The Wild Tangent August 4, 2009

So, I broke down and watched The Hot Mess of Hotlan Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I wanted fights and beat-downs and shenanigans.  The show is what it is, so of course there was some ghetto in it, but I wanted fireworks.  I was slightly disappointed…until the last eight minutes!  Nectar from the hood gods.  There’s a ghetto heaven and it has a candy lady and somebody’s cousin braiding hair on the porch.

This morning, while chatting with my boss about the most talked about five minutes of last night’s episode (Sheree’s run in with the party planner for those who don’t know), he said, “I wonder how much of that is staged?”  Now, in all fairness, I consider 90% of reality TV staged, and that’s being generous.  Part of the reason I avoid most of it is simple:  Reality TV distorts reality.  Unfortunately, even if that scene was 100% scripted, we also know that it is 150% plausible.

Black people, show of hands, how many times have you had an incredibly similar experience.  How many times have you had an unnecessarily combative encounter with a black person in a supposedly professional setting. At a time where we argue whether or not we are in a post-racial society, nothing speaks more to the progress that still needs to be made more than black folks dealing with other black folks.

Over a year ago, my most esteemed colleague blogged about the challenges faced by his own wife in her professional environment, and all I could do was nod my head, sip my coffee and give the Sista Girl “Mmmm Hmmm.”  I’m going to say something that is hard for some of you to hear.  As a black woman in a professional environment, I am subject to harassment for no reason other than the fact that I am a black woman in a professional environment.  I believe that it is hard for some of you to hear, because it’s hard for ME to type it.  And this harasssment is almost invariably at the hands of the men I consider brothers.

Basing it on personal experience alone, there is a certain type of brother (NOT ALL) that will get in “just us black folks” mode, and make you wish you didn’t know them.  There was an occasion where my boss (white) and I were having a conversation with a coworker who is a black man (we’ll call him “Grumbles”).  While my boss was there, he was pleasant and charming and pronounced all of his “eeeee’s and arrah’s.” The tone was pleasant, amiable, and had all of that “we should be working but to hell with it” camaraderie that you need from time to time to break up the work day.

My boss went into her office and the brother hung around.  He got glassy eyed and talked about how attractive and nice she is (both facts) and how he would love to take her out to dinner, get to know her outside of the work environment, etc.   I told him that if he thought she would be responsive, he should ask her.  He then asked if that’s how it works with me, and I told him yes, if I’m interested in a guy, then I would want him to ask me out.  He then got this lecherous look on his face and said, “So what if I asked you what color panties you had on?”  He got the gas face, and I busied myself with work.  Undeterred, he said that I should make it a point to visit his place.

Now, I enjoy a cordial relationship with almost all of my coworkers, but I had long since dismissed this dude as lame.  I’m not a fan of workplace dating in general, and this cat was definitely did not inspire the desire to break that rule.  My boss gets crab cakes and stimulating conversation.  I get “what that thang smell like,” and a booty call coupon.  Pass.

I believe I would have taken it personally if he did not have a reputation of mishandling all of the sisters in our office.  I’ve even witnessed a certain degree of familiarity with a sister who actually ranks higher than my bosss, that he would never have expressed to one of her white counterparts.

Don’t get it twisted and think it’s an “us v. them” mentality when it comes to white women.  My boss had NOTHING to do with his inappropriate behavior.  I understand that black men feel that when around black women, they do not have to be “on alert” and to an extent, that’s fine.  But for those that cross the line into disrespect, there’s another issue entirely.

And why don’t we tell?  Guys make the rules, so you can’t believe that the proces of subverting the “boys will be boys” mentality will be made easy.  We face the typical stigma faced by all marginalized people (in this case, women) who speak out against ill-treatment.  But as black women, as we have made strides professionally, so has the notion of “The Angry Sista.”  So we have the additional potential of being charged with keeping a brother down or suffering from the “crabs-in-a-barrel” mentality.

So my question is, how can expect for others to respect us, to not profile us, to not aarrest us in our homes, if we can’t be respectful amongst ourselves.  I’m not going to address all of the issues, because we know it goes both ways, but we’ll start here:  Talk to a sister in the work force that you respect; your mother, your sister, a church member.  You’ll be surprised to find that she more likely than not contends with a similar situtaion.  So for the brothers who respect their sisters, thank you from the bottom of my heart.  For the ones of you that are caught up trying to prove something by being knuckleheads:

THE BLACK WOMEN AT YOUR JOB ARE NOT YOUR CONCUBINES!

Thank you.

*drops the mic*

He hate me July 28, 2009

His reputation preceded him, as is often the case with big personalities.  I didn’t really get to know him until I was about seven.  Memory isn’t my strong point, but I’m pretty sure we met on a Friday.  Lots of poignant events in my life had a way of happening on Fridays, so we’ll stick with that for now.  I liked him right off the bat.  Everybody did.  Sometimes, even with the very young, you know when they have “it.”  That thing which makes people take notice.  My mom thought my infatuation was so cute.  My dad, so him as trouble, so he was not nearly as amused.  He tried to steer me away, but I was smitten, so it was too late.

I just wanted to be around him and hear his voice, even then.  I would drop everything to listen to him.  He wanted to be my man, and had told me as much.  I let him be just that.  My young fantasies always involved him.  My first slow dance was with him.  He needed love.  My love.  Who was I to say no?  There were other crushes, but he was my constant love.

After years of being tight, out of the clear blue, he called me a bitch.  It stunned me.  Have you ever had your mother unexpectedly smack the hell out of you, and all you can do is give that hard blink?  Saying it was hurtful enough, but everybody heard him.  In my embarrassment, and my inability to process it, I explained it away.  My dad gave me the knowing, “I told you so,” lecture.  My mother suggested that I leave him alone.

He made an effort to make up for it, so I gave him another chance.  I was his sister; his queen.  We would go on for hours about building, not only ourselves, but all black people.  We could talk about Malcolm an dHaile and the beauty of our black origins.  He said I was his beginning and his end.  His words made me move as he spoke to my needs.  He knew me.  We grew together.  As we grew, his intentions became more explicit.  I remember the day my father found the words he’d penned for me and angrily threw them in my face.  He could never understand our thing.

Young love, however, eventually grows restless.  Rather than fight a losing battle, I set him free to be the person he felt he needed to be.  Of course we kept in contact, and I didn’t always agree with the things he said, or the manner in which he said them, but I understood why he was so damned angry.  Though I set him free, others were more selfish.  They stifled and took from him.  Any efforts he made to grow were met with disdain, disinterest, and derision.  I stayed in his corner, because that was all I knew to do as far as he was concerned.  I felt partially responsible, because it all started with him trying to give me a voice when I lacked words.  He was my champion.  The guilt that came with abandoning him was unbearable.

Anger with what the world was throwing at him caused him to lash out at me again.  He was much more vitriolic.  I was never enough of anything.  Not pretty enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my lips weren’t thin enough.  So he would parade his new girls that met his qualifications.  There were certainly enough of them.  It was as though he could not miss an opportunity to showcase his disrespect.

The girl he loved since pigtails was replaced by strippers and porn stars, and one at a time was never enough.  He needed all of them, and so many were willing.  They loved him for the same reason I loved him.  For that shine he had within.  We retained contact when I became a mother, but it was always so strained.  How could I let my kids in his company?  I couldn’t.  Not often.

Despite the hurt, I still would light up when he called.  You do that with old loves.  You don’t forget who they were.  Especially when who they were was so sweet and good.  When consider someone mine, it’s hard for me to see things any other way, even when the writing is on the wall.  Sadly, the dashing figure in the shiny suits and the dark shades morphed from the person I know, to the person I knew.  True to form, even now he puts up bravado, but I know him too well to not recognize that he is lost, and unable to figure out where he’s going.  The way he treats women, whom he once regarded as his sisters, is nothing short of disgusting.  And since they know who he used to be, they think there’s still a chance.

And even after all this time, he reminds me that he used to be an excited youngster who could render me paralyzed with amazement.  I’m talking about someone who was beautiful, who was bold, who was black.

“Cuz who I’m talkin bout y’all is hip-hop.” (c) Common

And I STILL love him.

But he hate me.

A little levity July 27, 2009

I saw my mouth in the dentist’s camera, and it looked like 25 years of getback.  I wondered how long I was running around looking like Austin Powers.

For some reason, Lane Bryant makes their undies extra huge.  I don’t wear panties that don’t fit.  At all.  Ever.  But for some reason, and this is ONLY specific to undies from the big girl shop, my draws from them always look like car covers.  WTF?

I took myself on a date last Friday, and I didn’t put out.  There’s something sad there.  Once I said, “Bitch, so you know how much I paid for those mussels,” I decided the tone had just become too hostile, so I went to bed.

I think I like to drive places because that means I don’t have to hold in my farts.

Strategic boob crack sweat is sexy.  Like, say I’m on a lunch date in the heat of summer accompanied by some fine ass man with whom I share unbelievable sexual tension.  Then, boob crack sweat is like the straw that broke the horny camel’s back.  I have a male friend who once referred to it as a “compass.”  Unfortunately, strategy is not my strong point.  No.  I always seem to get it in my boss’ office.  Who happens to be male.  And likes the peen.  Nothing sexy about that.

After seeing “The Hangover,” I’m really hoping there was some CGI work done on that Asian guy’s penis.  Because, really?  External clitoris.

It’s hard for me to find a situation that good Chris Rock or Dave Chappelle quote wouldn’t enhance.

The remakes are killing me.  Tron?  Fucking Tron? Some shit really shouldn’t be touched.  Have the geeks taken to the streets and begun setting themselves on fire yet?

If you have not yet done so, PLEASE go to YouTube and look up Meth & Red’s response to the Nas/Kelis child support fiasco.  And after you do that, before you “weigh in” (because niggas love to weigh in on shit that doesn’t concern them in the least), go to vladtv.com and take a look at Star and Buc Wild’s response.

I’m sure there’s other stuff on my mind, but it’s almost 11.

Smooches

“Apparently the police have been beating up negroes like hotcakes” (c) Dave Chappelle January 14, 2009

Oscar Grant

Adolph Grimes, III

Robert Tolan

When being the “lucky” one means you got shot in the chest and lived, an overhaul is in order.  (For driving a stolen car…which was his…so…it wasn’t stolen…um, what?)  So, how many have to take a bullet before we get angry?  I mean REALLY angry?  Having videotaped evidence of an officer executing a black man as he is on the ground with “the man’s foot in his neck” (literally), is evidently not enough.  Knowledge that if there is a back to aim at, NOPD is shooting it, is evidently not enough.  (There were instances in the aftermath of Katrina where officers were so threatened that they shot people in the back.  It was said that if anyone was shot, it was done, “at a time of extreme stress, when the city was under martial law.”  What the hell are you trained and paid for?  Unless you are family, when I call the cops, I’m not calling them to come to a barbecue.  I’m calling because the caca has hit the proverbial fan.  “Stress,” is not a defense.)

People, this kumbaya, racial equality thing that we desperately want to believe in just ISN’T factual.  I don’t want to hear about the strides that have been made when a black man can get shot in the back, have it filmed,  and it takes almost two weeks for an arrest to be made.

We are at a pivotal point in history, and I understand the excitement.  However, black people, the inauguration is not the Bayou Classic, Essence and Howard’s homecoming all rolled into one.  There are a LOT of things that need to be addressed before we pop the champagne and celebrate.

Do you really think this devaluing of black life stops with the police?  You don’t think there are non-black people who look at this and say, “Well, it took this long, he HAD to have done SOMETHING!”  And before you get it twisted, don’t believe this line of thinking stops at non-black people.  Do you think that there are not other black people with sick hearts and minds that won’t look at actions like this, and see it as carte blanche to do what they will with another black life?  Like say, kill their own son (read: BABY) and blame it on mystery black men?  (This is a WHOLE other topic!)  Do you realize how heavy that is?

And for those who read this and say, “Why does it have to be a black thing?”  Maybe YOU can tell ME, why does it have to be a black thing?  Why is it when you talk about an unarmed person taking multiple bullets by the police, the face is almost invariably black?  Why is that when Don Imus said “nappy headed hos,” black people (yeah, US) could talk about nothing else until Imus’ head was on a platter, and right now, we can’t talk about nothing but a party?  (And let me tell you, a whole lot of black folks were far more offended by “nappy” than “ho.”  Nappy is the new “n” word?  Hmmm.)  Where’s Al now?  Jesse?  Can they move on some REAL issues?  If they’re at a loss, I’ve got a laundry list.  We can start from public education and work our way down.

Some people really need to stop being afraid of revolution.

“Because revolution is nothing but change.” (c) The Last Poets.

That’s SOOOOO fucking gay! January 7, 2009

Yeah.  That’s right.  I said it.  I don’t give a hot buttered fuck if you don’t like it, Wanda Sykes.

Language is not a static entity.  It’s always changing.  Always evolving.  Words are always created and/or taking on new meanings.  Remember when gay used to simply mean being happy?  So what…now you’ve got it, and we can’t have it back?  FUCK THAT!  That’s gay.  Gay gay gay gay gay gay gay!  You decided you don’t like homosexual anymore?  Fine.  Whatever.  But you don’t have the monopoly on changing words.

I understand the principle behind the PSAs that are going around, but I promise you, I won’t be gay (happy) when I beat your gay (homosexual) ass down for saying something is “So Melanie (stupid).”  I will probably be arrested for fucking that person up.  (I’m fairly certain someone did say something similar to that in a blog commenting section because I called a manly looking chick a pre-op tranny.  However, I didn’t address it because I don’t do cyber beef.  Keyboard titans really don’t concern me for so many reasons.)  Please note however, that this will not be gay (homosexual) bashing.  This is me being a person that fucked somebody up for coming up with this gay (irksome) shit and then trying to play with my emotions.

Okay, I’m being somewhat tongue in cheek.  Every individual has something that offends them, that may not offend the next person.  Every culture is different.  We get caught up in this “we’re all the same” mentality, and it’s really just not true.  Now, do I believe that we should be sensitive to our environments?  Certainly!  I’m not going to chow on hamburgers in India.  I’m not going to bust up in a kosher restaurant and order a pork chop.  I’m not going to wear a halter top when visiting my Muslim friends.  And no, I’m probably not going to necessarily say “That’s so gay” in the company of some of my gay friends.  (Though there are some in which I will say that, another story entirely.)  But, at the end of the day, you can’t legislate that everything I do makes one set of people happy, comfortable, etc.  at all times.  It’s unreasonable.  And to be honest, just a little silly.

Just my thoughts.

I love him cuz he cleans his home December 29, 2008

So, Neyo n’nem have that catchy little song about how they want their woman to be independent and such.  She has her own thing, her own money, her blah blah blah.  Here’s my question to that:  Muthafucka, is your tub clean?  How often do you clean your refrigerator?  Is there FOOD in your refrigerator?  Real talk.

I know a lot of guys that speak this independent jargon, and their apartment looks like Beirut.  Okay, I’m making my own money, can you hook up an edible gumbo?  Do you refrain from wearing the same pair of socks two days in a row? Do you wash your baseboards?

Check it fam, I’ve got this independent thing down, and as an independent woman, I am not trying to be your mama.  I want YOU to be up on the good fabric softener and know how to make gravy from scratch.  Yeah…that’s right.  There are a whole lot of yall still going to mama for your laundry.  Hell, a lot of yall are still going to mama for your laundry because YOU LIVE THERE.  I just want the playing field to be leveled.  It’s no problem for me to have my own thing.  Do you have a complete set of pots?

Okay…these are just jokes.  It’s not the 50s, and women are making their own money.  But still…what you got on my jambalaya homie?

Say what now? December 21, 2008

This morning, I checked my Yahoo mail account (I usually just check this once or twice a week).  The home page has a bunch of little articles (I’m sure you’re familiar, but I’m just feeling chatty), and the one that caught my eye was “4 Questions to Never Ask Your Guy”.  It goes without saying that I had a field day with what those four questions could be, but I wanted to see how things play out in date land.  My first thought was, “Who are these women that ask these questions?!”  Then I thought, “This is in desperate need of my commentary!”  So, here goes:

1. “Am I better-looking/smarter/etc. than your ex?”

Who gives a steaming pile of caca?  You are clearly SOMEHOW different from his ex, otherwise, you would be his ex too.  Unless, of course, his ex held a propensity for asking stupid ass questions, NOW you’re going to be his ex too.  There are certain things about a man’s past that are crucial to know.  “Are you wanted by the law?”  “Have you been tested for ‘the bonus’?”  “How many times have you been married?”  Shit like that is crucial because these things can feasibly affect your feature together.  But you’ve got issues if you think he cares that the woman who set his shit on fire had bigger boobs than you.  And if you ask a dude that THIS CHICK used to rock with, if I was smarter than you, then the answer is yes, because I’m smart enough to know that inane shit like that doesn’t matter.

2. “Do you love me?”

What?  Okay, different people have different views about dropping the “L” word.  Some people feel the guy should say it first.  Some believe you should say it when you feel it, blah blah blah.  I won’t get into all that.  But I will tell you how a LOT of dudes let you know that they love you:  they SAY it.  If a guy hasn’t said it, it means that either he’s not sure, or he doesn’t feel it enough to take it there.  Bottom line, dude isn’t ready.  Do you like being backed into a corner for shit you ain’t ready for?  Didn’t think so.

3. “Can you lend me some money?”

Again, who are these people?  They spoke of substantial shit like down payments on cars and shit like that.  (if you can’t afford the down payment, how are you going to pay the note?  Moreso, how are you going to pay the note AND repay your loan?)  I’m not saying that The Kid has never received money from a dude.  However, I WORK, and I take great pride in not being the “handout ho.”  Get it together.  If your shit is so shaky that you can’t pay your own rent, then you need to take that time you’re spending dating and get a second gig.

4. “Are you cheating on me?”

My damie, my damie.  More times than not, people (read:  women) ask this question because there are other issues in the relationship.  I’ve never quite understood the need to assault the extraneous issues, and ignore the thing that’s right there.  If your issue with your man is that you’re not spending enough time, or he’s always working late or whatever, deal with THAT. Maybe he’s at work because he has to raise the money for your stupid down payment on your car?  Or maybe, he just doesn’t think like that.  Yes, lots of dudes cheat, but not ALL dudes.  When that’s the first place you go every time things don’t go right, you’ve probably got some healing to do before you embark upon another relationship.

Now, you may ask yourself, “Why listen to this chick who can’t get a relationsihp to last longer than that show ‘Cop Rock’?”  To you I can only say, don’t listen then.  But keep in mind, I kind of happened to deal with the experts, so you could lend credence to that.  Also, if you subscribe to the theory that even a broken clock is right twice a day, then you should at least give credence to two of my opinions.

Youth, wonderful youth December 11, 2008

The universe found it fitting to entrust me with living things.  Namely, my children.  The thing about children is that they’re always learning stuff, and they always have questions about stuff.  Periodically, they hit me with some stuff that I’m just not ready for.  “Why do people smoke crack?”  “What are pubes?”  “What does masturbate mean?”  These are all questions that I’ve had to field, seemingly out the blue.

I must say, my skills are pretty sharp, and any question they’re big enough to ask, I’m big enough to answer.  This comes from me being six, asking my pops where babies come from, he runs down the whole “Well, the dad has the sperm and the mom has the egg” jazz.  Yeah, I get all that, but I’m also knowing that we’re talking about two separate individuals, so how does YOUR shit get to HER shit?  He never answered me.  I finally got pissed and gave the six year old equivalent of “This is some bullshit!”  (Had this taken place when I was seven, I quite probably would have said “This is some bullshit!” as by then, I was a fluent cusser.)  My folks were dropping kids like first period calculus.  I needed to know what the hell was going on.

So, as I said, I like to answer my kids’ questions.  I do it in a manner appropriate for their age, and I try to keep it as simple as possible.  Despite this, I found myself unprepared for Monday night’s shenanigans.

The kids and I are watching wrestling.  Of course, it’s all contrived, so they’ve got the excessive drama for show.  A guy’s arm is pinned behind his head, but he had an obviously free hand, which annoyed my son.  Greatly.  His annoyance was so great, in fact, that he shouted out, “USE YOUR FREE HAND DILDO!”

Melanie = dead.

Now, he had obviously learned this new word, that he thought was REALLY cool.  The look on his face told me that every moment of his life had been lived so that he could experience this!  This greatness.  The utterance of “dildo.”

I look at my kid (thankfully, his sister was not around) with the strength of the ancestors keeping me from totally losing my shit and laughing all over the room, and I calmly ask, “Dude…where did you hear that word?”

“At school.”

“Wha?  At WHAT?”

“Yeah.  Everybody says it.”  (Really?  Everybody says it?  Everybody?  “Class, I’m returning your spelling test.  Study harder next time dildoes?”)  “You know, it’s like when someone is being dumb.”

“Dude.  No.  That’s not what it is.  And, it’s actually not an appropriate word for you to be throwing around?”

“Okay.  But why?”

“Well.” *long pause*  “It’s an adult thing.”

“What?  Mom, you’re confusing me.  What is a dildo.”

YES ladies and gentlemen!  This is the moment EVERY mother waits for.  To have to explain to her kid the delightful world of adult toys and, uh, marital aids.

This one is a doozy?  I don’t even know where to start.  “Well son, when a woman and a woman really care about one another…”  Yeah.  No.  So, I try to give him warning that I’m gonna drop something heavy on him.

“Well, I mean, I can tell you, but are you SURE you want to know.”

“Yes.”  I guess if someone did all that hemming and hawing, I would have to know too.  But then it dawned on me, “Stupid, you don’t have to give him a tutorial on how to use it.  Stop being a punk and tell him what it is.”

“Okay.  Yeah.  It’s, um, a fake penis.”

And the look on my kid’s face as he tried to figure out why in the fuck someone would want a fake penis.  Well, that just made the 15 hours of labor followed by a C-section ALL worthwhile.

There comes a time… December 5, 2008

…when you think, “It would have been easier if I would have just slapped that ho.”

…when the only support you’re getting is from your bra.  And one of the straps broke.

…when you realize that passing the blame isn’t all bad.  That time usually comes when you fart in a crowd.

…when recognize even those you love the most are deeply flawed.

…when you recognized that you’re pretty raggedy too.

…when you realize that the previous two aren’t to be forgiven or endured, but to be embraced as part of a real life.

…when a you (man AND woman) realize that a lot of your relationship problems stem from wanting your mate to “act right.”

…when you ignore the fact that you don’t act right your damn self.

…when you turn into your parents and you couldn’t be feel more proud.

…when you realize that love comes in many forms, and if you’re merely limiting it to a ring box, you’ve missed the entire point.

…when you learn that inappropriate humor is often the funniest.

…when you think the dimples in your butt give it character.

…when you would still buy cellulite cream regardless.  Leave the characters for cartoons.

…when you realize that true wisdom lies in admitting what you don’t know.

…when you realize that the time you wasted worrying about the opinions of others is time you wasted.  Period.

…when your child does the same crap you did, and you want to give your parents a rhodium trophy for not yanking a knot out of your ass on an hourly basis.

…when you realize that you DON’T have haters.  Not real ones.  You ain’t Jigga.  You are a bookkeeping clerk.  Somebody poured honey in your calculator?  Then you’re cool.  Chill out.

The Seer November 20, 2008

“Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.”

You may remember this from a month ago.  It seems that all we have feared has come to pass. Please not that I do not create the rules, I merely recite what I know to be true.  I’m scared.