Entire Roman cities used visual cues of sex acts to direct male, female, or coupled patrons to the appropriate section so that they may find what they sought as entertainment. Very few symbols are so innately known to man as hunting, fire, and sex.

Now that I think of it, it’s almost one and the same thing, isn’t it?

Is ‘erotica’ the aesthetic, sensory stimulating, experience that people claim it to be?

Erotica is less intrusive, less banal, less animalistic and more intelligent, so they say.

Is ‘pornography’ simply anything representing nudity, sex acts or copulation?

Porn is a huge umbrella that includes every little piece of whatever people, place or thing that makes people terribly uncomfortable with themselves.

And what about the womenz????!! 

No matter if you are a fan of erotica, porn or both or neither, there’s one things that can’t be debated.

Both mediums are meant to stimulate a reaction in the observer, and they do!

People get aroused.

Be it.

Sexually.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

Check out Corset Magazine Vol 6: Porn Versus Erotica now on sale for immediate download (and a special limited time deal!)

Careful with these links!!! NSFW!!!!

Featuring the work of Inna Rae, Elle “Lady Cheeky” Chase, Brett Jackman, Elizabeth Lister, Ayna Stein, Jenna Opperman, Frances Foster, Tia Aikens, myself and many others. If you haven’t already checked out Corset Magazine, give it a peek.

You’ll find the conversation enticing, intelligent, open minded and positive.

Sex is positively a good thing. Read. Look. Stare. Have. Enjoy!

Maybe it makes more sense to say that the words were recorded in order to be captured… and not necessarily to be read, or published or circulated for the consumption of others. Maybe the person wanted to see their words written. Can you recall the very first time you recognized your name written on paper? How did that make you feel? Do you remember that point in time that you understood that you are a part of something else going on, the point when you became aware. 

Self-awareness is the capacity for introspection and the ability to recognize oneself as an individual separate from the environment and other individuals.

Consumption, is a funny word when it comes to information as it relates to a person. The reader is internalizing what they are reading, and certain readers can go even further within the mere words on the page. They feel the emotions splayed within written words.

This emotional response creates a relationship, between the reader and the subject, attributes become recognizable in real life.

The reader now knows that something besides their version of life is possible. They take on the experiences conveyed by the ‘voice’, that nameless subliminal person that reads the words along in your head as you move your eyes along the page. So you read, and so you know, or think you know, of a person’s experience, at least as far as it is revealed in written text.

Once I began to read as a child, we moved on from the repetitive simple words of the newspaper and my Grandma began to feed me books. As a former English school teacher in pre-Civil Rights Alabama, she made sure my reading included plenty of historical books, but not like the ones that I would study later in life as part of my formal education. These books contained people in them like the ones she had been telling me about.

The Red People.

The White People.

And The Black People…..the people that others called slaves.

The words that are recorded and regarded as slave narratives aren’t really narratives if you think about it. Many of these stories are ‘as told to’ accounts of a former slave person’s life codified by some educated, and probably not black person for reasons that varied according to the intent of the money spent to accomplish such goals. Who can ever know if the stories used to convincing society that Blacks were happy in slavery were authentic but they were well received and often used to defend slavery.

Some text displayed the misery of the slaves and made the call for whites to consider the human plight of the animal which they favored as the go-to beast of burden of the day. Blacks never had the opportunity to learn to read and write as comprehensively as Whites, and the ability to do so is a privilege even to this day. Considering the rate of illiteracy that still plague people of AA decent in this country it seems that not much has changed.

But I could read, and I did read as often as I could and as much as possible, and I realized that if I focused hard enough I could hear the slaves speaking to me. Engulfed in their stories while sitting in my Dad’s easychair, I would spend hours upon hours living in the world of the past. I understood these people, and felt for them, and at some points I felt like I knew them.

 To the friends of progress and elevation I propose to write a narrative of real life as a slave and as a citizen. Believing that every person, who regards those that are striving to educate themselves, will give this little book some encouragement when its author presents it to them, and believing that every gentleman and lady will do so, I feel satisfied to submit the following facts of my life when in slavery and now as a freeman. Many persons may think that a man who would publish his life should do it intelligently, and do I. If you cannot write it intelligently do the best you can, and next time endeavor to do better. There is not much expected of a man at his first attempt who has spent his early days in slavery, and has had no opportunity to learn to read or write, but believing that this little book will help me to do better in the future I feel encouraged to persevere, as I have always done, to the best of my knowledge. (Source John Quincy Adams-1872)

And I read more: Black Like Me and The Souls of Black Folks but it wasn’t until Incidences in the Life of a Slave Girl that I heard the first independent accounting of black life as told through a female ‘voice’ whose internal thought and emotional wasn’t that different from my own world. The fancy footwork that goes into being black, female and under the rule of a male dominated society is a jig, indeed, and I think many of us would agree that we all know some of the steps to this dance though the music has changed over the years.

I read accounts of different women and their lives, like The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pitmann, though a fictional accounting it was a focal point of many conversations with my Grandma. Grandma Hill used the past behavior of Whites and their specific intention to deny Blacks the chance to read and write as evidence to me that I should value my ability to read, and that I should use the opportunities that literacy afford me and mine. As a teenager roaming the streets, I would sometimes come across older Black men that would present me with letters, or documents and ask me if I could ‘read good’, I take pride in my affirmative response, as I reach for whatever it is and read it as many times as needed until they understand.

I answer as many questions as I can with information I believe to be accurate. “Each one, teach one” or “I am my brother’s keeper”, or maybe I am the one slave capable of reading charged with providing valuable and trustworthy information to those less fortunate than I; the motivation is unimportant. Yet here I am.

Big Jessie was illiterate, as the oldest male, he was responsible for helping to provide for his siblings and extended family when his mother died and his father needed more income to support his children. And because Black men were/are valued for their strong backs and not their strong minds, school was/is both a luxury, an inconvenience and a low priority when it comes to obtaining substantial, quick and much needed income with brown hands.

My father would join in often as I talked about slavery and history with Grandma, since his ‘people’ were direct descendants of plantation slaves from North Carolina, he could recount stories told to him by his ancestors or overheard as a child to the validity of the despair and disregard that was reality for Blacks not that long ago. His grandparents were emancipated slaves and his parents were born free.

To hear my father stand in front of me, the biggest, most powerful being in my world, my protection, my security and my provider. My father in every sense of the word and realize the abuse suffered through fictional characters  in books that could be closed, forgotten and ignored, was something close enough to touch him and the people that contributed to his existence made an impact on me that never left, and I hope it never will.

I read through all of the Black literature books in the local library, in the school’s small library and soon I discovered the mecca of all things beautiful and magnificent. Old enough to wander now, and spend time exploring using my own devices without adult supervision, I found my way into my very first book store. Books, like a library, sectioned off by topics. No one lifted their head when I walked in wearing my telltale brown plaid uniform and patched cardigan sweater.

I moved through each aisle until I came across the African American literature section. Now able to skip over most of the books that Freshman college students have on their reading list, I wanted something different. I began supplementing my reading  years earlier and knew enough about spaceships (Star Trek books), pirates, and damsels in distress. I needed a new world, and that world jumped out at me. Bold, in plain sight, and often overlooked, if only to be acknowledged as a warning against a certain that life hovered directly beneath civilization.

A Dopefiend.

A Whoreson.

A Swamp Man (still a favorite) Donald Goines was a Black Latino from a middle class family working family in Detroit. Attractive, charismatic, intelligent, adventurous and ahead of his short time on Earth there was no real reason for him to be involved in the life he chose to live. He was a career criminal before turning 18. A forged document and acceptance into the Navy didn’t become the solution he had hoped for, instead it opened up a word of drug addiction and further exposure to the underbelly of society.

Donald Goines wrote for only 5 years, many of his better novels were penned while in prison at the encouragement of other prisoners. Goines was talented and he told the story of the street people from the point of view of the street person. He showed me that brilliance does not come with a pedigree and title bestowed on an author by an authority of some sorts. A criminal, a pimp and a drug addict’s story spoken while experiencing clarity, the volume of which is evident when comparing his prison work versus his work while out in society, created relevance as it described the people that working class people ignored, yet were part of. I understood his conflict, and his disgust. I understood his decisions and carelessness in playing a game that he felt there were no winners.

For each and every whore, pimp, gangster or wailing victim in his novels there is a piece of the author within the character. The boogeyman gained humanity and I began to look deeper at my own low class urban environment because of his words.

Pimp. Whore. Criminal. Drug Addict. Son. Child. Person. Coping. Pain. Survival. Destruction. Elitist. Denial. Ostracization. Economic Disenfranchisement. Opportunity.

He was working on a new set of material, and had not yet beat his drug addiction, when someone entered his home and shot to death he and his common law wife. His murder is still unsolved because drug addicted Black men die every day in Detroit, then and now. From him I learned that a golden path doesn’t always lead to the happy ever after and even when you find your way back to that path, the cloud may follow you. Then what?

Criminals are to be feared, but there used to be a code, and a reason and a season to the madness. Good people go crazy over money.

I learned from reading and observation that most people are honest, and morality is directly tied to your pockets. But that’s a story for another time, kids. Meanwhile, all this talk of pimpin and whores led me to want to know more about the women that sold their bodies for these certain special men. I sought the ying for the yang. Remind me to tell you about Pimps Up, Hoes Down, some other time.

I learned of the good girls who were used before they got a chance to give themselves anything, including a chance to be ‘good girl’ normal. I learned that normal people’s actions are what directly contribute to a lot of what turns the ‘immoral’ and undesirable people into the animals behind the cage. I learned that ‘normal’ people are the ones that abuse, exploit and turn a blind eye hoping that its not them.

I learned that women who sold pussy do so to feed their drug addiction, to buy back their self worth from having their pussy taken from them much earlier on and for nothing in return but further shame, and to do strange things such as feed their kids and keep the lights on once paychecks cease. I learned that men with money can purchase pussy, or take pussy and if he has enough resources he can protect (or take) the pussy that’s important to him, like his wife and daughter’s without interference from other men who should make him stop, but don’t or won’t. I learned that a woman’s ‘virtue’ is directly tied to the penis.

Either she’s spawned from it, or on the receiving end of it, and male protection is only another vehicle for patriarchal oppression. I didn’t have the benefit of knowing the words for the system but that shit was as clear as the endless rhythm of the green binary code in the Matrix. By age 13 I became aware of the existence of the ‘sex trade’ and not of ‘loose’ women who were simply whores and hated by God to damnation, as was my previous understanding before reading this genre.

Manchild in the Promise Land helped me to become aware of the emptiness felt by some Black men and their confusion about how doing all the right things still lead them to the wrong place. Poverty. Underclass people chase themselves in circles often, all in search of the way out, and the preferred and easily attainable Exit is usually contained in drugs, and violence among and against the other people that just don’t matter.

The coping mechanism hasn’t changed, regardless of the decade from which the literature is written, the only expression of frustration available to the underclass is sex, drugs and rock and roll, or the blues, or hip hop, or old Negro spirituals. I did learn to be wary of men offering me drugs, as I watched female friend, after female friend develop addictions while dating a casual drug user. I observed Black man after Black man take up alcohol, hard drugs or both as medicine against the pain of being a soldier aware that he has been sent to war to die. White picket fences are not freely given and when they are captured, they can easily be taken away.

The Women of Brewster Place, and my first look at the inner turmoil of various female characters. A lesbian couple, the ‘whore’ who needs the assistance of the mostly married men in order to keep her title current around town, the ‘do-good’ neighborhood Mammie Mule who will hold the entire village together with the sheer willpower of her belief in God, sweet potato pie and a her huge salvation seeking bosom.

Homosexuality, and black femininity exist in the same place? Those neighborhood men who were kind, clean, polite and charming but unmarried and childless are quietly closeted gays?  Is that what my mother meant when she whispered ‘faggot’ as they departed from a lengthy conversation with her? I began to see hypocrisy in the everyday dealings of society, things turned gray, and beyond the understanding of my White peers.

Native Son is related to the Trick Baby.

My Grandma and I would hang out, though it had been while since she has recently moved back from living in Alabama for two years. We saw The Color Purple together, and we purchased the book for my mother to read, as a gift. It was one of the last times I would spend with my Grandmother. I wanted to tell her that the book wasn’t like the movie, and to ask questions about the relationship between Celie and Shug. My mother would have had a fit had she known there was any reference to sex, let alone between two women, I didn’t know such a thing existed until I read the Women of Brewster Place, and here it was again.

Homosexuality between women confused me, as I had discovered the phenomenon explained through books. But it wasn’t that I didn’t understand the romantic interactions between women. Instead, my conflict was having realized that Black people’s reaction to female loving female relationships is either hostility, disgust, violence or condemnation. I thought if anyone, that she would have the answer to explain my misunderstanding of the implications of the words, surely this wasn’t an accurate description of women’s lives. I misunderstood.

My Grandma was my secret keeper and non judgemental safe place. There was nothing I could tell her that would make her not love me anymore. I remember being very bothered by what I had learned, that Black women would be hated for doing what I thought was natural to women. I am very bothered that this has not yet changed.

The ‘voice’ of J California Cooper’s work was a great discovery and how they spoke in the dialect of my Southern Dad, and his friends. She tells the most amazing stories and I still feel guilty for not returning her book to the library.

A Piece of Cake. Because a crack head can become an aware winning author, attorney and inspiration. Broken pieces of people are made stronger by calluses, duct tape and faith.

Push. Because fighting for your life is what it takes to survive.

Their Eyes Were Watching God.

You do not exist unless you choose to do so.

You can quietly live your life in the comfort of the illusion of ‘normalcy’ which is where the actual crazy people live or you can tell the story of you in as honest of an accounting as possible’ through your words, actions and deeds. No need for bullhorns, or shouting from the rooftop, no need to etch your words into strips of muslin to be tucked into your casket at death to leave witness to your existence.

When considering my work as a writer and the impact my stories may have on private citizens I sought the advice of a dear mentor and great friend Arielle Loren.

As she was about to embark on a trip that would catapult her around the world, I told her of my fear of judgement from others once they read what I had to say. The impact of my words will be great, she told me that ‘people write their own lines in the story of our lives’, meaning that my only job is to tell the story as I see it.

Who did what to whom was never in my control. The only thing that I can do is tell you about my life, my story, my observation, my point of view. And if or when you feel like my version of me, is also a version of you, then all the better for us.

If you feel like me, is not you, then by all means, you are free to tell the story of you, Black woman, because if you don’t, then who will….and why?

Namaste…….

I read *poof* (…now you’re gone…mentally but keep reading anyway)

I tune folks out like Grandma Hill would as a million crazy things went on around her involving several toddlers and a German Shepard.

I would stand at her knee and watch as she dramatically flipped each huge page over to continue following along with the long rows of shapes and columns consisting of news.

Newspapers contained information, I figured that out relatively early in life, Grandma would mention a piece of news over her shoulder, towards my mother, if she thought it worthy to share.

I wanted to know ‘news’, and after pestering my Grandmother enough, she began teaching me to read, using our local town newspaper, at the age of three.

Reading newspapers became, and still are, a favorite hobby of mine. Though now I prefer to flip through the local newspaper while out on vacation. You can learn so much by reading what the writers and editors find to be  useful information for their consumers. Sometimes the language is different, dialect and sentence structure slightly different then from where I’m used to…?

Better grammar? Worse grammar? Am I imagining things? Who cares….. I’m a geek.

Microfiche, if you know how to look, and what to look for, can take you back in time. The first time I successfully located and pulled up a newspaper on film, my eyes bulged and darted at the image as if I was looking at a kaleidoscopic.

But since folks are kind these days, you don’t have to travel to the local archive library to feast your eyes on the Freedom’s Journal.

What is the Freedom’s Journal you ask?

Well, its the nations first African American owned and operated newspaper. Duh!?

The entire archive of every issue is available online here.

Published from 1827-1829, the State Historical Society of Wisconsin Library has digitized each publication into PDF for you to view for free.

Peep this:

there are five hundred thousand freed persons of color, one half of whom might peruse and the whole benefit  from the journal….no publication of yet, has been dedicated exclusively to their improvement

I’m so not as organized and fabulous as Swirl Girl, but I thought the Blerds would enjoy this, because it made me quite happy.

Until next time….

I know, is all I can say at times like this, when La’s is frustrated and angry, and justifiably so.

What am I supposed to say?

How to I encourage her to keep herself as sane, safe, and out of trouble as she can and to abide by rules that only work on paper for people that aren’t her for one reason or another?

I’m ahead of myself.

So I’ll back track to fill you in on how we got to right here, right now.

My daughter has spent a considerable amount of time in juvenile detention. Landing in such a place is quite easy for children who aren’t White, and whose parents aren’t attorneys and doctors. Though you can find the lawyers retained by their well off parents sitting on the rows of wooden benches, you won’t find a White child shackled and in an orange jumpsuit often.

White children with parents who have money are able to remain in school, ‘for the betterment of the child’, because the plan is to keep the chosen ones on track to success regardless of the fact that you are also a potential criminal.

But when your child is black, and they walk out the door, you never know when society will rip them from you temporarily or forever. My daughter was walking home from school with kids walking in her direction home, and then she was in juvenile hall for a week.

But this isn’t about my daughter, she has a mother, and though I’m far from perfect, and no where near ideal, I did what I could as her parent. La on the other hand wasn’t so lucky.

“I made a friend in there. Her name’s La, I felt so bad for her because her mother died and she’s got problems”, I listened to my daughter’s tone. Fully aware that she had met someone of interest. She inherited her mother’s habit of concerning herself with other people’s problems and her father’s unique aptitude for butting heads with the police.

It wasn’t too long after that when my daughter didn’t come home for the night for the first time. Nearly two days later, she walks into our home. To say that I was sick and livid would be an understatement. I had filled out a missing person’s report with the police, a time consuming excersize that seemed to distract the officers from doing nothing much. I was told to go home and not to worry. Where do kids go when they go missing?

With friends, of course.

In walked a tiny high yellow girl, hair tied up in a scarf. She stood by the front door to make an easy exit should this exchange between my daughter and I not go right. I wasn’t in the mood for introductions, and instead asked this girl where her parents were. I was certain she belonged to someone, somewhere, who must be as worried about her as I was about my own daughter.

My offspring kept in touch with La, and they were in contact once she was released from Juvenile hall. There is a communication system in place that conveys messages from the free world to the people on the inside. I thought she would have forgotten about her new friend, but apparently not.

Loyalty can be a bitch, and when my daughter went with her friend to ‘protect’ her while she searched for a place to stay among random family members all over town, she didn’t want to leave her until she knew she had a place to stay. I didn’t hear this part until I was done screaming from the top of my lungs. One part rage and two parts hysterical gratitude that my child came home safe.

It had been an eventful previous few weeks, to say the least.

“She has no place to go. Can we adopt her?”

I heard that question several times in various forms. The kid had been updating me with more and more details of her new friend. And from what I learned, she was on her own, but she wasn’t because 13 year old children aren’t independent, so where was her parent(s)?

La came to the house nearly every day.

I tried to not treat her so indifferently, and cold, she was a child and whatever criticism I felt for her had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the people she came from. I offered her food anytime she came to the house. We didn’t have much to spare, but if I have extra I will feed a hungry person at my door, especially a child.

Her and my daughter would busy themselves cooking and laughing. I would walk past them in the living room, laying on the floor watching television.

Just two normal kids. La’s laugh is second only to my daughter’s loud giggle. I learned to know them well.

Outgrown coats, clothes and anything else extra or spare was offered to La.

Her light waist length jacket was no match in the chilling Fall weather. She stole pads out of our bathroom stash, enough to last, and I felt guilty about moving my spare toiletries into my bedroom for safe keeping.

I wouldn’t let her spend the night, I had no parental permission and didn’t know her that well to have her in my house for any duration of time.

My experience didn’t trust her, a street person, a vagrant, one of ‘those types’ with no ‘home training’. There was no number to call when I asked and she never seemed to be in a hurry to get to a home, or family, or normal young teen obligation like showing up elsewhere to be accounted for.

I got to meet her father one day, purely by accident, as I sat in court spending money I didn’t have to defend my daughter on charges that were fictitious, expensive and recklessly handed out by the local police to the little Black kids like Halloween candy.

The girls hugged each other, as girls are apt to do when excited. The father stepped around the two of them to introduce himself. He extended his hand. I looked into his face, to his swollen lips, and down his dingy clothes, and to his hand, outstretched and also swollen and scabbed.

Dope fiend.

I offer my typical polite stuck up classist handshake, which only comes out when I’m absolutely disgusted by the man (always a man) offering unwanted accolades and introduction. I try to adjust my facial expression, I offer a half smile and turn my attention back to the girls, to cover my disdain.

He mentioned something about her always being in trouble and acting out.

I now know why she’s left to her own devices to eat, travel and find shelter. Though I know plenty of working drug addicts who take care of their kids and maintain homes in spite of their substance abuse problems. My issue was in the obvious child neglect that I was coming to recognize.

“Is Alex home?” was the greeting when I open my front door to the knock on the outside. My daughter hadn’t been in since after school, it was now dark, and I had been calling her cell phone with no response. Seeing La at my door worried me, I had gotten accustomed to them always being together in case something did happen, there were two of them.

I stepped outside my door to get a better look at her and pulled her into the light of my apartment. She had a baseball cap pulled down over her eyes, her arms folded around herself. I could swear she was shaking. I could have just shut the door and went back to my life.

“Is everything okay with you?” It was then that she tipped her head up to the light and I could see her black eye, busted lip and chipped tooth.

“Who did this to you?” Expecting to hear about how some of the neighborhood animals had jumped her or some other daily random act of violence what I didn’t expect to hear was that her father had punched her in the face and threw her into a wall. He was frustrated that she had been picked up by the police again, resulting in more charges for him to have to answer to. He told her he was sick of her, and for her not to come back.

“I’m sorry that happened to you” My blood boiled at the thought that this girl had to live like this so I did all I could do when I said, “keep looking for Alex, and if you can’t find her, you come back here, no matter what”, she nodded, thanked me and walked back out into the world.

I returned to my apartment, and shut the door, realizing that there is no door big enough to shut out what had just come into my life.

*to be continued…………………….

Though its not like the words will stop coming if I stop conveying my thoughts to people.

Oh, no, then it will be me, and the words, and the meaning of the words, which causes much more trouble then simply the words alone.

No. I love words, and I don’t want words to think I am not their biggest fan.

It’s not the words that bother me, it the meaning of the words, and the use of the words when people are too emotionally ignorant to really have a grasp on what it is their trying to say.

Implied meaning is a bitch, she’s big too, and ugly as fuck! Every time I see her, I wanna smack the shit outta her, but I digress.

You see, to people like me, your opinions and thoughts make a lot of dam noise. Irritating noise.

And I’m not sure why other than reading that I’m a HSP, but I can’t use that as a reason and/or excuse, because some asshole will try to pry it from my fingers using words and reasons, because they hate me for my freedom, or something like that.

Ignorance is orange, and sounds like a screeching howl, something that is begging to be put to death. I’m a dragon slayer, me, myself.

It does this very strange tribal dance consisting of thrusting and pumping movements, trying hard to posture itself into relevance. It can be entertaining if you aren’t very careful but I don’t indulge in observation much. You gotta be careful with these things.

Indifference is pale, and mucous covered, something similar to a cadaver, I imagine. It stinks and leaves a wet trail as it moves about.

The words don’t fit in my mouth, so I write them on paper, and that was perfectly fine until I found out that my angry poems were not just my sole invention.

FLASHBACK ALERT:

Pick a decade in the 90′s, because I had recently chopped off my back length hair for a Toni Braxton/Halle Berry short pixie.

I was rocking my first (adult and in public) mini skirt (silver-it seemed like a good idea at the time), and a leather vest (Um, yeah), and heels and had come out to join my co-workers/friends at our after work dive, known as Ringside, for a fancy performance.

The comedy show and after party seemed like a good idea at the time, I’m sure I didn’t have the money to spend on the ticket or drinks, but here I am, nevertheless. Talked my way passed security, the bouncer, and the door cashier because I’m hood known.

Some chick sang ‘Real Love’ by Mary J Blige, she had a big ‘church’ voice and got the crowd hyped. Everyone loved MJB. She was the newest thing in R&B lik-ism and this was at the start of her very long and successful career.

A young Black comedian, who I share a first name with was one of the acts that night, but before he went on, there were a few more crowd warmers for us to enjoy/ignore.  #staytuned #memoir

His set was opened by a ‘spoken word’ artist, at first the crowd seemed a little disappointed that other singers weren’t performing like the MJB close, but instead, a small, high yella black woman with dooky braids took the stage.

She announced her name and travels, of which I didn’t catch, because I’m short, and wasn’t listening. She said something about touring colleges and clubs in towns that I hadn’t heard of since my father died three years prior and eons ago.

I turned my attention to something else; a cigarette, a conversation, some man’s attempt at eye contact.

Disinterested, I had no patience for no bullshit ass poetry about no fuking rainbows and no goddam imaginary love.

“HOW CAN YOU FUCK WITHOUT KISSING”

My head snapped around.

“kiss my nose”

“kiss my toes”

Woah, whatyasaynow?

Everyone got momentarily quiet. The lull of conversation heard only a moment before had been inhaled by the voice of the tiny Black woman with not enough melanin to be so angry on the low lit stage.

I wasn’t the only person in the audience of low urban lowlife’s to become disinterested in what a spoken word artist would have to say to make me give a fuck, we all rethought that decision as soon as her voice hit our collective ears.

I listen closer to hear her voice above the crowd, as she continued, full silence and attention. Even the rude, drunk ass hecklers had enough sense to shut up and let the lady speak. I heard her tempo, and voice inflection, but not much of the words until she cursed!!

And used big, big, words that danced around in a figure eight. At the same dam time.

Entwined though they rhymed she felt no need to heed to the bow to the oppressive system of qualifying grammar, topics and themes. She spoke just like me and you, so when she says, ‘black girl juice’, I know what she means.

Better yet, this was the first time I had ever heard urban poetry presented as something considered ‘real serious’ art. Of course I had heard poems before, by White people talking about irrelevant dumb shit, but nothing much about things I know and live.

Later I would go on to learn that this concept is viability.

The fact that her work consisted of themes highlighting the political and social problems that seemed to have been left to the memories of those who cared to recall the 70′s was that much more intriguing. She spoke the language of my people, anger, war, resentment. Grandma Hill taught me to ‘speak the truth, shame the Devil’ who is often a White man, but us poor Blacks aren’t supposed to say that, because if we don’t say it, then it isn’t true, ya know. *wink. wink*

Intrigued, I made my way closer to the stage, at first I tried to make due with listening to her represent Black power fist style by watching the very tip top of her braided head bounce and sway to punctuate her verses.

The crowd sways and stomped their feet at her crescendo, I took the opportunity to dip and dodge between legs and bodies to move closer to the stage.

“She sounds like she’s rapping,” I thought to myself.

I had been writing poems or what you might call raps in my secret notebooks since seventh grade but there weren’t many female rappers then, or now.

And definitely not many feminine, extra light, bright, petite Black women with college educations standing on stages gripping microphones to think that I should want to grow up and be like her. Grandma said for me to fight the fight, and my weapons are words.

She was a sight for sore eyes I hadn’t known were hurting.

This woman, she looked like me.

Not super large and overbearing.

Not larger than life and donned of costumes, background singers and lighting effects.

Not standing next to a man with her tits out while doing the cookie cutter movements that are meant to convey ‘I’m sexy’, no.

She stood on the stage with a microphone and universally understood Janet Jackson style braids and her voice talking about the shit you’re not supposed to talk about. All loud. And unapologetic. She’s angry Black woman.

Social. Political. Sexual. Violence. Childhood. Motherhood. Gay Hood. Silence. Killings. And dysfunction.

Misogyny. Systematic Oppression. Race wars. Social construct. Meme’s. Ethnocentrism.

Simple words for simple people who only want to live, and love, and die, in peace and without having to explain or apologize for their skin color, lack of money and education or their strange inability to become successful white people with ease of access and insider knowledge. Explanations for complicated concepts don’t have to be.

She talks about herself. Educated. Traveled. Working. Fighter. Just like you.

Just like me. Just like us on stage right now yelling.

Motor City, is where the lady is from, that’s where they make cars, I think to my 19 year old self.

Civil issues, the shit that’s wrong with, and wrong for, and wrong shit done to people of color, which includes poor people, handicapped, and a bunch of other folks who aren’t white and male and not necessarily colored but fucked up and disregarded as such.

You mean to tell me that I can use the same words here, as I use there, and no one will tell me I’m not educated enough, or black enough, or important enough to be enough? Get da fuck outta here….

Are Black women allowed? Am I Black enough to be allowed to speak for Black women who are bearing more of the burden of the blackness that is stuck to the bottom of my shoe too? High yella doesn’t absolve us of Black Girl Juice.

You mean even after I get my two degrees, honor society induction, and quarterly Dean’s lists certificates that I can still go back and pen a strongly worded letter to the editor of my paper that includes an insult as useful and direct as ‘FUK YOU DOH!’

You mean, I can say that I’m fed up, over worked, under appreciated, horny for black man and tired of their particular bullshit, while all the while conveying messages that are meaningful, even if not worded in perfect sentence structure?

Egad….I know this conversation, my grandmother fed it to me, along with Farina, and cinnamon sugar.

I still eat Farina.

And though it would take a few years more, I now know more bigger and better words to throw at people when they talk stupid shit, but I will forever be behind the screen thinking, ‘you dumb bitch!’ because old habits die hard.

I promise not to type this at or to any particular person unless there is alcohol involved, or a really relevant point to me spazzing.

Relevant points are important, people often miss them, and then they start talking, which is what people do when they want to feel involved and useful.

Poetry is thoughts, and messages, and ideas.

Inspiration and instruction, encouragement, and tradition.

I’ve never been one to write happy poems about rainbows, not even if the poem is some type of gay, because rainbows can’t solve hunger, racism, sexual abuse, societal dysfunction, or anything bothering working class, or brown people, or regular people, who use broken words and curses to make it through the shit they call their life. Pardon my French. The poems have a fuking use.

Occasionally, I can get so angry that I spit out a poem, unedited, that rhymes (and makes perfect sense) via a Tweet. Don’t believe me? THIS IS NOT A POEM is a series of Tweets. Count each stanza and see if it ain’t under 140. Go ‘head, I’ll wait.

Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, because they’re not for me. They’re for others I meet while on my life path.

You might need some words to work through the problem/solution that you are looking to remedy. Sometimes the words to your life’s theme song are sung by a perfect stranger. We’re all like small cells conducting energy back and forth between each other and those around us.

Sometimes you are just trying to be an underage teenager in a bar full of drug dealers and truckers trying to make her way to the stage, but you don’t even know it.

The words don’t fit in my mouth. They spill out my nose, in red blood spots and splatters on the floor, while he beats me. My words don’t make much noise to him, but they mean the world to me when I tell myself, ‘He’s crazy’, ‘I don’t deserve this’, and ‘leave him’ before I knew I was capable of taking care of myself and my daughter alone.

The words don’t fit in my mouth, they echo across continents, space and time. The words that have since fallen out of my mouth has bought emails from people who thank me for saying what they could not. I can’t forget them, us, we, because you people get to play pretend and we’re tired of being left out. Forgive me for raising my voice. Or not.

The words don’t fit in my mouth, they sneak into your dreams and disrupt your sleep when I say something that strikes a nerve to make you speak out or for or against or in favor of the thing that the words used to mean to you.

The words don’t fit in my mouth, letters shimmy between my teeth, and they bite the hand that dares abuse another. I hate a fucking bully, and even worse than hating bullies is being forced to get along well with others so that the bully doesn’t get their feelings hurt. Keeping words to myself is no fun. I already know how I feel and that’s not good enough.

They tell stories about the people that you would like to forget exist. I love the words that create conflict with each other when used in the same sentence.

Privacy and gender.

Race and respect.

Females and value.

Equality and Poverty.

Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, and so I throw them at people, much like the woman on the stage threw them at us, the audience, that night before I put the voodoo onto that comedian who shall remain nameless. #30Rock

So don’t mind me, while I’m over hear yelling at myself in the mirror, this is how I practice cursing your people out. For every easily accepted truth, there needs to be a loud and vocal dissent that uses logic rather than loopy fairy tales. Dam near everyone is talking their own personal brand of bullshit, if you listen closely to the words, you can smell it.

For every woman that goes along just to get along, there needs to be a bathroom wall for her to scratch out her frustrations, away from the eyes of those that would cause her harm for speaking the truth. The words don’t fit in my mouth, and so I pass them to her under the bathroom stall of sisterhood in the great equalizer. Shit happening.

For every poor person that feels, deep down inside, that there is a trick to this thing called ‘success’ and it should be referred to as an inside joke instead of an apt pursuit of one’s time when you can’t afford to really matter, I’m your poster girl because now I know the Matrix exists. I can see the dam green lines and everything. Where is that blue pill when you need it?

Sometimes the words don’t fit in my mouth, I write them down instead.

And you can hate them.

Get angry at them.

Pretend to be confused by them.

You can ignore them.

The words that don’t fit in my mouth are not your problem, the swayed opinion and points of views that they create are your true enemy. I raise my sister girl fist in a Black power move, irregardless of whether or not bougie broads think it proper for me to do or not. You can’t check me, Boo.

You can’t sleep at night because I shook your cage, you rabid troll and I’m still light skinned-ed, black, ethnic and part of the conversation whether my hair can maintain a true afro or not.

I flaunt my sexuality, my gender, my sexual prowess, my attitude, my intellect and my cool as a Spring breeze way with the hither’ers of any race, shape, form and protected class whom I see fit. Why? Because this is what one does when she is okay being who she is and allowing others to be okay with her too. There’s a lesson in there somewhere.

I wield and swing my Black girl attitude having hips with all the might I can muster, as I prove to you that your version of my vagina isn’t half as good as the reality of what I know to be true of the love below and the people who genuinely adore the holders of such.

The words don’t fit in my mouth, nor the mouth of Jessica Care Moore, who inspired me to keep writing in notebooks about the things I seen, but everybody wanna ignore.

Maybe words are like smiles, you give one and then you get one back and make someone’s political shift?

Maybe words are like echoes, bouncing and shifting as they make their journey until the end of time?

The words don’t fit in my mouth, so maybe they’ll find a better home with a brand new owner, and maybe that’s been the plan all along. The concept of spoken word came from Africa, and maybe I’m just doing as is natural to the grio.

I ask myself why I bother to write, and sometimes I really don’t know, then it occurred to me.

I’m not here for you to like me, agree with me, blow smoke up my ass or pet me on the head like a dam Cockerpoodle.

I’m not here to gain your acceptance, your cooperation or your accolades, nope, not I.

I’m here because I’m an artist, a woman and a voice, and that’s more than enough to matter, contrary to what you’ve been told.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that the conversation isn’t for your benefit, its for mine and the people who are hungry.

Who the hell was I

to think I’m talented

enough and how dare I believe all that

complimentary stuff!

How silly of me to show up earnestly accepting of extended hands and smiles!

It’s all just a ‘stage’ to them; a personality in a file.

A phone number;

a introduction

and fallacious mumble.

Namaste; I remain ever so humble

lest I become nervous and my words begin to jumble.

But…..

Who the hell am I to think I’ll ever be a loved one?

or ever give birth to a son…

Or am worthy of having a shitty relationship with a

boring man who is only with me because I am the best

he can bag

As he tells his friends how much

I nag

and

as age creeps and breasts begin

to sag

He wandering eyes on she

I am used and old and now he no longer wants me.

 Who the fuck do I think I am?

Applying lipstick didn’t make me Viva La Glam

Tell me how I can learn to understand

When I haven’t been wanted by parent nor man

A wack incidental slip through life’s wide ass crack

I would change the past if I could take it all back.

I would relax and ask questions

Ask for suggestions.

I would have been more involved in those conversations.

Maybe I would pick a better situation.

or a nicer foster home.

Maybe I would pick a family or lover who would never condone

leaving me alone

and putting me out on the streets to Rome

and be forced to moan

as a love Jones

sucking on bones

but I don’t like dark meat

a tender treat

that refuses defeat

hopping in and out of the passenger seat

while I sit

on a trip

to find a grip

to buy clothes and shoes for my baby girls feet.

Who the fuck did I think I am?

I want to be a woman but I am unable

or not fit

or worthy enough to stand

on a pedestal and look down like the rest of y’all

that have the gall

I HATE YOU BITCHES!!

With your choices

and options

and

“never in your life’s”

Demeaning

and

Seething

while

Ignoring the next woman’s strife.

If pussy has value then how many men bid

on her worthiness

wait in line to use her

yet judge her for what she did?

AND

If pussy has measure

then how many women stand and

demand retribution for

circumstances requiring her to sell her treasure?

Who the fuck am I?

A fallen child of ‘GOD’

whose grace his rod could not reach.

I listened to the reverend as he stood before me and preached

It was hard to pay attention to the lesson

they insist this shit is a blessing

BUTT

He wasn’t talking about God.

No way.

No how.

I had my hands full when he told me God wanted me to

get on my knees in front of him

and bow.

Who the Fuck am I supposed to be?

I am a woman!

A whore!

A slut!

the one pulled into the high school bathroom

butter knife in my ribs stuck

I AM

Pulled and restrained in the boy crushes bathroom

and

virginity

fucked!

I AM

Pulled behind the abandoned building on Bergen Ave

AND

butt fucked

as I spaced out to escape it all

by staring at an abandoned Mr. Softee

ice cream truck.

Who the fuck did I think I was?

No dam body

as I peer in my mother’s face

trickles of red blood hitting the floor in splatters

she knew he beat me

but he paid her so it didn’t matter.

Who the fuck do you think you are?

A liar?

A thief?

A self imposed star?

Head held high in false superiority!

You strain your neck looking down

on folks ‘not like you’

to sooth your own inferiority.

Who the fuck am I?

Not a child of God

nor a man’s wife

not a rich white person

MERELY

a woman with brown skin.

Cursing

SO WHO DA FUCK AM I?

I am human

I am you, man

and it breaks the heart I clutch

I am what I am

but that’s not good enough.

Who the Fu*k Did I Think I am is a poem from Me Being Anonymous: A Book of Cursed Poem and Verse sold on Amazon. I’m giving away two free copies of my book to BBW readers. Email tracy@rhedbananamedia.com with the subject “Gimme a Book TJ” and tell me why you think its important that women support all women.

Because I dam sure do….*peace fingers*

Have you ever wondered what that was? And better yet, how can you become that person?

What is this thing you call Charm? 

 Charm is described as an “enduring patterns of perceiving, relating to, and thinking about the environment and oneself that are exhibited in a wide range of social and personal contexts.”

Now, knowing a definition doesn’t convey all that goes into what it is that we are all trying to accomplish. But the fact that charm requires certain ‘enduring patterns’ we learn that charm is a habit that one develops over time. As with any habit, good or bad, charm must be practiced in order for it to work. The first step to becoming charming is to do something that I personally encourage everyone I meet to do for their own safety, health, and sanity.

Be You

Who the Hell else are you trying to be? Any why? I ask this question when I meet people who are behaving a certain way but for some reason it doesn’t seem genuine. Being capable of going through the motions is not the same as committing to something with your entire being.

When I’m not in the mood to cook, but must, I throw things in a pot and it may or may not come out right edible. Otherwise, I’m an amazing cook, who will force you to eat something once you walk into my front door. When the food is warm and gray sitting on the plate, people know that I wasn’t really into it.

Same difference here. If you want to be thought of personable and real, the first thing you can do is present you, the person, in your realistic form. No shape shifting allowed.

Some folks think displaying habits, and outward appearances is enough to satisfy the job of interacting with people. What they fail to realize is that their true intentions are clearly visible through nuances. Small subconscious cues work against you when you aren’t being yourself, and it isn’t so complicated to pick up on from those observing you. Now, instead of connecting with people, you have shown yourself to be insecure, reserved, and/or shady. I become apprehensive.

When I meet a person who I can tell isn’t being themselves, I wonder what is it about themselves that makes them want to hide? Personal judgement of oneself can cause a person to ‘fake’ what they think is a more appropriate demeanor in order for them to be accepted.

Who is willing to accept a person who does not first accept themselves?

Manners Matter

Mother instilled in me the social skills of Grace Kelley and dem. The words ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ often come from my lips. And why not? I’m grateful for the open door. The glass of water. The free ride on the Amtrak train when I was running late for work.

When you go out of your way to do something for me I will stop, look you in the eye, smile and say ‘thank you’. Why? Because I’m appreciative of small graces and the least I can do is to make that known to the person extending kindness by using two little words that are still free and in the dictionary.

Please…….. I thought I would throw that out there real quick because it seems like the word is being used less and less these days.

By saying ‘please’ when you are asking someone, anyone, to do something for you what you are actually doing is showing them that you appreciate their efforts. Say please to the kids even know they know they’re supposed to do the dinner dishes. Of course you could always just make a request and those who must do as you say, will do it, but what’s wrong with having a little consideration just because?

Treating people as if you care will cause you to pay more attention to the needs of others….and then you will begin to really care. That’s powerful for two instead of one, right? I’m take pride in being polite, and so should you.

You Look Marvelous!

I have a behavior disorder that causes me to behave with low impulse control. One of these behaviors is my propensity to say whatever pops into my head. If you’ve got something interesting going on I’m gonna notice. At some point in my life I began to walk up to perfect strangers and tell them just what I thought of them!

And you know what, I was given smiles, and ‘thank you’s’ in return. I would make them smile. They would make me smile and we both leave the interaction with a little more feel good then we did prior to it. I know people don’t speak to each other, which I find strange, and so I break the rules.

“You have the most beautiful green eyes”

“I love the color of your hair”

“I like your shoes!”

Not sure how to compliment someone? It’s easy. Pick something(which requires paying attention!) and find something nice to say about it.

I don’t care if you are talking to Jack the Ripper in a dark alley in throw back London. Of course, you’re about to get your throat slit, but surly you can find something nice to say, can’t you?

Tell him about how nice his knife is. Or how intelligent one must be to go about undetected while murdering people as all of Scotland Yard is on his tail. I mean, all things considered, making someone else feel good about themselves definitely changes how they feel and interact with you. It’s another win/win. And it helps people escape murder from time to time. 

Oh, So Tell Me More About That Ant Farm You Mentioned

Ant farm. Stamp collection. You last trip to Chucky Cheese. Your new five iron. Your cat. Your dog. Your grandmother’s ulcer. Your uncle’s bad toe. Your dogs seeping eye.

People love nothing more than to talk about themselves. I don’t care what it is that you have to say, I’ll listen and do my best to engage you in the conversation. I won’t behave as if I’m bored, that’s rude and how would I feel if someone did that to me?

Finding out about people accomplishes a few things. You learn about a new person. You may hear or learn something you didn’t know, so you raise your skill set and exposure. I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve shown interest in someone’s something and left the meeting with a card and an offer to call, drop by, or try out whatever it is if I want to know more.

People are excited about their shit, doesn’t matter what their shit is, it doesn’t have to be your shit necessarily  but you won’t know till you find out. Being curious about others has helped me immensely both in my professional and personal life.

I’m interested in you, and if your knowledge may be of use to me, or mine to you then we’ve got another win/win.  P.S. This is how early relationships get forged. 

Say My Name, Say My Name

Because if I don’t, I will surely forget!! I’ve got the memory of nothing when it comes to remembering names. One trick I learned years ago was when meeting a person for the first time, I should repeat their name back to them. This makes sure I understood it, and that I am pronouncing it properly, and it also helps me to internalize the name with the face.

Anytime I do this, I can remember the person’s name. Tell me a name without my taking the time to do this and I have no idea who you are five seconds after you shut your mouth. But I will remember your face!!

Repeating a person’s name is also a personal thing to do. By referring to them by name, you are bringing them into your circle of trust, per say. Using a person’s name is often something done among more intimate partners like friends, family, co-workers, and the like. People spend time trying to warm up to others in new social settings, so why not just skip over all that and get straight to treating them like we know each other?

Because now we do.

Be a Fool….Take a Risk

People have a love hate relationship with attention. They want attention because attention can be useful, its a form of social power, after all. The problem is that the average person either doesn’t know how to grab attention or doesn’t feel comfortable with the attention they receive.

Either way, being the one person who has heart enough to do what no one else in the room is willing to do is also the person whom everyone will remember. The person who may or may not have made a fool of themselves will surely be remembered by some as the ‘fearless’ girl/guy who was willing to go forth and take a chance.

That’s the type of spirit that attracts positive attention from both men and women.

People love excitement. If you are the girl who will sing and dance in a rainstorm simply because it seems like the thing to do than you are also the person that plenty of people will want to get to know, or to emulate.

Risk takers remind us that we have the potential to do things out of the ordinary if we choose to. Doing things out of the ordinary is a show of courage, people admire that. A person willing to put themselves out there is also a brave one. Confidence is another character trait that attracts people like bees to honey.

Yes. I’m the woman that started the rumba line using a yardstick with the other secretaries while we all impatiently waited for the copier to be free.

So sue me for alleviating the heart killing stress of the moment by being a little silly and grabbing some free giggles while we wait.

I will dance in the rain if it will make you smile? Why……….because we’re in a sudden spring shower with no umbrella. Take those gray skies away from here…pronto!!

Come As You Are

One of the most hurtful things that can happen to a person is for them to be suddenly judged by another. It makes one feel less than, inferior and out of place. Judgement can make a person feel as if they aren’t good enough, and it can shake their sense of self.

Bias and disapproval from strangers which comes wrapped up in a neat package of subtle social cues can contribute to depression, self esteem and overall health.

I’m too good for that, and there is nothing much that a person can present to me that I will find so discerning as to cause me to want to make them feel bad about themselves on the spot. I’m very mindful of the treatment of others.

I despise bullies, so what would make me become one, even a subtle one?

The willingness to accept people as they are is one of the most endearing things you could do when engaging another person. Even when I meet someone who comes off as not someone I would necessarily pursue further contact with, there is no harm in being polite, and open minded if I find myself having to spend time with this person.

There have been times when I met folks who rubbed me the wrong way initially but after further discussion we were able to get over the hump and find common ground. Further inquiry may reveal motivations and reasons why something is the way it is, and so you gain a better understanding of a person. Accepting people the way they are promotes good self esteem. Maybe they’ll even adjust their behavior next time because you were willing to delve deeper and make that connection.

By rewarding a person for being authentic, you reinforce their perception of themselves, and at the very least you can respect them for being who they are and not who they think you want them to be.

Can’t be mad at that.

The honest answer is that anyone can be charming.

True, some people are born with outgoing personalities but that doesn’t mean anything. There are plenty of reserved and shy types that will dote on you with the feel goods mentioned above if you seek them out of their shell.

I can’t tell you how many people were shocked to learn how many people I know simply because I took it upon myself to seek them out and get to know them for myself.

The quiet people.

The shy people.

The (so called) mean people.

The people who don’t even work on this floor or maybe not even in this company! I’ll come after you with a smile on my face and a few engaging questions ready because I want to know more about you. I honestly do!!

People like people that make them feel good. There is no amount of makeup in the world that can cover up an ugly disposition. Charm is universal and is useful with males and females, it does not respond to class, race, culture and creed. You can’t purchase an interest in the next human being on Ebay.

A Lamborghini and a Black card are nothing compared to a man that lays it on thick with genuine charm. There is no set of boobs big enough to keep around a quality person when you are really a mean and bitter human being.

Those who merely tolerate people in order to get ahead, or those whom subconsciously dislike or fear people, will always come across as fake.

Learning to become more comfortable in your own skin is the perquisite to attempting to make another person happy with your efforts. Get your own feel goods in order before you try to offer someone else something that you don’t yet have for yourself.

Don’t be the person that’s socially tolerated, instead, be the person that stays on everyone’s mind well after you’ve long gone. With a little practice you can float like a butterfly and sting like a bee by infusing feel goods to the masses before they even knew what hit them.

And as with anything else, there is always more to learn.

Tell me all about how you charm the sox off of folks………….I know you wanna!! Each one, teach one, and I’ve spilled my tea.

Your turn!

Did you ever wish you could be a fly on the wall in a barber shop, or maybe in the locker room so that you could hear for yourself?

There are a rare few places that a woman can catch unfiltered male conversation. It is where men congregate without the presence of women around to chastise, criticize or question them. The absence of women isn’t literal, there are some women around, but these women aren’t ‘real women’, as in, these women are powerless to do anything about these men’s point of views.

It’s no surprise that men behave a certain way among each other; they think women would not be receptive to certain behaviors and opinions so these are whispered words among ‘insiders’ only and in safe environments (without women).

When men aren’t allowed or are unwilling to be honest and open then women are left to presume certain beliefs about men or they create their own version of what they think men feel and believe.

Of course, as you can see, I am a female, and so some of these conversations went on because the men either A) didn’t think me a ‘real woman’ worthy of polite conversation or B) maybe I wasn’t seen as someone who is ‘uptight’ because I didn’t argue back with them regarding their opinions or C) maybe they didn’t give a fuck what I thought and said what they said because that’s how they felt and I should report back tog Woman Land with my new knowledge or D) they could/would fire me, or cut my throat and dump me behind a warehouse if I had an opinion on their opinion of women.

Not all unfiltered male conversation is derogatory and bad though. And what was derogatory had nothing to do with class, race or education, the most educated on down to the ignorant have their specific feelings about Black women.

Some of what I learned about men came from platonic male friends who were just happy to have someone to listen to them and not judge them for their honest feelings.

Some of what I know came from lovers, married, separated, taken, single and otherwise, as they discussed the many, many reasons they found themselves seeking the comforts of a woman in a non-traditional sense.

What do Black men say about Black women when we women aren’t around?  

She doesn’t like to have sex and/or fellatio/cunnilingus…they never really use those terms but you get the idea.

If I had a nickel for each time I heard this one, baby, I’d be so rich!

I’m not sure how to go about taking a head count on who gives head behind closed doors but I will say I think the younger girls are over the stigma of oral sex and so this point becomes moot the younger you are.

However, there’s something strange brewing in the bedrooms of younger Black men, I’ll need time and space elsewhere to go into details. For now I’ll say that BW are rumored to dislike oral sex on the receiving and the giving end.

I’m presuming this is related to the slave master/rape/chaste/respectability mind fuck that make some BW feel they are dirty and that no man would enjoy being ‘down there’ or that their vagina’s are only for thrusting and birthing babies and not for the sexual pleasure of themselves or their mate. There are also those men who don’t want their wife and mother of their kids to do ‘that’ but they have no problem paying a toothless whore $20 to do the same function. There’s another story in there somewhere, but I digress…

Either way, men, of all races. enjoy oral sex. And I’m not saying that BW don’t do the do, I’m saying theses are the complaints of Black men whose wives don’t.

Many BM seek to give and receive and wish to feel that they are pleasing and giving pleasure to their mate and not that they are forcing a certain sex act on her.

I feel bad for those guys who are married and can’t get their wives to meet them in the bedroom the way they desire. If and when he does voice his preference he may be met with a reaction that is intended to shame his wants and that really sucks.

Some women use shame as a control tactic, when you signed up for ‘all that’ too bad for you that you didn’t know it included Lego pieces, popcorn and toe nail clippings, eh?

He may be faced with a woman who is not on the same level as he when it comes to comfort and an experimental nature. If I could tell you about the amount of Black women who have sex with their husbands like they are rape victims. Or those who offer themselves only under certain conditions like only at night, on a holiday or special occasional  only during a meteor shower, only when the kids aren’t in the house, or only on the very rare occasion.

She may be ashamed of her body and hide it during sex, and while she’s focused on her own dislike of her body she’s not mentally present in bed with her man.

I hear all type of things, often from curiosity, I don’t think its an intention to compare as one better than the other but rather a man’s attempt to understand that not all women are like the woman that he has at home.

More times than not, he wants to know how to make her be like me, and not wishing that I would take her place.

Most men, who have this complaint would like to have all of their business handled by the woman he chose to marry/be with.

I encourage my male friends to vet their women according to their wants and needs. It’s the same exact thing I tell females to do.

A woman can claim to be willing to do ‘marital’ things in bed once married but any man who greatly values sex will want to work out details of sex before marriage.

There are many, many, many sexually unfulfilled couples (men &women) who are in sexless marriages. They may have love but when he starts stepping out to get his needs met, or if he’s got a physical brick wall up to protect him from your emotional wall and sexual distance, don’t be surprised when he leaves or cheats.

Black women rope men into marriages but then drop the ball and hold him to the standard ‘of death do us part’ while both parties are no more than roommates who share a last name.

Your husband does not want to have to convince and beg you into having sex with him. Grown folks will want to do grown people things and if you aren’t willing to do certain things you will find that the need gets repressed but it does not go away.

Feeling obligated to have sex isn’t healthy either so if a woman feels she has problems in the bedroom she should address them. If there are things that can be done to increase her desire to have sex, then she should tell her husband, if it gets both of you to a happy medium there’s no reason to not try to work things out.

Sex is supposed to be pleasurable, and I think some women spend so much time focusing on the value of their lack of sex (virginity/chastity) prior to marriage that they forget to be prepared for the day when they do settle down into a marriage.

I also realize that sexual abuse can affect a woman and her ability to be comfortable in bed. If that is the case then there are therapists who specialize in such things. There is a huge amount of Black women’s sex literature being published online, there are images, stories, message boards and other places one can find resources if need be.

Any issue that is so  huge as to affect a woman’ s sexual performance should be addressed before attempting to settle down with a man, or at the very least, a woman should be willing to inform him of her problems so that he can be mindful of her needs and patient while she works on them.

Keeping information such as sexual abuse or sexual dysfunction from someone you are in a relationship with is another indicator that Black couples are partnering but they sure as Hell aren’t a healthy couple.

Not all couples have sex, so if you wish to have a marriage where sex is not a priority. then I suggest you discuss this ahead of time.

Society views Black men as disposable humans, worthless mates, scary monster and disgusting sexual predators. You married him and he should not have to feel that way when he turns to the woman who is supposed to want and desire him for who is.

It’s a train wreck of a situation for both parties.

Much of what was said to me was done because of my biracial ambiguous physical features, anytime I would defend or protest on behalf of Black women, I was reminded that I’m not really Black and/or that I was ‘different’ from other Black women.

And though it may sound strange to say, maybe I am different.

Rather than condemnation, I felt curious, sad and hopeful at what I learned from Black men of what they see, live and experience as they love Black women.

Next: What Black Men Say About Black Women and Her Kids

I’m not crazy and it wasn’t a hopeful presumption on my part or a case of mistaken identity.

Puffy was running back up the block towards me; he grabbed me in a hug and twirled me in the air when we reached each other.

I squealed in delight.

I couldn’t believe it was him. I was ecstatic and so was he.

He placed me back on my feet and there we remained. He held me tightly to him for a few more seconds as I stood on my toes to accommodate his height. I didn’t want to let him go, as if my two arms wrapped around him made his presence real.

The gravity of what I had done sunk in, I looked up the block toward the direction of my mother’s car. I wondered if she had continued on home without me. I honestly didn’t care, though the walk across town would be brutal, it was worth it for the chance to see him.

And it wouldn’t be the first time my mother left me to my own devices far from home and with no money. Over his shoulder, I saw the green Pontiac turn back up the block, I didn’t have much time before my mother’s car would be up on us.

I questioned him in a whispering panic. We only had a few seconds…..

Where do you live?

Where is your mom and siblings?

How are they?

How are you?

I’m sorry for what happened. And now I don’t care……

He gave me the address of the house he was staying in just up the block from where we now stood.

I asked for a description of the house; if I knew what to look for I could find him. He used to give me descriptions of places to meet him in the park, it would be up to me to decipher what I was looking for and to comprehend his clues if I hoped to meet him.

No cell phones, or GPS back then. You had to coordinate if you wanted to date.

Reaching in my pocket, I pulled out a book of matches, lighting one, I used the ash edge to write down my phone number and new address on the matchbook cover.

Reaching in my back pocket to retrieve what he knew was there, he used my eyeliner to write his house number on the palm of my hand. We did this almost simultaneously.

My mother was calling me all type of choice names through the open passenger side window.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find you” was the last thing I heard him say over my shoulder as I walked to the car. I didn’t dare turn back around to give my mother a chance to focus on who I was speaking to, she actually thought I jumped out of a moving car behind some random guy.

If she knew he was important to me then she would try extra hard to interfere and I wasn’t having any of that. She knew Puffy was important so she couldn’t know it was him.

I learned there are some people who can be in your life and they instantly enlighten your living space. She resented our relationship, and seemed to hate my being happy with a Black boy.

Puffy

Things  happen and people move on, so there may come a time when you fall out of contact with certain people who were special to you at some point in time, things change and you have no control over some of it.

But when those people are re-introduced to your life and you pick right off where you left off the feelings of ‘perfectness’ are even more reinforced.

I did call his house, both of us pretending to be brand new people to the adults answering the phone. It had been almost two years since last we saw each other and we spent as much time together as we could getting re-acquainted.

A tap on the window, and I give him the “Shhh” sign and the wait finger signal through a closed window.

I quietly pull myself and my BMX through the garage door. I mount my bike and take off in a direction, he quickly follows. With him by my side, we ride in silence and head down to our old path of grass in the park.

We come home as the sun comes up, walking along side each other to extend the time until we have to separate so I can sneak back in the house. This would become our routine.

Both a little bit older now, we had traded in our dirt bikes for Hip Hop magazines and a shared appreciation of rap music. Our conversations turned to politics and culture, but we still stared up into the night sky for our answers.

There was nothing like being with him, and doing nothing but sitting next to him, lost in our thoughts was the only place I ever wanted to be. We fell back into old routines, together daily and the time passing with easy laughter and endless conversation.

Until one night, my normally fun and lighthearted Puffy seemed bothered by something.

His energy was off unlike anything I’d ever seen before; my intuition is strong, I’m not one for slow deaths so I questioned him. He denied anything was wrong, it was late, and too cold to sit on the porch with him. I couldn’t bear to leave him until I knew the cause of his melancholy.

So I put my life on the line and snuck him into the basement living room section of our house as my parents slept quietly upstairs.

I took my Dad’s Polaroid camera out of the case and studied it. I questioned him about his mood, his spirit was killing my own, something was wrong.

“Pose for me. I’m going to take your picture” he takes the camera from my hand, steadies it up to his eye and shoots.

“You’re so pretty”, he says with the camera still in front of his face. I’m confused by his sudden forward comment. The Puffy I knew spent more time joking then being so stoic. I waited for his signature smile, he could light a room up with his smile. His expression remained serious.

I look down at my attire and wonder what he could mean by ‘pretty’? I have on a nightgown, shorts and fuzzy bunny slippers.

“Let me take one of you” I take the camera from his hands, he takes my place in the chair as I get up.

I point and shoot, capturing him without a smile or smirk.

He’s gazing at me.

He looks troubled.

“We’re moving to California” he says. At first I ignore what he says, his voice is barely above a whisper. I don’t react because I’m not able to digest what he just said.

I take the picture from the Polaroid and study it while the chemicals process the photo.

I see shadows on the film.

I place the camera back in its case, above the mantle, walk over to him and sit on his lap.

I hang my head. He rubs the small of my back.

“When….” only my lips are moving.

Tears fall down my cheeks and splatter my thighs.

I can’t breathe. He’s staring down at his own lap, the glistening rivets against his mocha skin is the only indication that he is also crying.

“Soon. I don’t know when”…………

We said everything we had to say to each other that night about everything that transpired between us.

The clock starting ticking louder than I ever knew possible. Every minute, of every day, he and I were together was one less than what we would have in due time.

Every moment of every day we could spare, we were together as if our wall of commitment to each other could stop his mother from moving them across country.

His mother had given him an official move date, and though at first it seemed like pending doom, we began to make plans on how we would keep in touch once he left.

We were going to be together when I turned 18; we only had to plan and prepare and wait. We wouldn’t lose each other again. I looked forward to every day after school when I would return home to find him waiting for me on my porch.

He and that smile.

Until the day came when he wasn’t.

Any change in any routine bothers me, I easily catch panic attacks, and returning home to not find him where he normal was alarmed me. I went inside and busied myself with passing the time, ‘he must be late’, I thought for as long as I could.

I cried myself to sleep that night wondering where he was, I cried because I felt powerless with so many things happening around me. I stopped eating.

It took three days of me waiting on him to appear before I decided to go to the house where he and his family had been staying. I rang all of the bells because I didn’t know who was who in the three family house.

When they yelled, ‘Who?’ I yelled, “Puffy” and was met with an open door and a woman whom I’ve never seen before telling me that “Puffy’s gone. They moved.”

The door was shut in my face; I don’t know how long I stood there before moving away from the house.

“Puffy’s gone…” I don’t recall the walk home, the days after this or anything else but blackness.

I was inconsolable; hysterical is an understatement.

I was angry that we didn’t get a chance to finish our plans and now he was gone again, to where I didn’t know, and he wasn’t coming back this time.

I cried for nearly a week. I was too heartbroken to explain to anyone what was wrong.

I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye. 

My high school classmates tried to help me, and some understood my pain, but we had all just met in Freshman year.

They didn’t know me or Puffy or what we had going on. They passed tissues and rubbed my back when I would put  my head down on my desk to weep quietly. I was always dizzy, and couldn’t remember anything, it was better since Puffy had been back but it started yet again.

I did have a person to listen to me, if I could figure out how to not die before I could reach her.

Grandma Hill, who now lived in Newark, said I could talk to her about anything, and since boys had become my new hobby, I asked if the topic of love was also open for discussion. Unlike my mother, Grandma was my friend, I could tell her anything without her yelling or cursing me or making me read Bible verses into the middle of the night so that I may gain clarity on my misbehavior.

Grandma Hill

Knowing I couldn’t say much around my mother for fear of her verbally abusing me, Grandma and I had planned to discuss everything regarding boys and love the next time we saw each other in person.

I hadn’t seen her since the summer prior, and our phone conversations weren’t giving me all my Grandma requirements. She called less and less often, and when we spoke, it was always in passing, I was busy with being a Freshman and my time with him.

I thought my recent emotional upheaval would be reason enough to have my Grandma come for a visit or for my easily obtaining bus fare from my mother to get to her on public transportation.

I had just gotten to the point where I would zombie daze to and from the bathroom while home and to and from class while in school; I was still refusing to eat, talk and participate in life like a normal teenager though.

Grandma would know how to fix this; she would know how to find Puffy; I held on to that for sustenance.

“Grandma Hill died this morning. They’re taking her back to Alabama to bury her. We aren’t going to the funeral”

And that was it. My mother returned back to watching television as I stood there blinking in confusion. When the words sunk in, I stopped thinking to avoid cognition from hurting me again, I fell to my bed and didn’t move for days.

I never got a chance to ask Grandma what to do about my lost love or loss in general.

I never got a chance to say good bye……….several more times. 

My father died approximately six months later in September; the first week of my attending high school in the pubic school system for the very first time.

My Mother’s mother died four months after that; she woke me up on New Year’s day with the news.

And then my father’s only surviving brother, my uncle Pee-Wee, died one evening during the Spring after having an asthma attack. He spent nearly every day at our house helping us with the foster kids since Dad had passed.

He was fun like my Dad.

“See you all tomorrow”

Then he was gone, too. Our tomorrow never came.

I know what its like to feel so numb that you don’t even feel the blade cross your wrist.

I know what its like to lift your head and feel exhausted by the sheer heaviness of the sorrow that you carry.

I know what its like to curse God, and loved ones and ones own self for existing in such a fucked up place that you would be left alone to stumble through a tar like progression called ‘living’ because God is an asshole that makes cruel jokes of people’s ironic misfortune.

I know what its like to have your soul die inside of you while your body neglects to stop moving.

I know what its like to fall on your stomach in despair, so weak with sorrow, that tears cease; and the hurt turns into a dull reverberated echo in your skull is all that you can hear.

I know what its like when you’ve been broken down to such a basic banal level that you are only capable of breathing and blinking-animal like and unaware of reality.

I know what its like when you curse yourself for waking up.

Alone.

Again…….you and the sorrow that has now replaced what you no longer have.

How do you move on after a loss?

One day at a time.

One foot in front of the other.

Recovery is a choice.

Renewal is an option.

The steps for moving on can applied to any aspect of having to make those first few attempts at regaining your life.

Though nothing is set in stone, it is solely up to a person to want to get through their grief.

No one can make another person ‘get over it’ if they don’t have it in their minds to do so. No one can make a person want to live; they have to find their own reason for going on.

1. Process Your Anger-Loss makes us angry that we were caught off guard. It makes us question ourselves and our environment  It’s normal to become angry when a loss shakes your confidence. You regret decisions. You regret making yourself vulnerable. You may get angry at yourself for not ‘seeing’ it coming or my thinking there was something that could be done to have changed the outcome. This type of anger serves no purpose; anger used to re-evaluate your circumstances may bring to light ways in which you may need to change. No blame game.
2. Own Your Fear-Loss causes us to have to change directions and shift focus on things we may or may not be ready or willing to deal with. Questioning our judgement and circumstances while also having to satisfy our own needs contribute to feelings of fear. Scream it out. Talk to a trusted person. Write your feelings down and burn the letter. Express your fear in detail so that you can examine it, once you know what you are afraid of, you can begin to remove the feelings. Once you own your fear and then you can dispose of it.
3. Put it to Bed-Loss may or may not be permanent. Processing hurt is allowed; wallowing in sorrow isn’t. In order to go forward you will have to make the decision to move forward, as no amount of standing still will reverse the course of what has happened.   Physically move things around, literally, if need be ask for help but do what you need to do in order to reclaim your head space.
4. One for the Road-Memorabilia and memories are important to some people to honor a loss. Reflect on the good of the situation, an experience, or a shared accomplishment to reinforce to yourself that the loss is the loss, but it does not change much of what happened during the course of the relationship. You haven’t lost all of what you have gained. Putting things in prospective helps.
5. Its Not Just You-When in the middle of the dark, its easy to feel so alone, realizing that everyone experiences loss at some point or another can help one know they can work through this and recover. The internet is full of real life and virtual help groups that are more than willing to provide you with the support and tools necessary to heal. I’ve spent much time talking to people who were willing to talk me off of various ledges over the years. I can attest to the benefit to be found in these programs.

How can you help if you are on the outside looking in?

Offer what you can and what the person is capable of taking.

Talking may not help if the person isn’t ready to vocalize what’s going on with their pain. Ask what the person needs, and if they aren’t able to express needs or wants you can be sure a human needs food, sometimes a hug helps, alleviating additional stress helps. Phone calls help, even if they don’t answer. Texting helps.

Let them know they are loved and that you are there for them.

So, how do you move on after a loss?

One foot in front of the other……..step in my footprints I left if you need guidance.

The end………………..?

A loss, no matter how inconsequential, is a trauma on the human psyche. An unexpected loss can make a person’s feelings of security and stability feel deeply and suddenly threatened. Confusion, anger and an overall distrust of one’s perception can cause some people to never be the same again.

In life, things can and do change drastically, but what do you do when you’ve experienced a loss of love, or the loss of a loved one and it feels like you don’t want to go on alone?

I’ve had plenty of losses, so when I tell you that I understand dam near any and every situation that may be the cause of your hurt, please believe I’ve earned the ability to mean what I say.

From the heart wrenching to the innocently contrite, I know your struggle, and there have been many. My very first blow occurred during my Freshman year of high school, his name was Andrew Wrigley, but everyone called him Puffy.

He was the first guy who I put aside my introverted and shy demeanor to pursue. Like others, I had been told that a girl should never chase a guy, and that they’re supposed to chase you.

Leaving my desires up to another person to satisfy not only seemed passive, it also seemed quite stupid to me. Once I came to this conclusion, I had a decision to make, sit still and wait or pounce?

I liked him. I liked to have what I want and I am a taker. Spoiled by my father, and aware that a little thought and leg work can create opportunities, I set off to investigate Project Puffy. He lived nearby, hung out with mutual friends of mine, and had two or three other girls vying for his attention.

Once I figured out who he hung around, it wasn’t long before I also found out that he rode dirt bikes under the Pulaski Sky way over pass. I knew about the bike trail back there, I had heard about it, and located it and had ridden some of the trail. The local boys weren’t too keen on having a girl back there showing her ability to do what they considered ‘boy stuff’ but my bike was just as fly, and I could trick on it just as hard as any of them could.

I dusted off my bike in search of my future husband. It took about a week of riding my bike up and down certain streets before I found him, we played a game of catch, after some taunting on my part. He chased me and copied my bike tricks one by one; sweat poured from brow and I pumped and pedaled my way into his line of sight.

Fast forward…..we’re a couple and so far, so good. I’ve met his mother, and he’s met my parents, including my father who nodded his greeting to him as he threaded past us on his way up the stairs of our apartment building. We were together every available minute of every available day that we could spare.

Soul mates or best friends, don’t ask, I don’t know.

A lot happened that summer we were together, we were really close and had so much fun together bike riding and playing hand ball with random groups of people in the neighborhood. It seems like my tomboy activities always came in handy when it came to guys; I can do what boys do, and so we do these things together while my female competition would stay mad on the side lines watching. I played hard and gave everyone a run for their money, guys knew me by name, and they knew I was Puffy’s girl.

One of our favorite things to do was lay on our backs in the park, while using the midnight sky to guide our thoughts of what life is like when two people are in love, when you’re not someone’s kid, and you have money and freedom. We wondered about adult things, but it was all so far away back then. How could he find a job to help support his mother, how could we make money so we could be together and get married later on?

I fell victim to an incident with a he said/she said that involved Puffy and a few of the local girls, without even taking what he had to say into consideration, I believed what I heard and gave up a dramatic performance over my hurt feelings and bruised ego. At about the same time, my name was suddenly attached to a local guy whom I had only had a public conversation with.

Suddenly, Puffy and I no longer felt the urge to locate each other. Something changed between us, and I’m still not sure of what.

Life moved on, and though I had other guys, no one could make me feel like Puffy did. I would think of him from time to time and wonder where he was in life. I regretted flying off the handle, and I wished I had at least listened to his explanation of the rumors.

It had been so long and so many things had changed. If he had come around to look for me, we had moved. Our phone number had also changed, the friends who we knew mutually had scattered in the wind since we had graduated from grammar school and moved on to different towns, high schools and states.

I never thought I would see him again until one day my mother and I were driving to our local grocery store located ‘at a place called ‘the Hill’ section of Jersey City.

She was pulling off and just about to turn a corner when a familiar face caught my eye. I had caught the eye of the familiar face as well, .002 seconds of recognition caused me to fall prey to my impulse control.

Without thinking, I opened the door while in a moving car, and hit the ground running in the opposite direction. I ran in the direction of the familiar face.