Somebody’s Mama

Yesterday I was getting gas, and this negro walked past me, and yelled out looking at me… “I wanna be up under somebody’s mama tonight.” I guffawed. That shit was funny. Ain’t happening, but it was super funny. Cuz this Mama is only trying to be up on one somebody’s son. But it ain’t nothing wrong with being a semi hot Mama out in these mean streets.

Seriously tho… when I learned I was gonna be somebody’s Mama, I was like …



Now I was good at doing for self but I had no idea I could cape for someone else so hard. No idea. I swore I was gonna drop him and ruin him for life. I was sure I was gonna cuss too much and his first word would be “shit!” I was sure I would mess up and he’d end up smoking menthols with a scratchy voice, working on cars that would never run again, on a diet of Church’s chicken and Crown. But he just laughed that one time he rolled off the bed, and we kept on trucking until he looked down on me at 10, sang As by Stevie Wonder for me from memory, told me the song playing was John Coltrane “In a Sentimental Mood” , and recently introduced me to my jam… a bit disturbing but containing a Vanessa Carlton sample of “1000 Miles”… “Who I Smoke!” Our love language is music. And he’s not brain dead. I’d say I did pretty good. But who knew?

Motherhood is the single most GANGSTA shit ever. Raising a Black son during this whole Black Lives Matter moment has been heartwrenchingly difficult because each of those men and boys looks just like your son in the moment. Being in a car with a teenager behind the wheel is some otherwordly, my life might end, jumping out of airplanes shit that can only be characterized as mafia life. We are out here slanging and banging for our kids, not only so they succeed but so they know what success looks like, shat restarting looks like, what happiness at all costs looks like. We blow up twice our size to carry these miracles, and sometimes they don’t take that extra shit with them. We feed them from our bodies. If that’s not the dopest thing ever. We are made to keep them nourished, as long as we are nourished. We leave men who don’t serve us to find ones who do, so they will also see positive committed love demonstrated before their eyes. I’m telling you, you can’t get more Mack and Bewick than being someone’s mother. We are honey badgers who will scratch your eyes out and eat them as delicacies if you try our kids. Gangsta shit.

If you are somebody’s mama … you are an umi (Arabic) and belong to a tribe, Ummi (my tribe in Arabic), cuz what we do is God’s work! And the lights we bear are our legacy and lineage. These children are going to do things bigger and better than we ever could imagine. We are the vessel and the alchemists to carry them into the world… literally and figuratively. So if you are somebody’s mama, and especially if you still kinda hot out in these streets, then celebrate yourself. And keep the fire lit! 🔥

Chadwick, August, and Oscar

So Katheleen Newman-Brebang, a senior editor for Refinery29 wrote an op-ed about the Oscars and it’s treatment of Black actors, especially at this years ceremony. In “It’s Time We Start Refusing To Meet The Oscars In The Middle”, Newman-Brebang references Tyler Perry’s speech for his Humanitarian Award when he says “stand in the middle because that’s where healing happens… that’s where change happens” regarding the racial climate in America in light of police brutality and community protests. She argues that change indeed doesn’t happen on middle ground, but by going where its uncomfortable to expose racism. Specifically she calls out the Academy for changing the order of this years Oscars, leaving the Best Actor Award last to play off the importance of Chadwick Boseman’s pivotal performance and expected win posthumously.

I agree. The middle sits between supremacy and freedom, racism and revolution, hate and love. We have sat in the middle for too long. I also will take it a step further, we have to start either rejecting these institutions that use our talent but don’t award it or calling them out, out loud, to their face. Hell, let’s do both. I’ll start.

I read a comment on social media that Anthony Hopkins performance and Frances McDormand’s, which are both well acted, but generally not as dynamic or complex or difficult as the roles played by Chadwick Boseman and Viola Davis in The fim adaption of the play “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom” by August Wilson. Correct!

August Wilson’s plays were studies of authentic Black life. The Marcel waves, full bosom, hands on the hip, cocky demeanor, language, colorful clothes on richly melanated skin, the finessed use of curse words, dance steps. The way Viola Davis’s Ma Rainey drank that Coca-Cola, sweaty, hair plastered on her forehead starting to “go back”. Chadwick’s Levee playing the trumpet, tapping his feet, and later talking about the importance of keeping his shoe game tight. The need to have the music just right. God. The growl in Ma Rainey’s voice. Images that authentic need personalities and depth to match. That is what you get in an August Wilson play. Chadwick and Viola delivered.

These performances, taking nothing away from Hopkins and McDormand, started with characters as different as Southern Baked Macaroni and Cheese and the Kraft boxed pasta and cheese sauce concoction. There is no middle, its almost not even the same thing, to compare it. The raw and emotional performances Chadwick Baseman snd Viola Davis delivered were rich, full of heavy cream, rich cheese, the right amounts of salt and pepper, melted together for 94 minutes until they came together and were ready to serve hot. There is no downtime. The acting starts at 0:00 and it don’t stop. That’s typical of an August Wilson character, snd that’s what they both gave… while still being authentically Black like your favorite aunt who gives you money out of her bosom and your wild cousin who drives too fast, takes you to all the coolest places, and buys you a pair of fly sneakers before he drops you back off at home.

The folks in the Academy, likely overwhelmingly White, just don’t understand that world, those characters, and the brilliance of August Wilson. So when they have to compare performances, of course they are more geared toward these typical American stories. An elderly father dealing with memory loss and a widow who becomes a transient nomad after losing her job just seem more like Oscar winning performances than a fiery jazz singer’s day in the studio having to assert herself artistically with white record executives and her wild and overly ambitious trumpeter maddened by rejection. Two are stories about life, the other two are character studies of Blackness and humanity. These people should be educated about the subject they are voting on, and be able to effectively compare these very brilliantly acted but complicated and nuanced performances verses performances by brilliant actors. If we are really rewarding the BEST, that’s not hard to tell.

The death of Chadwick Boseman was a huge blow to the Black community… he was Black Panther, our very own superhero. He was James Brown and Jackie Robinson. To find out he had been suffering from cancer during all of these pivotal performances, unknown to the public, was heartbreaking. It was an equally large blow to Hollywood. This being his last performance, its critical acclaim, and his posthumous wins in pre-Oscar award shows made this a huge moment for the show. To think the Academy used that moment to bring more viewers in this odd restructuring of the show, only to not select him is telling and maddening. There is no middle ground to respect, you either respect his legendary status and artistry or you don’t, and this feels like a don’t. To use his pivotal and brilliant performance to further your agenda, but then not even award the brilliance of his performance is the middle that we have to reject. You won’t keep using us until you use us up!

I don’t have all the answers, but I’m militant. I say don’t show up, whether you are nominated or not, boycott Oscar and his crew. Reject them giving us an award every five years or so, just to ignore our really great performances. Don’t appease us with Alonzo Harris because you didn’t give Malcolm X his due. And be clear, Tyler Perry is an incredible humanitarian. He is an amazing human being. But he does not speak for us with that passive, be easy, middle talk. Fuck the middle. Everybody knows that the best art and the best activism happens outside the lines, in the uncomfortable spaces. Oscar you are a wild boy… get your shot together and do better. August and Chadwick deserve more than what you gave them!

“A-one, a-two, you know what to do!”

black is the magic color

This isn’t about Black Girl Magic or Black Boy Joy. In fact, all magic isn’t good… and that’s what I’m here to talk about today ladies & gentleman, boys and girls. Black is the color of American racism… it’s the color that most threatens White supremacy and privilege, the magic color of hate and racism. So today, this, this is about calling that out, and simultaneously honoring the lives and protesting the deaths of Trayvon, Mike, Alton, Amadou, Breonna, George, Philando, Akai, Freddie, Oscar, Jordan, Ahmaud, Daunte, Atatianna, Sandra, Tamir, Ma’Khia, and all of our other murdered Black people at the hands of White people and police officers that most often goes unpunished.

Murders supported by the powers that be, per their lack of action.

I’m all for anti-discrimination legislation. Full stop.

Black people have a history of enslavement that dates back to the 1600s in America. We were the subject of Black Codes which limited our movement in post-slavery America; legal lynchings; Jim Crow practices in the South that maintained segregation; and continuing programs, policies, and legislation in housing, education, finance, employment, and politics in national, state, and local levels. While the 14th Amendment and Title VII have been enacted to seemingly deter racism, these and other anti-racism and anti-discrimination laws do little to stop the outright racist killings of Black people, even unarmed Black people.

The Dyer anti-lynching law was introduced in 1918, to make lynching illegal. 103 years later… ONE HUNDRED THREE… this bill is still awaiting passage in the Senate. 103 years. The act of hoisting a Black body from a tree limb, in public, by a rope, from the neck, is not EXPRESSLY illegally federally, after that practice claimed so many lives throughout Black history in America. One hundred and three years later we are still waiting for that law to pass Congress. Yet in 1998, James Byrd was effectively lynched by being dragged by truck until his head was severed. Black is the color of racism.

In 1999, 22 years ago…TWENTY TWO… Amadou Diallo was shot by police officers after being mistaken for a rapist, while unarmed. He was shot several times in his armpits, showing he had his hands up in surrender to the police. Yet just a few days ago a thirteen year old child, shown in a video with his empty hands raised above his head, was killed by police, and a young lady defending herself with a kitchen knife against adult women at her own home was shot and killed by a police officer, no deescalation tactics used. These kinds of stories come every few months if not every few days. So many times White police officers enter situations involving Black people and deadly force is the only tactic they recall, not deescalation, disarming, crisis management, nothing. The only skill they recall with Black people is how to fire bullets into our bodies. Yet Dylan Roof killed Black parishioners in a church and got Burger King after, and probably his choice of Coke or Sprite. Black is the color of bias.

In 1998, along with James Byrd, Mathew Shepard was murdered, but not because of his race, Shepard was a White gay male. In 2009, Congress passed the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act which added gender and sexual orientation to the 1969 Hate Crimes Act, and removed the requirement for race based hate crime victims to be engaged in certain federal activities. The law did nothing to make lynching a federal crime and is known as the Mathew Shepard Act because of its sweeping addition of gender and sexual orientation based additions to the law. While we can all agree it was a necessary and needed piece of legislation, Congress failed to effectively legislate on a practice that Black people in America had feared and faced for hundreds of years. Black is the color of inequality.

In 2020, COVID-19 spread throughout America. In part due to the then administrations messaging regarding the virus being a “Chinese virus” due to it’s impetus in Wuhan, China, anti-Asian attitudes heightened in America. This led to the introduction of the COVID-19 Hate Crimes Act. This came to a head on March 16th when six Asians were killed in Atlanta. By April 22nd, just yesterday, the bill had passed both the House and Senate. It will surely become legislation once signed by President Biden. While we can all agree this is a necessary and needed piece of legislation, Black people have been being shot and killed by police and targeted by racists with weapons they should not have since well before COVID. Yet police and gun reform remain elusive, and people still coddle and make excuses for White people who murder Black people. Black is the color of injustice.

Hate, bias, discrimination, injustice, inequality… are all colored with the Black crayon in American culture. Devoid of light… dark… negative… unworthy. But we know better. We know we are enchanting, captivating, joyous, charming, fantastic, mystical, mysterious, desirable, amazing, miraculous, and magical. Black is not the absence of light, it is the physical absorption of every hue of visible light. We must act like we know who we are despite how others might try to convince us otherwise!

We must demand better. We must use our vote, our financial power, our voices to demand better. We can post Black Lives Matter memes and Black fists raised in solidarity in social media all day, but until we truly hold America accountable for the way it backseats Black life because of the notion that our magic makes them disappear, those posts hold no weight and don’t elevate us. The haters already know we are magic…

“Hate won’t get you high as this
Levitate, levitate, levitate, levitate”-Kendrick Lamar

“I really didn’t expect to live long…”

Those are lyrics, words, a “Prayer” from rapper DMX, who died today after overdosing on narcotics. We wish him peace, after what has been a self-admitted difficult, tumultuous, and traumatic life that was dotted with moments of brightness, great success, and much fanfare. DMX was the shit, ya heard! Nobody could make us lose our minds… say it with me… “up in here, up in here” like the Dark Man. He kept it trill always, and we wish him serenity and calm and happiness. We love you DMX!

This mantra of dying young is one we hear way too often by young Black successful rappers. Their lyrics are filled with premonitions of early death.

“What’s the 27 club? We ain’t making it past 21.” Juice WRLD, deceased

“Every breath I get closer to the death of me.” Like Me, Joey Bada$$

“Never we sleep, a thug doesn’t rest,
Cause a wise man said: it was a cousin of death”-Who Is a Thug, Big Pun, deceased

“I never sleep, ‘cause sleep is the cousin of death”, N.Y. State of Mind, Nas

“Tell the homies I’m in heaven, and they ain’t got hoods.” Thugz Mansion, Tupac, deceased

I don’t wanna live no more, sometimes I hear death knockin’ at my front door.” Everyday Struggle, Notorious BIG, deceased

When we look at reality, so many of these young Black rappers die at an early age. Jam Master Jay, XXXTentacion, Pop Smoke, King Von, Fred the Godson, Pimp C, Eazy-E, Nipsey Hussle, Nate Dogg, Ol’ Dirty Bastard, Proof, Soulja Slim, Heavy D, Prodigy, Guru, MC Breed, Blade Icewood, Chris “Mac Daddy” Kelly, Mac Dre, Craig Mack… the list sadly continues. Then television and media feed us the deaths of Black men littering the blood stained pavement like used napkins and receipts thrown out of moving cars. Trayvon Martin, Mike Brown, Oscar Grant, Philando Castile, Tamir Rice, Ahmaud Arbery, and George Floyd. We are inundated with images of young Black men dead; the Emmett Till photos are permanently etched in most of our brains. So there is a generational, cultural, and social preoccupation with dead Black men that MOST DEFINITELY impacts their physical and mental health… and clearly their living… their LIVING.

Yes, DMX died by his own hand, but he needed help. He has needed help for a long time. He knew he needed help. Yet, for so many brothas, death is just a next step, the next progression of life. Wrong. Death is the finality of this life, regardless of what might lie beyond it. Yet when you are used to watching an image that mimics your own, dying or dead all over every source of media available, it is no surprise death isn’t expressly avoided but almost welcomed. It’s health avoidance and rejection… risky behaviors, narcotics, alcohol, unprotected sex, seeking whatever thrills one can in life to either deaden the trauma or excite the depressed mind.

It is common to accept as nutrition what is fed to you daily. So you eat poison, when poison is what is on every commercial. You similarly injest self-hate and Black phobia when that is what you see everywhere you turn. Black folks are too hood, too thuggish, too dumb, too poor, too violent, too scary, too colorful, too loud, too alive. The opposite of alive is dead. Even when we are dead there is an examination into how much drugs were in our system, how thugged out and violent we looked in photos, and how disappointing we were as humans when we were alive. Black life has no value, and Black death has no repercussions. This is the poison these Black boys and men are tasting daily. No wonder they have bitter feelings about their own existence.

We have to, as a community and culture, reject these images socially for our own mental and emotional health. While watching Derek Chauvin kill George Floyd proves his guilt on video, it does nothing but desensitize us to and normalize young dead Black men. Parents are not generally supposed to bury their children, that is not the natural order of things. Yet this is more and more common as these young men perish too soon. We want to normalize Black men living into old age, healthy and happy. We want to normalize images of old Black men in rocking chairs… not young Black bodies lying like fallen strange fruit on the ground. We want to normalize Black rappers rapping about living… not dying.

“And for as long as I can, as long as You permit me
Please give me the strength I need to live, bear with me
Amen” -Prayer II, DMX

Reciprocal Responsibility

It’s hard to be friends with people who are not consistent. I’m not talking about old friends… we have an unwritten understanding “whenever you need me I’m already there….” But with friends you are building a relationship with, in order to get to that, pick right back kind of understanding, you have to get there first… and that requires consistency, responsibility, equal effort, and hype man vibes.

Anything worth having takes work… relationships take equal the work from all parties. If I call you, you have to reciprocate and call me. If I invite you out, you have to reciprocate and invite me out. If I am available to and for you, you have to be available to and for me. Pause. Take that in, let it marinate in your brain matter. You cannot have a healthy one sided relationship… that does not work. You cannot have a friendship when it fits your schedule. You cannot expect anyone to be okay with you pushing them aside because you are busy… then see you really ain’t that busy, you are just too busy for them. That won’t sit too well with anyone’s spirit. An unequal friendship is not one at all!

Similarly, someone all up in your face every five minutes is not healthy either. I once had a “friend” who called me ten times a day, and when I didn’t answer, because she lived on my block, she came to my house. I didn’t know what kind of dependency she had with me, but I wanted no parts of it. I called her in it and she told me I was wrong… uhh ok. Her intensity was stalkerish to me in my teens, and reminded me of some weird movie like Cruel Intentions or Wild Things, and I ain’t want NO parts of that. Zero. Keep your odd angst to yourself. I could admit I was not interested in that kind of friend, but she couldn’t admit she was hawking me and bordering on psycho… an irresponsible relationship is not one at all.

We all want to be seen in our best light… but we have to turn that joker on and let it and not our bullshit illuminate who we are. You get seen in the light you use. When you deflect your responsibility in a relationship and then attempt to manipulate someone’s feelings toward you with stories of woe and misfortune, but yet always seem to be grinning and smiling with another mofo… it ain’t hard to tell wassup. In college I had a friend who seemed to friend hop to whomever she hadn’t yet exposed her true self. Once you got to know her though, she was very gossipy and jealous. That was the weirdest friendship I ever had, and totally changed my view of how people operate socially. This person who once called and wanted to hang out daily, a year later I barely spoke to. No thanks, keep that. More importantly don’t try to use me as your springboard for bullshit.

I’ve also known people who were just simply interested in having friends but uninterested in being one. Those folks need to find each other and have those social media popular friendships. But I’m not a Kardashian and I am not interested in that. Either be my real friend or move on. An unequal relationship is not one at all.

Maybe you have experienced some form of these friendships… hopefully not. But know that folks will feed you all their tales, woulda coulda shoulda, and busyness to justify why they are just horrible friends. They just are… and those of us trying hard to be great friends just end up wasting tine. You can tell someone is an awesome friends because they have awesome friends… that’s the telltale sign. I mean I know ultimately that folks adore my boonapolis (Greek for bestie) is because they see me over here being all kinds of great!

“Whenever you need me I’m already there. Its gettin’ done hangin’ out the window
Sayin’ WOOO motherfucker UH
You ride for me I’m a ride for you its only fair” Mystical, How Many

The Importance of Grandmas

Today is my Grandma’s birthday. She’s probably got on her sequin beret drinking a scotch and talking shit somewhere in the atmosphere. Nana was a trip, not at all the type of Grandma that I would have wished for but the one I got. My father’s mother wasn’t very different. No Tollhouse cookies for my ass…

Now my kid has two Grandmother’s who dote on him to levels unheard of. But my Mother… she takes it to another level. She calls him any random combination of sugar, cake, apple, dumpling, pie, love, biscuit, fantasy, and scoop usually with guy or boy at the end. So…

sugar cake boy

Grandma’s love biscuit

sugar pie guy

scoop of love sugar

apple dumpling fantasy …

I mean I could go on. The child is 6 feet 4 inches, almost 16, and she is calling him “Grandma’s 31 Flavors of Joy Everlasting.” And he eats it up. It’s like he’s cradled to her bosom looking back at me like… “HA! She likes me better!” “HA! She sings commercials to me like lullabies, what you get?” “HA! This bosom was once your refrigerator and now my head rests upon thee!” You can see the joy seeping from his on punishment for missing homework assignment pores. And while Grandma might give it to him, curse him for missing homework, she follows up by sending him $20 in cashapp to Door Dash himself a bag of Doritos. This dude…

The Importance of Grandmas

So my Grandmas… well… not exactly pioneers of perfect Grandma behaviors, milk and cookies and shit. Nope. I had a “Nana” and a “Mother” both very unGrandma like and legit untouched by the Grandma cupid, you know that little fat baby with the arrow that goes around changing folks from “mama said f@#% them kids” into “grandma’s sugar and spice.” I mean I wasn’t horribly scarred, but it was obvious to me that my Grandma’s were different.

Nana was cool, sometimes, but in limited spans of time… and then it was like she had had too good a visit with you so she had to get ignant, ruin it. I was prepared for as this was her thing, posing as Eve… really a snake. She’d ask you to sit on her lap to tell you that you were getting fat… or make you a ice cream float and then tell you you really need an apple. Ain’t nobody eating your apple old lady. Nana was like the bully I never had at school… it was rather irritating. I eventually just learned to ignore her until she attempted that same mess with my kid. Then I let her have it. Dang, you can’t even get it right once we add a “great” to your Grandma. Geez.

Similarly Mother was equally difficult …for me. I was Nana’s only grandchild, but I had cousins and brothers and sister’s on my father’s side… and some she seemed to like more than other’s. While Nana was equally negative with everyone, Mother seemed to favor the underdog. I’ve always been an overachiever… so she would take it upon herself to remind me of some old mistake or failure I made every time she saw me. “In 1982 you didn’t…” sure to point out my flaw but never her own… of living in the past. As a kid when I wanted to go home because she made me sleep in what I thought was a haunted room alone, she remarked that I didn’t like her as much as my other Grandmother. Nope, not true… I’m not particularly fond of either of you. 🤷🏽‍♀️ Similarly when she pulled the same mess with my kid, I just pretty much left her alone. Like we give you every chance to be great…

I missed the baking cookies, warm and fuzzy feelings, pulling me to her bosom and call me “unicorn frosting of my heart” kind of Grandma… but I got what I got. The one taught me to always consider others and find a fella who would dance with me, and the other to follow my dreams so I didn’t fault others for following theirs. I’ll take those lessons as their pet names and hot cocoa on Saturday nights with the extra big marshmallows. We don’t always get what we want, but we get what we need.

In the meantime, my mother has texted my son that he’s the “wing beneath her butterfly wings and the stars in her lilloquoi moonlit sky, with sugar cake and sweet scones dancing the waltz to Lil Uzi Vert and Travis Scott.” She also blasts rap songs, so that’s a major plus! She got those Super Grandma Powers!

Release the Ike Demon

Something’s on my mind…

I watched the Tina Turner documentary on HBO today… and frankly we talk wayyyyy too much about raggedy ass Ike and not enough about Tina’s arms and legs at 50 years old. My gawd…

But a big part of her story is Ike, and a big part of the movie was her disappointment and pain of having to relive and retell that story of abuse and violence so many times. It was clear from her recollections that the movie, where most of us got to see his heinous behavior and those famous scenes of him dragging her by her hair through their home or her kicking his ass in the limo, were identical to reality. Violence from your mate or spouse is so horrible; a person you give access to yourself in ways that just don’t make sense to exist on the other side of a fist, hair pulls, fear, and disrespect. It’s a demon… and you have to exorcise it.

Demons make good music, have good jobs, can woo you, dress well, kiss you, give to you…only to take away. Demons are most often just afraid of you, that if you shine your light on them, like most demons they will burn and die. I mean you must know Ike’s drawn up little gnarled ass was hugely insecure next to her magnetism, her performance, those legs and arms. My gawd… He was both attracted to her sunshine and fearful of her sunburn. Just a demon, with demon ways… and she didn’t free herself until she forgave… not just walked away. You see, demons want you to hold on to their shit… it is that power they want. Don’t do it. Release the Ike demon in your life. Like release him all the way. Forgive him for being a demon, and watch the angels appear. Amen.

Also be clear that demons appear nice and friendly, cool and calm, and victims of their demonic behavior often hide it and keep it to themselves. No demon wants to be found out, and no victim wants to be seen as a victim. So that raggedy negro who pulled her by the hair, slapped her, and pushed her down or that woman who was punched at, patched the holes in the wall, and flinched in fear when he jumped at her like he was going in on double dutch… they call it domestic because most often it happens behind doors you aren’t allowed to enter. Neither of them want you to know. It’s shameful, it’s disrespectful, it’s ugly, and it’s damaging. It’s not the loving partnership she thought she’d have… the gentle and sweet refuge from the hard and difficult world. The world often pales in comparison. Demons ain’t shit.

But you can stand in opposition to domestic violence. If you are a man who knows your home boy often gets physically violent with his woman, speak on it, let him know that’s very moist of him. If you are a woman who suspects or knows your friend is being abused, support her don’t become silent and just mind your business. The truth is, men often kill women while engaging in abuse behaviors. They want so badly to own and possess her, to live inside her head and body, they drown in her blood. Your unsaid words won’t matter anymore if that happens… so let them both know you’ll bust his head to the white meat. Somebody should have whopped Ike’s ass one real good time.

Violence, but especially male violence towards women is some sucka shit. Be like Tina, get over despite him cuz you are simply… the best!

If you are in a domestic abuse relationship, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE.

Bonnets belong in private; Derrick belongs to the streets

I don’t care about your favorite Instagram relationship guru. I don’t care about his infidelity …. or not. I don’t care if he was on a break… how you on a marriage break, but whatever… or not. But what I do care about is women who are justifying staying in unfaithful marriage by calling upon the horrors of singlehood. That… I care about. Gonorrhea from your husband and outside kids (not the kids themselves, but the act) are a horror. Being single… it has it’s moments, but it’s not like sticking needles in your eye.

I read a post “justifying” staying in an unfaithful marriage and then simultaneously damning singlehood. I read a few such posts. They all read like women trying to still justify to themselves why they married or are still married to some ultra raggedy ass negro cheating on them. Nobody wants some poison penis thats dipped in every inkwell from New York to Massachusetts. But if we are comparing, a married wayward penis is much more dirty, no matter how much you kiss that joker up to God. A single man is free to generally do what or who ever he likes; a married man that “turns the trick pages from loose leaf to zig zag” is raggedy and dirty. Just because you picked him or lie next to him, that doesn’t make him fundamentally good . That notion just makes you sound silly. If you need justification, that ain’t it. Try again.

Furthermore, that man contracted himself to you. Either committed to love you before God; to create a family and cycle his wealth to heirs; or to keep Wu-Tang money in the family. So being ultra raggedy is being irresponsible AND breaking his covenant with you. You may choose to overlook that, stay with him, and work on your marital issues. Conversely, you might be afraid of being alone and single, insecure about your ability to find someone else, or unsure if you can handle responsibility for yourself and kids. I don’t know your reasons, and I don’t care. I do care that you taint other women with this idea that marriage, even one to a dishonorable (at most) or irresponsible (at least) man is better than being single. That messaging is toxic and just plain wrong. I typically find it’s the effort of women married to trash men to make themselves feel like someone is less well off than they are. But as someone who has been married, single, and every relationship status in between, nothing is worse than being married to a fool but a cheating fool. He belongs to the streets sis… it’s ok to accept it.

Another theme running through these posts are built upon the notion that married men are collectively better than single men… talking about your Instagram guru’s wealth and a single man’s lack thereof… often attempting at some joke about waiting on his stimulus. So, first there is nothing wrong with a man who gets a stimulus. He might be making six figures or might be a teacher, police officer, or a street sweeper. A gainfully employed man is working in the job of his choice. I suggest you get yours instead of worrying about what his check looks like… it’s not his responsibility to make your financial dreams come true. It’s your dream. Wake up if you can’t handle it. Second, you and hubby probably got your stimmy… meaning ya’ll each make less money than him. Third, there is nothing that suggest married men are better men than single ones. Marriage does not signify that a man has become better or is more valuable. It is a man who is honorable and honest who trumps. Studies show women initiate divorce 70% of the time. They aren’t divorcing single men..,just saying. Studies also show that single women with live in boyfriends do less housework than married women. Looks like single men also contribute more. You know what they say about men, women, and numbers… the numbers don’t lie.

Most importantly, our boundaries are our own. If infidelity is a deal breaker for you, that is cool. If it is not, that is cool too. You only have to justify those decisions with yourself. But putting down non-married women or singlehood in some effort to convince anyone that marriage, mostly your marriage, is the ideal place, even if it’s a trash ass marriage, is neither cool nor accurate. You might think the guru’s wife is smart to stay. Someone else may think she’s a damn fool. Opinions are like…. Speaking of asses, if your husband is a cheater, just be sure you go get checked; if they prescribe penicillin, you take the full dose; heal so you can stop acting like he wasn’t foul; and promise to never ever let him film you on video in your nighttime hair bonnet, especially when his line up is fresh and the topic is him being a whole heauxbag.

What is Caucasity

Oh the caucasity…

It is the express or implied utter audacity to say or do something knowingly out of sheer White privilege or supremacy. It is also a group activity where White people react and respond to that audacity with surprise, amazement, confusion, denial at the heinous activities of those of Caucasian descent that they would demonize from another racial group. So now that we know what it is, a little talk on it…

So this past weekend I was literally disgusted by and simultaneously baffled by the Woody Allen documentary Allen v. Farrow. The movie documents Woody Allen’s obsession with Mia Farrow’s adopted daughter and his sexual abuse of her as a child. It also highlights his relationship and marriage to her older adopted child, Soon-Yi Previn. Moreover, however, it highlights Allen’s adoration even during and after these allegations and the media’s vilification of Farrow and questioning of the truthfulness and memory of his victim. It made me angry that I loved the movie “Blue Jasmine” and had watched and supported it, after knowing of his marriage to Soon-Yi, even though his sexual abuse of Dylan Farrow I was unaware of. Like my utter distaste and disgust for R. Kelly, I took on a similar feeling of Allen. But I watched these White actors and actresses, as Allen’s films rarely have any people of color, call him genius, brilliant, praise him, gush over his talents and his personhood. The caucasity.

Woody Allen is a vile creature. He ruined the lives of these women and their mother by sexually abusing them in the home she chose to share with and welcome him into. These women will forever be traumatized by his presence and America’s adoration of him… not just as an artist but as a man. These actors and actresses were aware he was married to the adopted child of his partner of 12 years and had at the time allegedly molested her other daughter. He predicated his financial support of his other children, biological or adopted, with Farrow on then condemning their mother and sister publicly. He is a monster. Everyone should agree. White, Black, Puerto Rican. The act of dismissing this, especially so strongly in the White community… caucasity.

Piers Morgan & Sharon Osbourne… the British caucasity… it’s international. So first, royalism is a code word for racism when it insinuates that a Black person in a royal role is somehow against the royal code. It is no different than that former President questioning the birthright of Barack Obama to be the President. So, defending that shit is what… you guessed it… caucasity. It is also something else… racism. Defending racism is racist. You don’t have to lynch Black peole to be racist. You can sit next to and touch Black people and be racist. You can claim to have Black friends and be racist. You can never have called a Black person a nigger and be racist. Defending racism makes you racist. Period.

But for Sharon Osbourne to have the express gall to tell a Black person, who was actually extending grace to her racist sympathizing ass, how to react in a conversation about racism… ooooh chile. Sheryl Underwood should have Queens of Comedy’ed her ass and cussed her out to the white meat. That was some of the most extreme caucasity ever. It was also dangerous. I don’t promote violence… but folks have been jumped on for much less. Plus, you can’t hide behind being British. You just racist. I don’t care if you live off the Nile in a small home, you have tribal marks, and you are mashing casava for tonight’s fufu… if you are White and you defend racism or you try to judge what a Black person experience’s due to her race, you racist and you are displaying pure caucasity.

Apparently there is a documentary in the college admissions scandal with Aunt Becky. I don’t have the energy to talk about that at length… just know this… folks been worried about getting in trouble using someone’s Southfield (a close suburb of Michigan) address so their kid’s could escape the reality of their poor Detroit neighborhood school if they couldn’t afford or didn’t want to pay for private primary school. That’s for a basic kindergarten through twelfth grade education… that everyone needs to get a minimum wage job. But we got millionaire’s paying for kids to gain admission to a university and taking photos rowing for scholarships when Madison can’t even swim?!? What is you doing Rebecca?!? You can PAY for these brats to go anywhere in the country where they can legitimately gain admission… do that. Don’t display this level of caucasity please…

It’s simple… White people don’t get to play by different rules and the rest of us are going to be silent about it. Nope. We are calling you tf out. If you believe that White privilege and supremacy are tools that you should use to gain advantage, you are a ridiculous and racist person… and you are the poster child for caucasity. Know what it is, reject it, or be labeled. It’s simple. And Black folks will gather others together in the name of caucasity if they want to join… cuz that shit is wack.