Identify and Divide

I struggle to figure out why it is so unacceptable amongst many black people to mention your non-negro heritage or even to specify what type of negro-heritage you have. People get mad at celebs like Rosario Dawson, Melyssa Ford, and most notoriously Tiger Woods who are proud of their mixed race heritage. These angry people say things like, “All black people are mixed, so why do you have to itemize what you are?” “Part nigga, all nigga” “When you break down your racial identity then you’re denying the fact that you’re black” “When you say that you’re more than just black, you’re trying to get white people to accept you”

Just because I/we can and will break down our racial identity doesn’t mean that we deny that we’re black. Me especially, my skin color gives that fact away so I could break it down till I’m blue in the face, but at the end of the day most people just see a black woman. But that doesn’t mean that I have to be ashamed of what I am racially. Why am I only allowed to be proud of my African heritage? Why is it not okay for me to admit that there are other races that are part of my DNA? And for the record, non-black doesn’t automatically equal white. I really can’t stand when people say the opposite.

For me, it’s not an issue of white is right or trying to gain anybody’s acceptance by identifying all the other races that I am. I’m proud to be mixed with a little bit of everything, because who I am is a little bit of everywhere.

In the approximately 143 years since blacks were declared free people in this country, we’ve been trying to get other people to accept us and treat us equally. Having stated that, why are we not able to accept OURSELVES? Identifying oneself as more than just black is not indicative of an insidious level of self-hate, it is instead indicative of soaring self- and ancestor-respect.

There are some who say, “defining yourself as ‘black and…’ is disrespectful to your African ancestors”. Well, isn’t it more disrespectful to my Native American, Jamaican, Portugese, Chinese, and English ancestors to not mention them at all?

When I have to check off a race on some legal form, I check “Black, of African descent” because that’s most apparent and has been a major factor shaping my life experience; or if I’m feeling bold I check “other” and in the space provided next to the box I write “HUMAN” because at the end of the day, I’m human. Nothing more, nothing less. Race, class, and gender do not figure in.

I embrace my heritage, I embrace my multi-layered racial makeup, and I embrace my blackness, but most of all I embrace being human and that requires no definition.

Happy Halloween

Yes, it’s that time of year again. Time for silly costumes, and candy overload. It’s also time to dust off Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. This song comes out once a year to celebrate the dancing zombies amongst us. (Well that’s true for most people anyways, yall know how I am about Michael Jackson! Thanks to an 11th hour intervention by my sister, I now own 9 copies of the “Thriller” album. Don’t hate!) So here’s my contribution to your Halloween Fun:

Easy Like Sunday Morning

When I get in my feelings I listen to music more than usual, which is hard to believe since I rarely am without music of some sort. I listen to any genre that sounds good to me, I’m not prejudiced to any particular style. It’s funny how song lyrics can express your emotions better than your own words. I was listening to “Easy” by Lionel Richie/Commodores earlier and some of the lyrics say exactly how I’ve been feeling:

…You know I’ve done all I can
You see I begged, stole
And I borrowed….
Why in the world
Would anybody put chains on me?
I’ve paid my dues to make it
Everbody wants me to be
What they want me to be
I’m not happy when I try to fake it!….
I wanna be free to know
The things I do are right
I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
That’s why I’m easy
I’m easy like Sunday morning….

I suppose I could give minute detail as to why I’ve been all emotional lately, but that would kind of take away from the sanctity of it. I’ll go so far as to say my heart’s been opened up in potentially the cruelest way possible and I’m searching for that proverbial band-aid.

Also, I’m feeling kind of weary. I find myself more often I’d like to be, the only black (woman) in social and professional settings. People look to me for the so-called black perspective or for the female perspective on things. I get tired of feeling like I have to be a representative for an entire race of people. I’ve had to explain too many times that my opinions are my own, and while some black people and some females may share my opinions, they should not be taken as the gospel.

I’m tired of having to always watch what I say, what I write, and how I feel for fear of misrepresenting my people. I have to systematically dilute the harshness of my words for fear of being seen as the “crazy black woman” at work and in school, and I can only do that so much before my soul begins to crack.

I’ve blogged intermittently on one website or another for the last few years to an audience that I may never see in person, and even though I don’t mince words in my forum, still in the back of my mind I wonder if someone will see my words and wonder if all black people or all black women or all females think this way. Is my criticism of myself and the world too much for some people to handle? Is my prose not “black” enough? Not “feminist” enough? Not eloquent enough? Does the fact that I’m proud of being a college educated black woman come off as elitist?

At some point, I stop this mental interrogation to remind myself and the world at large that just because I’m black and female I’m not your representative. Do not ask me what it’s like to be a black woman, because I have nothing to compare my experiences to. I’ve been this way since God created me. I continue writing, speaking, and acting however my spirit tells me to, and for that, I make no apologies.

I wanna be free
Just me, babe!
That’s why I’m easy
I’m easy like Sunday morning….

Serious Public Service Announcement

The end of October is almost here, so with that comes the end of Breast Cancer Awareness month. Most everyone who knows me in a non-blog capacity knows that this cause is very close to my heart (along with the fight against AIDS, but you’ll read about that another time). I’ve been fortunate enough to see some of my closest females survive this disease, and I’ve seen a few lose the fight as well. While I’m grateful that BCA month this year has been bigger and more successful than ever before, I hope the message isn’t lost as soon as the last bag of pink ribbon M&Ms or “Awareness Mints” is taken off the shelf.

I’m not normally the type to do PSAs, but in honor of those who haven’t survived, those who have, and those who are just beginning the struggle with this disease please make sure you get yourself checked. Do your self-exams monthly, and make sure to get your yearly mammogram.

My black sistas, please know that even though we are less likely to develop breast cancer, we are more likely to die from it. That’s built into our genetic makeup. So forgetting or skipping your mammogram is not an option. Early detection equals early treatment, which can mean longer life. While we don’t usually start getting mammograms until we’re in our 30s and 40s, it’s okay to begin doing your monthly self-exams much earlier. It’s in so doing that we’re able to more quickly and easily recognize any changes that could be potentially cancerous.

To do the self exam you don’t have to follow any special chart, etc. I know of one woman who’s boyfriend noticed the lump in her breast before she did because he was the one who did the majority of the “examining”. That’s cute and funny, but it saved her life. So however you’re most comfortable doing the exams (whether you or your partner does it), it doesn’t matter…just make sure it gets done.

Ok, I’m stepping down off of my soapbox. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

The Problem with Pretty

I am decidedly sickened. I’m really wondering what on earth is happening to the state of our young girls today. I grew up in the 80s and 90s with enough ‘Girl Power’ messages to make it out of adolesence relatively unscathed. Lucky for me I was taught that my worth doesn’t rest in the quality of my makeup or my ability to prance around in a glittery midriff top.

My friend, Karen has an 8-year old daughter who will be turning 9 in about a month. Squeak (my nickname for her daughter) told me that she wants to have her party at Club Libby Lu, which prides itself on being “A special secret club where super fabulous girls can have makeover parties, play games, get advice, and find really cool princess paraphernalia…”

I asked the child, “Why do you want to have your party there?”. She responded, “Because I can get a makeover and princess stuff with my friends so Arjay(one of her male classmates) will think ask me out”. I then asked, “Is that the only way that he will like you? You’re a smart cookie, I’m sure he likes that about you too” to which she said, “Well no one really likes girls who know too much, you know, ones who are real smart. And if you don’t have good makeup and good clothes or look good, then you can forget it”.

Hearing this really shocked me because Karen, quite the feminist, has two older daughters who have managed to avoid the self-esteem minefields and are fairly secure with themselves. These girls are able to appreciate Barbie for her fashion sense, but aren’t afraid to get down with some geometry. They know that glitter doesn’t always equal good. I was also disappointed to see just how brainwashed a young girl can become, just by watching the women around her.

I asked her about this, and we got into a serious dialogue about the future of young women in this country. It seems as if we’re taking steps back from the advances that were made by our mothers, aunts, grandmothers, etc to make everyone see that women are capable of doing most everything that men can do. Was all of their hard work in vain? These women struggled to make sure we understood that we are worth more than whatever what’s being bottled and sold at Sephora.

There’s a sickening increase in cosmetic surgery, increased incidences of body dysmorphic disorder, more girls with eating disorders, fewer girls challenging academia early on, and from society at large: an overall apathy about it all.

Princess parties are great, secret clubs are great, but to be given a “makeover” at an age when you should be learning long division isn’t so great. Our society has become so cosmetic surgery and image crazy, with nearly every cable channel showing it’s own version of a “makeover show”. We don’t realize that our little girls watch our every move, so they take our obsession with looking good and make it their own. I know things have hit rock bottom when I see 12 year olds reaching for the age defying moisturizer.

I have no problem with wanting to look your best, but is it necessary to have beauty and brains be polar opposites? Why to be taken seriously do I have to be nipped, tucked, and made over? Why do my words hold less merit if I don’t have perfectly coiffed hair or have on an outfit from the newest designer? How can we save our young ladies from living lives full of self-hate and disdain for all things academic?

Like the 80s club song says, “Don’t make me over….”

Another Tale from the Sketchy Man File

I’m thinking about making this a weekly feature in this part of the blogosphere, simply because I have these run-ins all too often and more often then not they’re just plan wrong or just plain hilarious.

This afternoon I decided to take a walk around my neighborhood instead of going to the gym. While I was out, some poor excuse for a hood urchin comes up to me and really tried to run his very best game. When I say poor excuse, I mean he was wearing some fake-ass supermarket vending machine type of bling with some scruffy lookin tims and a humongous white t-shirt. I’m sure there are plenty of decent brothas who dress this way, but sometimes a person’s demeanor tells on them. And trust me, dude was not one of those decent brothas.

“Oooh, I wish I was your t-shirt right now so I could be close to you”

“Excuse me? I’m just trying to get some exercise this afternoon, I’m sorry I’m not trying to be rude but I just want to get my walk on”

“Well lemme just walk witcha”

So I entertained him for a while, and let him walk with me. He proceeded to tell me just how he’s going to treat me like a lady and take me to nice dinners at places like Applebee’s and Chili’s. Ummm, Applebee’s? Like carside to go Applebee’s? My baby back ribs Chili’s? Not that there’s anything wrong with those places, cuz lord knows me and my people get our hardcore grub on there, but to try and impress me by telling me you’ll buy me a $17.99 meal isn’t natural. He also told me how he’s going to buy me everything I want. Verbatim he said, “I’ll let you go up in Finish Line and you can get whatever Air Max’s you want. Girl you thought I didn’t notice your red & black Air Max 95’s?”

I’m really not interested in what you’ll buy me or where you’ll take me out to eat, at first anyway. I’ll leave that to the hood rats and golddiggers. I’m more concerned with things like personality and if you’re gainfully employed. I don’t care if you work at McDonald’s, I just need to know that you’re taking some steps at making a life for yourself. I explained this to my suitor and asked him what he does with himself and he proceeded to tell me that he’s not employed because he quit the last job–they were getting on his nerves. But he’s in the music game, so he’s going to blow up soon and make serious paper. Likely story. He also told me that school was not for him and he had no intent on getting his GED because he’d be making serious paper in the music game.

I don’t need a man to have an advanced degree, but you can’t just give up on your education because of some outside chance that you might make some money. I was nice and told him that I’m not interested because I have a man (I lied, so what) so he came with the tried and true “I’m hung like a mandingo”. (Men, STOP the madness, don’t say this when trying to get a woman’s attention).

Instant dismissal. I had to get kinda stank and tell him where to go because I wasn’t having it. To which he said, “Fine, you’re an uppity bitch and I only holla’d cuz you looked like you needed it”. I guess some people really don’t handle rejection well.

Menstrual Ungoodness

I’m female, so I’m allowed to rant about this stuff. So please, just give me my moment mmmmk?

Why oh why is Always’ new slogan “Have a happy period”? And why does this message have to be printed on all of their products? Never ever in my life have I had a “happy period”. I’m happy when it’s over, not while I’m in the grips of its madness. Sure, I suppose I should be grateful to NOT be pregnant, but to be pregnant would require sex–don’t get me started on that *shakes head violently*. But sometimes I find myself thinking, “Damn you Eve, why did you have to eat that damn apple? You really messed things up for all of us”

Anyway, with all of this menstrual ungoodness going around I had to stop and think of all the stupid and funny euphemisms we have to let people know that for the next few days you are to stay out of our way and leave us gifts of chocolate. I polled a few of my friends and here’s what they call the most unfriendly days of the month (these are the top 5) :

~”I’m rebooting the ovarian operating system”
~”Aunt Flo is here for a visit”
~”Dishonorable discharge from the Uterine Navy”
~”Clean up on aisle one”
~”Game Day for Crimson Tide”

There are infinite euphemisms out there. You can add your own and humor me if you’d like. But while I’m ranting, I really want to know why the feminine product aisle in any store is awash in pink, pastel putrescence. Sure, I’m quite fond of pink, but why must every product in this aisle be the color of Easter eggs? Is this supposed to be a testament to our girliness? Ummm, there is nothing ‘girly’ about a period. You feel gross, and sometimes have cramps that rival childbirth contractions (I don’t have kids, so I can only assume this fact) so the last thing I want to see is some flowery girly garbage. It really irks me that this packaging looks so similar to what’s in the baby aisle. Why can’t maxi pad and tampon packaging be a muted shade of gray like my cozy sweats that I cherish during this time of the month? I really don’t need to be reminded that I’m a girl during this time…trust me, I’m already painfully aware.

My Heritage Celeb Look-Alike

I was over at GoldenSilence and saw this fun little tool from MyHeritage that shows you what celebrities you supposedly resemble based on pictures. The resemblance is based on facial shape/expression, not who you actually look like. Here’s what mine came up as:

I did five different photos, and had some odd matches. Check it out and comment if you’d like.

Too-Strong Black Women

Is it possible for a woman to be too strong? Especially a Black woman?

My mom and I somehow get on this topic pretty frequently. She considers herself of the strong variety, having raised my brother and I as a single parent. She’s now happily married to my great stepdaddy but for 14 years she did it alone. Many times I find myself in awe of how she held it down–she kept my brother and myself in private schools for our entire K-12 journey and managed to see us through college with not so much as an “atta girl, good job” or tuition help from my father. From help with science fairs to FAFSA apps, she did it all. She never complained, and always had a smile. We were in countless activities and she shuttled us from football to dance to piano to boy- and girl-scouts to volleyball to track to little league and everything else we did. Let me just tell you, 20 years of tap competitions isn’t cheap at all, and while I foot the bills for dance now, she paid for more costumes and pairs of tap shoes than I can count. She never once missed a home game or a recital.

I use my mom as a prime example of strong womanhood because while she knows she’s strong, she feels no need to advertise it. Most strong women are “Pushed Back to Strength” meaning they don’t want to be Super Women, but because of a divorce or whatever, are pushed into that role. A lot of my mom’s friends are Super Women, and handle it with grace.

However, there is a subsection of these Super Women who exploit their strength and have become “over-strong”. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard, “You can’t fuck with me, I’m a Strong Black Woman” or “A man can’t do shit for me cuz I’m a Strong Black Woman”. It’s sad to me to hear that. Sure my mom had her number of “don’t fuck with me” moments, but any woman has those.

I see women strong to the point of coldness, and that’s really not necessary. Sure, holding it down on your own will make you tougher than most, but being cold doesn’t equate to being tough. This is “over strength”. Many of these women reject a good man who is willing to step in and help or at least be a cheerleader for her cause because in her eyes a man can’t do anything for her. They develop this “untouchable” attitude or just a plain stank attitude that turns people off.

Ladies, a lesson here. True strength comes in being able to admit that it’s hard to hold it down all on your own. All women, whether they have to do it all themselves or not, have to be strong to a point. We already have the chips stacked against us because we’re women, and having added melanin just makes it that much harder on us. Yes, a strong woman’s emotions may be stifled at times, but don’t be afraid to cry. Showing that you’re human is a testament to your strength. STANK ATTITUDE does NOT EQUAL STRENGTH. Sure you may have to raise hell sometimes to help and protect you and yours, I don’t dispute that. If you’re really strong, you need not exploit it and tell everyone you run across how strong you are, because it’s already evident.

Do you think the strongest women out there like Rosa Parks, Coretta Scott King, Maya Angelou, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman, Myrlie Evers, Condi Rice (I include her because she’s GOT to have a strong back to be a black republican woman and have no qualms about it) etc earned respect for their strength by telling everyone they run across “I’m a Strong Black Woman, you can’t fuck with me”? No, absolutely not. They got up every day and let their strength speak for itself. These women held it down and did so with grace and humility. A truly strong woman knows her strength, yet is humble. Lift your weaker sisters up and help them develop the strength they will need to function in this world. Some of the strongest women in this world are dealing with things that we can’t even imagine (think being AIDS infected in Sudan, Africa and not able to feed your child for weeks on end, running from tribal warfare, being a victim of Female Genital Mutilation, being forced to live under a dictator’s regime) but they don’t advertise it. They just do what they gotta do to survive and their dreams of a better life keep them going. The equation is simple: strength+grace+humility+class=A truly strong Black Woman.

Sista Big Bone?

Why when a man makes an attempt to holla, does he have to mention your size?? This morning, I was walking from my car into work and I hear some trifling excuse for a pick up line, “OOOHHHH, Sista Big Bone, can a brotha walk you home?? Look like a plate of Neckbones” I know he got this line from Anthony Hamilton’s song, so he thought he was stepping up his flirt game. He was probably thinking something to himself along the lines of “I know this girl must think I’m the shit cuz now she knows I be listenin’ to that neo-soul stuff that dem sophisticated-type bruhs be jammin to”

Of course he got the quickest “I’m sorry, I’m not interested” that I could muster without sounding rude, but it wasn’t just the pick up line…he was just a mess from head to toe and brain to soul so I couldn’t even fake it and act interested. But going back to the pick up line, and the song for that matter. There are several things wrong with it. Let me break them down for you, and feel free to add more as you see fit.

1) “Sista Big Bone, can a brotha walk you home”: Nothing appears wrong with this on the surface, but you just called me Sis. Big Bone. You really felt the need to make light of the fact that I’m not a size 2. Granted, I’m comfortable with my big-bonedness, I even like it, and a lot of men do too, but you don’t know me so you wouldn’t know that. Rule of life–don’t make light of a woman’s weight until you know her fairly well. Calling her “big-boned” when she thinks she’s anorexic-tiny or when she’s already painfully ashamed of her body may get you hurt, badly.

2) “…Look like a plate of neckbones”: What?? OK, you just compared me to food. Am I not human? I know neckbones taste good to some of you, but damn why because I’m big do I have to look like food? You wouldn’t say that to a skinny girl even if she were just as attractive would you? And for the record, neckbones look like this:

They are not attractive. Chopped up pieces of pork, and you have the nerve to say that I look like that?? Da hell is wrong wit you? You wouldn’t tell a skinny girl, “Look like a plate of Reduced-Fat Potato Chips” would you?

That’s really it about the song, but in general, why do people feel the need to holla and let a big girl know that he finds her attractive but also throw in there that he notices her thickness? No, this is not a “fat acceptance” speech or a Monique-type tirade about how skinny women are evil. I’m just asking, damn, don’t you see that I’m ” regular people” too, just like the skinny girl?

And because I’m sure someone will mention this, I DO know the difference between big boned and just outright fat. I happen to be the former (big boned and proud). Also, please save the “you should go to the gym to make your ass and thighs smaller” speech for your skinny friends who wouldn’t know what to do with a treadmill if their life depended on it. I actually go to the gym and workout regularly, so if you see me eating pizza every now and again, I earned it!