“Ain’t I a woman?” (c) Sojourner Truth September 22, 2009

While feeding my Twitter addiction, I came across this article, discussing Strong Black Woman Syndrome (“SBWS”).  In short, the author portrayed SWBS, particularly as it relates to single parents, downright detrimental to the mentality of our children, and the family structure as we know it.  On its face, it sounds very neat and tidy:  Your kids must know that having an absentee father is not cool.  They must realize this is not how things should be, and therefore, this will prevent them from perpetuating the cycle.  And to that, I have one question:  Word?

Certainly, transitioning to a man-basher following a break-up or abandonment is not a good look.  I know more than a few women that take up the “I don’t EEEEEEVEN need a man” mantle as a defense mechanism.  However, the large majority of the single mothers that I know are still actively dating, or at least waiting for the right opportunity.  Still others, when dating doesn’t work for them, still occasionally deal with the individual who rejected the cow but enjoys sampling the milk.  In the end, you’re looking at a woman with very human wants and desires on one hand, the seeming lack of options to meet those wants and desires on the other, and her world on her shoulders.  The most important part of that world is her responsibility as a parent.

At best, Ms. Seals Allers assertion is misguided, at worst, unfair.  Yes, I agree that Pops bouncing out, or acting the fool and ergo, forcing Moms Duke to bounce is by no means acceptable.  I agree that our families are in grave need of healing, guidance and counseling.  The topic of selecting a suitable and compatible partner is a discussion and/or post in its own rite.  Additionally, not all SBW are single…or mothers.  What of them?  It’s an oversimplification of a rather complex issue.

More often than not, donning the SBW cape is born of necessity rather than bravado.  I once read somewhere that the more you allow yourself to fall apart, the easier it becomes.  There is so much that you sacrifice as a single parent; I don’t see where it is helpful to anyone that dignity be among those things. Children depend on their parents to have things in control.  In a two income family, my parents went through hard times on a regular basis, yet, I didn’t realize how much so until I was an adult.  As parents, we’re the pilots; tell your passengers of every single struggle, they’re going to lose confidence in your airline.  Sure, passengers have responsibilities, but it’s our job to make the ride smooth.

There have been occasions where my kids have seen my cry or lose my cool, and it would leave them anxious and disjointed.  THEY don’t need a big world crash course because MY mate selection was poor.  When I recently had to drive to and from New Orleans on my covert ops mission, we hit a terrible rainstorm.  I was agitated, nervous and frustrated, and it was evident.  The kids had nothing to do with this, and yet, when they saw how the drive was weighing on me, THEY began to apologize for “making you come and get us.”  (Author’s note:  If you want me to wish for your slow and agonizing demise, create your own screw up and then have my kids apologize for wanting to escape your big bag of manure.)  Losing my caca in front of them to let them know that it’s not “easy?”  No thanks.

As a good parent, I share with them the importance of being responsible, choosing a spouse wisely, and forming a UNIT, rather than a temporary arrangement, with their spouse.  I stress the importance of cooperation, single parent or not, in the family unit, as well as the unnecessary difficulties that can be caused by a lack of cooperation.  They know that I budget.  We don’t go to the movies or out to dinner as much as any of us would like.  We have to wait to make purchases.  But what family doesn’t?  Just because this is not optimal, I am not going to beat my kids over the head with that fact.  I’m not going to tell my son that every study shows that he has a greater chance of going to prison than college.  I’m not going to tell my child that studies say that she’s got a greater chance of being struck by lightening than getting married.  I’d much rather spend my time buying him books on astronomy and encouraging her in her desire to be a veterinarian.

We exist in a world of participation awards and A’s for effort.  What world is this that you are criticized for displaying strength?  Yes, I want a lot of the same things women the world over want, but I can’t rock in the corner until I get those things. I don’t break down because I want them to be contenders and champions, rather than bench-warmers and by-standers. I’m determined to show them what guts, hard work and determination can yield, even when you feel like life has handed you a shit sandwich.

So, in all of that, “ain’t I a woman?”

Damn straight.

Matchless September 14, 2009

Me:  Hi Wind, meet Caution! [Hurtles Caution headlong and with all my might.]

I’ve always been the girl that allows relationships to develop organically.  There have been a few instances where chemistry was instant and I began dating a person almost off the bat, but that’s more of the exception.  I’ve always lived by the “friends first” creed.  At the end of the day, I want to like you if we’re ever broke.  I want to like you during the times where your soldier doesn’t salute.  I want to like you when your mother pisses me off.  In turn, I would like to establish a rapport that would afford me these same opportunities.

In my past, I’ve dated and even fallen in love with a few friends.  There’s a certain comfort that comes with a relationship like that, and I’m not so sure it can be duplicated with a person that you are sort of making yourself like.  I won’t say that these situations all ended on an ugly note, but there is a certain ugliness that comes with “the end.”  At that point, I gave up on dating good friends.  The “friendship zone” exists for a reason, and I’m more ready to accept that.  But now, I find myself in the foriegn position of actually having a problem getting a date.

So, somewhere around the middle of summer, I decided to join match.com.  There’s that saying, “If you do what you always done, you get what you always got.”  Keeping that in mind, I made the decision to take a proactive (I’ve always had issues with that word, because it sounds like made-up bandwagon-speak) approach to dating. You gotsta pose to be chose, right?  There couldn’t be any harm in testing the waters and seeing what’s out there.  Folks, “out there” sucks.

You ever walked into a party and as soon as you got there, you said, “This is not my scene.”  That was me on Match.  It felt like the Last Chance Highway of love – forced and jaded.   The people were either too happy to be there, too snarky, or too persistent (read: belligerent – I saw you winks.  I saw your emails.  All of them.  You’re already showing yourself to be a bugaboo and it’s only 48 hours.) The one brother who winked at me in my target range (I selected 31-42) was all sorts of the business that would catch my eye…if I lived in Akron.  Brother, what am I gonna do with you in Akron?

Everyone else was much older, multiple marriages, smacked of desperation,  unsure if they wanted children (how is this a match for me?)…you get the picture.  It got to the point where I would heave a sigh when I saw my daily “matches.”  What am I supposed to do with a 375 lb. Hawaiian man looking for his third wife?  iCan’t.  At the end of the day, I was putting myself in an environment that I wasn’t digging to, uh, meet someone that I would dig? Hmmm.  So I had to let go of the notion of finding a match — at least through Match.  I’ve had friends recommend other sites: blackpeoplemeet.com, eharmony.com, even onlinebootycall.com, but at the end, I’m still online with the specific purpose of looking for a date, and there’s something about that that just doesn’t jibe with me.   So, I guess the big question is, what now?

Nothing.  Not really.  I live near Washington, DC.  Why do I have to go online to meet BLACK PEOPLE?  I don’t want to be electronically harmonious with you.  I definitely don’t want someone to call for my booty online.* I want…hmmm…

I want a brother so smart, I have to look up the stuff he talks about.

I want a brother so steady, I can set my watch by him.

I want a brother so delicious, I lick my fingers after I’ve finished holding hands with him.

I want a brother that takes his mama to lunch and his daddy to football games.

I want a brother that enjoys my mind and gives consideration to my opinions.

I want a brother who knows how to tell me to check my mouth (because anything can be done when it’s done properly).

I want a man who finds me sexy.

I want a man who can tell me when I need to improve.

I want a brother to communicate when times are rough.

I want a brother that will see my family as his family.

I want a brother that likes, respects and appreciates the man that he is.

I want a brother with the capacity to visualize the man he will be.

I want a brother as wondrous as he is flawed.

I want a brother to think that none of the above is crazy, unreasonable or unfathomable.

That shouldn’t be too hard.

Right?

* I hear tell that Online Booty Call is attempting to morph into a legitimate dating site.  That’s all well and good, but you are the company you keep.  I’m not going to the crack house to look for a solid brother; I’m not going to OBC to look for the type of person I would be interested in dating.

“I don’t give a f*** about you or ya weak crew, whatcha gonna do when [Black Mamba] come for you?” September 13, 2009

My views of motherhood can be summed up in the statements made in the movie “Role Models.”

I am a lioness.  A black sheba.  I am a lioness, and this is my cub.  If you mess with my cub, I will claw your ass up until you shit sideways.”

That goes for you.  And you.  And anyone you bring with you. I’m not the perfect mother.  I’m sure if they walked into the crib and cookies were baking and I had apple slices on the table, AFTER they came to, they would probably call the Men in Black.  But I look out for those guys.  I want the best for them, and sometimes, I have to ask the hard question, is the best actually with me?

My place is small, I struggle financially (partially due to the fact that I can’t budget my way out of a wet paper bag/partially due to the fact that I’m sort of on my own), I’m burned out, I cuss and cry in front of my kids, and all those other things Claire Huxtable didn’t do.  When I had a conversation with their father this summer regarding them staying in New Orleans, however, I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea.  He’s generally unstable, the schools aren’t up to par, and I’m not exactly crazy about the ass backward corrupt political environment there.  He concurred, and actually said he was considering moving to be closer to them – to Maryland perhaps.

Imagine my surprise when, as the summer drew to a close, he became cagey in all conversations pertaining to their return.  There were times when he was arrogant (“Didn’t I tell you I would buy their ticket?”), befuddled (“I…I’m gonna make it work some kind of way”), and downright belligerent (“I’ll get the tickets when I get the tickets” is what he told our eight-year-old).  He stopped answering my phone calls, and when either his wife or the kids would answer, he was either asleep or “he just left.”

Finally, when the time showed that missing school was an inevitability, I spoke to Finge for the 411:

Um…he’s asleep.

It’s 7:30 at night.  He’s asleep every time I call [Finge]?

[Brief pause, then a whisper] No.  He tells us to tell you that.  He doesn’t want to talk to you.  Look, why don’t you just come get us.

That was Monday night.  Flying was not at all financially feasible, so Tuesday, I went in to work to give my peeps the heads up, and get some last minute advice, made the necessary preparations, and on Wednesday morning, I hit the road.  I napped in Tennessee, and was in New Orleans by 10:30 PM.  I do not play when it comes to kids in general. That goes double for any I brought into the world.

Since he didn’t seem to be concerned with talking to me, I cut all communication with him.  There was no ringing his phone like a bugaboo. There was no customary razor tongued voice mail messages.  I prayed for direction, gathered some records and documents that I felt would be helpful, and ultimately had a friend reach out to a friend who is a member of New Orleans’ finest.  One of the attorneys at my job cautioned me, “Do not bring a weapon.”  I figured my tire iron didn’t count.

When I called him, of course, he was “sleeping.”  I was insistent, and told him to bring them to his mother’s house at 1:00.  He had them there at 12:52.  I think my reaction, or lack thereof, had him concerned, and I think I like that.

However, I don’t think we’ll experience that concern again, because that was their last visit.  I had to get in my car and drive 18 hours because you don’t give enough of a fuck about your kids well being (because they were confused as fuck, and he was not even interacting with them), or their education (they missed a week of school), OR my time (because had he answered the phone, I could have bought their plane tickets and flown them home my damn self).  So the chapter of my concern for his relationship with them ended.  They’re not going back. I’m certain he will not call my phone.  My son is not allowed to talk to him on his cell phone without my presence.

Quite frankly, I don’t want his money.  I want his ass gone.  Disappeared.  No more here today gone tomorrow.  To quote Christian Bale, “We’re fucking done professionally.”  I can’t think of one thing that an erratic, irresponsible, IGNORANT fool such as him can add to their lives.  The Bug was calling me in tears on a regular basis.  Finge, though too cool for tears, could not hide his anger and confusion.  He actually had the gall to tell Finge NOT to talk to me on the phone.  Fortunately, I have a child with GOOD sense and he saw that for the bullshit that it was.  When he discovered that he was still talking to me, he stopped talking to him.  Yes.  He stopped talking to a 10 year old for calling his mother.

So yah pumpkins.  That’s been my story of the last few weeks, and why I have been MIA.  But, I’m back, and I’m ready to hit you with some more realness.

So apparently, the answer the the question posed at the outset is, make yourself scarce as possible, because when I hit the field, I’m not looking to play reindeer games.  I’m playing to win.

Four Sentences August 24, 2009

This weekend,  I thought about Lance and couldn’t stop laughing.  He was a hurricane of animation.   Amongst our religious community, we bonded as outcasts:  Me for being, well…me; him for being both flamboyantly gay AND in the closet (if that makes any sense). We met when he was 16 and I was 18.  Having become so accustomed to judgment and scrutiny, we didn’t know what to make of one another.  Our friend that introduced us was in line at McDonald’s leaving us in the car.  He produced a hidden 40 of 8 Ball, and said, “You want half?  I’ve never had one of these.”  After we finished, and against sage advice, we went to the hood daiquiri shop and got two house specials.  As if that weren’t enough to cement our friendship, after my night of puking, I called him the following morning.  He answered the phone sounding like Dr. John and said, “I’mma call you back when I don’t feel like shit.”  How can you not love a person like that?

We weren’t sole hangout partners, but when we hung, it was ON.  The dancing was wild, the laughter was raucous, and the fun could not be contained.  And the hugs?  The best, tightest, longest hugs ever.

People liked to ask me, “Well, what’s his story? Is he GAY?”  I would give them my best version of, “The fuck should I know?” and keep it moving.  Now, his strut, manner of speaking, fashion sense, and insistence that we see “Too Wong Foo” opening weekend pretty much told me the story, but it was really a non-issue.  It’s amazing how, even when you’re very young, your elders will jump on you and attack because you’re different, and don’t fit into their norm.  I never got that.  It’s almost like they will force you to be something that you aren’t.

And that’s sort of what happened.  He got married and had a couple of kids.  I remember him working hard for his family (something a LOT of his heterosexual critics couldn’t seem to do). Trying to force something that doesn’t fit (and we were both doing it at the time) is an incredibly draining process, and we lost touch.  When we would see each other, we were both frazzled and distracted, trying to fit our square selves into these round holes of our own creation.  The hugs were tight, but more out of relief of being with a person that accepted and knew us as ourselves, not the facsimile.

We ran into each other at the store somewhere around the summer of 2005 and made tentative plans that included food and libations.  LOTS of libations.  Of course, tentative turned to never.  Those who know me, know how terrible I am at keeping in touch, so when I moved to Maryland, of course the plans faded to black.

So it when he crossed my mind this weekend, it was very random.  I kind of remembered hearing that he’d left New Orleans, but the details were fuzzy at best.  He lived here, he was moving there, no one had answers.  Our friend who introduced us didn’t even have a current number on him, as she was going through her own craziness.

Lance, though still married, had come out a couple of years back.  Additionally, my sister was not one to gossip, so when she asked me, “Have you heard about Lance?” though I didn’t know what to make of it, I knew it couldn’t be good. And when she told me the news, I couldn’t catch my breath.  And when I could catch my breath, I went to Google and typed my friend’s name in the search box, and I paused.  And my fingers hovered over the keys, because I couldn’t really type the word that would lead me to confirm the news about my friend.

“Murder.”

The very first link contained the news about my friend’s bullet ridden body being found in a parking lot.  They found him. No one knows who.  No one knows why.  Four sentences.  He was a husband, a father and a friend.  He was loving and would readily give you what he had or find it for you if he didn’t.  He got four sentences.  Five if you count the added fact that a man in a white tee and blue jeans was spotted fleeing the scene.  His grandchildren, whom he will not hold at their birth, will not be able to give testimony to the goodness of his hugs, or how his laughter would crack through the air and force you to laugh. What he means to people just really can’t be covered in four sentences.

That shit couldn’t be covered in four billion.

Thankfullness and Other Acts of Random August 18, 2009

To those of you who contributed blog post ideas.  I will be writing them in the near future, and in the order that I received them.  Feel free, however, to drop me a line if you have something that you’d like me to address.  Or even if you want to say “fuck my couch.”  Yeah…do that.  That might make me smile.

But yesterday, I was just out of sorts.  Not sad or lost.  I’ve just been feeling like I’m outgrowing something – or everything. Sunday night I read an enjoyable book that ended so sadly, it kind of broke my heart.  I think that’s part of the reason that I woke up a little blah this morning, because I was so hopeful for the ending.  I didn’t need it to be happy, but at least holding the promise of possibility.  That’s just not how the ball always bounces, I suppose.

Lately, letting go has been a part of my daily life.  I’m doing it so often now, I scarcely knew what I was holding on to, or for, to begin with.  I’m not talking about giving up entirely.  I’m talking about giving up all this bullshit that just flat out hasn’t been working.  I’m talking about taking a page from my muse B. Scott and saying “Bitch.Boo.Bye.” to the stress, to what’s draining me, to what’s making me question what my next move should be.

People like to talk about becoming more selfish as a reaction to allowing themselves to be torn down.  I don’t plan to take that attitude.  I am of the mind frame of being more self-preserving.  The other day, I sat down and prayed for the first time in how long.  It had been SO long that I was shocked by the fact that I couldn’t remember.  However, I sat down and just started giving thanks for every single thing I could think of, without asking for anything. I’ve felt this negative energy in my spirit for so long, and I just felt like I needed to bring it all back and start, not quite from scratch, but from a place that makes sense to me.  I’ve been of the belief that it’s important to take stock of your assets, because remembering the things that you HAVE, makes pining over what you don’t seem so fruitless.

I think I need to see my dad.  Just because.  I need to sit down, crack some crabs with him, and listen to him spit trivia that you don’t expect him to know (because probably NOBODY should know it).  My dad and I have had our differences, and we’ve had our BATTLES (yes lord!), but he is THAT UNADULTERATED DOPE!  He’ll start talking, and he’s got these thick ass Buddy Holly looking glasses,  some sweatpants that may or may not be pulled damn near up to his chest, and of COURSE the fanny pack; yet in the midst of that, when you get past the comedy, you come to the realization that he’s blessing you with some REAL pimp knowledge.  I guess I need to make a visit happen soon.

The Expansion August 11, 2009

My mother gave birth to me at 25 and died at 43; we had 17 years and 360 days together.  Her ability to take that 17 years and 360 days, and instill a wealth of wisdom tells me that I was not only blessed to have her as a mother, but I was blessed to know her.  Having four daughters, the potential for cattiness was astounding, so she took every opportunity to instill these words of wisdom in us:

Great people talk about ideas; small people talk about people.

Now, as I became older, I learned that there was something in there about average people talking about…eh, something.  Since Moms Duke pretty much had no interest in “average,”  I’m confident that she left that part out by design; however, I digress.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to give a fresh eye to my unapologetic take on life, yet NOT turn this into a “love blog.”  I wanted to climb the mountains and sing the songs that I want to sing.  I want to diverge from the beaten path of women-men talk.  The funny thing is, lately, when I start writing, that seems to be what comes out.  Complaints about love, complaints about men, the ghosts of penis past.  I don’t like to be boxed.  One of my mantras is that smart people don’t have all the answers, but they know where to find them.  Smart people effectively utilize their resources.

I fancy myself a rather smart chick (or at least I’m getting there…I hope), so I’m coming to you.  I’m apparently lonely and horny, so all of my ideas have a relationship base.  So this is my challenge, nay, my appeal, to you.  Please find it in your heart to think of something that you would like to see me write about.  The ONLY criteria is that it not be about love, sex or relationships.  I know that reading my words is the ultimate favor (and I really appreciate the thought that there are people who care to learn what’s on my brain), so I’m hoping you can do me this solid.

Smoocheration!

Bee Jack

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.

The kind you don’t take home to mother July 28, 2009

I’m not the kind of girl to kiss and tell.  It’s not out of prudishness or shame.  It’s just not something that I do.  Not everything needs to be subject to full disclosure.  That being said, I’m a girl with girlfriends, and you know how girlfriends talk.  One of the best of my besties happens to be my cousin who, for the purposes of this blog, will be known as Stylista (her steez is nothing short of epic).  Last night, Stylista and I were talking about a guy that I used to kick it with back in the day who we’ll just call “Leibovitz.”  I laughed so hard (and I’ve also been reading Chelsea Handler’s My Horizontal Life, I figured I would share.

The unconventional a bit of a “thing” for me.  Crooked noses, scars with stories behind them, big ears – I like my dudes slightly flawed.  And his front tooth was crooked in the cutest way.  At least so I thought when I would see him every day after school.  Slightly older than me, much cooler than me.  I would sometimes walk just a little slower so that maybe he would notice me.

No dice.  For years in fact.  And then one day, totally randomly, he spoke to me and we became fast friends.  Though it was long since the days of the high school crush, he never got around to fixing that tooth, which I still found adorable.  What’s the harm of good convo with a cutie?  Therefore, when he invited me to dinner, how could I not oblige?

The food was good.  We laughed and talked.  He would occasionally punctuate his sentence with enough blush-worth compliments to come off as sweet, yet not creepy.  Two beautiful black people having a good time.  Yeah.  That’s what’s up.  We were having such a good time, after dinner, we opted to get a couple of daiquiris* and chill on the Lake.  We got to the Lake, and since it was a weeknight, it was quiet.  Everything was all good until he walked up behind me and kissed me on my neck.  And breathed on my neck.

I had been celibate for well over a year at this point.  Truth be told, I had gone on dates during that time and had no qualms with my lack of peen.  But he was singing in my ear, which is something I usually find incredibly corny, but the hood moonshine made it sound sodamngood.

We were kissing and he whispered something.  My response was, “Huh?”  He repeated it, a little louder, but still at a whisper, and I said, “Huh?”  (My random deafness has killed the mood on more than one occasion.)  So he slipped my purse from my shoulder and reached in it, to which I thought, “Am I really at the point in my life where my dates rob me?”  He then fished out my keys, jingled them at me and took my hand, leading me to the car.  I hurried to  stick very close to him, because despite the fact that we were holding hands, in my drunken and now horny stupor, I had convinced myself that his plan was to ditch me and steal my piece of shit car.  Which, by the way, had a hole in the brake line, so I had about 50,000 bottles of brake fluid in the back which I had to add to the car EVERY TIME I stopped it.  All I was doing was going down the short list of people I could call with the message, “Horny, drunk, on the lake and my date stole my car, check for accidents on your way.”

Once I was safely in my death mobile, growing up with good southern christian guilt, I couldn’t help but think that we were going to plow into something and meet a fiery doom because I was going specifically to fornicate.  That didn’t stop me from planning to fornicate the sanctified monkey snot out of him.  I’m not necessarily the girl that always “finishes,” so I planned to hit his artsy ass with some of the futuristic, then be on my merry way.

Um…

I’m still pretty sure that I will need therapy for some of the things that went on that night, so I won’t go into ALL of the particulars, but I did have a “that shit really does happen in real life!” moment.  Three hours later, my no-no waved the white flag.  I watched him mop *don’t ask*, huddled in the corner, with my arms wrapped around my knees thinking “I just want to go home and see my family.”

But I couldn’t move, because my clothes were by the front door.

And the side door.

And on the sofa.

And I was too scared to ask where my draws were.  I tried to blend into the wall like a sexually depleted chameleon, and not say anything.  If I said something, he would remember I was there.  If he remembered I was there, he would try to touch me again.  If he touched me again, I would get horny again.  I was pretty sure that though I didn’t have a heart condition, if I had one more orgasm I would die, and that would be some fucked up shit for my dad to see on my death certificate.  “Cause of Death:  Hyper-Orgasmia.”  No thanks.

He said something about me being in no condition to go home, so we got in bed and I pretty much stayed on orange alert until I heard the soft sounds of snoring.  My no-no breathed a sigh of relief and I passed out.

The next morning, we exchanged our pleasantries and I had to hustle home.  I still had to get dressed for work, being that I had not planned to spend the night out.  After a night of nympho-yoga, I was out of it, so at lunch time, when I saw his number on my caller ID, I thought I was hallucinating.  Aren’t freaks the hit it and quit it variety.  I kind of didn’t expect to hear from him again, EVER, much less hours after parted ways.  He spoke of the good time he had, his hopes that I had the same, and another rendezvous was scheduled.  And another.  And another.  Every meeting left me more traumatized than the one before, and yet, I couldn’t stop.

BECAUSE

THAT

SHIT

WAS

THE

BOMB

And of course, as is not uncommon in the case of attractive men that are smart, good company, and possess the ability to turn me into a walking nerve ending, I started to like him.  Too much.  And it ended.  I’m human, so I was really broken up about it because it was a fun time. Ultimately though, I was mollified by the notion that this heartache was extending mercy to my no-no. And if you ever wonder, this is pretty much the point in my life where I abandoned all notions of political aspirations.  I’m also rather concerned about gaining any fame whatsoever.  Just…yeah…uncomfortable conversations there.

*Daiquiris in New Orleans, and the hood spots especially, are NOT the punk drinks that they are in other places.  Some of them will not only give you hair on your chest, but make you spontaneously sprout balls, but I digress.

** Author’s Note:  Hood daiquiri + Celibacy + Throwback Crush + Lake = Panty Evaporation.  Trust me…I’ve done the research.

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