you got to applaud her ingenuity. That’s like some next-level MacGyver shit, right?)

Fast forward, now just a little over ten years later, I’m a full-time, working writer. My pen has taken me to four continents, allowed me to meet and interview my all-time heroes, and write about the thing that’s in my blood: music. But it’s time for something else. I don’t know what that “something” looks like just yet, but check out my blog as I travel and, perhaps overshare while in South Africa.

The picture above, by the way, was taken during my fourth safari adventure at Kwa Maritane Bush Lodge in Pilanesberg National Park.


Tune into JazzLife w/ Shannon – Sunday afternoons on Bondfire Radio!

By ShannonJEffingerOctober 5, 2015in blog0


…they can never EVER rock like Nina Simone!


My review of WHAT HAPPENED, MISS SIMONE? just published in last week’s issue of Downbeat magazine. Check it out here:

Nina Simone Documentary Paints Captivating Portrait

This is is exactly how my writing career began: blogging! Nearly seven years ago, in 2008, I sat in my awful apartment in Crown Heights, with my then horrible boyfriend and thought, “There has to be more to life than this!” And seven years later, I’m the better for making that first step towards independence and artistic freedom.

When Eunice Waymon adopted the stage name “Nina Simone,” she also took the necessary first steps towards her own freedom, in a backdrop of abject racism and discrimination. I was drawn to her beauty, first and foremost, because she looked so much like my own mom.

As a child, I never understood why my mom could never in her adult life say that she was a beautiful woman. Her self-hatred was so strong that she married my East Indian Trinidadian father, perhaps as a way of sparing us from the pain she endured, as a child of the South. I would sit and stare at her for hours, performing her nightly beauty regimen of Vaseline and Ponds cold cream. As she rubbed both vigorously into her face, I wondered if she, at times, wished that the blackness would come off along with her makeup.

When Nina, the feature biopic on Simone’s life, was first announced, like most diehard fans, I was elated. Then casting began and suddenly, Zoe Saldana was tapped for the lead role. Seriously, I just thought that it was a joke and so I laughed it off. But not long after the “joke,” pictures began to surface of Saldana, dressed in blackface, prosthetic features and African garb. All I could do is wail.

Saldana, a Dominican actress who resembles me and other mixed race daughters, was made to look like some type of freak sideshow caricature. That “person” that she had become was certainly not Nina Simone, nor was it any real representation of the beautiful dark women who I come from and have known and loved all of my life.

When I saw those awful pictures surface, my mom’s pain and self-hatred became palpable for me again and though I’ll never agree with it, for the first time, I could understand why uttering the words “I am beautiful” was just so difficult for her.

So for my mom, for Nina Simone and for black women everywhere who do not claim their God given beauty, I will say it loud for myself and for every sistah on Earth: