Tag Archives: divorce

Black Problems

Wrote this piece while watching a lady in a laundromat do her daughter’s hair. I know that struggle; I became a single Dad when my daughter was 9 months old and I didn’t know anything about taking care of Black hair. My best friend came to California to hang with me for the summer two weeks after my ex left. My sister visited pretty frequently that summer from the Bay area. Then my mother arrived three months later and stayed with me for almost a year. None of us knew a thing about braiding or cornrowing. Fortunately, my next-door-neighbors were Sudanese and both daughters taught me to braid, and I ended up dating a beautician… Well, I thought about how Black girls had to balance beauty with self-esteem in a world where it seemed no one–not even Black men–loved them and who they are, or how they looked. Here was my beautiful Black daughter, in a family of non-Black women. I swore she would never have straightened hair (although her hair is somewhat straight)–I even carefully chose mates who wouldn’t leave her feeling left out or feeling like her Dad didn’t value women who looked like her. This is the dilemma of raising a Black girl in a White, male-oriented world. Teach her not to love herself as God made her, and you run the risk of teaching her not to love herself. I get that. To some, it’s just hair. To those who know better-she is the young, female version of Sampson. You teach her so much more by the seeds you allow to sprout from her scalp. I whipped out a pen, grabbed a flyer off the wall, and wrote this piece. Hope somebody out there can feel me.

Thanks for visiting my blog.

 

BLACK PROBLEMS

with a fine-toothed comb

she sorted out kinks

curls

and imperfections:

lint, grease, and debris

remnants of four-hundred years of ugliness

hoping to straighten out her blackness as well as her naps

wants nothing but the best for her baby

painful process with the power

to pursue a pampered life

mother’s prerogative to pass on

a pretentious policy for a positive future

pressing in

beauty, success and acceptance

all contained in what she perceives:

presentable hair.

as if relaxing away her pretty locks with a perm

could also relax away the tense life of being a Black woman

“life ain’t no crystal box of crayons, honey—”

mother’s desire to elevate her daughter’s beauty and status

by eradicating her African roots

the ignorant notion

of solving and sorting out Black problems

with a damned comb.

🙂

©2004

The Queen and the Princess...

The Queen and the Princess…

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His Purple Reign Is Over…

Prince SymbolI’m heartbroken.

Yeah, I’m a Prince fan. I wasn’t always. When I was 14, I had a girlfriend who loved Prince. She talked about him, wore the buttons, wrote in that easily recognizable 80s-Prince-style shorthand, even dressed like him. As a self-respecting ghetto boy, I couldn’t get with the program. I liked Hip Hop and DC GoGo music, and his Royal Sweetness was too effeminate for my taste. I liked 1999 and some of his earlier albums–but after seeing the video, I was cool off of Prince.

But then, I had my first date.

Purple Rain hit the theaters, and Mustafa Akamo’s first date was that movie–with my Grandfather sitting between us. Hey, it was a different time then! I went, griping about the theater she chose–I sure as hell didn’t want none of my homeboys to see me coming out of that theater. Hell, it was not much different than getting caught coming out of the porn theater! Anyway, by the end of the first song and scene of the movie, I was a fan. And have been ever since.

I don’t know about you, but I was a fan in the biggest way. Being a fan of Prince’s music was something I couldn’t share with my friends. We were ghetto kids, we did manly things like play streetball, football, and boxed. We fought kids from rival neighborhoods. This was DC, we wore lumberjack jackets, Adidas tennis shoes, our hats backwards, and if you liked something strange like David Bowie, Culture Club, or Duran Duran–you’d better keep that shit to yourself. Not that I was a closet fan… It was just something I enjoyed by myself. I owned all his albums, all the 45s, collected magazines with articles and song lyrics (but no posters–I drew the line there–this was an admiration of the music, not a damned crush lol). I even started writing in the shorthand. I wore trench coats, loved purple, let my hair grow long. I had a lot in common with him. We were both biracial Black men (so I thought, turns out–both his parents are Black), loved motorcycles, rock music, identified ourselves as “brothers”. Except I liked my women chocolate and dark, but he liked mixed women. No biggie.

I had four girls during my Prince stage that I was crazy about, but they were older and liked me as a friend and didn’t reciprocate:  Lauren Kelly-Washington (who went to Georgetown Prep), Kamalah Lucas (either Duke Ellington or GP), Lisa Ponder and Bernadette Brandon (who both went to Eastern High). I wrote love letters. I called them (during my time knowing them) daily, incessantly. I befriended them and learned how to talk to girls. Prince was there all the time, telling me what to say, even when I might as well have been listening to Chinese Arithmetic, because I had no clue what he was talking about. He accompanied me on dates. He was in the background when I daydreamed about them. By the time I made it to the University of Maryland, I was a well-seasoned Playboy. armed with my ambiguous bilingual ghetto-boy/intellect/poetry-writing street kid persona–and women found me to be an irresistible bitch. I could be romantic, intriguing, and fight two niggas at the same time. Articulate-as-hell-but-carried-a-gun type of interesting. Prince seduced the nation, and he taught me to seduce those I came in contact with, simply by being different, being exotic, being strange and peculiar, and being myself. At a time I was struggling to fit in, I learned through him, that fitting in isn’t always where it’s at. They laugh at me for being different; I learned to laugh at them because they are all the same. There’s power in standing out.

I used to say that three things pulled me back from becoming just another brother on the street:  my mother insisting that I was Filipino, my Cuban stepfather who taught me to dress and dance, cook and speak some Spanish, and Prince’s music–which balanced the pull of DC calling me out my racial mixture to join the rest of the brothers. Those who know me know that I am equally Afrocentric and exotic. Many don’t like it; they want me to choose sides. Prince was all about not choosing sides. Shit, that fool wouldn’t even make it known that he was decidedly straight, riding the fence and staying in the gray area is what made this brother stand out. Everybody loved him. Black folks knew he was Black. Latinos loved him because he gave nods to Latin rhythms and music. White folks thought his momma was White, and considered him to have “transcended race” (which happens to be White people’s way of saying “He can’t be Black, we like that nigga too!”).

The brother didn’t leave the race; he wasn’t bisexual. He was just Prince. That’s all. He was who he was, and the place he loved to hang out was right there in the middle. And in the middle where everybody could identify with him and appreciate him. He was kinda White, kinda Black, kinda Latin, kinda Hip Hop, kinda Rock, even kinda Country, kinda straight, kinda gay. He taught those who loved him to get past their own limited tastes and biases and just appreciate him for who he was:  an awesome musician.

There are people who are “fans of Prince’s music”, but then there are “Prince fans”. Prince fans got into more than just the music; we learned as much as we could about him. We still bought all his albums, even though he hadn’t had a #1 hit since 1989–and went to his concerts religiously. We dressed differently, we talked differently, we wrote differently. We enjoyed his music, then studied the lyrics asking, “What did he actually mean by that?”  We categorized dates and life events by whatever Prince songs we were jamming to at the time. He wasn’t just making albums we loved; his music was literally the soundtrack to our lives. And now, he’s gone.

There was a joke about his Royal Badness–that he was the only guy who could wear a headwrap and eyeliner, and STILL take your woman from you–and it’s true. He is probably the only guy a very straight man, even homophobic ones, would admit comfortably was a Sexy Mother Fucker and still feel masculine. Like I said, there will never be another.

This was our Elvis, the Black man’s 9/11. He taught us to say screw the mainstream, screw status quo and do your own thing. For that, I’m honored I had the pleasure of being a Prince fan.

June 7, 1958 - April 21, 2016

June 7, 1958 – April 21, 2016

From Him we came, to Him we return. Till we meet again, Prince Rogers Nelson. Rest in peace, my brother.

Thank you for visiting my blog.

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I Want You Back… #regret

I learned to use these #hashtags thingies on Facebook. Cool stuff, huh?

Anyway, periodically–and it never actually stops–one of my exes will call/email/text/send a message through mutual friend(s)… something to the effect of:

I’ve been going thru somethings (sic). I want you back

By the way ^^^ that was a real text. Don’t worry, this particular ex doesn’t read this blog. In fact, she never did; and that was one of the problems in our relationship. Her friends and family read it–but she didn’t have enough interest in me and the things that were important to me to ever read it. And let me tell you something. Through this blog, I have had groupies, fans, crushes, fall in love with me through this blog. My last blog totally endeared my ex to me, she is now a blogger who also takes public speaking engagements–and it began with her reading my work. I had given this ex a copy of my CD (a spoken word CD, if you want it, send $12.00 through Paypal using the “Donate” button on the main page sidebar) and she NEVER listened to it. Imagine that. You’re in love with someone and want to be with them apparently, but you don’t listen to or read their work. And keep in mind, this relationship lasted 18 months. Ain’t nobody that damned busy.

All kinds of signs, and boy can we be stupid. Oh boy can I be stupid. We do see them, don’t we? Just don’t heed them.

But enough about her. This article is about this very real lesson, that many just never learn from. It goes like this:  “The grass is, in fact,  greener on the other side. But only because that guy waters his grass.”

We could have the best thing we ever had; they could be beautiful, a great cook, intelligent, attentive, affectionate, caring, selfless, considerate, sensual, good for the ego, and most of all… They love us. They love our dirty draws, and nothing we do bothers them enough to discard the marriage or relationship. Yet for some strange reason, all we seem to notice is that their gut is getting a little big, her tits aren’t as nice as those the girl at the job has, their feet are crusty, his hair is thinning, her finances are thin… So we long for something–someONE else. Somebody we think is better, somebody more fun, a chick with a fatter booty, a guy with a bigger dick, somebody with a great credit rating. Our loved one is no longer a “loved” one, she now gets on our nerves. He spends too much time at your house, you wish the fool would go home, my favorite show is on. There’s all them cuties on Facebook and Tagged, and they require my attention…

Then one day, the one we love is gone. Yeah, now I’m free to smash. Smash the next door neighbor’s sister who’s been up on it since I moved in. Smash that security guard from the job who keeps buying you lunch. Smash that ex who swears the sex will be a marathon like “that one time”…. Life is good, isn’t it?  😉

It isn’t. At 1 a.m., when that new, exciting fling has gone home–or never spent the night because the newness of YOU wore off (just like the newness of your own ex)–you start to thinking about how badly she loved you. You feel bad about how you guys broke up, how she didn’t deserve it, or how happy he really made you. You think about how the quality of life has actually gone down the pipes because you no longer have someone who would sleep in the rain for you, give you their last dime, or how you were their Superman or Wonder Woman. You realize, like many, many exes:  “I fucked up.”

Yes, you did. You had a good thing and you ruined it. And don’t you dare say “I didn’t know what I had”, asshole. You knew what you had, you just never thought you’d lose it. You thought you could toss it aside, mistreat it, take it for granted, put it on ice–and then go back when you were ready. I’m sorry, life doesn’t work that way. One broken heart turns another. I’ve had my share of breaking hearts, and I’ve paid for it every single time. I’ve had mine broken more than anything, and I have foolishly dismissed playing with others because “After all I’ve been through, I deserve the right to play the heart-breaker this time.” Pure bullshit. That is the lover’s version of Israel’s foreign policy, I get to hurt others because others have hurt me. But like I said, life doesn’t work that way. Get it right the first time, because true love rarely affords you a do-over. Just learn from it, and get it right the next time.

We cheat, we ignore, we abuse mentally/emotionally/physically, we simply take them for granted. In the end, we dispose of a great relationship with someone who loves us deeply in favor of something where love may not even be a factor at all. We aren’t guaranteed to find this level of love again. In fact, if we betrayed our loved one, we probably don’t even deserve another true love. But what the hell do I know? I’m just a guy with 7 failed marriages.

repair a broken heartSo to answer my ex’s question (Mustafa, what do I have to do to get us back like it was before?), which she’d asked many times since we parted ways: Baby, you can’t. My heart is made of very fragile glass and once it breaks you can’t tape it back together with the excuse, the words “I’m sorry.”  Forgiveness is a strong part of relationships, but betrayal is not part of this equation. You can be forgiven, but that doesn’t mean you get to have the same benefits you had before just because you apologized. Murderers apologize, but their crime is permanent, and so is the punishment.

Good luck on your next relationship. Make sure it’s done right the first time.

Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Denial

“My master tole us dat de niggers started the railroad and that a nigger looking at a boiling coffee pot on a stove one day got the idea dat he could cause it to run by putting wheels on it. Dis nigger, being a blacksmith, put his thoughts to action by making wheels and put a coffee pot on it, and by some kinder means, he made it run an’ the idea was stole from him and day built de steam engine.”

— Mrs. Fanny Berry, a former slave born in 1823 (Weevils in the Wheat/Slave Narratives from Virginia ex slaves

For those that don’t know, in the 1930s, President Franklin Roosevelt employed writers to capture the stories of former slaves before the generation died out. There were many collections, including Weeviles in the Wheat. VERY interesting, enlightening reading. Stuff those history books don’t want to tell you. Things the writers of those history books most likely don’t know and didn’t think interesting enough to research.

I don’t blame white folks for not wanting to tell these stories; it makes them uncomfortable to discuss and confront. So it makes more sense to say it was in the past, or why bring up old wounds. But I need for MY black children to know of their own Holocaust and what was in their past, so that they don’t dishonor their ancestors by making a fucking fool of themselves or acting in a way that justifies the horrible treatment Black people are going to get at the hands of evil people who are just acting out the evil their forefathers bequeathed to them.

#malcolmXmodetoday

 

I thought I’d share something from my Facebook page. I wrote that. I write lots of thoughtful stuff, in between posting Twerk videos, chatting with frat brothers, and rehashing jokes, streetfights, and the occasional reposted Facebook Movement B.S. Plenty of those posts are buried under more posts and tagged photos and again, more bullshit.

But today, I thought about the state of race relations in America, and… No. I woke up around 5 a.m., and had thought about my relationship status, and how my lady was raised by her White mother, how she is a Black woman trapped in White skin and straight hair, and how she had to learn to be Black by the media, the ill-educated (about themselves) Black community, other Black women, and ultimately the White dominated American environment she lives in. You may be wondering what that had to do with Black and White. Well, let me ask you a question:  What do you think it means to be Black? Is it simply Black skin? Is it a nationality? Is it ethnic? Culture?

Black in America means something different than Black in any other country on this earth. You see, here in America, as a Black person, you are an ex-slave. Everything about being a Black man or Black woman in America has to trace itself back to slavery. Because without slavery, there would be no America. We wouldn’t have the White House. Slavery enabled America to be able to afford to revolt against England and declare itself a sovereign nation. Imagine:  400 years of FREE labor. You could kill a man if you wanted without going to jail (Casual Killing Act of 1669) — which, by the way, sounds a lot like the authority the Police have to kill Black men if the death occurred in the process of doing your job. You could force them to work when they were sick, there were no Labor Laws to place a limit on how many hours to make them work (seriously, did you think there was minimum wage? overtime? lunch breaks?). America prospered because of slavery, and everything the slaves suffered from hatred, to glass ceilings to low self-esteem, to anger they had to suppress turning cancerous to broken families and psychological problems…

Ooh. My next point. Take for example the following argument (also a post from my Facebook wall):

(paraphrasing) “You have to understand, after being take from their homeland, snatched from parents early, poorly fed, forced to work even when sick, beaten daily, long hours, no control over their own lives, constantly under a whip–lashing out violently and disobedience was bound to happen…”

↑↑  An animal trainer explaining elephants and tigers who suddenly attack their trainers. How is it that we can understand this <– but not that –>?? You feel me?

I hope you didn’t think that if a people were taken from their homeland, brutalized for an entire lifetime, then those brutalized people (with all the psychological damage they suffered because of it) raised a generation of children who were then brutalized as well, and then they raise a generation… and then the people are “freed” but continued to be brutalized through the Jim Crow era, then their children are brutalized through the civil rights movement, then their children are the most likely people to be drafted for the Vietnam War, then their children (continuing to be brutalized now, but by the police) are introduced to jobs, prosperity, film, gangster rap, drugs and alcohol (seriously, you didn’t think BLACK people invented crack cocaine did you?) until they took the reins from the White man and started brutalizing each other… Do you honestly believe these people are somehow 100% responsible for their behavior and thinking?

Tell you what. Let me take you hostage for one short year. I will treat you the way the slaves were treated. I will beat you daily, sell your children, rape your wife, force you to work whether you were sick or not, whether the weather was nice, 100 degrees or 20 degrees in the snow. Then I’ll let you free, and you tell ME if:

  1. Your behavior will be normal,
  2. If your thinking will be normal,
  3. If your relationships will be normal, and
  4. If you are fully responsible for any crazy shit you do

But it’s so much easier to say that this is a thing of the past, and that the bad behavior of the Vietnam Vet was fully his fault and he’s a grown man, so blah blah blah. Hell, the war was over, what–40 years ago? Can’t you just get over it? Why do you flinch everytime you hear thunder? Can’t you tell the difference between thunder and a mortar attack?

I’m sure none of your educated, politically correct Black friends will tell you this. But my white brothers and sisters, Black people DO have a problem fostering normal relationships. They have a major issue with authority and are very insecure when it comes to feeling respected and slighted. They are very defensive. When provoked, Black people will resort to extreme violence instead of talking about it. And the reason why is because YOU taught them that. YOU laid the foundation for this environment and the psychological damage they suffer–while generations ago–was inflicted by your ancestors, generations ago. You still reap the benefits from that relationship, trust me. Black people aren’t poor because of laziness. We need to get this out. To deny the pathology of why these things exist in the Black community is to deny past guilt because it makes you uncomfortable, but it still needs to be discussed. To act as if Black people should just “get over it” because slavery is over, is like telling the cancer victim to ignore his tumor and just “think positive” and make the most out of his life. Forgiveness and healing is a two way street; both the wronged and the wrong-doer must come to terms, and both parties must heal (yes, YOU too, must heal). There is something called “Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome”, similar to “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” and I believe both Black people as well as White people suffer from it. No one has undergone therapy for it, and it will just grow more infected until it either bursts or turns into another disease. You must not ignore it.

One last post from my wall. It has as much to do with White men as it does Black men:

“Boy I’m gonna beat yo *Black* ass! I’m gna take some branches, braid it together, pull your pants down and humiliate you, beat that ass till I’m too tired to whup (whip) you, beat you till you submit to my authority–and I’m gonna make YOU go get it, you Black ass child!” Dang, do you think this might have come from someplace else? We’ve certainly learned our Black history, haven’t we? Might be time to rethink some things about our culture… And how we parent our kids.

My lady thinks she knows a lot about being Black just because her grandmother is Black, and she likes Black music, and Black men. But there is a major part of being Black that is so much deeper and cannot be trivialized by the size of your ass or your dick, the brownness of your skin, the roll of your eyes, and the diction in your voice. Black in America is nothing like Black in Nigeria, or Black in Cuba, or Black in Jamaica. There is something that is so deep it cannot be seen, and until you know what it is–understanding it and reconciling it–you are at the mercy of forces that mean you no good. Likewise for what it means to be an American (yes, even a White American), because without this Black man and without this knowledge, the White American is carrying a cancer from five generations back that will not heal on its own. Though you don’t see it, you definitely feel it–although you may not recognize what it is. And the first step to understanding it is to rid yourself of the disease called “denial”. Denial of guilt. Denial of truth. Denial of history. Denial of what must come next.

And as always, I post this in love, not hate. Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Two Types of Lovers

I always say that in love, there are two types of lovers:  Givers and Receivers.

Are there levels in between? I think so. Just as there are those on the far right and far left of this balance. But most people, in my observation, as either Givers or Receivers.

Giver–likes to do for his or her mate. Not just material stuff, but the one who does most of the initiating for sex, for affection, gifts, compliments. This person is often confused with being the one who is “more” in love than the other. But Givers are also the one who most likely will leave a relationship. Givers generally do not ask for what they want. Givers are preoccupied with what they can do to keep and impress their mates, while Receivers, their opposite, are preoccupied with what their mates can do for them.

Receiver–like being “done”. Likes to receive the attention, asks for stuff in the relationship more than the other, seems to be the less affectionate one, seems to be less attentive, less involved, and always gets accused of being uninterested. Receivers have no problem asking for what they want, and are prone to asking for too much. They are not bothered by inconveniencing their mate, and rarely take into account how their mate feels about something because the receiver wants it. Receivers are huge on communication, since it’s important that they let their mate know what they want, but contrary to what they believe–receivers almost never hear what their mates communicate. Most likely to get dumped.

In a relationship or marriage, roles can be reversed. For whatever reason, someone who is normally a Giver may shut down and refuse to give, and take the role of the receiver. It could be out of pain of a past relationship. It could be “retaliation” for some hurt that a past lover inflicted, so the natural Giver is determined not to “give” too much of himself/herself again. It could be out of fear or caution. It could also be a reward for being a “good” woman or man in previous relationships, they feel like Hell, spoil ME for a change. Likewise for the Receiver who ends up being the older mate in a relationship, or the more prosperous one, or perhaps they fall in love harder than in previous marriages, and they want to show the mate the kind of love they normally liked to receive in their past.

And we have the extremes. I call them the True Giver or the True Receiver. The True Giver is one who gives so much of himself or herself, they lose their identity in the relationship and even give up their own desires in the relationship. Things they usually want in the relationship are forgotten, or they convince themselves that they really don’t want it because their mate won’t give it. So rather than face the reality that they are unequally yoked, or that their mate is disappointing (even hurting) them, they pretend not to care just in the name of keeping their mate, and keeping them happy. True Givers will not say what they want, even deny what they want because they don’t want to be refused by their mates. True Givers expect their mates to be mind-readers. They will say what they like and dislike once–and then never ask again. After all, I am here to please you. So tell me what you want, baby, I love you…. And that shit gets old. If the True Giver is never heard, someone will come along and talk sense into the True Giver’s ear and make the True Giver feel that they are being taken advantage of or that their mate is ungrateful. True Givers only appear to not want anything; they are easy to take advantage of, and easy to take for granted.

On the opposite end, we have the True Receiver. The True Receiver–and I have only had the misfortune of being with one once–appears to be perhaps the most selfish person you can meet. The True Receiver only focus on their wants, and almost never thinks about the feelings of their mates. Even if their mates share their desires, the True Receiver has no problem saying “absolutely not”, and refuse the request. Anything asked of the True Receiver is an inconvenience or seems either unreasonable or outrageous. The True Receiver is motivated by pleasure–having fun, feeling important, receiving attention, and feeling wanted. They are the kind who overtakes conversations, cuts their mates off in disagreements, loses their tempers, and threatens to leave. The True Receiver feels as if their mate should be happy to have them, and expect their mates to suppress desires in order to give them what they want. True Receivers are great communicators, and do not hold back feelings, unlike their opposite–who hold back so much, they have nearly a paranoid view of everything they think they see. The True Receiver’s compliments and gifts seem extra special to their mates, because they rarely give them, and in relationships, the True Receiver give pleasure because they have the power to seduce their mates by the mixture of pleasure and pain. Being so self-focused, even when the True Receiver is madly in love, their mates rarely know it and they are prone to being cheated on or dumped because their mates rarely know the deepness of their affections.

In relationships, you must know what kind of person you are and what kind of person your mate is. On top of that, you must also know who is assuming what role in that relationship, regardless of what kind of lover you each naturally are. We have to recognize the signs, talk them out, and learn to read the minds of the mates and decipher what they do and say. Givers seem to be desperate and needy. Receivers seem to be selfish. But the opposite could be true. Receivers could be self-involved because of past experience and they do so as a reward for themselves for past “good behavior”. Givers may give attention and gifts in the effort to force their mates to control them or be indebted to them. Knowing the kind of mate you have will tell you how to manage them and their style of loving you. Knowing yourself will help you modify your own actions so that you do not sabotage your relationship.

And you know, there must be a Part II, Part III and whatever else comes to mind. Stay tuned y’all!

Thanks for visiting my blog!

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The Death of the Black Wife

dont want no man

 

 

Yup that’s pretty much how it works. Our Black women seem to be the only ones pulling this shit. Yes, you have a job. Yes, you have your own things. But you are the LEAST likely women to land a husband (hell not even a Black man) and you act like you’re okay with that. Something is terribly wrong, my sisters. Lose that stupid pride and create families. This kind of stuff is killing our people.

If only you understood the dynamics of White dominance versus the Black Family. Going all the way back to slavery, Black families were kept apart, either by design or convenience, but because of the nature of chattel slavery the family was not a sacred institution. It was not respected. The slave master, if he wanted, could come out to the slave quarters and fuck your wife. As a man, you could do nothing about it. If he wanted, he could sell your husband to another plantation. If he had “good genes”–aka, large and strong and smart–he was rented out to other plantations to breed with the women of those plantations. Yes, my sisters, your husband was sent to other plantations (for a fee) to fuck other women. And worse than all of this:  If you had strong, healthy children, your children would be sold.

Let me jump in for a second. There exists in the Black community some rules some of our non-Black friends may not understand. If you are Black and southern you know this very well. Black children are kept close to the hip when around White folks. Children in general are inquisitive, they like to explore and learn. They are often mischievous, and Black children are no different. But go to Walmart, and see how violently Black mothers are to keep their kids in line around “company”.

Boy, if you don’t bring your ass over here I am going to beat your fucking ass. GET over here! Don’t touch a damned thing. You better not break nothing, they gone GET you!

You know what I’m talking about. We all have heard it. “They gone get you!” What is that?

Yes, when Black children are not controlled, stoic and anything short of a nuisance, any White man or woman–even those who are not your Master–had a legal right to abuse your child worse than any dog. Thing of the past you say? Do you know what happens to Black kids who are away from their parents when they act up?

emmitt till casket

This boy was 14 years old. His crime, whistling at an attractive White woman. Ask any of your Black friends, we all know the story.

But some other rules:

  • Telling our girls how not to get raped–as well as how to GET raped. Yes, how to “get” raped. By the time a girl is 11 or 12, we are already telling our daughters to hide their breasts and other body parts. And when they come (not “if”, but “when”), don’t fight them; it will only be worse. In some parts of the country, Black mothers don’t let their daughters out of sight.
  • Telling boys not to resist, talk back to, or to be overly polite–to police. We are told never to reach for a wallet too quickly without getting permission from a police officer.
  • Detaching from children, and not allowing them to be too affectionate with us. It weakens them, we think. Plus, we need to prepare the children we don’t truly own who could possibly be taken from us for when that day comes. If our kids are attached like your children are attached to you, it hurts more when they are sold–or jailed, or killed.
  • Telling our sons that in order to be seen as equal, they must be three times better than the White kids. Black boys are extra competitive for this reason, even in modern times. We are so used to being discriminated and discarded, we must guard against it by being extra valuable. On the plantation, the hardest working slaves didn’t get beaten. If a slave was more productive than the rest, a beating takes days, sometimes weeks, to recover. That’s lost production on the farm. Or the job. We can’t stand this nigger acting like that Black law school he attended makes him just as good as we are… But damn, we can’t afford to fire him. This is the reality Black men live with every day.
  • The use of a whipping as a form of discipline. Yeah, it’s a joke for Black folks–but do you ever wonder why Black people whip their children so much? It’s because it is how we were taught to be disciplined and controlled. But some white folks whup their children, right? The same way Black folks do, right? They do–in southern culture. Imagine where they learned that….

All that to say, that the lessons and ordeals we were forced to live with are still here. It dictates why we are the way we are today. Sure, slavery is over–by generations. But we learn from our parents, and they learned from their parents. And these things have become a part of our culture. Whether you recognize it or not, it exists.

So, when that Black woman says FUCK YOU to her men, I don’t need you, you ain’t shit, I’m better off without you–this is the result of generations of having to do it alone, and much to the delight of her Master–it is a sign that these Black folks are still the inferior people. Hell, this Black bitch (don’t get mad; half of you call yourselves this, and that’s what they called you!) can’t even keep a husband, let alone raise a child properly. Know your history, or you will be doomed to repeat it.

I apologize for the offensive language in this post. But I needed it for you to feel the heat radiating off these lines. Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Filed under Message to the Black Man

to the Iraqi mother

come

i must do it again, that natural primal inclination

(after all, she is a woman)

toes stiffen, fists curled, spine shivers, eyes rolled to the back of her head

last time, the tears overflowed like the Euphrates, endlessly

still young; plenty of time—they say, but her empty womb echoes a story

lowers her with a kiss as they bid her:

“come…”

“to the Iraqi mother”

2013

iraqi mother

In honor of a woman I saw interviewed whose second child in two years (? can’t remember the span) was killed via Iraqi “liberation” by our forces. The woman next to her was telling her she was still young enough to have another child. She broke from the interview to say, “I DID have another child!”

By the way, the picture is not of that mother, but it is real. Thanks to our belief that non-American lives are worth less than a gallon of oil–or sweet no-bid contracts–there  is no shortage of mothers losing their children we can put up to illustrate. It is a damn shame, that God, the All-knowing, Merciful One that He is, created Woman to bring gifts into the world, but men, who are her designated protectors, use the power of free will to take them away. When will we learn? (if you want to know more about her, the woman’s name is Wafaa Hussein. Her child was 6 when he was hit by a sniper:  READ MORE HERE)

Thanks for visiting my blog.

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Filed under Poetry