Dripping Gratitude

Yesterday it took me an hour to get home from work. The normal commute is thirty minutes but the heavy rain coupled with the foreboding clouds and dark sky seemed to make it harder to see. Even though I really love the rain (from my bed under several blankets with music playing and the window cracked ever so slightly), I almost opened my mouth to complain about how wet and dark it was, how long it took to get home, how the extra thirty minutes in the car made me tired, and how I had a lot of housework to do. I logged onto Facebook and saw all sorts of half-serious pleas for God to make the rain go away and observations about how people in southern California don't have to worry about rain the way we do. Again, I started to join the fray before logic set in.

Every morning I get up to take a shower. The water might get cold after a good long while but it never ceases to come out of the shower head. I open my shades and have a view of a huge tree with leaves that help keep my place cool in the summer. When I want to visit water, the oceans, rivers, and streams are always full and when I need a bottle of water after a workout, there is always one available. Obviously, the rain makes all of that happen and after the rain stops, I always seem to be better off than I was before it started.

I look at the rain the same way I look at my problems. They sometimes put me in a place that is dark and the time it takes me to perform a regular task is sometimes doubled because the problem interferes with my ability to be efficient. Despite the challenge, once the problem is solved I feel refreshed and better than I did before the problem started.

Rain is cathartic. Not only does it make things grow, it makes things clean. When we complain about the rain we complain about one of the very elements that keeps us alive and refreshed. I'm sure I will still have plenty of days I want to complain about the rain or my personal problems but hopefully I'll be able to put the situation into perspective and know that I will always end up growing and cleansed because of it.

My Buddy

Some people live a lifetime without ever having one real friend. Sure, they interact with others and maybe even attend social events with folks but at their lowest or highest points they have no one to comfort them or bask in the glow with them. That, to me, is an incredibly sad existence and one I don't think I would be able to endure.

I'm sure some people are friendless because they just give up based on bad experiences. Backstabbing, gossiping, jealousy, envy, and sometimes flakiness can all make a person deem friendship unworthy of her time. Others may not know how to be a friend and therefore never reach out to anyone to forge a close relationship. And, I'm sure there are some who are just too mean and ornery to be bothered with the lives of others. I feel sorry for them too.

I've always been told if one can say he has at least ONE true friend, she is fortunate indeed. I have come to understand and appreciate that saying more the longer I live. Despite the challenges human relationships can present, I have been blessed enough to maintain some of the best relationships with some of the most amazing people. Like snowflakes, one friend is different from the other but all of them serve an important purpose in my life. All of them enhance my life in ways I wouldn't experience if I didn't know how to have and be a friend.

My closest friend lives far away but the distance has never kept us from our bond. She was with me at my lowest point and it never occurred to me to call anyone else. Another friend listens and gives me the logical point of view when I've lost my way. One makes me feel good about letting my hair down and doesn't judge me for it. Still another relates to me through our love of music and movies. The list goes on and that alone reflects how fortunate I am.

Friendships take work like any relationship. Communication, time, connection, and empathy are of the utmost importance. Without those, there is no friendship. There is only the establishment of a superficial politeness based in nothing. Hurt feelings and anger are sometimes a part of it too. However, when a friendship means something the communication kicks in and smooths out the rough edges.

I don't think I'm a perfect friend. Hell, I'm not a perfect person. Nonetheless, I try my best to be a good friend because I value the connections I've made and look forward to the new friendships I will forge in my lifetime. I know everyone doesn't have it like me and for them I feel sorry because there is absolutely nothing like having at least one true friend.

Tackling Tomfoolery: Wed Dread

Tackling Tomfoolery: Wed Dread

Wed Dread

http://www.sacbee.com/2010/11/06/3164774/blacks-struggle-with-72-percent.html?storylink=pluck_commented

I read the attached article today and was equal parts irritated and disappointed. Though I am the first to admit I absolutely love and completely believe in the institution of marriage and the great importance of a child growing up in a home with married parents, I have to say the theories of some of those listed in this article completely missed the mark for me.

I saw a number of misconceptions and thought patterns on both ends of the argument that lead to generalizations and it concerns me to see these things perpetuated. Encouraging marriage is one thing but promoting it without considering all the information can prove detrimental to those involved. I noticed about six points of contention:

1. Men are irrelevant. - When interviewing 30 year old fast food manager and mother of three with one on the way, Sherhonda Mouton, she expressed how the father of her first child shot her and her baby, the father of children two and three is not an active participant, and that the father of baby number four is "...around. He helps with the kids". She further expressed that marriage is another obligation she doesn't need. I found all of this disturbing. Mouton, like many single women, feel that because they are somehow managing to "get by" with their children it is proof that fathers are an unnecessary evil. How wrong that is. Just as two are required to create a child, two are needed to pour into that child everything they possibly can. Children may appear well rounded, grounded, and potentially successful but that doesn't mean there is no void in that child's life because of the lack of a father. Not only do fathers serve a huge purpose in the lives of their children, they set an example to young boys about how they should be as men, they show their daughters what to expect from a man, and as husbands, they serve as an example to their children of how a husband should function within a marriage. A man's role in the lives of his children is not to be negated and rendered irrelevant. Too many women make that mistake and never consider the ramifications for their children.
2. Women think babies love them. - In this article and many other documentaries, news reports, and personal conversations I've had with mothers, women are of the mind that having a baby will provide them with someone to love them. I can't stress enough how untrue this is. I've never met a baby who loved anyone or one who was concerned about the happiness and well being of anyone other than his or her self. It's true that babies are sweet, cute, and soft but it's also true that they are selfish and demanding. Their sole concern is getting what they need and want. Love is a learned behavior and it comes much later. Lack of love in one's life cannot be cured by having a baby. Babies only serve to exacerbate one's insecurity so loving oneself first is key.
3. Folks think marriage will fix everything. - As I mentioned before, I am a huge proponent of marriage. I believe it to be the ultimate partnership. However, I don't believe in sugar coating it. Marriage is difficult, tedious, back breaking work. It is physically, psychologically, and emotionally taxing and that is in the "good" marriages. That said, marriage has not EVER repaired an already unstable relationship. Marrying someone who is abusive, disrespectful, irresponsible, involved in criminal activities, or emotionally indifferent will not help the children involved in any way. Taking a less than ideal situation and making it even more volatile for the sake of appearances can provide a far worse fate to a child than raising him or her alone. That said, women need to think more clearly when choosing a mate. If he is terrible in the beginning, he'll be terrible in the end. Having a baby fixes nothing.
4. Society places the onus solely on the mother. - In all my experiences reading or listening to people speak, I've never heard a man referred to as an unwed father. However, I constantly hear statistical data and disparaging remarks about unwed mothers. It stands to reason that if the woman isn't married to the man, he's just as unwed as she is. It is unrealistic and unfair to place the "blame" with the woman only. Though the woman is the one who gives birth, the man is just as responsible for the life of that baby. So far I have heard of no movement to encourage men to marry the women they impregnate. Where can I find information on that?
5. The relevance of marriage is not properly explained. - In this particular article it appears as though women were told to get married and that it would be good for their children but there was no discussion on the real relevance of marriage. Marrying only because one is with child almost always proves disastrous. Staying in a bad situation "for the kids" has done little more than destroy the lives of many parents and the very children they were trying to save. Marriage shouldn't be about children. It should be about a commitment to a life partnership between two people based on love, truthfulness, mutual respect, common interest, and friendship, among other things. Simply implying folks should marry because there is a baby on the way is hogwash and changes the intention of marriage into a business transaction instead of an emotional commitment. If more people understood what marriage is intended to be, they'd a) take it more seriously b) get married only when sure of the promise they'd be making and c) stay together longer because they'd be involved for the right reasons. Until that happens, simply admonishing folks to marry because of a baby on the way will only lead to more divorce and more broken hearts and homes.

I saw other things in the article that disturbed me like the implication that marrying a white man instead will fix everything but I only see those as subtle implications and not as the main problem. Marriage is a wonderful undertaking and growing up in a home with happily married parents certainly works to the benefit of children. They seem more well adjusted, happier, more confident, and better prepared for adulthood. That said, marriage alone is not what helps a child become a productive member of society. Many single parents have raised some wonderful and successful children who didn't repeat the cycle. That said, there has to be a realistic approach to the lesson. Touting the virtues of marriage is wonderful but only under the right conditions. In the meantime, I'd like to see more emphasis placed on prevention instead of band aid remedies.

Lame Blame

The past few weeks of You Tube videos shared on Facebook and subsequent posts and discussions about "why black women can't find a good black man" have exhausted me. If it isn't Facebook, it's a talk show or special news report showing countless pathetic professional black women who are perpetually single and consequently pitiful. I am so disappointed in the way black men and women have begun to see one another and wish we would work to find a common ground instead of continuing to tear each other apart.

These days I am quite weary of all the black man/black woman bashing. All the men talk crazy about how wack black women are and all the women talk about how wack the men are and I just don't have the ability to deal with the nonsense of it all. All black women are accused of ignoring decent black men in exchange for thugs and other "n'er do wells". Black men are accused of being able to offer little more than that of an intellectual dunce with the sexual prowess of a Mandingo warrior. Together we have managed to reduce our value to little worth having.

What I see most in the break down of black relationships is a lack of personal accountability, informed assumptions, and truthful communication. Black folks spend so much time finger pointing and building up bitterness they miss their opportunities to love and be loved.

It goes without saying that men AND women are often attracted to what they shouldn't have. I love french fries and know they aren't good for me. However, they are fried, greasy, salty goodness that tastes delicious. I don't love french fries because I am a woman. I love them because I am human an salty tastes good to HUMANS. It is the same with men and women. We choose that which feels good but rarely is good for us. That's human nature, not some sort of gender predisposition.

The day we stop trying to rule one another by way of emotional manipulation, vague communication meant to keep up confusion, and an air of bravado in an attempt to ward off hurt feelings is the day we will all be better equipped for relationships with one another. If is the preconceived notions that continue to keep us apart. The more men and women buy into these misconceptions, the further apart we find ourselves.

I have never nor will I EVER look for a man. No one will ever hear me say I cannot FIND a good man because I believe the Bible when it says, "Whoso findeth a wife findeth a good thing and obtaineth favour of the Lord" (Proverbs 18:22). I expect to be found, not to find. I believe that is women's first mistake. We are out of pocket from jump when we try to find someone who should be looking for us. Men are seekers and that dates back to the beginning of time. Flirting notwithstanding, I believe men and women have forgotten their rightful places in romantic pursuits. I realize that sounds "old school", but I very much believe that.

I also think as women have become overly aggressive, men have become passive, wussy, and even entitled with expectation that the women chase them. Unfortunately, women do it willingly and the cycle is perpetuated. Men begin to feel as though they are more valuable than anything as if they should be chased. They take advantage of their increased value and use it to manipulate women's affections. Women, in turn, bite the bait and chase after someone who they will never really have.

We all continue to play ourselves because we aren't prepared to perform our roles. Everything is out of order and bad behavior on both ends is often rewarded because one is handsome, muscular, curvy, tall, wealthy, etc... I hate the way we blame one another instead of figuring out what each of us can do to make our lives and our relationships better.

Tiny Bubbles

Yesterday I was exhausted. I work on a job I don't like and the work coupled with the people can prove tiresome. I had a project due in class that nobody on my team bothered to do, I had to run to the grocery store, AND I had to use my lunch break to go get a six month overdue smog check. It was definitely one of those days. Hell, it was one of those weeks. HOWEVER, despite the stress, frustration, and exhaustion that weighed down my body, I still made time to review my sample ballot and get myself to my designated polling place to speak my political mind.

There have been plenty of election days in my 18 years of voting eligibility when I have not felt like going to the polls. Yesterday wasn't the first day I was tired on an election Tuesday. But any time I even entertain the idea of not going to the polls my mind is filled with visions of water hoses, billy clubs, burning crosses, bloodied bodies, and corpses laying in the streets. All of those suffering have faces that look like mine. They had hard days at work too. They had crying babies, overdue bills, and lived under the Jim Crow regime yet they still sacrificed everything so I would be able to go to the polls. Those are the reasons I vote. I cannot justify resting at home on my couch because I have had a hard day when those who came before me had hard lives and still fought for my right to vote. So, hurt feet, hurt heart, tired body, and all - I trudged to the polls yesterday. If for no other reason, it was to say thank you to those who made it possible for me to walk into a booth and fill in several tiny bubbles. There is no other alternative.

Dealt It and Smelt It

In between my emotional tangents on feeling as if I'll be single forever, I revel in the joys of living alone. My little piece of the world is the one place I can always go for solace. There is no one asking me for anything, nobody is arguing with me, my supervisor isn't annoying me with his mere presence, and I can watch whatever I want on TV which generally means all the Law & Order episodes my mind can stand. I'm a bit of a neat freak but there is a certain pleasure in knowing I can leave the "draws" I was wearing in the middle of the floor should I chose to do so. I decorate as I please, I pick the paint I want, and when it's time to go to bed, I can curl up in the fetal position or stretch out and take up every bit of mattress space if I want. I've often said one of the best things about living alone is the right to fart unapologetically.

All the benefits aside, I sometimes wonder if I'll be able to live with another person again. Is there a possibility that all this freedom makes me more likely to be impossible to endure? Should the off chance of me experiencing love again arise, I'd hate to ruin it all because of how particular I am about cup placement in the cabinet or the position of the toilet seat (Still, who really doesn't close the cap on the toothpaste these days?). Despite my occasional concern about what kind of cohabitant I will be, I have to believe that the right one for me will make the transition easy. Whatever makes me love him will also help me to relax when I see him using my bathroom towels to wash his car. At least, that's what I think about at night when I'm sprawled across my bed staring at my undies on the floor. Ah, good times.

Hip Hop Hobblin'

I could be in a dead sleep but put on Busta's "Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Can See", and you'll get at list one fist pumping in the air. On a good day, I'm shaking my hips- the good one AND the one that aches right before it rains. That's what good hip hop does for me. The lyrics incite reflection, laughter, and learning. The beats move my body almost involuntarily as I scream out, "Heeeeeey"!. I have been loving on and listening to hip hop for almost as long as I've been living. This is probably the main reason for this post.

Since I've arrived in the thirty somethings, I've been wondering if I'm too old for hip hop. I've pondered giving up my shell toes, turning in my bucket hat, and listening to nothing but the sweet, sweet sounds of the Isley Brothers. The stuff I hear on the radio exhausts me and I am almost guaranteed to hate the latest popular rapper. I don't want to Dougie, do the stanky leg, or Superman a ho. However, every time I hear Electric Relaxation I'm reminded why I stay. Hip Hop is amazing and it is a representation of my life from childhood to the ripe old age of ...{inaudible}. Besides, I feel obligated to share what happened before everything got watered down with my little brother. At 18 he has an expansive knowledge of old school hip hop and current underground artists who are still representing the world of hip hop in its most raw form and I like to think I had plenty to do with that. There's something about putting on some Dilla tracks and watching his face light up that reminds me why I love it so much and why I'm not quite ready to give up my bamboo earrings (at least two pair).

I suppose in the end I'll be one of those older people standing in the back of a show, away from the "babies", hands in the air, bifocals on, wearing a big rope chain and shaking whatever is left. I plan to keep my hand up for hip hop for as long as I can.

Best If Used By...

The other day I used the last of a bag of rice that had been sitting in my cabinet since last December. It had a flavor I didn't really care for and was not something I would buy. Instead, it was purchased by a guy I dated all of two weeks who brought it over to use for the dinner he cooked me. That delicious dinner, the great company, and the out of the ordinary conversation made me think there was promise for something that would go past the first few dates. Unfortunately, the bag of rice lasted much longer than he did.

In reviewing my "relationships" I have noticed that few have lasted past ninety days. They all start with a spark and end with a fizzle or sometimes a huge, five alarm mental and emotional fire set by yours truly leaving nothing but smoky rubble. Though I tell myself I want something long term and meaningful, I wonder if I am somehow sabotaging the process or if ninety days is about how long it takes for one to stop pretending to be a kinder, gentler version of himself and let his real tail show.

The first thirty days are wonderful. Phone conversations until the wee hours, fun dates, good morning texts, and fiery physical attraction. The next thirty seem to level out. Real life interferes and dates get cancelled or rescheduled because of work, school and family obligations. People get a little lazy because they feel they've already scored. The throughout the day texts turn into one half ass good morning text and a good night text if you're lucky. It is during this time one starts to wonder if the situation is really going to work but in the end is convinced it will because the good stuff from the first thirty must be coming back pretty soon, right?

The third month is usually a disaster. By then I've begun flirting with new prospects and collecting backup phone numbers to be called at day 91. The cute stuff done in the beginning has practically stopped, the dates are few and far between, and even the phone calls are a little light. At some point someone has farted proving the "cute" phase is over and I usually find out about his criminal record, extra kids, psycho ex, or prison record. Sometimes it's none of those things and it just fizzles out because the interest is lost and the fun is over.

So in all this reflection I keep wondering what the magical potion is to get past the expiration date. Surely there must be some secret in getting all the way to day 91. Maybe I really have just met people with whom I wasn't compatible or maybe I just don't know how to ziploc the relationship to keep it fresh for longer. Either way, from now on, I will be checking the label before I even engage.

Jig Dancin' for Dollas

From the time I was a child I was taught about the importance of doing well in school so I could grow up and "get a good job". So during my educational endeavors I always tried to picture myself as a gainfully employed "fill in the blank". Whatever I imagined involved me wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase on my way to my job at Snoozeville Incorporated. As a child these imaginings seemed normal. I figured it was what all grown ups did because I never saw or heard of any other option.

Now I am in my mid-thirties. I've had "good job" after "good job" and have been miserable on every last one of them. My saving grace arrived two years ago when it occurred to me what I really wanted to do. That knowledge lead me to return to school and now I have a definite plan. Though I am very excited about my future, there have been plenty of naysayers who are caught up in what I like to call the "good job mentality".

As a state worker I am supposedly afforded health care at a reasonable cost, a fairly stable job (despite over a year and a half of furloughs), and a decent retirement providing every last cent of those funds do not evaporate by the time I'm sixty two. And while this job is alright for now, I know my purpose and it doesn't end with me retiring from this place twenty five years from now. For some reason when I tell black folks of my plan to leave the state in about two years, they become bug-eyed, throw up their hands, and say, "You can't quit 'yo good job"! I can't even begin to express how disgusted this makes me or how disheartening it is to know that my own people can't see my vision. I completely understand the importance of job security and the paramount nature of saving for retirement and I would never be stupid enough to just leave a job with no plan in place. However, there is more to me and in me than what I'm doing now and my purpose cannot be found anywhere in this place.

For years our fears and self-imposed limitations as black folks have kept us from taking the risks necessary to reach our individual success. We are afraid to die and even more afraid to live. In between the two, we work crap jobs because that's what we've been taught to do. Though I'm sure the ancestors mean well, I firmly believe what we should be telling our children is "educate yourselves and create your OWN way". The time has come for us to stop stifling our own growth because we are afraid to jump off the ledge and fly. I don't think I'm better than anyone and I don't think I'm too good for this "good job"but I believe we should encourage one another's dreams and help one another reach them.

That said, I will NEVER tell any niece, nephew, or child of mine to get a "good job". I want the upcoming generations to aspire to be more than the status quo - even if that means leaving a really "good job".

You Darkies Need to LIghten Up

The other day on CNN I saw a story about the high school graduation rate for black boys being below 50%. I've read reports about the disparity in pay and promotion in the workplace between whites and blacks. I know the housing market demise mostly effected people who look like me and I know I still have to operate under a different set of rules in the professional arena because there is an expectation of me being ignorant, unprepared, and incompetent. Knowing all these things doesn't keep me from having a sense of humor. If anything, my amusement levels have gone up because most times I have to laugh to avoid a mental breakdown. Nonetheless, I maintain a status of equal parts laughter, rage, and struggle because I cannot in good conscious ignore all that ails people who look like me.

After reading the transcript of Laura Schlessinger losing her mind with a black caller who called about dealing with racism from the friends of her white husband the other day, I considered many of the things she said during her bigoted rant. One thing that stuck out for me was her telling the black female caller that if she couldn't take a joke, she didn't need to be in an interracial relationship. I mean, why should one still get angry every time she is discriminated against based on race, addressed with racial slurs, or disrespected because she isn't white? What exactly do YOU PEOPLE want? Shouldn't the fact that she's "in" with the white crowd based on her husband's whiteness help her get over all her silly feelings of racial oppression? Well, Laura, I have to say the answer is a resounding HELL NO.

Tiring of the negative assumptions, stupid questions (How often do black people wash their hair? If that your real hair? What does "junk in the trunk mean"? Don't you just love that Barack Obama?), and stereotypical beliefs about black folks, Jade reached out to someone she thought could provide a morally sound piece of advise. Instead, she was insulted, attacked, and made to feel as if her feelings were unwarranted by yet another one of those people who insists that black folks are really just too uptight about this whole "race thing". I mean, we have a black president now which means America is no longer a racist place, shouldn't you people be happy? Again, Laura, I have to say, NO.

Though I will always maintain my pride and God given joy, I will NEVER sit in satisfaction as long as young black boys are dropping out of high school at an alarming rate, threats are being made against the man elected President simply because his whiteness has been entwined with black DNA, and young black women are walking around believing the hype that they are irrelevant and fit to be nothing more than some man's punching bag or ho. You see, it's hard to lighten up when one's reality can be so dark. It's hard to behave as if all is well when there are those who seek to destroy every good thing one has just because they can. So beneath the smiles and laughter remain agony. Behind the jokes lurks the rage and it is dark- just like my skin.

Now That's Using Your Noodle

Times are hard. I've heard that phrase ever since I was a little girl but didn't really understand its meaning until I became an adult who had to pay her own way. With the current economic status of this country, I now find myself using the phrase all the time. I know people who have been laid off after years of service to an employer. I have coworkers who have lost their homes and I am among a plethora of my contemporaries who now find robbing Peter to pay Paul a part of daily existence. Yeah, it's definitely rough out there.

I find the situation is most noticeable when I'm in the grocery store. When I write my list I am always thinking about how I can get the most food for the least amount of money and what dishes I can cook that will last a minimum of 3-5 days. In keeping with the more bang for my buck goal, I often travel down the same aisles each month. A few days ago I noticed something very telling about how American's pockets are being emptied by this crisis; the noodle aisle was sparse. Boxes had been emptied and turned over, noodle remnants were all over the floor, and there was a large crowd of shoppers congregating around the remains. Knowing the flavor of Top Ramen and its copycats, I can't imagine those people were gathered there for the decadent taste explosion that is the cheap noodle. Instead, these people were on the noodle aisle as a means of surviving.

With pay cuts, furloughs, a diminishing job market, and rising costs in housing, it is no wonder we've been reduced to using the ramen noodle as a culinary staple. I know things are bad when even peanut butter and jelly has become a delicacy. It all makes me wonder how long I'll have to live this ramen existence and what the "better" version of this current situation will look like. In the meantime, I'll keep the water boiling.

Hon! Can You Get Me a Sandwich?

On a recent Saturday I was enjoying an afternoon of cartoons. After about half an hour, I noticed a disturbing pattern in the commercials. For little boys there were commercials about monster trucks, muscular action figures, and things that explode. Little boys were shown throwing their heads back and giggling or making the sound effects that only little boys make when in the thick of playtime. It was all fun and games until the the commercials aimed at little girls aired. Toy ovens, little vacuum cleaners, and babies who could really cry and pee were advertised to appease little princesses. I kept watching hoping that at some point there would be a commercial for Ivy League, Presidential, or Business Suit Barbie, but that never happened. The whole experience got me thinking about the way we are trained to believe what our roles are from early on and how those assumptions can ultimately be a detriment to us as adults.

Based on what I saw that day, I feel it safe to assume that the message sent to our kids early on is that the role of boys is to play while girls are supposed to pick up the boys' toys and cook post-recreation snacks in a tiny oven heated by a light bulb. While Little Tommy is making his volcano explode and fighting imaginary wars with his superhero action figures, Little Susie is in the back room wearing an apron, pushing her baby mop, and trying to stop the crying of her ever peeing baby. As it is in kid land, so it is in adulthood.

Though many of us are much more evolved than what was implied by the advertising I saw, there are many who still subscribe to the implied theory that men make messes and women serve to clean them up. In adult television programming the husband is often a selfish, immature oaf who is always getting into trouble and the wife is a homemaking saint who rules with an iron fist (the other hand is used to dust something). This premise comes from somewhere and I am now convinced that place is childhood. Despite what appears to be a dire existence, I am convinced there is hope. That hope starts with teaching our children their REAL roles; those of self-sufficient, responsible, fair-minded, humans with integrity. Once we implement this theory, our boys will know they don't have to be limited to living as a silly man who does nothing but make trouble for his wife and our little girls will know their adult existence doesn't have to be spent at the beck and call of a man who "underappreciates" her greatness.

I am sure I won't have a job in advertising but I will have a hand in helping to mold the minds of my future children, nieces, and nephews. It is time we stop limiting our children based on gender and start encouraging them to move beyond the dribble we pass off as gender roles.

Chicken, Watermelon, and What Not

A few weeks back I went out for sushi with an old friend. While taking advantage of the 99 cent saki bombs, he decided to be generous and buy one for the stranger sitting next to us. After we toasted the man thanked my friend for the drink and asked what we were having. My friend told him since he's a regular and the chef experiments and makes him "surprises". I told him I wasn't a sushi fan and was opting for chicken instead. The man shook his head disapprovingly and said, "Well, that's what you people do. You're always eating chicken and watermelon". Wanting desperately to avoid assault charges and a trip to the county jail, we instead opted for open mouths indicating shock and mild chiding. Somehow I just couldn't see this one dummy being worth the trouble and high cost of legal fees (particularly without the privilege of being able to call the late, great Johnny Cocoran for back up).

After calming down, the incident made me think about all this crazy talk about a "post racial America". I looked it up on Google Maps, Mapquest, and even the foremost authority on all things; Wikipedia, but could find no information on the coordinates of this magical land. It seems just as elusive and mythological as the unicorn we all wished we could see as children. It is beyond naive for anyone to suddenly think the nomination of a half black president in these United States is the cure all for the institution of racism that has ailed us since the founding of this nation. Crosses haven't stopped burning, cops haven't stopped pulling over young black men who appear too smart, too hood, too affluent, or too confident as a way to satisfy their weekly "harass a nigga" quotas, and the housing, banking, and lending industries have not suddenly become level playing fields for blacks and other people of color. So, what exactly is this "post racial" utopia of which everyone has been speaking? If anything, the nomination of Barack Obama has only served to strengthen the resolve of those who would destroy black Americans if only given the chance.

Post election I've had more discussions on race with negative end results than ever before. I have found myself the brunt of blunt racial discrimination more often. My work place has become more racially charged and I am constantly being asked questions about the actions of the President in a ridiculous exercise in tokenism. And despite my anger at it being assumed I am some type of "Obamist" with all the answers on Barack and every other black person in the public eye, I still feel the need to speak up in the most dire situations because I feel we are often so misrepresented in every public arena.

The more I take the time to look around me, the more I am convinced of the impending arrival of a race war of epic proportions. Racists are mad as hell the President of "their" great nation is one of my fellow fried chicken and watermelon eating darkies and they aren't going to stand for it for too long. Words like "socialist" and "liberal" and phrases like, "I want my country back" are not pleas for peace in America, folks. These are covert attempts at describing the despair, disgust, and helplessness racists feel at the hands of a black world leader. These people won't just go around protesting and holding their misspelled signs for long. At some point more aggressive action will be taken and all Americans of color need to be prepared. This isn't something that can be fixed with a bomb shelter and a two year supply of Chef Boyardee. This is psychological warfare than can only be battled with the weapon of intellect. So, black folks, wake up. We are nowhere near a post racial America. We are nowhere near a country in which we can coexist peacefully and respectfully or hold hands and sing. And though this truth is ugly, it is real. We must put down the watermelon, turn off the deep fryer, and prepare for mental fisticuffs because this thing is not going away any time soon.

I'll Cut Ya!

Lately I've been avoiding the local news like a copy of the Watchtower but tonight I got sucked in. The first story of the evening was about three school districts in northern California that are laying off teachers, office workers, and custodial staff in the next three weeks. As I watched the wife of a soon to be unemployed custodian and thirty year school district employee cry and talk about how after all these years his take home pay is only about 22k, I thought about the future of our children and the Wall Street employees who are home sitting on a deck with a glass of fine wine while enjoying the fruits of my bailout money.

Surely this can't be right. How is it a bank can be too big to fail but we don't think of our children in the same way? Our young people are too RELEVANT to fail yet the more economically challenged our country becomes the more interest there seems to be in saving the necks of the haves. Who will have anything in the future if our children don't receive the quality foundational education needed to thrive? While parents in these districts may have to find new schools for their children to attend because of school closures, some seflish prick from Bear Stearns is preparing to send his child to some overpriced Ivy League school. I'm unable to close my eyes and convince myself that any of this is right.

People are constantly complaining about unruly, uncultured, uneducated, and uncouth children running about with no direction. We fuss when we see them crowding the malls and disturbing our shopping experiences (at least, I do). We shake our heads and roll our eyes when we see our young girls pregnant or our young boys standing on corners investing in lifetime careers in nothingness yet we stand by and watch our educational system, one of the few things that can actually serve to save our children, be destroyed due to greed and manipulation. Where are our priorities?

Teachers who help foster the academic growth of those who end up as Wall Street workers don't even make a third of what these fat cats receive in bonuses let alone annual income. However teachers are losing their homes, cars, and jobs due to no fault of their own. It disturbs me that we live in a society that goes to cuts of the most valuable services before considering the long term impact on our future. These cuts to our educational budget will only lead to our children "cutting up" or not making the cut when it comes time to apply for a decent college to attend. The last I checked, cuts of any kind have served no purpose other than to hurt.

Tryin' To Get It Write

I just completed my first of what feels like a million courses in my pursuit for an undergraduate degree. I wasn't naive enough to think that it would be easy, but I was just green enough to think I'd actually still have time for a personal life. Unfortunately, instead of a life of part time chillin' and part time schoolin', I've spent the past five weeks attached to my laptop or staring intently at my work pc trying to decipher the other people's crazy talk while attempting to write some of my own. I had classmate drama, encountered countless illiterates, and contemplated paying the price for a plane ticket that would get me to the right town to slap my learning team mate. In the midst of all this drama, the time I usually spend writing was taken up by a mandatory evil. I jotted down subjects I wanted to blog about but never seemed to have one good moment to sit down and type. Lack of writing for my much needed release was definitely beginning to take its toll on me. It all changed when I got some advice from someone dear to me. He told me not to let school stand in the way of my education. At first I thought, "Oh boy, another cliche for me to file away and never use again", but almost as soon as I tried to poo poo his words, they resonated with me. I really spent five weeks of my life so focused on something I had to do that I failed to make time for the thing that I WANT to do. Writing keeps me sane, sharpens my imagination, and releases my tension. Instead of writing for pleasure, I've been spending all of my time writing in order to be able to check a box. The words he spoke reminded me that school is not the only thing that is important. Though it will definitely help me in my future, writing is what continues to help me today. I'm back.

GyNO Thank You

I like my gynecologist, at least as much as a woman can like a man who tells her medical future by ramming his fingers up her inside parts while telling her to please relax her stomach muscles. He's a nice man with kind eyes. He takes his time to answer my questions, and he actually listens when I'm talking to him. However, despite the many brownie points I give him for his excellent bedside manner, a trip to see him still entails all the things I hate about going to a gyno appointment.

First off, I hate the fact that I have to get on the scale when I'm really at the hospital to get something checked that has nothing to do with how fat or fit I am. I suppose the fact that I hate the scale has a lot to do with the fact that I am more fat than fit but, I digress. There is usually some chatty medial office technician rambling on and on in small talk language who I secretly wish had an actual zipper on her face that would close her mouth. After suffering the humiliation of the scale and a quick check of my blood pressure, it's on to the real fun in the examination room.

After further questions about why I'm there and when was the first day of my last period, the medical assistant tells me to further embarrass myself and possibly my gyno, by taking off all my clothes and putting on the pretty hospital gown with the gaping hole in the back just in case one wasn't suffering from enough chagrin already. During the disrobing process I find myself doing what I'm sure many other women do; I fold up my clothes leaving them in a neat pile on the chair then fold my bra and panties to the tiniest proportions possible and hide them between my top and pants. I don't really know why this is the protocol since the person I'm visiting is about to see parts of me I haven't even seen before. It's just some unspoken rule amongst women that undies are not to be left in plain sight even if one is clothed in a very unflattering hospital gown.

It seems as if the wait for the doctor is either too long or too short. Either I'm sitting on the examination table, cold and uncomfortable, reading a Ladies Home Journal from 1991 with Jane Seymour dressed as Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman on the cover OR the gyno knocks on the door and enters just as I'm bent over with my soon to be hidden panties around my ankles. Of course it is also baffling why I jump and try to cover up when his entry precedes me getting on the gown considering the fact that I'm going to bare all in the near future. I sit on the table while we talk about any concerns I may have. After the niceties, the dreaded examination begins. It starts with about three palms full of lube followed by a speculum which I believe is an ancient Greek word for "evil instrument of torture made expressly for women".

The doctor gets a sample of what's happening with my innards, then helps me sit up and remove my feet from the stirrups. Now, when I was a young, pre-OB girl, I thought of stirrups as those awful looking leggings with straps for one's feet. Now I've come to think of them as an unfortunate yet necessary evil. Surely these things were created by a man because anyone who has had to put her feet in a pair would know the deal. Why don't stirrups move to the sides the way my feet move to the sides? They aren't really supporting my legs if I'm using my toes to grip the sides of the stirrups in an effort to avoid falling off the table. Oh, the horror!

After the exam, my gyno tells me I can get dressed and open the door when I'm finished so he can come back in and finish speaking with me. He hands me a box of tiny ass tissues that are almost too small to wipe a newborn baby's nose so I can clean up the 64 ounces of goo he used on me before the examination. Who's idea was it to use the smallest tissues known to man? Frankly, after an appointment with the gyno, I need a roll of soft ply paper towels to get myself to my original state. I wonder why he is even bothering to leave the room at all. The conversation started with me wearing that stupid gown so there's no reason why it can't end with me donning the same thing. I can't imagine that it's for modesty because a man who just had his fingers on my cervix should certainly not be embarrassed about chatting with me further while I'm wearing an open in the back gown. Maybe it's just me, but I doubt it.

All told, a trip to my gyno or any other gyno can be a trying experience. It is one thing I'm glad I only have to endure once every other year, sort of like smog checks. At least with those, I get a certificate. Happy paping.

Lent Lament

Yesterday I ate a small loaf of sourdough bread slathered in butter, three white chocolate chip cookies, and some brandy fried chicken that had been cooked in a vat of grease. And, while I woke up with heartburn, I have to say it was worth it. All of those foods were a way for me to enjoy my very own Fat Tuesday.

Every year for the past three or four years I've considered observing Lent and each year I manage to forget all about it until about midway through when I hear someone mention it. At that point, I shrug it off and make a mental note to try again next year. Now that I've finally caught it on time, I feel good about my decision to make a personal sacrifice but I'm only 8.5 hours in and I miss my bread, rice, potatoes, and tortillas. I'm depressed about the idea of withdrawal headaches from a lack of carbs, having to constantly remind myself that I can't eat one thing or another, and the chore of having to learn a bunch of new recipes that don't require the very things I love to eat most. I am sad that I may have to refrain from eating out some of the time because the temptation may be too great. Or, I'll be that one annoying person at the table who doesn't eat this or that thing which may encompass the entire meal. I like to think of it as carb quarantine.

Even though I'm feeling more than a bit whiny about my undertaking, I'm also excited. I am challenging my mind and body and improving my spiritual connection. And, if I'm fortunate, I'll also be shaving off a few inches from the spare tire I've been developing over the past few years. Closer to God, closer to my weight loss goal; both seem well worth the sacrifice my taste buds will experience. So, despite my complaining, I know I am doing something good for myself. In the meantime, I'll close my eyes at night and dream of pancakes, a variety of rice dishes, and a mountain of hot french fries covered in delicious salty goodness all while reflecting on the sacrifices made on my behalf. One down, forty five more to go.

Wear Me Down Love

"Well there's a rose in a fisted glove. And the eagle flies with the dove. And if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." When that song comes on the radio, I find myself humming along and tapping my toes but it isn't because I agree. Frankly, it is because the music is great and the melody is catchy but in my mind, the message is terrible. As a thirty something year old woman, I, and many women I know in my age group, have received the recommendation to rethink our real or imagined list of attributes for men we want. For some, the list goes from containing things like integrity, intelligence, stability, and attractiveness to "have pulse, will travel" due to a lack of viable choices. And while I do understand stripping what one wants to the bare minimum, I don't believe long periods of singlehood are enough to convince me to lower my standards.

I'm reminded of the many episodes of Family Matters I watched in which Urkel would be the recipient of an act of kindness granted by Laura Winslow. Instead of being grateful, he'd simply say, "I'm wearing you down, Baby"! And even though she may have eventually realized she wanted Urkel, I have to say that I am nobody's Laura Winslow. If a man is missing the core qualities I'm looking for, no amount of time, money, energy, kind acts, or conversation is going to make him a viable candidate. I've had men pushed on me in the past by others who insist that being with someone who is "a little bit off" but a nice man overall is better than being single but I can't manage to see how I could live with myself or continue to fake feelings for someone who I don't even want to touch my elbow.

I do agree that one's standards shouldn't be set so high as to prevent any fallible human being from reaching viable choice status, however, I also don't think we should ultimately give up what we want all for the sake of saying we have someone. I've never just wanted someone. I want THE one and refuse to settle for less. Besides, I've tried the Urkel route and frankly, it isn't worth the effort and usually leads to Urkel getting his feelings hurt when he realizes I never really liked him in the first place.

So, to save myself and Urkel, I remain single for the time being. I want a love that builds upon the good foundation that has already been set for my life. I don't want to be with someone I don't like simply because he asked enough times for me to finally say yes out of aggravation. I want a love that elevates me and not one that wears me down.

Bona Fide Black

Last week a co-worker who knows I'm not the most experimental with my food asked me if I wanted to try some chicken feet. Frowning, I declined. Seeing the look on my face, he assured me that I'd indeed enjoy them "because they taste just like pig feet". Now, I'm sure to many his statement is no big deal. Many would think he was simply making a comparison comment in order to make me feel better about indulging in a plate of toes. However, I read what he didn't say, "Malikka, I'm sure you'll love these chicken feet since your people are such fans of pig feet". I mean, I'm black so OF COURSE I must love a big ole' plate of feet, right?

After correcting his misconception of black people and our eating habits with my well-rehearsed "Just because I'm black doesn't mean I..." speech, I reflected on how old these kinds of conversations get. I know that preconceived notions based on nothingness will always exist. I'm guilty of a few and I've certainly been the victim of many. However, I feel like there should come a time in our lives when we start to think further than just what is in front of us. And while I know that all stereotypes are based in fact, the end result is usually so far from the original truth, it's completely ridiculous.

I, for example, am a black person who defies many stereotypes attached to people who look like me and unfortunately, there are many people around to continually remind me of how I deviate from what their limited minds have determined to be the truth. I am well read, articulate, unafraid of hard work, literate, a lover of the arts, and a student. I don't eat watermelon, haven't had kool-aid in years, and am well aware that "red" is not an actual flavor. I've never danced a jig or shucked a pea, and I most certainly DO NOT eat pig feet. However, I'm still as "black" as they come. From the ethnic beauty I possess by way of my round and wide nose, my kinky locs, my full lips, and my even fuller hips. But "blackness" isn't just about the way I look, what I eat, or the way I move. There's a certain "knowingness" and vibe that I believe to be innate based on our history on this planet. Our struggles and triumphs and our ability to take it all in stride is a true gift. And even though it is true that part of our make up consists of slang, talkin' shit, pimpin', hustlin', shuckin' and occasionally jiving, we are truly more than that. We are intellectuals. We are inventors. We write, we run, we protest. We are politicians, theologians, and parents. We contribute to this country daily with our talents. And in spite of all these things, some will still look at me and see nothing more than a watermelon eating, pea shucking, pig foot sucking, black chick.

The truth can sometimes be incredibly unattractive but it doesn't stop me from giving the speech. I will continue to give it until I'm out of breath because everyone needs to know that I, and everyone who looks like me, consist of more than what can be contained in a piece of pork. We are the things people think we are and none of those things simultaneously. And in all of our contradictions, we are bona fide.

Marching In Place

Here in Sacramento, there is a MLK march every year. Hundreds of people line up at a designated place and march to a second destination in order to commemorate the freedom marches of their predecessors. There's chanting, singing, and communing. I'm sure it's probably a beautiful thing. However, I can only guess since I don't march. Historically, marching had its place. It signified unity of thought AND action amongst black people who were in a struggle to be granted their civil rights as listed in the Constitution of this great nation. And even though people march today as a respresentation of the marches of the past, there is one very distinct difference; our forefathers marched and then went to work on a course of action while we march today then head over to the nearest IHOP for some pork and pancakes.

Now, don't get me wrong. I have nothing against marching in general. I just believe it's useless if the work ends once the walk is complete. A march should serve as a type of pep rally. It's a way to get everyone involved on the same page and show the public the one-mindedness of the mission. But after the march is over, the mission must begin. For the past two King holidays I have engaged in community service. While I do make effort to serve throughout the year in various ways, I've made a commmitment to serve on the King holiday in light of the sacrifices made for my well being and prosperity as a black American. I believe this should be an effort on the part of all people with particular responsiblity resting on the shoulders of black folks who are the direct recipients of the benefits created by the shedding of blood and other human suffering on the part of our ancestors. As a result of my fairly new commitment, I get up early on the holiday and march out of my house and on to a community center or other service related hub in order to do some work that will directly impact those in my city who are in need. I usually don't have to give up more than four hours of my day and when I'm done, I'm still able to march, should I feel so inclined. The sacrifices made on my behalf don't enable me to sleep in or spend the day on my couch catchng up on the lost episodes of my favorite show. Those before me got up early and worked late to put me in the position to live better than they ever thought possible. The least I can do is get out of step with the march in order to help someone who has fallen.

Harry Reid Between The Lines

So, we're only a few days in, and I'm already exhausted by the whole Harry Reid debaucle. I find that I'm one of few out of the black people I know who didn't find his comments offensive and don't find him to be a raging, hood wearing, card carrying, racist (Do they have even have membership cards?). And, while use of the word Negro, is a bit antiquated, I don't find it to be racist either. What Senator Reid did was something most white people seem afraid to do; he acknowledged the fact that there are many white people who judge black people based on skin tone and dialect. In the process, his comments incited fear, embarassment, and rage, most of which I see as misdirected, as usual.

I'm sure many of us have had some experience with a white person who seemed shocked and pleased with the fact that we were able to string some sentences together that made sense. This type of exchange can understandably leave one feeling more than incensed. A little over a year ago in my workplace, I had a meeting with my former director, who upon listening to me talk and reading the words I'd written in an email to him, thought he was doing me a favor by "complimenting" me on my ability to articulate thoughts and write concise prose. He wanted me to believe that he was pleased with my ability to communicate but I knew what he really meant. He was pleasantly surprised that he'd come across a black woman in my lowly position who had a more than proficient command of the English language. He was expressing his delight to find out that I do indeed speak well, read well, write well, and use both a knife and fork while eating. I didn't bother responding to him by saying I felt insulted, disrespected, and stereotyped because it wouldn't have done any good. He, like many other whites, was already deeply entrenched in the thought that black people are relatively simple-minded individuals who are good for little more than dribbling basketballs, making killer tackles, or singing and dancing like nobody's business. So yes, I know this frame of thinking exists, however, I don't believe that is the way Senator Reid was thinking when he made his comments.

Reid was taking a look at the way "his people" often think. He knew how comfortable many whites would feel with then Senator Obama and his white mother, fair skin, ivy league education, and expensive suits. He knew that for some, the closer Obama appeared to be like them, the more they'd be willing to support his campaign. Harry Reid wasn't disparaging candidate Obama. He was speaking the truth to which many whites and unfortunately, many blacks subscribe; fair-skinned black people who have little to no trace of "blackness" in their speech patterns are more palatable for the white world's taste. And, even though what he said wasn't pretty or pleasant, it was true and to me, should be the focus of our angst.

Instead of honing in on his use of the word Negro, we should be focusing our attention and energy towards the fact that in 2010 we are still being judged based on skin tone and the inferred absence of any real "blackness". White people judge us and we continue to judge ourselves within the black community by making the worst possible assumptions about our intellectual capabilities or lack thereof. Though I am not in the business of trying to change racist folks' minds, I believe we can change our own minds and attitudes the more we strive to elevate ourselves to new levels. It is up to us to create our own identity instead of falling prey to the premises of others who don't know a thing about us.

As we take ourselves to greater heights and encourage one another to succeed in more arenas than those of the sport and entertainment fields, we can set our standards high so there will no longer be shock when one comes across a literate "Negro". Instead, the surprise will come when one sees a black person who can't cut the mustard. When we change our expectations of ourselves, we no longer have to be concerned about what someone like Harry Reid has to say. Improvement comes from the inside and not vice versa.

It's Not So Hip To Be Square

I was never a 12 year old runaway or a juvenile delinquent resident of a group home. I didn't get pregnant at 16 and end up the mother of six by the age of 21. I don't have six fathers for those six babies either. I read much higher than a third grade level and I've never done any time. And though I consider myself to be pretty "normal", it seems there are little to no benefits to being a straight arrow.

In the past week or so, I've filled out several different pieces of paperwork in order to determine my eligibility for school financial aid. Four hours worth of forms later, I received an email advising me that I am not eligible for anything other than a ridiculously expensive student loan simply because I'm paid too much. Of course, the fact that I'm living paycheck to paycheck, paying all of my own bills, skimping on groceries (I'm getting a little tired of homemade soup), staying home in order to conserve gas, and doing all of these things on a furloughed income, is completely irrelevant to the government who administers the aid. They also seem to have no concern for the fact that I'm a taxpayer whose working dollars go toward paying money so that the woman with six babies and six different fathers can go to school in my place.

I just don't get it. How is it that it works to my detriment to be a responsible, intelligent, hard-working, well-read individual? Why is the fact that I haven't completely ruined my life with bad choices something that works against me when it comes to me trying to further improve the quality of my life? In all this, it truly seems as if my life would ultimately have been better had I done all the "wrong" things. There are grants for single women with a bunch of babies, grants for impoverished students living on the street due to running away, and aid for kids in foster care. And, please have no misunderstanding, I'm not saying that these people shouldn't have the opportunity to further their educations. As a matter of fact, I wish them well and love to see people rise above their adversity. However, I am saying that I work EVERY DAY. I pay taxes. I am responsible for myself and my actions. My life is not government funded and yet, when it is time for me to take advantage of the programs that I vote for and support with my tax dollars, I am turned down because my life isn't pathetic enough.

Where is the grant or scholarship for the woman who didn't get pregnant multiple times before her 18th birthday? Where is the reward for the person who made different life choices that didn't warrant assistance from welfare? Where are the food stamp cards for full time students who work part or full time consistently busting their butts to climb the success ladder? Where is the funding for the REGULAR? Each day I work to help some of the country's downtrodden better themselves. For the opportunity to help others, I am grateful. However, I'd be even more glad if the fact that this helper needs help was recognized.

There's An App For That

Since I've begun my efforts to take my educational goals to the next level by transferring to a university, I've found that there are more random and unecessary pieces of paper to fill out than I ever thought possible. A week ago, I met up with a school counselor to get some general information on enrollment and financial aid. The meeting was a simple process. I asked the questions, she provided the answers, I was sent an email with further details, and I was on my way home within an hour. Feeling good about myself and my choices, I decided to begin the "application process" as soon as I got home. Little did I know that the process would take me six hours spread out over three days.

By day two of the torturous application process, I started thinking about how much time we spend filling out slips, forms, applications, and all other silly wastes of trees. At work I have people fill out three different forms in order to get an employment ID card. To enter into the school I want to attend, I had to fill out online forms from three different websites totalling six hours of time I'll never be able to get back. Each time I go to the dentist, I have to fill out a form with the same information from the last time I was there. I can't understand why they don't just ask me if anything has changed while updating the system online.

For each thing we want to accomplish, just about each place we want to eat, the stores where we like to buy clothes, and even the schools where we are educated, there are endless forms. I wonder if there's a way to just fill out one big form that says everything that needs to be said. Businesses could all be linked to one informational network so they can pull up what they need and we could save the lives of millions of trees and save ourselves from endless hours of paperwork. I'd consider beginning the process to accomplish this, but there's probably an app for that too.