As women we constantly live in awe of each other. We compliment each other’s hair, outfits and the mole that sits above that woman’s lip. While we live in awe, we simultaneously live in fear, afraid that one day the mole that God strategically placed just above the curve of her lip will cause for him to notice her and not me.
Older women build misconceptions against young women that their shapes seduce the men that remain. If he says to her, I love your ambition, she snaps, feeling at 22 she had ambitions and drive too. She only has fragments to carry on her sleeve because while he chases and swears he doesn’t like a woman who wears weave she sits stationery with her fro going unnoticed.
While young women strut the shape of youth devoid of the pounds and wrinkles that stress will leave they drag the scars and pigments changes of skin and slowed beats of hearts that disappointment leaves.
When he says to her, I think you are beautiful, she assumes it is because of thin waist perked up a chest and a round behind. Looking down at her gallon figure she wonders if she will ever have that feeling, if she never changes.
Feeling beautiful is a constant race to emulate an outfit, hairstyle and persona we saw on someone else. Young women constantly chase the feeling that a second glance by a man and envy from another woman leaves. Yet we live as if they day never comes when that beauty fades.
We search for love believing we have to please him so we can love us. But if we really loved ourselves it would broadcast the deeply encrypted message of inner beauty.
While I used to thrive off someone telling me they loved my smile, I have learned to dash to the mirror to embrace a light toned woman who stares deep into my eyes and in cadence with my needs says to me, you are beautiful.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Monday, February 7, 2011
For The Love Of Detroit
If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
No, seriously, if you can make it in Detroit, a city that is painted as, well you’ve seen the picture, you’re Super Duper Man and Woman.
Does that make our success stories belong in comic books, with action heroes and sheroes because they made it in his bleak town, escaping the grip of Mr. Poverty, Queen Welfare and Maximus Minimumus Educational Value Kid?
No. It makes us Detroiters.
Detroit is the birthplace of pioneering. Motown changed the music industry and while Atlanta is a mecca for today’s musical talent, Jermaine Dupri had to call them the new Motown.
Henry Ford envisioned more than the car, he redefined the mass production process. And if you try and convince me that there is anything better than a Faygo Red Pop I will push you off our scenic international border.
Chrysler painted a well-rounded picture of the feelings that resonant with Detroiters.
We love our city and we’re not pretending we don’t have problems. We are learning to bench press our issues so they make us stronger.
It’s time out for, “someone who has never even been here,” as the Michigan man’s voice stated over Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” baseline, telling people about our story.
We get so strong-willed about our city we argue and nearly sever relationships over a Chrysler 200 commercial disputing its impact on the economics of our city. (I’ve seen the Facebook arguments.)
We are the big brother city. As cute and cuddly as New York, Chicago, Dallas and Atlanta are, they walk in our footsteps, trying to be like their big brother.
Big brothers and sisters know when to let the younger have its shine as we prep for our comeback.
While our population dwindles, the few who remain have been learning lessons to duck and dodge adversity from every aspect of city government.
Throw your punch education, kick us in the side police corruption, trip us dirty politicians, but when you get done you had better duck, because we’re coming back…pow, right in the kisser.
No, seriously, if you can make it in Detroit, a city that is painted as, well you’ve seen the picture, you’re Super Duper Man and Woman.
Does that make our success stories belong in comic books, with action heroes and sheroes because they made it in his bleak town, escaping the grip of Mr. Poverty, Queen Welfare and Maximus Minimumus Educational Value Kid?
No. It makes us Detroiters.
Detroit is the birthplace of pioneering. Motown changed the music industry and while Atlanta is a mecca for today’s musical talent, Jermaine Dupri had to call them the new Motown.
Henry Ford envisioned more than the car, he redefined the mass production process. And if you try and convince me that there is anything better than a Faygo Red Pop I will push you off our scenic international border.
Chrysler painted a well-rounded picture of the feelings that resonant with Detroiters.
We love our city and we’re not pretending we don’t have problems. We are learning to bench press our issues so they make us stronger.
It’s time out for, “someone who has never even been here,” as the Michigan man’s voice stated over Eminem’s “Lose Yourself” baseline, telling people about our story.
We get so strong-willed about our city we argue and nearly sever relationships over a Chrysler 200 commercial disputing its impact on the economics of our city. (I’ve seen the Facebook arguments.)
We are the big brother city. As cute and cuddly as New York, Chicago, Dallas and Atlanta are, they walk in our footsteps, trying to be like their big brother.
Big brothers and sisters know when to let the younger have its shine as we prep for our comeback.
While our population dwindles, the few who remain have been learning lessons to duck and dodge adversity from every aspect of city government.
Throw your punch education, kick us in the side police corruption, trip us dirty politicians, but when you get done you had better duck, because we’re coming back…pow, right in the kisser.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Words Will Hurt You
Niggas are black men.
Now before you start with black women are niggas too—and we all know some white people who are blacker than us—l am not talking about having nigga tendencies. I’m referring to a socially lived hidden stereotype placed on the black man as being the plague of the black community.
Watch an old movie, they call men niggers, or some variation, and women colored girls.
Fifty years later black leaders decide to bury the word “nigga.” No offense to the NAACP but black men have purposefully been buried for centuries.
They buried niggas by taking away their right to be fathers to their children during slavery, made their wives conduits to birth more slave babies. They buried them by lynching, burning their houses on fire and made them defenseless when protecting their women.
Today, they bury them under child support, unfair judicial practices, assumptions that jail will “rehabilitate them” when they’re 15 years old by placing them in a prison to be mentored by criminals.
In their community black leaders on television bury them, again. Tyler Perry makes some movie that he thinks helps but really demonizes the black man and paints black women as damsels waiting for the right nigga to save her.
To every black woman, we live in a society where everyone challenges the worth of the black man. If you don’t uplift him whether he’s your son, friend, man or brother, don’t ever expect someone else to.
They help us black women mourn their deaths. They herald the black woman as “superwoman.” She is strong enough to raise her kids all by herself and blah blah blah. Don’t you know that before a convicted murderer can be released on parole he has to apologize to the family of his victim?
Thanks for apologizing by plastering on new papers that 75percent of black babies are born to unwed mothers. Thank you for depriving nearly half of all black women from ever having a whole home because so many black men are locked up or out of jail and still imprisoned to what incarceration made them. What is your apology to the black children who will be raised by bitter mothers in fatherless homes? Is it a failing urban education system that places them in the same cycle as their parents? No, really…thanks.
In order for a black man to really be something he has to learn how to act white. But over time when a black man becomes too powerful, he has to be shut down.
When Fredrick Douglass began learning to read he became a threat to his slave master and so on the field he whipped Mr. Covey’s butt with pride in his blows.
Today they bury our fathers; tomorrow they will borrow our sons. Cycles are so harmful because they are natural, it takes hardly any effort to continue to a cycle.
Now to every defender of the NAACP. I do understand they have worth in our community. But burying the N-Word was nothing but a display of how we spend frivolous money.
I know a nigga they could have given 1/10th of the money to who would have kept his business a float that gives young black males a job, a role model, and teaches them work ethic and respect.
I know a nigga they could have given $2000 to help buy his first car so that he could go visit his son. When the pitter patter of feet came he didn’t run, he pulled his pants up, turned his hat frontwards and lived up to his responsibility.
They used stick and stones to break our bones and one word to tear our community apart.
Now before you start with black women are niggas too—and we all know some white people who are blacker than us—l am not talking about having nigga tendencies. I’m referring to a socially lived hidden stereotype placed on the black man as being the plague of the black community.
Watch an old movie, they call men niggers, or some variation, and women colored girls.
Fifty years later black leaders decide to bury the word “nigga.” No offense to the NAACP but black men have purposefully been buried for centuries.
They buried niggas by taking away their right to be fathers to their children during slavery, made their wives conduits to birth more slave babies. They buried them by lynching, burning their houses on fire and made them defenseless when protecting their women.
Today, they bury them under child support, unfair judicial practices, assumptions that jail will “rehabilitate them” when they’re 15 years old by placing them in a prison to be mentored by criminals.
In their community black leaders on television bury them, again. Tyler Perry makes some movie that he thinks helps but really demonizes the black man and paints black women as damsels waiting for the right nigga to save her.
To every black woman, we live in a society where everyone challenges the worth of the black man. If you don’t uplift him whether he’s your son, friend, man or brother, don’t ever expect someone else to.
They help us black women mourn their deaths. They herald the black woman as “superwoman.” She is strong enough to raise her kids all by herself and blah blah blah. Don’t you know that before a convicted murderer can be released on parole he has to apologize to the family of his victim?
Thanks for apologizing by plastering on new papers that 75percent of black babies are born to unwed mothers. Thank you for depriving nearly half of all black women from ever having a whole home because so many black men are locked up or out of jail and still imprisoned to what incarceration made them. What is your apology to the black children who will be raised by bitter mothers in fatherless homes? Is it a failing urban education system that places them in the same cycle as their parents? No, really…thanks.
In order for a black man to really be something he has to learn how to act white. But over time when a black man becomes too powerful, he has to be shut down.
When Fredrick Douglass began learning to read he became a threat to his slave master and so on the field he whipped Mr. Covey’s butt with pride in his blows.
Today they bury our fathers; tomorrow they will borrow our sons. Cycles are so harmful because they are natural, it takes hardly any effort to continue to a cycle.
Now to every defender of the NAACP. I do understand they have worth in our community. But burying the N-Word was nothing but a display of how we spend frivolous money.
I know a nigga they could have given 1/10th of the money to who would have kept his business a float that gives young black males a job, a role model, and teaches them work ethic and respect.
I know a nigga they could have given $2000 to help buy his first car so that he could go visit his son. When the pitter patter of feet came he didn’t run, he pulled his pants up, turned his hat frontwards and lived up to his responsibility.
They used stick and stones to break our bones and one word to tear our community apart.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Can I add a large fry?
You started with a donut for breakfast and from there it was a binge of greasy and fatty foods that pleased your taste buds, and disappointed your shape.
Two years after college the thickness turns to fat. Filling out jeans with big bones was no longer an excuse, but you only harmed yourself.
When the doctor checked your blood sugar levels you got new family members, diabetes and it’s first cousin high blood pressure, it’s sister obesity which gives you bad knees, and summons you to the couch because only the fridge is worth walking to.
But you only harmed yourself, right? Wrong.
How are diseases introduced into families?
It only takes one to force every person in their lineage to utter, "Yes, high blood pressure and diabetes run in my family." They won't add that accolade to your contributions in the family's history, but everyone will thank you as they try to avoid the plus size section.
My grandmother is approaching 87 years, and she doesn't make green beans without ham hocks and fried is always the first option. We should stop using the excuse that our grandparents turned out fine, they didn't grow up eating Happy Meals.
Happy meals in the south were home cooked, not processed.
Don’t be the one to start the downward cycle of obesity related issues in your family. And if it’s already there, stop the cycle.
Save your family’s life. Eat better, exercise and live longer.
Two years after college the thickness turns to fat. Filling out jeans with big bones was no longer an excuse, but you only harmed yourself.
When the doctor checked your blood sugar levels you got new family members, diabetes and it’s first cousin high blood pressure, it’s sister obesity which gives you bad knees, and summons you to the couch because only the fridge is worth walking to.
But you only harmed yourself, right? Wrong.
How are diseases introduced into families?
It only takes one to force every person in their lineage to utter, "Yes, high blood pressure and diabetes run in my family." They won't add that accolade to your contributions in the family's history, but everyone will thank you as they try to avoid the plus size section.
My grandmother is approaching 87 years, and she doesn't make green beans without ham hocks and fried is always the first option. We should stop using the excuse that our grandparents turned out fine, they didn't grow up eating Happy Meals.
Happy meals in the south were home cooked, not processed.
Don’t be the one to start the downward cycle of obesity related issues in your family. And if it’s already there, stop the cycle.
Save your family’s life. Eat better, exercise and live longer.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Size 6 Please
I searched my pockets for the $55 dollars I knew was there. I broke out in a nervous sweat and gave a half smile to the cashier waiting for me to hand him the money for the biggest purchase of my 13 year old life, a pair of white K-Swiss.
This was a big deal. I was going to have a pair of name brand shoes and I was buying it with the extra money I earned from relinquishing my innocence to take care of my sister. Still searching, I had turned my pockets inside out. There was nothing there besides the residue of the tears that wouldn't flow from my eyes but seeped through my epidermis.
I was embarassed, confused, ashamed, and quite frankly, disppointed. How could I lose my $55. I purposely caught the bus to Northland instead of walking so I could keep a look at my monies folded into a symetrical bond. Lincoln held Hamilton as if they were brothers embracing after years separation.
Walking up to my yellow house I reached in my pocket again; the money was there all along. Somehow I just didn't feel it. Dashing back to Northland and with the change I was short I purchased my shoes and I rocked my size 6 K-Swiss.
In commeration of my first pair of shoes I taped $55 to a piece of paper. I kept the box, wrote precious memories on the outside, and I still have the box today. Inside that K-Swiss box are things I hope to never forget: an obituary from my brother's funeral, a copy of my orignal birth certificate, the first poem I wrote and a lot of other things that seem meaningless.
Last week I was cleaning my room and feeling the frustrations of not having the monies to apply for all the grad schools I so desperately needed to. I stumbled across my precious memories box. There, is an oddly folded piece of paper was $55, the exact amount of the application fee for Clark Atlanta University.
Sometimes your destiny starts to pave streets for you before you even learn to drive.
This was a big deal. I was going to have a pair of name brand shoes and I was buying it with the extra money I earned from relinquishing my innocence to take care of my sister. Still searching, I had turned my pockets inside out. There was nothing there besides the residue of the tears that wouldn't flow from my eyes but seeped through my epidermis.
I was embarassed, confused, ashamed, and quite frankly, disppointed. How could I lose my $55. I purposely caught the bus to Northland instead of walking so I could keep a look at my monies folded into a symetrical bond. Lincoln held Hamilton as if they were brothers embracing after years separation.
Walking up to my yellow house I reached in my pocket again; the money was there all along. Somehow I just didn't feel it. Dashing back to Northland and with the change I was short I purchased my shoes and I rocked my size 6 K-Swiss.
In commeration of my first pair of shoes I taped $55 to a piece of paper. I kept the box, wrote precious memories on the outside, and I still have the box today. Inside that K-Swiss box are things I hope to never forget: an obituary from my brother's funeral, a copy of my orignal birth certificate, the first poem I wrote and a lot of other things that seem meaningless.
Last week I was cleaning my room and feeling the frustrations of not having the monies to apply for all the grad schools I so desperately needed to. I stumbled across my precious memories box. There, is an oddly folded piece of paper was $55, the exact amount of the application fee for Clark Atlanta University.
Sometimes your destiny starts to pave streets for you before you even learn to drive.
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