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.

Come Up Barbie

Okay y’all. Let’s be honest. We all know her.  She is either a friend, a family member or someone we really wish we didn’t know. She is Come Up Barbie. She may have her own house, car, all her own teeth, nice clothes, fresh hair, fresh nails and if she has kids, she cares for them just the same. But when you talk to her, she is doing those things for her and hers on her own, JUST until she finds the next wealthy victim willing to date her and take over the responsibilities. She is waiting on YOUR come-up, not hers. She is that girl who measures the value of her life only by the value of a dollar. She will lie, cheat and steal to fatten her wallet and have no remorse for whom she hurts while doing so.

                Come Up Barbie is that chick who has about 8 cents in her bank account but has no interest in a man who is making less than six figures. If you date her for more than a month and do not pay at least one of her bills, she is on to the next man who will. She feels her behavior is justified because you have spent a few nights at her place, eaten a few sandwiches and slept with her at least 10.2 times and let’s face it, “You gotta pay to play”. So, it seems logical to her that the 14 days of electricity you shared with her, the four ham sandwiches (one with cheese) and every creak of her mattress should equate to you paying her bills. Oh, and never mind the fact that you are not her child’s father. If you are spending time with her,  then Lil’ Scrap and Miss New New had better have the new Jordans when they come out.  

                Oh and you can be educated, but not TOO educated. After all, we don’t want to let anything or anyone overshadow the fact that she “done been to school”. So, to add to her more than lengthy list of demands, if you read more than one book per month and would rather watch The History Channel than Love & Hip Hop Atlanta, just don’t even call Come Up Barbie.

                She’s a little delusional too. She may date you and say that she has real feelings for you. But she still has it in her head that her ex, whom she has already informed you makes more money and drives a nicer car than you, still wants her back. And even though he has a kid and is marrying his baby’s mother in two months, she just knows he would break that off if he knew he even had a chance of coming “back home”. He has only been with this girl six out of the eight year it has been since they broke up because he is waiting for her to ask him to come back. Don’t get too comfortable.

                Come Up Barbie had other issues too. Because she “done been to school” and you “don’t pay no bills ‘round here”, she is never wrong.  She can call your mother a bitch in every language that book learnin’ has taught her, punch you in the face AND step on your shoe and the moment you restrain her, she is calling the cops. And just for good measure, because she knows you just got a raise, she is suing you and saying she is pregnant with your baby. Think she won’t.

                Come Up Barbie really doesn’t like you. You know that, right? She just knows that you are good to her kids and that you work hard. She sees more promotions in your future and soon she will be able to sit back, pop out a couple of kids and live the life that a *cough cough* lady as sophisticated as herself should be living. So keep on working those long hours, Boo.

                Be on the lookout for Come Up Barbie because she could be just about anywhere. She comes in all shapes, complexions, nationalities and from all walks of life. She used to come with a distinctive look, but once she began being identified more, like a chameleon, she began to adapt. Be forewarned that there is no longer a return policy for Come Up Barbie. Over the years, she has found ways to stick with you. I’m not saying don’t browse because you could potentially find some diamond dolls on the shelves. But I did want to give you a few warning signs in case Come Up Barbie catches your eye. Now you know to leave this fake bitch in the box.

He's Just Not That Into You

Hell, it happens to the best of us. (I will admit it's happened to me on more than one occasion.) You meet a guy. You start talking to him. You find common ground, exchange numbers and then you end up finding out he is just not as into you as you are him. I have seen situations like this go very well and I have seen them go very badly.

If you are what I like to call "the marriage and a machete" type, you have already made it up in your mind that you two are married with 2.5 kids, he cheated on you and you want to find him and start chopping him up. "If He Didn't Wanna Be With Me, He Shoulda Just Told Me. It Ain't Like I'm Desperate" becomes a sorta of mantra of yours if you are one of those types.

You could possibly be one of those "sorrows and cyanide" types. This is the girl who finds every reason from not having enough eyelashes to the lifeline in her palm not being long enough that this guy doesn't like her. She curses her mother for giving her brown eyes, sits at home, drinks and cries as she contemplates how many of her friends she has to stop hanging out with because they are the types he just MIGHT be attracted to besides her.

I find that these situations work best for the "shrug 'n stroll" type. These are the one who know it sucks that the feelings aren't mutual, admit to themselves that they might have misread the signs, shrug it off and stroll on (I'll go ahead and say it because I know y'all are quoting Jigga anyway) on to the next one. This doesn't mean you are fickle or heartless. You just choose to open yourself up to new possibilities rather than dwell on what could have been.

You want to choose a way of dealing that ends with everyone alive, in tact and needing the least amount of medication possible. So, before you pull out the machete or pour yourself a tall glass of poisonous pity, shrug it off and take a stroll. You'll love the places you end up.

TK

Black Girls Rock

First of all, let me say thank you to the genius that is Beverly Bond. Beverly has put her genius behind starting a movement that will let girls and women like me know that their brown skin does not serve as prison bars, but as a source of liberation and celebration. She has done something that will shine light on the scars we possess and show us their beauty. For that, I am forever grateful.

As I watched the show for the third time and marveled at how far we’ve come; As I witnessed like I was on the mother’s board at church when Ameena Matthews was on stage and wanted to kick off my shoes when my fairy godmother Patti LaBelle sang “You Are My Friend/What A Friend We Have In Jesus”, a faint feeling of sadness overtook me. I was proud to be able to share some of the same experiences as the women on that stage, but I was also reminded of the times that even I, as a Black Girl, failed to rock. I will admit that there have been times where I have not been feeling my best and  most beautiful and struggled to hold in a compliment to my sistas. There were times in my distant past where I would even go so far as to insult my sistas and instead of giving them a hand up, I would dig my stiletto so deeply into her neck that I could hear their souls scream. I didn’t care about how much my words would hurt them. All I cared about was making myself look and feel better. But at the end of those mean girl moments, when I looked around, there was no one to celebrate me. In the end, I was still just as chubby. My bank account was just as low and my head hung down just as far as before I put the next woman down.

Women in general in our society have this unspoken war going on, but I find that it my sistas are more brutal in their competition. We have bigger blinders than most women of other races and fail to see that no matter how much we compete, no one wins. When we walk around with the “I’ll take your man” mentality, we create the broken homes and birth the fatherless children that show up in the statistics. When we adopt the “Who does she think she is” type of thinking, we take away the boost in confidence that another Black queen needs so that she will have the courage to put on her crown that day. When we stick to "Stay away from her. She's crazy", we make it more difficult for the next queen to ask for help with dealing with her inner demons. When we don’t stand together and abide by the “She don’t know me and I don’t know her” ideal, we limit our own knowledge of ourselves. It is so simple to overlook the fact that a simple “Good morning”, “How are you”, “Can I help you”, “I love those shoes”, “You look really nice today” , “I’m proud of you” or “Can I help you” can have a profound effect on someone’s day. It is my belief that the reason we remain unhappy, uneducated and unsuccessful is that we are not ceasing those tiny opportunities to invest in ourselves. Aside from the negative light, we have become invisible to one another. We look at these beautiful reflections of ourselves and instead of seeing them as vehicles for success, we see them as scrap metal. We pick apart each curve and look underneath every layer for flaws when, in fact, there may be none. We need to look within ourselves and seek to right the wrongs we have been doing to each other for years. We need to support and celebrate one another.

It is then, Black Girls, that we will truly ROCK.

TK

 

Let Me Explain Pt. I

      I am expected to care. I am expected to cry. I am expected to dwell. I am even expected to roll my eyes and neck at warp speed. But what I am not expected to do is to defy any of what anyone else’s expectations of a (Black) woman have always been known to be. From an early age, my mother encouraged my education on women’s suffrage. She never let me forget the fact that there are times when even after enduring the struggles of just being a woman, an extra layer of cruelty is added on by the fact that I am a Black woman living in America. I was always, to some extent aware of the pains that sometimes stand around the corners of my histories. However, what my mother never could have prepared me for was the fact that no matter what advancements were made by women and/or women of color, the strife would remain as prevalent as it always has. I have been thinking a lot lately about the possible reasons I am the way I am. That caused me to reflect on my past and all of its dimensions. I don't have a number of entries in mind for the Let Me Explain series of posts. But I do hope their words help, touch and, well, explain a great deal.

The Physical

       For me, the struggle came pretty early in life. I'm talking third-grade-PE-class-early. I have always been athletic to some degree and I knew that I was better at sports than most of the girls in my class  no matter their build. There was one particular week that we were doing gymnastics and the instructors broke out the balance beams. This excited me because I knew that based on what my cousins and my brother had always told me, I had excellent balance. I was ready to show off. I had a friend named Abby (who just so happened to be a thin little White girl) who wore the same shorts as I did that day for class. We both thought it was both the coolest and the funniest thing that we had chosen the same orange and white shorts and white t-shirt, but our conversation about it stopped at that. We all lined up for our turn on the beams. We watched some of the girls celebrate making it across and others either laugh hysterically when they fell on the mat below or nearly cry in frustration. Abby went immediately before me and I watched as she gracefully took her turn. Her long, slender legs stretched and carefully helped plant her feet. She stumbled a bit on her third step, regrouped, did a little dance, winked at me and successfully made it across. One of our two teachers applauded her. “Good job, Abby. Gooooood job”. He gave her a high five and she stood off to the side. My turn came and my adrenaline was pumping. I got up on the beam unassisted and began my journey across. To me, it felt natural and like I had been doing it for years. I did not falter once. Just for a few style points, I did a 360, shimmied a little and stuck my tongue out at Abby. The rest of the girls in the class thought it was cool and they began to cheer for me. As I got down off the beam, the same teacher that congratulated Abby said, “Good JOB, Chunk!” I stopped in my tracks and turned around from my friends to see him smiling his cap-toothed smile and clapping. “Good JOB”, he said again. All the girls in the class stopped cheering and began whispering “Chunk? Who’s Chunk?” The more they caught on that he meant me, the more a slight giggle spread amongst the crowd. It felt as though someone had punched me in the chest. Tears stung my eyes, but I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Instead, I stormed away with balled up fists and violently kicked over chairs as I left the gym. On my way out, he said "Or maybe I should say Chocolate Chunk," and everyone laughed harder. For the rest of that year, I had to deal with being referred to as “Chunk” by my PE teacher and the students I didn’t frighten enough on the way out of the gym that day. I carried a little of the shame through the summer when I played sports with my cousins. I went outside a lot less and would do everything in my power not to wear shorts.

                In learning about my heritage, my mom and aunts had always explained to me that Black women tend to pack a bit more in the hip region than those of most other nationalities. This was what caused me to do such early research on the Hottentot Venus and to look at old photos of female family members. I could look at the women before me and see that I definitely got it honestly. At that age though, my mind didn’t tell me that the teacher who happened to be White and had given me this cruel nickname did so because he saw my shape as an anomaly. It was not something that he was used to seeing in his culture and because of that, it made him uncomfortable. At the time, I also didn’t know that it was okay to be a teacher and be a total idiot nor that someday, White girls would pay to have a booty like mine. The only thing that rang in my ears was my classmates’ laughter and him calling me “Chunk” over and over. I figured if the name stuck and everyone laughed, there had to be something wrong with me. I have to be fair and say that all of my body image issues didn’t start with the idiot PE teacher. There were times that I looked at my cousins and friends who were much thinner, taller and I felt, much prettier than I and felt like something had just gone terribly wrong in the gene pool. There were times I wanted to hide in my room until my whole family just forgot about me because I felt like I was just that fat and ugly. Within the last couple of years, I told my mom about this. As I look back, I know I should have reported this teacher and that he should have been fired immediately. But I can remember that the reason I carried it with me for so long was the fact that I didn’t want to re-live the pain of the experience while I told anyone what had happened and how I felt.
      My struggle in my skin was far from over and though it began at the hands of a White man, I have to say it was made worse by my own people than any others. The Thick Revolution was not in effect by the time I hit middle school and high school and I can remember being called “that fat bitch” by more tall, thin Black girls than others. The only time they let up was when the Black boys and other ethnicities joined in and put jewels like “Thunder Thighs”, "Buttzilla", "Lard Ass", "Fatty Patty", “Bubble Butt” and “Hippy Hippo” in my crown. I had always been taught by my brother and my cousins that I should be strong. So, running home to Mommy was out of the question. Instead, I trained myself in sarcasm and pretended the pain wasn’t there. My relief came in the form of my first love and high school sweetheart, Bobby. He was tall, dark, handsome and had one of the kindest hearts of anyone I have ever known. He was a monster on the football field, but unless you crossed him (which few were ever brave enough to do), he was a big teddy bear otherwise. About three months into our relationship, we had a quite pivotal conversation. I was telling him how I was surprised that he wanted to be with me because he could have anyone he wanted and even proceeded to go down a list of the pretty ones I thought he should have liked instead. He reached out with those bear claws of his and grabbed my shoulders."You are beautiful," he said to me, "I really wish you could see the jealous looks other girls have when you walk in the room. I can definitely see the looks on the dudes faces when I walk in with you. They all wish they had you and I thank God that I do." Before that moment, I believed he was the only man who wanted me and the reason he wanted me was that he was intrigued that we were so alike in so many ways. I never thought that it was because I was beautiful or anything special. He was the first person besides my mother to say to me "There is nothing wrong with you" and really sound like they meant it. [He is married and a father now. So, I don't really know if I am overstepping bounds when I say this. But I will always love him for being the person he was to me. Our break-up happened due to a series of unfortunate events in my life, but I will always be grateful to him for the enhancements he helped make to my spirit during the time we were together.] I do still have my days. And I will admit that there is a good deal of the time that I do not feel beautiful. But I do hear what is said about those with similar features and I can't help giggling every time I hear people celebrate and covet "thickness" nowadays. Every time they say it, I high-five Lil' Chunk as she does her shimmy on that balance beam. One time for Team Thickness.


                                                      Stay Tuned For Part II................