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
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
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!
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.
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.
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.
We are still in a whole panini, still posting all our business… every single minute, claiming one way rivalries, sub tweeting and posting instead of addressing people directly as WHOLE adults, and still seeking validation for our every move. It’s been a year since we’ve been in the house and it had definitely taken it’s toll. But I’m tired of ya’ll and I want you to do and be better. I feel obligated to tell you about yourselves.
To start, since I am an equal opportunity shit starter, I will begin with myself. I need to definitely ditch some shit that means me no good, I need to delete Door Dash off my phone, take on five less projects, and I need to do as much for myself as I am willing to do for others… and it can’t just be retail therapy, buying shit is not only what self-care is made of. I get on my own nerves. So trust me, I’m not just gonna get all up in your business. I too must get on the good foot. I cannot expect results while I sit idle.
So back to y’all. Stop it.
The internet has fooled us into thinking people support us, care about our lives, and want to see us win. Unless your village got swallowed by a sinkhole, chances are they are directly invested in your success. Your people are your family, friends, close network, your “how many of us have thems”. The rest of us, we care but only for a little while. Some of us on your friends list will clap for you a few times when you celebrate your successes… fa sho… but eventually we just see that shit and keep it moving. Not because we aren’t happy for you… we are… but we got 500 FB friends and some number of folks on Instagram, subscribe to our cousins not so great podcast, listen to a few Clubhouse chats, do Tik Tok challenges with our kids, and we stay on Twitter cuz it’s fast and only 140 characters and not four paragraphs of someone’s theory on why Malcolm ate that mac and cheese like it really was good. We busy… and we already know your kid is smart and you have three side hustles, a perfect spouse, and a 800 credit score. We wanna be down… blah blah blah. But we just don’t have time to care.
This is not hater syndrome, be clear, we are happy for you. But eventually we just feel obligated to tell you how great you are because you keep posting about it. And fewer and fewer people come to your party. So for those of us who are just too damn nice… of which I am not one… really consider why you must tell us every move of your success meter. If it’s just excitement, then carry on… who I am I to tell you not to be geeked. But if it’s to get validation from people around you because you want to be seen… stop. We see you, we saw you, we’ll see you again. That need to be acknowledged is but a degradation of your greatness… it’s neither necessary nor healthy.
Did you know Jay-Z sold half of Ace of Spades to LVMH to the tune of around 100 Million and a share of his interest in Tidal to Square for $297 Million in the past month. Big King King Boss moves… made in silence. You probably didn’t know unless you keep up with such things … and you still thought he was a certified successful billionaire boss.. right? When you move with confidence, folks don’t need all the particulars to see you are shining.
So relax… we see you. Oh and Sidebar… when you have something to say to someone in direct response to a comment they made, address them directly, that whole subtweet/subpost, I’m talking to and about you without talking to you, among fully grown people, is some heaux shit. What we are nit gonna do is address folks while simultaneously leaving them out of the conversation as a way to silence people. Nope. Don’t do it. Bottom line… when you have something to say, go ahead, just ensure it’s coming from a healthy place and not a place of insecurity. Don’t invite all the strangers to your party just so the pictures make you look popular.. ya dig!
Womanhood is this special and magical belonging that is both mysteriously hard to describe, sometimes difficult to traverse, but also somehow wonderfully comforting and supportive when you get inside of it and feel it surround you like a cocoon. Being a woman is a really specific thing… but it’s a myriad of experiences, shapes, hues, tones, notes on the scale, and every color of the rainbow. It is emotional and powerful. It is beautiful and soft, but then strong and resilient.
What makes a woman… or what doesn’t make one a woman? Hmmm
I am not a woman because I have curves, breasts, physical peaks, and valleys. Some of those things you think of first make me female, but she is just my sex. It is much more the way those curves move around and touch the insides of my sundress in the summer; the outlines of my femininity. I am a woman because I own those peaks and valleys, and control how you get to see them or if you never do. I am a woman because I possess myself… and I only allow others access to me at my whim. I am a woman because of how what’s on the inside directly dictates how you experience me on the outside.
I am not a woman because I am not a man, or because I partner with him. I don’t exist as the antithesis or opposite of manhood… for I was made from his rib not the mirror image of it. I am not a woman because of his gaze. My worth as a woman is not dictated by his opinions, thoughts, reactions, or judgments. My value is determined by the fierceness of my compassion not the fixation of his desire. I am a woman because I have the ability to soften his heart, whether as his mother, woman, sister, or daughter. I allow him to see the softer side of the world that constantly demands to see his bones but denies his skin. My curves give him places to lie his head, hands, and troubles. My womanhood supports and nurtures his manhood, but also exists independently from it. I can create movements alone, but only together with him do we build the life force.
I am not a woman because I give birth from my womb. For many women never know motherhood. Yet I am woman because within me is the birthplace of humanity, the cipher. It is where beat meets rhyme, paper meets pen, MC meets DJ, and hip meets hop. It’s the dopest place on Earth… the only place whose potential deems it more worthy than it’s reality. There is holy land resting inside each of us deemed celestial enough to be born a woman.
Women are miraculous vessels of human magic… protect women always!
Happy International Women’s Day
So I don’t wish the physical pain and lack of sleep I have had for over two weeks on anybody… well not anybody probably reading this. Jk…sorta.
Anyway, cuz HIPAA says I don’t have to tell you my medical business, I won’t, but just know that a lack of sleep is not humane and physical pain for someone with a ridiculously high pain tolerance is not a good thing when trying to communicate how much pain and discomfort you are suffering to doctors. Nurses get it. Every single nurse I have had the past few weeks, during scheduled doctor’s visits or ER visits has tried to make me comfortable and only poke me once with the IV needle. Yet many doctors have questioned me like I might be lying or stupid or both, or just focused on shit that at this moment really does not matter. Partially because I was not screaming in pain or walking in yelling “Where the doctor is!” Oh but next time I have as much as a hang nail…
However, as I have talked to people in or formerly in my position, and just based on general knowledge, this isn’t uncommon… especially with women, more so with minority women, particularly so with Black women… these doctors don’t fucking listen! I’ve seen in mostly with white male doctors, but I won’t assume that is the only demographic that is guilty. Not only do they have a listening problem, some of them, despite their expertise, also just don’t know how to treat some of us… treat medically or professionally. Weirdos.
So first, my biggest message is advocate for yourself! I mean treat this shit like it’s a career change, and you won’t settle for another piss poor job, boss, or paycheck. Bitch run me my money vibes… on run me my healthcare reality. Talk to them like you are already sure of what you need… because if you listen to your body… you are, you just need to be listened to. If you are in pain, tell them… pain should and can be managed properly. If something isn’t right… tell them to go look at it… some scan or another. If something feels wrong, looks wrong, is acting wrong… show them and assure them that ain’t your norm. And if the doctor won’t listen, ask to see the nurse… they treat people, doctors treat conditions. Then ask the nurse who to go see who will listen. Period.
So do that first. Then do this…
If you run into a doctor that’s just a bit weird or as my nurse friend pointed out “socially awkward” but he/she can get the job done, cool that can be overlooked as a personality flaw. But any doctor who is not being upfront and honest with you and doesn’t care about how certain things manifest and affect YOUR body, which can only be gleaned by his expertise in concert with listening to you… that doctor ain’t for you! I believe those physicians who have zero bedside manner are particularly so because they are uncomfortable with the patient… all the medical knowledge in the world cannot make up for being invested in the individual health of the person in your immediate care. Your Aetna, Blue Care Network, checkbook, ACA coverage, and humanity dictate that you deserve health and proper health care, but also doctors and practitioners who CARE. It’s proper selfcare to ensure you put yourself into those people’s hands only!
Women should not have to rely on women physicians and Black people should not have to rely only upon Black physicians to take the time to care about who we are as a group and as individuals. One of my favorite doctors ever, who was neither Black nor female, after seeing me as a teenager and not knowing exactly what was wrong, said in his thick accent, that he was going to go find out and come back and let me know… to whatever question I had asked him. I was never so impressed. But that should be the norm when you are treating people… no condition will affect everyone the same, especially when we have certain ethnic, hereditary, and environmental factors that factor into how our bodies work. But if you work in healthcare, you should make it your business to promote the health of every patient u see snd show you care by communicating with them openly and honestly, and if necessary, doing a little more research into how that promotion might look based on who they are in totality.
So, I just wanted to share this little reminder… that self-advocacy is your assurance that you will get the support to meet your needs! I wish you abundant health and wealth and all that good stuff! Now go off and get some sleep so you won’t be irritable like me.