What Does Happen?

"...Or does it explode?" ~Langston Hughes

What is this world coming to?

On Tuesday, a California man shot his wife and five children before turning the gun on himself. All of them died. Apparently, before he died, he faxed a letter to a local television station explaining the reason for his actions: both he and his wife had lost their jobs about a week earlier.

It's a shame.

The first thing I felt when I heard about this story was sadness. Not anger. Not disgust. Just sadness. I don't believe this man was evil. I don't believe he was a crazed sociopath. I don't believe he was a monster. What I believe he was, was desperate.

I also believe that in this time of economic crisis, many more are reaching that point. Rock bottom.

It's so easy for people to point fingers or place blame, because in a case like this, there has to be a culprit, a bad guy, a villain. Even though it seems pretty obvious that it was desperation probably mixed in with some depression that caused this man to make such a drastic, terrible decision, we can't leave it there. We have to cast this man as the bad guy, perhaps to distance ourselves from his repulsive humanity.

Financial security is a blessing. It's a blessing that so many of us take for granted and many more of us kill ourselves to have. How many families are out there, about to reach their last dime, not sure where the next meal is coming from, feeling like failures because they can't support the lives they created? How many families work themselves into an early grave of hypertension and anxiety and loneliness and isolation in order to prove to their family and friends that they are good and hardworking and worth love and support and expenive things? And how often does our society, with it's mantra of pulling one's self up by one's boot straps and it's model of the American dream and it's mandate that financial security and material possessions are a measure of one's worth, how often does this society say that the latter is worth more than the former? How often does it blame those very individuals for not carrying their share of the weight and demonize those who struggle to take care of their basic needs?

The reality of the situation is that this man and his wife had five mouths to feed in addition to their own. They had bills to pay and necessities to buy and they had no way to do that. In a day and age when thousands of people are losing jobs in a single day, the likelihood that they would quickly find alternative employment was slim.

Desperation.

We live in a carniverous, cannibalistic society that preys on the very lifeblood that keeps it going - the working class. We berate people with the idea that they're only worth as much as they can give. We beat little boys over the head with the idea that it's their ability to provide money and material things, not their ability to love that determines their worth. We tell the poor that they have no worth and treat them accordingly. We take out the mistakes of the greedy on the backs of the hungry. We do all this and then we turn and point our fingers when the very backs we've been walking on buckle under our weight.

When tragic situations like this occur, we rightly examine and critique the behavior responsible for it. But when we stop there, when we fail to go a step farther and look at the cause for such behavior - in this case a recession that's killing more families than this man did - then we continue to contribute to the problem. We continue to ignore it and thus we contribute to the ugly cycle that allows it to happen again and again and again.

In no way am I saying this man was right, to the contrary, it was sick, tragic and wrong. But in every way I am saying that there is more to this case than domestic violence. By denying this man that truth, we are denying his humanity and ours.

Is this what happens to a dream deferred?

25 Random Things...

Rules: Once you've been tagged, you are supposed to write a note with 25 random things, facts, habits or goals about you. At the end, choose 25 people to be tagged. You have to tag the person who tagged you. If I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you.

Ok... so I've been tagged several times recently on Facebook and here thought I would go ahead and play along... Here goes...

1. This is the third time I've attempted to do this but each time it's mysteriously deleted... I wonder if it will work this time or if the gods are trying to tell me that my life is not interesting enough to post 25 things about... we shall see...

2. I tend to think really dry, really negative things are funny and so I often appear to be more depressed than I really am... does that make sense?... basically I have a really wierd sense of humor that involves laughing at the misfortune of others and myself... hahaha! I'm also usually laughing at folks in my head... but I'm a really nice person.. I promise! :)

3. My 25 things will likely be 25 paragraphs as I am extremely long winded or more acurately long worded as I tend to be somewhat quiet in person.

4. I'm a writer of non-fiction, fiction and occasionally poetry... I'm an artist and I'm sensitive about my shit... :) really sensitive.

5. I hate my job and at this point I don't care who knows... believe me I am formulating my escape plan... daily.

6. I've lost some friends and gained some great ones in the last few years... I thrive on friendship and connections with others and I love my village and all of my friends!!!

7. I am incredibly silly and often make myself laugh. I sometimes wonder if I will grow out of said silliness by the time I'm like 37... I hope not.

8. Both my daughter and I have Arabic names and both of us have fathers who practice Islam... and we're both Black women... haha way to state the obvious...

9. I waiver between really wanting another child and sticking with the lovely one I have. I do know that I love being pregnant and want to experience that again at some point... maybe I will be a surrogate.

10. Not to brag or anything... but I think I'm pretty brilliant... well I know I am.

11. Here's a haiku... sort of: I love to sing.
I am not a good singer.
I sing all the time.

12. When I was in high school I secretly dreamed of being an actress and used to practice my Academy Award acceptance speech often.

13. I love knowing random facts... and spend hours online reading about random things... like the time I spent the afternoon at work reading about rivers and streams on Wikipedia. I like to think I'm preparing to win thousands on Jeopardy one day.

14. I have a strange affinity for bodies of water.

15. I love adjectives and really vivid descriptions and words and language. Right now I love words that begin with L, (hahaha L Words!) like lilting, lovely, lyrics, love, lesbian... they roll off the tongue so nicely!

16. I am very passionate and I cry easily... especially when watching movies... I was messed up after watching the Hours, seriously, couldn't stop crying for like an hour afterwards.

17. I want to be the next bell hooks/patricia hill collins/oprah/aishah shahidah simmons/rebecca walker... basically a brilliant ass black woman writer/activist/feminist/queer/thinker.

18. I love music and art! I consider myself to be somewhat of an artist...

19. I really like to debate/discuss.

20. I have an obsession with reading and books... I can be a compulsive book buyer.

21. I love my apartment, but hate it at the same time. I'll probably be moving soon...

22. I plan to go back to school to finish my Bachelor's in Journalism in March (see escape plan in #5)

23. I think my daughter is hilarious and destined for greatness... she wants to be either a Mommy-Dancer or a Mommy-Doctor.

24. I am astonishingly unorganized.

25. I'm quirky, some may say weird... I embrace it all. I like to fancy myself a free spirit!

On Closets and Me and the Televangelist...

Being in the closet will fuck you up.

That's the honest truth.

I'm sitting here watching Oprah's interview with Ted Haggard and that's the first thing that came to my mind. That and a saddening remembrance.

What he's saying sounds crazy and ridiculous and makes no sense, but I understand. I understand believing so much in something that says what you feel, essentially what you are, is bad. I understand believing that if you pray enough, are good enough, ignore it enough, deny it enough, God will make it go away. I understand being afraid of losing all that you know, your family and friends and community, your life for something that you think is bad and want nothing to do with. I understand hating yourself. I understand all that.

I guess what I he a hard time understanding is how, after Haggard says he's come to grips with who he is, with his sexuality, how he can still basically find fault in it. In him. He said he understands who he is. He said he accepts who he is. He said he is a heterosexual man with homosexual attachments.

What the hell is that?

You know, I'm no proponent of boxes and labels. I agree with Haggard, in that they are only something used to make people feel comfortable, to let them kow how to identify you and interact with you. They have nothing to do with the person being labeled as much as the person ding the labeling. I get that and I agree with it. However, there is something to be said by giving voice to one's own truth. Giving name to it. If he said, I'm not heterosexual, but not homosexual, and left it that. I'd be cool. If he said I prefer not to use labels, but I recognize that I have attractions to both women and men, I'd be cool. What I'm not cool with is that he's still clinging to this heterosexual identity, in essence, placing more value on that identity than on who he truly is. It makes me sad.

At the end of the interview, he said that he thinks the ideal is monagamous, heterosexual relationships. He said God accepts everyone, but that there is still this ideal to achieve. Basically, he's still saying that who he is, is still not quite good enough. Because, no matter who he chooses to be with, how he chooses to identify, how he chooses to behave, the truth of who he is will never change. He will always be a queer man.

That's why being in the closet will fuck you up.

I think when people deny who they are, when they can't even be honest with their selves about who they are, then that is the sickness. It's not being gay, that's not the sickness. The sickness is the shame and self-hatred and the lies. The sickness is not being able to give voice to who you are. The sickness is not seeing your inherent value, but that of something that you will never be.

That sickness will kill you. If not physically, then certainly mentally, emotionally and yes, spiritually. I truly believe that when people repress their sexuality, it finds ways - often unhealthy ones - to seep out. For me it was promiscuity and a deep self-loathing. For Haggard, it was prostitution and drugs. For others it make be something equally as danderous to self and to others.

It's ironic that I could see so much of myself in this fundamentalist, Christian televangelist. Seeing him today brought back memories of much sadder, much younger me. I feel sorry for her and for him and for anyone else who believes choosing the closet, choosing self-hatred, choosing to not to give voice to one's truth, choosing to operate and identify from a place of other is a better option than choosing to love and accept self.

Change is Here...

I can't even write one of my lengthy posts today because I am speechless. Really truly at a loss for words.

I can say thought, that I am happy.

I am happy and I am proud. Proud to be Black. Proud to be an American. Proud that Barack Hussein Obama, a black man with a funny name is this Black woman with a funny name's President. I am moved almost to tears, most definitely beyond words at the weight of this occasion.

It's simply beautiful.

It's beautiful that Black folks in this country finally can see themselves reflected back it's face.

I am speechless.

I sit here, searching for words to describe exactly what it is i feel, because that is what I do, I paint my thoughts, my feelings, my ideas, inklings and notions with words.

Right now I can't even do that.

This lack of words symbolizes just how joyous this occasion is for me.

...

On the Value of a Life...

So far 2009 seems to be the year that police officers' have designated to kill off Black men. Only 10 days in and they've already killed one and wounded another.

When will this shit end?

A few days ago I was enraged when I learned about Robbie Tolan, a minor league baseball player, who was shot by police in front of his own home. Apparently, the officers thought his car was stolen and questioned him in front of his home. When his mother came out to see what was going on, an officer allegedly pushed her. Tolan, who was already being held on the ground by an officer, looked up to say something and was promptly shot in the chest. Thankfully, he is recovering in an area hospital.

Just a few minutes ago, thanks to Little Miss Nobody's blog, I learned about yet another shooting, this one fatal. Twenty two year old Oscar Grant, was shot in the back by a police officer, while handcuffed and face down on the ground. This man is dead.

Why?

I am so sick of this. I swear. In Cincinnati, we've seen this same story unfold over and over in the past 10 years. Not one of the officers has ever been found guilty. I guess Black life has little value in this country. Let me rephrase that: I know Black life has little value in this country.

I just can't wrap my mind around the idea that one human being has the power to take another human being's life just because he or she has a badge and a blue uniform. What the fuck? How can it be ok to give another human being that much power? What's the difference in if he hadn't had that badge and uniform and if he hadn't? They'd still be human beings. One still would be dead. And it still wouldn't make any sense. Does this badge and uniform suddenly exempt one from humanity? From basic right and wrong?

You know what? Why don't they just put on a white uniform instead? You know, one with a pointy hat and a face covering? Why don't they just trade their cars for horses and their guns for a noose? They obviously want us gone, why don't they cut the bullshit and be real about it? Don't pretend to kill me in the name of justice, kill me cause you want my Black ass dead. That's what this is really about. Kill me because you'd rather take my life than protect it. Because I mean more to you dead than I ever will alive. Be honest with the shit.

The cynic in me doesn't think anything will happen to any of these officers. Just like nothing happened to the ones who shot Amadou Diallo, Sean Bell, Timothy Thomas, and all the other Black men whose lives haven't meant enough to police to allow them the right to continue living them.

People wonder why I tell my daughter that some police are good but a lot of them are bad. This is why. I don't want her to get it confused and think they are actually there to protect her. Maybe white folks, but certainly not us.

Certainly not.

Fuck the police.

On Black Womanhood and Femininity...

In light of my last post, I really want to explore the idea of the feminine as it relates to Black women.

Can Black women really be feminine?

Honestly, I think not. And this is coming from a make-up wearing, heel rocking, skirt loving Black woman who wears her femme-ness with much pride. But, all that aside, I don't think that Black women, or any woman of color for that matter, but especially Black women, can ever truly be feminine in this society.

Let me explain why.

Femininity is something that has been of utmost importance in this country. In the days of slavery, it was a privelege (if you can call it that) awarded to white women and fiercely protected by white men. Feminine was to be demure, delicate, dainty and lily white. In fact, back in the day (way before bronzer and tanning beds), proper young white ladies protected their feminine, with bonnets and hats as not to darken their lovely lily skin. Femininity was and I believe still is a code word for white woman.

For that reason and by that definition, a Black woman will never be feminine. Why? It's simple. She will never have white skin.

It's pretty obvious when you think about it. Why is the standard of beauty in this country still a blonde haired, blue eyed white girl, with a waif-life body and perky breasts? Of course, said white girl might have her occasional chocolate (or should I say caramel friend) and of course she'll have an Asian one too, (gotta make it PC right?) but they are always other to her is. That is, she is model, they are only variations of a prototype.

And even when you break it down within the community, it's always those women closest to white who are deemed most beautiful. My mom always joked about the society she was introduced to when she was in grad school in New Orleans. A society that put just as much stock, if not more, into personal appearance as in education. My mom said her roommate was unattractive and overweight (both usually strikes against a woman's worth) but was always accepted because of her light skin and eyes. And my mother, who is brown, was saved by her long hair. The valuation of these attributes is obviously their likeness to the white standard of beauty. But, despite how close she (the light skinned beauty) might be in the subculture (if you can call Blackness that), she will never be white and thus never be truly feminine to the culture at large.

Now of course this is not to say that a Black woman or any woman of color can not be seen as sexy or attractive. Of course she can. Black women have always been sexualized. That's never been the question. It's our ability to be truly feminine, meaning truly valued and revered as wholesome, noble and beautiful that's been up for intepretation. Black women are always cast as sexy, alluring and sexually available, but rarely is a Black woman put on a pedestal as a true "lady".

What kind of effect must this have on the psyche of Black women in this country? Always trying, but never quite measuring up. Using all the tonics and potions to straighten our hair, lighten our skin, and mold our bodies in the likeness of a standard that will never include us? How must it feel to know that no matter what we do, our beauty will never quite be enough? It's got to be a pretty serious mind fuck. In fact, I know it is.

So what is the answer? The answer in my opinion is reject this idea of femininity. No, this doesn't mean "dressing like a man" (unless youu want to) or trying to be more masculine (because thats a whole 'notha mind fuck for a whole 'notha post). What it does mean is coming up with our own standard that exists outside of white womanhood. A standard in which we are central and not operating from a place of other, a place of being outside looking in. A standard that celebrates our whole selves and not just a caricature of a caricature of someone else.

But what does this look like?

There's really no true answer. When I think of this notion or rejecting the boxes of gendered socialization, I think about queer culture and genderfuck. I also think about black women choosing to celebrate their natural selves. I think about including other representations of woman into the standard. Representations that include fat women, dark skinned women, masculine women, noncorfomists women, androgynous women, and more. I think about completely dismantling this paradigm of beauty and femininity for something new and different and revolutionary.

Something truly beautiful.

On Anne Coulter and Black Womanhood...

Anne Coulter strikes again.

This time she's written an(other) inflammatory book entitled, "Guilty Liberal 'Victims' and their Assault on America," in which she accuses liberals (surprisingly) of playing victims when really they are the ones victimizing America.

Yawn.

Usually this wouldn't be a big deal. I mean, of course she gets on my nerves and yeah can cause my blood rise a degree or two, but I let it roll off my back. I mean, she is afterall Anne Coulter, a name as synonymous with conservative hate as Bill O'Reilly. However, this time she really struck a nerve. Coulter tapped into what's been brewing below the surface of many an American's mind and seeping oh so discreetly (sometimes not) into American media: the attack of Black womanhood.

Coulter's new book includes a section in which she lashes into Michelle Obama, ridiculing her style as an, "obvious imitation of Jackie O's style - the flipped-under hair, the sleeveless A-line dresses, the short strands of fake pearls," that "would have been laughable if done by anyone other than a media-designated saint." Then she takes it a little bit further when she compares Obama to Cindy McCain saying the latter woman, "dresse(s) well without freakishly imitating famous first ladies in history."

My blood is boiling.

Not only is Coulter's assault on Obama's dress absolutely ridiculous and completely irrelevent (who the fuck cares?) but it stinks of gendered racism. Of course Michelle Obama could never be equal to Jackie O... or even Cindy McCain, because of course Michelle Obama is Black. Not just Black, she is a brown sista.

I've been watching this scene unfold for months now. The subtle and not so subtle attacks on Michelle as too hard and angry because she has a mind and mouth of her own and hasn't been trained into quiet submission like some politicians' wives. I've watched the way the media has questioned Barack's ability to lead the country with a fiery wife like Michelle. I've watched the media relegate Michelle Obama, an intelligent, well educated, Black woman, to a familiar take on Black womanhood - the angry Black bitch.

I believe and have believed for some time, that Barack Obama is not what scares some white folks at all. It's his beautiful, intelligent Black wife that frightens them. Michelle Obama represents what white oppression has tried to kill, vilify, subdue and control for centuries - Black womanhood. Black women have always been portrayed as such. You know, not quite woman. Somewhere stuck between raging savage and dignified lady, never quite measuring up to the latter. All attempts by Black woman to to embrace the feminine have been regarded as "freakish" attempts to "mimic" white women. Nothing more than a silly caricature. Black women in America can never truly be feminine - not by societal definitions anyway - because our brown skin, courser hair and of course round rear ends are the total antithesis of all things proper and ladylike, all things woman, in this country.

I've always thought, and still do, that the thing that scared some white folks the most about this brown president, is his Black wife. Putting Michelle Obama in the place of First Lady automatically thrusts Black womanhood into the front and center - a place where it's never before been in this country.

So of course Anne Coulter would attack Michelle's dress. Of course she would. Because by doing so, she's subtly attacking her womanhood and her right to step foot in the White House as more than a cook or maid. She's questioning this Black woman's right to take the place of the many white women before her as the face of the American woman. Essentially, she's questioning any Black woman's right to ever be more than a "freakish" imitation of a white woman.

It's sickening.

On Parenthood and Black Girlhood...

So I was just reading Rebecca Walker's blog on Theroot.com and something she said struck me.

"...My son watches way more TV than I thought he would, back before I had a child and thought I'd be spending my every waking moment engaging mine with all natural, not-made-or-painted-in China, educational toys..."

I too, thought my parenting and my kid would be different before becoming a parent. Albeit, I didn't have too much time to make parenting plans before becoming a mother, I still had my ideas. I just knew my daughter was going to be this little Pro-Black, feminist, intelligent little prodigy who would disect the racism and sexism and all the other fucked up shit seen on TV, just like I do. She would reject the idea of Disney princesses and be angry at singing, dancing white girls who steal the spotlight from singing, dancing Black girls. She would play with gender neutral toys or a good variety of both toys marketed to girls and those marketed to boys. She would look at something like, oh I don't know, The Bee Movie and see what I see, a mockery of slavery and resistance struggles in the US.

Alas, my daughter aspires to be Cinderella. Sigh.

At least now she recognizes that she can be "Brown Cinderella" that's a start, right? Or maybe she's just starting to see herself as other.

Honestly, it's all quite disappointing. When I'm not frustrated by her predilection for white and light skinned folks and all things "girly" and pink, I'm feeling like a failure as a parent. I mean, I know that I'm a good mom. I know that I go out of my way to ensure that she is learning and has positive images of women and Black people, that she recognizes that she can do and be whatever she wants. But I still feel sad. So sad.

I'm angry too.

How the hell did this happen?

I mean, I'm that parent whose intentional with what my child takes in. I'm that parent who refuses to buy Disney princess memorabilia or Barbies or white dolls. I'm that parent who colors brown the dozens of smiling, white faces on the toys she gets from people who don't know my rules. I'm that parent who goes out of my way to point out beautiful Black women to her. When, where, how and why did my kid, at age 4, get the idea in her little head that white is right?

I'm angry because it seems hopeless. Who will fight for our little brown girls? How can we ever dream of saving their self-esteem and helping them to see their own value as little Black women, if with even the most intentional monitoring and teaching, they still pick up on the idea that they are somehow less than because their skin is a shade of beautiful brown? And who will teach them that their only fate in life is not to be somebody's wife and somebody else's mother? If my daughter refers to Tyrone, the orange moose from the Backyardigans, as her husband one more time...

But this is just a vent. I will not be giving up the fight. Afterall, she's only 4. There is much more time to instill a love for self - a love for her blackness, womanness, and plain ol' selfness - in the years to come.

Anyway, I just wanted to say I feel you Rebecca... boy do I ever...

On Why I'm Locing My Hair...

I've decided that in 2009, for my 25th year, to mark a change, I am going to loc my hair.

I'm so excited.

I've started telling people about it and they always ask why. Why am I locing up? Well, it's not a decision I came to all willy-nilly. It's something that I've put a lot of thought into. So here goes...

I'm locing my hair because I want to go back to school. In December of 2006, I dropped out of school. It was a break that was necessary for my mental, spiritual and emotional body. I had planned for it to be one quarter, but life happened and honestly, I'm glad, but now it's time to return. I want 2009 to be the year that start back.

I'm locing my hair because I'm a dreamer. According to Myers-Briggs I'm an INFP, which means I live in a vivid innerworld of dreams and passions. It's true. I have all these things that I want to accomplish. I'm a writer - I want to write books, essays, articles, screenplays, etc. I dream of being able to live off of my writing. I also dream of being a professor Black Women's Studies. I dream of creating an environment for myself and my child, that is affirming and creative and artistic and communal and loving and beautiful and feminist. I dream of surrounding her by strong women and men who can show her what it means to go after and achieve one's dreams. I dream of being happy.

I'm locing my hair because the second half of my twenties have got to be better than the first.

I'm locing my hair because I want to be more intentional in my life. I don't want to live my life reacting to everything, because reacting takes control from my hands and places it into those of whatever/whomever I'm reacting. I worked at a parenting center that stressed the importance of intentional parenting and how it is important as parents to not just react to our kids' behavior, but to think of each moment as a chance to mold this kid into the kind of adult you want her to be. I think that applies in all aspects of my life. I feel like I've been a passenger in my own life, and I want to take the chance to jump in the driver's seat.

I'm locing my hair because I love myself and I want to continue to love me... Beautifully human, flaws and all.

In essence, my locs will be a visual reminder of all of these things I'm writing today and more. Everyday, when I look in the mirror, I want to have a visual reminder of who I am and what I want to do. that reminder will be my locs.

On Pride and a Sound Mind and Living Inside the Glow...

"...I love you more than I love life itself, but I need to find a place where I can breathe... " India.Arie "Beautiful"

Every year I make a New Year's Resolution. Every year I put a lot of thought into it, and I list all of the things that I want to work on myself to make me the best me possible. It's quite cathartic actually. This year, I didn't actually write down what my resolutions are, but I've been thinking about them nonetheless.

And I've been thinking, I am so damn proud of myself. I really am.

I can honestly say that 2008 has been one of the hardest, if not the hardest year(s) of my life. But at the same time, I can say that it has been one of the best in many different ways. I can see so much growth in the me I was on 1 January 2008 and today on 1 January 2009. And I am so proud I'm moved to tears.

I think it's that balance of the good and the bad, and my being able to take both, without cracking, that makes me so proud. When I ended 2006, which had seemed like it was going to be one of the best years of my life, I was so depressed. I was having anxiety attacks and getting myself so worked up about what other people thought of me and my life, that it was affecting me physically and mentally. I was in a relationship that seemed to be draining my soul. No lie. And I felt like I was in a gray cloud and couldn't see my way into the sunlight again. Even now, when I think back on that period of my life, it looks gray (guess you'd actually have to be in my mind to see/know what I'm talking about).

Today, I am so proud.

2008 was filled with some of the hardest things that I have ever had to deal with. I had to face my biggest fear and deal with some issues that honestly I'm still dealing with. I've never made this much at a job, and I've never struggled this much financially. I don't know if I've ever lost as many friends and loved ones in one year as I lost in 2008. Every time I made a step forward, it felt like I was taking 2steps backward.

But I'm proud.

I'm proud because sometimes I get down, but never have I gotten to the place I was in 2006/07. I want to live. I'm proud that as terrible and difficult as 2008 was, I've made it through with my sanity - no depression, no anxiety. I'm proud because as much as the bad has gotten me down, I've been able to appreciate the good. I'm proud because though I lost some relationships, I've made some new ones that I think will sustain me in a way those old ones never could have. I'm proud because I love myself and it took a damn long time to get to this point...

So, I chose to quote those lyrics by India.Arie because a few years ago, a friend and I were talking about that song and what exactly it meant. She'd heard an interpretation that has stuck with me forever. She said this song wasn't about India outgrowing a romantic relationship, but instead outgrowing herself. She said that the song was talking about how much she loved herself and the place where she was, but that she yearned for more, for growth, and though it pained her to leave who she is for who she will be, she had to do it. She had to find a place where the new India could breathe and flourish and be given light and love.

I love that.

So, I wish I could've written/posted this on December 31st, but it didn't work out that way. No regrets though.

I'm so proud of me and I'm breathing...

On Sexuality and Boxes...

So, I think I write about my sexuality way too much... or maybe not. Well, here I go again.

So, I'm a lesbian, a semi-out lesbian. My friends know, most of my family knows... my co-workers... not so much. Well, not unless they stumble across my blog or myspace page...

Anyway, the one person who should know - my mother - has no idea. Well, let me rephrase that: the one person I should tell - my mother - I have not, though I'm pretty sure she already knows. Sigh. Why is this so hard? Why can't I just say, "Look Mama, I'm gay, queer, lesbian, like girls, a pussy licker..."? Who knows?

So, Christmas just passed and I decided to have it here, so that my daughter could open up her presents in her own home for once. I decided not to hide any of my stuff like I normally do (well, I did remove "Lesbian Sex" and "Tantric Sex" from my bookshelf... not comfortable with her knowing my sexual tastes...) So, all of Black lesbian anthologies and whatnot were on display, as was my artwork and whatever else I have laying around here. Did she see these things? Yes. Did she comment? Nope.

That makes this even harder. I mean, I know she knows. She's made so many interesting little comments... but we've never had "the talk." I'm really dreading it...

But, I didn't start this post to talk about that. I started this to talk about my sexuality. My identity. What kind of lesbian I am.

The other day, an old friend (my best friend for many, many years actually) asked me if I would ever go back with men. I told her probably not, that while I recognize that sexuality is fluid, I just like women. I can't see myself being with a man again. Not 10 minutes later she's trying to get me to date a guy she knows... whatever.

So, this brings me to my topic - the fluidity of sexuality. I really like this girl, we'll call her H. She's open, as she calls it. She says she doesn't base her attractions on gender. I think that's interesting. In theory, I agree. In practice though, I just like girls, well women. When I was coming out to myself, I thought I was bisexual. I was so confused (please note that I am not saying that those who identify as bisexual or open are confused or anything of the like) about who and what I was and what I wanted and what it meant that I had been with a few men and sometimes kind of liked it, and even had feelings for some of them, but that it's with women that I connect and love and want to make a life. I coldn't figure out if I liked men or if I was just a victim of heterosexist socialization.

I spent the time trying to figure out what percentage of me was attracted to women and what percentage men. Since, I was like 80% attracted to women, did that mean that I was by virtue of quantity I was a lesbian? Or since I was attracted to both, that I was bisexual? I wondered why there weren't terms like mullato, quadroon and octoroon that could describe the percentage of "homo blood" I had just as those terms described ones percentage of "darky blood". I thought maybe I'm queer. Maybe I'm just not straight and that's all that matters. Finally, it was H, who helped me to define myself as lesbian - and I'm sure she doesn't even know it.

I identify as lesbian because I love women. I love the way women interact with each other. I love the bonds between women. I love women's bodies. I love the way I can see the outline of a butch woman's breasts in her men's clothing. I love the shape of a fem woman's body in her woman's clothing. I love the way my relationships with women have mingled friendship and love in a way that none of relationships with men ever did. I love the way a woman understands my body. I love the way I can bond with women through the collective oppresssions we face, similar to the way I can bond with Black people and others of color. I just love women. I'm very much woman-identified. I also love to make love to/with a woman...

But I digress.

I identify as lesbian because no matter how attracted to a man I might be, it could never come close to matching the love for women I have. I identify as lesbian because I recognize that the personal is political, and I don't ever want to downplay my sexuality or my attraction to women and to me, I feel that it would be dishonest to call myself bisexual simply because I might find the occasional man attractive and can enjoy sex with men, when it's with women that I want to build my life.

This is not to say that I don't think it's possible for me to be in love with a man. I know it is, but I find it hard to believe that it will ever happen. Does that make sense?

I don't know. Sexuality is a slippery, sliipery slope. There are no boxes. It's not like there's some kind of line up that says ok, you like girls, you're over here, you like boys you're here, you like both? Well, how many of each? Sexuality doesn't work that way. Really, I think there is some merit to identifying as queer or open or whatever. I believe that it prohibits people from assigning you to a box, though I think some will automatically assign you to the gay box.

Ugh, I'm rambling.

I don't know what I'm trying to say with this post. I just needed to get this off of my chest...

On Religion and Spirituality and What I Believe...

So, a friend of mine just asked me how I arrived at my current place in terms of religious belief or in my case, lack thereof. I, in response, gave her quite the earful, as religion and spirituality have been weighing on my mind a lot lately.

So, here's the background. I was raised a devout, fundamentalist Christian. What I mean is, I was probably at church just as much as I was in school. I mean, I was on the usher board, in the choir, in the plays, secretary of sunday school, on the youth council (president I might add), in the puppet ministry, etc. You name it, I was involved in it. And, most importantly, I liked, no loved it. Basically, you could say I was a Jesus freak and be pretty much accurate.

As of today... I'm what I would call spiritually agnostic or perhaps somewhat of a deist. Quite a shift from my latter days of total praise.

So, my friend was asking me how I came to be this non-believer of sorts; when/where/how the big change occurred.

Roundabout 2005, is what I told her.

At this point, I was 21, a young mother, a critical thinker, confused, and depressed. All I knew is that I had this terrible sense of guilt, shame and felt as though I as inherently bad. I was on this endless quest for something more. I wanted a deep spiritual connection with God, but for whatever reason I just couldn't get there. I thought it was because of me. I thought it was because I was fornicating, or because I didn't attend church regularly, or because I couldn't shake the desire to have unnatural relations with women... All I knew is that I felt disconnected from God and that is was my fault.

This shame that I carried around with me contributed greatly to my anxiety and depression. It wasn't until I acknowledged and explored my doubts about my religion, that I found peace... in disbelief.

So, here I am today, happily not believing in the hype that I was sold as kid. And here I am, with a kid of my own, trying to figure out just what I want to teach her. See, even though I'm no longer part of the fold, my whole family is still made up of card carrying members of the flock and they will not rest until the salvation of my daughter is won. Unfortunately, I'm pretty ambivalent to the fight.

This is not good.

Basically, it boils down to this. I don't want my kid dealing with the same issues of guilt and shame that I carry. I don't want her being taught by friends and family that her mommy is going to hell because she's gay. I don't want my baby berating the "unsaved" with her self-righteous notions of religious superiority. I don't want my child being preyed upon by the "church family" until she relents and becomes one of them. I don't want them to train up my child in the way she should go so when she is older she will not depart. I don't wanna brainwash my kid. I don't want to teach her to hate difference.

However, I don't want to fight my family and loved ones. I don't want to have to come out as a lesbian and as a non-believer. I don't want them to accept me for loving women only to turn around and disown me because I don't believe as they do. I don't want to ruffle feathers...

What I do want is to teach my girl to love and celebrate herself. I do want her to recognize the collective spirit alive in all human beings. I do want her to question and to research and to learn and to come to her own conclusions. I want to foster creative critical thinking. I want her to choose to understand those different than she, and to respect and accept and celebrate those differences. I want her to love wholeheartedly without abandon. I want my family to accept that.

So, basicall, what I have to say and what I have been saying is that my religion is love. I don't know about god, but I know I choose to believe in Goddess. I don't know if I'm right and frankly I don't care. All I know is that I want my baby to love and I want to love. If I can teach her to love fully and completely, well in my book, I've done a hell of a lot better than any religion ever did for me.

And So It Begins...

And so it begins.

For the first time in history a Black man has a serious shot at the White House. For the first time a Black family may seriously be the face of the American family. For the first time someone who looks somewhat like me, may be leading my country. But with so much newness, comes a blast from the past. A white woman accusing a Black man of a vicious, violent attack against her.

And so it begins.

So apparently this woman - Ashley Todd, a 20 year old college student from Texas and a McCain campaign worker - was mugged by a big, ol' Black man at an ATM. This big black man not only wanted cash, but wanted her vote, too. After beating her up and taking her money, this big-black-man wouldn't leave well enough alone and decided to carve a backwards letter B into her face after seeing a McCain sticker on her car. Apparently this BigBlackMan is illiterate or dyslexic or both. Or maybe he's just a BIGBLACKMAN. I think it's the latter. Of course, the woman later decanted, admitting that she fabricated (read pulled that crazy shit out of her ass) the story.

This is upsetting on so many levels. So many. First of all, not only is this story just down right bizarre, but it stinks of sexualized racism. It reminds me of just how close we are to those days when a story like this would've meant a Black body hanging from a tree right now. A white woman accusing a Negro man of attacking her, because of a Mulatto man who's getting too big for his britches? Sounds like something out of an Imitation of Life-esque movie circa 1942. And yet it's 2008.

And so it begins.

With this election, Black folks have gotten a much needed self-esteem boost. It's like these last 6 months have given us a collective shot of pride chased down with some good ol' self love. People who never even thought about registering to vote are getting registered. Folks who never gave a damn about politics are turning off BET and TBN (or better yet, the Word Network) and tuning in to ABC, CBS, and CNN. Little kids are talking about Barack Obama in a way that children from previous generations could only pretend or dream up. It's amazing. But, before we let our chests pop with pride and dignity, I caution my sisters and my brothers to remember when and where we are.

This is America. The same country that just three years ago let our people lie in their own wastes, be corraled like animals into sports facilities and waited days before even expressing an inkling of care when Hurricane Katrina hit the gulf coast. This is the country that heards millions of little Black children into reeducation prisons, er, schools that leave them with a debillitating self-hatred and a crippling illiteracy that prevents them from ever achieving the illusion of the American dream. This is the country where just last month a Black man was dragged beneath a car driven by white men. The country where that story is sadly not the first case of such an act of barbarism. The country where white citezens and police officers alike can take a Black life without any risk of or penalty to their own. This is America circa 2008.

This story should be an example, a reminder if you will. That despite the fact that Barack Obama, a Black man, is a fingersnap away from winning the presidency, this is still the United States of America and we are still Black. We need to know that when Barack Obama wins, there are white folks who are ready to tear this country apart. And then there are white folks who are willing to pretend that it's not happening, or better yet that it has nothing to do with race. Or even better yet, use Obama as a token and blame all other Black folks not on his level.

And so it begins.

Some white folks will never be able to live it down if a Black man becomes president of the United States. Some white folks are willing to sacrifice their own bodies for this. I mean, this woman carved a letter B into her own face. How insane is that? I mean really. And I truly believe this is just the beginning of what we will see in the coming weeks, months, years. Some of us (self included) thought we would never see the day when a Black person became president. Now we need to think about what we will see after he becomes president. And we need to be prepared.

Go Barack! (insert raised fist)

The Rebirth

So this is me. I'm starting a new blog for a new point in my life. I sit here with all twenty-four-years-ten-months-one-week-and-five-days of life, experience, existence, being, etc... and with my thoughts. This is what I have to offer. This is what I want to offer. This is the first step on my journey to me. Well, maybe not the first step, but a step nonetheless.

I am a writer with what, of late, seems to be an aversion to writing.

I am putting an end to that today.

So what am I? Who am I? I am, like Jill Scott's album, beautifully human. I am a work in progress. I am a lover of women, of love, of self. I am a feminist... a Black feminist. I am intelligent. I am a thinker. I am falling... I am a mother. A good one. I am one. I am communal. I am ready...

So this is the beginning. I'm looking at 25 and I am choosing to live. And for me, choosing to write is choosing life. Write to life... (I am pro-choice :) just had to clear that up...) I am seizing the day! Living the 4th!

I am grateful. Grateful to so many who came before, during, or will come after my existence, but who have added to it, nurtured it, gave me room to grow, grow, grow. I am growing, going, spreading my wings. I am flying, no I am that little bird on the edge of the nest, waiting, wanting, wishing to fly... I have flown, but I guess I want to soar... Tweedly deeeeeeee...

I am silly. I laugh. Often. I smile too... and yes, sometimes it's to mask my tears. Sometimes it's to quell them.

I am passionate. I live for love. Love is my god. God is love. We all are capable of love. If we all did, damn... I exist in the throws of emotion, I crave it, I need it, it is my food. Yummy food. And I love to eat.

I think, no I am... finished. For now.

On Race, Gender and Baracking the Vote...

So right now we're in the midst of a history altering campaign season. The course of our world, our country, our stories are about to forever be changed. And really, I feel really ... conflicted. On the one hand, I am thrilled that in this election alone, a Black man, a white woman and a Latino man have all been campaigning vehemently for the Democratic nomination. Wow... never in my lifetime did I think I would see this. Then on the other hand, the Black woman hand, I feel like I'm being split in two (figuratively, not literally). You see, I am simultaneously Female and Black. Both of those along with many other identities, shape who I am. I can be no more Black than I can be a woman than I can be straight than I can be a mother than I can feminist than I can a writer and so on and so on. So when I look at this election, this decision, I can't help but feel a conflict of identity, so to speak.

I know, I know, I shouldn't be looking at this election on such a basic level. I should be analyzing the facts. What do they stand for? What are they promising to do? What are there positions on the issues that effect my everyday life? And I have looked into those things. I've read up on their stances, I've taken countless quizzes that are supposed to show me with whom I most closely align, and I've watched the debates and whatnot. But really, the implications of this election are far greater than that. For the first time ever, someone who looks somewhat like me is going to be in the White House and not as a wife or a worker either (sorry Republicans, I'm starting to think you don't stand a chance of winning this election ... you have ol' G. W. to thank for that). I can't possibly just focus on the issues, not when the contesters arouse such a response to my identity.

So let's take a look at those hands again. On the one hand, the Black one, I'm like all for a Black president. For the longest time, that term seemed like such an oxymoron, Black president. How could a country shaped on the backs of Black slaves and molded with the hands of racism ever have a Black person as it's leader? How was that possible when I still have issues identifying as American? I mean, obviously I live here, but when I think of an American, I think of a good ol' boy. I think of a white man who's neck may or may not be red, who flies flags with white stars and red and white stripes, who may or may not be wearing overalls with no shirt, who enjoys football and baseball and drinks Budweiser and listens to country music and cries when the Star Spangled Banner is sung, who may or may not like me as Black person, but who may be curious about me as a Black woman. I guess the idea of a Black person running this country where only decades ago our bodies were regularly seen swaying beneath poplar trees is like the ultimate victory.

And then there's the other hand, the female one, the one that is often supposed to be ignored, fading to the back behind the Black one. This hand, this hand is all about having a woman running this damn country because a woman can d othings a helluva lot better than a man can. This hand sees (again, figuratively seeing as I have no eyes on my hands) how women have been running things since the begininning of time. And how this country was founded on oppression and the original slavery - marriage - which is an institution that still exists, though not in the horrors of its earlier form, but to the benefit of men nonetheless. This hand is all about seeing a woman take control of this country, this patriarchy. This hand thinks that my needs as a woman, as a mother, as a lesbian, as a feminist, will be best served by a woman.

Damn these hands! You see, when I look at these hands of mine, they're both brown and they both are female. These hands of mine know no separation of the two. That's why this decision of mine (and the rest of the democratic country, but this here blog is about mine) is so hard. Because really, neither of those candidates represents me. And if they did, they wouldn't be frontrunners. My bestfriend and I joked about me running for president one day. She laughed and said, "that's too much other! You would never get elected!" And she was right. What would a candidate who completely represented me look like? Hmm, a young poor nappy headed radical Black feminist lesbian single mother. Do you see her running this country? Ever? Nah.

So really, this whole election is forcing me to consider my identity. Who the fuck am I? Am I more of a woman or am I more of a Black? Note: I really hate using Black as a noun, but for literary purposes, it works best this way. I mean, which defines me most: my Blackness or my Woman-ness? Such is the plight of a Black woman. That whole double jeopardy thing. The truth is, neither one is more important. I am both. bell hooks talks about identity in this book of hers I have yet to finish, called Talking Back: Thinking Feminist, Thinking Black. In this book, she describes how languages influences the ways in which we identify. How the concept of adjectives and nouns places importance on one aspect of our identity over another. Like, am I a Black woman or a female Black? What does it mean to give one aspect of my identity subject placement over another?

But I digress...

So until recently, I have been pretty much undecided, but leaning towards Hilary Clinton. Again, it's because I think a woman can do a better job than a man. It's also because I want to do what is not expected of me as a Black person. And it's because of the rampant sexism surrounding the media coverage and people's views of her. But then came Super Tuesday. As I was watching the results come rolling in, I kept feeling a twinge of excitement every time Obama won a state. And when I saw him address his audience in Chicago, I felt a shot of excitement. I love the grassroots feel and youthfil energy surrounding his campaign. I love how he is bringing young folks out to the polls. I love it! I also think his wife is beautiful... but that's neither here nor there.

But with all this "love" comes a feeling of betrayal. I'm ready to Barack the Vote, but what does that say about me as a woman? Media coverage of Hilary Clinton has been crazy, crazy sexist. She's not Clinton, she's Hilary. Some of the things I dislike about her - her seriousness, her lack of emotion, her boringness, her cut-throatness - can be attibuted to the fact that she is a woman and she has to be this way. She can't afford to be labelled as soft or feminine or emotional or fair or just or all of those things that can be associated with the feminine, that stuff that this society doesn't value. By judging her because of those things, am I falling victim to sexist representation?

Most recently, I took yet another quiz to help me come to a conclusion. The results? Clinton 21 and Obama 20. Not much help. They're stances are pretty similar on the things that mean the most to me. So... what's a Black girl to do? If I knew, I wouldn't be writing this blog...

On Tyler Perry, Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton

I wanted to like it. I really did. I tried so hard to clear my mind of preconceptions (all negative) and to go into it with a blank slate. That was hard... real hard. I mean, my mom bought the movie. I already feel like enough of an outcast (well not outcast per se, just different, really different) in my family as it is, being the feminist one, the crazy one, the non-Christian one, the gay one (not that Mama knows or so I think... hmmm) so I said, let me just pretend to be interested in this movie that Mama and my sister like, and go along with it even though I'm sure it's not my style. Sometimes you just want to fit in, know what I'm saying? At the end though, it was real hard - real hard - to muster that, "Oh that was cute." I'm sure it sounded insincere, but I tried nonetheless.

So, the movie I'm referring to is none other than, Why Did I Get Married? Tyler Perry's latest attempt to publicize what he thinks is in a woman's mind. Not this woman. Why Did I Get Married is nothing more than an ego boost for insecure men. There, I said it. Perhaps it's the way he relied on stereotypes to create his characters. Or perhaps it's the way he used extremes to get his point across. Perhaps, it's because the lives of all of the female characters essentially revolved around their men. Or finally, perhaps it's because it's just plain sexist. Whatever it was, I didn't like it and believe me I was trying. Now, where do I begin?

How about with the women? Is it me, or did it seem like all of the women in the film were fundamentally defective in some way? Right, I know everyone has problems, no one is perfect, blah, blah, blah. What I mean though, is that for the most part, these women were so messed up that they were destroying the lives of their husbands and their families. Let's begin with Angela - oh Angela - played by actress Tasha Smith. Angela is the sharp tongued, alcoholic who is constantly berating her man into submission. Sound familiar? Perhaps because Angela is none other than Sapphire - the eye rolling, finger snapping, ball busting Black woman that apparently all us Black girls have within us - who is responsible for not only emasculating the Black man, but for the Black matriarchy described so brilliantly in Daniel Patrick Moynihan's report on the Black family. Despite the fact that her husband is a chronically unemployed, philanderer (there's a fun word) who refuses to address his "baby mama" who is another woman destroying their marriage, it is her words and her attitude that is at the root of their problems, because everybody knows that you don't disrepect a Black man's masculinity right? Their problems aren't solved until he sets her straight, by going off on both her and Keisha, his baby mama, causing Angela to realize her love for him and to vow never to be mean to him again.

Now, I'm no proponent of alcoholism or verbal abuse, but why is it that the root of their problems are her "smart mouth" and not his problems with employment and his relationship with his children's mother? When it is revealed that they have both been unfaithful, why is it more of a foul that she did it than he? Oh duh! I know! It's because she's a woman! Silly, me!

Next is Diane, played by Sharon Leal, who gets the distinct honor of being Mr. Perry's woman in this film. Diane has recently made partner in her law firm and is a bit of a workaholic. She is a woman of the 21st century. She is a wife, a mother, and a successful lawyer. She is the Claire Hustable of the millenium! Diane, to use a phrase from the 90s, has it going on! But, not quite, because her hubby isn't happy. See, unlike Claire, Diane is suffering in the wifely duties department and five kids? Diane can barely manage the one she has and doesn't want anymore children, much to the chagrin of her husband, Terry (Terry? Tyler Perry? Anyone else catch that? Cute Tyler, cute). This woman does not know her place and is ruining her husband's and daughter's lives because of it. The couple go back and forth over the issue of having more children since she is content with one and Terry wants 4. Hmmm, didn't they talk about this before they got married? Guess not. Then it is revealed that Diane took matters into her hands a long time ago when she decided to have her tubes tied after giving birth to their child. Oh shit! Houston, we have a problem!

You see, Diane's problem is that she forgot she was a woman. Diane forgot that once she said those vows, her body became the property of Dr. Terry (yes, how Cosby Show of him, he is a doctor) and her main priority was to pop out babies and make hubby happy. By taking control of her reproductive system and her career, Diane is essentially emasculating Terry by failing to give him the wife he so desires. Now, I do believe that relationships are about compromise; however, children should NOT be one of them. What kind of parent will you be if you keep having children simply to please your partner? Children deserve better than that. I also believe that decisions like the one Diane made regarding her own body, should be discussed with your partner before being made, but ultimately are up to the one who's body is being affected. Finally, what is Perry trying to say about women with careers? Why is it that a man who is ambitious is a great provider, but a woman who is ambitious is a bad mother and wife? Is there no compromise?

Janet Jackson's character, Patricia, is perfect. Perfect Patty. Perhaps even the best representation of women in the film. She is a relationship expert of some kind, and is the one everyone comes to when there's marital strife. Patty knows all. However, Perfect Patty has a secret. One that is threatening her own happiness and her husband's. Patty's toddler son was killed in a car accident after she failed to properly strap him into his carseat. Bad Patty. Now she blames herself, and apparently, at some point, so did her husband, Gavin.

It's really a sad thing. But again, she is a faulty woman. She was so busy trying to get to work, that she forgot to make sure her son was properly restrained. A simple mistake really, but one that resulted in his death. It could have easily been a mistake that Gavin made without really changing the story too much. The pain and grief would still be there. The struggle in their relationship would still be there. The juxtaposition of Perfect Patty's public persona and private life would still be there. But Perry chose to make it Patricia's fault that their son died and thus establish her husband as faultless and really perfect. Why is that? Patricia's and Gavin's relationship is the archetype in the film. There's is a relationship for all the other's to aspire to. By establishing fault in Patricia, but really none in her husband, it casts the woman in a lower position to her husband. It establishes her in her place as a woman, who can never be as good as a man. Who will always need a man to save her.

Finally, Jill Scott's character, Sheila, is esablished as perhaps the best woman in the picture. She is loving, generous, submissive, passive and a great wife to her husband, Mike. She is also morbidly obese, a fact that verbally and emotionally abusive Mike won't let her forget. Perry establishes Sheila as a victim. She is a good woman struggling with her weight who is victimized by a bad man. Their relationship is the foil to Patricia's and Gavin's. She is a good woman the 80 to her husband's mistress' 20. She is the example of what happens when a man is not on his job; not loving his wife and providing for her. Sheila's world crumbles when she realizes that her husband is having an affair with her beautiful and single friend, Trina. Poor Sheila didn't know better than to let a beautiful, single woman around her husband. However, after Mike leaves her in pieces, Sheriff Troy is there to pick them all up and fit them back together. Within months of her divorce, Sheila is sporting a new husband, a svelte new frame, and a self-confidence that she didn't have with Mike. See what a good man can do?

The biggest problem with this storyline though is exactly that, what a good man can do. Sheila jumped from an abusive relationship right into another one. Though this relationship is a good one, there was no time for her to develop herself as a woman separate from a man. It was Troy who gave her job and a place to stay after her husband took all of her money. It was Troy who encouraged her to work out and get in shape. And it was Troy who gave her the ability to love herself. At one point she says that she doesn't want to jump into a relationship so soon after divorcing Mike - perhaps the smartest line in the movie. However, good sense goes out the window when Troy tells her he loves her and kisses her passionately, something that she's been missing for quite some time. As a result, Sheila's self-discovery and growth as a woman, as a human being, is thwarted and she gives all control to her husband, I suppose as it should be.

Perry makes a bold statement about women in his film, well several bold statements. First, he establishes a woman's place as behind her man. In all examples, life does not get better until the women give up control and let the men take over. With Angela it's when she stops using her words to emasculate her man. With Diane, it's when she stops emasculating her man by pursuing her career. With Patty it's when she stops pretending to be perfect, recognizes her mistake and lets her husband take care of her. With Sheila, it's when she puts an end to her own self-empowerment and marries a good man. All of these examples show that without a man to lead her a woman is lost. Next, Perry establishes marriage as the key to women's happiness and fulfillment. All of the women are miserable when faced with the possibility of losing their men. They learn that if the don't submit to him, their happiness is fleeting. Perry also makes a startling statement about Black women who choose to have careers. All of the women - except Sheila who I will get to in just a moment - are extremely successful women. Angela - a chemist - owns her own hair care line and salon. Diane is partner at her law firm. And Patricia is an award winning author, professor and relationship therapist. However, all of these powerful women are reminded in some way shape or form that their men have the upper hand. They are reminded that they are still defective women and that no matter how successful they may be, their men are still above them. Though all of the men in the film have some issues, it is essentially the defectiveness of the women that is to blame for the problems in their marriages. Sheila, who chooses not to have a career, is the one female character who is established as a good woman. The only lesson she needs to learn is a small one really, and that's how to love herself - which apparently she doesn't need to know as long as she has a man who's willing to do it for her. Tyler's message to women is really a sad one; a sad mysogynist one.

So, if you haven't figured it out already, I hated the film. However, it forced me to ask myself a lot of tough questions. In an earlier blog I discused racism and sexism and which was most visible. Now I am questioning the conclusion I reached. I'm not in the business of comparing struggles or oppressions, especially considering that both of these effect me. However, racism seems to have become somewhat un-PC. Of course it happens. It's rampant and I'd be lying if I said it didn't shape my life, my identity or myself on a daily basis. But sexism seems to still be acceptable. It hasn't become un-PC yet. It's still ok for men to make sexist remarks and get away with it. It's accepted that Tyler Perry's view of women and marriage are accurate and commendable. It's accepted that Barack Obama is Obama and Hilary Clinton is just Hilary. It's obvious that this country would rather have a man than a woman running it. So what does that mean? For me as a woman what does it mean that I'm supposed to have a man to lead me, as husband and as president? As a lesbian, what does that mean? As a Black woman what does it mean that a Black man is about to be president of the United States, but a white woman is still not good enough? Where does little ol’ Black, Female me fit into that? What do these things mean?

On the Jena Six and the Media

I wish I could say I've known about this all along. But I can't. I wish I could say that I immediately rushed to find out about The Six when I first heard reference to them. But I can't. I wish I could say that my anger was unneccessary, that it really was an overreaction with no cause. But I can't. I can't say these things for many reasons.

First of all, there was no real media coverage of the situation in Jena, Louisiana for months after the situation began. There was, however, plenty of media coverage around Michael Vick and his dog fighting fiasco. Why? I could sugarcoat it, make it sound all pretty and nice and not offensive and all that, but I'm am angry and so I'm not. So, the real reason why there was no real coverage of this situation is because the media in this god damn country is so fucking racist and only certain images of Black folks are acceptable to be shown. No one wants to talk about Black folks being victimized anymore, because that is like so 150 years ago and went out with slavery, right? Wrong. As long as Black folks are doing stupid shit it's ok to plaster their faces all over the evening news and every other media outlet there is. But let a Black person be victimized by a racist city and racist judicial system and racism period, no one wants to show that on the news.

Why? As long as we're discussing why and not sugarcoating shit, let me give another reason why. There has been limited coverage of the Jena 6 because with media coverage comes public response and with public response comes public rage. As long as Black folks (and those sympathetic to our struggle) remain ignorant, there can be no change. Call me crazy, a conspiracy theorist, or whatever you want, but this I know to be true: the media in this country dessiminates information that it deems safe and stories about six Black boys falling victim to Jim Crow like prosecution is not safe. This is what lynching looks like in 2007. Bodies are no longer swaying from poplar trees, but instead rotting inside penitentiaries due to a racist judicial system. How ironic. This modern day lynching began with a throwback to the days of yore - nooses hanging from a tree.

But let me get back on track here. I wish I could say that I rushed to find out about the Jena Six when I first heard mention of their plight. But sadly, oh so sadly, I can't. I knew. I knew the first time I ever heard the moniker, Jena Six, that some racist bullshit was going down somewhere in the goddamn country and truthfully (as ashamed as I am to admit it) I decided ignorance is bliss. So for weeks, I avoided the Facebook blogs, the Myspace avatars, all the threads on a message board I belong to. I didn't think I could take something else, because recently I've developed a kinda rage and I didn't want to add to it. And I'm disgusted with myself, because it's that attitude, that ignorance that contributes to this shit. It's that attitude that makes the lack of media coverage so dangerous. Why? Because if it is not spelled out for us, if it is not all up in our faces, if it is not Michael Vick-ed then it might as well not be happening.

The revolution will not be televised. Let me say it again, the revolution will not be televised. We cannot expect our plight and our stories to be told in the mainstream media of this country. We cannot expect our freedom to be given to us without a fight. And we cannot afford to sick back and wait for change to happen. We have to make it happen. I can go on and on about the media and the havoc it is reeking on our lives as Black people and as Americans. I can go on and on about how I believe it is a ploy of the government and the powers that be, that Britney Spears, Angelina Jolie and shuckin' and jivin' Negroes are the only things showing up on tv screens all over the country. But I'm not going to go there today. Today, I'm talking up the Jena Six. Today I'm deciding that I'm not gonna let this story die, not gonna let talk of those Six cease from my lips and my words until there is justice. And I'm encouraging you to do the same.

So consider this a call to action. It's time for us - Black folks and other folks of color, white folks, gay folks, straight folks, woman folks, man folks, little folks, big folks, ugly folks, pretty folks, me and you - to stand up and do something. It's time for us to stop sitting around like zombies, stop letting the media tell us what to care about and brainwash us into self-hatred and fear, and start deciding for ourselves that the turn this society has taken is a dangerous and scary one. Not because of terrorists overseas, but because of terrorists lurking in this country, waiting to steal, kill and destroy those of us blessed with color, those of us who love members of the same sex and/or gender, those of us who are poor, those of us with uteri, vulvas, and vaginas, and those of use who aren't rich, white men. It's time for us to take action.

"Up, you mighty race, accomplish what you will!" Marcus Garvey

On Race, Racism and What It All Means...

Racism has been on my mind so much lately. It's getting to the point where I'm fighting this intense rage everyday because of racism, and its cronies discrimination and prejudice. Perhaps I'm just tired of oppression in general, but that's another blog and I'm trying to keep this short.

Let me start off by explaining the concept of race. The concept of race is pretty racist truthfully. Race is a social contruction created for the purpose of biologically explaining the infinite superiority of whites over all other people. Human beings were divided into three categories: Negroid (Black), Mongoloid (Asian) and the illustrious Caucasoid (white) - note: please notice the sarcasm. Anyone who is not primarily one of these is a mixture: ie. Latinos (Negroid, Mongoloid, and Caucasoid) and Native Americans (Mongoloid) and so on. All of these classifications are supposed to determine ones intelligence but really only determines ones inherent worth as a human being, with the judge being Caucasoids. Basically, though, what it all boils down to is how you look, because there is no biological difference between the races. There are (duh) physical characteristics specific to each group, but any other differences are the result of outside forces such as history, socialization, and racism.

The concept of racism is trickier yet. Contrary to popular belief, racism is a system of advantage based on race. Racism is not a belief, though a belief can be racist (prejudice). Racism is not an action though an action can be racist (discrimination). Racism is not speech, though speech certainly can be racist (hate speech). All of these are tools of racism and all most definitely perpetuate it. However, none of these, in and of itself is racism.

The difference is that racism is a form of oppression and oppression is a system. Oppression in it's many forms is what makes the wheels turn in this here society. See the difference between discrimination and prejudice and racism is that the former two affect people interpersonally. It's on a micro level. It really hurts when someone dislikes you or treats you badly because of your skin color. I experienced this the other day and it reduced me to tears. However, racism is on a macro level. When Black children are sent to inadequate schools with inadequate resources; when Black people are often unable to secure loans for homes, businesses, etc.; when Black people are disproportionately prosecuted for drug related crimes (read crack vs. cocaine) it's racism. Racism affects an entire group of people, while discrimination and prejudice affect individuals. That's the difference.

So, based on this definition, people of color cannot be racist. Let me say it again, people of color CANNOT BE RACIST!!! They can't be racist towards whites or other people of color. They can be prejudiced as the dickens and discriminate like it ain't nobody's business, but they can't be racist.

Why? Because racism is a system of advantage and until there is a system in place that gives any person of color an advantage over anyone based on their race, white people are the only ones capable of racism. I know someone's saying, "Well what about affirmative action? That's a system that gives Blacks an advantage." IIINNNTTT (imagine a buzzer) wrong! Affirmative action is a tool by the power structure (the system if you will) in this country that is supposed to give Blacks (and other people of color, women, people with disablitities, etc.) a leg up on ... racism (and sexism, ablism, etc) not white people as some might think. Affirmative action is NOT a system, but rather a tool of the system.

As of late, this system of advantage based on race has been weighing quite heavily on my mind. There's the Jena Six, there's Hurricane Katrina and the aftermath, there's the media hype surrounding the Michael Vick nonsense (and the lack of hype surrounding the Jena Six), there's this ridiculous show on Cincinnati's WSTR tv station called American Crossroads with a ridiculously racist and xenophobic slant, there's the racist ass fucker who has my car, there's the racist ass police officer who racially profiled me, and... the list goes on and on. I'm literally bubbling over in anger right now and it's all because of racism.

So really, this little blog here was just a teaser, if you will, meant to set the tone for the other blogs that will follow it (hopefully shortly). All of those issues and more, will be discussed at length at a later date, but this here is just a little water, just a taste, for the mind.

NOTE: Though I focused on racism against Black, all people of color are able to be on the receiving end of racism. Also, this in no way means that all white people are racist (I did at one point believe this but only meaning that all white people benefit from and thus perpetuate racism in that there are certain benefits to having white skin in this society, not meaning that all white people discriminate or are prejudiced against people of color). Finally, also worth mentioning is that just because people of color are not able to be racist, people of color are definitely able to perpetuate other systems of oppression, such as sexism, heterosexism, ablism, and all the many other -isms out there.

On Race and Gender and Visibility

What do you notice first, race or gender?

It's a good question. I used to think the answer was gender, because people how could you miss it? She either is or isn't a woman - there's no other choice, right (I've since changed my opinions on this matter)? Even though I know all about the workings and importance of rac e and gender as well, in this country and make it my priority to live a life that shows pride and knowledge in and of my culture, I mistakenly reached the wrong conclusion on this one.
Several incidents of late, two in particular, have shown me the error of my ways.

One example happened today. As my car is currently on the outs, I've taken to using public transportation - the Metro - for my transportation needs. On this morning of all mornings with a temperature hovering at 0 F and a sub-zero windchill, I was obviously bundled up to the max. So I get on the bus and take the first seat open, next to this youngish white woman, dressed rather well, looking like she was about to go to work at some big, downtown company, like she'd just rolled out of bed in her expensive, young-urban-professional-ish penthouse in Hyde Park and hopped on the 'Tro as a way to conserve gas and appear trendy and urban to her yuppy co-workers (clearly I'm relying on a bunch on stereotypes and assumptions here, mostly for creative purposes). So I note The Look on her face. You know, the one that says, 'please don't sit next to me person whose not quite on my level'. It's seen often on the faces of many a bus traveler when in contact with someone different - often racially - than they are. So, noting the Look, I sit down anyway. As I losen my coat and assortment of scarves, I brush against her arm. I note the way she repels from my lightest of light touch. She scoots as far away as possible from me, as if she's afraid that some of my blackness, er, coldness (I told you it was sub-zero out there) might rub off on her. I also note the way she refuses to look at me, not once do her head or eyes move to the right to acknowledge my presence. Perhaps she feels so badly that I waited outside for 15 minutes for that damn bus in that god awful cold, that she can't even bear to look at me at risk of bursting into tears of compassion. Perhaps it's my bundled appearance not unlike her own, that frightens her. After all, you can't trust a darky with it's face covered up, right? Right.
So after noting her rather peculiar (not really) behavior, I start to wonder. What does she think when she sees me? I know I've made several assumptions about her, but what assumptions has she made about me? Are all of those assumptions based off of my race?

I wonder.

So later this morning I'm in training at my new job. There's me, a graying, Black man, and a young, white girl around my age. We have to show the HR secretary our social security cards and driver's license so that she can fill out some paperwork. Somehow, the poor secretary - bless her heart - got me and this gray haired Black man confused. Somehow my information wound up on his form and his on mine. Somehow this mistake happened while our picture ids were right in front of her face (that's where the information came from). Somehow the young, white, girl was left out of this unfortunate, but definitely unintentional and somewhat embarrssing (oops, nervous giggle, how'd that happen?) faux pas.

I wonder. How did that happen? Did she just see brown face and start writing? Did she not notice female face versus male face? Did she not notice 23 year old face versus forty something face? Hell, did she not notice shock of shoulder, length black hair versus almost no hair at all? Or perhaps this woman is so naturally pc, so all inclusive, so non-white-male-blind that she doesn't even notice little things like race, gender/sex or age. Perhaps this woman is the PC Posterchild and maybe her's is the face that should be shown around the world to those in need of a litle diversity training. I dunno.

So these incidents, along with a bunch I've accumulated over the years, have served to bolster my stance (new as it may be) that race trumps gender in this country in terms of visibility and to support one that I've known was true since I was able to think rationally, perhaps before then seeing as I was raised by an extremely pro-Black Nationalist: Race matters (to borrow Dr. Cornel West's book title).

So, what does all this mean? Well, it means that we have a long way to go in the fight for equality. It means that no matter how much I or you or whoever, know that race is a social contruction, it doesn't matter as long as people so inclined to discriminate can see the difference and act accordingly.

Honestly, it's a bit disheartening.

Not because I need or want white people's approval or acceptance, but because I need and want to be treated as a equal citezen in this country of my birth. Truthfully, it's pretty damn ludicrous to ask people not to notice difference. And to be honest, it's even harder to ask them not to make judgements bosed off of those notations. All I'm asking is that we don't act on them. That we take the chance to get to know the person, rather than to lump them in the fictional box we've created for them to support our (white, male, capitalist, heterosexist patriarchy) own theories of inferiority. Why can't we accept difference, love it and support each other because of, not in spite of, it? Perhaps that's too much to ask.

So when the next time you see me walking down the street, rocking, my Afro, my baby girl on my hip sans a ring on my 4th (or 2nd, depending on where you start) finger, and a backpack on my back. Don't assume I'm a welfare queen, an uneducated hoodrat, a baby mama, a ho, a shoplifter or the plethora of other sterotypes abounding about women who may look like me. Just remember, you don't know me or even my type (what's that?) so please, don't pretend you do.

On Dreams and Girls and my Love for (and thoughts on) the Remake...

As I sit here reflecting on the beauty that is Dreamgirls, I'm filled with a myriad of emotions. The first, of course, is satisfaction, as the film is a most pleasurable spectacle for the eye to behold. Second is pride, because the all-Black cast certainly pulled it off (even Beyonce, I wouldn't go as far as saying her performance was Oscar worthy, but she did good nonetheless) with finesse. And third (because I like to do things in threes) I'm feeling mighty contemplative right now. There were so many issues (not all negative, but worth a little consideration) that were brought up in the film - issues of sexism and racism and I guess you can say colorism, and the list goes on.

But I'll get to all that later. First, I just want to muse on just how wonderful I found the film to be. The music. Oh sweet Mother Goddess, it was wonderful! When Jennifer Hudson sang "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going," I literally had tears in my eyes. I'm a lover of voices - good voices that is. Instruments, performance, and the like are great and certainly have the power to move me. But there is nothing like a good voice and that girl know she can sing! I keep thinking, that's the same girl from American Idol (and yes I thought she could blow back then too) up there singing her ass off. Damn. That's all I can say. But she's not the only one. Anika Noni Rose was also great and so was Beyonce.
What's so ironic to me are the similarities between Beyonce, Deena and Beyonce's top billing in the credits. First of all, I must admit that I have a love-hate relationship (ok, ok, so it's not a true relationship) with Beyonce. So yeah she is most definitely beautiful and sexy as hell (with make-up, I think she's the only woman I find more attractive with make-up), but looks aside I don't know how comfortable I am with her persona. No, I don't mean the innocent, good girl persona her Daddy and publicist try so hard to present; I mean the Diana Ross-divaesque-cut-members-out-of-the-group-and-steal-the-limelight-so-that-I-can-make-the-group-the-stepping-stone-for-my-solo-career persona that seems to seep through the hype. I don't care how shy she might pretend to or actually be, you have to be cut throat to get rid of two original members of a group that you've known since childhood and make said group into a solo thing with two back up singers. Damn. Beyonce is a beast!

And so is Deena. Deena did the same thing in the movie. Used that innocent fascade to mask her inner monster. And you know, I'm really all for women getting fierce for what they want, but somehow Beyonce rubs me the wrong way. Why can't women get ahead without stepping on other women? Why can't we be successful with other women? Why does it have to be a me or them thing instead of a us thing? I was thinking about that as I watched the movie. If Effie and Deena had just said, fuck you Curtis Taylor jr. we don't succumb to the oppression of patriarchy even from our black brother, things would've been so much better for the both of them. Probably though, things would've been different in a bad way. At least for Deena. There would be no Deena and the Dreams, only two Black women in line for welfare checks, instead of one. The world wasn't ready for women running things back then and it certainly isn't now.
But back to the irony. Isn't ironic how Beyonce - like Deena - gets top billing over Jennifer Hudson who literally made the movie? And ask me who can sing better; Beyonce was out of her league in this one. She can't act and though she can sing, she sho did get upstaged by this chubby, American Idol reject who deserves every accolade she gets and more. I said it before, Jennifer Hudson can blow. But whatever, I still think Beyonce can sing and I sure did have my baby daddy give me the bootleg (no I did not spend my hard earned money on her album - never that) version of her first solo cd and yeah I loved it. I do, however, hate how Beyonce gets all the attention for this when her performace is so obviously sub-par when compared to that of Hudson. I'm not trying to pit the two against each other (ok, ok so I don't have the power to do that). I'm all for sisterhood well in this case I mean sistahood (for those who may be unfamiliar I'm referring to the common bond and support shared between two Black women), but what's fair is fair. Jennifer Hudson is the star of the remake of Dreamgirls.

Well, I've reached the end of my written ponderance of the Dreamgirls film. I didn't touch on a fraction of the forementioned issues I found, but I feel compelled to end here. Obviously I thought very highly of the film. I say obviously because in addition to this lengthy blog I've written, I felt compelled to bring my lazy ass down to the basement, boot-up the computer and write this piece after a long pause if you will since my last entry and since I last wrote anything (some journalism major I am). So here I sit at 2:34 am on Christmas or I'm sorry the first day Kwanzaa (Habari Ghani to all my fellow celebrants) reviewing the film. So I'll end with this: I strongly urge everyone to see the film! It was great! Jennifer Hudson was great! Anika Noni Rose's performance was great (and her giggle at the beginning infectious)! Beyonce looked great with all her make-up and sang beautifully on "Listen". It was just great!

NOTE: I do not hate Beyonce. I am somewhat of a fan. I just have some problems with the working of her inner beast is all.