My body's too BOOTYLICIOUS!!

Black women have for a long time been criticized, while at the same time, envied for their physical features. From the plump lips, that Angelina Jolie gets praised for, to the bodacious behind that put Jennifer Lopez on the map, features that are typically found in black women, are criticized until some “other” is lucky enough to have them.

Most recently, Congressman Jim Sensenbrenner, criticized Michelle Obama for having a “large posterior,” as she attempts to encourage others to maintain a healthy lifestyle by eating right and exercising. To Jim (can I call him Jim?), being healthy and also being curvy are mutually exclusive. You can’t possibly exercise as you promote, and also have an hourglass figure. In his mind, the natural figure of most black women symbolizes obesity, unhealthy eating, and lack of exercise. Why can't we just live our lives?

I’m sure that most black women would disagree with Jim (yea, I'll call him Jim). In fact, I run sometimes with the Black Girls Run group in Atlanta. There has to be over 300 black women that come out at least once a week to run 3+ miles on the downtown streets, the rolling hills, and the off-road trails of Atlanta. This confirms for me that many black women are making healthy choices. Running is allowing these women to be more psychologically healthy, physically healthy, socially healthy, and accountable for their lifestyle. Each time I go, I see familiar and new faces: short women, tall women, skinny women, plus-sized women, mature women, younger women, novice and experienced runners, but through all these differences, we all have one thing in common….booty. And we literally turn heads and stop traffic. Though we may differ in many ways that I feel some sort of way naming here, most of the women that come out have a curvy figure that really is the natural shape of black women, whether others deem it healthy or not.

You see, Jim Sensenbrenner, and any other nonbeliever of the black girl booty, black women can bring home the turkey bacon, fry it up in a pan, eat it with some asparagus, and then go running after, and still preserve a healthy lifestyle and an even healthier booty. POW!

Forgive, Forget, and Follow: The Chris Brown and Rihanna Story

I know that all of us are much too familiar with the age old adage, “forgive and forget.” If someone wrongs you, you must not only forgive that person, but also forget whatever infraction or inappropriate behavior he or she exhibited. We must move on, and not hold onto that bitterness, but let it go. It’s at that time, when we let it go, and move forward, where true healing and peace can show itself.

I agree with all of these things, and have experienced the beauty of true forgiveness at work. However, I was reading a few blogs recently about Chris Brown and Rihanna that seemed to have missed this “forgive and forget” lesson in Sunday School. First, one blog exaggerated the idea that Chris Brown had purchased a home, a “near-punching distance” to be exact, away from Rih-Rih (my personal nickname for her), And what is that distance you might ask? A whopping 8 miles! I don’t know about Hollywood, as I have to love it from a distance, but eight miles away from someone else is nothing to write a blog about, as if they were close enough to borrow sugar, eggs, or even an iPad to read this blog trash.

As I read further, bloggers were shaming Rih-Rih for following Chris Brown on Twitter, as if they had signed a friend contract like that on the Real Housewives of Atlanta. If we have been taught to forgive and forget, why are Rihanna and Chris Brown exempt from this level of humanness? How long should she hold onto the hurt, bitterness, and embarrassment of February 8, 2009? I’m not saying that they have to purchase BFF Pandora bracelets, but whatever they choose to do, it’s not for the world to scrutinize. I truly believe that forgiveness is not for the other person, and since that is the reality that I ascribe to, let Rih-Rih (and Chris Brown really) heal. Healing means different things to different people, so respect that process. Meanwhile, in the words of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, who also lives eight miles from Rih-Rih, “mind ya business, that’s all, just mind ya business!”

The Good Die Mostly Over Braids

Today, I lost my virginity. It was my first tailgating experience…ever! I have to say, it was all that I ever dreamed it would be. I tweeted and facebooked all throughout the game, ate, drank, wobbled, laughed, screamed, until I stumbled upon something so horrible, so deplorable, that I had to dedicate a tweet to it. And it read “Cornrows with heart beads on the end…on a grown man. I’m outdone.” Minutes later, I find out that it was actually Khujo from GOODIE MOB, but you know what, it doesn’t matter.

I am of the firm belief that besides dreadlocks, grown men, should not have braids. You are stretching it to get a pass from me after you turn 22. For me, it screams that you have yet to get your grown man on. When I think of grown man, I’m thinking of a man that is about his business that really values his appearance and any impression he is making on others. He is ready to let go of the juvenile experience of sitting between some woman’s legs to get his hair braided and his scalp greased. And then to have beads on the end, I just can't. Do you need some aluminum foil too?

I recognize that braids are simply a hair fashion, but at the end of the day, I just don’t like it! Leave the braids to the teenagers. Go get you a low cut dark caesar!

Black Ain't Beautiful

I went to New Orleans over the summer for the Essence Music Festival, and my eyes taught me a lesson. I really didn’t have to travel far to learn this lesson, as it is very apparent in my own backyard. But maybe my eyesight had been heightened for this weekend. Maybe my attention sharpened, maybe my alertness more keen, but this lesson knocked me over my head as if I had been ignoring or avoiding it for the last 5 years of my adult life….black ain’t that beautiful.

At Essence, you had two categories of women: women with weaves and women with natural hair. I swear to you, there were even very few women with even their own “naturally relaxed” hair, meaning hair that did not have hair extensions, it was just relaxed. Everywhere I went, women had weave; long weave, bangs made of weave, Mohawks made of weave, curly weave, straight weave, wavy weave, even “I’ve been using this weave for far too long” weave.

And if you know me, or even if you don’t, by now, you know that I am not a fan of the weave. If your weave serves a purpose, OK. If you work out a lot, and you use weave to help you balance the hair sweating, OK. If you’re going out of town, and you want an easy style, OK. If it’s a special occasion, and you want a different look, OK. If you’re using it to help you transition into being natural, OK. But just as an everyday thing, where you have even forgotten what your own hair looks like, I can’t get with it. And I’ll tell you why.

It seems to me that we as a black community have really come to accept the Westernized definition of beauty. We have learned that we are not good enough. Our hair is too kinky, and straight hair or Hawaiian silky hair is what makes a woman beautiful. Our hair doesn’t grow long enough, and long hair is what makes a woman beautiful. Our noses are too big. Our skin is too dark. Everything that we encompass is too much of something, yet not enough for us.

And I’m sure there are many women out there that are saying, “whatever, I just like to wear weave. I think it looks nice.” That’s fine. I’ll take that if you’re giving it. But ask yourself a question, how do you feel about yourself without it? Does it add to you? Does it make you feel more desirable? More attractive? More confident? If it does, ask yourself why. Why is it that adding something to your physical appearance, something that is not naturally you, that quite frankly transforms you into someone else, make you feel more beautiful? What standard of beauty are we appealing to? I would contest that it isn’t a standard of beauty that we ourselves have come to define and distinguish. It’s one in which we have adopted from somewhere else, some place else, that had decided that black ain’t beautiful, and that all of these other qualities, that blacks “clearly” don’t encompass, are.

I don’t want to seem like I’m attacking weave wearers, because I think there’s a bigger issue. Loving you, loving me, loving us…..feeling like we, in our own skin, are enough.

I would venture to say, that we, blacks are beautiful. This isn’t something that I’ve always completely swallowed myself. I’ve struggled with the size of my nose, my hair, my shape, the feelings of being invisible when you’re standing next to someone that has all the “white,” I mean “right” qualities. It isn’t easy, but the black community has got to embrace who we are, and come to define our own standard of beauty.

Dying On Our Feet

I’ve been waiting a long time to write this piece. For fear of offending people, for fear of seeming judgmental, for fear of stepping on people’s toes, even the ones that I love, just for fear, in fear. But at some point, this conversation has to be had, this darkness brought to light, this piece written. I am so saddened by it, yet angered by it, that I can no longer ignore the topic...unprotected sex outside of marriage.

It plagues my mind, humbles my spirit, angers my soul, and upsets my love for mankind. With all of the statistics that are readily available regarding HIV/AIDS and other STDs and the statistics surrounding single parent homes, I cannot help but to be completely baffled by the reality that women and men still place themselves in compromising situations where their lives and livelihoods are at risk. It’s one of those things that I just don’t get.

So often, when I speak to women, they use unprotected sex as a security blanket. They think that having unprotected sex is proof that the guy is not cheating on them. Or they have gotten to the point where they feel so comfortable with their man that they completely let their guard down. And letting your guard down is good. How can one expect to receive love if they are afraid of giving it? But that does not include putting yourself at risk or having children when you are not ready. How many times have we been dating someone, especially if we take it back pretty far, and feel that the relationship is going somewhere, really going somewhere? That this is someone I could marry? We quickly get married on scratch paper; you know, when we scribble our name with our boyfriend’s last name attached to it? We thought that it was going to last but it didn’t. So we end up having unprotected sex with all of our boyfriends, because this one, this one right here, this one, is going to last…but it doesn’t last forever. Our consequences do.

And it’s not about education anymore. It’s out there. The truth is out there. HIV/AIDS is real. Single parent struggles are real. But we seemed to have regressed to our teenage years, where we think that we’re untouchable, unstoppable. The problem is…we’re grown. We quickly find out that with our teenage decisions, comes a lot of adult responsibilities, adult reality, and adult heartache.

It’s not even specific to one type of community, or one type of person. There are educated, middle class women that make the same mistakes as uneducated women from lower class backgrounds. Teachers, lawyers, nurses, managers, McDonald’s crew members…we’re all cut from the same cloth. We make the same decisions when we meet a man that satisfies us sexually, mentally, emotionally, financially… or even if he doesn’t.

I have a friend who asserts that women, whether they admit it or not, have come to accept whatever the consequences are, as a possibility. That they have accepted the idea that they could get pregnant by this man, and that they are okay with it, and what comes along with it. I don’t agree, but okay, it’s probably not life or death. But the other side of that coin…have they also accepted the possibility of catching a life sentence? Have they swallowed that pill? I mean truly swallowed it? Because my thoughts are that it has to have crossed their mind at some point...what if? Just sit on that for a second. (second) What if? Truly what if? Why isn’t that “what if” strong enough, scary enough, challenging enough, to correct us?

We’ll continue to kill ourselves, kill our communities, kill our families, because we have not come to grips with the reality that bad or challenging things happen to good people, or that we are not immune from the harshness of life. We have the information we need. We have the statistics we need. We have the protection we need, yet we are dying on our feet (shoutout to King for the title).

And please please, do not waste your energy informing me of how nothing is promised, how marriages these days are not secure either. How your own husband can give you a disease. Save your breath. Save your fingers. Forget about Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and what they got going on. What are you doing to save yourself?

The Hand That Feeds You

I won’t be ignorant or insensitive and quote one of my favorite lines of Chris Rock’s Bigger and Blacker, but if you are familiar with his standup, you will soon realize what quote I am referring to. To put it plainly, I am so tired of black folks. Of course I realize that “all black people” are not one particular way or another, and I also realize that I am using “black folks” loosely. Charge it to my poetic license and not my level of open-mindedness or tolerance. However, the crime and mentality in many black neighborhoods is so devastating to our community and society in general, that it pains me to continue to witness and experience much of its effects. Although I have purposely placed myself in low-income communities to work, my desire to continue my service in our communities has recently been challenged.

As an educator, I see my purpose as helping children to grow and mature academically, emotionally, psychologically, and socially. I know that children from low income families, which are often minorities, often have problems getting the resources, instruction, and proper role models that they need in order to actually develop into the individuals that are going to contribute most to society. So that’s what I feel my purpose is…to help little minority children realize their potential and press towards that potential. But what is sad is, the community sees us not as community leaders or service providers, but as targets, targets for their criminal activity, their vandalism, their ignorance.

My second week on the job, my car was broken into, windows busted, and out of sight valuables, stolen. Just last week, two teenagers were standing outside in the almost empty parking lot, in the rain, with hoods on, waiting for myself and/or the other dedicated lone ranger to leave the building. The custodian had to watch me as I went to my car. And today, a hubcap from two different cars was stolen. All this, from a neighborhood that needs educators that can give their children, their brothers and their sisters, the love, attention, and intellectual stimulation that is so often missing in their own families of origin.

It is disheartening that as an educator, you sacrifice so much of yourself. You give your all. You endure ever-changing policies and methods of evaluation, budget cuts, and subpar pay just so that one student’s life can be enriched because of your service. You take your dedication to tomorrow’s future and become a teacher, a principal, a school counselor (that’s me), a school psychologist, and yet, a target. What happens when enough is enough, and all those dedicated individuals take their dedication elsewhere? A place where they will be safe, their belongings secured, and their efforts appreciated? Where will that leave our little minority children?

This blog was a nice little vent, but a follow-up to what all this means for black America is forthcoming....hold your horses.

Losing Isaiah...

Remember the stories about Pushalittleharder, the daddy who put his fire truck into the mommy’s fire station, or the school girl chants that we used to sing while shaking it to the north, east, south, and west? Or remember the episode of The Cosby Show when Rudy was singing, “Baby do it to me, all night long?” And she thought that the song was about doing homework? Well, those were the sexual jokes and references that I was introduced to in my elementary years. Yea, we had little innuendos and sexual conversations, but those stories are nothing compared to what children know these days.

Recently I was looking through some files, and I saw a beautiful picture of man’s penis and the vaginal lips of a woman. The illustration also showed a girl receiving oral sex from a little boy. Oh and the artist?....a 3rd grader. Since when did eight year olds know what oral sex was, let alone know that girls receive pleasure by being tasted in their Loveland? I sure didn’t. I’ve even had a 12 year old say something to me about tea bagging, and a 10 year old say something about jacking off. You may think my name was Wilma Mae if I told you when I learned about tea bagging. Kids are being exposed to so much….where does it end? And more importantly, where does it lead to?

This reality honestly scares me, because it means that children will inevitably make choices that their bodies and minds are not prepared for. They’re hearing things from their peers, seeing sexual acts and references on the television, and no doubt getting inappropriate information from their parents. This is when curiosity can literally kill the cat. Kids may end up choosing to participate in sexual activities without truly understanding what they are undertaking and the responsibilities that come along with it. And I know that “mama gotta get hers too,” and “rappers ain’t nobody’s role models,” but who then gets the responsibility? Or better yet, who will take on the responsibility as babies continue to have babies and communities continue to be plagued with STDs?

It’s like at some point between the 90’s and the new millennium, we’ve forgotten all about censorship and that line between what adults should know and what kids should know and the pacing of it. Before you know it, kids will be teaching adults the sexual education classes…but wait; do they even still have those?

And as an aside...special shoutouts go to my childhood sexual jokes research team...the women who had problems with their legs in undergrad.