Dear Black America,
It is with deep regret and a heavy heart .... I mean, complete and utter profound sadness, that today I am the bearer of bad news. Sorry to break it to you, but you are no longer a factor anymore, the future of America has moved on without you. The country’s agenda has blazed into the sunset of immigration reform, leaving you in the dust and tumbleweed of your sordid history. The immigration debate has moved to the forefront.
The foreign-born have replaced you in the workforce and their political might has pulled the chair from under you. You are not at the table, in the words of Langston Hughes, you have been told to go to the kitchen when company comes... Guacamole, anyone???
America has opened its arms wide to the Mexican and Central American (low skilled) Indian and Asiatic (high skilled) foreign-born. The number of immigrants from these countries have doubled twice since 2000. And while you may say that immigration is an important topic and healthy for the U.S. and its workforce, where does that leave African-Americans when the government is sorting out its national priorities? Is anyone interested in uplifting the country’s darkest brother? The President has set his agenda for the next four years and didn’t mention much, if anything about things that are important to you specifically. Even the most self-absorbed of your “black leaders” say that he’s not interested in the plight of Black America. What about Congress? Well, every Congressional term has sets an agenda, and right now it is gun control and immigration. Maybe the next President and Congress will look into disparities of sentencing laws, health care, unemployment and education during their Congressional terms... Black America, How does 2019 work for you? Let me check the Congressional Schedule, I think we may be able to pencil you in...
The fact that African American unemployment is significantly higher than the national rate is not up for discussion. Why? Everyone else has a job. Companies that need workers aren’t even considering Rasheed, Little RayRay, fresh from college, sitting around filling out applications online. American companies are looking for the government to release more H-1B visas so they can hire Jung, Deepak and Lee. Right now, Congressional committees are going back and forth, and back again, over whether or not there should be a Path to Citizenship for all foreign-born workers and whether skilled laborers should be allowed to bring their nuclear families into the US with them. Why? Because they are not willing to invest another second or another dime into the people who are already American citizens by way of their ancestors blood, sweat or tears. The have turned the light on of the Statute of Liberty, the sign below reads, “Give us your tired and poor.” But, what, do you ask, is America going to do with the tired and the poor that it already has? Let’s not discuss that right now, we have more pressing concerns. Guacamole, anyone?
Black America, you may now get to the back of the line because your country is tired of all your complaining, guilt trips, and whining about your unfair, unshared plight. They don’t care to be bothered. America has upgraded, and you are the old chick, trying to get back relevant.
Everyone’s voice at America’s Debate table is louder than yours and the difference is, they were invited. Their issues are being addressed and their demands are being heard and met. Immigration reform bills are bolting through the committees of Congress. Even LGBT rights are being acknowledged and addressed... But Black America, where are your issues? Why have they sent you to the kitchen when company comes?
Should you get out and march on Washington about the lack of job opportunities, discrimination in hiring, higher unemployment, lower graduation, disparate sentencing, unchecked crime in your neighborhoods and the man holding you back? Well, you might be right about all of the above, but I wouldn’t recommend it. You can make Justice Thurgood Marshall’s argument that its not fair when a race is run and people are started 400 years behind their competition and told to catch up...but the new kids beating down the block don’t even have zapatos and they are running in sandals yelling “Andelé, Andelé.” No wonder your phone calls are being ignored by America. You have become about as desirable as the needy ex-girlfriend.
Besides, what does anyone have to gain by helping Black America get a leg up these days? There are no electoral reasons. They know how you are going to vote. And sure, there are glaring social issues, but none of those are necessary help politicians win elections or raise campaign funds.
Dear Black America, it really hurts me to say this, but you just aren’t all that relevant.
Sincerely,
America the Beautiful
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
The Taming of the Ebony Shrew
The media portrays a monstrosity of a caricature of "the black women"
and how she relates to men. Mouthy. Bossy. She "wears the pants,” she's
condescending, she's demeaning and she's emasculating to her man.
There are hundreds of movie scenes and television shows where black
women are threatening, "don't make me go off,” are seen "telling a man
about himself" or "putting him in his place." She can tell her man how
she's "fed up with his bullshit", how she doesn't have to tolerate it, and
can replace him within the hour, a la Beyonce (to the left, to the left). Yes,
Pop culture KNOWS the strength of the black woman. She is a force to be
reckoned with and met with fear and trepidation. Long gone are the daily
images of Clair Huxtable, nurturing her man with a homemade dinner,
and caring for their 7 or so children. Please don't "get her twisted". the
Black women that we come into contact with on a daily basis in music,
television (BET, VH1, MTV, BRAVO) is a "B#*$!, NOT to be "f!@%d with".
But this is only entertainment, right????
Well, sometimes, art imitates life. We've all seen examples of a neckrolling,
finger-pointing pint-sized powerhouse thats as terrifying as a
dog at the edge of Bull O'connor's leash in the 1960. She's armed, and
dangerous with a soul-splitting 12-gauge tongue, and she know's how to
use it like a cat o'nine nails in Roots. In fact many of us with urban
upbringings can recall a woman somewhere in our life (mother, aunt,
grandmother who was a loose-cannon, ready to unload her verbal
(body-)heat activated missiles into a man for his shortcomings,
wandering eyes, insufficient income or social habits. And to keep it more
real, some of us don't have travel further than the bathroom mirror to
find the Shrew on-duty. What did I call you??? A shrew... No, not the
rodent-like mammal, (although some of my male counterparts might
choose to disagree), a shrew meaning a women of violent temper and
speech.
Wait, you say! Why is there a name for women with violent tempers and
speech, but not for men you ask. Well, to be curt, this is simply the
society that we live in, (I didn't create the rules, and infrequently do I play
by them). But whether you look at it from an archeological (the physical
differences of men and women) or biblical perspective (the fact that man
was created from the earth and that woman, meaning "with man", was
created from a man's rib). Whatever your pleasure, there may just be a
difference in the role for the smaller, weaker and reproducing sex, based
upon her physical vulnerabilities. Does this difference mean that women
should be categorically prohibited from expressing their disdain, their
pain, their emotions, their concerns, their insecurities, their fear and their
anger? Of course not. But a shrew is not a shrew merely because she is a
woman, subject to feminine feelings, but because she chooses to display
them in a coarse, uncouth and un-feminine manner (think a 25 year-old
Madea).
Why even our beloved FLOTUS, First Lady Michelle Obama, was in dire
need of a Public Relations makeover after having stated her opinions too
strongly for some American viewers during the 2008 presidential election
campaign. Prior to that time, the country had never before seen a reallife,
beautiuful, highly-intelligent, opinionated, strong, black woman who
was an equal in her marriage. The press began to rave with stories of
Michelle "wearing the pants", calling her a "bulldog", and parading her as
a Shrew that had Barack dangling from her mercies. The issue wasn't that
Michelle, like all women, had an opinion, it was how strong and unfeminine
like she appeared to the national audience who didn't have an
urban upbringing at the hand of an assertive black woman.
But how else is a woman supposed to get her point across, you ask? Now
we have entered a stage that I've deemed the "Taming of the Shrew." (May
I quickly interject, before my critics crowd surround my blog with
pitchforks, nooses, and gallows, that I am not here to point the finger at
black women for the plight of black marriages, or the mediasensationalized
story touting Black Women as the most ummarriagable
woman in the nation. I haven't looked into the statistics of black women
being married, versus other races in America. Nor have I studied the
number of unmarried black women in relation to the number of
unmarried black men. Nor have I studied the decline on the black
marriage since blacks were deemed human in America, and allowed to
marry. Why? Because on a day to day basis, the statistics don't come into
play. Every woman has a different experience based upon a multitude of
factors. Some of those factors being her choice of location, education,
economic background and other preferences. My purpose, is to merely
speak on a hyper-publicized image of the Black Shrew in Media and my
community.)
NOW back to the Taming. Early one morning, I spoke with a friend born in
South America on the phone, and lamented to her all the things my guy
had done to rub me the wrong way in our 5 year long, on-again-off-again
Great America roller-coaster relationship. When she inquired about
how I'd handled the situations, I recounted to her story after story of me
"going off." Her advice included 3 simple rules. Its such great advice that
it would be a crime against humanity not to share it with my kindred
ebony shrews... so I'll share them with you, but I must warn that they are
eerily simply, but not as easy to practice. However, a woman who masters
these lessons will be a most dangerous creature.
Rule #1 being "Never speak from your emotions" If you are angry with
your guy because Natasha called his phone at 2 A.M. or because he didn't
invite you to his aunt Ethel's 70th birthday party, don't unleash your hurt,
insecurity, disappointment or anger on him round by round like Rambo.
Simply say, "babe, I'll talk to you later." Don't allow the sea of emotion
welling inside of you like Hurricane Katrina flood your emotional levees!
HOLD THE DAM!!!! Oftentimes, what you are feeling is SO strong, and SO
sudden that you haven't actually processed it and evaluated it in the
greater scheme of things, with context, facts and most important, your
long-term goal of being with this person. The only thing you have are
your thoughts, and your fears, or F.E.A.R. (False expectations appearing
real), and unlike intuition, fear is rarely reliable. If love and war have
anything in common, it is this, the both require great strategy. Falling in
love is easy, but staying in in requires know-how. Thus the Art of War,
very well may double as the Art of Love. The great strategist Sun Tzu, in
his manual for going to war, the Art of War, stated,
■ " Create conditions that your enemy cannot overcome." "Wait for the
right opportunity before you begin the battle, so that you can put
your opponent at the biggest disadvantage possible."
■ "You are the one who decides whether the battle is worth fighting. If
you are not certain, of victory, don't fight."
■ "Victory is ultimately created by your opponent. He will do certain
things that guarantee his defeat and your victory. Take advantage
of them."
Simply put, talk, when you know exactly what you want to say, say it
when it will be received well, if its not worth saying, don't say it, and it is
not necessary to beat your guy over the head with your words, he will
provide the receptivity to your words, once he's become sensitive to your
needs.
Rule # 2 Try not to discuss problems during bad times. Generally a Shrew
takes advantage of when things are getting heated, to bring up another
15 or so things that they aren't happy about "...and ANOTHER thing.. I
hate when you... You always... Why can't you ...." But even the Book of
Proverbs states that, "a soft answer turneth away wrath", and, the old
folks used to say, "you get more bees with honey than vinegar."
Essentially, they both mean that its best to wait until your boiling, raging
waters, have simmered down to a cool glass of sugar honey iced tea. In
fact, if there is tension in the air, clear it by going out of your way to do
something nice. Make his favorite meal, (like chicken wings and tater tots
and a side of football), after dinner, cuddle up. Then during a
commercial, simply say, "by the way babe, the other day, when you didn't
take me to aunt Ethel's birthday party (or the concert with your friends, or
the holiday party for your job), I felt crummy". This signals to any guy
who actually cares about you that 1) you are vulnerable to him 2)he hurt
you 3) you are disappointed in his behavior 4) you love him enough to
still nurture him even when messes up. Any real man will tell you, that a
guy who cares about you, will bend over backwards to make it up to you
and never disappoint you again. Now if he doesn't care about you, or
your stinkin' crummy feelings, then he just doesn't like you, and I'll
address that in my next article ... but assuming he does, your words will
move him, much more than yelling, screaming, cursing or "checking". No
need to blast Beyonce "Irreplaceable" from your iPod dock, you won't have
to tell him how easily you can replace him, he'll know it.
Rule #3 Understand his needs, anticipate them and treat him like a king.
(People who know me personally may think that I have had a brain
transplant or been brainwashed by an evil male-worshiping cult. But I
haven't). What's madness, is for a woman to desire a king, and then to
treat him like a court jester. If you have a true king, in your presence, you
must be aware of his identity, and remind him that you are aware of his
identity so that he feels awkward, walking outside of that identity. (Think,
Pavlov's positive behavior reinforcement) I hate to use this example in the
same breath as the last but, if you pat a dog and hug him and feed him
every time he brings you your slippers when you walk in the door, guess
what the dog is going to do every time you walk in the door? He's going
to come running with your slippers. Why because he lives for your love,
your soft words, your hugs, your bellyrubs. No different is a king to his
queen. He lives for her love, and will be more kingly, the more she
reinforces how much of a king he is to her. If the king requires time to
consort with his roundtable (hang out with his friends), his queen kisses
him passionately before he goes, calls for his carriage and wishes him a
safe return to her arms). Few hours will go by before a wise king realizes
he has to much of a good thing waiting at home to be out and about and
cut the evening short. A wise queen anticipates that after a long business
trip her king is famished, and exhausted, in need of visual pleasantries
(usually involving patent-leather high heels and something lace, mesh or
vinyl (depending on what you are into), a warm meal, and a quiet,
peaceful evening. Its at this time that a wise queen begins to impregnate
her king's mind with all of her desires and request. Why? Because he has
been satisfied and wants to please her in return. But a Shrew isn't a
queen, she's very confused about how to go about getting what she
wants in a relationship. She uses the sound of her voice to antagonize,
instill fear, belittle, berate, and bring down her man, until she no longer
has one (think Jennifer on Basketball Wives).
Oprah's Lifeclass teaches that “You should not be judged for the person
that you were, but for the person that you are trying to be now.” She goes
further to say that although many mistakes have been made, “when you
know better you do better.” Therefore, Ebony Shrews REJOICE!!! You don’t
have to hold yourself hostage for who you used to be or anything you
ever used to do. You can be tamed TODAY!
"So subtle, so subtle, thus you are formless. So mysterious, so
mysterious, thus you are soundless, thus you hold your enemy's [lover's]
fate in your hand." Sun Tzu, The Art of War
and how she relates to men. Mouthy. Bossy. She "wears the pants,” she's
condescending, she's demeaning and she's emasculating to her man.
There are hundreds of movie scenes and television shows where black
women are threatening, "don't make me go off,” are seen "telling a man
about himself" or "putting him in his place." She can tell her man how
she's "fed up with his bullshit", how she doesn't have to tolerate it, and
can replace him within the hour, a la Beyonce (to the left, to the left). Yes,
Pop culture KNOWS the strength of the black woman. She is a force to be
reckoned with and met with fear and trepidation. Long gone are the daily
images of Clair Huxtable, nurturing her man with a homemade dinner,
and caring for their 7 or so children. Please don't "get her twisted". the
Black women that we come into contact with on a daily basis in music,
television (BET, VH1, MTV, BRAVO) is a "B#*$!, NOT to be "f!@%d with".
But this is only entertainment, right????
Well, sometimes, art imitates life. We've all seen examples of a neckrolling,
finger-pointing pint-sized powerhouse thats as terrifying as a
dog at the edge of Bull O'connor's leash in the 1960. She's armed, and
dangerous with a soul-splitting 12-gauge tongue, and she know's how to
use it like a cat o'nine nails in Roots. In fact many of us with urban
upbringings can recall a woman somewhere in our life (mother, aunt,
grandmother who was a loose-cannon, ready to unload her verbal
(body-)heat activated missiles into a man for his shortcomings,
wandering eyes, insufficient income or social habits. And to keep it more
real, some of us don't have travel further than the bathroom mirror to
find the Shrew on-duty. What did I call you??? A shrew... No, not the
rodent-like mammal, (although some of my male counterparts might
choose to disagree), a shrew meaning a women of violent temper and
speech.
Wait, you say! Why is there a name for women with violent tempers and
speech, but not for men you ask. Well, to be curt, this is simply the
society that we live in, (I didn't create the rules, and infrequently do I play
by them). But whether you look at it from an archeological (the physical
differences of men and women) or biblical perspective (the fact that man
was created from the earth and that woman, meaning "with man", was
created from a man's rib). Whatever your pleasure, there may just be a
difference in the role for the smaller, weaker and reproducing sex, based
upon her physical vulnerabilities. Does this difference mean that women
should be categorically prohibited from expressing their disdain, their
pain, their emotions, their concerns, their insecurities, their fear and their
anger? Of course not. But a shrew is not a shrew merely because she is a
woman, subject to feminine feelings, but because she chooses to display
them in a coarse, uncouth and un-feminine manner (think a 25 year-old
Madea).
Why even our beloved FLOTUS, First Lady Michelle Obama, was in dire
need of a Public Relations makeover after having stated her opinions too
strongly for some American viewers during the 2008 presidential election
campaign. Prior to that time, the country had never before seen a reallife,
beautiuful, highly-intelligent, opinionated, strong, black woman who
was an equal in her marriage. The press began to rave with stories of
Michelle "wearing the pants", calling her a "bulldog", and parading her as
a Shrew that had Barack dangling from her mercies. The issue wasn't that
Michelle, like all women, had an opinion, it was how strong and unfeminine
like she appeared to the national audience who didn't have an
urban upbringing at the hand of an assertive black woman.
But how else is a woman supposed to get her point across, you ask? Now
we have entered a stage that I've deemed the "Taming of the Shrew." (May
I quickly interject, before my critics crowd surround my blog with
pitchforks, nooses, and gallows, that I am not here to point the finger at
black women for the plight of black marriages, or the mediasensationalized
story touting Black Women as the most ummarriagable
woman in the nation. I haven't looked into the statistics of black women
being married, versus other races in America. Nor have I studied the
number of unmarried black women in relation to the number of
unmarried black men. Nor have I studied the decline on the black
marriage since blacks were deemed human in America, and allowed to
marry. Why? Because on a day to day basis, the statistics don't come into
play. Every woman has a different experience based upon a multitude of
factors. Some of those factors being her choice of location, education,
economic background and other preferences. My purpose, is to merely
speak on a hyper-publicized image of the Black Shrew in Media and my
community.)
NOW back to the Taming. Early one morning, I spoke with a friend born in
South America on the phone, and lamented to her all the things my guy
had done to rub me the wrong way in our 5 year long, on-again-off-again
Great America roller-coaster relationship. When she inquired about
how I'd handled the situations, I recounted to her story after story of me
"going off." Her advice included 3 simple rules. Its such great advice that
it would be a crime against humanity not to share it with my kindred
ebony shrews... so I'll share them with you, but I must warn that they are
eerily simply, but not as easy to practice. However, a woman who masters
these lessons will be a most dangerous creature.
Rule #1 being "Never speak from your emotions" If you are angry with
your guy because Natasha called his phone at 2 A.M. or because he didn't
invite you to his aunt Ethel's 70th birthday party, don't unleash your hurt,
insecurity, disappointment or anger on him round by round like Rambo.
Simply say, "babe, I'll talk to you later." Don't allow the sea of emotion
welling inside of you like Hurricane Katrina flood your emotional levees!
HOLD THE DAM!!!! Oftentimes, what you are feeling is SO strong, and SO
sudden that you haven't actually processed it and evaluated it in the
greater scheme of things, with context, facts and most important, your
long-term goal of being with this person. The only thing you have are
your thoughts, and your fears, or F.E.A.R. (False expectations appearing
real), and unlike intuition, fear is rarely reliable. If love and war have
anything in common, it is this, the both require great strategy. Falling in
love is easy, but staying in in requires know-how. Thus the Art of War,
very well may double as the Art of Love. The great strategist Sun Tzu, in
his manual for going to war, the Art of War, stated,
■ " Create conditions that your enemy cannot overcome." "Wait for the
right opportunity before you begin the battle, so that you can put
your opponent at the biggest disadvantage possible."
■ "You are the one who decides whether the battle is worth fighting. If
you are not certain, of victory, don't fight."
■ "Victory is ultimately created by your opponent. He will do certain
things that guarantee his defeat and your victory. Take advantage
of them."
Simply put, talk, when you know exactly what you want to say, say it
when it will be received well, if its not worth saying, don't say it, and it is
not necessary to beat your guy over the head with your words, he will
provide the receptivity to your words, once he's become sensitive to your
needs.
Rule # 2 Try not to discuss problems during bad times. Generally a Shrew
takes advantage of when things are getting heated, to bring up another
15 or so things that they aren't happy about "...and ANOTHER thing.. I
hate when you... You always... Why can't you ...." But even the Book of
Proverbs states that, "a soft answer turneth away wrath", and, the old
folks used to say, "you get more bees with honey than vinegar."
Essentially, they both mean that its best to wait until your boiling, raging
waters, have simmered down to a cool glass of sugar honey iced tea. In
fact, if there is tension in the air, clear it by going out of your way to do
something nice. Make his favorite meal, (like chicken wings and tater tots
and a side of football), after dinner, cuddle up. Then during a
commercial, simply say, "by the way babe, the other day, when you didn't
take me to aunt Ethel's birthday party (or the concert with your friends, or
the holiday party for your job), I felt crummy". This signals to any guy
who actually cares about you that 1) you are vulnerable to him 2)he hurt
you 3) you are disappointed in his behavior 4) you love him enough to
still nurture him even when messes up. Any real man will tell you, that a
guy who cares about you, will bend over backwards to make it up to you
and never disappoint you again. Now if he doesn't care about you, or
your stinkin' crummy feelings, then he just doesn't like you, and I'll
address that in my next article ... but assuming he does, your words will
move him, much more than yelling, screaming, cursing or "checking". No
need to blast Beyonce "Irreplaceable" from your iPod dock, you won't have
to tell him how easily you can replace him, he'll know it.
Rule #3 Understand his needs, anticipate them and treat him like a king.
(People who know me personally may think that I have had a brain
transplant or been brainwashed by an evil male-worshiping cult. But I
haven't). What's madness, is for a woman to desire a king, and then to
treat him like a court jester. If you have a true king, in your presence, you
must be aware of his identity, and remind him that you are aware of his
identity so that he feels awkward, walking outside of that identity. (Think,
Pavlov's positive behavior reinforcement) I hate to use this example in the
same breath as the last but, if you pat a dog and hug him and feed him
every time he brings you your slippers when you walk in the door, guess
what the dog is going to do every time you walk in the door? He's going
to come running with your slippers. Why because he lives for your love,
your soft words, your hugs, your bellyrubs. No different is a king to his
queen. He lives for her love, and will be more kingly, the more she
reinforces how much of a king he is to her. If the king requires time to
consort with his roundtable (hang out with his friends), his queen kisses
him passionately before he goes, calls for his carriage and wishes him a
safe return to her arms). Few hours will go by before a wise king realizes
he has to much of a good thing waiting at home to be out and about and
cut the evening short. A wise queen anticipates that after a long business
trip her king is famished, and exhausted, in need of visual pleasantries
(usually involving patent-leather high heels and something lace, mesh or
vinyl (depending on what you are into), a warm meal, and a quiet,
peaceful evening. Its at this time that a wise queen begins to impregnate
her king's mind with all of her desires and request. Why? Because he has
been satisfied and wants to please her in return. But a Shrew isn't a
queen, she's very confused about how to go about getting what she
wants in a relationship. She uses the sound of her voice to antagonize,
instill fear, belittle, berate, and bring down her man, until she no longer
has one (think Jennifer on Basketball Wives).
Oprah's Lifeclass teaches that “You should not be judged for the person
that you were, but for the person that you are trying to be now.” She goes
further to say that although many mistakes have been made, “when you
know better you do better.” Therefore, Ebony Shrews REJOICE!!! You don’t
have to hold yourself hostage for who you used to be or anything you
ever used to do. You can be tamed TODAY!
"So subtle, so subtle, thus you are formless. So mysterious, so
mysterious, thus you are soundless, thus you hold your enemy's [lover's]
fate in your hand." Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Sunday, March 3, 2013
12 Years A Slave... to Weave
Since the age of 16 I've been wearing a weave. I don't recall my first one, but I do remember why I wanted it. I wanted to feel pretty. For too long I had envied the girls on TV with hair down their backs and I loved the way guys stared at or played with their long wispy curls. I wanted to feel glamourous, and not like a plain book-nerd with a standard bob. When I got my first sew-in, I opted for black hair with burgundy streaks to show that I was not only beautiful, but stylish. The pack of hair only cost $30, but it made me feel like $1.2 million dollars.
As time went on, my spending maxed out at $500 for hair extensions. I had graduated from the corner beauty supply to hair directly imported from India or China. And thank goodness! Over time I'd grown a strong aversion to Beauty Supply Stores (BSS). BSS owners are they only people who come into America dirt poor, feed off the wealth of the black community like leeches, while being completely repulsed and offensive towards the community whose dollars make them very wealthy. The only business owners that treat every one of their paying customers like convicted thieves.
In addition to my aversion for the Chinese business empire, I hated the notion that I wasn't beautiful with what God gave me. Sure, I'm not a bad looking girl. But in the age of Beyonce and Kim K, could the world, and more important, COULD I find beauty in the tresses that God gave me???
From the time I was a girl, I'd been told I had "coarse" hair. As young as age 10, I would go to a salon for a chemical relaxer. The lesson I learned early was that I wasn't pretty 'as is'. I needed to do something 'with' my hair to make it 'presentable'. I should alter it with chemicals, or cover it up completely with weaves and wigs. But on its on it was short, coarse, brittle, damaged and not a source of pride.
As time went on, my spending maxed out at $500 for hair extensions. I had graduated from the corner beauty supply to hair directly imported from India or China. And thank goodness! Over time I'd grown a strong aversion to Beauty Supply Stores (BSS). BSS owners are they only people who come into America dirt poor, feed off the wealth of the black community like leeches, while being completely repulsed and offensive towards the community whose dollars make them very wealthy. The only business owners that treat every one of their paying customers like convicted thieves.
The Chinese hair companies are one of the few groups who can monopolizes the supply of the products that are sold (weaves, wigs and hair products) from the top of the distribution chain in China, so that non-Asians are completely forbidden from operating in their industry. A black person without an Asian business front isn't even allowed to order from the companies who make the wigs or weaves sold to their own people. The only two black owned beauty supplies that I've ever known of were forced out of business when the Chinese suppliers found out they were really black owned.
In addition to my aversion for the Chinese business empire, I hated the notion that I wasn't beautiful with what God gave me. Sure, I'm not a bad looking girl. But in the age of Beyonce and Kim K, could the world, and more important, COULD I find beauty in the tresses that God gave me???
From the time I was a girl, I'd been told I had "coarse" hair. As young as age 10, I would go to a salon for a chemical relaxer. The lesson I learned early was that I wasn't pretty 'as is'. I needed to do something 'with' my hair to make it 'presentable'. I should alter it with chemicals, or cover it up completely with weaves and wigs. But on its on it was short, coarse, brittle, damaged and not a source of pride.
And my hair was humidity-adverse. Women with straighten hair (via pressing comb or perm) are like the wicked witch of the West, in real life. "We are allergic to water, it makes us melt!!!!" What's a girl to do when she loves the feel of doing laps in a refreshing pool on a hot summer day? Everyone knows that swimming caps aren't really waterproof. I learned THIS lesson the hard way.
At the age of 13, I attended a church sleepover at the YMCA. I was given strict instruction by my mom not to get my hair wet because I had just come from the hair salon and had my hair straightened. I was comfortable obeying her instruction until my childhood crush got in the pool and was joined by girls with "good" wavy hair. I stood in the shallow end, seething all alone. I decided to find my courage. I must have been playing Jay-Z & Lenny Kravitz's "Storm" in my mind, because I clearly thought, "I can walk through water and not get wet.... I'm that FRESH!!!!" I jumped into the deep end with a press and curl and climbed out Little Florida Evans. I was so embarrassed, I called my mom to pick me up early and cried in the back seat all the way home.
Thankfully, my love for swimming didn't sink. But only with the help of a sew in, could a girl with kinky hair like me dive into the ocean and come out swinging long tendrils like Ariel in the little Mermaid, and not knots and coils balled up tighter than fists at a Black Panther Rally.
By the age of 24 I was tired of running. I was tired of buying someone else's hair. I was tired of buying into the false beauty standards. I begin to fight my acceptance of this self-hatred, I sought out help from a stylist in Chicago. Arik began showing me how to care for my own hair and nurture it with organic products from Biostrand and Aveda. But first he cut it all off. I was distraught. The only thing worst than having damaged "coarse" hair, was having NO HAIR AT ALL. I wore wigs for months on end.
By the age of 24 I was tired of running. I was tired of buying someone else's hair. I was tired of buying into the false beauty standards. I begin to fight my acceptance of this self-hatred, I sought out help from a stylist in Chicago. Arik began showing me how to care for my own hair and nurture it with organic products from Biostrand and Aveda. But first he cut it all off. I was distraught. The only thing worst than having damaged "coarse" hair, was having NO HAIR AT ALL. I wore wigs for months on end.
As my hair grew back, these products and more a nurturing regimen changed my hair from the coarse, damaged, brittle mess to a head full of beautiful little curls that were as soft, healthy, strong and spring as they were the day I was born. After all of this time, my hair had been abused at my own hands! The very hair I wanted -- long, strong, shiny and soft-- was waiting for me to claim it. It was waiting for me to stop covering it with tangly, matted, fake looking weaves. My crowning glory was waiting for me to learn how to moisturize it, treasure it, and retain its length.
During the last two years of my journey, I've decided not to use heat, combs, brushes, shampoo, products with cones, sulfates, mineral oil, parabens and alcohol. I've learned how to care for my tender curls from information that I'd never heard of three years ago. I'm comfortable in my new skin, and I love how my hair grazes the middle of my back when straighten... or sits atop my head in coily ringlets.
I truly have a head of crowning glory!
I truly have a head of crowning glory!
I am excited, but still perplexed. Why come (yes, WHY COME) they don't teach little black girls HOW to care for their own hair? Why do companies only sell lye products to straighten it, products that are anti-humectant to lock the moisture out, spritz and gels full of alcohol to suck the moisture out ? Why do we pay stylist or buy Hot Tools curling irons to fry our hair to death with heat so hot the natural pattern is burned out? Why has no one ever took the time to see what makes black hair tick and how to make it look its best? Does no one give a damn about the beauty that black women are capable of naturally? Why have we been sold this egregious lie that our hair can't grow to the middle of our back?These lies are keeping us slave to a system that thrives from our ignorance.
What eats me up the most, is when I see 10, 12, 14, 16 year old girls at the bus stop or on the train with dry, short, heat-damaged horseshoes (the part of the weave that leaves out their own hair) and then cheap, matted or tangled weave plastered on the rest of their head. Why don't they know? Why won't someone take them all to the nearest auditorium and sit them down and teach them the truth about THEIR hair. It breaks my heart, that our young girls look on tv and for the most part all of the black women are reinforcing the standard of beauty as $700 weaves, that these little girls fail miserably to duplicate. Who will free them????
P.S. From time to time I get weak, and my insecurities creep back in and my laziness causes me to take the shortcut to long, shiny tresses. But my shortcut is short-lived. After a few weeks of wearing someone else's curls, I walk past the mirror, and long for the beauty that is all mine.
In actuality, I'm not opposed to wearing weaves or extensions, they can actually serve as a protective style for giving your real hair a break. However, I AM opposed to being a slave to them. I believe they should be an option, like a hat. And most important, your hair should be loved, maintained and treasured underneath, in the interim.
(no heat, flexi-rod set)
(blow dryed, and silked)
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Why Being a Mistress is a Dumb !#%$ Idea
1. Because it is!
Ladies and reforming women of ill-repute, there may come a time in your life, especially as a young woman where you meet a man who seems handsome, charming, wealthy and exciting because he is completely into you. He brazenly displays his interest in you and only you, and his selectiveness and intensity sets your heart aflutter. Finally, Prince Charming has arrived in all of his splendor on his white horse. And he's so perfect that he glistens in the sun... glints of light reflect off of him and he sparkles like a diamond.
No mami. That is a diamond... IN his wedding band. The son of a bitch is married and has the gall to be all over you like he's ready to take you home to meet his mother! He's whispering sweet nothings and yet your stomach begins to turn like his breathe actually smells like the shit he's talking.
He's as slick as a used car salesman ... he's selling you, on why this "arrangement" is no different from anything else. Maybe he travels for work and can be available to you five days a week and most weekends because he rarely goes home, or things are sooooo bad (or good) at home that he can do whatever he wants right under her nose and it won't interfere with this sweet, tender love you will have going on. He's talking so much bullshit, you wait, expecting his teeth to rot and fall out.
Don't let Olivia Pope fool you, stolen moments are exactly that. Stolen. Not from her, but from you. You're stealing moments that you could be having with someone who really likes you enough to make you the One. Are you tuning me out? you don't want to hear the moral crap? Well, if you aren't here for a sermon, and could care less about morality and sentimental things like weddings and declarations of love before the sight of God and man, then allow me to break it down from an economical purview.
Even if he buys you a Louis Vutiton purse, he's bought her the walk in closet to keep the purse in. If he's bought you a Rolex, he's given her the effect of time on his investments, retirement and pension, and even if he leaves her, she'll never have to work another day. SHE IS SET FOR LIFE. If he's taken you on a vacation, then he's bought her a timeshare or vacation home on an island that she'll always have to enjoy. If he's bought you a car, he's given her an attached 3 car garage to keep the car he bought her in. If he gives you gifts for your kid, he pays for all three of her kids to attend college. No matter how you slice it, you're stealing from yourself! Spending time with him instead of the sap who will do all of this for you.
Now, if he's not gotten any of this for you, you really need to redo your cost-analysis and figure out why the hell you've even wasted your time. The only thing you're getting is D and bubblegum, without the Doublemint! And if he's bought you a home with the 3 car garage, vacation home, and you have access to his pension, or he's invested in your company and you're now a 7 figure chic, please send me an email, because I'd like to interview you for my next article called, "Side Chicks Be Winning."
So ladies, the next time a married man comes up to you and tries to sell you a dream, tell him to show you the money like Jerry Maguire. And if he can't, fuck him and the My Little Pony he rode in on.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Living in DC
There's something quite peculiar about this town. Is it because this is the birthplace of our incredible experiment called democracy? No, perhaps it is the dazzling marble sculptures of great men that line the Potomac River like tinsel on a Christmas tree? Maybe its the imposing robust columns made of limestone that stretch to heaven like sequoia trees and the majestic staircases that roll down the front of entrances like waterfalls. The buildings are exhibitions of inspiration, with intricacy so gifted that only God himself could have inspired it.
The awesomeness of the DC scenery is simply beautiful... cold, hard, white and beautiful...
But mostly cold.
I have much in common with the columns, and sculptures and staircases... Each day... I feel my insides become colder.... harder.... recalcitrant... my smiles, that once used to bubble forth from my heart and dance over my lips.... becomes stiffer.... my soul, once joyously dancing throughout life, has began to slink along ... becoming tired....
Where has my cheerfulness gone? Why do I feel so heavy...
Why has the song in my heart and stride in my step been replaced with a lump in my throat...
I feel as if I'm growing older each day that I live in DC...
Chicago was fun.... honestly, too much fun. I LIVED in the moment without cares or concerns. I Loved and received love in return. I PARTIED until the wee hours of the morning night after night. I had passionate SEX that embedded my lover's name in the crevices of my heart. I experienced heartbreak that stained strands of my hair like the best Mary Jane. I was spoiled, and adored... I was a girl, enjoying the best of life...
Now, I sit in the back of an office in the supplies closet, just as lifeless as the copier that I sit next to. I dash out the door at 5:00 p.m. on the dot and run home to sleep and escape the boredom of being awake. The pretentious people and their elite parties bore me. The sohpmoric boys who hide unattractive faces behind big titles and government salaries bore me.
My ride on the train to work where I stand body to body, and cheek to cheek next to the overworked, underpaid peon next to me... We are all in a hurry to get to our 8, 9, 10,11, 12- hour slow death sentence... we frantically run at the sight of the next train, we must be on time....borrowed time... time we trade for money like prostitutes... Bumping into each other like sedated animals being herded onto the ramp ...we are just a bunch of sheep on our way to being slaughtered...
It's 65 degrees but I'm cold.
Much like the marble stairs, the statues and the columns, I've turned to stone.
I'm alive in DC, but this is far from my definition of LIVING.
The awesomeness of the DC scenery is simply beautiful... cold, hard, white and beautiful...
But mostly cold.
I have much in common with the columns, and sculptures and staircases... Each day... I feel my insides become colder.... harder.... recalcitrant... my smiles, that once used to bubble forth from my heart and dance over my lips.... becomes stiffer.... my soul, once joyously dancing throughout life, has began to slink along ... becoming tired....
Where has my cheerfulness gone? Why do I feel so heavy...
Why has the song in my heart and stride in my step been replaced with a lump in my throat...
I feel as if I'm growing older each day that I live in DC...
Chicago was fun.... honestly, too much fun. I LIVED in the moment without cares or concerns. I Loved and received love in return. I PARTIED until the wee hours of the morning night after night. I had passionate SEX that embedded my lover's name in the crevices of my heart. I experienced heartbreak that stained strands of my hair like the best Mary Jane. I was spoiled, and adored... I was a girl, enjoying the best of life...
Now, I sit in the back of an office in the supplies closet, just as lifeless as the copier that I sit next to. I dash out the door at 5:00 p.m. on the dot and run home to sleep and escape the boredom of being awake. The pretentious people and their elite parties bore me. The sohpmoric boys who hide unattractive faces behind big titles and government salaries bore me.
My ride on the train to work where I stand body to body, and cheek to cheek next to the overworked, underpaid peon next to me... We are all in a hurry to get to our 8, 9, 10,11, 12- hour slow death sentence... we frantically run at the sight of the next train, we must be on time....borrowed time... time we trade for money like prostitutes... Bumping into each other like sedated animals being herded onto the ramp ...we are just a bunch of sheep on our way to being slaughtered...
It's 65 degrees but I'm cold.
Much like the marble stairs, the statues and the columns, I've turned to stone.
I'm alive in DC, but this is far from my definition of LIVING.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)