Anyway, a simple explanation would have set this lady straight and a simple goodbye would have sent her on her way.

Yet, I was shocked to hear the personal finance expert, Jean Chatzky, tell her, “No, you’re confused” followed by a detailed explanation of the facts.

You’re confused?  WTF?

In my opinion, this is a good example of how we are socialized to create imaginary caste systems in our own little heads.  This caste system is based on so many different things – race, age, gender, sexual preference, ethnicity etc. and it governs how we view the world.  Chatzky just mass-communicated to the world that when an elderly person is incorrect, then they are by default confused and feeble.  This is my absolute top-of-the-list pet peeve…people who speak to the elderly as if they were children or in an otherwise condescending manner.  How are you gonna tell a grown ass person that he or she is confused?  Why not just give her a goddamn time out?  How about you spank her little, wrinkled fanny while you’re at it?

I mean why the old lady gotta be confused?  Even rocket scientists are wrong about some shit some times.  Ask a physicist when Tupac got shot!  Not so smart after all, eh?

The real issue to me is that it’s clear in her answer that Chatzy has a diminished view of the caller for some reason…I suspect age but maybe she just has something against callers named Myrtle.  Had the caller been a 30-year old man, he would not likely have been told that he was confused.  He may have been told that he was incorrect, sure…but not confused. 

Don’t think there’s an impact?  There are a plenty of old folks who lost their retirement when the economy bottomed out.  These people are looking for work but generally speaking, no one wants to hire older Americans.  Branding them as confused does nothing more than perpetuate an insidious, incorrect characterization that cheats the economy out of a knowledgebase that could potentially inject a higher level of expertise into the marketplace.

Instead you got folks like Chatzky subtly convincing us that an older American will come to work and walk around in circles all day trying to remember where she parked rather than making a contribution to the bottom line.  When in reality youth doesn’t guarantee you won’t be confused.  Shit, every time I go to the mall there’s only a 50/50 chance that I’m driving home the same car I drove there.

Look, several days ago I announced to the world that I thought it was time to get my mama a Jitterbug because this mobile technology was overwhelming her.  But my mama is also an astute, college-educated businesswoman with a husband of 40plus years, 5 kids and a lingering accent that makes it impossible for her to discuss her favorite singer, Lou Rawls.  She just can’t use — or see — her phone worth a damn.  She’s not confused.

What this boils down to is the value we neglect to place on the wisdom and experience elderly Americans bring to the table.  Our culture may worship youth but some us have been taught to value the wisdom of old folks particularly our parents (although not always without a fight.)  We listen, we learn and then we talk about putting them in a home behind their backs like normal people do.  What we don’t do is baby talk them or call them “Sweetie” or talk down to them.

So what if my dad goes to the market every couple of days to buy fresh bananas only to come home and lose one and walk around the house several times asking everyone if they’ve seen it.  He was born in a time and place where he couldn’t make direct eye contact with white people or he’d risk being lynched.  He lived to see a black President elected to office ( even though black boys are still being lynched. Sorry, but you know who I am by now.)  There’s hands-on experience in that lifespan – he educated himself and his family and taught us that no man-made social construct can prevent us from being whatever we wanted to be and doing whatever we wanted to do.   That’s right, he made us uppity!  He’s many things but what he’s NOT is confused.

So all that to say that my old ass parents are super dope and that Chatzky broad should be ashamed of herself.  For her disrespect AND her stupid name.

For 20 years, my stance has been that while the GOP has no particular affinity for minorities, for the most part, they are not intentionally pushing policies that prohibit us from defining and reaching our own success.   That works for me.  I don’t need a whole buncha uptight crazies inviting me to their table.  Especially since that table is probably in an isolated bunker somewhere in Montana.

The fact is, new GOP, you are not doing enough to ensure the very principles upon which you are founded are preserved.  You’ve been absolutely impotent for the past three plus years because you’re still too angry about who came to dinner.  Instead of channeling that anger into a sound conservative alternative that doesn’t require that I join you in the bunker, you’re acting like a bunch of bitches. And blind bitches, at that.

As carelessly as folks in the new GOP use the President’s race to overtly or covertly attack him, you continue to deny that racism exists in the ’12.   Without seeing the obvious effects of institutionalized racism, then you must really believe that we black and brown minorities are just shiftless, lazy layabouts who make babies out of wedlock, are not educable and commit crimes because we like the food in jail.  (I say black and brown minorities because Asians seem to be ok with you.  But, of course, who doesn’t love a cute, obedient, pocket-sized Oriental! Especially now that Coach makes those cool carriers.)

See, racism creates institutions that are designed to disenfranchise entire groups of people, move the prize out of their reach and then make it look like they’re at fault.  Racism also makes that disenfranchised group believe that they have no ability to jump up to reach that prize.   You get the second part…but I don’t think you get the first part.

I can see why.  Most of the minorities in your circle are afraid to speak out about the first part.   But telling half the story is no better than telling a lie.

Or maybe those inner circle minorities were just lucky enough to be largely unaffected by the first part.   For instance, I don’t believe there is anything my black ass cannot do once I set my mind to it.  Period.   You and your racist institutions couldn’t stop me if you tried.  And I dare you to try…cuz I haven’t doled out a good solid ass whoopin’ since….well, never…you know I can’t fight.  But that’s not my point – my point is that racism can’t affect me personally because I don’t allow it to.  Close the door? I’m coming in the window. (Unless said window is in Sanford, FL…)

Listen, just because you can’t see something or are not affected by something, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.  Kinda like Newt Gingrich’s sex appeal…not evident to the casual observer but chicks are bangin’ him in droves so there’s at least circumstantial evidence to support it’s existence.

It does exist and as long as it affects anyone, then it must affect me also.  (Racism, not Newt’s alleged sexy)  Wrong is wrong.

So, I think we need to be apart for a while, my dearest GOP;  perhaps some distance will give us both the perspective that we need.  Perhaps I’m a bit sensitive from seeing my brothers and sisters gunned down in the streets lately with no consequence.  Or maybe I’m just a bitch.

All I know, is that this time around, I won’t be at the party.   You will have to earn my love and my vote…and if the last three years have been an indication, it ain’t looking good.

*sigh*  it’s the end of an era…Uncle Gipper would be so ashamed.

Love,

Kimchi and Collard Greens

Ps – Don’t worry….I won’t be getting in bed with your equally impotent but whinier rival to spite you. I couldn’t stomach that.

Both Koreans and Blacks act out in church.  It’s a stereotype, I know.  But it’s true…and it takes time. So, since I’m not a fluent Korean speaker, I typically go where I can at least understand what the folks are saying.  Trust me, with all that hootin’ and hollerin’, the choice ain’t always obvious.

When I need to worship quickly, I attend a nice, white church with their punctuality, their silent agreement and their uncanny ability to end a song when the real words run out.  It’s delightful and refreshing and leaves plenty of day left to spend time with family and get ready for the week ahead.

But today, this beautiful Resurrection morning, I feel a great need to connect spiritually with my people and I know that means going back to my home church where old men and women, seasoned in the fire but still standing, sing deeply personal love songs to our Savior, heads thrown back and tears of gratitude streaming down their worn black faces.  God speaks to me there.  And I know, deep down in my spirit, that there is no way on God’s green earth we are getting out of here before 4 o’clock.

WHY??!!  Why, black people, do we gotta stay in church ALL DAY?  Lunch breaks, intermissions, shift changes…it’s gotta stop!  Got me in my car blogging in the parking lot cuz I know I won’t get out in time to do anything else all day.

Alright…I’m going in.  If you don’t hear from me by 4:00…consider sending in the hostage negotiators…sometimes they put the Hallelujah Choraliers on the doors when service runs long.

Public Service Announcement:  If you are not a believer, you have until noon (3:00 in black neighborhoods) to go to your favorite brunch spot without being subjected to the loud never-ending parade of church ladies in big floppy hats and random outbursts of “Hallelujah!” (that strangely coincide with the arrival of the bottomless mimosas.)

It’s Easter Sunday, man!  For church folks, Easter Sunday brunch is…the…BIG…GAME!!  It’s on and poppin’!

Happy Resurrection Day, folks!  *sniff* I’ll miss you… (theme from Titanic playing in the background)

How much is your brother worth?

Not the pothead one with the lazy eye that dropped out of high school after he knocked up the cafeteria lady with the 5 o’clock shadow that started at 2 o’clock?  Not that brother…

The other brother, the good one.

The one who would have met and married an amazing woman.  They’d have created beautiful children:  bright, happy, healthy.  Eventually, your brother and his family would have…maybe traveled the world with Doctors Without Borders providing care and hope to poor families in third world countries.  After years of service, they would have returned to the US in time for their oldest child to attend…let’s say Harvard University.

One by one, your brother would have sent his children out into the world fully equipped with all of the love, faith and education they needed to be well-balanced productive adults.  Your brother would have done his job well.  And you would have been there through it all.  Front and center, ringside seat.

What’s that worth?  Even if he had only lived 50 years that’s $1,000 per year, $83 per month, $2.70 dollars a day…in exchange for the good brother.  (Let’s throw in the cockeyed brother for free)

Which family member’s loss would you endure for $2.70 a day?

Listen, I don’t wanna get all preachy and what not.  It’s not that the money isn’t a right and good gesture particularly in an area of the world where most household incomes are just $300 a year.  I mean these folks are now almost set for life. Almost.

It’s just that I don’t want the money to buy out our outrage that we’re still in this never-ending fight for oil.  I want us to remain uneasy about that.  I want us to be in a constant state of discomfort, like a bad case of cramps that no amount of Motrin will resolve no matter how many you take so you lay in a crumpled ball on the floor in a fetal position unable to move but it still doesn’t help and even though it’s clear you don’t feel well the demands don’t stop – Mommy, where is the…Honey, did you make the…Auntie can you take me to the…until you SNAP and set the house on fire and watch all your troubles go up in flames…

Wait…what was I talking about?

Oh, yeah…Because this constant state of war will not be without consequence to our children and our future generations. And by “our”  I mean all over the world not just Americans.  We will be leaving the world to those children as well as our own.  It’s easy for us to lose sight of that.  We have the luxury of experiencing war, for the most part, from the couch with a cold drink and yummy snacks secure in the knowledge that no Afghan solider has ready access to our borders, let alone our homes.

For the most part, our wars are fought on their soil.

When it gets messy, we pay to clean it up.  Despite how the world feels about Americans, our money is still good money.  But let’s be clear on what that blood money is buying us. There is a smoldering anger that is stoked each time those dollars are spent, a constant reminder of the true cost of their new, so-called easier life.

It’s very important that we, as a nation, demand that our government establish the facts of this massacre quickly and publicly prosecute all wrongdoing.   Eventually, the relief and novelty of that money will wear off and those families will be looking for a bigger payout.  We’d better be ready because nothing, my friends, nothing pays a higher dividend than sweet, sweet justice.

My sister, when faced with the impossible, loves to say, “If we can put a man on the moon, then we can surely…blah, blah, blah”  It would be sad to think that for all of our advancements in the last fifty years, the one concept that continues to elude us is justice for all.  For crying out loud, it’s in the Pledge of Allegiance! 

I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands one nation under God indivisible with liberty and justice for all. *sigh. sad, heavy sigh*

I’m holding up my end of the bargain, America.  Whatchu got?

People, now is the time for action…but what are we to do?

The devaluation of black life, brown life, poor life, immigrant life…all of it…needs a melody to haunt us until we figure it out.  (Here’s Dylan performing one)

Thank you, GT Christie, for the education.  Sad to think that almost 50 years later, things really aren’t that different. In fact, they seem to be worse since we can’t even get the man arrested. (Here are the lyrics) 

These are powerful words, y’all.  I quoted some of them in my letter to my Congressman Frank Lautenberg and copied his major opponent, Dick Zimmer. (yes, Zimmer)  In my letter, I promised to visit soon to talk through any points that didn’t warrant action.  Won’t that be fun?

I’ll also send a copy to these folks…just for shits and giggles.  (Click Here for list of elected officials for Sanford FL)  

For no other reason than I simply don’t know what else to do, I’ll send a copy to the President, my governor, Florida’s governor, my mama, yo’ mama…

If that doesn’t work, I’m pulling out the big guns — that’s right I’m writing to Harry Hairston.  That man gets results!

I even had a teacher, in a misguided attempt to Americanize me, force me to drink milk until I threw up on the floor in front of the other kids.  I can still hear her saying, “We drink milk here and you will drink it, too.”  Good old Mrs. Jan Brewer.  I wonder what ever happened to her.  I heard she moved to Arizona or something…

When I complained to my parents, the higher priorities of keeping five growing children fed, clothed, educated, safe and – in one sister’s case – reasonably dry were hastily explained as I was ushered back to my room to start my homework so my mother could turn food for four into dinner for seven while my father studied through the night to finish college.

So, there I was left to my own devices.  And you know what?  Like millions of kids before me and millions of kids since…I figured it out.   Somewhere I survived the bullies and to be quite frank, I developed life skills: a thicker skin, a stronger backbone, a smarter mouth, a more resilient ass and a gag reflex that is easily triggered by dairy products and racist assholes.

Listen, I get it.  Bullies are different now because they got guns.  I’m not talking about those kids.  I’m talking about a mean bigger kid who teases your kid relentlessly and pushes his head into the toilet every now and again.  That kid is a kid.  Your kid is a kid.  Kids gotta deal with kids.  If your kid can’t handle kids, then your kid damn sho’ can’t handle life.  Life will beat the hell out of your kid better’n any bully I know.  Your kid has to learn to bob and weave, to tuck and roll, and, when necessary, to fight.  He has to learn that there are winners and losers…and that, if he wants to be a winner, he’s gotta make that happen.   Those who figure it out rise to the top!

Now it helps if you got some shit to give him to give his ass a head start.  Cuz I met your kid…and well, let’s just say, I fought the urge to stick his head in the toilet myself.  So, if he has a trust fund or a nice car, it’ll help.

All I know is that we are getting our first wave of adults who were once children raised by overprotective parents who turned everything into a cause and fought every battle on their behalf.  I gotta say, it really sucks.  They grow into squishy-bottomed grown ass folk who don’t know how to deal with any adversity at all.  Who drop out at the least hint of challenge.  And, of course, as red-blooded Americans, the rest of us just want to pinch their arm fat until they cry (which, trust me, doesn’t take long at all.)   It’s just not good for scoiety.

Before you all cuss me out, I’ll go on the record as saying – bullying is bad.  Not good.  Bullies suck and nothing makes me happier than watching one get his or her ass handed back by a little mousy kid who finds within himself the resolve to stand up and fight.

But while all of this anti-bullying stuff may sound great in theory, kids have been “self-socializing” since the beginning of time.  It’s adults who can never figure shit out.  Granted, this could go both ways.  I have visions of my little nephew, Piggy, running through his kindergarten class, wearing nothing but clam diggers and screaming “I have the conch!”…

Wow, on second thought, what the hell do I know?  I don’t have no damn kids.

As you were!

And speaking of low hanging fruit…(click here)

Ironically, Arlene loves Dick.

Love is in the air! (click here)

and does anyone else think it’s a little precious that #9′s name is Ka-$hing?

Seriously?

People, I can’t make this sh*t up…

Not one to pass on a challenge (with, of course, the one exception) — please see my completely selfless post below:

….

….

(crickets…)

(deafening sound of silence)

Ok, I’ll admit it…I got nothin’.

Sure, I’m not one to pass on a challenge but neither am I one to pass on the opportunity to annoy the hell outta someone who says hateful things to another person because of her OPINION.  (Hmmm, maybe Mom was right, maybe I am kind of an a-hole.)