So here's the thing. I've been on the Glee band wagon since day one. I have a deep and abiding appreciation for musicals and All that Jazz. I was a member of the Drama Club in high school for Pete's sake, so if anyone knows what it's like to be derided at that age, c'est moi! And that's one of the main reasons why I fell so unabashedly in love with this show. Television dramedy conventions aside, I felt the writers really did a great job of tapping into what it felt like to be a creative teen in high school, living on the outskirts of popularity due to a talent that had nothing to do with throwing, kicking, or dribbling a ball. To bask in the unadulterated joy of being enveloped amongst your quirky peers in a room with (sometimes an equally quirky and dare I say downright creepy) adult facilitator, and talking about all the same things. Acceptance at the core. To look into the eyes of others and know that they get you. Oh how good it feels to be got at that age. Hell, at any age really.
And because it felt so authentic in its delivery and its experience, I reacted overwhelmingly with delight and (for sheer cheesy/corny affect) GLEE, at watching a fictionalized version of what I remembered about the best and oddest moments of my teenage years. To put it bluntly, they had me at first slushy. And I've been a faithful Gleek ever since.
I find myself at times, skimming the comment sections as they pertain to this show, just to see what the tweens are thinking. And for the past year and a half, they've been clearly upset with certain choices that have been made in the writer's room. I recall similar dissention in the ranks of the Ugly Betty viewership, but that at least could be blamed partially on the writer's strike. No such excuse this time around. Being an adult and further removed from the redundant and quite mundane activities of the American high school experience, I chalked most of that petulant discourse up to adolescent ignorance, and I kept it moving. Much of what was bothersome to them didn't seem to affect me really, as my main concern is and has always been, the plight of Mercedes. From jump I could see the romantic triangle situation--the Rachel, Quinn, Finn of it all. Then, since they couldn't make Rachel and Finn skip off into happily ever after in the first season, I knew they'd pair her up with someone else. Didn't know it'd be two someone elses (insert Puck and Jesse now). But as I knew it was coming as a way to create jealousy in Finn and get him to realize that Rachel's who he really desires, I wasn't that emotive about it. Color me indifferent. It was entertaining as it needed to be, but I really didn't care as much. Mainly because I'm not a Rachel fan. She reminds me too much of the crazy theater bitches I grew up with, and so she serves as the fictional stand in for my very real (and still salient) hostility. Guess it's true. We never outgrow high school.
Some say last season took a veer off course, and many (critics and friends alike) claim it was weak. I didn't feel that way. I still tuned in week after week. I still enjoyed how the songs chosen for the most part furthered the plot, and it was clear to me anyway, that they were chosen with the character's intention in mind. I enjoyed that even if i didn't particularly like the song. I watched the inevitable reconciliation of Rachel and Finn at season's end. I endured their quadrangle thing with other folks. And more so, I was really easily roped into the whole Kurt situation. I felt season two was finally paying attention to the forgotten members of New Directions. That they were finally trying to delve into other characters' stories, and I was ready for that. Mercedes continued to be stuck in the background, but hey, she's not gay or tormented. She's just the fat black chick. She can wait.
I felt a show like Glee had a responsibility to tackle a topic that was so prevalent in high schools across the country. They were on the cutting edge of the issue of teen suicide and teen homosexuality; and I felt they handled it with integrity and maturity. Very reminiscent of John Hughes, who never condescended to his teenage audience.
But just like with gangsta movies, there's a time to tell that story, and a time to move the fuck on! And what I'm saying to Ryan Murphy et al is precisely that. MOVE. THE FUCK. ON. It just feels like they're stuck in this rut of bullying and gay teens and more bullying, and more gay teens, and Rachel and Finn, and Puck and Quinn, and bullying and gay teens. And oh! Mercedes has a diva fit. And then we're back to bullying gay teens. And Rachel. And Finn. And Santana now and her lesbian gayness and bullying. Are these really the only stories left to tell? Out of all the characters bursting at the seams of the show? And since that singing reality show is gonna breed more nuts to the factory, is this all we, the viewers, are gonna be subjected to? I hate it when I can see the strings. When I know where we're going before we even get there. That's not a journey. It's the road trip from hell in the back seat of my grandfather's Buick listening to Glenn Miller all the way.
Let's see some real truth. I mean, TV truth, but still. I'm sick of watching these kids love all over top of each other. The unending support for one another is sickening. The kids I went to school with would shank each other with a sharpened toothbrush in order to get the lead in the school play. That could be cause I'm from Jersey, but still. There was always a fair amount of death at stake for a good role. And I don't see that here. Everything feels so sanitized. Like unless we decide to make an episode about kids being mean to each other and bang the hell outta that drum, then we have to make them all love each other. I don't know too many people who would continue to be kind to someone who constantly and viciously berated them. Again, this could be cause I don't know many kind hearted souls. But again, not the point.
I guess what I'm really saying is let's get some other stories goin here--get into some other characters. And let's give this dog some bite. Give him some teeth and watch him rip the tender flesh from the succulent bones of opportunity. Then again, I guess I have The Walking Dead for that.
Till next time, lovers!
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Penn State: A Goddamn Shame
This horrific situation has been on my mind since it broke a few days ago. I wondered in vain for days why Herman Cain and his bullshit were the lead story. I really don't give a damn if he pinched some blond asses in 1994. They're grown. They handled it. Got paid and moved on with their lives. But a coach accused of molesting troubled youths (read BLACK) for over a decade, while coaching at a prestigious powerhouse university in the Big East Football Conference--that's not more important? Who cares about the idiotic pizza guy running as the Republicans' Anti-Obama & his all too predictable sexual peccadilloes with young white women.
I read about ten pages of the Grand Jury indictment report against Jerry Sandusky, and I haven't been comfortable since. The graphic nature of how he abused these children haunts me worse than last night's episode of American Horror Story (and if you've been watching that show, you know that's a helluva statement).
I can't go into what was said. You can Google it if you want to have those images seared into your brain, but I still find it so goddamn troubling that so many people witnessed what he was doing and said NOTHING! One janitor in 2000 (according to a CNN report) claimed to have seen Sandusky pin a child against a wall in the shower and perform oral sex on him. IN THE LOCKER ROOM. ON PENN STATE'S CAMPUS. And did nothing. Another, more disturbing account, detailed that of a graduate student (who by the way, is now an assistant football coach for Penn State) who witnessed Sandusky anally raping a boy around the age of ten, also in the shower. And did nothing.
At first, when I read this, I felt for the grad student. The report said he was visibly distraught as he left and called Joe Paterno (the head coach) the next day, after having first discussed the matter with his father. But as I thought about it, I was like, why the fuck didn't he stop it? How could he see that and just leave the child there? How could he not help this little boy? I thought of how scared and confused this child must have been. How much pain he endured. The report said that both the child and Sandusky saw the grad student see them. And I thought how he must have wished for that man to come over and save him. How could he turn his back, go home, eat dinner, talk to his father SLEEP, that night after seeing that? And how could he resume life as normal with this man? Work with him every day knowing what a monster he was. How?
Initially, I didn't preoccupy my mind with the thought of race. I kinda assumed the children were white, even though they allegedly came from Sandusky's foundation Second Mile. A foundation he started for troubled youth. That term is quite telling because it connotes something very specific to most folks. When one hears troubled youth or at risk youth, it is almost automatically assumed the youths in question are black. If not black, then some other minority but definitely not white. But in my mind, I just couldn't fathom that really. I didn't have time to think about it while the despicable details were bombarding the nightly news at a rapid fire rate. But now, I find myself inquiring about it because I think it's a serious factor.
I don't have any confirmation about the race of the alleged victims, but a friend of mine said she heard they're black. And if this is true, it shows how insidious race relations continue to be in this country.
Among my black friends, we always laugh and joke about CWP shenanigans. For those that don't know CWP stands for CRAZY WHITE PEOPLE. They're always doing something stupid, fearlessly stumbling along the way, cloaked in their whiteness and using it as a shield or a kind of currency if you will, to pay their passage. Most times it works out. The joggers jailed in Iran? White. Freed. Those Christian missionaries jailed in some Muslim country for trying to convert the citizens to Christ? White. Freed...eventually. The kid caned in Singapore. White. Oh, guess it didn't really work out that great for him, huh? Still, the country rallied for him. When was the last time you saw an international incident involving American citizens in peril who weren't white? Or related to Lisa Ling? Lemme rephrase. Were any of those folks black? Hell no! Cause we know if we get into some shit oversees we're on our own! Even if President Obama was ready to send in the troops to save his own, best to believe Congress would impeach his ass first. We kinda joke about it and make light of the fact that our government won't lift a finger to save its black citizens from being accosted, raped, or killed should we fall into less favorable international hands. That's just the way it is. And there's something sobering about that. It keeps us from acting crazy in international time zones.
But what's funny in a Dave Chappelle comedy sketch, or as a joke when I'm chillin with my friends, loses its humor when the topic of sexual molestation comes into play. My cousin posted an article to my facebook page--the topic, how poor black children are more apt to be victims of molestation. Why you may ask? Because who's gonna protect them? They're easy targets because still, with a black President, African Americans are still second, third, and fourth class citizens in our own country. We're non persons. A predator like Sandusky, wants to get away with his crime. So he's gonna choose accordingly. Who's gonna care that he's raping a black boy in the showers? Who's gonna even give it more than a moment's thought? Apparently no one.
And I was angered when I thought and then heard (unsubstantiated though it may be) that these alleged victims of abuse are possibly black. Because I thought, is that why you chose them? Because you knew you could do whatever you wanted, in front of whoever was around, and no one would stop you? Is that why none of these adult men called the cops or pursued it any further? Great, you told your boss that this guy was being inappropriate with young boys, but what then? Did you harass your boss until action was taken? Did you call the cops? What kind of follow up did you do? Oh, that's right. Nothing. It was better, safer for you to keep your damn job. What if these children had been white from good homes? Had money? Would the police have been notified then? What is so sick and twisted about us as a people that our racial indifference extends all the way down to the children? Damn. Heartless.
I was initially against firing Joe Paterno. I don't care that much about college football. But I feel his accomplishments there are certainly legendary and commendable. I'm not a gung ho football spectator, but it's a huge part of my life. Or had been. It's a part of my family's genetic make-up just like the DNA strands in our blood. Every man in my family has played it--my father, my brother, my uncles. My cousin's husband makes his living as a coach in the NFL & has done so for over a decade. He also coached on the collegiate level. So I enjoy it as much as some, maybe not as much as most. And I feel bad that Joe Pa as he's affectionately referred to, was fired due to the vomit inducing actions of one very sick son of a bitch. That now his legacy is tainted and not really by something he did himself. But as I think about it again and listen to his statements of regret, I realize that his inaction was an action. That he chose to let sleeping dogs lie and continue to think about football and his players and everything else except for this child predator in his midst. How the hell could he sit across a coaching table from this man and talk about plays, attendance, boosters, players & players' eligibilities & all that other shit, and KNOW he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself. That the man before him enjoyed having sex with children. I keep coming back to that question HOW? because it just baffles the mind. Seriously, my mind is literally blown by this whole thing.
I'm sorry these grown ass men didn't make better choices. I'm sorry that the team is now covered in the same shit stains as their former assistant coach & athletic director, and that they have to pay the price. I'm sorry that they, as boys themselves in some respects, can't just play the game they love, but have to undergo this stress and turmoil of losing a beloved coach before their season comes to a close. I'm sorry that they can't have this time again. I'm sorry that football on the collegiate level (more so than on the professional level even) hasn't been a game for a long, long time, and that because of that everyone lost sight of good old fashioned human decency.
But most of all, most importantly--I'm sorry that Penn State University, its officials from the President on down, that the coaches, the interns, the Athletic Director, the Director of Finance, their attorneys, the board of trustees, Second Mile Youth foundation, the janitorial staff, all who either knew or should have known, let a predator rob these defenseless children--these little boys, of their innocence. That they allowed him to do it with impunity, without fear of discovery or punishment. And that their voices were silenced for far too long, and threaten to remain so amid this circus.
But mostly, I'm afraid that the firing of everyone involved will fail to keep this from happening again at Penn or anywhere else. That's the symptom. It's not the disease. When the welfare of the few (the college & it's lucrative football program) comes before that of the many (the innocent children) the result will always be the same. The only thing to change are the players, not the play.
Till next time, lovers!
I read about ten pages of the Grand Jury indictment report against Jerry Sandusky, and I haven't been comfortable since. The graphic nature of how he abused these children haunts me worse than last night's episode of American Horror Story (and if you've been watching that show, you know that's a helluva statement).
I can't go into what was said. You can Google it if you want to have those images seared into your brain, but I still find it so goddamn troubling that so many people witnessed what he was doing and said NOTHING! One janitor in 2000 (according to a CNN report) claimed to have seen Sandusky pin a child against a wall in the shower and perform oral sex on him. IN THE LOCKER ROOM. ON PENN STATE'S CAMPUS. And did nothing. Another, more disturbing account, detailed that of a graduate student (who by the way, is now an assistant football coach for Penn State) who witnessed Sandusky anally raping a boy around the age of ten, also in the shower. And did nothing.
At first, when I read this, I felt for the grad student. The report said he was visibly distraught as he left and called Joe Paterno (the head coach) the next day, after having first discussed the matter with his father. But as I thought about it, I was like, why the fuck didn't he stop it? How could he see that and just leave the child there? How could he not help this little boy? I thought of how scared and confused this child must have been. How much pain he endured. The report said that both the child and Sandusky saw the grad student see them. And I thought how he must have wished for that man to come over and save him. How could he turn his back, go home, eat dinner, talk to his father SLEEP, that night after seeing that? And how could he resume life as normal with this man? Work with him every day knowing what a monster he was. How?
Initially, I didn't preoccupy my mind with the thought of race. I kinda assumed the children were white, even though they allegedly came from Sandusky's foundation Second Mile. A foundation he started for troubled youth. That term is quite telling because it connotes something very specific to most folks. When one hears troubled youth or at risk youth, it is almost automatically assumed the youths in question are black. If not black, then some other minority but definitely not white. But in my mind, I just couldn't fathom that really. I didn't have time to think about it while the despicable details were bombarding the nightly news at a rapid fire rate. But now, I find myself inquiring about it because I think it's a serious factor.
I don't have any confirmation about the race of the alleged victims, but a friend of mine said she heard they're black. And if this is true, it shows how insidious race relations continue to be in this country.
Among my black friends, we always laugh and joke about CWP shenanigans. For those that don't know CWP stands for CRAZY WHITE PEOPLE. They're always doing something stupid, fearlessly stumbling along the way, cloaked in their whiteness and using it as a shield or a kind of currency if you will, to pay their passage. Most times it works out. The joggers jailed in Iran? White. Freed. Those Christian missionaries jailed in some Muslim country for trying to convert the citizens to Christ? White. Freed...eventually. The kid caned in Singapore. White. Oh, guess it didn't really work out that great for him, huh? Still, the country rallied for him. When was the last time you saw an international incident involving American citizens in peril who weren't white? Or related to Lisa Ling? Lemme rephrase. Were any of those folks black? Hell no! Cause we know if we get into some shit oversees we're on our own! Even if President Obama was ready to send in the troops to save his own, best to believe Congress would impeach his ass first. We kinda joke about it and make light of the fact that our government won't lift a finger to save its black citizens from being accosted, raped, or killed should we fall into less favorable international hands. That's just the way it is. And there's something sobering about that. It keeps us from acting crazy in international time zones.
But what's funny in a Dave Chappelle comedy sketch, or as a joke when I'm chillin with my friends, loses its humor when the topic of sexual molestation comes into play. My cousin posted an article to my facebook page--the topic, how poor black children are more apt to be victims of molestation. Why you may ask? Because who's gonna protect them? They're easy targets because still, with a black President, African Americans are still second, third, and fourth class citizens in our own country. We're non persons. A predator like Sandusky, wants to get away with his crime. So he's gonna choose accordingly. Who's gonna care that he's raping a black boy in the showers? Who's gonna even give it more than a moment's thought? Apparently no one.
And I was angered when I thought and then heard (unsubstantiated though it may be) that these alleged victims of abuse are possibly black. Because I thought, is that why you chose them? Because you knew you could do whatever you wanted, in front of whoever was around, and no one would stop you? Is that why none of these adult men called the cops or pursued it any further? Great, you told your boss that this guy was being inappropriate with young boys, but what then? Did you harass your boss until action was taken? Did you call the cops? What kind of follow up did you do? Oh, that's right. Nothing. It was better, safer for you to keep your damn job. What if these children had been white from good homes? Had money? Would the police have been notified then? What is so sick and twisted about us as a people that our racial indifference extends all the way down to the children? Damn. Heartless.
I was initially against firing Joe Paterno. I don't care that much about college football. But I feel his accomplishments there are certainly legendary and commendable. I'm not a gung ho football spectator, but it's a huge part of my life. Or had been. It's a part of my family's genetic make-up just like the DNA strands in our blood. Every man in my family has played it--my father, my brother, my uncles. My cousin's husband makes his living as a coach in the NFL & has done so for over a decade. He also coached on the collegiate level. So I enjoy it as much as some, maybe not as much as most. And I feel bad that Joe Pa as he's affectionately referred to, was fired due to the vomit inducing actions of one very sick son of a bitch. That now his legacy is tainted and not really by something he did himself. But as I think about it again and listen to his statements of regret, I realize that his inaction was an action. That he chose to let sleeping dogs lie and continue to think about football and his players and everything else except for this child predator in his midst. How the hell could he sit across a coaching table from this man and talk about plays, attendance, boosters, players & players' eligibilities & all that other shit, and KNOW he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself. That the man before him enjoyed having sex with children. I keep coming back to that question HOW? because it just baffles the mind. Seriously, my mind is literally blown by this whole thing.
I'm sorry these grown ass men didn't make better choices. I'm sorry that the team is now covered in the same shit stains as their former assistant coach & athletic director, and that they have to pay the price. I'm sorry that they, as boys themselves in some respects, can't just play the game they love, but have to undergo this stress and turmoil of losing a beloved coach before their season comes to a close. I'm sorry that they can't have this time again. I'm sorry that football on the collegiate level (more so than on the professional level even) hasn't been a game for a long, long time, and that because of that everyone lost sight of good old fashioned human decency.
But most of all, most importantly--I'm sorry that Penn State University, its officials from the President on down, that the coaches, the interns, the Athletic Director, the Director of Finance, their attorneys, the board of trustees, Second Mile Youth foundation, the janitorial staff, all who either knew or should have known, let a predator rob these defenseless children--these little boys, of their innocence. That they allowed him to do it with impunity, without fear of discovery or punishment. And that their voices were silenced for far too long, and threaten to remain so amid this circus.
But mostly, I'm afraid that the firing of everyone involved will fail to keep this from happening again at Penn or anywhere else. That's the symptom. It's not the disease. When the welfare of the few (the college & it's lucrative football program) comes before that of the many (the innocent children) the result will always be the same. The only thing to change are the players, not the play.
Till next time, lovers!
Friday, September 2, 2011
Peace and Mommy
It's September. For most, this is a difficult month. And this year, as the 10th Anniversary of September 11th approaches, it's gonna be even more unbearable. But for me, September not only represents our national tragedy and remembering my brother's best friend who lost his young life on that day, but it also reminds me of the end of summer. Not just the season itself, but what that season has always represented in literature. Summer is youth, innocence, and folly. After Summer comes Fall, a season that lingers blithely between youth and age. The healthy and the infirmed. Life and Death. Me without Mommy. Fall, the end of September, pushes on relentlessly to October. The month that I lost my anchor. When I lost Mommy.
It'll be two years this October 15th. It seems so unreal and yet, it is unflinchingly so. I've found a normal rhythm now to my life that I didn't think I would. More importantly (and honestly), one I didn't want. In the beginning, I didn't want to accept life without her. It was too painful to touch that thought, too painful to actually deal with. So I didn't really. I managed to immobilize myself with endless hours of TV watching, some drinking and socializing, watching lots and lots of Football (this is amazing cause even though it's my default sport cause I was kinda raised on it, virtually every man in my family--including my father--played the sport, I was always kinda disinterested in it), and making and maintaining friendships. I seemed alright on the outside, and I think to everyone else, myself especially, I believed that meant I was. I could go for days without crying and that was a pretty good gauge of how I was doing. 'You saw something or someone that reminded you of Mommy and you didn't lose it, good. You're getting better.' But that wasn't true. It always came apart when I least expected it. In the shower. In bed at night. The wheels eventually fell off the bus when there was no one there to help put them back on.
Those initial days, months, hours, breaths...without her were unquantifiably brutal. And I think my brain saved me by placing her somewhere else. She's in the hospital again. She's on another cruise. Wherever. Anywhere but here. And anything but dead. We spent a lot of time together, but we also spent heaps of time apart, as is natural and normal. So I was used to her not being around. And I was comforted by that. And then I felt guilty because I felt so normal about her not being here. And then as if on cue, without much practice or coercion from me, my mind would hone in on where she really was. Images of her in her casket would flood my memory. I'd recall kneeling/collapsing before the white casket she was lying in, holding onto it and crying so hard my head hurt, not wanting the cemetery workers waiting solemnly behind me to lower her into the open grave below. I didn't wanna leave her there. Alone. She's claustrophobic after all and doesn't do well in enclosed spaces. How can I leave her there like that?
And everyone kept telling me from day one that she's in a better place, and she doesn't feel any pain now. 'She's still with you. You can still talk to her'. Look folks, I don't wanna hear that shit. Cast no aspersions on my Christianity, but that doesn't comfort me. I don't wanna talk to her ephemerally and I don't wanna imagine her laugh or have a sense memory recall of her hugging me. I wanna feel her arms around me. I wanna hear her laugh. I want her to really be here, not her spirit. Though I understood why they were saying these things, it really was all I could do not to curse some good hearted Christian person out or punch 'em in the fuckin face. Leave me alone with that bullshit. Sell it to someone who's interested in buyin it, cause it ain't me.
But at night, I would want to feel her around me. I was angry, but I wanted those people to be right. I wanted to feel her spirit around me. Something to let me know she wasn't really gone. But I felt nothing. She wasn't here. And I thought, 'how could she ignore me like this? She knows I miss her. She knows how hard I'm struggling. She knows I put on a brave face for everyone else so they don't feel awkward around me, but alone in my shower or in my bed, she sees me fall apart. Doesn't she?' She knows how much I wanna be alright but can also see how clearly not alright I am. So why won't she come?
And I think now I know. It's been something I've been kicking around in my head, first as a new play idea. As a component of a new play idea I should say. But it kinda came to me. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the reason she can't come. Maybe I've blocked her out unconsciously. And as a story convention, that sounds lame. But I think because I'd become so disconnected with the thing I love to do, the thing I was put on this Earth to do, I became disconnected from her. Because I was so sad and broken, she wasn't able to come to me. I wasn't at peace. And now, I think I'm on my way there. Finally. I just got a new job teaching theater at my Alma mater. And from my inside out, I feel the joy seeping out. I don't know if this is real or imagined on my part, but I do know this. Ever since I got this job, Mommy's been showing up in my dreams. Even the mini naps I take now in front of the television (I feel like my grandparents now. They're always dozing off in front of the boob tube). And when she comes, she's always laughing. Even in the dreams about nothing. Like last night, she showed up and we went to Chik-Fil-A. She said she hadn't been in awhile and wanted to go, so we went. And she was smiling and laughing. And it felt so real that when I woke up, it didn't feel like I'd be asleep. It felt more like a memory.
So I think this means I'm doing better. I feel better. All I really wanted was for her to come back to me. And knowing that she didn't leave me, that she can come now, has given me such peace that I can't fully describe it in detail. It won't make sense if I tried. But more than that, I see that what I was really searching for, was a way to make peace with her death. And that's infinitely so difficult, but something that's supremely important. Something that has to happen. I see that now. I had to make peace with moving on. And I think that journey has now, finally begun. Thank you Mommy. You always seem to know what I need way before I do. And more than that, you always manage to give it to me. Still taking care of me. I'm still your baby.
I love you.
It'll be two years this October 15th. It seems so unreal and yet, it is unflinchingly so. I've found a normal rhythm now to my life that I didn't think I would. More importantly (and honestly), one I didn't want. In the beginning, I didn't want to accept life without her. It was too painful to touch that thought, too painful to actually deal with. So I didn't really. I managed to immobilize myself with endless hours of TV watching, some drinking and socializing, watching lots and lots of Football (this is amazing cause even though it's my default sport cause I was kinda raised on it, virtually every man in my family--including my father--played the sport, I was always kinda disinterested in it), and making and maintaining friendships. I seemed alright on the outside, and I think to everyone else, myself especially, I believed that meant I was. I could go for days without crying and that was a pretty good gauge of how I was doing. 'You saw something or someone that reminded you of Mommy and you didn't lose it, good. You're getting better.' But that wasn't true. It always came apart when I least expected it. In the shower. In bed at night. The wheels eventually fell off the bus when there was no one there to help put them back on.
Those initial days, months, hours, breaths...without her were unquantifiably brutal. And I think my brain saved me by placing her somewhere else. She's in the hospital again. She's on another cruise. Wherever. Anywhere but here. And anything but dead. We spent a lot of time together, but we also spent heaps of time apart, as is natural and normal. So I was used to her not being around. And I was comforted by that. And then I felt guilty because I felt so normal about her not being here. And then as if on cue, without much practice or coercion from me, my mind would hone in on where she really was. Images of her in her casket would flood my memory. I'd recall kneeling/collapsing before the white casket she was lying in, holding onto it and crying so hard my head hurt, not wanting the cemetery workers waiting solemnly behind me to lower her into the open grave below. I didn't wanna leave her there. Alone. She's claustrophobic after all and doesn't do well in enclosed spaces. How can I leave her there like that?
And everyone kept telling me from day one that she's in a better place, and she doesn't feel any pain now. 'She's still with you. You can still talk to her'. Look folks, I don't wanna hear that shit. Cast no aspersions on my Christianity, but that doesn't comfort me. I don't wanna talk to her ephemerally and I don't wanna imagine her laugh or have a sense memory recall of her hugging me. I wanna feel her arms around me. I wanna hear her laugh. I want her to really be here, not her spirit. Though I understood why they were saying these things, it really was all I could do not to curse some good hearted Christian person out or punch 'em in the fuckin face. Leave me alone with that bullshit. Sell it to someone who's interested in buyin it, cause it ain't me.
But at night, I would want to feel her around me. I was angry, but I wanted those people to be right. I wanted to feel her spirit around me. Something to let me know she wasn't really gone. But I felt nothing. She wasn't here. And I thought, 'how could she ignore me like this? She knows I miss her. She knows how hard I'm struggling. She knows I put on a brave face for everyone else so they don't feel awkward around me, but alone in my shower or in my bed, she sees me fall apart. Doesn't she?' She knows how much I wanna be alright but can also see how clearly not alright I am. So why won't she come?
And I think now I know. It's been something I've been kicking around in my head, first as a new play idea. As a component of a new play idea I should say. But it kinda came to me. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the reason she can't come. Maybe I've blocked her out unconsciously. And as a story convention, that sounds lame. But I think because I'd become so disconnected with the thing I love to do, the thing I was put on this Earth to do, I became disconnected from her. Because I was so sad and broken, she wasn't able to come to me. I wasn't at peace. And now, I think I'm on my way there. Finally. I just got a new job teaching theater at my Alma mater. And from my inside out, I feel the joy seeping out. I don't know if this is real or imagined on my part, but I do know this. Ever since I got this job, Mommy's been showing up in my dreams. Even the mini naps I take now in front of the television (I feel like my grandparents now. They're always dozing off in front of the boob tube). And when she comes, she's always laughing. Even in the dreams about nothing. Like last night, she showed up and we went to Chik-Fil-A. She said she hadn't been in awhile and wanted to go, so we went. And she was smiling and laughing. And it felt so real that when I woke up, it didn't feel like I'd be asleep. It felt more like a memory.
So I think this means I'm doing better. I feel better. All I really wanted was for her to come back to me. And knowing that she didn't leave me, that she can come now, has given me such peace that I can't fully describe it in detail. It won't make sense if I tried. But more than that, I see that what I was really searching for, was a way to make peace with her death. And that's infinitely so difficult, but something that's supremely important. Something that has to happen. I see that now. I had to make peace with moving on. And I think that journey has now, finally begun. Thank you Mommy. You always seem to know what I need way before I do. And more than that, you always manage to give it to me. Still taking care of me. I'm still your baby.
I love you.
Monday, August 22, 2011
My Thoughts on "The Help"
Opening weekend of this film saw me sitting quite disgruntled, in a popular stadium theater in Atlanta. The auditorium was full. Folks were buzzing around trying to find friends who'd come earlier and acquired seventy-nine seats for their entourage, twiddling with their phones waiting for the movie to start, and talking with anticipation and excitement. The crowd was a true hodge podge and cross section of Atlanta society. There were blacks and whites, gays and straights, men and women, the movie aficionados, and the literary intelligencia all waiting with bated breath for the New York Times bestselling book to finally reveal itself on the silver screen. And then there was me. A black bitch with an attitude. I had the great fortune to be seated next to a black gay couple on my right. And then the quite serious misfortune of sitting right in front of two white guys, one of whom took what I can only hypothize as a sadistic delight in kicking the back of my seat endlessly throughout the film. I didn't black out on him cause I was already seething with black rage and indignation. Needless to say, if I'd gone off, it wouldn't have been pretty for any one, least of all him.
I was present, but not necessarily of the here and now while in the semi dark movie auditorium. I was watching this movie against my better judgement. But how, I reasoned, could I adaquately describe why I detest this film without having viewed it? I just wish my money hadn't contributed to its opening weekend box office total. I watched the audience with curiosity. I saw a look of overwhelming acceptance grace the faces of all who walked around me: the young white couple who weren't even born when I was struggling with race in elementary school (one of my white friends, who I thought was my roll dog, informed me that she had been invited to another friend's birthday party and it was being held at a country club in Somewhere, NJ, but that I wasn't invited and couldn't go because I was black. Funny how some things are remembered forever), the bromance going on behind me, the older black couples who no doubt could remember these olden days as not so olden, and the plethora of black women aged around my years, who came in staggering groups of countless numbers. All coming for the sheer love of the story, the characters, the book, and whatever else. Unlike yours truly, who sat glumly in her seat as though it were an all day Sunday sermon that she couldn't escape.
Finally folks settle in, the lights go out, trailers roll, and at long last, the movie starts. I, admittedly, wasn't sitting there with the opennest of minds, but I did leave room for the possibility that I was wrong. I hadn't read the book and so, I could just be mistaken. Afterall, there were some truly credible black actresses in these roles, ones that I respected. Chief among them, Viola Davis. She's absolutely mesmerizing on screen. I saw a Law and Order: SVU marathon on USA Network yesterday (there's always one of those goin on) and she was in several of them as a defense attorney for some killer/rapist, whatever. And I just enjoyed her. Always have. Her strength and power come from her silences. She says the most when she says nothing at all. Powerful. So, I thought, this could be, just could be something. And then it started. And I watched. And I watched some more. And I rolled some eyes, sucked some teeth, exhaled with exasperation, and realized in the end that I had it right all along. And the sad thing is, every review I read from Time Magazine to Entertainment Weekly, tout this film as being exceptional. Right up there with Citizen Kane. Everyone but me. And here's why.
This film, and I wager the book as well, didn't show me or tell me anything that I didn't already know. These were not new characters chock full of new experiences as it pertains to the civil rights struggle. And my chief complaint, is that yet again, the film illustrates that the black urge to resist was the idea of some white person. In this case, a young wanna be journalist who basically uses their plight to further her career. I'm tired of seeing that story told over and over and over again. It's like The Emperor's New Clothes. You keep telling me that it's a wonderful new outfit, but really I'm naked as a jay bird! Well, I ain't buyin it this time.
I had reservations about seeing The Blind Side for the same reason. But I made allowances for that film, ones I wouldn't have made otherwise, because it was based on a true story. A nice white family did in fact take in a destitute inner city black child, and that child did succeed in football and was actually drafted into the NFL in 2009 by the Baltimore Ravens. On the surface, if I heard there was a fictional story based on the same information, I'd be highly upset. But those things did happen in his life, so I went with it on the film's behalf. At that point, you can make the family exceptionally good and the inner city black youth exceptionally down trodden and ghetto-ed out. It's just a matter of tweaking incidentals.
But The Help is all fiction. Yes I know it's based on the authors' recollections of her childhood with her Mammy...I'm sorry, Nanny. But she didn't actually interview the real women, or at least I don't think she did. If so, she certainly didn't do what (who I'm assuming is her alter ego) Skeeter, did. That would have been a much more interesting perspective. Her novel and subsequently the movie, was just taking real life experiences and watering them down to a fictional account of what the black perspective was for maids in that town, in that time. Why not actually put real people's truths down on paper? Why leave it up to her white sensibility to guess at how these women truly thought and felt?
I'll say it right now. Yes, I am one of those people who believes white folks, or at least some, can't accurately write about the black experience. They've never had to see things from the black point of view. So no matter how well seeming they are, and no matter how many times they voted for Obama, it doesn't mean that they truly understand all the levels of the black point of view. Unless they've done something illegal, their hearts don't quicken a pace when they're pulled over by the cops. The thought of being accosted by those in charge of protecting them doesn't even seem real. It's not a consequence they really have to entertain.
I say this, even as The Color Purple is one of my favorite films of all time. And I constantly forget that Steven Spielberg directed it. But he's a unique type of director. He's one who first of all, knows how to tell a story. He didn't come into that project thinking, I wanna tell the story of how hard it is to be black at this particular time. At least I don't think he did. The end result doesn't say that, so I'm thinking he didn't. Instead, he found his "in" if you will, by focusing on the character of Celie, and just let her tell her story. He didn't do anything extra. He didn't need to. Just allowing his focus to remain on that character, she was able to illustrate that her life was hard, she had to make hard choices as did those around her, she had to deal with institutionalized racism. It was just everyday life. He didn't get sidetracked with being a white director trying to tell a black story. He was a director allowing the character to tell her story, and she was a black woman. I balked at saying "and she just so happened to be black" cause that's a dismissive statement in my opinion and I hate when I hear that. I'm black. I don't just happen to be so, I am so. And I'm proud of that. Yes, I'm a woman. Yes, I'm an American. Yes, I'm a lot of things, and just as those other things receive their own weight and respect, so should my blackness.
But what The Help did, was just reinforce characatures instead of fleshing out fully realized women. Minnie was the tough talking, sass mouthing, fat black mammy type. She's an excellent cook who never burns her fried chicken. And she suffers at the hand of an abusive husband (of course) and an evil white lady boss. Then she finds herself bonding against her better judgement with her new boss, a woman who's on the outs of the society circle cause she's a little too Marilyn Monroe and not enough June Cleaver. And this new boss doesn't see color really, and has to be learned by Millie how she's supposed to treat black folks. Like, she's not supposed to eat lunch at the table with her. She's gotta go on back and eat at the dining room table as nice upstanding white folks is supposed to do. Reminds me a little too much of Gone With The Wind. Mammy was constantly doing that to Rhett Butler. This is an obvious movie convention to let everyone know this is a good white person. And of course since they're both outsiders, they realize there's nothing different whatsoever between black and white. As they used to say when I was a kid, Like, gag me with a spoon!
I didn't feel the script was well written at all and I just kept seeing convention after convention. It was on display. At least have the common sense to behave like the Wizard of Oz and hide behind the damn curtain! Then there's Viola Davis' character Aibileen. Silent and strong. She endures the death of her son by some racist white folks, yet she keeps pressin on. And I have to say, the biggest piece of movie crap was Minnie's revenge. The only time I cracked a smile was when one of the black gay men sitting next to me cried, "that's not believable!" I couldn't agree with him more. I saw it coming before the big reveal. And as an audience member, I hate that. I don't like to know where you're taking me, otherwise what's the point of going on the ride? Surprise me. That was just stupid. Baking her shit into a pie to feed to mean ol white girl Bryce Dallas Howard. Clearly it was just put in there to give the audience a cathartic moment so they could revel in their despise of that character. Don't tell me how to feel. Just allow me to feel it. Obvious audience manipulation won't serve you well with me. It turns me off immediately. But as if on cue, the audience did what they were expected to do. They "oohed" when they were supposed to and "awwwed" when it was required. Like the moment the little white girl Aibileen was caring for told her "you're my real mommy". Cause again, movie convention said that her mommy was neglectful and bad.
There's just so much, I could go on and on. And I think I will. Like the other maid who asked Bryce Dallas Howard (can't remember her name at the moment) for a $75 loan so she could send one of her twin boys to college. Now, what I know of the south at that time, makes me highly doubt that any black maid would have EVER done that! This movie, like so many before it, perpetrates the idea that to the black maid, she was not only beloved by certain members of the white family she served, but that she also loved them. And that's not entirely accurate. That's a balm that white people apply to cover up their own feelings of guilt or shame, perhaps. They need to believe that. But why we black folks continue to do the same is beyond me. It was just their job, folks! Think about your job. Removing all monetary repercussions, if your boss told you to get out and never come back, would you wail and throw yourself upon the floor, then die of a broken heart cause you could no longer work for that person? Cause you could no longer be with that person? Most people I know hate their bosses, or at least have something negative to say about him/her. They don't wanna be all up underneath them like that. Yet, movies and white people's version of black life will have everyone believing that we luvs massa so much, us caint live without him. Gimme a fuckin' break! It was a job. A job you did to feed your babies. You kept your mouth shut, your eyes open, and your wits about you. In other words, head down and mind your business. Which is why believing a black maid in Jackson, MS circa 1963, would have dared to ask her white boss for money is beyond unbelievable. Particularly since a lot of white men in that time, in those neck of the woods, were either clan members, white supremecists (belonging to the White League of America or some such nonsense), or were sympathizers of those who did even if they didn't partake themselves. So why risk having the clan burn a cross on your lawn for $75? I call bullshit on that.
I have nothing against any of the performances in the film. I have to say, that was pretty nice to watch for the most part. I feel the actors did the best they could with what they were given. Viola and Bryce were my favorites because they were able to hit some really beautiful notes. They didn't try too hard and made some nice discoveries. But it's the overall message of the film that irritates me. Since this was a ficitional account, why did Aibileen need Skeeter to give her the idea of writing down her stories? Yeah, she'd written stuff before, but they were just prayers. The idea of using their experiences as a way of revolution came from Skeeter. Why? It would have been more impactful for Aibileen and Minnie to make that decision for themselves. That way they wouldn't have had to wait for someone else, someone who's oppression wasn't as equal (I'm sorry ladies, but if it comes down to not being able to open a checking account without my husband, and not being able to, I don't know, enjoy virtually any freedom, I'll take the checking account situation every time. White women suffered, this is true, but they still enjoyed the cloak of their whitehood to stem the tide of their oppression, and that's saying a helluva lot), to give them their power and their voice. They would have discovered it on their own. Personal empowerment is only truly powerful when it comes from within.
This movie robbed them of that opportunity, and it is because of that, that I judge it as harshly as I do. The Civil Rights Era was complicated and in many ways, I'm not sure we've fully recovered from it. It's a loaded time in our history, and because of that, because of the sacrifices so many African-Americans made, we, the ones left behind to tell their tales (even the fictious ones) owe them more than a sanitized version of black and white. Racism is more than a wound and it's more than a cancer in our society. It's an infection. The only way to treat it is to gut the wound, clean it, and stitch it up. Yes, it'll hurt. Yes, it'll be disgusting and bloody. But that's the only way to heal. Be honest. Tell a better version of the truth. This movie could have and should have done better. I'm sure most or some will not agree and that's fine. But these are my well thought out two cents.
Till next time, lovers!
I was present, but not necessarily of the here and now while in the semi dark movie auditorium. I was watching this movie against my better judgement. But how, I reasoned, could I adaquately describe why I detest this film without having viewed it? I just wish my money hadn't contributed to its opening weekend box office total. I watched the audience with curiosity. I saw a look of overwhelming acceptance grace the faces of all who walked around me: the young white couple who weren't even born when I was struggling with race in elementary school (one of my white friends, who I thought was my roll dog, informed me that she had been invited to another friend's birthday party and it was being held at a country club in Somewhere, NJ, but that I wasn't invited and couldn't go because I was black. Funny how some things are remembered forever), the bromance going on behind me, the older black couples who no doubt could remember these olden days as not so olden, and the plethora of black women aged around my years, who came in staggering groups of countless numbers. All coming for the sheer love of the story, the characters, the book, and whatever else. Unlike yours truly, who sat glumly in her seat as though it were an all day Sunday sermon that she couldn't escape.
Finally folks settle in, the lights go out, trailers roll, and at long last, the movie starts. I, admittedly, wasn't sitting there with the opennest of minds, but I did leave room for the possibility that I was wrong. I hadn't read the book and so, I could just be mistaken. Afterall, there were some truly credible black actresses in these roles, ones that I respected. Chief among them, Viola Davis. She's absolutely mesmerizing on screen. I saw a Law and Order: SVU marathon on USA Network yesterday (there's always one of those goin on) and she was in several of them as a defense attorney for some killer/rapist, whatever. And I just enjoyed her. Always have. Her strength and power come from her silences. She says the most when she says nothing at all. Powerful. So, I thought, this could be, just could be something. And then it started. And I watched. And I watched some more. And I rolled some eyes, sucked some teeth, exhaled with exasperation, and realized in the end that I had it right all along. And the sad thing is, every review I read from Time Magazine to Entertainment Weekly, tout this film as being exceptional. Right up there with Citizen Kane. Everyone but me. And here's why.
This film, and I wager the book as well, didn't show me or tell me anything that I didn't already know. These were not new characters chock full of new experiences as it pertains to the civil rights struggle. And my chief complaint, is that yet again, the film illustrates that the black urge to resist was the idea of some white person. In this case, a young wanna be journalist who basically uses their plight to further her career. I'm tired of seeing that story told over and over and over again. It's like The Emperor's New Clothes. You keep telling me that it's a wonderful new outfit, but really I'm naked as a jay bird! Well, I ain't buyin it this time.
I had reservations about seeing The Blind Side for the same reason. But I made allowances for that film, ones I wouldn't have made otherwise, because it was based on a true story. A nice white family did in fact take in a destitute inner city black child, and that child did succeed in football and was actually drafted into the NFL in 2009 by the Baltimore Ravens. On the surface, if I heard there was a fictional story based on the same information, I'd be highly upset. But those things did happen in his life, so I went with it on the film's behalf. At that point, you can make the family exceptionally good and the inner city black youth exceptionally down trodden and ghetto-ed out. It's just a matter of tweaking incidentals.
But The Help is all fiction. Yes I know it's based on the authors' recollections of her childhood with her Mammy...I'm sorry, Nanny. But she didn't actually interview the real women, or at least I don't think she did. If so, she certainly didn't do what (who I'm assuming is her alter ego) Skeeter, did. That would have been a much more interesting perspective. Her novel and subsequently the movie, was just taking real life experiences and watering them down to a fictional account of what the black perspective was for maids in that town, in that time. Why not actually put real people's truths down on paper? Why leave it up to her white sensibility to guess at how these women truly thought and felt?
I'll say it right now. Yes, I am one of those people who believes white folks, or at least some, can't accurately write about the black experience. They've never had to see things from the black point of view. So no matter how well seeming they are, and no matter how many times they voted for Obama, it doesn't mean that they truly understand all the levels of the black point of view. Unless they've done something illegal, their hearts don't quicken a pace when they're pulled over by the cops. The thought of being accosted by those in charge of protecting them doesn't even seem real. It's not a consequence they really have to entertain.
I say this, even as The Color Purple is one of my favorite films of all time. And I constantly forget that Steven Spielberg directed it. But he's a unique type of director. He's one who first of all, knows how to tell a story. He didn't come into that project thinking, I wanna tell the story of how hard it is to be black at this particular time. At least I don't think he did. The end result doesn't say that, so I'm thinking he didn't. Instead, he found his "in" if you will, by focusing on the character of Celie, and just let her tell her story. He didn't do anything extra. He didn't need to. Just allowing his focus to remain on that character, she was able to illustrate that her life was hard, she had to make hard choices as did those around her, she had to deal with institutionalized racism. It was just everyday life. He didn't get sidetracked with being a white director trying to tell a black story. He was a director allowing the character to tell her story, and she was a black woman. I balked at saying "and she just so happened to be black" cause that's a dismissive statement in my opinion and I hate when I hear that. I'm black. I don't just happen to be so, I am so. And I'm proud of that. Yes, I'm a woman. Yes, I'm an American. Yes, I'm a lot of things, and just as those other things receive their own weight and respect, so should my blackness.
But what The Help did, was just reinforce characatures instead of fleshing out fully realized women. Minnie was the tough talking, sass mouthing, fat black mammy type. She's an excellent cook who never burns her fried chicken. And she suffers at the hand of an abusive husband (of course) and an evil white lady boss. Then she finds herself bonding against her better judgement with her new boss, a woman who's on the outs of the society circle cause she's a little too Marilyn Monroe and not enough June Cleaver. And this new boss doesn't see color really, and has to be learned by Millie how she's supposed to treat black folks. Like, she's not supposed to eat lunch at the table with her. She's gotta go on back and eat at the dining room table as nice upstanding white folks is supposed to do. Reminds me a little too much of Gone With The Wind. Mammy was constantly doing that to Rhett Butler. This is an obvious movie convention to let everyone know this is a good white person. And of course since they're both outsiders, they realize there's nothing different whatsoever between black and white. As they used to say when I was a kid, Like, gag me with a spoon!
I didn't feel the script was well written at all and I just kept seeing convention after convention. It was on display. At least have the common sense to behave like the Wizard of Oz and hide behind the damn curtain! Then there's Viola Davis' character Aibileen. Silent and strong. She endures the death of her son by some racist white folks, yet she keeps pressin on. And I have to say, the biggest piece of movie crap was Minnie's revenge. The only time I cracked a smile was when one of the black gay men sitting next to me cried, "that's not believable!" I couldn't agree with him more. I saw it coming before the big reveal. And as an audience member, I hate that. I don't like to know where you're taking me, otherwise what's the point of going on the ride? Surprise me. That was just stupid. Baking her shit into a pie to feed to mean ol white girl Bryce Dallas Howard. Clearly it was just put in there to give the audience a cathartic moment so they could revel in their despise of that character. Don't tell me how to feel. Just allow me to feel it. Obvious audience manipulation won't serve you well with me. It turns me off immediately. But as if on cue, the audience did what they were expected to do. They "oohed" when they were supposed to and "awwwed" when it was required. Like the moment the little white girl Aibileen was caring for told her "you're my real mommy". Cause again, movie convention said that her mommy was neglectful and bad.
There's just so much, I could go on and on. And I think I will. Like the other maid who asked Bryce Dallas Howard (can't remember her name at the moment) for a $75 loan so she could send one of her twin boys to college. Now, what I know of the south at that time, makes me highly doubt that any black maid would have EVER done that! This movie, like so many before it, perpetrates the idea that to the black maid, she was not only beloved by certain members of the white family she served, but that she also loved them. And that's not entirely accurate. That's a balm that white people apply to cover up their own feelings of guilt or shame, perhaps. They need to believe that. But why we black folks continue to do the same is beyond me. It was just their job, folks! Think about your job. Removing all monetary repercussions, if your boss told you to get out and never come back, would you wail and throw yourself upon the floor, then die of a broken heart cause you could no longer work for that person? Cause you could no longer be with that person? Most people I know hate their bosses, or at least have something negative to say about him/her. They don't wanna be all up underneath them like that. Yet, movies and white people's version of black life will have everyone believing that we luvs massa so much, us caint live without him. Gimme a fuckin' break! It was a job. A job you did to feed your babies. You kept your mouth shut, your eyes open, and your wits about you. In other words, head down and mind your business. Which is why believing a black maid in Jackson, MS circa 1963, would have dared to ask her white boss for money is beyond unbelievable. Particularly since a lot of white men in that time, in those neck of the woods, were either clan members, white supremecists (belonging to the White League of America or some such nonsense), or were sympathizers of those who did even if they didn't partake themselves. So why risk having the clan burn a cross on your lawn for $75? I call bullshit on that.
I have nothing against any of the performances in the film. I have to say, that was pretty nice to watch for the most part. I feel the actors did the best they could with what they were given. Viola and Bryce were my favorites because they were able to hit some really beautiful notes. They didn't try too hard and made some nice discoveries. But it's the overall message of the film that irritates me. Since this was a ficitional account, why did Aibileen need Skeeter to give her the idea of writing down her stories? Yeah, she'd written stuff before, but they were just prayers. The idea of using their experiences as a way of revolution came from Skeeter. Why? It would have been more impactful for Aibileen and Minnie to make that decision for themselves. That way they wouldn't have had to wait for someone else, someone who's oppression wasn't as equal (I'm sorry ladies, but if it comes down to not being able to open a checking account without my husband, and not being able to, I don't know, enjoy virtually any freedom, I'll take the checking account situation every time. White women suffered, this is true, but they still enjoyed the cloak of their whitehood to stem the tide of their oppression, and that's saying a helluva lot), to give them their power and their voice. They would have discovered it on their own. Personal empowerment is only truly powerful when it comes from within.
This movie robbed them of that opportunity, and it is because of that, that I judge it as harshly as I do. The Civil Rights Era was complicated and in many ways, I'm not sure we've fully recovered from it. It's a loaded time in our history, and because of that, because of the sacrifices so many African-Americans made, we, the ones left behind to tell their tales (even the fictious ones) owe them more than a sanitized version of black and white. Racism is more than a wound and it's more than a cancer in our society. It's an infection. The only way to treat it is to gut the wound, clean it, and stitch it up. Yes, it'll hurt. Yes, it'll be disgusting and bloody. But that's the only way to heal. Be honest. Tell a better version of the truth. This movie could have and should have done better. I'm sure most or some will not agree and that's fine. But these are my well thought out two cents.
Till next time, lovers!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Another Random Thought: Creepy Job Postings
I've been looking for work like gang busters as of late. Like many, I languished on my unemployment a little too long. But Governor Fat Bastard fixed me and the likes thereof, by kicking thousands of New Jersey taxpayers, off the unemployment we paid into when we were working. Those Republicans really do put country first, don't they? I'm surprised he puts anything first that's not something edible. But I digress...angrily.
So with no income and no jobs, cause no one on either side of the aisle has done anything to create any jobs, least of all those bastions of truth, justice, and Arizona Tea--the Tea Bagger Party--I've been precariously thrust into harm's way and have shit my pants everyday since. And been induced to many a sleepless night. But again, I ANGRILY digress.
Looking for work today is so different from even a few years ago. Temp agencies don't even want you to come in. Time was they'd have you come in, take some computer tests (you know typing, Microsoft Word & such like that, to gauge your computer competency), give you an interview and then place you on a job. But those days are gone, like sand through the hour glass. So went the days of my life. Don't sue NBC, I'm broke as it is.
Used to be you'd have to get up early to pound the pavement, cause job hunting was actually personal. You'd have to call a company and actually speak to a real live person, God forbid, on the phone! Schedule an interview. Mail, yes real live mail--like with a stamp and the postman and everything--your resume and cover letter out to people. Send thank you notes and stuff. Actually dress up and newspaper in hand (I'm dating myself now. Who the hell reads newspapers anymore), go from place to place that you'd circled, and inquire about the position. So you had to hit it early cause as the adage goes, "the early bird gets the worm". Mommy instilled this in me, as a woman who worked in corporate America, she was serious about what to wear when applying for a job, and what time of day you were to be out and about. Back then, all of that conveyed a kind of professionalism and seriousness about your level of commitment. It showed how reliable you could be and let the employers measure your trustworthiness. But those days have gone the way of the condor, my friend. Not sure what that means or where the condors have gone, but I'll tell you where they're not. Here. Ain't seen no kinda condors round here.
All of my applications take place on the Internet now, like shopping and porn. I belong to several sites like Monster.com and have my resumes saved there, with various copies of cover letters, and with the click of a button, I signal my interest to multiple jobs at once. It's kinda easy and brainless, but not as non-time consuming as I'd hope, or as it would appear to be.
But lately, while applying for jobs online, I've come across many, and I do mean MANY, postings that have taken on the request of submitting a picture along with the resume and cover letter. I find this creepy and more than odd. As I feel I should. When I put myself up for an audition, or when I'm seeking representation by an agency, I fully expect to send a head shot, resume, and cover letter. Kinda makes sense as my face is literally my calling card (I have head shot business cards). But why they need to know what I look like in order to type some letters and answer the phones, I'll never understand. One admin job posting only wanted good looking people to apply. I decided that was for some porn shit.
Now, admittedly, most of these requests came from job postings on craigslist. Right, and like you, I was writing it off as that site being crazy. But I started seeing that in my monster ads too. Is this another job trend I'm kinda late to? Weird, right? It's not just me. A friend told me it's either creepy or discriminatory. I vote for both. And that's honestly what I thought at first too. They wanna make sure they hire the right type of person. Why not put a postscript at the end of the ad saying "whites or those who can pass for whites only". Guess that's not as sexy.
There are lots of things that bother me about the job hunt, this is just one. Another is how you have to pass a credit check to gain employment. What about my credit can determine the kind of employee I'm gonna be? Nothing. I've had jacked up credit most of my adult working life, and yet, I've managed to never steal anything from any job. I've come in early at times, and many, many times have worked well past quitting time. I've always been an exemplary employee despite having an embarrassing credit score. Mommy and I used to bitch about this little ditty often. She worked in a bank for crying out loud, and as a manager had to fire many people for stealing. And most of those so called great employees had AAA credit. That tells you nothing about who they're gonna be as an employee for such and such company. What it does do is give a company a way of discriminating discreetly. This way they can say they didn't hire so and so because they failed the credit check and not cause the person was black. It's pretty well known that blacks and hispanics historically have bad credit in this country. So if you don't wanna hire any of those folks, run a credit check and weed 'em out. And I have a huge problem with that.
But what are you gonna do? Such is life. Till the Republicans and the Christian Right are brought down anyway. Country first!
Till next time, lovers!
So with no income and no jobs, cause no one on either side of the aisle has done anything to create any jobs, least of all those bastions of truth, justice, and Arizona Tea--the Tea Bagger Party--I've been precariously thrust into harm's way and have shit my pants everyday since. And been induced to many a sleepless night. But again, I ANGRILY digress.
Looking for work today is so different from even a few years ago. Temp agencies don't even want you to come in. Time was they'd have you come in, take some computer tests (you know typing, Microsoft Word & such like that, to gauge your computer competency), give you an interview and then place you on a job. But those days are gone, like sand through the hour glass. So went the days of my life. Don't sue NBC, I'm broke as it is.
Used to be you'd have to get up early to pound the pavement, cause job hunting was actually personal. You'd have to call a company and actually speak to a real live person, God forbid, on the phone! Schedule an interview. Mail, yes real live mail--like with a stamp and the postman and everything--your resume and cover letter out to people. Send thank you notes and stuff. Actually dress up and newspaper in hand (I'm dating myself now. Who the hell reads newspapers anymore), go from place to place that you'd circled, and inquire about the position. So you had to hit it early cause as the adage goes, "the early bird gets the worm". Mommy instilled this in me, as a woman who worked in corporate America, she was serious about what to wear when applying for a job, and what time of day you were to be out and about. Back then, all of that conveyed a kind of professionalism and seriousness about your level of commitment. It showed how reliable you could be and let the employers measure your trustworthiness. But those days have gone the way of the condor, my friend. Not sure what that means or where the condors have gone, but I'll tell you where they're not. Here. Ain't seen no kinda condors round here.
All of my applications take place on the Internet now, like shopping and porn. I belong to several sites like Monster.com and have my resumes saved there, with various copies of cover letters, and with the click of a button, I signal my interest to multiple jobs at once. It's kinda easy and brainless, but not as non-time consuming as I'd hope, or as it would appear to be.
But lately, while applying for jobs online, I've come across many, and I do mean MANY, postings that have taken on the request of submitting a picture along with the resume and cover letter. I find this creepy and more than odd. As I feel I should. When I put myself up for an audition, or when I'm seeking representation by an agency, I fully expect to send a head shot, resume, and cover letter. Kinda makes sense as my face is literally my calling card (I have head shot business cards). But why they need to know what I look like in order to type some letters and answer the phones, I'll never understand. One admin job posting only wanted good looking people to apply. I decided that was for some porn shit.
Now, admittedly, most of these requests came from job postings on craigslist. Right, and like you, I was writing it off as that site being crazy. But I started seeing that in my monster ads too. Is this another job trend I'm kinda late to? Weird, right? It's not just me. A friend told me it's either creepy or discriminatory. I vote for both. And that's honestly what I thought at first too. They wanna make sure they hire the right type of person. Why not put a postscript at the end of the ad saying "whites or those who can pass for whites only". Guess that's not as sexy.
There are lots of things that bother me about the job hunt, this is just one. Another is how you have to pass a credit check to gain employment. What about my credit can determine the kind of employee I'm gonna be? Nothing. I've had jacked up credit most of my adult working life, and yet, I've managed to never steal anything from any job. I've come in early at times, and many, many times have worked well past quitting time. I've always been an exemplary employee despite having an embarrassing credit score. Mommy and I used to bitch about this little ditty often. She worked in a bank for crying out loud, and as a manager had to fire many people for stealing. And most of those so called great employees had AAA credit. That tells you nothing about who they're gonna be as an employee for such and such company. What it does do is give a company a way of discriminating discreetly. This way they can say they didn't hire so and so because they failed the credit check and not cause the person was black. It's pretty well known that blacks and hispanics historically have bad credit in this country. So if you don't wanna hire any of those folks, run a credit check and weed 'em out. And I have a huge problem with that.
But what are you gonna do? Such is life. Till the Republicans and the Christian Right are brought down anyway. Country first!
Till next time, lovers!
Random Thought
Why does paper beat rock in a hand shoot out? That never made any sense to me. I know people use it to cover the rock and that supposedly means it wins, but...how? Why? Rock is rock. I mean by definition or at least colloquialism, it connotes strength. Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson didn't make his wrestling moniker "Paper" for a reason. Who the fuck is afraid of paper? NO ONE that's who.
No one looks up and runs with fright at the sight of paper being thrown menacingly at them. Or is frozen in fear when an escaped Dateline maniac approaches them in that dreaded horror movie, slow motion way a deranged serial killer does, when they're about to open a can of I'm-gonna-hack-you-to-death, wielding a ream of Staples white copy paper. Doesn't happen. Now, same scenario, a deranged killer approaches you in slow motion, holding a larger than life big ass rock in his hand, preparing to bring it down on your head & crack your skull open just like poor Piggy in The Lord of the Flies, and your eyes are bulging in terror. Your mouth, twisted with anxiety, awash in adrenaline and fear, opens to let out a terrifying primal scream that serves to both signal help and give you a boost of fight for your life strength. Your brain is full of a thousand different ways to save yourself. That's what rock does.
So I don't understand why covering a rock with paper constitutes a win. Rock can shred paper. Try it. Take a piece of regular old white paper and throw a rock at it and see what happens. Go 'head. I'll wait. Really. Do it. Seriously, do it already cause you're pissing me off. It's irritating I have to ask more than once. Well, I didn't really ask, I told you. Perhaps it's my manners that put you off. Fine. Would you please take a piece of paper and throw a rock at it and lemme know what happens? Please? That's all you're gonna get from me, so if you don't like it, I ain't got nuttin else for ya.
You don't have to demonstrate cause I know, we all know what happens. The paper tears. Rock wins. I propose that we come together, many voices becoming one, to write strongly worded letters to five year olds everywhere--for we know it is they that sit on the board of all games such as these--and implore them, ney, force them to reconsider the winner in this, the greatest of all hand games, and end this injustice once and for all. Hail the rock! Respect the rock! Hail the V & don't forget to use Summer's Eve feminine wash...oh shit, wrong slogan. My bad.
Till next time, lovers!
No one looks up and runs with fright at the sight of paper being thrown menacingly at them. Or is frozen in fear when an escaped Dateline maniac approaches them in that dreaded horror movie, slow motion way a deranged serial killer does, when they're about to open a can of I'm-gonna-hack-you-to-death, wielding a ream of Staples white copy paper. Doesn't happen. Now, same scenario, a deranged killer approaches you in slow motion, holding a larger than life big ass rock in his hand, preparing to bring it down on your head & crack your skull open just like poor Piggy in The Lord of the Flies, and your eyes are bulging in terror. Your mouth, twisted with anxiety, awash in adrenaline and fear, opens to let out a terrifying primal scream that serves to both signal help and give you a boost of fight for your life strength. Your brain is full of a thousand different ways to save yourself. That's what rock does.
So I don't understand why covering a rock with paper constitutes a win. Rock can shred paper. Try it. Take a piece of regular old white paper and throw a rock at it and see what happens. Go 'head. I'll wait. Really. Do it. Seriously, do it already cause you're pissing me off. It's irritating I have to ask more than once. Well, I didn't really ask, I told you. Perhaps it's my manners that put you off. Fine. Would you please take a piece of paper and throw a rock at it and lemme know what happens? Please? That's all you're gonna get from me, so if you don't like it, I ain't got nuttin else for ya.
You don't have to demonstrate cause I know, we all know what happens. The paper tears. Rock wins. I propose that we come together, many voices becoming one, to write strongly worded letters to five year olds everywhere--for we know it is they that sit on the board of all games such as these--and implore them, ney, force them to reconsider the winner in this, the greatest of all hand games, and end this injustice once and for all. Hail the rock! Respect the rock! Hail the V & don't forget to use Summer's Eve feminine wash...oh shit, wrong slogan. My bad.
Till next time, lovers!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The Curious Case of the Foam Pie in the Face
Ever since I learned that a man named Rupert Murdoch was responsible for what's laughingly referred to as Fox "News", I've had a kind of disdain for the man. I mean anyone familiar with the "news" channel mentioned above knows there's no actual news gathered or reported there. It increasingly feels like a televised convention of morons, racists, and walking, talking Barbie dolls with a specific agenda to give voice to the unintelligent, angry, toothless, sister banging white folks in a certain area of the country. And the ones who clean up well and stick their ugly alter egos in the closet with their gay relatives. Like CNN'S version of Hee Haw.
Almost every day I get a bunch of emails from some group I signed a petition for once to force Fox News and Mr. Murdoch to fire one of their anchors for something inappropriate against the black community in NY. I think the organization is Color of Change. While I like being militant (it makes me feel like I'm following in my mother's footsteps and making her proud in a way), I don't like being cyber raped via email. But, I give them their due attention, and invariably they're about another reporter or whoever on the Murdoch payroll who feel it's ok to diss black folks. Naturally their main target is the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Did you guys hear he's a socialist, Kenyan, black guy who wants to give free medical coverage to everyone, including poor folks--you know, look out for his ghetto homies. Unpatriotic terrorist who hates America. How dare he.
So when I heard about the phone hacking scandal that broke out across the pond, and that it was from one of his newspapers, I wasn't all that shocked. But as the details began to emerge, I was beyond shocked at what was done to the innocents. I don't much care about the celebrities who were hacked, although I do believe they have a right to privacy like we lay folks (although legally and technically, privacy is not a right. At least not one stated in the Bill of Rights. Look it up). A little more concerned about politicians who's info was hacked. But my ire was raised to hear about normal everyday people who were violated by unscrupulous reporters trying to break a story. Most notably the family of a poor young murder victim. How disgusting that these "reporters" hacked her cell phone and deleted messages so more would come in so they could get a scoop, yet, that led her family to believe she was still alive. And as it turned out, she'd been murdered. How can they sleep at night? I guess to people like that, constantly seeking the competitive edge, it doesn't matter if they ever sleep again.
This man, Rupert, is obscenely wealthy, and in charge of a massive media empire. He controls newspapers, television & movie studios, magazines and a grunch of other companies I can't even name. And when you look at them, they seem to share the same conservative right wing stance, but more importantly, I've noticed they also seem to be completely devoid of integrity and basic human decency. Now, while I agree with those of you who will argue businessmen aren't in business to be decent, they're in it to make money. But I find something to be so fundamentally wrong with the entire world when the two can't be synonymous with each other. You can't be successful and humane at the same time? You can't make money and foster integrity within the lattice of workers that constitute your underlings, which are the back bone of your company?
He sat in the Parliamentary hearing today (a feat I'm told is astounding in and of itself but enough British politicians saw the inevitable shit storm a-brewing and knew the man had to be taken to task) and denied all responsibility and knowledge of everything that occurred within his own paper. Now, I understand why he would say this legally. The man has investors to answer to and if he accepted responsibility, that would expose him to serious liability. But I argue, how plausible is it to believe a man of his stature would be kept that deep in the dark? And if it's true, it's time for gramps to fuckin retire. But last I checked, ignorance wasn't always an excuse for wrong doing. Least not over here. And not if you're not rich. But he's over there and he is staggeringly rich, so it may work. To have your fingers in that many pots and not know what the hell is going on is 1). completely unbelievable, 2). totally negligent, & 3). at the end of the day, still your responsibility because you should have known.
Mommy always said "shit rolls downhill". He knew. He just didn't care. He's the poison in the well. And while it may have upset the British sense of decorum, getting a shaving cream pie in the face was a just dessert. He's a caricature of himself with his token Asian wife, who's easily a good forty years younger than him. Although, if she's using that Mother of Pearl, ain't no telling how old she is. She could be eighty too...but based on her catlike agility and bitch slapping the pie man, I'm guessing that's not the case. He and his son are sitting atop an empire made of festering dung heaps. They'd do better to tuck their tales between their legs, humble themselves, and try to be better men. But since that won't happen, all I have to say is: Pie man, next time put some Shug Avery pee in it.
Till next time, lovers!
Almost every day I get a bunch of emails from some group I signed a petition for once to force Fox News and Mr. Murdoch to fire one of their anchors for something inappropriate against the black community in NY. I think the organization is Color of Change. While I like being militant (it makes me feel like I'm following in my mother's footsteps and making her proud in a way), I don't like being cyber raped via email. But, I give them their due attention, and invariably they're about another reporter or whoever on the Murdoch payroll who feel it's ok to diss black folks. Naturally their main target is the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Did you guys hear he's a socialist, Kenyan, black guy who wants to give free medical coverage to everyone, including poor folks--you know, look out for his ghetto homies. Unpatriotic terrorist who hates America. How dare he.
So when I heard about the phone hacking scandal that broke out across the pond, and that it was from one of his newspapers, I wasn't all that shocked. But as the details began to emerge, I was beyond shocked at what was done to the innocents. I don't much care about the celebrities who were hacked, although I do believe they have a right to privacy like we lay folks (although legally and technically, privacy is not a right. At least not one stated in the Bill of Rights. Look it up). A little more concerned about politicians who's info was hacked. But my ire was raised to hear about normal everyday people who were violated by unscrupulous reporters trying to break a story. Most notably the family of a poor young murder victim. How disgusting that these "reporters" hacked her cell phone and deleted messages so more would come in so they could get a scoop, yet, that led her family to believe she was still alive. And as it turned out, she'd been murdered. How can they sleep at night? I guess to people like that, constantly seeking the competitive edge, it doesn't matter if they ever sleep again.
This man, Rupert, is obscenely wealthy, and in charge of a massive media empire. He controls newspapers, television & movie studios, magazines and a grunch of other companies I can't even name. And when you look at them, they seem to share the same conservative right wing stance, but more importantly, I've noticed they also seem to be completely devoid of integrity and basic human decency. Now, while I agree with those of you who will argue businessmen aren't in business to be decent, they're in it to make money. But I find something to be so fundamentally wrong with the entire world when the two can't be synonymous with each other. You can't be successful and humane at the same time? You can't make money and foster integrity within the lattice of workers that constitute your underlings, which are the back bone of your company?
He sat in the Parliamentary hearing today (a feat I'm told is astounding in and of itself but enough British politicians saw the inevitable shit storm a-brewing and knew the man had to be taken to task) and denied all responsibility and knowledge of everything that occurred within his own paper. Now, I understand why he would say this legally. The man has investors to answer to and if he accepted responsibility, that would expose him to serious liability. But I argue, how plausible is it to believe a man of his stature would be kept that deep in the dark? And if it's true, it's time for gramps to fuckin retire. But last I checked, ignorance wasn't always an excuse for wrong doing. Least not over here. And not if you're not rich. But he's over there and he is staggeringly rich, so it may work. To have your fingers in that many pots and not know what the hell is going on is 1). completely unbelievable, 2). totally negligent, & 3). at the end of the day, still your responsibility because you should have known.
Mommy always said "shit rolls downhill". He knew. He just didn't care. He's the poison in the well. And while it may have upset the British sense of decorum, getting a shaving cream pie in the face was a just dessert. He's a caricature of himself with his token Asian wife, who's easily a good forty years younger than him. Although, if she's using that Mother of Pearl, ain't no telling how old she is. She could be eighty too...but based on her catlike agility and bitch slapping the pie man, I'm guessing that's not the case. He and his son are sitting atop an empire made of festering dung heaps. They'd do better to tuck their tales between their legs, humble themselves, and try to be better men. But since that won't happen, all I have to say is: Pie man, next time put some Shug Avery pee in it.
Till next time, lovers!
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"True Blood", "Glee" & The treatment of Black Women on TV
PART I: TRUE BLOOD
I hate when people say "I'm not a homophobe" cause that usually means you have some deep seeded phobias of homosexuals. And since the more you try to deny something, the more you fail, I'm not even gonna try. Gonna dive right in. I hate that Tara, the sole black chick on TRUE BLOOD is now a lesbian. Despite no inkling of liking chicks before. But more than that, I hate being sold a bag of goods. As a faithful viewer, you take me on a journey every week and get me to believe a certain truth about your characters and then you sell me out. You give me a bag of gimmicks to win my already freely given love. Dear Mr. Alan Ball: How dare you sirrah!
I don't like gimmicks. I hate them with a fevered passion that I can never fully articulate to you. Ever. See my seething hatred for Lady Gaga. I hate that entertainment is contingent on that and not about the individual's ability to communicate a thought or emotion based on their God-given ability to connect with hundreds or, and this is when it's most beautiful and pure in my opinion, with one other soul. You can be great without wearing a meat dress. And you can be a great show with great characters without deciding to illustrate one's soul quest has led her to become a lesbian.
The character Tara has been through a lot in the previous season...well, seasons actually. She was raised by an abusive alcoholic mother, who knows where her father is, if he is. Was hopelessly and tragically in love with her best friend's brother, who never noticed her let alone reciprocated those feelings. She then falls for an enigmatic man nicknamed "Eggs" while they're all living with a mysterious woman, who just so happens to be an ancient evil goddess trying to bring back her master, the god Dionysus. Then her crush, Jason--best friend's brother--accidentally on purpose kills her lover Eggs, she spends most of last season angry about that and then gets kidnapped, raped, and overall psychologically tortured by a vampire trying to get to her best friend Sookie. She escapes him by killing him, or so she thought, returns to her hometown only to find out that Franklin the vamp isn't dead at all--bashing his brains out won't work hun, he's a fuckin' VAMPIRE. Stake in the heart or sunlight, haven't you seen INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE? No, well rent it. Brad, Tom, Christian, and ANTONIO...need I say more?--so he comes back to reclaim or kill her, he's fine with either option, and she's saved by Jason, her former crush and killer of her lover Eggs, a fact that Jason hasn't yet revealed to her but does so once she succumbs to familiar feelings and plants a sultry lip lock on him. After hearing this, she flees Jason's, strikes up a casual fling again with her boss Sam, who she was messing around with in season 1, and then finally in order to cleanse herself of all she's been through and to rediscover herself, she leaves town. We find her in this season in New Orleans. She's now a kickboxing/UFC/lesbian. Guess that's what it takes to get over a trauma.
Bitch has been through a lot, I get it. And I was all for her starting anew at the end of last season. She cut her hair and drove off into the night without a word to anyone. Cool. Stealthy. Like it. But why does that have to translate into now I'm a lesbian? And where was the hint of these leanings before? There weren't any. This is why I feel it's a ratings trick geared toward keeping an already edgy show even edgier. It seems since the late 1990's, self discovery and hip became synonymous with gay characters. I don't mind gay characters, but treat them honestly. This 'sexuality is constantly fluid' mess kinda bolsters idiotic stereotypes that gays are hyper sexed. Bouncing back and forth from bed to bed regardless now of who's in it with them. Given the cultural index on gay marriage and gays in the military, stereotypes like the above, may help to bolster the idiotic fringe. But to me, this cheapens her whole journey. It just feels like the writers and TV execs got together and determined the quickest way to get her from here to there. It feels disingenuous to what she's been through and how she rose above it and went from being a victim to a survivor. That's a helluva story and one I would have enjoyed and empathized with. She's already my girl, I root for the black chick on every show I watch cause she, they, are automatically my niggas! And it pisses me off cause the creators are treating me, the viewer, like I'm an idiot, incapable of understanding a character's hard fought pilgrimage to inner peace without having said character do something incredibly salacious like jumping into the sack with another chick. It's not done for truth in really having her discover that part of herself, although if they stick with that storyline, which they probably will, it will become that. But let's not be fooled into thinking that now, at this moment or at the moment of conception, that was the case. It's titillating to watch two attractive women make out and be naked together so...ratings!!! And if this is the tongue in cheek way homosexuality is dealt with on TV, no wonder attitudes in politics haven't changed. Makes sense we can't get our government to pull the trigger. Perhaps we need Dick Cheney back. He never seemed to have a problem pulling the trigger--even if it was aimed at your face.
PART II: GLEE
So this issue has kinda already been handled at the end of this season but I still feel it's worth mentioning. I was really irritated this whole season by the character Puck dating the fat white girl who's character name eludes me at the moment. Again, I know this was a soul searching thing for this character; a way to give him more depth. Sure, make the handsome bad boy date the fat girl. It'll give him character. Soften him up so we all think he's a nice guy now. And it can make those of us who were the fat girl in high school hearken back to ye olden days, when we were fair maidens dreaming of a hot boy with a Mohawk to whisk us away to his castle on a hill. Oh, was that just my fantasy? That's a typical TV show convention and GLEE is hardly the first to use it, and damn sure won't be the last. Fine. But they tried that last season. By making the same character pursue Mercedes, the fat black chick on the show.
I was weirded out and thrilled inside when I watched that story line last year. But by the time the credits rolled at episode's close, the curtain had come down on their faux romance. Yes, it was all a rouse to get him back into the popular circle--she'd become popular cause of her brief flirtation with the cheer leading squad known as THE CHEERIOS. I love that GLEE unabashedly tries to tell teens anyone can fit in anywhere. Not exactly how I remember high school, but whatever. But they ended last season focusing still on the main love triangle, hexagon, or whatever with Rachel, Finn, Quinn, and Puck with a bit of Artie, Tina, and Mike thrown in for good measure. By the time this season began, it seemed like everyone was dating someone or was the object of some secret crush, EXCEPT Mercedes. There were gay crushes--Kurt and Blaine & Santana and Brittney--there were straight crushes and boyfriend and girlfriends--everyone else EXCEPT Mercedes! I'd read going into this season that Ryan Murphy the show's creator, said that Mercedes would get a love interest this year. So I watched with bated breath. Who would it be? Would he already be a cast member or is someone new coming in? And nothing. THEN to add insult to injury, they make Puck, who'd previously been interested in her, date the ugliest, tallest, and dare I say fattest girl on the show. The fat white chick. And I was pissed. If you wanted to give him depth and all that jazz, why not go back to the Mercedes well? She's cute and positive and happy with her body. And though the FWC is too, she's just so hard on the eyes. What, all of a sudden, Mercedes wasn't good enough to give him the transformation the show wanted? She's good enough to be second fiddle to Rachel (though I think many of us know who the real powerhouse is here) and do her fat black-woman-who-can-sing duty when needed, but she can't be the object of a good looking (by TV standards) white boy's desires? I call bullshit on that.
So she went all season as a romantic leper and I watched only out of hope that things would turn around...and the singing's pretty good...and I love the show. But every time we took a trip down Kurt's love woes, and veered into Rachel/Finn/Quinn territory, with a Santana/Brittney/Artie detour, I rolled my eyes and sucked my teeth in typical angry black bitch fashion. When was the fat black chick gonna get some damn play?!
And then as a cop out or an after thought, it's revealed in the last damn episode of the season, that she's been secretly seeing the new blond white boy who's only really attractive to television casting agents and has a passable singing voice, since the prom. Beggars can't really be choosers can they? I'm curious to see what happens here next season. And thank you Mr. Murphy for finally living up to your promise and for realizing that this is a character of untapped potential.
PART III: THE GIST
These are but two examples of what I find to be a bigger problem. Black women are systematically underused and/or ignored on television, particularly as it pertains to romance. I'm all for black love on television and off. Healthy images of black men and black women loving each other and supporting each other as family units are desperately needed. But black women being ignored as romantic leads for white men on television really makes a big statement. Which is why, though I have some logistical (and by that I mean writing, plot lines and the like) with the show HAWTHORNE starring Jada Pinkett-Smith, I do like that her character is now married to the attractive lead white male character Tom, played by Michael Vartan. And that's not just cause I've been crushing on him since NEVER BEEN KISSED, either. Or cause he's fluent in French, which I find uber sexy. Ok, maybe it is. Like it or not this country is still polarized by race, and television is a microcosm of that. And who the white boy finds attractive, so goes the country. Think about the shows you watch. Are there any black women in them? If so, what are their roles? Are they comic relief? The innocuous best friend? Do they have love interests? If so, what do they look like? And do they really seem to love each other, or is that too a device for comic relief? You may find some examples to refute me, but not many. I know. I watch a lot of TV.
Black women are disappearing from the television landscape. We're routinely cast off as romantic non-desirables. Or we're painted with the "black bitch" brush--hard edged, aggressive, asexual types. And if the lead white male character has a choice between a pretty black love interest and either a dynamite white one or even a run of the mill white female lead, it's clear which one is chosen time and time again. And if it isn't lemme share...the white girl wins. Just like in life. We're not an intelligent society anymore, and people take their lead from TV, cause hey if it weren't true, it wouldn't be on the air. So I believe subconsciously that's the lead that penetrates...black women aren't as good. They're not worth as much and definitely not worth the same amount of time. All those fine ass men running around the fictional town of Bon Temps, LA, and not one could develop an interest in Tara? Not every woman who's brutalized by a man switches teams. Sometimes they can, and sometimes they take a break from dating and work on themselves, get some therapy, take self defense classes too. All the dating combos on GLEE, and Mercedes rides the bench till damn near the last minute.
It's just disheartening and suffocating as A). a black woman, B). an actress, and C). an avid TV viewer; to have to sift through the endless onslaught of images and plot lines and whatever else, telling you that you are a non-person. And then getting those same messages out in the world. I see a correlation. Others may not. But then again, it's my blog. I'll see what I wanna see.
Till next time, lovers!
I hate when people say "I'm not a homophobe" cause that usually means you have some deep seeded phobias of homosexuals. And since the more you try to deny something, the more you fail, I'm not even gonna try. Gonna dive right in. I hate that Tara, the sole black chick on TRUE BLOOD is now a lesbian. Despite no inkling of liking chicks before. But more than that, I hate being sold a bag of goods. As a faithful viewer, you take me on a journey every week and get me to believe a certain truth about your characters and then you sell me out. You give me a bag of gimmicks to win my already freely given love. Dear Mr. Alan Ball: How dare you sirrah!
I don't like gimmicks. I hate them with a fevered passion that I can never fully articulate to you. Ever. See my seething hatred for Lady Gaga. I hate that entertainment is contingent on that and not about the individual's ability to communicate a thought or emotion based on their God-given ability to connect with hundreds or, and this is when it's most beautiful and pure in my opinion, with one other soul. You can be great without wearing a meat dress. And you can be a great show with great characters without deciding to illustrate one's soul quest has led her to become a lesbian.
The character Tara has been through a lot in the previous season...well, seasons actually. She was raised by an abusive alcoholic mother, who knows where her father is, if he is. Was hopelessly and tragically in love with her best friend's brother, who never noticed her let alone reciprocated those feelings. She then falls for an enigmatic man nicknamed "Eggs" while they're all living with a mysterious woman, who just so happens to be an ancient evil goddess trying to bring back her master, the god Dionysus. Then her crush, Jason--best friend's brother--accidentally on purpose kills her lover Eggs, she spends most of last season angry about that and then gets kidnapped, raped, and overall psychologically tortured by a vampire trying to get to her best friend Sookie. She escapes him by killing him, or so she thought, returns to her hometown only to find out that Franklin the vamp isn't dead at all--bashing his brains out won't work hun, he's a fuckin' VAMPIRE. Stake in the heart or sunlight, haven't you seen INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE? No, well rent it. Brad, Tom, Christian, and ANTONIO...need I say more?--so he comes back to reclaim or kill her, he's fine with either option, and she's saved by Jason, her former crush and killer of her lover Eggs, a fact that Jason hasn't yet revealed to her but does so once she succumbs to familiar feelings and plants a sultry lip lock on him. After hearing this, she flees Jason's, strikes up a casual fling again with her boss Sam, who she was messing around with in season 1, and then finally in order to cleanse herself of all she's been through and to rediscover herself, she leaves town. We find her in this season in New Orleans. She's now a kickboxing/UFC/lesbian. Guess that's what it takes to get over a trauma.
Bitch has been through a lot, I get it. And I was all for her starting anew at the end of last season. She cut her hair and drove off into the night without a word to anyone. Cool. Stealthy. Like it. But why does that have to translate into now I'm a lesbian? And where was the hint of these leanings before? There weren't any. This is why I feel it's a ratings trick geared toward keeping an already edgy show even edgier. It seems since the late 1990's, self discovery and hip became synonymous with gay characters. I don't mind gay characters, but treat them honestly. This 'sexuality is constantly fluid' mess kinda bolsters idiotic stereotypes that gays are hyper sexed. Bouncing back and forth from bed to bed regardless now of who's in it with them. Given the cultural index on gay marriage and gays in the military, stereotypes like the above, may help to bolster the idiotic fringe. But to me, this cheapens her whole journey. It just feels like the writers and TV execs got together and determined the quickest way to get her from here to there. It feels disingenuous to what she's been through and how she rose above it and went from being a victim to a survivor. That's a helluva story and one I would have enjoyed and empathized with. She's already my girl, I root for the black chick on every show I watch cause she, they, are automatically my niggas! And it pisses me off cause the creators are treating me, the viewer, like I'm an idiot, incapable of understanding a character's hard fought pilgrimage to inner peace without having said character do something incredibly salacious like jumping into the sack with another chick. It's not done for truth in really having her discover that part of herself, although if they stick with that storyline, which they probably will, it will become that. But let's not be fooled into thinking that now, at this moment or at the moment of conception, that was the case. It's titillating to watch two attractive women make out and be naked together so...ratings!!! And if this is the tongue in cheek way homosexuality is dealt with on TV, no wonder attitudes in politics haven't changed. Makes sense we can't get our government to pull the trigger. Perhaps we need Dick Cheney back. He never seemed to have a problem pulling the trigger--even if it was aimed at your face.
PART II: GLEE
So this issue has kinda already been handled at the end of this season but I still feel it's worth mentioning. I was really irritated this whole season by the character Puck dating the fat white girl who's character name eludes me at the moment. Again, I know this was a soul searching thing for this character; a way to give him more depth. Sure, make the handsome bad boy date the fat girl. It'll give him character. Soften him up so we all think he's a nice guy now. And it can make those of us who were the fat girl in high school hearken back to ye olden days, when we were fair maidens dreaming of a hot boy with a Mohawk to whisk us away to his castle on a hill. Oh, was that just my fantasy? That's a typical TV show convention and GLEE is hardly the first to use it, and damn sure won't be the last. Fine. But they tried that last season. By making the same character pursue Mercedes, the fat black chick on the show.
I was weirded out and thrilled inside when I watched that story line last year. But by the time the credits rolled at episode's close, the curtain had come down on their faux romance. Yes, it was all a rouse to get him back into the popular circle--she'd become popular cause of her brief flirtation with the cheer leading squad known as THE CHEERIOS. I love that GLEE unabashedly tries to tell teens anyone can fit in anywhere. Not exactly how I remember high school, but whatever. But they ended last season focusing still on the main love triangle, hexagon, or whatever with Rachel, Finn, Quinn, and Puck with a bit of Artie, Tina, and Mike thrown in for good measure. By the time this season began, it seemed like everyone was dating someone or was the object of some secret crush, EXCEPT Mercedes. There were gay crushes--Kurt and Blaine & Santana and Brittney--there were straight crushes and boyfriend and girlfriends--everyone else EXCEPT Mercedes! I'd read going into this season that Ryan Murphy the show's creator, said that Mercedes would get a love interest this year. So I watched with bated breath. Who would it be? Would he already be a cast member or is someone new coming in? And nothing. THEN to add insult to injury, they make Puck, who'd previously been interested in her, date the ugliest, tallest, and dare I say fattest girl on the show. The fat white chick. And I was pissed. If you wanted to give him depth and all that jazz, why not go back to the Mercedes well? She's cute and positive and happy with her body. And though the FWC is too, she's just so hard on the eyes. What, all of a sudden, Mercedes wasn't good enough to give him the transformation the show wanted? She's good enough to be second fiddle to Rachel (though I think many of us know who the real powerhouse is here) and do her fat black-woman-who-can-sing duty when needed, but she can't be the object of a good looking (by TV standards) white boy's desires? I call bullshit on that.
So she went all season as a romantic leper and I watched only out of hope that things would turn around...and the singing's pretty good...and I love the show. But every time we took a trip down Kurt's love woes, and veered into Rachel/Finn/Quinn territory, with a Santana/Brittney/Artie detour, I rolled my eyes and sucked my teeth in typical angry black bitch fashion. When was the fat black chick gonna get some damn play?!
And then as a cop out or an after thought, it's revealed in the last damn episode of the season, that she's been secretly seeing the new blond white boy who's only really attractive to television casting agents and has a passable singing voice, since the prom. Beggars can't really be choosers can they? I'm curious to see what happens here next season. And thank you Mr. Murphy for finally living up to your promise and for realizing that this is a character of untapped potential.
PART III: THE GIST
These are but two examples of what I find to be a bigger problem. Black women are systematically underused and/or ignored on television, particularly as it pertains to romance. I'm all for black love on television and off. Healthy images of black men and black women loving each other and supporting each other as family units are desperately needed. But black women being ignored as romantic leads for white men on television really makes a big statement. Which is why, though I have some logistical (and by that I mean writing, plot lines and the like) with the show HAWTHORNE starring Jada Pinkett-Smith, I do like that her character is now married to the attractive lead white male character Tom, played by Michael Vartan. And that's not just cause I've been crushing on him since NEVER BEEN KISSED, either. Or cause he's fluent in French, which I find uber sexy. Ok, maybe it is. Like it or not this country is still polarized by race, and television is a microcosm of that. And who the white boy finds attractive, so goes the country. Think about the shows you watch. Are there any black women in them? If so, what are their roles? Are they comic relief? The innocuous best friend? Do they have love interests? If so, what do they look like? And do they really seem to love each other, or is that too a device for comic relief? You may find some examples to refute me, but not many. I know. I watch a lot of TV.
Black women are disappearing from the television landscape. We're routinely cast off as romantic non-desirables. Or we're painted with the "black bitch" brush--hard edged, aggressive, asexual types. And if the lead white male character has a choice between a pretty black love interest and either a dynamite white one or even a run of the mill white female lead, it's clear which one is chosen time and time again. And if it isn't lemme share...the white girl wins. Just like in life. We're not an intelligent society anymore, and people take their lead from TV, cause hey if it weren't true, it wouldn't be on the air. So I believe subconsciously that's the lead that penetrates...black women aren't as good. They're not worth as much and definitely not worth the same amount of time. All those fine ass men running around the fictional town of Bon Temps, LA, and not one could develop an interest in Tara? Not every woman who's brutalized by a man switches teams. Sometimes they can, and sometimes they take a break from dating and work on themselves, get some therapy, take self defense classes too. All the dating combos on GLEE, and Mercedes rides the bench till damn near the last minute.
It's just disheartening and suffocating as A). a black woman, B). an actress, and C). an avid TV viewer; to have to sift through the endless onslaught of images and plot lines and whatever else, telling you that you are a non-person. And then getting those same messages out in the world. I see a correlation. Others may not. But then again, it's my blog. I'll see what I wanna see.
Till next time, lovers!
Monday, February 28, 2011
A New Dawn...A New Damn Day!
Yeah, the title says it all. I re-read my last post and was like, bitch get a fuckin' grip! You've known the guy for like a week or so. Fuck that. It's like Charlotte said in Sex and the City, it does take you half the time you were with a man to get over him. Although quicker in this case. By the time I hit the publish post button, I was done. Plus talking it over with another one of my hardened hearted bitches helped a lot. Listening to her recite my own words back to me, made me realize what a retard I was being. I mean, I literally cringed at my patheticism. But all of this is a lesson learned. This is why I don't do well when it comes to dating cause I get bored, frustrated, or just lose interest fairly quickly. Then I'm ready to move on.
I was listening to that Bastian of sage advice, Oprah, last week. And it was during her interview with Iyanla Vanzant that she made this statement. I'd heard it before (she likes saying it) but this time I really HEARD it. She said something like, 'If you don't want me then I don't wanna want you'. And she talked about learning it in her twenties...from all the times she'd tried to hold onto some man who didn't want her. How she'd beg for him to not leave and all that bullshit, and now at 50+, she's done with that mess. And I realized I'm right there with her. I may still fall into sappy despair, but my bounce back quotient is MUCH higher now. And I'm just not gonna chase and beg a man to fucking want me, or to fuck me. True, there may not be a lot of options out there for me, or none at all, but even if the only sexual attention I get is that I give to myself with my Freddy and a pack of AA batteries, then so fuckin' be it! At least I know it'll be worth it and a good time will be had by all parties involved.
Last weekend I went through this same shit with B-BOY. He's the fine ass law student I met with Sharelle at a club during my birthday weekend. And when I say fine, I'm not exaggerating. He was taller than me, again, shocker; like 6' or so. Full, luscious lips, sexy bedroom eyes, sensual voice, masculine hands, pearly white teeth and great smile, and milk chocolate complexion (I bet it taste like it too--hot damn!). He was slender but looked like he had some muscles, I couldn't really tell all that cause he had layers of clothing on, but I got the distinct impression that he'd look great naked. So me, being drunk and horny, was doing all I could to investigate that statement. But since my girl was staying with me, I wasn't gonna fuck him that night. I could have kicked her out and sent her...somewhere, but that's not how I get down. I've never been that chick to ditch her friends for some dick. Call me crazy but I do have standards, damn.
So we both realized it wasn't gonna work that night, despite the full court press he was putting on me. And I was caving. Fast forward a week later, and we've sent each other a few texts. He hit me up at some ridiculous time in the morning circa 4am or so. Fortunately, I was up. But we really got into it. No sexting, but I was putting it all on the table. I told him we need to get together and stop the bullshitting cause he's feeling me and I'm definitely feeling him and we just need to make it happen. Cause it will happen. And he'll enjoy it. Maybe not all that, but that's fairly close to what I said. And he was all systems go! But he was drunk and the hour was way late...or early cause by then it was like 6am. So we left it open, but open for the next night. Well I was going on a date with IHOP that night. No problem. I figured we'd only be out till midnight or so and I could call B-BOY, and we could make some magic happen. And my body needed something magical. So as the comedy show was winding down, I text B-BOY and told him not to wait till 4am to hit me up tonight, and he text back, "I gotcha lol". God I hope so. And by the way, I know it's in poor taste to text one dude for sex while on a date with another, but fuck it. A bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do, and I needed to be doin that sweet young thang!
So I get home and leave my make-up on but change into my pixie nightgown with spaghetti straps. My hair was down and lightly cupped my shoulders, with a sultry curl to it and seductively messy. I was workin it, I know. I too had bedroom eyes now. I made sure everything was right. And I text him something appropriately erotic and ended it with "I'm ready to see you. Now." Maybe it got lost in translation, who knows cause I'm still waiting to hear from that nigga. To say I was disappointed would be like saying the Egyptians had a slight issue with their government. I had to find Freddy cause I put him up thinking there'd be no need for falsehoods tonight. But shit, why waste the outfit and sex kitten look? I stay stocked in AA batteries.
Though I wanted his body and would have ridden him like an expert surfer on a tidal wave of orgiastically orgasmic eroticism, I was damned if I was gonna beg this nigga to fuck me. Want it or not, the choice is yours, but know the offer only comes once. Unlike yours truly :) There's only one bite at the apple, and if the luscious juices that flow from the bountiful fruit of my loins isn't enough to get you to ravish me like a nubile schoolgirl in a French fetish movie, than it's time for me to hawk my wares elsewhere. I can serve it up, but damnit, you gotta dig in.
So he didn't want me. Cool. Like Jay-Z said, "Onto the next one". And that's how I feel about WHITE DUDE. You only got a taste. A mere sample of the joys to come. And if that's enough for you, fine. You know when you're full. But please don't think this ripe nectar will sit on the shelf and dry up. No, no, honey. I know there's other men out there dying of thirst and hunger. Just longing to take a bite. Hunt's on, bitches.
Till next time, lovers!
I was listening to that Bastian of sage advice, Oprah, last week. And it was during her interview with Iyanla Vanzant that she made this statement. I'd heard it before (she likes saying it) but this time I really HEARD it. She said something like, 'If you don't want me then I don't wanna want you'. And she talked about learning it in her twenties...from all the times she'd tried to hold onto some man who didn't want her. How she'd beg for him to not leave and all that bullshit, and now at 50+, she's done with that mess. And I realized I'm right there with her. I may still fall into sappy despair, but my bounce back quotient is MUCH higher now. And I'm just not gonna chase and beg a man to fucking want me, or to fuck me. True, there may not be a lot of options out there for me, or none at all, but even if the only sexual attention I get is that I give to myself with my Freddy and a pack of AA batteries, then so fuckin' be it! At least I know it'll be worth it and a good time will be had by all parties involved.
Last weekend I went through this same shit with B-BOY. He's the fine ass law student I met with Sharelle at a club during my birthday weekend. And when I say fine, I'm not exaggerating. He was taller than me, again, shocker; like 6' or so. Full, luscious lips, sexy bedroom eyes, sensual voice, masculine hands, pearly white teeth and great smile, and milk chocolate complexion (I bet it taste like it too--hot damn!). He was slender but looked like he had some muscles, I couldn't really tell all that cause he had layers of clothing on, but I got the distinct impression that he'd look great naked. So me, being drunk and horny, was doing all I could to investigate that statement. But since my girl was staying with me, I wasn't gonna fuck him that night. I could have kicked her out and sent her...somewhere, but that's not how I get down. I've never been that chick to ditch her friends for some dick. Call me crazy but I do have standards, damn.
So we both realized it wasn't gonna work that night, despite the full court press he was putting on me. And I was caving. Fast forward a week later, and we've sent each other a few texts. He hit me up at some ridiculous time in the morning circa 4am or so. Fortunately, I was up. But we really got into it. No sexting, but I was putting it all on the table. I told him we need to get together and stop the bullshitting cause he's feeling me and I'm definitely feeling him and we just need to make it happen. Cause it will happen. And he'll enjoy it. Maybe not all that, but that's fairly close to what I said. And he was all systems go! But he was drunk and the hour was way late...or early cause by then it was like 6am. So we left it open, but open for the next night. Well I was going on a date with IHOP that night. No problem. I figured we'd only be out till midnight or so and I could call B-BOY, and we could make some magic happen. And my body needed something magical. So as the comedy show was winding down, I text B-BOY and told him not to wait till 4am to hit me up tonight, and he text back, "I gotcha lol". God I hope so. And by the way, I know it's in poor taste to text one dude for sex while on a date with another, but fuck it. A bitch gotta do what a bitch gotta do, and I needed to be doin that sweet young thang!
So I get home and leave my make-up on but change into my pixie nightgown with spaghetti straps. My hair was down and lightly cupped my shoulders, with a sultry curl to it and seductively messy. I was workin it, I know. I too had bedroom eyes now. I made sure everything was right. And I text him something appropriately erotic and ended it with "I'm ready to see you. Now." Maybe it got lost in translation, who knows cause I'm still waiting to hear from that nigga. To say I was disappointed would be like saying the Egyptians had a slight issue with their government. I had to find Freddy cause I put him up thinking there'd be no need for falsehoods tonight. But shit, why waste the outfit and sex kitten look? I stay stocked in AA batteries.
Though I wanted his body and would have ridden him like an expert surfer on a tidal wave of orgiastically orgasmic eroticism, I was damned if I was gonna beg this nigga to fuck me. Want it or not, the choice is yours, but know the offer only comes once. Unlike yours truly :) There's only one bite at the apple, and if the luscious juices that flow from the bountiful fruit of my loins isn't enough to get you to ravish me like a nubile schoolgirl in a French fetish movie, than it's time for me to hawk my wares elsewhere. I can serve it up, but damnit, you gotta dig in.
So he didn't want me. Cool. Like Jay-Z said, "Onto the next one". And that's how I feel about WHITE DUDE. You only got a taste. A mere sample of the joys to come. And if that's enough for you, fine. You know when you're full. But please don't think this ripe nectar will sit on the shelf and dry up. No, no, honey. I know there's other men out there dying of thirst and hunger. Just longing to take a bite. Hunt's on, bitches.
Till next time, lovers!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Singing the Blues
If I could sing, I'd definitely be singing some Billie Holliday; Solitude is nice. It's one of my favorites. I guess I'm kinda singing the White Boy blues now. It's not really about him. I haven't known him long enough for it to be all about him. But the dealings we've had this week have caused all sorts of thoughts and emotions to come to a boil and spill out all over the place, turning me into a scalding, hot mess.
So what happened you ask? Simple. I was being me. A straightforward and convoluted answer. It started to unravel two days ago, when I was still riding high from his touch. I'd started to worry after my last entry if he'd call again cause I let thoughts of my substantial size get inside my head and fuck me up with the usual game of not being pretty enough. So as I'm laying in my bed at noon thirty, I get a text. It's from him! He tells me he's been thinking about me! Yay!!! But best of all, and be still my beating heart, he says he loves my curves! Get the fuck outta town. No man has EVER said that me. None. Even if it was true, it never quite made its way out their mouths, so I was always left to wonder if they truly liked my body the way it was, or if they just knew I was an easy lay. The fat girl usually is.
But not him. He really liked my body. His actual word was "yummy". I think it's his thing cause he says it alot. So we text back and forth for 4 hrs., getting increasingly sexual. A taste I acquired from my brother's roommate (the laid back guy I mentioned in a previous entry, he was playing Guitar Hero when we met). We were sexting and sexing for awhile. Damn. That's a nice lil blast from the past. I wonder how he doin. Wit his fine ass.
So eventually, he (White Boy) says he'd like to do something to me, and I responded:
Damn...mama likes.
So he says:
What else does mama like?
And I say:
...mama likes it rough.
To which he replies:
Yes ma'am mama.
And from there it went downhill with a quickness, and all because I sent him another text telling him that I only like that with a man I'm comfortable with. I'm not gonna break it out on a random Tuesday for just anybody. Now I said this cause I didn't want him thinking the next time we were together (if we were together) that it'd be candle wax on the nipples or Jenna Jamison, Heather Hunter type shit. I thought it was playful and ok cause I do this all the time; give disclaimers. But his feathers got a little ruffled by it. He proceeded to tell me that I killed the mood, that he knew that would only happen when I was comfortable, that I didn't need to say it. And I could tell right away, even via text, that he was upset or at least annoyed. And that made me feel horrible right away. No woman wants to be told she's a mood killer. That's like saying you're dick kryptonite. We cleared things up a bit, but I still felt kinda awkward. He told me that he wanted to get his mind off work and on me, but that I was too guarded and I should let it down a bit and relax. I text Sharelle immediately and she was like, "yeah you are guarded".
So him aside, that's the thing that stuck with me. He's certainly not the first guy to tell me that. MK used to say that to me on a daily basis as a greeting. He told me once, years ago, before I even knew how I felt about him, that he'd thought about what it'd be like if we dated. And I said, "be weird huh?", and he was like, "Yeah." But I think the journey his brain went on was how hard he'd have to fight to get me to let him in.
So this guarded thing has me all fucked up. I don't know how not to be. Thinking back over my illustrious dating career, of which I've never had a single boyfriend, I see it's been that way ever since I had my first crush. In fact, I think that's where it started.
I was seven and had a crush on one of my brother's friends (I guess that's a trend too. It's good to have an older brother when he's got fine ass friends). I'll use his real name cause sadly, he passed away several years ago...just eighteen, six months after he and my brother graduated. His name was Eric Allen, and he was tall and cute, with curly black hair. Smooth caramel skin and wide, gorgeous eyes. By the time we got to high school, he was super duper sexy! And he was the boy who gave me my first kiss. We were standing behind a tree on this baseball field at a play ground near our house. My brother and other friends were playing on the field and the other boys were goading me and Eric to make out. My brother, all of nine, laughed it off but was clearly not cool with that. Next thing I know, Eric and I are behind the tree, and he leans in and plants the softest kiss I'd ever had on me, with the smoothest, tastiest lips. I felt like a grown up. After all, that's how they do it on the soaps Grandma watches. There was even a little bit of tongue. It sounds disturbingly inappropriate now, but it was very sweet then. He wasn't aggressive with it. Just a little touch, enough to let me know I wasn't in Kansas in anymore.
A few days later we were walking through the church ground together, and I remember really, really liking him. And thinking, maybe he'll be my boyfriend. So I asked him, in the forward way a child who's never been disappointed or scarred does, if he liked me. He said yeah. So I asked if he thought I was pretty. And he said, "you're average." I didn't know what that word meant, and I'd never heard the men on the soaps say that to the women, but it must be good. He kissed me, didn't he? That's what people do when they love each other. Average must mean, I love you. I ran home, up the stairs to our apartment and flung open Mommy's bedroom door and jumped on her bed. She knew everything so she'd know what average meant. So I asked her, "Mom, what's average mean?" And she said, "It means not good or bad. Nothing special." My shoulders slumped and I felt my body cave and sink into her mattress like I was a part of the linens. Nothing special. Nothing. Special. That's what I was to him.
Clearly it wasn't a conscious choice. At seven years old I didn't say I'm gonna harden my heart and put up these walls and fuck the next guy who comes along. But at thirty four, the image and the feelings are still with me, so it obviously had an impact.
I was at the hair salon earlier thinking about writing this entry. Thinking about what I would say. Thinking that I always assumed when I got into a serious loving relationship with a man, when I knew I was his and he was mine, that my walls would fall away and that I'd know how to be with him. But I've realized that's not true. Yes some of that stuff is innate and takes hold when you love or care about someone. But the idea of being with a man, belonging in the way I so desperately want to, scares the shit outta me. Being vulnerable in that way. Being that open. White Boy messed me up by saying I should let my guard down. I don't know how to do that halfway. Either the walls are all up or they're all down. And when they're down I'm a complete fucking mess. Yes I keep men at arm's length because they hurt me. Every single one in my life. And when you talk about the ones I've been naked with, that number jumps up to over 100%. But I do it also to protect me from me. When I'm exposed, I'm calling or texting more than I should, I troll through their Facebook pages looking for info. I reread texts and emails he sent. I'm devastated when he doesn't call. Why does it take you two whole minutes to respond to my text! When the walls are up, I could give a fuck what you do. Don't call me, cool. Don't text me, fine. Fuck you. I got Spartacus.
Mommy used to tell me there are no shades of grey with me. Only black and white. And that's true. I'm either guarded or I'm clingy. There's no in between. If I don't keep my soft, gooey center protected, it's like I'm offering myself up for the slaughter. It's like I'm weak. I don't know how to tell White Boy how I feel. How I like the way he touches me. I like the way he kisses me. I like the way he makes me laugh, the way he smells. The way he talks. I like his carefree I-don't-give-a-damn-I'm-gonna-do-what-I-wanna-do attitude that comes purely from being white in America (maybe I won't tell him that). I like that he doesn't take any of my shit and won't let me get away with anything. Reminds me a little of MK in that way. I just wanna get to know him and see if maybe. Just maybe...
And then Jersey says to me, bitch he's just trying to bone. So see? That's what I do. I'm either guarded or I'm a sap. Men don't like either. So what do I do? Push away every viable prospect cause I'm too scared to let him in? Or do I settle for a nice enough guy who couldn't strike a fire in my loins with kerosene and matches, but since he's the only one left, might as well. What the fuck kinda choice is that?
Till next time, lovers!
So what happened you ask? Simple. I was being me. A straightforward and convoluted answer. It started to unravel two days ago, when I was still riding high from his touch. I'd started to worry after my last entry if he'd call again cause I let thoughts of my substantial size get inside my head and fuck me up with the usual game of not being pretty enough. So as I'm laying in my bed at noon thirty, I get a text. It's from him! He tells me he's been thinking about me! Yay!!! But best of all, and be still my beating heart, he says he loves my curves! Get the fuck outta town. No man has EVER said that me. None. Even if it was true, it never quite made its way out their mouths, so I was always left to wonder if they truly liked my body the way it was, or if they just knew I was an easy lay. The fat girl usually is.
But not him. He really liked my body. His actual word was "yummy". I think it's his thing cause he says it alot. So we text back and forth for 4 hrs., getting increasingly sexual. A taste I acquired from my brother's roommate (the laid back guy I mentioned in a previous entry, he was playing Guitar Hero when we met). We were sexting and sexing for awhile. Damn. That's a nice lil blast from the past. I wonder how he doin. Wit his fine ass.
So eventually, he (White Boy) says he'd like to do something to me, and I responded:
Damn...mama likes.
So he says:
What else does mama like?
And I say:
...mama likes it rough.
To which he replies:
Yes ma'am mama.
And from there it went downhill with a quickness, and all because I sent him another text telling him that I only like that with a man I'm comfortable with. I'm not gonna break it out on a random Tuesday for just anybody. Now I said this cause I didn't want him thinking the next time we were together (if we were together) that it'd be candle wax on the nipples or Jenna Jamison, Heather Hunter type shit. I thought it was playful and ok cause I do this all the time; give disclaimers. But his feathers got a little ruffled by it. He proceeded to tell me that I killed the mood, that he knew that would only happen when I was comfortable, that I didn't need to say it. And I could tell right away, even via text, that he was upset or at least annoyed. And that made me feel horrible right away. No woman wants to be told she's a mood killer. That's like saying you're dick kryptonite. We cleared things up a bit, but I still felt kinda awkward. He told me that he wanted to get his mind off work and on me, but that I was too guarded and I should let it down a bit and relax. I text Sharelle immediately and she was like, "yeah you are guarded".
So him aside, that's the thing that stuck with me. He's certainly not the first guy to tell me that. MK used to say that to me on a daily basis as a greeting. He told me once, years ago, before I even knew how I felt about him, that he'd thought about what it'd be like if we dated. And I said, "be weird huh?", and he was like, "Yeah." But I think the journey his brain went on was how hard he'd have to fight to get me to let him in.
So this guarded thing has me all fucked up. I don't know how not to be. Thinking back over my illustrious dating career, of which I've never had a single boyfriend, I see it's been that way ever since I had my first crush. In fact, I think that's where it started.
I was seven and had a crush on one of my brother's friends (I guess that's a trend too. It's good to have an older brother when he's got fine ass friends). I'll use his real name cause sadly, he passed away several years ago...just eighteen, six months after he and my brother graduated. His name was Eric Allen, and he was tall and cute, with curly black hair. Smooth caramel skin and wide, gorgeous eyes. By the time we got to high school, he was super duper sexy! And he was the boy who gave me my first kiss. We were standing behind a tree on this baseball field at a play ground near our house. My brother and other friends were playing on the field and the other boys were goading me and Eric to make out. My brother, all of nine, laughed it off but was clearly not cool with that. Next thing I know, Eric and I are behind the tree, and he leans in and plants the softest kiss I'd ever had on me, with the smoothest, tastiest lips. I felt like a grown up. After all, that's how they do it on the soaps Grandma watches. There was even a little bit of tongue. It sounds disturbingly inappropriate now, but it was very sweet then. He wasn't aggressive with it. Just a little touch, enough to let me know I wasn't in Kansas in anymore.
A few days later we were walking through the church ground together, and I remember really, really liking him. And thinking, maybe he'll be my boyfriend. So I asked him, in the forward way a child who's never been disappointed or scarred does, if he liked me. He said yeah. So I asked if he thought I was pretty. And he said, "you're average." I didn't know what that word meant, and I'd never heard the men on the soaps say that to the women, but it must be good. He kissed me, didn't he? That's what people do when they love each other. Average must mean, I love you. I ran home, up the stairs to our apartment and flung open Mommy's bedroom door and jumped on her bed. She knew everything so she'd know what average meant. So I asked her, "Mom, what's average mean?" And she said, "It means not good or bad. Nothing special." My shoulders slumped and I felt my body cave and sink into her mattress like I was a part of the linens. Nothing special. Nothing. Special. That's what I was to him.
Clearly it wasn't a conscious choice. At seven years old I didn't say I'm gonna harden my heart and put up these walls and fuck the next guy who comes along. But at thirty four, the image and the feelings are still with me, so it obviously had an impact.
I was at the hair salon earlier thinking about writing this entry. Thinking about what I would say. Thinking that I always assumed when I got into a serious loving relationship with a man, when I knew I was his and he was mine, that my walls would fall away and that I'd know how to be with him. But I've realized that's not true. Yes some of that stuff is innate and takes hold when you love or care about someone. But the idea of being with a man, belonging in the way I so desperately want to, scares the shit outta me. Being vulnerable in that way. Being that open. White Boy messed me up by saying I should let my guard down. I don't know how to do that halfway. Either the walls are all up or they're all down. And when they're down I'm a complete fucking mess. Yes I keep men at arm's length because they hurt me. Every single one in my life. And when you talk about the ones I've been naked with, that number jumps up to over 100%. But I do it also to protect me from me. When I'm exposed, I'm calling or texting more than I should, I troll through their Facebook pages looking for info. I reread texts and emails he sent. I'm devastated when he doesn't call. Why does it take you two whole minutes to respond to my text! When the walls are up, I could give a fuck what you do. Don't call me, cool. Don't text me, fine. Fuck you. I got Spartacus.
Mommy used to tell me there are no shades of grey with me. Only black and white. And that's true. I'm either guarded or I'm clingy. There's no in between. If I don't keep my soft, gooey center protected, it's like I'm offering myself up for the slaughter. It's like I'm weak. I don't know how to tell White Boy how I feel. How I like the way he touches me. I like the way he kisses me. I like the way he makes me laugh, the way he smells. The way he talks. I like his carefree I-don't-give-a-damn-I'm-gonna-do-what-I-wanna-do attitude that comes purely from being white in America (maybe I won't tell him that). I like that he doesn't take any of my shit and won't let me get away with anything. Reminds me a little of MK in that way. I just wanna get to know him and see if maybe. Just maybe...
And then Jersey says to me, bitch he's just trying to bone. So see? That's what I do. I'm either guarded or I'm a sap. Men don't like either. So what do I do? Push away every viable prospect cause I'm too scared to let him in? Or do I settle for a nice enough guy who couldn't strike a fire in my loins with kerosene and matches, but since he's the only one left, might as well. What the fuck kinda choice is that?
Till next time, lovers!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
One More Thing!
So here's another (probably the most important) reason I chose to rejoin Match.com. I live in Atlanta now. For a black woman, or any woman rather, seeking a black man in this city, you shouldn't do it alone. You're gonna need help. I mean you can find a dude at the Barnes & Noble, or the Publix, or the park, but chances are he'll be full on gay or on the down low. And I don't fuck with that shit. I figured a dude playing those types of games won't pay the type of money Match.com requires just to find his beard. He can find that silly bitch for free, where...? Barnes & Noble.
Match Tales: The Sequel
DUDE #2: WHITE BOY
So I set my search parameters (can you tell this is my word of the day?) for black and hispanic men only. I feel like I'm good as long as I cover my racial background. Yeah, I got white blood in here too, but who doesn't? So I'm looking through my daily 5 matches, and see I have a wink (that's when a guy has read your profile, likes you but not enough to send you a real email, so he just sends you his profile for you to look over and decide if you like him enough to send him an email--and that's called a wink). So I open it up...and it's a white boy! What the FUCK!!! Didn't I tell you NOT to send me any white guys? Does he look black Match.com? Does he? NO, he does not! This damn Match.com, I tell ya boy. Sending me this bullshit. Well lemme look at his profile to find out how off the mark they are, sending him to me. They got some nerve sending me a white boy who's 2 yrs. younger than me...from ALABAMA...who, wait, started his own business? Then sold it to an even bigger company that he now works for and has a very loose leash...in telecommunications? Wait, he's looking for women between the ages of 22 and 47? Damn. Way to cover all your bases. Well what about body type? You know white boys like a skinny bitch. He says...nothing about it. It's blank. Meaning he's open to whatever body type. Get the fuck outta here. Hmmm. I should wink back.
And that's exactly what my thought process was behind winking back at this so obviously wrong match. And again, they didn't send it to me, he saw me and started communication. So as soon as I winked, I got an instantaneous email from him. I was like, wow! That was quick. This is his email to me:
Thanks for the wink! How has your week been going so far, mine has been pretty good. Happy Hump Day, I just hope the nice weather returns for the weekend. :) How long have you lived in ATL? I moved here in Aug 04 from Auburn University. I live in Dunwoody close to Perimeter Mall, and you? Just thought I would stop by and say hello, so beautiful! :)
So two things caught my eye. His statement of stopping by...hell nawh shawty; and naturally the "so beautiful" comment. I must have read that several times. Huh? He means me? The white boy thinks the chunky black girl is "so beautiful"? Is this a damn joke? Fuck this. But since flattery will get you everywhere with me, I was encouraged to move forward. So I responded:
Hey,
That was pretty quick! LOL. Well, let's see...my week's been pretty ok so far. I've only lived here for a few months. I moved in October, but I used to live here bout 8 yrs ago and I lived here for like 7 yrs at that time. I went to college here so I know the city pretty well...correction, I used to know the city because in the 8 yrs. I've been gone, it's changed so much. Whole streets are renamed and buildings torn down, neighborhoods have changed dramatically, so it's kinda like moving to an unknown city at times. I live in Buckhead near 85. One of the reasons I moved back here was for the weather, which I love. I'm from Jersey so by comparison this is paradise. Where are you from originally?
So then he said:
Nice to meet you! And you are right it has change a lot just since I have been here. :-) I am originally from Birmingham, AL and you? Yes, I am southern but far from country. So tell me, you have a hard time taking complements? ;-)
And then I said:
Not generally, why do you ask? (Totally not true. I do have a problem taking compliments. They feel nice in the moment, but then I start to think, that wasn't meant for me. Words are easy but the ensuing action usually belies the pleasant statement, that's why I distrust compliments. But I still like to hear them. I know, I need to get back to therapy--I'm going)
So he said:
I said so beautiful at the end of my first email! :-) and quite sexy!
Game. Set. Match...bitches! All my lady parts got to fluttering at the southern gentility and the compliments and the attention and all that jazz. But the male side of me, usually the part I refer to as Jersey, was skeptical as always. Still is. You can't graduate daycare in Dirty Jerz without passing skepticism and sarcasm 101. We're leery of everyone and everything. And then you add being black on top of it!!! Shit, he's lucky I don't reach for my Vaseline and brass knuckles. Sounds kinda kinky don't it? Yeah, on purpose. Yall know how I do :)
So this goes on for days. We didn't talk this past weekend cause, well lemme let you read what he said:
Hey sexy! How was the rest of your week, mine was pretty good TGIF! I actually have family in town this weekend or I would be thinking of ravishing someone! :-)
Uhhhhh....yay? Yay he has company so I don't have to worry bout being ravished, or yay he wants to ravish me? Your guess is as good as mine. I don't damn know either. Damn shame, isn't it? I know. (So is the nasty bitch's breath sitting next to me at Barnes and Noble. Damn, eat an altoid trick, and stop breathing on the rest of us. I'm gonna black out from holding my breath soon, then who'll finish my blog so my devoted reader can be satisfied? Consideration is the spice of life. So is fluoride.)
At this point in the story, I wasn't attracted to him. Description. White. 31. Blondish hair I think. Glasses (slim line). Blue eyes maybe. Nice smile. Again, taller than me but I only found this out recently when we were face to face...ish. Nice body. He works out. Also recently discovered. I'm on this Spartacus kick (thanks Starz and Manu Bennett the unbeknownst father of my children even though he too is white, but he's Australian or New Zealander so that makes it ok) so a man's body all muscled up and such does so much for me now...more than it ever did before. Well, that's not true. It's always done good shit for me. I'm just all about naked gladiators sending me off to dream land with a purpose. But I digress.
So, decent looking guy on Match.com but I wasn't feeling sleeping with another white boy. Been there. Done that. Moving on. I keep thinking about the last white dick I had, and it was the most awful thing ever. Put me off the whole race. That's some repugnant dick. Small and rhythmless. Rhythmless Nation. Damn shame. He's the only guy I faked an orgasm with. It was either that or fake a seizure but I couldn't pay the hospital bill for that. And a fake orgasm achieves its goal: dude feels like he laid it down, and I get him to stop what he's doing, cause he's about to ruin, the image and the style that I'm used to...never before have the words of Digital Underground been so perfect a fit for everyday life. Humpty Hump yo ass off!
So I was at this crossroads. I was fixing to go out with IHOP and WHITE BOY was doing the family thing and B-BOY was a no show. I was like, all the dudes I'm communicating with on Match, aren't anyone I'd like to get naked with. Can't even see that happening. They made my nether regions drier than the Sahara during famine season. I mean, what the fuck? So after being annoyed by IHOP's feelings of disrespect, I was watching the NBA All-Star game at MK's, when I decided to send WHITE BOY an email via my Match.com app on my phone. Yeah...I got the app. I'm invested. It was just something like, hey hope your weekend went well and you enjoyed your time with your family. We should talk soon, or words to that effect. Sure enough when I checked my email the next day he responded with:
Were you up late thinking of me? :-)
And I was like:
Perhaps :) I'm a night owl after all. I picked my friends up at the airport & they were taping the all star game, so I stayed over there to watch it, and that's why I was up late emailing you lol. I know it's not sexy, but it's the truth :) And since you're pretty good at replying to my emails, I figured while I was up, why not say hi. That way I knew I'd have a responce when I woke up. How was your weekend? Hope it was fun.
And he was like:
Its actually very sexy, you thought of me! My weekend was great, mom was in town so tons of shopping a good food! Thanks for asking. :-) I just left work, so heading to the gym and you? Then ill be chilling on the couch, glass of wine and a movie, but always better if shared with someone yummy! ;-)
So again, I was like, huh? He wants me to come over to his place? For wine? And movies? But for wine? Wine and anything always leads to something. At least for me anyway cause I like to drink. I get comfortable when the wine flows freely from my oversized cup or glass...directly into my mouth. At this time, I sent a frantic text to Sharelle cause I kinda needed some validation in what I knew I should do. Wasn't sure I'd do it though.
Anyway, all this rigmarole is boring you, but he called me and when I heard his voice, I knew I was gonna do the wrong thing. He has this cute little Alabama twang and it was a wrap. But I told myself in my bathroom mirror (as I put on some makeup and a cute top to accentuate somethings and try to hide others) that I was NOT gonna fuck him. It's just wine. And a movie. Keep your pants on and keep it casual. Agreed? Agreed. Good.
So I drive out to his spot, not that far from where I live, and get to his door and I check his apartment number on my phone several times before I knock, thinking what a dumb ass I am. I did text Sharelle that I was going to his place and this is his real name, his address, and his phone number just in case. I mean, he is white after all. Hell, for all I know, I could have been walking into a Dateline situation. He opened the door, and I thought I might be, but I wasn't sure that I was in trouble...until he poured the wine. In a nice GIANT glass. I told myself not to go down without a fight. But he came out in full battle mode. Wine. Stupid movie. Giant wine glass. Cuter than his pictures. Sick ass body. Cute southern twang. Smart ass white boy. Candles. More wine. Still in a giant glass. Maker of the first move in such a sexy, I want what I want, kinda way. I didn't give a shit about the movie any more, I was struggling to get my bra off.
That was last night. Yall getting this fresh off the presses! Now, there was no penetration but it was a good old fashioned make out session. One I hadn't had in a looooooooooonnnnng time. Cause why bullshit around when you can just bone? And, even though I'd just met him, I felt more comfortable with him than I expected. Maybe that's a sign that I'm coming into my own. I mean hell, I'll be peaking for the next several years...yay!!!! I don't know, but I wasn't worried bout the flab hanging over my jeans or my big ass thighs on top of his thighs. I'm thinking about it now and maybe that will prevent me from getting a call back. But I don't care really. I mean I do. I'd like to see him again, but at least I got something out of it. I got a little bit of release from the insurmountable sexual frustration that had been building within me for over a year! Yes, I said it! Shut up yall who get it on the regular! And yes, married people I'm talking to you. And any sluts who happen upon this blog. But what I told Sharelle when I recounted parts of the story to her today, is true. I needed to feel sexy. And I needed to feel desired. Fuck what happens today or tomorrow, but last night, that man wanted me. He wanted ME! And that was and always will be the perfect aphrodisiac.
Till next time, lovers!
So I set my search parameters (can you tell this is my word of the day?) for black and hispanic men only. I feel like I'm good as long as I cover my racial background. Yeah, I got white blood in here too, but who doesn't? So I'm looking through my daily 5 matches, and see I have a wink (that's when a guy has read your profile, likes you but not enough to send you a real email, so he just sends you his profile for you to look over and decide if you like him enough to send him an email--and that's called a wink). So I open it up...and it's a white boy! What the FUCK!!! Didn't I tell you NOT to send me any white guys? Does he look black Match.com? Does he? NO, he does not! This damn Match.com, I tell ya boy. Sending me this bullshit. Well lemme look at his profile to find out how off the mark they are, sending him to me. They got some nerve sending me a white boy who's 2 yrs. younger than me...from ALABAMA...who, wait, started his own business? Then sold it to an even bigger company that he now works for and has a very loose leash...in telecommunications? Wait, he's looking for women between the ages of 22 and 47? Damn. Way to cover all your bases. Well what about body type? You know white boys like a skinny bitch. He says...nothing about it. It's blank. Meaning he's open to whatever body type. Get the fuck outta here. Hmmm. I should wink back.
And that's exactly what my thought process was behind winking back at this so obviously wrong match. And again, they didn't send it to me, he saw me and started communication. So as soon as I winked, I got an instantaneous email from him. I was like, wow! That was quick. This is his email to me:
Thanks for the wink! How has your week been going so far, mine has been pretty good. Happy Hump Day, I just hope the nice weather returns for the weekend. :) How long have you lived in ATL? I moved here in Aug 04 from Auburn University. I live in Dunwoody close to Perimeter Mall, and you? Just thought I would stop by and say hello, so beautiful! :)
So two things caught my eye. His statement of stopping by...hell nawh shawty; and naturally the "so beautiful" comment. I must have read that several times. Huh? He means me? The white boy thinks the chunky black girl is "so beautiful"? Is this a damn joke? Fuck this. But since flattery will get you everywhere with me, I was encouraged to move forward. So I responded:
Hey,
That was pretty quick! LOL. Well, let's see...my week's been pretty ok so far. I've only lived here for a few months. I moved in October, but I used to live here bout 8 yrs ago and I lived here for like 7 yrs at that time. I went to college here so I know the city pretty well...correction, I used to know the city because in the 8 yrs. I've been gone, it's changed so much. Whole streets are renamed and buildings torn down, neighborhoods have changed dramatically, so it's kinda like moving to an unknown city at times. I live in Buckhead near 85. One of the reasons I moved back here was for the weather, which I love. I'm from Jersey so by comparison this is paradise. Where are you from originally?
So then he said:
Nice to meet you! And you are right it has change a lot just since I have been here. :-) I am originally from Birmingham, AL and you? Yes, I am southern but far from country. So tell me, you have a hard time taking complements? ;-)
And then I said:
Not generally, why do you ask? (Totally not true. I do have a problem taking compliments. They feel nice in the moment, but then I start to think, that wasn't meant for me. Words are easy but the ensuing action usually belies the pleasant statement, that's why I distrust compliments. But I still like to hear them. I know, I need to get back to therapy--I'm going)
So he said:
I said so beautiful at the end of my first email! :-) and quite sexy!
Game. Set. Match...bitches! All my lady parts got to fluttering at the southern gentility and the compliments and the attention and all that jazz. But the male side of me, usually the part I refer to as Jersey, was skeptical as always. Still is. You can't graduate daycare in Dirty Jerz without passing skepticism and sarcasm 101. We're leery of everyone and everything. And then you add being black on top of it!!! Shit, he's lucky I don't reach for my Vaseline and brass knuckles. Sounds kinda kinky don't it? Yeah, on purpose. Yall know how I do :)
So this goes on for days. We didn't talk this past weekend cause, well lemme let you read what he said:
Hey sexy! How was the rest of your week, mine was pretty good TGIF! I actually have family in town this weekend or I would be thinking of ravishing someone! :-)
Uhhhhh....yay? Yay he has company so I don't have to worry bout being ravished, or yay he wants to ravish me? Your guess is as good as mine. I don't damn know either. Damn shame, isn't it? I know. (So is the nasty bitch's breath sitting next to me at Barnes and Noble. Damn, eat an altoid trick, and stop breathing on the rest of us. I'm gonna black out from holding my breath soon, then who'll finish my blog so my devoted reader can be satisfied? Consideration is the spice of life. So is fluoride.)
At this point in the story, I wasn't attracted to him. Description. White. 31. Blondish hair I think. Glasses (slim line). Blue eyes maybe. Nice smile. Again, taller than me but I only found this out recently when we were face to face...ish. Nice body. He works out. Also recently discovered. I'm on this Spartacus kick (thanks Starz and Manu Bennett the unbeknownst father of my children even though he too is white, but he's Australian or New Zealander so that makes it ok) so a man's body all muscled up and such does so much for me now...more than it ever did before. Well, that's not true. It's always done good shit for me. I'm just all about naked gladiators sending me off to dream land with a purpose. But I digress.
So, decent looking guy on Match.com but I wasn't feeling sleeping with another white boy. Been there. Done that. Moving on. I keep thinking about the last white dick I had, and it was the most awful thing ever. Put me off the whole race. That's some repugnant dick. Small and rhythmless. Rhythmless Nation. Damn shame. He's the only guy I faked an orgasm with. It was either that or fake a seizure but I couldn't pay the hospital bill for that. And a fake orgasm achieves its goal: dude feels like he laid it down, and I get him to stop what he's doing, cause he's about to ruin, the image and the style that I'm used to...never before have the words of Digital Underground been so perfect a fit for everyday life. Humpty Hump yo ass off!
So I was at this crossroads. I was fixing to go out with IHOP and WHITE BOY was doing the family thing and B-BOY was a no show. I was like, all the dudes I'm communicating with on Match, aren't anyone I'd like to get naked with. Can't even see that happening. They made my nether regions drier than the Sahara during famine season. I mean, what the fuck? So after being annoyed by IHOP's feelings of disrespect, I was watching the NBA All-Star game at MK's, when I decided to send WHITE BOY an email via my Match.com app on my phone. Yeah...I got the app. I'm invested. It was just something like, hey hope your weekend went well and you enjoyed your time with your family. We should talk soon, or words to that effect. Sure enough when I checked my email the next day he responded with:
Were you up late thinking of me? :-)
And I was like:
Perhaps :) I'm a night owl after all. I picked my friends up at the airport & they were taping the all star game, so I stayed over there to watch it, and that's why I was up late emailing you lol. I know it's not sexy, but it's the truth :) And since you're pretty good at replying to my emails, I figured while I was up, why not say hi. That way I knew I'd have a responce when I woke up. How was your weekend? Hope it was fun.
And he was like:
Its actually very sexy, you thought of me! My weekend was great, mom was in town so tons of shopping a good food! Thanks for asking. :-) I just left work, so heading to the gym and you? Then ill be chilling on the couch, glass of wine and a movie, but always better if shared with someone yummy! ;-)
So again, I was like, huh? He wants me to come over to his place? For wine? And movies? But for wine? Wine and anything always leads to something. At least for me anyway cause I like to drink. I get comfortable when the wine flows freely from my oversized cup or glass...directly into my mouth. At this time, I sent a frantic text to Sharelle cause I kinda needed some validation in what I knew I should do. Wasn't sure I'd do it though.
Anyway, all this rigmarole is boring you, but he called me and when I heard his voice, I knew I was gonna do the wrong thing. He has this cute little Alabama twang and it was a wrap. But I told myself in my bathroom mirror (as I put on some makeup and a cute top to accentuate somethings and try to hide others) that I was NOT gonna fuck him. It's just wine. And a movie. Keep your pants on and keep it casual. Agreed? Agreed. Good.
So I drive out to his spot, not that far from where I live, and get to his door and I check his apartment number on my phone several times before I knock, thinking what a dumb ass I am. I did text Sharelle that I was going to his place and this is his real name, his address, and his phone number just in case. I mean, he is white after all. Hell, for all I know, I could have been walking into a Dateline situation. He opened the door, and I thought I might be, but I wasn't sure that I was in trouble...until he poured the wine. In a nice GIANT glass. I told myself not to go down without a fight. But he came out in full battle mode. Wine. Stupid movie. Giant wine glass. Cuter than his pictures. Sick ass body. Cute southern twang. Smart ass white boy. Candles. More wine. Still in a giant glass. Maker of the first move in such a sexy, I want what I want, kinda way. I didn't give a shit about the movie any more, I was struggling to get my bra off.
That was last night. Yall getting this fresh off the presses! Now, there was no penetration but it was a good old fashioned make out session. One I hadn't had in a looooooooooonnnnng time. Cause why bullshit around when you can just bone? And, even though I'd just met him, I felt more comfortable with him than I expected. Maybe that's a sign that I'm coming into my own. I mean hell, I'll be peaking for the next several years...yay!!!! I don't know, but I wasn't worried bout the flab hanging over my jeans or my big ass thighs on top of his thighs. I'm thinking about it now and maybe that will prevent me from getting a call back. But I don't care really. I mean I do. I'd like to see him again, but at least I got something out of it. I got a little bit of release from the insurmountable sexual frustration that had been building within me for over a year! Yes, I said it! Shut up yall who get it on the regular! And yes, married people I'm talking to you. And any sluts who happen upon this blog. But what I told Sharelle when I recounted parts of the story to her today, is true. I needed to feel sexy. And I needed to feel desired. Fuck what happens today or tomorrow, but last night, that man wanted me. He wanted ME! And that was and always will be the perfect aphrodisiac.
Till next time, lovers!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)