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.