Free Write

I think I have always had what some might call an irrational fear of something terrible happening to me- never being able to bear children, finding out I have cancer only after it has consumed most of me, being the responsible driver and stopping at a red light but the 18-wheeler behind me deciding not to, being the one to greet a stray bullet with a vital organ- ya know, that type of stuff. I do pray every day that God keeps me safe and these fears don't live at the forefront and therefore do not run my life. While I am not at all afraid to die, I would rather it not be tragic and ruin the funeral my mother is leaving me no choice other than to have (I would rather just be cremated. No point of making a fuss for me). But I do believe that because I am always cautious of the extreme, my life is more rewarding in some aspects. I love hard enough for me and everyone else. When I am fed up, I can make people and things instantly obsolete. When I am happy, I share with others and I will admit that I have on occasion shared sadness and anger too. When I am passionate about something, everyone is gonna feel it. When I make love......well.......*blush*. If my so-called irrational fears make my normalities sweeter, then I hope to keep my visitor's pass to the World of Irrationality forever.

JUSTICE

Ahem

May I have your attention, please?

Fuck the Tea Party.

That"ll be all.

Okay, I'll Bite

I wasn't gonna do this. But there have been way too many "Why Black Women Are Single" spots coming on tv nowadays for me to keep quiet. Judging from a friend's recent misfortune and a lifetime of my own, I feel I am more than qualified to speak. First of all, let me say that my daddy (R.I.P) and my brother are all the proof I need that somewhere in the world exist good Black men. Secondly, this morning I was awakened by a picture message with the subject line, "Look What This Bastard Did". When I opened the photo, I saw remnants of a face I used to know. Only this version of the face was splattered with purple bruises and red cuts and soaked in its own blood mixed with its own tears. The nose broken and not sure which way to go. The lips cut, swollen and a bit downturn. A knot on the forehead threatening to burst and bleed. I remember the face I used to know. It was happy, lighthearted and nothing like this one. We will call my friend "Amy" for the sake of this post. Amy and I have known each other since the 7th grade and since I have known her, she has dreamed of love and marriage. But like many of us, Amy has run into nothing but bad luck. Oh, did I forget to mention Amy isn't Black? As a matter of fact, she calls herself "one of the whitest girls you will ever know". After seeing the picture, I called Amy. It turns out, the picture was taken three weeks ago and she is healing. She tells me she saw a couple of the spots on Black women. Then she has this to say:

"It's not just Black women. Most of the women in my family have major problems with the men they date. I have a lot of White friends who do too. We have the same problems with our men. I think the only reason they put the spotlight on Black women is because y'all are more vocal about it."

That was interesting because I felt the same way. Yes Sistas, I know that just because we don't mention it doesn't mean the problem doesn't exist. But the reason shows like this exist is that we voice our "Niggas ain't shit" theories so much. Then we are not open to interracial dating so that leaves no options at all. We have to know that if every woman found The One the very first time around, most of us would never even go on dates. I have been cheated on. I have been beaten. I have been berrated. I have had my virtue stolen and I have had times where I was just fed up. I am even guilty of saying "Men ain't shit". But I do give myself time to get over those moments of bitterness and not typecast because of the few bad actors I have casted. I might not ever find my leading man, but I will stop making men the villains. So in short, Black women, ALL women have the problems but our men suffer because we judge without looking at ourselves. Now if you look within and truly find that you aren't the problem, then fine. By all means, leave and go on to the next one. But leave the jawjacking behind. You can't be upset when Dateline only repeats what you say. Don't get mad. Just shut up.

Totally Shocking

http://www.cnn.com/video/#/video/us/2009/09/07/ktvk.az.rally.church.ktvk

I was completely disgusted after seeing this video. It is fine to say you don't agree with someone's decisions. But to boldly state that you HATE them and wish them bodily harm and even death is totally vile. And then those words take on a whole other life form when you are supposedly a man of God who is leading a flock. The fact that this man still has a congregation is shocking. Apparently he is drinking the same Kool-Aid as the one who led this country to hell in the first place. God bless you, Barack Obama.

"But the prophet, which shall presume to speak a word in my name, which I have not commanded him to speak, or that shall speak in the name of other gods, even that prophet shall die." -Deu 18:20

Ego (But Not At All What You Think)

"It's too big
It's too wide
It's too strong
It won't fit
It's too much
It's too tough
He talk like this 'cause he can back it up."

Well, good.
Dammit I'm glad.
Cause I'm the type of chick that he's never seen,
Never had.

I'm glad his ego's fat
Cause I damn sho' won't feed it.
I don't know what he's bringin'
But I damn sho' don't need it.

Got no real need to "Turn My Swag On"
I tapped in years ago
And never left that shit alone.

Don't give a damn
An about "Ice Cream Paint Job" on a 'Lac.
The fact that I'm educated
Stops all that in its tracks.

Won't "Stanky Leg"
Cause that don't apply to me.
And "Boyfriend Number 2"
Ain't what I need you to be.

Won't say "Put A Ring On It"
And I won't give you my time
When it's fuckin' "Every Girl" that's
Always on your mind.

Don't do lame shit like
"Kiss Me Through The Phone".
Leave too many messages and
I'll leave yo' ass alone.

Oh no. Hell no you aren't
"The Best I Ever Had".
I didn't get attached
And for that, I'm kinda glad.

Walk up to me suggesting
We have "Birthday Sex".
I will chew yo' ass out
And then move on to the next.

Messin' with me is a good
Way to get "Wasted"
You'll miss your dignity so much
You can just taste it.

I give new meaning to a "5 Star Chick"
I smile when you get mad
And walk off callin' me a bitch.

Drop a stupid line and be quick to meet yo' doom
Pack that shit and kepp it movin'.
"Becky"'s in the next room.

Keep "Swag Surfin'"
Cause homeboy, you lost your touch.
Tell yo' coach he's fired
Cause yo' game is all washed up.

Think before you rhyme
Cause this time, you dead wrong
Don't try to step to me with
Another stupid song.

Too harsh?
Too mean?
Too rough?
Too tough?
Too much
To cope with?
Well, I talk shit cause I can back it up.

TK

******WEBSTER'S DICTIONARY PROVES THAT A DIVA IS NOT A FEMALE VERSION OF A HUSTLER************

GO AWAY! PLEASE!

I love my news (online and in print) but I am going to scream if I see one more icture of Rihanna not being a musician, not being philanthropist and over all, just not being important. I mean, every day it's "Rihanna walks across a street in New York", "Rihanna walks across a street in California", "Rihanna eats", "Rihanna stands up", "Rihanna uses her own lungs to breathe". I just want to see her DOING something for a change. She is a good singer and a good performer as well.But I know there is more to Rihanna than just walking across streets and into restaurants with these new outfits on, be they devastating or dreadful. And if I'm wrong and there is no more to her, should anyone really be pubbing her anyway? There are other stars in all mediums that are overexposed as well, but at least they are shown at an actual event every once in awhile and the occasional fundraiser. As journalists, we have got to make these people do the work before they are worthy of our precious time and space. Call me a hater. Call me evil. But by all means, call me EXPRESSED

Mammy Redd (Just a Teaser)

If you’re lookin’ for a classic success story, then you better just stop readin’ now, ‘cause this shit’ll make you cry. I can’t tell you my life was always good because it wasn’t. There really ain’t much good to find in turnin’ tricks at twelve. I ain’t tellin’ you because I want you to feel sorry for me. But the more you listen to my story, the more you’ll know that I didn’t have no choice. Like I said, if you want the success story, this one ain’t it. But for those that just wanna know the truth, here it is.

I was born Jacqueline Josephine Harris in St. Louis, Missouri. Now, by the time I came along, women could vote and liquor laws had changed. But I was born smack dab in the middle of The Depression. So needless to say, most of my life, I ain’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out. I never knew much about my daddy ‘cept that he was a white man from Tennessee and that it was all ‘cause of him that I was short and light skinned. My mama told me his name was Thomas Clyde and that he left town ‘fo I was born. So, all I had was Mama and Big Mama to raise me up.

When I was six years old, Big Mama passed and left me and Mama the house. We always did the best we could but nothin’ ever seemed like enough. Some days, Mama would dress me up and send me into town to get food. People would walk by, pat me on the head, and give me food on the count of I looked like a lil’ white child in they eyes. I usually could get enough to feed me and Mama for two or three days. On the days in between we just went hungry. Though Mama’s stomach was hungry and achin’, her heart was heavy and full. At night, I would hear her cryin’ and asking God why he meant for her and her baby to starve to death.

One day, Mama called me to her bedside and told me to sit down. “Jacqui,” she said, “Mama so sorry. I’m sorry for not bein’ able to take care of you the way I want to. I worked hard all my life and after all this time, all I can give you is my love. It makes me feel real bad. But you can’t do like I did. I want you to marry you a man what can take care of you. You can’t die old and alone like me. Promise Mama that you gon’ die with a dream on yo’ mind and some change in yo’ pocket.” I nodded. “I promise,” I said. I guess that was all she needed to hear because after that, Mama smiled at me, closed her eyes, and took her last breath. I heeded every word Mama said that day. And even though I didn’t do it the way she mighta thought I would, I kept the promise I made to her that day. Alone, cold, and broke, I vowed to never let my mama down.

*

Since Mama didn’t have no family to speak of and I didn’t have her and Big Mama to look after me no more, life got a lil’ harder. Before, I could go into town and get food on the count of looking like a white girl, now I just got funny looks ‘cause I just looked like a peeled peach that had been rolled in the dirt.

One day, I ducked into Johnson’s General Store to escape the burning summer sun. I walked around the store running my hands along the snacks, listening to the melody of hunger that played against my ribs. I tried to use my imagination to fill my rumbling belly. I imagined the peppermints sticks melting in my mouth and the soda water fizzing on my tongue. Whoever said imagination did diddley squat for a child must not’ve had a hungry one in mind. I was standing over by the penny candy when a scary looking white man walked up to me. He was at least three feet taller than I was and he had a thick black moustache and caterpillar eyebrows that matched.

“If you ain’t got no money, I ain’t got nothin’ for you,” he barked.

Now I don’t know if I looked it or not, but I was awful scared. My mama had raised me with a sharp tongue, but I couldn’t get up the courage to argue. I just stood there, froze.

“Hush up, Fool,“ I heard a voice say, “My brother helped you build this place and if it wasn’t for him hushin’ up about you bein’ a white man who couldn’t pay a black man to build him a sto’, yo’ name woulda been messed up all over this town.”

I turned to see a pretty black woman in a purple dress and black high heels. She wore a purple feather in her curly hair and carried matching fan. She looked like she couldn’ta been no more than twenty-one. But boy, was she pretty. Me and the man that couldn’ta been nobody but Mr. Johnson stood there with our eyes fixed on her. She walked over to me, smelling like perfume a rich woman would wear.

“Now,” she said placing a gloved hand on my shoulder, “You give this baby whatever she wants.”

Something about this woman must have scared Old Man Johnson because he backed up off me and walked behind the cash register to wait for me to get through shopping. She walked behind me smiling and I couldn’t tell if she was smiling at me or if she was just proud that she had done told off Johnson. I didn’t care, though. She had a nice smile and I was glad she was showing it to me. I walked up to the counter with a bag full of penny candy, peppermint sticks, crackers, soda and bubble gum. Mr. Johnson counted them and the lady with the nice smile paid for it all.

“Have a nice day, Mr. Johnson,” she mocked.

When we stepped outside, the sun hit us both in the face. The lady pulled out a ruffled parasol I had not seen before and held it over both of us. “What’s yo’ name, Baby,” she said with a sweet southern drawl.

“Jacqueline Josephine Harris,” I said.

I had never seen nobody look so impressed just ‘cause I said my name, but the lady said, “Well! Go right ahead Miss Jacqueline Josephine Harris! That’s a pretty name!” I started to feel proud just ‘cause my mama had named me that. After she wasn’t tickled pink no more, she said, “Well Miss Jackie, my name is Naomi East. But everybody calls me Suga Mama Mae.” I didn’t ask the question, but I reckon folks called her Suga Mama because her perfume smelled so sweet. It dawned on me that we was walking, but I didn’t have no idea where I was goin’. When we got a few more steps toward nowhere, Mae said, “So, where yo’ mammy at?” I knew she was gon’ ask, but I didn’t know what I was gon’ say.

“She dead”.

Before I even knew it, the words just flew out of my mouth. The lady squinted at me. “Well, ain’t you got no pappy?”

I shook my head hard. “I ain’t never met him.”

“Ain’t you got no place to go,” she said.

“No’m, I ain’t.”

She smiled. “Well, I tell you what. Come home with me. I always have a house full. We can have a lot of fun. You want to?”

My chest swelled with excitement. I hadn’t felt that good since I sat on Big Mama’s lap and listened to her sing hymns and run her fingers through my hair. There had only been two times in my life that I had been speechless-when I stood in Old Man’s Johnson’s store and the moment I stood in right then................