sexual predators don’t have career paths.

and other points from my twitter rant about the lawsuits (four lawsuits as of today’s date) against eddie long.

it started with my response to a series of tweets i saw from other folks, with all kinds of victim blaming & automatic denials along the lines of “i bet they just want money.” i got angry. then i decided it was a good idea to just tweet until i felt like stopping. that’s what twitter’s about, isn’t it? here goes:

sexual predators don’t have a physical type or career path. the same way there’s no job for people who’d “never do that.”

victimization is not gender-specific.

victims cannot be blamed for what happens to them — the violator is responsible for what they do. always.

instantly doubting the accuser maintains a culture of silence, which serves the abuser more than it maintains honesty for any accusers, false or not.

i’m not going to go into deep detail here — i wanna see how this whole thing pans out. but, for an awesome analysis of both this situation and “no wedding, no womb,” go hit up this post by moya at crunk feminist collective.

a few quick notes about no wedding, no womb

i wrote it on tumblr, but for those of you who don’t read me there, i thought it’d be a good idea to share my beliefs on this quote-unquote movement here. (google the whole thing, i’m not giving them any linkage)

because i tweeted it but didn’t blog it:

the whole quote-unquote movement is gender essentialist. point blank. period.

the finger wagging and shaming aside, this initiative seeks to push all MAAB (male assigned at birth) and FAAB (female assigned at birth) persons to marry one another, regardless of being self-identified as trans, or being gay or lesbian self-identified.

because of the illegality, in most states, of what’s called same-sex marriage, this initiative cannot include cisgender gay, lesbian, or bisexual (or pan or omnisexual) ppl or any trans-identified people. by its own definition, no less.

monogamy is not the default setting for all humans. it is a choice. compulsory monogamy and heterosexuality encroach on the rights of an individual to do what they wish with their bodies.

furthermore, there has been little to no discussion by the NWNW folks regarding causations of single parenthood & correlations between single motherhood & the catastrophic outcomes they seem to think are rampant in the black community.

encouraging anyone to marry for the sake of a child is dangerous. ask any one of my friends who has lived through a domestic violence situation, either as the scarred child or as the abused spouse.

& if i say shit else about this, it’ll be because someone on team finger wag has come at my neck w/ some bullshit.

zomg i’m single!

so the fuck what?

this is all the discussion y’all are getting out of me. thanks to this piece from the crunk feminist collective, i don’t have to go too deep.  i’m including links from a twitter rant i went on regarding this very subject, for good measure.

first, i wanted to know if anyone had introduced to this larger conversation the idea that monogamy is not the default setting for our lives, but a choice.   as in, we choose to be monogamous, or we don’t.  & if you don’t realize that you choose monogamy, this is where you should find another blog post of mine to read (like the one about tina knowles).   we do not have to couple.  some of us are polyamorous, some of us never partner — even when we decide that we wish to parent.

nobody that i know of, with the exception of the ladies at crunk feminist collective, has mentioned that queer (by queer i mean lesbians, bisexual, pan/ omnisexual, trans, intersex)  self-identified black women aren’t considered in this conversation. again: we are not a monolith. you can’t have this conversation without considering the fact that the women being discussed are hetero, cisgender (not trans women — trans ppl are invisible in virtually every conversation about marriage, and just about everything else), & at the very least hold bachelor’s degrees. because ppl who don’t finish college don’t matter in this conversation, no matter what they’re doing w/ themselves, unless it’s to count them as undesirables.  further, who’s to say that marriage is everyone’s goal or ideal? it could be argued that “we aren’t talking about those people,” but if that’s the case then it must be stated so from the onset of each conversation regarding unmarried black women of certain income levels and sexual orientations.  period. know your audience.

if the root of the “problem” of unmarried black hetero cis women is that there aren’t enough desirable black men to go around & we’re looking at that strictly in terms of education, then who’s to blame? parents? schools? both? neither? high school dropout rates are nothing to sneeze at. the prison industrial complex, fueled by some rather draconian laws, also removes men who might otherwise be “good catches” from the dating pool.  does this mean that some of those “lost ones” were never marriageable to begin with, as their parents/ support systems failed them long before they got outta high school? okay. i’ll take that. but that isn’t the case w/ everyone. i feel like too much of this conversation is based on simplistic ideas of what a “good black man” is, and what a “good black woman” needs.  also: folks get married later in general, because they’re doing more than their parents’ generations did w/ their lives. the need for a college education has increased — even to get administrative assistant gigs. so if we have to take more time between high school and college to fill up these lives of ours (with greater expectancies, even for black men & women), maybe it’s not even as deep as the media panic suggests. ::gasp:: maybe we’re doing so much that holding ourselves to standards based on folks who lived life differently (slower, w/ less autonomy as children/ young adults, w/ different or less education) is a waste of fucking time! i’m just sayin.

& really, if marrying someone is about loving them until your last breath exits your body, can we consider one thing: the purported crisis of unmarried black women suggests that there is not enough love for us. that we are not lovable. that there is scarcity in the black community, so we must either take what we can get from black men or marry white men if we want to be married at all. this is wrong. love is infinite. there is no reason to think, for one minute, that any one of us is not lovable. that we are not desirable — to anyone, whether they be white, asian, latino, man, woman, gender non-conforming, cisgender, transgender, disabled, blue collar, white collar, no collar, or anything fucking else. if we marry because we want to spend the rest of our lives surrounded by the love, care, and support of another person then why on earth would we let fear run us off our paths? no, i’m not saying that there aren’t rough patches. heaven knows that i’ve lived through my shit and may continue to go through things before i find a good lover (i don’t necessarily seek to marry). but under no circumstances is being single a detriment. it’s never wrong. it’s not a bad thing. we’re not born partnered. we choose to partner — some of us because of conditioning, some of us because we find that wonderful person to be with. & it’s all good. it’s about intent, y’all. if your intent for seeking a mate is because that shit is on your checklist of successful shit to do w/ your life, you might be setting yourself up for what we call the okey-doke.   ultimately, the lens through which our romantic situations are being examined is flawed, to say the least.   & to say the most: it’s fucked up, limited, & doesn’t actually apply to as many folks as these “experts” (like finesse “my best jokes are about my teen mother” mitchell, jimi izrael & steve harvey) would have you believe.

this rant’s over. i’m dropping the mic like randy watson. but if you wanna read more juicy commentary:

visit the sugar shack

read this op-ed via the philadelphia inquirer

& another dope post from the crunk feminist collective

this piece from the nation, featuring the words of the fabulous melissa harris-lacewell & courtney young is made of pure unadulterated win.

i’m off to go be single and cook for myself, feed myself, bathe myself, & sing my face off at karaoke. cuz that’s what manless almost-30-year-olds do, apparently.

i don’t fully know why

but i’m really having a hard time believing that h-town &; jodeci really made a song together.
even though there’s videographic proof. ::sigh::

in no particular order, i blame the following for this shit here: trey songz, crack rocks, the death of gerald levert, the recession, waffle house, spectacular smith of pretty ricky, bad weed, the prison industrial complex, reaganomics (why the fuck NOT? that’s where crack rocks came from!), autotune, charlie wilson’s comeback (because these fools forgot that they weren’t ever on his level), jahiem (yeah, i said it), the good black man shortage myth, zane, malt liquor, crown fried chicken, fruity loops, & motherfucking blackplanet dot com. i would sue for damages, but as a black woman in america, i’ve learned that my complaints are usually only heard by those who give a damn to begin with. that’d be YOU, blog reader(s). all twelve of you.

& while we’re on former 90’s r&b starruhs, let’s take a gander at what aaron hall is doin w/ himself these days, shall we?

who dresses in their easter best to whisper to dogs?
is he using this $ to buy more suits?
note that there are no black folks letting this man into their homes. why? cuz we KNOW about aaron hall’s fool ass already!
his german sounds like his vietnamese sounds like his farsi sounds like his spanish. i’m just sayin.

now i have to watch coming to america to cleanse my mind. i hope it works.

presenting: the absurdity of tina knowles.

now, y’all know i love clothes. i live for sparkly, brightly colored shit that some may shy away from. but one day about two years ago i had the misfortune of discovering that tina knowles (mother of beyonce, solange, & play mama to kelendria) had unleashed on the unsuspecting & undeserving masses released, in addition to dereon, a line of clothing via the home shopping network’s website and live broadcasts.  be still, my heart! more profound fashion fuckery? i tuned into HSN to learn just what awaited me.  i wasn’t ready. not at all. & i know you aren’t, either.  let’s take a stroll down the hallowed halls of miss tina’s fashions. shall we?

first up:  the caged beast leather hobo handbag.  this thing is what nightmares are made of, i’m sure.

it originally sold for $250. WHAT? note that the bag not only has interchangeable inserts, but that they are all in an ambiguous “animal print”, sort of furry fabric! hence the name caged beast, i presume. cleva! i am still amazed that when i perused the hsn website around this time last year, there was an alarming note proclaiming that only three bags remained.  i have yet to see one of these bags in person — i pray that i never do. (& i do NOT believe for one second that the woman doing this video believes anything she’s saying. dig the clowning that begins at about 1:47.)

next: from the ‘heritage’ section of misstina.com, a bit of background (my notes in italics):

The visionary behind the Miss Tina Collection blessed with her mother’s talent and creative ability, Tina Knowles rose to fame as the gifted designer and world renowned stylist for her daughters, Beyoncé and Solange Knowles and Kelly Rowland and the Grammy award winning group, Destiny’s Child.  (oh, so she’s the one to blame for the piss-poor clothes in such fabrics as bright orange camoflage & “what is that, velvet?” worn by destiny’s child? don’t act like y’all don’t remember that shit from the soul train awards!)  This accomplished interior designer, celebrated author and talented chef, serves as the creative force for the collection. (what the fuck has cooking got to do w/ this? and she’s a celebrated author? for realzies? i can’t.)

Tina’s unique vision; a combination of high style, attention detail sprinkled with a taste of couture, enables her to create a distinctive blend fo signature and luxe for the Miss Tina Collection. (the comma splices and extreme misuse of a semicolon have made reading this so much more absurd for me. ugh. let me guess: miss tina herself wrote the shit, & nobody dared correct her on mechanics.)

further, the names miss tina gives to her creations are not indicative of any level of fashion knowledge. sorry to say. there’s no way she couldn’t have finessed “Quilted Entice Handbag with Pyramid Studs” into something else?  the same goes for the “Miss Tina Tall Boot with Studs“, “Miss Tina Logo-Print Studded Tapestry Peep-Toe Boots“, and “Cotton Shirt with Cuff“, which implies that the creole (don’t act like she doesn’t mention that shit at random) creative juices just were not flowing after a certain point. 

the fabric, y’all. the fucking fabric! the charmeuse, the not-even-modal jersey, the stretch denim (some of that shit is more than 3 percent lycra, which is nonsensical), & the crazy looking materials employed to make shoes all make me wonder what in the tangerine fuck is even going on here. i had the misfortune of coming across a miss tina dress in a local store. it was a mess. the cut was terrible (it even looked wack on the hanger), the fabric felt like the cheapest of cheap polyesters, & i think that for some reason the arms were inordinately huge. it was a hot pink tragedy w/ ruching (miss tina loves her some ruching!).  i felt bad for whomever paid full price for the damn thing a year ago. cuz it was most certainly hanging on the super duper last ditch effort clearance rack for $12. 

miss tina gives makeovers.

in conclusion, i’ll just say this: if you don’t understand what my big gripe is with tina knowles’ proliferation of bamma style, then simply do a google image search for ‘miss tina fashions’ & see what you come up with. i promise, you won’t be disappointed.  or, maybe you will? depends on what you’re expecting.

dear young strappin’:

it’s over. it’s been over. i liked you, a lot, for a long time. you are tall, dark, handsome, you have a strong back & you’re pretty damn smart.  we had some good times, you know?  late night pancakes, the time you lifted me over your head, the time you drove from new england in the rain just to see me for my birthday . . . & the sex was great. it was. i really enjoyed you.  you seemed to really enjoy me.  you were the perfect casual sex partner. conversation was good enough. you weren’t old enough to drink legally when we me but initially, that gap in age really didn’t mean a whole lot to me. because i wanted some no-strings-attached fun.  you provided that.  i was so grateful, especially that night you came out in a snowstorm just to look at me . . .

but then you got comfortable. i’m not saying i didn’t get comfortable as well, but damn.  you knew i had a kind heart & a soft spot for broke college kids & their elderly grannies. so, i let some shit slide that i wouldn’t have. it was the usual: i allowed my understanding of your situation become an excuse for allowing dumb shit. that’s not okay under any circumstances.  it implied that you were not responsible, on some level, for yourself.  you needed gloves and a hat for late season football practice and i broke my neck to get them to you. you still have them 5 years later (presumably a testament to how appreciative you were and most likely still are, no doubt), but the first time sets the precedent.   cuz my dumb ass shoved $50 in one of the gloves as a show of kindness, affection, and “you know this pussy will be waiting for you when you come home” type feelings. oh, how foolish i was! because you were gonna come get it anyway — the culture shock of all those beckies in one place was too much for you that first semester. you had to get used to your surroundings before attempting to fall off in the sorority houses, etc. & you didn’t like me nearly as much as you were fascinated and intrigued by me. the feeling was mutual, as much as we both sought to hide it.

and i carried a torch of sorts. you were that bridge between the rapper and whatever was next. i said good night to him & met you not even 5 minutes later. you served a purpose and represented something. i don’t resent or regret one moment of the time we spent together. i really did enjoy it for what it was. but things started to shift.  there was the time you took a call from another woman in my presence and told her the same shit you always used to tell me: you were hanging w/ your boys.  that didn’t sit well with me. because you were fucking me, but sleeping in her house. you were lying to both of us in some way. & since i’d taken the time to make our interactions about forthrightness (as much as possible), i was insulted. you asked me not to take that shit personally, but it’s kinda hard when you’re fucking someone and they’re complicating a relatively simple situation with half-truths.   but i stuck it out, cuz i figured you were young & didn’t know any better.  i presumed that you really didn’t know how to articulate your needs in a way that was comfortable for you. & though that was probably the case, i had no idea.  i tried to anticipate you. i tried to meet you three-fourths of the way because it made me feel like i was doing the right thing.  oh, young strappin’, what a fool i was.

when i moved to my new apartment in north philly, you had my back! you helped me move some stuff in.  you helped me hang curtains.  you fucked me on my new bed & scared the living shit out of my then-roommate’s piece of trash boyfriend. i appreciated you even more.  we were still functioning in that same fuck buddy space, but there was a new element. you could easily use my space as an overnight crash spot. i was okay with that. you distracted me from my situation with someone whom i’d met in the interim. you were competition for the dope boy over on jefferson street.  you gave me status, so to speak, when i was still learning that another person’s attraction to/ desire for me had nothing to do with the number of admirers i had.  oh, young strappin’, the things i’ve learned!

by the time i was settled into my routine and apartment in west philly, some things had changed. i was studying the yoruba tradition almost exclusively and contemplating taking the steps toward initiation.  i had cut my locks and gotten a tattoo.  i was beginning to explore my craftiness, my activism, and my sexuality in new ways.  i had new friends, i was finding community, and loving myself more.  that evolution marked the beginning of the end of our thing, this long & somewhat drawn out series of encounters that really should have been meeting over coffee or a random phone convo. but, when folks genitals are involved, it’s not always like that.

now, it’s been five years. we’ve both had some major changes in our lives. tats, piercings, haircuts, passing fancies, deaths in the family, graduations, trips abroad, championships . . . if i’d had to guess, i never would have imagined my relationship to you would be impactful.  i never would have thought that you’d be the only person i’d fucked in this bed. in this third, bigger, more expensive apartment.  & i would have never, ever, ever imagined that we wouldn’t be at least friendly any longer. i don’t know how that even happened. our last encounter wasn’t even good. i was in a new headspace then.  it was one of self affirmation, of self love, of making sure i was getting what i needed/ wanted out of every situation i entered.  & you couldn’t give me what i needed. it just wasn’t the right situation for me anymore.  & it still is not.  your stresses about the health & well being of your grandmother and younger siblings had you distracted. you really needed someone who was more open to soothing you. that wasn’t me at that point. & it quite possibly isn’t me now. i’m sorry we couldn’t do more for each other, yet thankful that it was what it was. 

so, i’ll keep your number and you’ll keep mine.  maybe we’ll cross paths somewhere in the city.  maybe i’ll reactivate my facebook account and send you a message one day, and we can do drinks or pancakes. we can catch up. you can show me your girlfriend or wife, your kids, your goddaughter . . . whatever. but, for right now i’m not answering any late night text messages. nobody wants to just say hi to me at 1:34 in the morning.  i’m not wasting my time responding to anything that isn’t an emergency.  so, i pray you’re safe. i hope you’ve found your dream job.  i wish you nothing but the best & brightest.  heaven knows you deserve it. you should be blessed infitely for your hard work. love & happiness are your birthright.

triggered. like a motherfucker.

my identity as a queer woman is hard-won.  through years of vascillation, denial, secrecy, and srategic planning dedicated to hiding myself from myself i am now working at being authentically myself. and a big part of that is being forthright with any potential lovers about my sexuality.  there is no introduction that goes, “i’m sparkle, and i’m bisexual”.  but there’s also no soap opera (or jenny jones) moment when i spring it on futureboo or presentboo in a space that she or he might find uncomfortable.  because that’s not how you treat folks.  my honesty has most likely cost me a relationship or three.  and i’m okay with that.  nobody wants to be in a relationship where they feel stifled instead of feeling edified.  so, it is with that knowledge i walk.  it’s not an easy walk: there are folks who don’t recognize my sexuality as legitimate compared to their own, there are folks who presume that i’m unaware of what i want in life (or in my bed), and there are also folks who believe that my queerness makes me impossible of being monogamous.

it is this completely erroneous belief/ assumption that makes me impossibly pissed off.  and it is this idea that made me want to write this blog post, because of a song called “think my girl (ay, ay)” by omarion.  this song gives what might be considered an inside view of a relationship between the narrator (whom i presume to be a hetero-identified person whose sex assignment at birth was male, who identifies as male/ man) and his girlfriend, whose behavior implies that she may be cheating on him with a female associate of hers.  this woman does not answer her phone when she’s with this friend, referred to as “the girl that doesn’t have a man” in the lyrics to the first verse. (you can listen for yourselves here, dear readers; i refuse to transcribe this shit.)  the hook of this song goes on to express that though the girlfriend is very physically affectionate with the narrator her behavior changes when around this friend of hers, has a better eye for attractive women than her paramour, and also presumes that the narrator is welcome in the bedroom with the girlfriend and whomever she’s cheating on him with.  the second verse includes some information about the narrator’s girlfriend and her friend having matching tattoos, and some “secret conversations” between the two women.

what bothers and upsets me is the fact that this song is a bunch of stereotypes and assumptions wrapped into one neat little sonic package.  this song is a symptom of the problem — it’s giving me hives when goddess knows i am allergic to bullshit.  this song neatly lists (for me, anyway) what seem to be the predominant, erroneous, widely held beliefs about bisexual women.

i have to acknowledge that  heterosexual privilege allows this song to exist.  heterosexual privilege allows the demonization of anyone who does not exemplify compulsory heterosexuality.

the narrator’s girlfriend is acting suspiciously (in his opinion, or per his explanation as narrator).  since there’s another woman involved in this (as either a friend or lover, possibly both), it’s implied that the girlfriend’s behavior can be attributed specifically to a sexual relationship with this other woman. so, this makes her hot-in-the-ass and unfaithful.  this also demonizes the presumed other woman; she’s got some kind of a stranglehold on the girlfriend’s mind, via sex. there’s no suggestion that the girlfriend is keeping company with this woman who “doesn’t have a man” because she’s sick. or because she’s got kids she needs help with. or an ailing relative. or something that is not about sex.  (could it be that only women sing/ write songs that discuss concern for other women? see: eve’s “love is blind”, destiny’s child’s “girl”, or the jazzyfatnastees’ “how sad”. i don’t think that this is the case, but i’m just asking.) let’s examine this: not answering the phone within an hour (verse 1), a friend with no man who’s often around (probably cuz she hasn’t got a man to keep her company), a knack for identifying a beautiful woman before her man does, and limited PDA when said manless friend is around — she’s just got to be cheating with this manless friend!  am i the only one who thinks this is rather base?  furthermore, bisexuality does not exclude any human being (male or female, cisgender or transgender) from monogamy! emotional immaturity may exclude one from being faithful to their partner.  (polyamory is not a condition of being bisexual, either. but let’s not talk about that right now.)

the idea that the narrator should try having an openly bisexual girlfriend implies that she’s open to having a threesome, which is also not a fact of bisexuality.  there are some bisexual folks who are not in any way interested in group sex.  this is also incredibly troublesome, as it feeds into the idea that the hetero man’s job is to conquer vaginae far and wide, that the sexuality is not valid if he’s not (a) involved or (b) giving approval to the sexual relationship.  hello: i’m autonomy, and i believe that i only need the person who utilizes me in order to be valid or legitimate. your dick hasn’t got anything to do with it, narrator (or anyone else).  that’s hetero privilege for you: you can do what you want, cuz there’s nothing “wrong” with the kind of sex you’re into.

bottom line, this song is offensive for a number of reasons.  ultimately, it turns a woman’s body into product, into object, into a commodity to be fetishized.  it takes away her humanity and reduces her autonomy to a jezebel’s supposed nature.  and no,  a pop song should not have the final say on how we as a larger society view sexuality. but, art often imitates life.  somebody, somewhere may think of this song and either identify with it on some level or forming opinions based on it.

of course, there are ideas that aren’t addressed in the lyrics of  “think my girl (ay, ay)”.  there’s nothing quite like the limited attitudes of some folks in the GLBTQ community to make a woman like myself feel even more boxed in.  there’s the idea that we are nasty, the flat-out lie that we are incapable of loving one person at a time, and most of all there’s the simple misconception that we are who we are because we’re hot in the ass.  not all of us are.  there are polyamorous heterosexual and homosexual people.  there are people who sabotage relationships by cheating, but that has nothing to do with their sexuality.  that’s an issue of emotional maturity, in my opinion.

oh, negro please.

(disclaimer: i really don’t trust black dudes w/ chemically processed hair as a general rule. but this motherfucker takes the cake.)

i present to you, lovely blog readers, michael warns who appears to be the leader of of a group called blacks against obama. some things i notice:

this man relies heavily on scripture to explain why obama’s not worthy of the vote.

the scriptures referenced paint a catastrophic picture of death, destruction, and general mayhem as the fault of some mystical satan woman named lilith (i’m presuming this is the lilith who was adam’s first wife)

the cover of michael’s book entitled satan revealed her name is lilith she is 33% of the black women in america contradicts the sidebar on the right side of the second index page of the website, where he refers to one-third of black women in america as ‘jezebel.’

the artwork of the book very clearly plays upon the binary thinking typical of the west, of which the united states of america (refered to by michael as babylon) is a part.

the artwork very clearly displays oprah on the side of evil/ wrong/ the devil/bad/ black (note the black text describing things that this dude is purportedly against) . . . even down to the photo of ms. winfrey (open mouth, hands at the side of her head, not smiling, possibly exclaiming something at the top of her lungs).

in brief, the ideas put forth by the man who calls himself michael warns remind me of every person i’ve ever known who has required treatment for schizophrenia. i’m not saying this to be mean or to have a laugh at his expense (that’s what the relaxed hair comment was for) — it’s apparent to me that something is wrong. following what he’s saying, am i to believe that oprah gail winfrey is the devil and that she has chosen barack obama to do her bidding and lead us all . . . to hell?

really?

i’m sorry, but there’s no fucking way. none. and i’m disappointed in anyone who buys into this. it makes zero sense.

if this dude were on the corner in any major urban center talking about this stuff (in the same way, speaking in abstracts and everything), who’d listen to him? who’d take him seriously? because he has a url and a self-published book and a ustream.com account he’s legit?
fuck
outta
here
with
that
bullshit!

i’m not saying that this dude and his crew (who interrupted a barack obama campaign speech just the other day) don’t have the right to talk about what they want

but exactly WHAT the fuck did this dude say/ do to get support from these cats?
they’re anti child support (why?)
they’re staunchly christian, from what i gather (if the men in the group are in alignment with the head of the body, then that’d more or less be the case right?)
they believe in something “traditional,” which from what i can tell is rather ambiguous (they haven’t got a lot of presence on the web and seem not to have put forth any manner of a mission statement) but involves women not voting (suggested by the preface to the book)
it’s just too much like un-set jello
i daresay every last one of these fuckers is out of his mind
so yeah
i wanna thank renee at womanist musings for posting about this
and implore any of you who come across this kind of shit to dismiss it as what it is: a h.a.m sandwich with a thick slice of bullshit cheese, on par with youtube “star” reh dogg’s video showing viewers barack obama’s “true colors.” nonsensical, at best.
thank you, and good night.

my pussy is not for your judgement.

fuck bobby hemmitt:

1) i have earned every last hair on my pussy. so has every other woman on this earth. female circumcision, sexual assault/ abuse, loveless lives, babies, just the general drama that is encapsulated in being a black woman on this earth . . . man, fuck you and your opinions. i bet your balls stink though, right? with the obvious folds in btwn your head and neck, motherfucker, i am willing to believe that’s a trend all over your body.

2) the “it’s from africa” shit is so tired. SO beat. leave it alone. dry that bullshit up, & stop duping ppl into talking to your dumb ass. what’s wrong, you scared? wtf did the pussy hair ever do to you? and again, asshole, worry about the cleanliness of your own genitals. hair doesn’t make a pussy not worth eating or adoring. it just makes it hairy.

3) he’s hilarious for the same reason that he’s a thorn in my side: he’s got that TKON brand of intelligence, that “let’s call it african but maintain the same oppressive patriarchal bullshit” thing. hate it.

4) who’s fucking him? really?

compulsory heterosexuality @ the barber shop.

i’m a bit of a baldie as of late. and, after nearly 3 months without a cut (i swear it didn’t look bad until 2 weeks ago) i made it a point to go visit the barber i’ve been going to for the past few months. he’s a haitian dude who’s lived in the states for almost as long as i’ve been alive (he’s barely 8 yrs my senior, if that) and seems to have picked up a whole slew of traits that, to my womanist mind, are precise indicators of wtf’s wrong w/ black folks: he’s homophobic but passes off his thinly-veiled jabs (worded as questions) as curiosity about queer folk, he’s sexist but masks it as speaking to the purported regal nature of black women (peace sista, how you doin queen, et. al), and he definitely thinks that children prefer fast food to freshly prepared food items. three fatal flaws. three counter-revolutionary, so-run-of-the-mill-i-barely-flinch flaws. sigh. so common, and so deeply wrong.
not that i expect an episode of the mclaughlin group out of the barber shop.
not that i anticipate some cheikh anta diop or frantz fanon goings on @ that place.
but damn. i also don’t anticipate feeling attacked for not believing that queer women are such exclusively because of ‘damage’ done by men in their lives (molesters, fucked up boyfriends, rapists, violent/ substance abusing siblings or other family members). i never imagined that trying to have a bit of a conversation w/ the brotha who cuts my hair would make me feel like i’m being mocked or laughed at by virtue of some cat deciding to loudtalk me. the place never felt like home, but i feel like my guard has to be up higher than it usually is. i wouldn’t say it felt like being surrounded by hyenas, but it wasn’t like sitting on a mountain of cushions, either. i have trouble articulating it. maybe that’s just my bullshit sensor working overtime to keep me out of the path of danger. i can’t really call it. but it’s an icky feeling to have. like i’m being written off, misunderstood, or simply humored by someone who doesn’t take the function of human genitalia seriously. ugh.
it’s cool, though. i stood my ground and reminded myself that i only had to pay him and leave.
scratching the surface is showing me more about these dudes than i really care to see at this point.
it’s like stepping on what looks like solid ice and feeling the sheet crack under your weight, and praying you can make it back to the soil before you fall into a lake. i didn’t expect all that. should i expect all that? wouldn’t that be generalizing, then? that’s what i don’t want to do. that’s what bugs me about the conversations i have w/ hetero-identifying, masculine-presenting biological men who aren’t close friends of mine: they decide to apply what they learn in one or two instances to everyone who fits particular criteria. and i hate that.

it’s getting harder for me to treat ppl like individuals, to treat them the way i would want myself or my child(ren) to be treated. it’s a mess.
and my sleepy ass hasn’t even tried to make this rant sound coherent . . .

an addendum:

knowing why they are how they are (why i am the way i am, why anyone functions a certain way) doesn’t make it any better or easier. i just have trouble trying to look past that with some people. so, i’m staying over here in my little womanist corner and building community with like-minded persons. that’s not to say that i’m fully isolated, but i definitely feel like i need to build myself up a bit more before trying to go play w/ the other, less aware kids.

dear blog readers:

(all 4 of you)

i have a question:

is there EVER a good time to answer a cheesy text message that’s a not-so-thinly veiled come-on?

i’m not gonna go into detail. please humor me in the comments with some kind of answer. thanks!

erykah badu’s pussy

isn’t any of my business.

it’s not any of yours.

it’s not any of anyone’s except her, the babies that have and will come out of it, her coochie doctor, and whomever she’s sleeping with.

no matter if it’s wilford brimley, common, all of new edition, the current president . . . IT DOESN’T MATTER.

you aren’t paying any of her bills
what you eat doesn’t make her shit
shut the fuck up
and quit hatin.

cryin like a hit dog

(and maybe you are?)
(this is a rant, straight up)

dear penis-havers:

if you ever find yourself complaining really hard about what another dude is paying for child support, create an advocacy group. do something to change the law. have a balanced, fair, honest assessment of the situations that are being mediated (however poorly or well) by the courts. the “keep a nigga” baby (phonte said that, not me) isn’t the only kind of baby. there’s often the “that nigga switched up” baby, and the “he started doing drugs” baby . . . sometimes the “i really shoulda left that nigga alone when he told me he was married” baby. often, in my experience, there’s the “fuck that, nigga i’m not getting an abortion” baby. why? because abortion isn’t anyone’s fucking party, and male contraception comes in at least two trusty flavors: vasectomy (with a lower mortality rate than a tubal ligation!) and condoms. that doesn’t make any woman less responsible for her own contraception, but i’m sayin. motherfuckers love pointing blaming ass fingers after the kid comes and ppl stop wanting to even look at one another.

often, going to court is a final choice for two otherwise rational adults. in my personal experience, the legal proceedings of divorce kind of demand that agreements be reached (either with or without a court), and put into writing to be made binding unless both parties agree to change things. this is usually effective if the divorce is amicable. if it’s not — and it seems like most divorces aren’t, for the same reasons there are ‘fatherless’ children — then it gets hairy and ignorant.
and nobody’s gonna tell me that everyone remains a grownup when it comes down to the breakdown of a marriage. it’s like when you break up w/ your boo of years (regardless of who’s wrong or right) and emotions get heated. because they do. because you’re human, and so is s/he. fuck outta here… everyone should act sensibly when it comes down to it. but that’s not the most realistic thing to ask when you realize your lady’s been plotting to divorce you for the past six months and only does it after she makes sure you put some money up for a down payment on a house. it can’t happen when you marry your man because the two of you agree that it’s the best thing to do for the new baby, but that jackass stops coming home at a decent hour and smells like some other woman’s pussy when he does. quit fuckin playin.
puffy pays what he pays not just because of his income. back before justin was actually old enough to know the difference between birthdays bein the worst days & sippin champagne when he’s thirst-ay, puff was on that bling shit. before it had a name, he championed it. soooooo, of course misa hylton-brim is gonna get crazy money for that kid. regardless of her own income as a stylist, puffy makes infinitely more money than she does or ever did. that means that per the law in most states/ commonwealths, it’s based on the needs of the child in addition to the income level of both parents before they split up. the lifestyle comes into question. a lot of it is spousal support, too; the idea is that both the custodial parent and child did better as a full on family unit with the non-custodial parent present.
if you don’t like it:
lobby
protest
picket
wrap your dick up
tell your boy to wrap his dick up
make sure you learn what the laws are in your state or commonwealth
be for real for 5 minutes and remember that the biological function of sexual intercourse is to make babies
respect the whole process
and go to your legislators and tell them to change the shit to really help those babies! i believe moms, dads, kinship caregivers, foster parents, adoptive parents, and anyone else who gives a shit about the wellbeing of a child should band together. these fuckers make laws for us all of the damn time that make zero sense in our day-to-day lives. they’re not necessarily living the same way we are. so of course they do seemingly dumb shit like award $20K per month per kimmussell until they’re 20 or whatever. and you know what? it’s warranted, according to the man who has to “foot the bill.” stop looking at the kids like fucking bills. you weren’t thinking about that shit when all that fuckin and suckin was goin on, WERE you? nobody ever is. i’m still childless after one extended stint as an almost baby’s mama. and you know what? that shit scared me right into the place i am right now: focused on taking care of ME.
but that’s another story.
my point is this: for those of us who can’t hash it out like grownups, we go to court or have a spiritual advisor or whomever help us do so. it happens. don’t talk about the shoulds/ should nots simply because that’s a waste of breath. if it’s gonna be so in your fantasy world, put in the work to create the world you want to see.
and start with your kids, nigga, so they might have a chance at doing it differently than you.

** i do agree with some of what tigallo said, particularly about what can happen whilst fuckin with “ain’t shit” individuals. problem: most ppl with errant babies fall into the “ain’t shit”/ TKON affiliate or card carrying member category. i’m just sayin, if the brotha’s raps aren’t lies then he’s personally invested in the whole child support/ separated parents side of life. fine. that’s his walk. but everyone ain’t tay. everyone ain’t russ, kimora, misa, puffy, or even charlie sheen or denise richards.
some of us got too comfortable with someone and when the lil piss test showed two lines instead of one, folks began to show their asses.
then they end up writing songs like “ms. jackson.” even your favorite rapper’s favorite rapper goes through it. we’re not all at the same maturity level. it is what it is.

*shrug*

on: r. kelly, demons, black folk, and gordon gartrell radio.

1) omi gave me the impetus.
2) phonte drove it home here. among other gems, he said ‘the same power structure that says cops can put 50 bullets in a nigga is the same one that tells entertainers it’s okay to piss on lil black girls.’ YUP.
3) that motherfucker is guilty any time his damn attorney offers the ‘little man’ defense as what’s supposed to be a legit means of proving innocence.
4) i’m glad this has actually made it to trial. really.
5) anyone who puts the fault on that little girl would probably have let the motherfucker pee on their grown asses. being in awe of celebrity, being impressionable, and being just plain uninformed of one’s own power are not exclusive to kids.
6) in the first episode of the boondocks, huey asked tom dubois ‘do you know the extent to which niggas love r. kelly?’ and at this point in time i can say: the love was underestimated. it seems like ppl are looking for reasons for it to be okay. it ain’t.
7) i don’t think white ppl give a damn about it. and probably wouldn’t unless it was a white girl he’d peed on. see: kobe.
8) we can’t forget aaliyah. we can’t.
9) the whole trial appears to be a zoo. not a sex zoo. just a regular ass, dysfunction-on-parade zoo.
10) most ppl who talk so much about sex and god (and rarely have subject matter that deviates from either) are mentally damaged. see: bizzy bone, marvin gaye (AND his daddy, i’m sure).

man, you playin.

you go from flirting with me, openly, in front of everyone with eyes
to saying cutesy shit on the phone & telling me how bad you want some face time
then you express a desire to get another ‘good hug’ from me
& after all that
you write me off via a weakly played round of phone tag
. . .

& never call me back when i let you know that there exists a rain date?

this annoyance has been simmering. the disappointment, not even the what-ifs, has kept this shit going for me
not because i thought we were meant to be
but because i hoped i’d at least get to know you
you didn’t even give me a chance.

don’t let me catch your black ass in the street, dude
actually, let me
so i can remind myself how little i needed to be bothered with in the first place.

: : : : : :

just because i’m not present, it doesn’t mean i don’t care.
sorry you feel that way. it’s simply not true.

i don’t do

special needs men.

that is, if you’re beyond the regular kind of crazy
if you’re slow to the point where context clues don’t help you figure out wtf i’m talking about
if you can’t imagine your life without fast food and/ or have a dependency on sugar
if you’re afraid to admit not knowing something
if you’re afraid to learn something
if you aren’t trying to improve your life beyond material assets
if you can’t fathom ever vacationing or moving away from the place where you live right now
if your idea of appropriate foodstuffs for a child includes soda or grape drink
if you think cable is a necessity
if you don’t know that the first CDs were certificates of deposit, not compact discs
if you think it’s abnormal to believe in someone not named jesus, allah, yaweh, jehovah, or god
if you have being rich confused with being wealthy
if you’re impressed by kanye but have no idea who j. dilla was/ is
if you think i’m tryna be someone other than myself because i aspire to be multilingual
if you think being on welfare is a permanent condition, and not a tool to improve the quality of one’s life
if you think r. kelly is good for anything other than shaking your head or being disappointed
if you have a tattoo on your neck, face, outer wrist, either hand, behind your ear, or on your forearm(s) and you do not have the skills to earn a decent living outside of a crappy, low-paying job
if you believe that it’s okay to have sex without protection and you believe children are merely a consequence of getting your dick wet
if your idea of a suitable marriage proposal is tied to the lyrics of jagged edge’s “let’s get married”
if you grew up in the suburbs but aspire to be “hood”
if you love city of god because it gave you ideas on how to be a bad dude
. . .

if any of the above characteristics applies to you, i qualify you as special needs.
and i especially need for you to stay away from me
cuz i can’t do it. your healing isn’t my job. i’m trying hard as shit to fix me.

thanks.

until she puts it up on blogger

i’m sharing with you dear readers a declaration posted by miss oyin on behalf of the buckwild family (just as adorable as the care bears & their cousins, but way more serious). a declaration of war, of sorts, against the kingdom of niggadom. after an experience w/ two of TKON’s most fierce warriors — women i work with, both of whom espouse SO MUCH PRIDE in black folk/ blackness, i felt it necessary to remind myself why i don’t subscribe to that school of “thought.”

Me and some otha membas of the Buckwild family have been chit chattin. We been doin some sharing of stories and some truth tellin and just some general vibin about the stuff that niggas get into.

How they abuse

How they manipulate situations

How they hurt us and themselves

All for The Kingdom of Niggadom!

And how no matter how enlightened a brotha is

At the end of the day

Should he choose to do so

He can lay all that to the side and post up in The Kingdom of Niggadom (TKON)

TKON is a terrorist organization. It is, among other things:

Anti-Freedom

Anti-Woman

Anti-Bliss

Anti-Peace

Anti-Cooperation

Anti-Truth

Anti-Erotic

TKON endorses the wholesale rape and destruction of womanhood. And it offers us either a pornographic cardboard cut out OR a whitewashed passionless virginal caricature to replace that destroyed womanhood. Now this don’t mean that TKON is necessarily physically raping a woman, (tho TKON isn’t above that either) cause TKON can be very subtle in its ways and workings.

TKON will have you to believe that your main purpose in life as a woman is to bear children and be a helpmeet of a nigga. And should you not want to devote your life to bein a helpmeet then something is wrong witchu, or maybe you’re a lesbian or perhaps you done picked up a evil spirit from yo woman friends: “Whatchu mean you dont feel free??? You be sittin up letting them women you hang around wit fill yo head wit all kinda nonsense. You betta watcho self or you wont neva have no manTHEN whatchu gone do? It say in the Bible that a womans place is . . .”

One of TKON’s favorite threats is that you gone end up in Hell, or even worse…old and alone.

TKON will have you to believe that the abuse that it hands out is really somehow all YOUR fault because you are too free, or too pretty, or too nice, or you smile at men too much or you don’t clean house the way that it should be cleaned or on the day that it should be cleaned, or because you don’t worship God the correct way.

TKON doesnt necessarily hit or yell, TKON is highly skilled in the usage of painful snide remarks and public humiliation. TKON will also withhold affection to teach you a lesson/punish you for not acting in accordance with the bylaws of TKON. For example, you may not get kissed hello because the house ain’t as clean as its supposed to be even tho TKON will NOT clean anything or pick up anything because that is womans work.

TKON promotes listening to your boys before you listen to anything that your woman or your mama tries to tell you because all women want to do is get over on you anyway or tie you down. TKON is the origin of the rumor that “she got pregnant on purpose.”

TKON likes the THEORY of a relationship with a woman, but actual intimacy without manipulation of some sort is usually beyond the capabilities of TKON.

TKON ultimately believes that if you don’t agree with it, its because you don’t UNDERSTAND it,

Cause you ain’t deep enough,

You don’t fast enough,

You don’t read enough,

You don’t pray enough,

You don’t watch the right tv shows,

You watch tv,

You wear yo stomach out,

You be temptin’ men

You haven’t read freud or jung

You straight

You gay

You dress too flamboyantly

You don’t own enough white linen

Yo jeans too tight

You got a perm

Yo hair is too nappy

You have locs but you don’t talk to them

Yo diet has too many carbs

Yo diet don’t have enough wheatgrass

You don’t eat no meat

You be burnin’ all that incense

You don’t neva burn no incense

Etc. etc. etc.

When grievances are brought before the court of TKON

1. TKON ignores the entire case because listening and being transformed by what is heard is outside of the capabilities of TKON

2. TKON will flip the entire scenario and make the entire incident/issue out to be some fault of the plaintiff OR circumstances surrounding TKON, because of course TKON is flawless in EVERY way and obviously anyone who doesn’t agree is crazed or should be in therapy or on some kind of medication

3. In very special cases, when TKON has cut to complete craziness and stayed crazy for a long period of time, TKON will institute surface level changes that will cause the plaintiff to believe that he/she has been heard. This keeps TKON in its position of comfort and power, with minimal effort. Note: these changes have a shelf life of 3 days-6 months, however based on our field research, the most common length of time is 2 weeks.

Sistas who have fallen victim to TKON typically react in one of two ways:

1. The denounce TKON and say fuck it and they mean it and they spit on the foundations of TKON.

2. They try to prove to TKON that they are a different kind of woman and therefore worthy of the love, affection, and esteem that TKON has on reserve for that perfect woman/queen.

I am a category 1 up in this piece. I say FUCK IT!

I SPIT on the FOUNDATIONS of TKON

LET THAT SHIT CRUMBLE!!!

I will get me a sign and picket outside the gates of that muthafucka

I am SICK and goddammit TIRED of NIGGAS WINNIN

I am TIRED of NIGGAS not bein held accountable for their actions

I am tired of Niggasebein put up on pedestals cause we scared of how they gone act if we worship at our own shrine instead of theirs

FUCK that shit

I am shootin TKON in the stomach and blowin air in the hole

I am breakin TKON’s fingers and wigglin em til he pass out or die of a heartattack

I ain’t keepin TKON’s secrets NO MORE

On THIS day in MY NAME, by the power of my womb, the power that I use to create the life that I love, I withdraw my ASE from The Kingdom of Niggadom

I am exitin’ stage left and takin’ up residence in The Town of Women

And I got my yam pounder cocked and ready for any muthafucka who feelin squirrely

When the men are ready

we can move to a new place.

But from now until the time that the dust settles on the destruction

I will shake my red tailfeathers in the general direction of TKON

And I will chant that shit down like they be chantin down Babylon

Num Yo Ho, No Mo Niggas Winnin © Beauchamp de Leau & Sugarlee Buckwild

I cordially invite all like minded persons (women in particular) to chant that shit down WITH me.

***Babylonian Sidebar***

we need to find us another name for Babylon cause in ancient times the chief problem that folks had with Babylon was the freeness of the women so I’m actually a Babylon SUPPORTER.

in the name of all that is on point & wonderful in the universe, i wholeheartedly second, third, fourth, and umpteenth that. shit.

a bonus blog for today:

in the great tradition of my sexual caveat post from summer 2007, i am sharing w/ you something i swiped from my girl oyin’s blog (it’s private, so i can’t link it). it’s funny because it’s true. ;)

if your grasp of the english language is rudimentary

(and if you don’t know what rudimentary is and can’t figure it out with the context clues…this prolly means you)

do not attempt to write erotic poetry

it is simply a poor choice

go with where your talents are…

impress her by adding up the tip in your head

build something

burn her a cd

do an interpretative dance

because a line like “i want to kiss in between your pelvic…”

or “i want to make love to your inner loins…”

*shaking my head*

these things will be shared with homegirls

and they will find their way into random blogs

don’t let it be you, hear?

don’t let it be you…

oh, hell no.

wtf?

i’m kinda, like… flabbergasted.

please feel free to engage me in discourse in the comments, okay?

there is so much wrong here. so much.

i’m very comfortable right now.

my cheap apartment, my ‘pretty damn good for someone with no college degree’ salary, regular paycheck, almost-middle-class privilege, second-hand laptop, clearance-purchased & sweatshop-manufactured clothes, hand-made jewelry, ‘nice black lady’ appearance… i am comfortable. i have the advantage of being perceived as heterosexual, as christian (is it just me or are black folks really into assuming that you’re a worshiper of jesus?), as all those things that the dominant society is/ reflects/ seems to value.

it’s starting to make me really annoyed, though. because i’m not really, like, all the way straight. because i’m nowhere near christian, muslim or jewish . . . because my mom was on public assistance when i was a kid so i know all sides of that fucked up ‘welfare’ system, because i don’t think my vote counts but i do it anyway & hope to change shit from the inside out . . .

it’s so hard biting my tongue sometimes when ppl assume that my silence is the same as agreement. i mean, in a lot of ways it can be — but the fact that i don’t say anything could mean that i don’t wanna waste my time digging into your ass & laying all your shit bare. it might mean that i don’t believe you’ll understand me if i tell you precisely what’s wrong w/ making declarations that all white ppl are inherently corrupt, that all men are terrible human beings, that your moontime is a bad thing . . . man, i don’t motherfuckin know. i’m just . . . not okay w/ a lot of this shit but i’m having this problem. the problem is knowing when opening my mouth is worth it, & furthermore knowing that the person to whom i’m speaking is gonna really get it. example: i think i ranted myself into the beginnings of an asthma attack at work some weeks ago when i told the clerical assistant that making racist jokes isn’t the way to get me to laugh — just b/c you’re black doesn’t mean you get a pass to say nasty shit about other groups of colonized ppl. he didn’t understand shit i was saying until i told him to stop talking to me for the rest of the day. that’s a bit extra, probably very unprofessional, but so is cracking jokes about puerto ricans & then saying it’s okay cuz you’re ‘part rican’ w/ your not-really-kinky hair as validation of such information. fuckwad.

anyway, yeah, so… i’m less comfortable. i don’t believe in letting my position of comfort be a reason not to get involved, or at the very least to give a damn. i’m trying to return to the idea of being an activist. someone once told me that he makes signs for protesters because he doesn’t have the energy or time to attend these events. i nodded & thought to myself, “is that really the same as direct involvement in making shit happen?” of course there’s a lot of noise made at protests, not necessarily a lot of change . . . & these shits are definitely like activist cotillions sometimes. i mean, yay signs. is it even that serious? to feel like part of the bigger ‘movement’ you have to make brown bag lunches for the attendees? i don’t know. but to me, activism isn’t about switching your vigilance on or off. in my head, i’m standing up for folks (myself included) at given opportunities, when i know i’m gonna make the biggest impact. maybe being super opportunistic isn’t ‘correct’ activism but i’ll be damned if i interrupt someone running his mouth in the supermarket about some evil jew empire or whatever the fuck. i don’t care what he thinks while i’m tryna buy some toilet tissue. i’m not yet on my constant watch for bullshit. i may never be. sometimes, a sista just wants to get her tazo tea from starfucks or whole foods & just go the hell home (or to old navy).

this is a complicated thing, this being socially responsible. this being an active activist. but when you’re uncomfortable, you do things to make yourself comfortable. being used to something is not the same as being comfortable. also, it’s impossibly fuckin easy to be an angry blogger, a pissed off ACLU member who doesn’t think they have to help send out all that fucking campaign mail* & it’s impossibly simple to say you don’t want ludacris showing up at your university because he said something fucked up about quote-unquote hoes/ hates on oprah/ hasn’t spoken against darfur enough or at all or whatever the hell y’all are mad at this month. like . . . some of this shit is so small potatoes. or, let’s pick our battles wisely enough that we can create change across the board. so many of the bullshit situations we suffer through are related to one another. maybe that’s what it is. maybe the bigger picture isn’t seen. saving the whales is important because nobody’s looking at what’s behind the danger to them — it’s the same danger that oppressed/ hunted ppl suffer. don’t you think? i guess that the balance must be found before we can really put things into motion. at least, i think so.

it’s 3 in the morning, i shouldn’t even be messin w/ this blog right now.

i’ll write something coherent at another time. not having steady internet is probably gonna cause me to write the most insanely lengthy diatribes & then posting them here. so get ready. i might have a book in me yet.

* i used to work for the ACLU. i had ppl call our offices and demand to know why we ask them to volunteer. “aren’t my donations enough to, like, hire someone?” armchair philanthropist wannabe activist assholes. ugh.

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