Seven Days

           You will die in a week. In seven days, you will be gone and your life won't mean a thing. Of course those who love you will miss you. There will be a few rallies and posts on social media. Hashtags and memes will spring up in your honor. But the American justice system will ultimately decide you're worthless. It's cute that they call it the "justice" system, isn't it? It may be systematic, but there really is no justice involved.
          Anyway, you can't think on that right now. We need to talk about these seven days you've got left. You need to give your loved ones all the hugs and kisses they will need to last them a lifetine, Send all those greeting cards for the many occasions you'll miss. Give your kids all the love you have left too. Tell them you won't be around to see them graduate or get married. While you're at it, tell them you're sorry for being born Black and for passing it on to them because with your dark skin, they don't stand a chance. Oh and the kids you don't have, you can simply kiss them goodbye. Throw a few apologies out there for not being around to see the births. Then let's get back to business. You have to concentrate on the fact that you have only seven days left to dream. If you haven't been to college, there is no point in wanting to. You'll be gone before you can set foot on any campus. If you're engaged, call it off. You'll never make the wedding. Seven days. You've got seven days to see the world. If you don't have the money, you'll have to forget it. You won't live long enough to earn it. So you'll never have the money and we both know you don't have the time. If you've ever done anything wrong in your life, you have seven days to make it all right. Ever cheated on a test, been accused of stealing, posted anything you shouldn't have on social media? If so, you had better fix it now. Because when you're gone, they will forget how you've loved and how intelligent you are. They won't care that you have no criminal record and that you are a human being and should be allowed to live. The bad things are all they will see. Yup. Pretty soon, someone will come along with a gun, a billy club and a badge (or without) and decide it's time for you to go. The fact that you were on your way to college, haven't graduated high school or had dreams of owning your own business won't matter. It's already been decided that seven days is all you get. And that justice system we spoke about will decide it's okay for your life to be over. It will suddenly become justified that someone else plays God, judge, jury and executioner and denies you what would have been the rest of your life.
         The good news is, you get to be a part of something big. Your name gets to be added to a list of those who departed prematurely. Trayvon Martin. Jordan Davis. Eric Garner. Michael Brown. Tamir Rice. Rumain Brisbon. VonDerrit Myers Jr. Dillon McGee.Roshad McIntosh. Kimani Gray. Kendrec McDade. Timothy Russell. Amadou Diallo. Sean Bell. Orlando Barlow. Aaron Campbell. Ronald Madison. James Brissette. Travares McGill. Oscar Grant. Emmett Till. Denzil Dowell. You'll be in the news for years, even if you are a statistic. But in order for you nor your family to be demonized, you've got a lot of work to do. You've only got seven days. Don't make the same mistakes as those before you. You've got a whole week to become perfect. Now go on. Clock's ticking.

TK

Off and On

Recently, someone who is fastly becoming dear to me told me they were in an "off and on" relationship with someone. I had mixed feelings. First of all, I will admit that a part of me hates it because rather than an "off and on" relationship with someone else, I would rather they were just "on" with me. But aside from that, I sympathized. I was in an "off and on" situation for years. When we were "on", things were REALLY good. But when we were "off", I felt like a wrecking ball made its way through my life and every time I thought I would get it all together, it made a loop around just for fun. I know that when I looked into the future, all I could see was what I wanted to be. I couldn't see that my dreams were just Spackle used to cover up the ugly holes in what could never be. But even deeper than that, I thought about my analogy of relationships. When I finally decided to get out of my situation, it came to me that relationships are like art galleries. You display the awe-inspiring and invite people from miles around to admire. You put the pretty gold name plates under the moments you feel will make them drift away to a place that might be better than their world and have hopes of someday having beautiful moments for themselves. They stand, staring with fingers on temples searching for the meaning and truth behind your exhibits. They will tell all of their friends so that they too can come gawk at your gaiety.

But as with an art gallery, people forget there exists storage in relationships. Therein lies the works deemed currently unmoving or perhaps simply less awe-inspiring. These pieces are forgotten because we have found something much more beautiful to show. As much as we would like to say that we keep these pieces because they magnify the beauty of the ones we hang, the truth is we know that when we look at the beauty, we cannot help exploring the questions spawned by their contrasts. We have to ask ourselves the hard questions. How is it that something so beautiful and something so ugly can be created by the same means? Is it right to hide what's ugly? What happens when what we show no longer works? When we shove that it storage? What do we have left?

For me, I realized that in my relationship, when I found a few pretty things to hang on the wall, I stopped working of the stuff I knew was a little rough. Instead, I shoved it in a closet and invited people to focus on the pretty things while these things, once just "a little rough" became dank, dusty and ugly. Because I just let them sit, they lost the little hope and luster they had left. I let people feast their eyes on "He Is With Me Four Nights Out Of The Week" while I ignored the picture that showed me the fact that when he wasn't with me the rest of the time, he was seeing fit to save face and maintain something for someone other than me. When I invited him to look at "He Always Tells Me How Sexy I Am", I didn't see "He Hasn't Said He Loves Me In A Week". "He Wants Me" hid "He GETS Me". "He Feels So Good To Me" completely overshadowed "He Is So Good For Me". "I Feel Really Good About Him" paled in comparison to "He Makes Me Feel Good About Me". I pushed "Our Hearts Belong Together" aside for "All Of Our Friends Say We Belong Together". Instead of "It's Easy To Be With Him", I would rather have looked at "We Look So Good Together". I left all the pictures I was ashamed of in the back room and prayed no one would ever find them. Every time I walked into that storage shed, I averted my gaze from the large picture of my crying eyes that stood against the wall. But I always noticed how they saddened a bit more every time I came in with another piece of pretty I had taken down. It didn't matter to me what those big brown windows to my own soul said to me. All I knew was that I loved him, I had loved him for years and that was what I was supposed to do. Year after year, I returned to the storage shed with pieces of our love that were no longer masterpieces. Pretty soon, my visits became more regular. One night when the adoring crowd had departed and all I had left to look at was "My Love For Him" with its faded name plate and the empty spot next to it where "His Love For Me" used to be, I sat still in that empty gallery and finally allowed myself to feel. I heard a rumble from the back room and felt water beneath my feet. Those eyes, those brazen crystals, those big brown windows to my soul would not be ignored any longer. They broke down the door and let the ugly out. At first it took my breath away. The rush of the waves hit me so hard it felts as though I was being stabbed through the heart. Then I opened my eyes and saw what surrounded me. I was finally forced to see the things I had ignored. I saw the realities. I saw the reasons. I saw the fact that all of what everyone else had seen as art was merely a collection of watercolors that happened to look good under the lights. I saw that everything I had worked so hard to collect was nothing more than a pile of junk to entertain fools who had no clue about art and no real knowledge of love. While I saw all of the reasons we were "on" and heard their echoes of joy, I was finally forced to see that the reasons we were "off" were important too. Once packed tightly in a box in the corner, I saw all the chances at true love I had missed. I finally saw how beautiful they were and regretted pushing them aside. I reached out for them, but they were too far out of reach. The more I saw, the more those eyes of mine cried and raged from the back room. But they were gracious enough not to let me die in the undertow. Instead they seemed to empower me, to make each breath stronger. They worked their magic and created a watery tornado around me that threw a montage of thoughts, memories and feelings against the walls. I saw what I had refused to before and learned the lessons I had run away from. When the storm finally stopped, I was left with the rubble of the life and love I thought was right for me. But still strong, against the wall, stood the picture of my eyes. For the first time in a long time, I could see myself.

I don't know that he will ever come to the same realization I did. I don't know that he will ever see that love is not meant to be "off and on". I don't know that those beautiful windows to his soul will ever show him the beautiful storm or if he will reach out to me as I float by. I don't know that he will realize my beauty and wish he had never let me go. But I can only hope he will see how I could have been that love that stayed on for him, the gentle burn of an eternal flame.

TK

Dear White Best Friend

Dear White Best Friend,  

    I'm a second class citizen. I don't see myself that way and I know that's not how you see me. But that is the way America sees me and my unborn children. You see, they will be born with a cross to bear. And until they get here, the splinters of said cross will be content to draw their blood from me instead. The only crime that ever had to be committed was to show up with black skin. Our heartbreak is not what matters in any court of law. Our tears are only meant to water seeds of hatred. We all live not with thoughts of what we will be when we grow up, but what we want to TRY to be IF we grow up. Long gone are the days of drinking from separate fountains but we cannot pretend our thirsts are quenched when the streets run red with our blood. They might as well show me my sonogram and send me on my way with a set of baby booties with shackles attached because we are all expected to be in them from birth.
    I love you every day and every minute you are my sister. But there are times we have been on the run from reality. Hand in hand we flee through the woods and wade through muddy rivers. But the dogs aren't trained to smell you. We stand in forests facing our fates, but the nooses are not made for your neck. We move in the night with only a lantern to see, but you don't need to run to find your freedom.
    When I shut down, know that you are not the source of my avoidance. Also know that when we discuss headlines, not only do I have to rationalize, but I have to fear for my brothers and my offspring. My babies are robbed of breath before knowing the joy. Know that I am trying to process the conversation I had with one of my beautiful dark skinned sisters who told me she would only date and marry a white man so that her children can be lighter and have an easier life than she did. Know that I am trying to process the fact that when someone who isn't Black can garner a million laughs from pretending to be us, but when the curtain closes, they get to walk down the street and go home safely. Know that I am mad as hell, but I am doing my best to be civil and not display that Angry Black People Syndrome they say we are all born with. Know that I know your eyes are not the only ones on me and that not all lips are speaking of me favorably. Know that I am trying to hold it all together. Know that I am doing the best that I can.

Sincerely,
      TK

4am

It’s 4am, Dear Lover.

Now is not the time for you.

This is the time you should be snuggled in the

Arms of the one who makes you giggle and post

All those cheesy pictures online.

You should be lying in bed planning

Your future complete with six kids

Two dogs and a house.

You should be coming up with all the mean

Things you’ll say tomorrow to single, fucked up girls

Like me.

Better yet, you should be having the sex you

Allude to only when you bring up the fact that

The rest of us are lonely.

You should be just getting in from the parties

You love that the rest of us weren’t invited to.

You should be watching those wedding videos and

Zeroing in on how your friends look so jealous beside

You at the altar.

You should be still expressing your disgust at them

Trying to drink their problems away at the reception.

You should be being as happy as you say you are.

So, why is it that you’re calling me?

Did you suddenly have a bad day with the one

Who will wake up and still love you tomorrow?

Or did you actually remember that you have a friend

Who didn’t die right after you said “I do”?

What happened?

Did you find the phone number of an ex in his cell phone?

Did she reply to a text from an old boyfriend?

Did he tell you you’ve gained weight?

Did she laugh hysterically at a joke her ex-fiance told?

Or did you remember that you had a friend who stood by

You during all of your breakups?

Did you remember who introduced you?

Or are you calling because I am the only one

You know who’s awake?

Or am I supposed to tell you an anecdote from my life

That will make yours seem so much better?

Can’t you just go away and let me be pathetic?

Can’t you allow me not to be jealous of you for a minute?

Can’t you, for a second, not make me feel like everyone has someone

But me?

Can’t you spare me the details of how annoyed you will pretend to be

Only to end up putty in each others' hands?

Can’t you for ONCE not give me the “Be glad you’re single” speech

Right before the gushes and coos about how much you love each other?

Don’t even act like you remember me.

Don’t try the “Remember when” and “I’m so glad we’re friends” game with me.

Please just go away.

It’s 4am.

For me, it’s the crying hour.

And I really don’t want you here.

TK

Dancing With Ghosts

   I assure you there is nothing funny about the subject matter of this post. However, in completing it, all I can do is laugh and shake my head because of the funny circumstances surrounding it. First of all, there is coincidence of the title. I actually started this post about eight hours ago. Its intent was to describe the well of emotions I have fallen into this weekend. These past two days have been all about reflection and thoughts of the past. For weeks, I have had the March issue of Essence sitting on my table and have been making plans to read it. I finally sat down with it tonight and when I go to the cover story, wouldn't you know that Chiwetel Ejiofor, one of Black Hollywood's best kept secrets for years, described his experience with making 12 Years A Slave as "dancing with ghosts". The fact that that was already the title of this post and the fact that I watched 12 Years A Slave for the third time this weekend, gave me an immediate shudder.
   My first moment came in a conversation with my mother. She and I were talking about the bad luck I have been having lately. When I got to a point where I had run out of words for the things I've dealt with and all I could say was "Mommy, I just don't know what to do", she said "Well, sometimes you just have to know that sometimes your bad luck comes from being good to people. But you have to know that better luck will come when you start being better to yourself." When she said that, it was like something thumped me on the forehead. It wasn't so much the first part because I know that, despite the fact that some people may believe me to be a bitch, the fact that I am too good to people and give far too many chances at times cause my downfall at times. But when she told me better luck comes when I start being better to myself, I realized more errors of my ways. I do believe it to be an asset to me that I am extremely hard on myself. However, I have beat myself up so much for the way things have been going that I just may have missed out on lots of opportunities to improve them. I have told myself so often that there must be something I have done to cause everything and that there is no way that any of it is by no fault of my own. What I should have been doing instead is asking myself just what I am going to do about it.
    When I wasn't with my mother, I was alone watching movies. Chiwetel Ejiofor and the beautiful Lupita Nyong'o's performances in 12 Years A Slave are no less awe-inspiring, no matter how many times I see them. Even though it is not a past that I am old enough to remember, I can't help letting pride be one of the million feelings I have when I watch this film. I read the book years ago and found the story moving. But there is something about seeing it played out on screen that takes my breath away. Here you have a man who lived free, educated and talented but was tricked and kidnapped to endure twelve grueling years as a slave and being treated as less than a man. But he still somehow maintains enough hope and sensibility to be returned to his family and his freedom. For me, there is one scene in the film that pulled everything together and allowed all of the experiences to set in. There is a scene right after Bass (played by executive producer Brad Pitt) has agreed to write Solomon's letters. No words are spoken in the scene. It is just Solomon sitting in a field by himself looking off into the distance. The look on his face is one of fatigue, anguish, confusion, hopelessness, reflection, fear, relief and at least 150 emotions. In that very moment, he has to think of his past and his desire to go back there. He fears what may happen if he should be betrayed again. He is tired. He is a ball of nerves given the fact that he is unsure whether or not he has made a mistake that will end his life or made a old move that will get him his life back. Solomon finally gets the chance to be alone with himself and assess his entire life. He takes stock of so much in those few minutes. There were other moments in the film where Solomon was alone, but not for as long and not nearly as much had happened to him. Steve McQueen was brilliant to give us this scene in this manner and at the point in the film that he did. Even without dialog, it is the heaviest and to me, the fullest scene in the film. Personally, at that moment, I gave some thought to my own strength. I am not certain that I could have lived through what Solomon and Patsey did. The fact that I complain about trivial things shows me what a watered down version I am of the stock I come from. Though I cannot be sure whether any of Solomon's blood runs through my veins, I know that I share the blood of those just as strong. And the fact that I grow weak at things that would have been considered fortune to them, lets me know that I need to stick out my chest and be strong.
   Another AWESOME film I watched, also for the third time was Fruitvale Station. Coincidentally, the dapper and handsome Michael B. Jordan is featured in the same article I read Chiwetel's quote in. His portrayal of Oscar Grant was spell-binding. In addition to the renewed feeling of anger I felt when the story broke in 2009, I felt a sense of deep reflection when watching this weekend. Oscar was a man who was vilified for the mistakes of his past. Those who wanted to assassinate his character paid no mind to the good deeds he did from day to day and the fact that he sincerely wanted to change his life for the better. This film is a jewel because writer and director Ryan Coogler is from the same area and had connections to Oscar's life that made it all so real. I love the fact that he showed Oscar's kindness to strangers and even his love for animals and took off the mask of the monster that the media had created. In reality, Oscar Julius Grant III never should have been made to wear that mask in the first place. The irony of his life was that it ended after he was innocently recognized by a stranger he had paid a kindness to who only wanted to wish him a happy new year, but unknowingly exposed him to one of the demons of his past. The fact that as he lay dying, he repeated to his shooter, "I got a daughter", proves that he was not the stereotypical young, Black deadbeat father. He was a 22-year-old man who wanted a bright future, loved his mother, loved his daughter, loved the mother of his child and had a big heart that was open to all that he met. Oscar's openness made me question my own. I know that I try and do a kind deed when I see the need. But are my eyes open enough? Am I as aware as I should be when others are in need? And just how far would I go to help? Maybe the reason I have not gotten the things I want from my life is that there is more that I should be putting in. Maybe I need to tap into the Oscar Grant inside of me a little more often.
    The happenings in both these films, Solomon's love for his wife (though only shown briefly) and Oscar's love for Sophina brought to mind my own relationships. I know for a fact that I do dance with the ghosts of past loves quite often and perhaps that scares me away from loving again. Sure, everyone close to me knows that for years I have been in love with Larry Fitzgerald (wide receiver for the Arizona Cardinals for those who don't know). But that is a different kind of love from another in the respect that I can express it with no fear because in my heart I am sure that it is one that will never be real to me. But the grand mistake of loving another comes to mind when I think of relationships. Years ago, I wrote a song called "Ghost of Me" in which I mockingly tell my ex-lover to "have a tango around the floor with the ghost of me". But in reality, I have probably been the only one dancing. In order for me to have peace in that or any other area of my life, I have to decide whether I will allow all of my ghosts to lead the dance or leave them standing along the walls just praying I will ask for their hands.

TK

Why I Hated Gabrielle Union And What She Taught Me About Myself

I had never met her. So needless to say, she had never done anything to me. But years ago, I remember that I just did not like Gabrielle Union. There was nothing rational about the scorn. But I felt like I was justified in harboring it. If anyone ever asked me about it, I would make up something. "I don't like her nose." "I hate the way she talks". "She thinks she's all that". I would say anything that came to mind. One day, I found myself watching The Brothers alone for the first time. It wasn't that typical watch party I would have with my girls as we high-fived each other on how fine the men were and how we couldn't stand Gabrielle's "bony ass", as we so affectionately called her. It was a regular TK Day where I just sat around and watched movies to entertain myself. I was watching the scene where she was lying on the couch with her head in Morris Chestnut's lap. After I got past hating because she was so close to such a beautiful specimen, I looked at her. I mean, I REALLY looked at her. The way she had her hair pushed back from her face and even though I know she had on movie makeup, there was nothing glamorous about her in that scene. She looked like a regular person. She looked like someone who, if I really tried, I could call a friend. That shook me because I had spent so much time spewing venom at the screen when I saw her in a movie. I wasn't supposed to like her. I mean not even for a second. I flipped off my TV and like a kid waking up from a bad dream, I sat up in my bed hugging my knees and rocking back and forth for a moment. Because I am someone who always wants to explain my feelings to myself, I had to figure out exactly why I hated her. So, I turned on my computer and Googled her. First, I looked at pictures. I talked to myself the whole time. "You said you didn't like her nose. What's wrong with it?" My pride spoke up. "Well, it's...." I shook it off. There was nothing wrong with her nose. Absolutely nothing. My pride spoke up again. "Are her eyes too close together? That has to be it. You always feel weird about people whose eyes are too close together." No. Her eyes were fine too. Still, I felt like I really HAD to find something. I stared. Nothing. So, I found another picture. Stared. Nothing there. Saw one with her smiling. I never noticed that she had dimples before. I wish I had dimples. Shut up, TK. The more I looked, the more I started to notice things. Gabrielle's skin tone and mine were not that different from one another. Since the beginning of time, light skin was what was always known to be beautiful. But here she was, a brown girl, and people loved her. Men found her sexy. I went through some red carpet photos and realized she hadn't "looked stupid as hell" like I said she had when it was live. She was actually very fashionable. I ran across photos from her King Magazine spread (the one that should have REALLY made me hate her) and shocked myself beyond measure. On the cover, she posed innocently in a black bikini and even had that deer-caught-in-headlights look I'm sure we are all guilty of having at some point in our lives. The one with the flower in her hair didn't repulse me the way I initially thought it did and the word "slut" didn't cross my mind anymore when I saw the one of her cat-crawling in just her bottoms. The spread was tastefully done and she looked absolutely gorgeous. I looked back through the other photos. She smiled. And it shined. No matter how much I hated her from my tiny dorm room in Birmingham, Gabrielle Union still smiled. She was not affected one bit by the fact that I found every stupid reason I could not to like her. My feelings had no effect on her at all and there I was, sitting on my bed shuffling through photos like a madwoman trying to prove something to myself. But wait. It had to be in the videos. I went through YouTube video after YouTube video trying to figure out what I didn't like about the way this woman talked. Kristen said "It's like she talks around her teeth." Maybe that was it. Wait. What? What the hell does that even mean? Gabrielle Union was articulate and even in character, rarely ever used colloquialisms. While I was going through the videos, I asked myself the obvious question. Why the hell had I seen so many Gabrielle Union films? The truth about the whole thing was that this woman was amazingly talented and Hollywood knew it. She wasn't just walking onto the set and giving HERSELF the roles. She was getting hired because she was working hard and obviously working well. In the end, I found that there was nothing wrong with Gabrielle Monique Union. She was a beautiful, successful, hardworking brown girl. She was exactly what I should have been striving to be. "TK, you are a stupid, stupid bitch", I heard myself say. I took some time to think about the friends I surrounded myself with who helped me bash this woman. Later, I would let them in on my epiphany and they would answer "I still don't like her". That told me there was something about this beautiful, successful, hardworking brown girl that they never wanted to be. I realized I was on a much different path than they. That caused me to examine them in other situations and realize just hoe little value they added to my life. I became a Gabrielle Union fan and decided that I, too, would become a beautiful, successful, hardworking brown girl.
     Fast-forwarding to the 2013 Essence Awards, as though she wasn't already looking gorgeous enough to not have to say a word, Gabrielle Union stunned me. As she accepted her Fierce & Fearless Award, she gave a speech that kicked me in the heart. There were parts of her speech that were funny, but the rest of it was just real beyond belief. She and I felt the EXACT same about reading Huck Finn in class. We both prayed that we didn't run across a "Nigger Jim". We both reveled in the gossip and "took joy in people's pain and tapdanced on their misery". She spoke courageously about her failed marriage and her journey to live her truth. I got teary-eyed when she talked about not wanting to "function in dysfunction and misery" but really wanting to BE happy instead of pretending to be happy. She talked about how easy it was to commit to misery. She said "Real fierce and fearless women are truth-seekers...We stand up and use our voices for something other than self-promotion....Real fierce and fearless women celebrate and compliment other women and we recognize and embrace the notion that their shine in no way diminishes our light and that it actually makes our light shine brighter". I am not ashamed to say that I sat with tears streaming down my face because I was in disbelief that this woman who I had once felt so much contempt for for no good reason at all knew exactly what was on my heart and had been the same type of mean girl that I was. She spoke with dignity about her pitfalls and carried herself with grace. The hardest type of person to be is one that learns from experience. It is always so easy to drown out the lessons with blame. But there she was in front of everyone telling us exactly what she had learned. I stood and cheered louder than probably anyone in that room when she left the stage. I learned that it was possible for someone who had experienced some of the same painful things I had to come out on the other side of it with a smile and that the only shame should come in not sharing what you've learned.
       As if that speech wasn't enough, Gabby (I can call her that since we are friends in my had now), was cast to play Mary Jane Paul in Being Mary Jane, a brainchild of my SHEro Mara Brock Akil and Salim Akil. When I would talk to my friends about our positions in love and life, I would always compare us to beautiful houses with broken furniture. We are all the inspiration behind the piece I posted on this blog called "The Truth About Women". But in Being Mary Jane, I get to watch the story of one of those beautiful houses unfold without having to sustain any more damage in the process. First of all, my girl is a broadcast journalist who is at the top of the game. That does something for me because even as I still try to break into the world of print journalism, I still have people trying to talk me into broadcast. I have not yet conquered my horror of seeing myself on camera. But because on TalkBack, MJ says a lot of what I would say, I get to live through her. But looking further at the character, on the surface, she appears to have it all together. She stops at nothing to be there for her friends and her family. She gives very little care to her own real happiness, but takes extra care to LOOK happy on the surface. She has bad luck in love, not the best luck with friends sometimes and even though she is driven by her career, at the end of the day all she wants is a man who is truly hers to lover her and maybe a few hardheaded kids to yell "No", "Don't" and "Stop it" at when she comes home. As I watch Mary Jane go through things, some parts feel as though I am watching a demo reel of the movie of my own life. And the fact that sometimes she doesn't do what is right or smart or may make her parents proud lets me know that my mistakes are okay and that sometimes it does take more than one time for your heart to break before you really start to hear it crack. She may not have gotten the role in Scandal. But I, for one, am grateful because I really don't think anyone else could have brought this home for me the way Gabrielle does.
         Just as all public relationships do, Gabrielle's relationship with Dwayne Wade has come under scrutiny too. From people calling her a homewrecker to singing their "I wouldn't" and "I can't believe she" songs when the world found out about Dwayne's youngest son. I will admit to initially looking a little wide-eyed at the fact that there was a young baby in the midst with another woman soon after Gabby and D.Wade announced their engagement. But I had to step back for a moment and let something my sister Kenisha said echo in my head. "I don't judge the dynamics of any relationship because I will never know what it takes to love that man". I thought to myself, 'This woman has shown her strength. She has shown her intelligence. She has shown her courage. And she has shown, above all, that she is not a damned fool. If she knows about this baby and has seen fit to still become Mrs. Dwayne Wade, then there has to be a whole helluva lot that we don't know. And the fact that we don't know says it is none of our business'. I love that they are in love. I love that they have fun together and despite how it looks to outsiders, I love the fact that she, his two older boys, the nephew he has adopted and the new baby are going to be a family. I hope she continues to walk so far in the opposite direction of the naysayers that their voices become faint whispers. I hope she has truly found the happiness she has always wanted.
       To this day, the only real reason I found that I hated Gabrielle Union was because she was out there doing what I couldn't and doing what I dared. But by looking closer at the reasons I disliked her, I got to look deeper at and get to know myself. I got to finally become a beautiful, successful, hardworking brown girl. And I made a promise to myself to not stop chasing my dreams until this heart of mine gives out. Thank you Gabby for showing me that I can be fierce and fearless too.

TK

What Will We Tell Our Children (My Catharsis)?

        My nephew's name is Jalen. He's 16 years old. Just like any 16-year-old, he likes hanging out with his friends and is looking forward to getting his driver's license. He likes skateboarding and his favorite season is summer. There's something special about my nephew though. He is actually quite the little rapper and producer. He is creative and could give a lot of up and coming emcees a run for their money. Just like he is anxious to get that driver's license, he is excited that one day he may be able to settle into the driver's seat, turn on the radio and hear his own music come through the speakers. And since he loves summer so much, he will surely love those summers when he can scoop up a few of his friends and drive to the mall with the windows down and the sun on his face. My nephew is like any 16-year-old, right? But what if I told you he is different simply because he is Black?
       Thoughts of Jalen, his little brother Jordan, my own brothers, cousins and future sons weighed heavily on my mind as the verdict was read in what has been deemed "The Loud Music Murder Trial". On trial, was Micheal Dunn, the 47-year-old accused of killing 17-year-old Jordan Davis at a Jacksonville, Florida gas station on November 23, 2012. On this day, Dunn pulled up next to an SUV filled with Jordan Davis and his friends. The teens were blasting loud rap music and Dunn voiced his aversion. Davis and Dunn exchanged words and Dunn opened fire on the vehicle, leaving Davis dead. Dunn stated that the reason for opening fire was that he saw a gun in the vehicle and felt threatened. Police searched the vehicle. The teenagers were unarmed. On Saturday, February 15th, the eve of Jordan Davis' 19th birthday, a jury found Michael Dunn guilty of three counts of attempted second-degree murder for the shots fired at the other three teens in the vehicle. On the first count, first-degree murder, a mistrial was declared.
     I did take to Twitter to express a bit of what I felt about this case. But there is only so much I can do in 140 characters. It was very difficult not to think of Trayvon Martin and his family during this trial. These cases occurred so close to each other and so many elements overlapped. I am the last one to pull the race card. But I have to call it out if it shows up in the game. So, even though the cases are both just about two children who are gone too soon, the subject of race is at the forefront and it is a fact that cannot be denied. Here you have two young Black boys who are deceased by the actions of two non-Black individuals whom the courts have not seen fit to pay for taking their lives. Both were unarmed. Both were exhibiting behavior only indicative if the fact that they were teenagers. (As @ItsRamel said "Trayvon Martin was followed. Jordan Davis was approached. Seems to me Florida needs a "Mind Your Business" law.) And no matter what either of them might have said to the grown men who shot them, they were unarmed and if the adults had retreated (as Zimmerman was instructed to), both boys would have escaped with their lives. Neither adult would have been in a situation where they "thought they saw a weapon" or had to "fight for his life" if they had just minded their own business. But there are so many layers to this.
      Dunn said that when he pulled up to the vehicle, Davis and his friends were playing that "thug music" or "rap crap". In a letter to his girlfriend from prison, he stated, “I just got off the phone with you and we were talking about how racist the blacks are up here. The more time I am exposed to these people, the more prejudiced against them I become.” Then as though that side of his neck hadn't done enough talking, from the other side, he let spew “I’m not really prejudiced against race, but I have no use for certain cultures. This gangster-rap, ghetto talking thug ‘culture’ that certain segments of society flock to is intolerable" and said that Davis and his friends should "“take the hint and change their behavior.” The first comment pretty much speaks for itself. So, let's move on to the second. To say that he is "not really prejudiced against race" is already a folly. This indicates that the prejudice he spoke about in the previous statement is evident. Then to say that you have no "use" for "certain cultures" dehumanizes them. It makes them objects that are only here for your amusement or gain. It may not be all that far-fetched to liken that to slavery. It may very well be a news flash, but you should not be granted the right to eliminate those that you feel you have "no use for". And the fact that he changes the word "race" from the first half of his statement to "cultures" in the second half was a nice try, but I am unmoved. And Mr. Dunn, like it or not, the "gangster-rap, ghetto talking thug ‘culture’" of which you speak is a part of MY culture and it is a part of MY culture that many people who lay claim to YOUR culture have tried to adapt for years. You cannot talk about MY people without rap music coming up. And you cannot talk about rap music without talking about the way it has been embraced by White people. So, YOUR people are included in the "certain segments of society". The fact that this letter and at least one other one was written, gives you a little insight to the type of individual Michael Dunn is. To look more carefully at the situation, Dunn was not committing any crime by pulling up next to the SUV at the gas station. But on that day, no one else at the gas station said anything to the teens about the volume of their music. Yet Dunn saw this as his duty. If he did not intend to kill but just HAD to fire his gun, why couldn't he fire one warning shot in the air? It is true that the bullet could have possibly come down and hit someone. But that would have made it more believable that he did not have the intent to kill. (And he would not likely have to go through half of what Marissa Alexander had to.) Then after the incident he did not call the police, but returned to his hotel room, ordered pizza, slept and drove two-and-a-half hours home the next morning. Had this been an act of self-defense as Dunn claimed, he would have called the police to report the incident in which he claimed to have feared for his life. (By the way, no witnesses reported seeing anything that resembled a gun in the vehicle and Dunn's own fiance said she was never told that Davis was armed.) He showed no concern for the fact that he could possible have ended four young lives. He was prepared to go on with his life as though nothing happened.
        Just as George Zimmerman, Dunn was protected by Florida's "Stand Your Ground" law. This is a law that I am henceforth calling "The Mirage Law". I am calling it this because under this law, the suspect does not have to actually see a weapon. He only has to believe or be convinced of the fact that the weapon was present.Therefore, the entire case becomes based on the suspect's imagination and all about what he thought he saw. And who in their right mind would not say that they THOUGHT their life was in danger when faced with the certainty of spending the rest of it in jail? Why it is that everyone in the state of Florida does not see the absurdity of this law is beyond me. Regardless to what lies in the remainder of this law's language, it is flawed at the very core. After all, it is the argument of the presence of the mirage that has saved George Zimmerman and at least for the moment, Michael Dunn. But I ask the question, who is the man that relishes in the comfort of his own home to tell the man who crawls in the desert that the oasis he sees is not what he really sees? No matter how much evidence we present to the contrary, there will never be a valid argument to tell Dunn and Zimmerman they did not see what they have told the world they saw. So, did we really ever tell the people hoping for justice that this was a case they could really win? Even though the first count will be retried, what we have is a man who has been convicted of the murders he ATTEMPTED and has received no punishment at all for the fact that there is a teenager who is dead because of an older man who played God and decided it was his time to go. The fact of the matter is, Jordan Davis, an unarmed teenager now ceases to exist because Michael Dunn fired shots into a vehicle and took his life. These are the facts, yet this is what goes unpunished. This says that if Jordan Davis had been alone in the vehicle, Dunn would not even be receiving the current 75 year sentence (each count carries 20 years and the last, an extra 15 years). Had his friends not been there, Dunn would walk free just as Zimmerman is.
    Though in the past, it has been a fleeting insult, let's talk about the word "thug" for a moment. As my eloquent and intelligent fraternity brother Richard Sherman pointed out as 'Merica reacted to his passionate post-game speech as he was on his way to the Super Bowl, it is almost as though "thug" is the new, I'll say it, "nigger" nowadays. Case and point, Richard Sherman was born and raised in a city that is notorious for violence and mortality.But he managed to grow up, never join a gang, graduate high school with a 4.1 GPA, go on to attend and graduate from the prestigious Stanford University, become a mentor to our youth and to become a Super Bowl winner. And might I add that this man has never once been in trouble with the law? So, why is it that this young man is labeled a "thug" whereas Justin Bieber, who has been caught vandalizing a neighbor's home, is known to grown his own stash of marijuana, has racked up speeding tickets while drunk and under the influence of drugs and alcohol, been photographed joining his friend in a good ol' tit lick on a stripper, assaulted paparazzi and been seen peeing in a bucket at a club while yelling "Fuck Bill Clinton" seen as just a "misguided" teen? How exactly is it that Sherman becomes a thug by making a passionate, non-violent speech about his competition that lasted a little over two minutes when the recklessness that The Biebs has shown over the course of the last few months gets him classified as a misguided youth?
        For reasons other than the fact that I have young Black nephews, young Black cousins, young Black brothers, young Black friends and regardless of the nationality of my future husband, will have sons that are at least half Black, these cases are sensitive subjects for me. The first reason is the fact that my best friend Samantha and I are of obviously different races, but she and I have grown up as closely as any sisters I know. She and I have always made it a point to discuss current events. And since we have been blessed with the souls at HLN, she and I have an even more awesome way in which we stay connected to these things. Cases like this pull us out of our world in which we never have to see race when it comes to the way we are treated by each other's families and were never at any point told that we could not be friends because of our skin colors. It lets us see that racism is very real and every now and then it is going to hit us in the faces. Because cases like this are the truth, not discussing them is not an option. I hear the pain in Sam's voice when something like this happens. And because of the fact that the men who committed these crimes look more like her than me, it is only natural for her to want to apologize on behalf of the entire race. She both realizes and respects my anger on the situations. But I know that she would like nothing more than to travel to that point in time and make it not happen, not because of the racial element but because of the fact that she has a kind heart that does not see color and hates that innocent lives were taken. She is just as angry as I am, but while we carry the same torches, she knows that there are extra embers that burn in my pockets, the pains of which, she can never know. The second reason cases like this are so sensitive is that I am an aspiring media mogul and the subject of race is often one that cannot be at the forefront of discussion. While I am not a lawyer, I do believe it is my duty to know a bit about the laws that affect the things I state my opinion on. The fact of the matter is, sometimes you have to just talk about the law and you cannot talk about the black and white elephant in the room. I felt the internal tears from Don Lemon and Sunny Hostin this weekend as they had to stick to the issues, but at the same time, had to speak on the issue as a Black woman and a Black man who had experienced racial injustices. In their voices, I heard trembles of anger and all the pains carried to picket lines that were formed to fight such things.As they told of their own struggles and as Sunny Hostin said "Justice took the day off", I could hear the question of why and the wrestling match with how to explain this to her sons. Don even said a few times, "I am going to say something I probably shouldn't say on television" but as he charged on, I heard, 'You know what? WHY shouldn't I be allowed to say these things? They are the things that need to be said.' Just as I am sure the two of them do, I work along side those of other races daily and not until someone throws it in my face do I focus on the color of my skin. But when you can find no other explanation for the differences in the way people are treated, what do you do? As I stated on Twitter "We are not angry at White people. Our anger is at the system that reminds us daily that the Constitution does not apply to us". So, while we are not walking around with pitchforks, we are angry and we have every right to be.
   So if you, like guy on Twitter who actually happened to be a Marine (which after I saw the racist statements and his retweets calling President Obama a "piece of shit", I understood his position and am even more glad that I don't respond to ignorance with ignorance), want to argue that justice has been done, I beg of you to please tell me how. How is it that I should tell my nephews, cousins and my future sons that they could be killed if they are wearing a hoodie while walking home from a convenient store? How should I tell them that they may not make it to see their 18th birthdays and that the American justice system will not care? How should I break it to them that they can be killed if they play their music loudly? How can I tell them that trip to the gas station will likely be their last? How can I tell them that the people who do these things to them will sit in court and hear their children cry but that their own parents can cry as much as they like, but they will never again see the light of day? How can I tell them that because their skin is a dark cloak they can never remove and the blood of Mother Africa runs through their veins, they have received a death sentence before their lives can begin? If you can tell me a way to have that conversation with them and to give them logical answers to the questions that follow, maybe I will believe justice has been served. But until then......

    
TK

The Truth About Women

Many of us are beautiful houses filled with broken furniture. On the outside, we are these majestic structures that stand tall and add character to the streets we stand on. But when you open our doors, you walk in to chairs that are broken for fear that someone may want to stay a while, cracked mirrors for fear of our own pasts and dusty tables because our cupboards are void of the food we should have to nourish ourselves when our souls are hungry. We have been lived in and not taken care of and a new tenant who may very well be worthy is often left to clean up behind the last and bear the burden of their negligence. Our beds have been slept in and there are often times that we thought the ones who have occupied them were doing us a favor by taking on the chore of making them. But we were too blind to see that they made them with dirty sheets and we've inherited bedbugs that will never leave. When we are sad, we turn on our faucets and flood every room we have over someone who isn't really worth a glass of our tears. We fire up our ovens and make meals for those who deserve to choke on their own lies. There are several levels to our staircases and sometimes depending on how pretty the picture looks as someone is climbing them, we may ignore the creaks and loud warning signs that occur beneath their feet. They trek through our family rooms and pay no mind to the pictures on the mantle or how we have strategically left a place for them and their children when we could have easily filled those spaces with more love for ourselves or someone who actually WANTED to be there. We keep the thickest layers of dust on our windows because we are too embarrassed about the condition of our quarters and are leery of those trying to peek through them and place something shiny but of little to no value in our foyers thinking they can "spruce up the place". There have been many so-called "maintenance men" who have come through. But their stucco, putty, rugs and wallpaper only cover the cracks, holes, dents and scratches that happen as a result of quarrels with the ones responsible for our deplorable condition. Our yards are large with lots of potential, but the fact that they have seen no water causes their bruised brown grasses to crawl in every direction to quench their lingering thirsts. When someone leaves, we lock our gates and hope to never have another visitor. When another mansion stands next to us, we slap some paint on our shutters and try to pull ourselves together so that it does not show how diminished our property value has become. Meanwhile, the wails of our hearts echo down the corridors singing a sad and all too familiar song.

TK

Family Tree

I am Zora’s daughter. She didn’t know it, but she took my soul with her as she gathered her stories. My ear remained rapt as she taught me dialect and put a piece of me within Janie. Auntie Alice taught me my burden. She showed me the contrasts of strong Black women versus those who are broken and let me know what they were doing to my sisters in Africa. Great-Aunt Maya showed me that the arch I carry in my back was not flawed, but “phenomenal” and gave me answers to life’s hard questions that roll off my tongue like honey and fly like sweet daggers into the hearts of those who oppress me. My cousin Sonia came up right behind her and put music in my womanly words that helped me to dance my way out of oblivion. Auntie Nikki gave me the chip on my shoulder that let me walk “with the thugs than the people who are complaining about them”. Uncle Bruce and Cousin Audre made me a femme fatale by letting me step into the center of the fight and see the rainbow in all its colors. I could better do this with tongue Uncle Amiri helped me sharpened when people set off bombs and placed the blame on others. He taught me the power of “poems that kill”. Cousin Langston let me run beside him and bask in the gleam of the river that is me and see the power of my dreams in its reflections. Uncle Jean taught me that no matter how bright that reflection, it was what my soul was sewn to that determined my identity. He helped me to discover that Lost Generation. Great-Uncles Paul and Claude’s souls smile down on me as I talk about MY America, find kindred spirits and belt out a poetic love song as an ode to us as “a smile go flittin' by”. Oh, but Great Aunt Gwendolyn showed me how to compose myself and bring back the bounce in my step while hiding the happiness deep within my heart. “We real cool” she said and gave me back my mystery. It is because my blood runs strongly this way that I do not hang my head, but raise it and puff out my chest. I strike fear in hearts one moment, but in the next, swaddle them like babes to my breast. They have given me the gift of the precious dichotomy of sweet mother and strict disciplinarian because they knew I was strong enough to bear it.  It is because of them that I can go from howling hooker to well-rounded wife through my words and still be respected in the morning. Our family tree stands strong in its field as the winds of change blow. We do not apologize for the sway of our branches, but acknowledge how bountiful the land is just because we are present. We let the earth write thank you notes that fall at our feet like bright leaves. The universe dances for us and we can change the song whenever we choose.

TK

America, The Bigotry

        I know that lately I have written a few pieces that have touched upon the subject of race. But none have been quite like this. Other than the game, each year, the commercials are the most anticipated portion of the Super Bowl. During the beautiful 43-8 victory pulled off by the Seattle Seahawks, even more that Percy Harvin's 87-yard kickoff return or Malcolm Smith's 69-yard interception return, America was buzzing about new ads from Cheerios and Coca-Cola. Cheerios brought back Gracie, a little girl with a White mother and Black father. The trio was introduced to us in 2013 when Gracie had a conversation with her mother at the kitchen table about heart health. As a result of her mother telling her how good Cheerios were for heart health, she decides to go cover her father's heart with the cereal, much to his surprise when he awoke from a nap on the couch. In this year's commercial, Gracie learns she will soon have a little brother. And with a poker face Lady Gaga could write a remix album about, she looks at her father and says, "And a puppy". First of all, allow me to say that Little Grace Colbert is absolutely adorable and that she more than likely has a promising acting career ahead of her. Secondly, I would like to applaud General Mills for not only refusing not to air the first ad, but for making another one, releasing it during the Super Bowl AND adding another member to the family. Back when the first commercial aired, General Mills had to go as far as disabling the comments section on YouTube due to the venomous comments from those who disagreed that this was what "the American family" was supposed to look like.
          To break it down for those geniuses who decided this was an inaccurate portrayal of "the American family", let's begin with basic definitions. Firstly, each member of the cast (including the father who was played by Charles Malik Whitfield, aka Otis Williams in The Temptations movie) is American. And there is a mother, a father and a child. Those three components are indicative of a family.  According to Sociation Today, Volume 2, Number 2 (Fall 2004), "It is a social unit created by blood, marriage, or adoption, and can be described as nuclear (parents and children) or extended (encompassing other relatives)". So, what you have is a family of Americans. A family that is American. So, you have an American family.
            Now that we've got that out of the way, allow me to say what vile, deplorable, disgusting, abhorrent, repulsive, benighted, idiotic people this country has produced. The people hurling this filth at Gracie and both her television family and her family off-screen (which happens to consist of a White mother, Black father, older sister and older brother) are apparently blind to the fact that there is no longer a such thing as "THE American family". In the 21st century, which is where all of the rational people on the planet live, a family no longer consists of ONLY a mother and father of the same race and ethnic background and their children. Today, it consists of two people, regardless of race, ethnicity, and as much as far too many shudder to hear, sexual orientation and the children they decide to birth and/or raise. The American family has become much more variable, but the one element that remains, prevails and is always a necessity is love. As long as these factors exist, you have a family. No amount of slurs, narrow-minded social media comments or rude stares can change that fact. What is probably even worse is that these are the same people who have remarked at the beauty of many bi-racial beauties in Hollywood without giving a second thought to the fact that two people of different races had to come together to produce such specimens. I strongly suggest that those dwelling in this oblivion pull their heads out of their asses and into the 21st century.
             The second ad that got the world's attention was a Coca-Cola ad in which "America The Beautiful" was sang in a number of different languages. This commercial sparked the creation of "#speakAmerican" and "#boycottcoke" on Twitter. My OBVIOUS annoyance with the first hashtag is that "American" is not a language, so the ignorance is not even remotely inconspicuous. Then, let's not even get into the heinous misspellings that comprise the remainder of these tweets. Apparently, these upstanding model Americans were upset by those they consider less than American singing one of our nation's song's in their less than American languages. Since these people are equally as intelligent as the ones who hated the Cheerios commercial, allow me to break it down by definition. Merriam-Webster defines "American" as "a person born, raised, or living in the U.S." Born.....raised.....or living. Because these model Americans are so clever, I know that the "or living" portion will cause them to launch into a tirade about how there are people living illegally in this country. To that, I ask that they bring me proof that even ONE of the people in that commercial is living here illegally. That should keep them busy for a while. Now, back to those of us with brains. The fact that these people were singing about how beautiful this country was in languages equally as beautiful should have only said that they were embracing every part of themselves. Instead, the 'Mericans who probably do not even know all the words to either "America The Beautiful" or The National Anthem, got their racist panties all ruffled as though they declared another war. When will they see that this is not a country bred in what they consider "purity" and that we will never consist of only one race? And if they really want to get technical, the Native Americans are the only ones that can really call this THEIR country. I really want to see these 'Mericans even sing "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" in Navajo, Cree or Blackfoot. If none of them can do so much as that, then they do not get to decide who is American and who is allowed to sing about the beauty of our country. They also do not get to decide what language they express it in.Coca-Cola was bold to do this ad. I say hats off to them and here's to Coca-Cola's presenting what will be the first of many ads of this nature. I would like to end this with my favorite tweet on the subject by @HaroldItz. "If you don't think 'America the Beautiful' should be sung in a foreign language, don't quote Jesus in English. #Coke".

Please Understand....

So, I was people-watching with a friend the other day and she said something that reminded me of something that is utterly irritating to me. Two men walked by- one dressed in a t-shirt and baggy jeans, tattooed from what looked like head to toe and talking on his phone about an "ungrateful bitch wit' the fine ass friend" and the other dressed in slacks, a tie and saying happy birthday to his grandmother. My friend (because we all have that one) motioned toward the first man and said "Girl, he look like he can handle BUSINESS!" So I, being the inquisitive chick I am, motioned toward the other guy and asked, "What about him?" Well, my girl had the ugliest frown on her face. She said "Him? He couldn't handle me." My girl went on to explain to me why a thug is so much better than what she calls a "super nerd". She says there is nothing like a man who won't be afraid to tell you "to calm the fuck down" sometimes and one "you can look at and tell he is the man in the bedroom".

This opened up the can of worms I like to call "The Battle of Hood Hung versus Professionally Packing". Because the conversation started out as one about genital endowment, I will tell you about this battle on that level first. Apparently, there are some ladies who don't know that there is a thrill in being a man who dresses nicely and carries himself respectfully. I'm not saying he needs to be metrosexual and have more skin care and hair products than I do. But well groomed is sexy. There is an immeasurable sexy about a man who comes home after a long day, loosens his tie and undoes those top few buttons on his dress shirt. And if suits aren't your thing Fellas, the untucked polo can be sexy too. The beautiful thing about this man is that he doesn't wear his libido on his sleeve but when he gets behind closed doors, he is willing to show you much more than he has ever tried to tell you. It is his mystery and what he leaves to the imagination that makes him irresistible.

Now to dig deeper in this can of worms and really see the part of the argument that is not sexual in nature. To do this, we can just look at the interpretations of the words "hang/hung" and "packing/packed". When something is hung, it is suspended. It is fastened to some elevated point without support from below (Thanks, Webster's). I picture it, in all other ways besides the one that pertains to art, as being thrown on a hook and left there as drapery, if you will. There isn't meant to be any type of presentation, only a quick ooooooh and aaahhhhh and and then you're on your way. But when I think of packing, the first thing I think of is preparing to go somewhere. I think of placing things tightly together. And my friends at Webster's says it can also mean "to put in a protective container". I'm not sure what other women feel, but I would rather have a man who is preparing to go places, tight, together and can provide a protective container for me (if need be, of course) rather than one that has me suspended, fastened to some point of elevation with no support and is just some drapery any day. Then I, for one, find it pretty appealing not to have someone who will roll over and punch me in the eye as a way of letting me know he's still there.

I hear so many of my female friends complain saying they can't find a decent man. But the truth is, we are a part of the problem. I have said this both in a relationship and out. If we as women would only look for the right things in the opposite sex, we would be much better off. We spend all our time looking for the man who has all the money we will ever need (Get a damn job, Girl) rather that the one who will give us all the love we could ever need. We get impregnated by the ones we feel have the highest hood status rather than the ones who are interested in maintaining the highest status as a father and has less interest in being the neighborhood sperm bank. There is nothing wrong with being able to have an intelligent conversation with a man and for him to be able to memorize the term "401k" before the term "Inmate #4579079K". Just because he hasn't had to flex his muscle to the point of arrest doesn't mean he can't be your prize fighter when you need him to be. And just because he doesn't have all the money and all the answers right now doesn't mean tomorrow won't be his day of epiphany. Just because he would rather talk about sports or video games and every other word out of his mouth isn't a four-letter word and his pants don't hang to his knees doesn't mean he isn't your man. So I guess what I'm saying is Ladies, we need to stop being stupid and get our priorities together. A real man is a man who doesn't walk around all day just looking for ways to prove he's a real man. It comes naturally to him and he is comfortable being who he is. Tighten up, Girls. And Super Nerd, call me.