We Were Wrong About The Revolution

I can’t keep still. Or quiet.

While I feel a deep sympathy for the families of Brown and Garner, I can’t help but view the lack of state indictments as symptomatic of a much more insidious disease.

What we are witnessing goes beyond police reform. Rather it is the overall collapse of the relationship between Blacks in America and our government. Like every failed relationship, reconciliation must begin with renewed trust in a mutually beneficial objective. We don’t have that today. As an African American, I’m hard pressed to believe that I am respected and valued by my own government.

But neither do I believe I am powerless against them. Nor have I ever.

The civil unrest that we are facing today provides us the opportunity to agree finally and unequivocally that America has a systemic and festering problem with racial equality that is now playing out for all the world to see. This showing weakens our standing amongst both our allies and those states that seek to harm us. If that’s too strong a statement, our civility is certainly in question and our credibility undermined as our allies send war correspondents to our cities to cover the protests. In other words, our race issues, often called crimes by other nations, have now become an issue of national security, homeland or otherwise.

These protests, while uncomfortable, are beneficial because we cannot begin a dialogue on solutions until we have agreed on the problem.

Our federal government must indict on the possible civil rights violations that were left unaddressed by state and local governments. Failure to do so, at this point, is a nonstarter of the healing process and true dialogue cannot begin.

#WeWereWrongAboutTheRevolution #ThatMofoIsCertainlyBeingTelevised #AndTweeted #BlackLivesMatter #AllLivesMatter #GodSaveUsAll


The Real Man Whisperer

Prior to today, I have stayed away from the topic of relationships. Mostly because I’m no effin’ good at them.

But today one of the fellas sent me this article and asked me my thoughts. (Click Here)

My thoughts on this are the same as my thoughts on relationships…”Shaddap!” Too many effin’ words. No man is going to read all of these words. So I went ahead and wrote out the DickNotes for The 8 Reasons Why A Real Man Would Never Cheat On Someone He Truly Loves.

#1: Real men are emotionally stable.

No the hell you’re not. Here’s the truth. Men…you’re going to have feelings. And then, because you’re maniacs, you’re going to have feelings about those feelings. When you’re done ovulating, drop the second set of feelings and use your words.

#2: Real men have enough willpower to keep it in their pants

That’s dumb. If you’re going to keep it in your pants…then keep it moving. Listen at this age, with your paunchy midriff and tentative hairline, you’re no catch, Princess. You haven’t got much else to offer. So take it out of your pants as frequently as you can – just make sure I’m around. As a matter of fact, give me your pants right now.

#3: Real men don’t date women they don’t love or don’t believe they can one day love.

WTF? How am I supposed to eat?

#4: Real men are respectful.

You better be cuz if you’re not…let’s just say that two can play this game. What? No, that’s not an invitation for a threesome, perv.

#5: Real men don’t need to add notches to their belts simply to make themselves feel like men.

Well, you the hell need something to hold them pants over that belly cuz that last hole on your belt has turned into the thin line between love and hate.  Maybe the notches would help.

#6: Real men would never hurt the women they love.

Unless she spits on him in an elevator. Too soon?

#7: Real men know what’s important in life – and it’s not another piece of ass

Why is it that men to get to have a piece of ass while we women have to contend with entire assholes?

#8: Real men have the guts to break up with women

As long as you’re not actually sitting IN the car, glass shards from the windshield probably won’t hit you anyway.

Any questions?

Keeping Up With The Kardashians

The truth is…I have quite the schnozzola. It’s always been substantial and I gotta tell ya…it ain’t shrinking. As a young woman, I was self-conscious about it. In fact, there are very few pictures of me in my twenties and thirties because I didn’t want to capture for everyone to see what I saw as a shortcoming. Never mind that I was often a loud, obnoxious, sarcastic asshole. Those shortcomings don’t show up on film.

 Now that I have settled into my body for the long haul, the schnoz bothers me less. But that acceptance has been a journey; one that each one of us must travel individually but that seems particularly poignant for women. So believe me when I say, I am in full and total support of a woman’s right to present to the world however she chooses.

 But today, I’m looking at a picture of a broad with bleached skin, 2 ft of weave, stenciled eyebrows, fake eyelashes, face full of makeup, colored contacts, acrylic nails, duck lips, gigantic silicon boobs, 50 inches of butt and hip enhancements and wearing a waist training corset with a HUGE social media following…and I have to ask…what message are we sending to the girls and boys who are coming up after us?

 I’m not looking to make a value statement about standards for beauty.   Listen, there’s nothing I’d like more than having big, gigantic boobs! I wouldn’t get anything done, I’d stay home and play with them all day. Who doesn’t like boobs?

 And I’m sure that all of these enhancements, if they occurred naturally, would be a lovely thing to behold. I think. It’s just that…my heart is breaking for the little girl somewhere who is looking at this tricked out physique as the ideal or even the norm.  Those are tough shoes to fill…and the bras and draws ain’t no walk in the park either.  

 At some point, we have to say enough is enough. How much dissatisfaction can we have with the way that we were made? We can synthesize a perfect world of beautiful dolls that all look alike but we miss the opportunity to fall in love with each other’s imperfections.

 Think about the people you really love. Isn’t there always some weird, quirky quality that belongs to them uniquely that makes them so damn lovable? An ex once told me that I walked like my left butt cheek was heavier than my right one and that he was afraid he’d never find that again. Really? You’d think that would be a good thing but it was this weird, knock-kneed quirk that he fell in love with first.

(Note: I know that may sound romantic but it was subsequently diminished when I later learned that he was collector of different, simultaneous quirks. And by quirks, I mean hoes.)

 One day, I may go ahead and fix my schnoz…but in the meantime, I just want you folks to love and accept this big-nosed bastard for ALL of my other lovable qualities.

 Ok…both of them.


 Now get the hell off my back. I’m doing the best I can.

…And One More Thing About Ferguson! (Then I’m Back To Shutting Up)

Let’s be clear. Arresting the officer who killed Michael Brown is not justice. Sure, it’s a pound of flesh…but you gotta rip that flesh from an 800-kb gorilla.

There is no such thing as justice for the family of Michael Brown. Prosecuting the officer who shot him is a necessary but arguably punitive measure that may bring about satisfaction or a sense of fairness but should certainly not be mistaken for justice because justice presupposes a sense of moral rightness. And in a place like Ferguson, MO…that just ain’t gonna be possible for everybody just by arresting one trigger happy cop.

 The 1990 census reports that blacks made up 25% of the population of Ferguson. By 2010, just 30 years later, that demographic grew to 67%. Yet, all the powers-that-be in Ferguson remain white. The mayor’s white, the chief of police is white, six out of seven city council members are white (that other one is Latino,) 6 outta 7 school board members are white (the other one IS black…so make a wish!) and all but three members of 53-member police department are white.

The last time I saw that much white, I was at a snow-covered ski resort in Liechtenstein on a polar bear rug eating mayonnaise on Wonder Bread with the NFL Wives’ Club. Oh yeah…or apartheid. I also saw it in apartheid. [uncomfortable silence]

The cop in question is a pawn in an entire system that oppresses black folks in Ferguson. And black folks have been playing along. The power structure will try to close ranks around him but make no mistake, he is nothing but a speed bump on the road to pacifying a people who contribute the majority of the economic base yet do not exercise or have the ability to exercise  (the jury is still out…but the jury is prolly all white, too) a voice in how they are governed and who will govern them.

 Black folks in Ferguson, and many towns across America that look like Ferguson, have been living under this 800-lb gorilla for the last 30 years. And by “living with” I mean, “oppressed by.”  And truthfully, oppression is as a deadly as a gun.  Certainly, the criminal act of murder must be prosecuted and punished. But sitting that cop in jail and returning to business as usual is not justice.  Justice for the community of Ferguson requires an insistence by the people that they be governed and policed by qualified people who look like them AND have as an agenda the best interest of a diversified community.  Otherwise, that community risks becoming a killing field for anyone…ANYONE…who is feared or misunderstood.  Death by gunshot, death by missed opportunity, death by lack of resources, death by an unsuitable education.  (Damn…ok, that’s kinda dramatic…but I’ma leave it in cuz I kinda need this point made)

 Without this change at this point, there can simply never be justice for the people of Ferguson.

Got that, Al Sharpton?

Boyz In The Hoodies

It is becoming clear to me that we still live in a society where our boys must be taught how to survive an encounter with authorities that may irrationally hate or fear them. While we see our boys simply as boys; some folks see our boys themselves as deadly weapons. This very simple yet overwhelmingly complex observation means that there is no such thing to some folks as an unarmed black boy – not even your silly, giggly baby big-boy in college who still loves to cuddle with you and eat pancakes shaped like Mickey Mouse when his friends aren’t around. We can protest this truism all day but we will be stepping over the dead bodies of our sons in order to do so.

Now, the truth is – we don’t yet know what really happened in that car. There is a possibility that the police officer did what he was supposed to do. Just because the young man was black and unarmed doesn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t pose a real, rather than perceived, threat and that the officer didn’t respond with the appropriate amount of force.

Like the rest of us, the overwhelming majority of police officers just want to go home at the end of their workday. Unlike the rest of us, they, on a daily basis, deal with an element that could prevent them from doing so.

So the flip side is that even in our outrage, we must also teach our children to respect. Respect our communities (c’mon…looting? sigh…) respect each other (Drake?  Chris Brown?  squash the beef…k?) respect the rules of fashion (no hoodies, please…) and please, in the name of all that is holy, respect authority.

If we don’t teach our own sons to respect authority – the police must…and will.

That’s all I got for now. I reserve further comment until the city, state and federal folks have finished their investigation. (Just outta curiousity…does anyone really believe I’ma be quiet until then?)

Much Ado About Nothing

I made a decision.

Several weeks ago, I had an opportunity to do something but I passed on it because it didn’t meet the standard that I have worked very hard and been very fortunate to enjoy over the years.  I was confident that something more suitable would come along.

As I’ve spent time since then looking for that more suitable opportunity, I had begun to have second thoughts about passing on opportunity in the first place.  Last night, for the first time, those thoughts kept me awake.  Tossing and turning, I replayed every negative consequence, every bad scenario over again in mind until I was sure that the decision to pass on the opportunity would in fact be the one defining moment that triggered a downward spiral into the depths of despair and poverty, my complete and utter destruction.  Yes, I used those words.  I used those words because I’m not new at this.

When I finally got of bed in the wee hours without the balm of a good or even mediocre night’s sleep, the anxiety from the previous eight hours sent me straight into fix-it mode.  Is it to late to fix it?  Can I call them back and see if I still have a chance?  In that early morning panic, it never occurred to me that there still existed a possibility that in this entire world there may be another opportunity, one that met my standard and didn’t require me to compromise what I needed for myself at this point in my life.  Not…one…time.

But thank God that wisdom sometimes runs on auto-pilot.  Something held me back from that fear-induced attempt to settle for the good enough opportunity.  As I sat at the kitchen table and panicked, sleep finally tugged at my eyelids.  Excited as at the prospect of reuniting with a long lost friend, I ran upstairs and got back into bed quickly before the feeling passed.  In that two hour respite from my racing emotions, I had a very simple dream.  In my dream, I am staring at a post.  A friend is staring from the other side of the post and we are arguing about the color.  We see two different colors.

Then I wake up.  The realization comes slowly, too much clarity can often knock me on my ass.

I’ve only looked at one side of the passed opportunity.  But on the other side, the passed opportunity could be making me available to the opportunity of a lifetime, the stuff dreams are made of and songs are written about and wars are fought over.  That could be the color that I see…simply by looking at it from the other side.  Passing on the opportunity is just a neutral calculation.  The actual facts are completely objective and unchanging.  Whether the outcome is good or the outcome is bad, the decision itself remains exactly the same. I am the one assigning all of these feelings to it.  And then having feelings about those feelings.  In reality, it’s just a simple decision and I can choose to decide how to feel about it just as simply.

So, with that, I made another decision today.


IGNORE THIS PART, PLEASE — **Writing 101 Challenge – Day 1 – Daily Prompt: Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write

Dreams Of My Father’s Kid

Born to very practical parents at a very inconvenient time, I was a kid more focused on chores than dreams. My younger sister born years later after our family stabilized, however, decided at 7 years old that she wanted to be a ninja.

By the time she announced her plans to become a ninja, I was a chubby, awkward teenager in tension with my lithe, self-possessed schoolmates who always knew the right thing to say or do. The thought of rising above the social fray and, more importantly, wearing the very slimming, pajama-like uniform made becoming a ninja sound like a pretty darn good way to solve many of the problems that had begun to surface as I advanced into enemy territory – high school. And so became my stolen dream.

Today, as a mature adult, I look back at that childish dream and know instantly that it had about as much chance to survive as the seam down the back of a Kardashian’s pants…Rob included.

First, being a ninja requires silence. I’ve never been good at silence. In fact, if I was better at silence, I wouldn’t be having the problems that I was seeking to solve by entering the ninjahood in the first place. Well, except for the chubby problem.  I did close my mouth long and often enough to chew plenty of cake.

Secondly, being a ninja requires some level of fighting skill. Anyone who has seen me walk knows that fighting, with its well-established requirement for coordination, would be just out of my range.

Lastly, being a ninja requires discipline. Now, I’m not saying that I’m not disciplined but I am the skinniest person you will ever find with a thin layer of blubber that could be dissolved by simply walking somewhere other than from the living room to the kitchen.

So when I look back on this set of skills – can’t shut up, gets my ass handed to me a lot, somewhat undisciplined (but totally willing and completely adorable) – it occurs to me that all of this time, I should have been a writer.

I’m glad it’s not too late.  I am still my father’s kid.

IGNORE THIS PART, PLEASE — **Writing 101 Challenge – Daily Prompt: As a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up? How close or far are you from that vision?**


#Writing101 #BigKidsDreamToo