An Automatic Disqualifier?

The other day my friend hit me with the age-old question. It is that question that many black women in their twenty-something’s from all socioeconomic backgrounds will face at one point or another. Whether or not she addresses the question to herself or her girlfriends, it is one every woman has to answer and decide her stance.

“Benè call me ASAP,” SD said, via Twitter. “I need to talk to you about something I know you can give me insight on.”

“Ok, cool. I’m at work I’ll hit you up when I get off at five,” I replied.

Five o’clock couldn’t come fast enough. I was overly anxious to hear what SD wanted to discuss with me, as I usually was the one seeking advice from her. Furthermore, since I really wasn’t dating anyone I had a feeling that this  conversation was about men. I would be able to vicariously live through her in that regard.

“Hey girl what’s up?” I asked when she picked up.

“Nothing much,” she replied. “So I been knowing this guy since high school and we’ve been acquaintances for a really long time.”

“Recently we got back in touch with one another via Facebook. We have really great conversations and we’ve been talking everyday for the past month,” SD said.

“Why am I just hearing about this? But go on,” I said jokingly.

“Girl he wants to drive all the way from *———— * to *————— * to come see me,” she said.

Now in my head I’m thinking, ok what’s the problem. He sounds like a good enough dude.

“Ok, you don’t want him to come see you?” I asked.

“It’s not that. Girl he has five kids,” she said.

“NO. DON’T. DO. IT. “ I yelled. “How many baby mama’s does he have?” A very relevant question in our generation.

“Four,” she replied.

Now I know this seems like a closed case as soon as he said five with four baby mamas, especially when SD has no children. I was on the phone dumb founded that she was even considering continuing any type of communication with him. This was a no-brainer. At least I thought.

I was all for her remaining friends with the guy, but I told her she had to make it very clear that she was not interested in him in any shape, fashion or form. Hell, he needed to be worrying about his five kids. I even quoted my grandmother hoping SD would see the light, “Baby you never want to get with a man who has all these kids. Because his income is steadily going out the household to those kids, while all yours is coming in,” my grandmother once told me. I was so firm in my point I just knew SD would agree. Bam! She hit me with the, “Well what if you miss out on a good man just because you’re discrediting him for having kids?”

As someone with former law school aspirations I had an immediate response to her question. But, what I wasn’t sure about was how much I believed in my response. In hindsight it seemed as simple as we don’t have children, and if God knows it’s our preference to date someone without children than He has created a man for us that meets that criterion. On the surface it sounded logical. Yet, I couldn’t help to ponder how superficial and selfish it sounded once the words left my mouth. If a man has all the other qualities on your list (ladies don’t act like you don’t have a list), should he be scratched off just because he has kids?

Next I tried to argue with SD that it was the caliber of men she chooses, which is why we were even addressing this issue. Once again I was taken aback my own thoughts. Single black men with children have absolutely nothing to do with a lower or higher tier of men. One of my good friends- who has his Bachelor’s, Master’s and is pursuing his Law degree-has two children. In many conversations I’ve had with him he always verbalized his concept of a strong family unit. And yes, one day he wants a wife and more children.

Fact is life happens and everybody doesn’t experience the traditional date, get engaged, marry and then have children.

I can bet money based on his credentials alone, many women would jump at a chance to date him. Black man, loves black women, pursuing law degree, has a job, a car and his own place. Sounds good on paper doesn’t it? (Note: I’m not saying that degrees and materialistic values are all that matter or are of uber importance to every woman. However, these qualities initially will make a woman at least consider the guy).  But, how many of those same women would think twice about continuing a relationship once they found out he has not one, but two children?

Ladies, let me ask you this. If you were a single mother would you want men to say you are not a suitable life partner because you have a kid(s)? Everyday women have children out-of-wedlock, but still handle their business and possess the qualities of great women, phenomenal women. If we as women truly want to be considered equal in this world, I think we must use the same measuring scale for men that we use or want used for ourselves.

Am I saying I could seriously date a man with five kids? Hell no! Mama ain’t raise no fool.

I am saying that it’s time to reevaluate some of our ridiculous standards that potentially keep us from complete happiness with an incredible man.

Are kids an automatic disqualifier for men or women in matters of the heart?

The Girl With a Past

By looking at Nevaeh’s caramel baby face curvy stature with long thick hair, one would never imagine her past resembling anything but euphoria. From the outside looking in she appears to have it all: a nice car, owns a home, a loving boyfriend, a great job and she’s highly educated. But what would people think if they knew she had a testimony consisting of experiences that are condemned by society?

An extremely ambitious girl by nature she grew up upper class, but with an absentee father. As the middle child she found herself competing for the attention of her mother, yet coping with her psychological issues from her father’s disappearing acts. From a very early age she was a rebel. Always challenging figures of authority, be it teachers, her parents, principals, whoever she thought needed to be put in their place. However, she was extremely intelligent always excelling in school and possessed a few different talents. This drove her teachers insane. The fact that she was so smart, yet out-of-control.  Her family could not understand her “madness” and why she gave her mother such grief.

Nevaeh’s rebellious ways were not halted at a young age; therefore it carried into her adulthood. As time went on her actions became more detrimental with life lasting results.

At the young age of seventeen Nevaeh was arrested by the police for the first time. Unfortunately, the pattern was a continuous one for five long years. Within that five years she had either been charged, or arrested enough times to accumulate 11 misdemeanor charges and one felony charge. Never was it anything petty such as stealing. That was beneath her.

Having always ventured out and formed close relationships with people from all walks of life, she had several friends who also had problems with the law. And not all of them came from impoverished neighborhoods. Some of them lived just as lavish of a lifestyle as the one she was accustomed to growing up. It wasn’t that they all came from broken homes either. Without getting too deep into the social structures or a criminal justice system that is designed for blacks not to succeed, I think the commonality here was that they all just didn’t give a fuck. Life was hard for them in some shape or fashion; and unfortunately they walked the road too often traveled. At some point in life they felt their actions were necessary and worth the consequences.

Nevaeh even deemed it cool to talk about her run-ins with the law with her boys.  Let’s face it, all black women know at least one black man with a record.

“Man, I got locked up for 30 days on some bullshit the other day,” she’d brag.

“What? What they get you for this time?” Jason said.

“Oh you know me, the usual. Fuck the police,” Nevaeh replied.

“Yeah you know these white folks don’t show us no mercy,” Jason said.

“That’s because yall fools don’t know yall rights,” she said. “Yall be letting them lock yall up after they searched the whip without a probable cause.”

“Couldn’t be me. I know my rights. I’d be raising hell with them if they were pulling me over just because my car is tricked out on 26’s,” she added.

“The police don’t need no probable cause when you a nigga,” they all said harmoniously.

Deep in her soul Nevaeh’s heart ached for her black men. Although she was dealing with her own bad decisions she couldn’t help but think of the many black men she knew that would never be able to work in corporate America. That would never be able to vote. Hell, that would never be able to get a job flipping burgers because of this highly visible mark on their resume, their life. Internally she knew this wasn’t just about them not being able to get a job once they’ve been rehabilitated. But, it was about the repetitive cycle she knew would occur:  A black man is arrested for selling drugs. His bond is set by the judge. He makes bond. A court date is set. He appears in court. Pays the fee for some overpriced white attorney, who could give two shits about locking another black male up. The judge sentences him to any amount of time in jail. He is taken into custody. He is released years or months later. He gets out never wanting to return to prison again. Owes hella court fines. Applies for jobs. Won’t receive a call back. Keeps applying. Keeps trying to live by the rules. But the same forefathers that established those rules wrote them for everybody, but his people. His money is non-existent. He has to eat. So he reverts back to doing what he knows best, hustling. It’s a vicious cycle.

Meanwhile Nevaeh is experiencing the repercussions of her actions. Her family now deems her the outcast, a disgrace. She pays several thousands of dollars to have her record “expunged.” Apartment complexes are denying her because her record is coming up when background checks are done. So she’s eventually forced to buy a home, not an easy task either. Minimum wage jobs that perform background checks won’t even hire her. What happened to expunged? She’s starting to believe expunged is a made up term that doesn’t truly exist. Most disheartening is she cannot fulfill her lifelong dream of becoming a politician. Too much dirt. Too easy to find. Society will never let her live it down.

Eventually Nevaeh and some of her friends straighten up and fly right. But, it is too late. The world has already written them off. For the rest of their life they will be held accountable for the poor choices of their past.

In a country where white-collared crime is just as prevalent as inner city crime, there is a big difference in the long-lasting affects. Politicians, Wall-Street bankers and CEO’s embezzle millions of dollars daily, operate like a mafia threatening anyone ready to snitch, sometimes even resorting to violence. The big difference though, they have money and power. Oh yeah, and the media is structured to favor them so you won’t hear about this on the nightly news.

Out of her own experiences and passion for black males, Nevaeh used her energy and founded a non-profit organization for men who have been incarcerated. The program offers education and teaches skill sets to those men who have been released from prison. With that education and skill set men are better equipped to qualify for certain jobs. The program has also partnered secretly with companies who are “open” to the idea of hiring an ex offender given he is qualified. All these men need is for one person, one company to say yes and they can become productive members of society again. Hopefully, the cycle is dismantled.

As for Nevaeh she has long since changed her ways. Although sometimes she worries that her past will  haunt her forever.

Collectively we ostracize those who have a criminal record. We attempt to judge their wrongdoings with the summation of, “That’s their own fault, they made the decision.” If only it were that simple. As an advocate of personal responsibility I agree to a certain extent. But, what about our criminal justice system? What about the police who target our communities in search of catching illegal acts? What about the poverty that forces many criminals to operate in survival mode, causing them to do things that otherwise they’d never do? What about equal resources and opportunities? Should criminals forever be punished for their reckless past? After all, they’ve already paid the price.

Should Nevaeh’s talents, intelligence, strong attributes be discredited because she took a few wrong turns in life? When you see Nevaeh are you sitting on your high horse judging her? Would you befriend her if you knew about her record up front? Would you hire her?

After all, she’s just like you. A girl with a past.

Why Black History Month is a Distraction

Warriors

In nine days we will begin the celebration of black history. PWI’s will rally up their lists of well known colored folks, invite them to speak at their institutions, all types of programs will be held in the community, the media will take a once-a-year interest in telling our stories, and hopefully, teachers across the nation will construct lesson plans that educate school children on the history of  black people in America.

Let’s not be excited about one month- the shortest month of the year, in which the country pretends to care about all aspects of the black race.

Not that I am opposed to celebrating Black History Month in honoring the contributions people of African descent have made to this country. What I am in opposed to is only learning and celebrating black history once a year. I am opposed to educators, leaders and politicians ignoring the injustices black people face everyday. I am opposed to the notion that one month of events and “education awareness” about black culture will suffice for a century of our history being disregarded.

Black History Month is a pacifier for us to believe we really have come a long way. If you think we have, you may want to stop reading now. See, for me game recognize game. By throwing us a measly month to celebrate black history they expected us-and many of us did- to forget about all the other issues that still plague our people. How soon we forget that the other 337 days of the year there is much work to be done, causes to be fought, protests to be made, disparities to be addressed, criminal justice systems to be rectified, education systems to be reconstructed, poverty to defeat, equal pay to be gained, discriminations to overcome. Damn it y’all, we got work to do.

Last night I had the pleasure of hearing poet jessica Care Moore for the third time. One of the best poets of our time, this sister is dope. When she read poetry with elements of nationalism, oppression and strife, my entire body had chills. Here it was 2010 and JCM was writing and educating the crowd about issues we’re still facing, that were prevalent in the 1960’s. Just like Moore suggested our education on all levels is still very much one-sided. Formatted for those of non-African descent. And do you think this is by accident? Because I attended an HBCU for undergrad, I didn’t experience this on the college level. But, there are students at PWI’s who don’t know who Audre Lorde, Octavia Butler, James Baldwin or Gloria Naylor are. Why is it that we are forced to read Walt Witman, T.S. Eliot, Shakespeare, and James Joyce, but not required to read about writers of color? History books in elementary education rarely teach students about anyone else besides Harriet Tubman or Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. What about Sojourner Truth, Marcus Garvey, Huey P. Newton, W.E.B. Dubois, Booker T. Washington, Elaine Brown, and Angela Davis? What about Malcolm X?

“I really hope one day in this country we will celebrate Malcolm X for what he did for this country,” said Moore.

It amazes me that on a graduate level my classmates don’t understand there are disparities between the black and white males who are incarcerated. They look at me funny when I suggest this. For a people who love statistics so much, clearly they should know there are statistics to back this up. Never once does it cross their mind that maybe most black men aren’t criminals, but maybe there is a flawed system designed for black men not to succeed. Anytime a country builds prisons based on the number of 3^rd grade black boys, Houston we have a problem. America has determined the destiny of our little boys before they leave the 3^rd grade.

There are so many battles we have yet to win.

As a people we have become complacent and it is detrimental to our future. No longer do we stir up some shit in the name of justice. We’re too scared to lose our job and 401K plan, so we’d rather leave the generation behind with the mess we haven’t fixed. Traditionally our people have been a people of community, family and morality. Today we are nothing but a bunch of yes sirs. We might as well say, ‘yessa master.’ We are so distracted by material wealth, power, status, fame. Many of us are so concerned with how many letters we can place behind our name, B.A., M.A., and PhD. But the same money we’re injecting into these fancy institutions, is indoctrinating us with tall tales. Teaching us how to work for THEM for the rest of our lives.  Removing us further and further away from our culture.  Long gone are the days when every business in our community was owned by a black family. Long gone are the days we supported those businesses. Long gone are the days we valued our HBCU’s and put money into them so they can stay afloat.

And our children. What have we taught them? Our youth is so talented, even brilliant. But they haven’t been taught to aspire for greatness. They haven’t been taught much outside of what the teacher tells them. They know very little about their history, the Kings and Queens they are descendants of.  Yet, they can rap every Jay Z song that comes on the radio and they aspire to be rappers. No longer are they aspiring to be professors. Our young girls are just as lost. They emulate only what they see on TV, half nakedness and booty shaking. And we’re the ones to blame.

As we approach Black History Month I implore my people, including myself, to reflect on who we really are as a people, how we’ve lost our way and how much work there is still to do. Although I am harsh on our role leading toward our demise, I’m very aware of the systems in place that make it near impossible for black people to progress. However, those same systems were in place in 1865 when slavery ended. It did not keep our people from implementing change, which led to the very rights we have today.

Don’t let this Black History Month be a distraction.

The Stare

More times than I would like to admit, while shopping at the mall or browsing the aisles of the grocery store, she stares at me to make sure I notice her with her man. Who is she? She is the white girl with a black boyfriend.

Curious to know if it was my paranoia I surveyed several of my black girl friends from all different walks of life. Low and behold, 99% of them have experienced the ‘look at me I got one of your men’ stares. I also discovered another common trend that went beyond just the stare. Many of them even have the audacity to grab their token black man’s hand or to hold him tight to let us (black women) know that he is with her.

Not only is this annoying, but it’s insulting. For the record, no one is thinking about yall’s interracial bliss.

Deep down there could be a number of reasons white women feel obliged to let us know Tyrese is hers. For some reason I truly believe they think they’ve won some type of prize. Their gestures seem to imply they’re taking something we wish to have away from us. Please help me understand what it is you have won or stolen from me?

First and foremost your insecurity is laughable. Although we might be annoyed it has nothing to do with you being with a black man, and everything to do with your presumptions that we care. Secondly, your need to pull him closer, further let’s me know that you will always believe you are second choice. Because if you felt like you were such a bad bitch that has won such a high prize, you would be extremely confident in walking with this man without displaying to every black woman you pass, that he is yours. I’m not saying you’re second choice, but you are acting like you know you are.

Or maybe white women think we want their man and could easily take him if he is not watched carefully. Therefore, you strut with his hand in yours thinking this makes any difference. Well from woman to woman, if your man wants to creep, whether it is with a black woman or not, please believe he will creep.

I don’t know what the solution is to get some of y’all to stop looking at me crazy. But I can tell you this from the bottom of my heart: I. DON’T. WANT. YOUR. MAN. The mere fact that he has chosen to be with you, marks him off my list of eligible bachelors now, or in the near future.

Of course I’m generalizing here, but nine times out of ten if he is with you it has everything to do with sistahs. He doesn’t know himself-he’s lost, he’s insecure, he’s broke, he likes women he can walk all over, he’s unattractive, sistahs have paid him very little attention,  or he knows a black woman will not tolerate the BS other women will. Again I’m generalizing.

So instead of staring me down, running to grab his hand when you see me-watch your man. Chances are he’s watching me, just like you are.

And stop assuming that we care about you or him. You got him-good for you.

Can you keep him? Staring at me won’t help you do that.

What He Taught Me About Liberation

As a mid twenty something woman, I could not imagine enabling my family to uphold dictatorship over my life.  Especially not for the purposes of adhering to the accepted norm of society, or to family tradition.

We come from two very different worlds, which I understood from the first day we met. But I didn’t think our different worlds meant anything other than that. Him- a Muslim from the Middle East; me- an American Christian. However, that alone didn’t define who we were. There were so many other characteristics attracting us to one another in the first place.  Our socio-economic and cultural backgrounds, ethnicities, religions, and native languages were so distant from one another, yet staring us right in the face. Those differences for me were intriguing, a challenge, partly what made him more unique than anyone else in my life. But for him, they were a reminder of why we would forever remain in the box labeled, ‘I like you, but….’

Sitting in his living room listening to him tell me why we couldn’t move forward, I sort of spaced out. His words all started to sound the same, sounding much like a language that is foreign to me. No, he wasn’t speaking in his native tongue. Rather a language of fear, cowardice, defeat, lacking control. And that’s a language I just can’t comprehend.

We had been good friends for awhile at this point, but there was an apparent chemistry. Neither of us wanting to act on that chemistry, we went on pretending there was nothing there. Before Thanksgiving we finally decided we were too old to play the high school- I have a crush on you, but won’t admit it game.

He’s the type of guy that makes you realize there’s such a thing as everything you’d want in a man. He even put those “hood dudes” that I once adored to shame.  Genuinely good at heart, he would never do anything to hurt or disrespect anyone. Funny, super intelligent (which is such a damn turn on), loves music, takes an interest in the things I love, well traveled, well read,  loves his family and would do anything for anybody. I could go on all day.

I knew-we both knew- it could never go anywhere. But sitting in his living room listening to him finally say it, and why was the killer. A part of me envisioned him going against the grain to do what he had to do for it to work. I felt rejected. I felt like I was being given up on before even given the opportunity. I thought to myself of all the people who had ever been denied before ever being able to showcase their capabilities.

“I am more than willing to try this if you are, but I’m 90% sure I can predict the end result,” he said.

“What’s the end result?”

He kept dancing around what I wanted him to come out and say.

I wanted him to blatantly tell me that his family would never accept him dating an American or Christian woman. I wanted him to tell me that where he’s from casual dating was not acceptable; and that by considering a relationship with me he had to think of marriage because in his country that was just the way things were. I wanted him to tell me that he was willing to give up his own happiness to satisfy the selfish desires of his family. I wanted him to tell me that he wasn’t willing to live his life now, and deal with the consequences later. Hell I would have accepted him telling me he could never bring home a black girl with tattoos who comes from a single parent household (even though I doubt that’s far from the truth). Anything would have been better than his roundabout way of trying to make himself feel better.

I am only slightly sad because of how great of a guy he is, and how good he would have been for me in more ways than one. But, it’s not like I was thinking wedding bells. Mostly I’m sad for him.

Sad that he chooses to continue only halfway living. Only halfway living by denying himself the experiences that would truly make him happy. What I tried  getting him to understand was that this was a choice, his choice, and he had the power to do something about it. Only he chooses not to. Unfortunately, in his mind it’s not really a choice. For him, not disrupting the family’s values held precedence over his own happiness.

As his friend it was about more than just our situation. It was about his life, his happiness, his well being. His family had controlled other aspects of his life that made him completely and utterly miserable, but he allowed them to anyway.

Maybe it worked out for the best this way.  This would be a constant battle between my attempt to have him choose things based on what he wants vs. him feeling bad for not being the “good son or good Muslim.”

My dear friend sparked a new found gratitude for who God made me. Some people lack the courage to change their current situations. Others are people pleasers that physically and emotionally drain themselves to please everyone else. Many let happiness pass them by out of the fear to follow the road less traveled. How liberating it would be to live free of the chains that confine us to the expectations of others.

I thank God for a spirit that will break loose from anything that confines my liberation.

In Search of Daddy’s Love

Confused I ain’t ask to be born

It was so dumb, should of used a condom

Ask Mommy everyday, ‘when Daddy gon’ come?’

But he never showed up I repent for him

Became demented then, men resented them

Just the scent of them made me url

Especially the balling ones trying to buy me the pearls

All I needed was love, all I wanted was love.

Lack of love had me falling for thugs,

The n*ggas who ain’t care, just like Daddy.

-Foxy Brown “My Life”

Men oftentimes complain about women’s innate suspicion, inability to trust, insecurities or her crazy nature. These complaints are usually hurled out without any type of understanding or acceptance of their own self responsibility.  Listening to men one would think that women woke up one day, decided to be insecure and make every man that crossed her path suffer for her own vices. Time and time again, men seem to be oblivious to the root of the woman’s pain, which is displayed through her actions. Just like women are compassionate about men’s issues stemming from their fathers: absentee father, the inconsistent father, the father that beat up his mother, or the father that had children outside of the marriage that moms is oblivious to; men should be mindful of women with those same issues.

Before a girls first crush, before her first grade school boyfriend, even before her first kiss, a girls first ever experience with a male is with her father. That relationship lays a rocky foundation with cracks, or a solid concrete one. Which ever one, it is how she will deal with the opposite sex.  Unintentionally a girl is either always in search of her father through her relationships, cultivates healthy relationships with men because her daddy showed her how to be loved, or she mistrusts men because of her learned behavior to not depend on her daddy.

So why is everyone blaming black women for their “issues” without equally waving the finger at the daddies?

My relationship with my father had always been off and on, hot and cool, apparent and imperceptible.  In his defense, it was not always his fault. Mama made it quite difficult, damn near impossible for him to try even if he wanted to. Moving from state to state without providing him with an address was just one of the ways she would chastise him, not realizing the only person it was hurting was me. But, every summer when she needed a break she would make sure to send me off for the summer to Baltimore. This was the only time all year-periodically-that I would see my Dad.

The summers were the best time of my life. My mom was extremely negative and down right evil at times.  He was the breath of fresh air and Baltimore was the serenity I needed after living year round in such an unhealthy household. Even though I loved those times with my Dad and family, it wasn’t enough.

Now I realize how my Dad’s actions or lack thereof, have affected me in my adult life. Him being in or out of my life, never showing me how a woman should be treated, never being able to depend on him, his incapability of saving me from my environment with my mother, and his example of what to not look for in a man, had manifested in my relationships.

I was on a search for love, but the kind of love that only one person could give me. And he wasn’t there to do it.

Time and time again I dated the same dude with a different name. Street pharmacists, hood dudes and ballers were typically the ones. Relationship after relationship was the same shit on a different day in a different year. As much as I would love to blame those failed relationships all on the dudes, I can’t. A large part of our dysfunctional relationships, at times perilous, revolved around my issues. It wasn’t infidelity on the dude’s behalf. It wasn’t money. It was my own shit. Now don’t get it twisted, those dudes had some issues of their own too. But my role in the crumbling of these relationships was apparent when CB started critiquing the same issues Wisdom had, and so on and so forth.

I’m not asking for pity for the girls of the world still in search.

What I am asking for, is that black men try empathizing, loving, and healing before writing her off as just another angry or bitter black women.

Yes, at some point black women have to take accountability for their insecurities and issues. Unfortunately, many of them don’t even know the root of their pain. If they don’t know why they behave the way they do or why they are unable to trust men or why they have a hard time letting a man be a man, how can you expect them to change?

We are responsible for each other in our communities. When it comes to the black man/black woman dynamic, too much time is spent labeling instead of uplifting, promoting change. Behind every “promiscuous” girl, there’s some hurt that is deeper than her just being a ‘hoe.’ Behind every girl that can’t trust is some past experience replaying repeatedly in her head. Behind each insecurity is most likely a man that made her that way. And behind every “miss to independent woman,”  is a little girl that waited too many times for Daddy to come through.

Women just want to be loved. Sadly, too many of us missed out on that as a girl and are searching in all the wrong places. In some ways, we’ll always be searching for a man’s love to enclose the hole Daddy left so painfully hard to fill.

Don’t be that man that contributed to making the hole in her heart forever irreparable.

Fades to Black I

At 11:59 on Thursday, I felt quite content bringing in the New Year rid of my ex. There was no need for Lauryn Hill’s “Ex Factor” to play on repeat. No tears-really there hadn’t been any since the summer. He didn’t even make me angry enough to curse him out. It was just a blasé feeling when it came to him. That’s how I knew he had to go.

CB was the type of dude that was mad funny. He won me over with his persistence. Had I not been stuck in graduate school in middle of nowhere Indiana, he wouldn’t have gotten any play. Unfortunately, attractive black men with a job that prefer to date black women were hard to come by in this town. So our relationship went from 1 to 10 real quick. It was one of those relationships that I knew would never work, but ended up liking him anyway.

Just as our relationship was climaxing, I got the phone call. We had discussed that this may be a possibility, but I don’t think he ever really thought about what this would mean. Miss Thing said she would call on the 7^th. When she didn’t call on the 7^th or 8^th I came to the conclusion I didn’t get it. All of a sudden the phone rings on the 9^th with the 212 area code. Could it be?

“Hi this is _____ with VIBE magazine, is this Bene?” she said.

“Yes.”

“I wanted to congratulate you and let you know you got the internship,” she said.

I slightly screamed in the phone, but got it together immediately, remembering how no-nonsense my new boss was. The opportunity of a lifetime had presented itself, but I knew my relationship was over. We had discussed what it would mean for me to go to the Big Apple, both lieing to ourselves that we would stay together. Yeah right. I did not trust him; there was no way I was going to be in NY all faithful Faye while he was in Indiana blowing out backs. Hell no.

In a short time we had already been through a lot because we both had A typical personalities. So it’s not like I was unfamiliar to the drama or the foolishness. He took me to the airport, we said our goodbyes, I cried, he made empty promises and I was off to where dreams are made.

Once I arrived we talked for about two days until he start showing his ass. I was too busy grinding to deal with stupid shit.  He was being real disrespectful so that was my cue to bounce.

The entire summer went by without a word from one another. At this point I think I hated him and vice versa. Needless to say, not a day went by that I didn’t think about him. I did still have feelings for him. When I returned from NY I anticipated how I would act when I would see him and what would happen. We ended on a seriously bad note and never really had any closure.

Months went by and I would see him out or at church and we would walk by each other like two distant strangers. I had stupidly even given in on one of those drunken nights when you call the guy you really want to talk to. He answered, but kind of played me to the left as my friend kept screaming to me, “Girl hang up on him.” Sure, I was dating other people, but I didn’t like any of them. I didn’t care about any of them. Hell half the time I didn’t even answer my phone for them. Around October I was over him. Finally I was ok with the fact that we didn’t have closure, and apparently we couldn’t even be friends.

Until I was sitting in church one Sunday. Of all days, I chose to go on this particular day.

Fades to Black II

Of course I arrived late. Not wanting to disturb anyone I sat in the only available seat in the back. Low and behold, it’s the pew he’s sitting in on the other end. I didn’t even look his way, and played the ignore you dance that we’d been participating in since I got back in August.

After I left church I thought nothing else about it. On my way home I get a text from a number that is no longer stored in my phone.

“Did you enjoy church?” CB asked.

“Yes, I’m really glad I came.”

“Do you still have feelings for me?” he asked.

“What, where is this coming from? I haven’t talked to you in months and you’re asking me if I still have feelings for you.”

That’s where round two of our merry-go round began.

This time it was different though. The level of feelings or expectations was almost non-existent. At the time I was talking to somebody else that I really liked, so CB was like a bonus. My Indiana boo that was familiar. However, as time progressed my feelings went from he’s tolerable to, why am I still dealing with him. What I use to think of as humor I now thought was immaturity. His tick for tack nature drove me crazy. His arrogance that he could reap all the benefits of my man, without truly being my man, was a turnoff. And his frugality made me want to slap the taste out of his mouth.

But my weakness was that there was nobody else physically there. Chicago, was well, in Chicago. If I cut CB off then I would truly be alone. Something was better than nothing right? Wrong.

Replaying everything CB and I had been through got me to thinking about my other ex. They were the complete opposite and CB made me appreciate the ex so much more.

Wisdom was my very best friend in the whole world. We had known each other since freshman year in high school, but became best friends the summer of freshman year in college. Funny how life is. Our number one mistake was dating. In 2007 Wisdom confessed his love for me and how he’d liked me for a few years yada yada yah. In my head I thought,  ‘No. No. No.’ This wasn’t supposed to happen. I told him many of times, it would ruin our friendship. He insisted anyway. I gave in. So for a year and a half we dated on and off. Some of those off periods we remained friends, others we didn’t.

At the end of 2008 when I decided I was leaving Nashville we were on one of our on periods.  Before I left a chain of events put a strain on our “relationship” and friendship for good. I vowed to never talk to him again, which is exactly why best friends should never date. With that said, I can count on one hand how many times I talked to Wisdom in 2009.

Christmas break 2009 was approaching and I couldn’t wait to get home. CB was on my nerves, attending a PWI (predominantly white institution) was on my nerves, I just needed a break. Since I had been thinking of Wisdom a lot lately, I wondered whether or not I should call him. We were going to be in the same city and all. But what if he didn’t want to talk to me? What if he had a girlfriend? Wouldn’t it be awkward?

Although we hadn’t spoken in practically a year, this was my best friend. It’s not like I wanted to be with Wisdom, he’s just that one dude that will always always have a place in my heart. Hope my future husband can deal with that. I’d been home about a week and a half and had made up my mind not to call him. I figured if he missed me or felt our friendship was worth anything he should call me. Besides, I didn’t have his new number.

CB and I talked, whenever. Nothing there had really changed. At that point I was just nonchalant about our whole situation.

Then my female best friend told me she talked to a chic we went to high school with. My name came up, so did Wisdom’s. According to ol’ girl we went to high school with, Wisdom was “head over heels” for Bird. Oh hell naw. Now I knew they had messed around, but him having feelings for her was new to my ears. Of course I knew Bird  because we all went to high school together. In my eyes he could do better; and if he was going to be “head over heels” for anybody, it needed to be a bish I didn’t know. And it needed to be a bish 10 times badder than me. Bird was neither.

I went on the hunt…yep, now I definitely was going to call him.

Since I didn’t have his number I had to do some research. I asked around and nobody had it. Then it hit me. His mama and I have emailed each other back and forth a few times; and her number was in those emails. Bingo. Nervously I called his mama’s house and chopped it up with her. She was excited to hear from me and glad I was doing well. She told me how well Wisdom was doing. We end up talking for about 25 minutes when she informed me that Wisdom would be stopping by later that night and she would have him call me.

I patiently waited. Day one-no call. Day two-no call. Day three-still no fucking call. Finally I realized he wasn’t going to call. I went over and over our last interaction with each other wondering what I could have possibly said or done for him to not want to talk to me. I mean shit, it had been a year-he should have been over it.

In the meantime I went on with my life. CB called and questioned me about getting a sew in. As far as I’m concerned that’s none of his business. But since he was asking questions I had one for him…

Fades to Black III

“Let me hold $150 until Sallie Mae kicks in, in a couple weeks,” I said.

“I ain’t got it,” CB said. “Ask the Muslim that bought you that dress, ask Chicago-he an investment banker, ask one of your other niggas.”

What I told him in return is too unladylike to repeat. But basically I told him to lose my number; and I meant that. The one way for me to never talk to you again is for you to not do something for me that I know you are capable of doing. CB was the same dude that asked me, “Bay can I stay with you for a few weeks or a month when my lease is up?” But, I can’t borrow-not have, borrow-a measly $150 dollars. He had me so fucked up. CB blew my phone up that night, the next day and the next. I did not respond to any of his texts or calls. I truly was done.

It was time for me to head back to this place deprived of faces with pigmentation.  I was a little hurt Wisdom still had not contacted me. A few days earlier when I realized he wasn’t going to call I sent him a nice two line message on FB just letting him know I was happy for him, I wanted to check on him and hope all was well. Because I knew he wasn’t going to reply I went on a hiatus from FB for a few days, not wanting to see my messages without his response.

Back in Indiana I thought about how I was at peace with my decisions: to send Wisdom a nice message instead of the over reactive one I thought of; and my decision to finally leave CB the hell alone.

As I’m settling in, sending emails, getting back on my grind there is a knock on my door. WTF? Who the hell is knocking on my door unannounced. I look out the peep hole and can barely see.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me,” CB said.

I opened the door slightly. “What are you doing here?”

“My phone is dead,” he replied.

“So, I mean do you need to use my phone? Wait, how did you know I was getting back today?”

“Man can I come in for a minute, its cold?” he said.

I let him in. “Come on put some clothes on, I’m taking you to Texas Roadhouse,” he said.

Now anybody that knows me knows, all you got to do is feed me and I’m good. How the hell was I supposed to cut him off when he’s offering me food that I don’t have to pay for. I declined his offer.

“Be at my house by 8:30,” he said. “If you don’t come then I know what’s up.” He got in his car and pulled off. Ten minutes later I get a text, ‘you coming right?’ He wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Hungry and never in the mood to cook, I started searching for an outfit.

Now, this doesn’t mean that I was feeling him again. Nor does it mean we were just going to pick up where we left off. I was hungry; and the least he could do for not letting me hold $150 was take me out to eat. In the process of getting ready and not responding to his text, hell he knew I was coming, I checked FB. As I’m scrolling through my 266 unread messages I see, “Bird? Come on now sweetie, your sources playing you all the way to the left on that one.” Without it still registering in my head who this was I clicked on it to see the message from Wisdom. He went on to say he had talked to her about 2 times the whole year  and they were not serious, his mama told him I called, but she couldn’t find the number on the caller ID. He said some other stuff, but the part I reread twice yesterday and once today was, “This the last time I’m gonna tell you this: whether we together or not I want you in my life until I stop BREATHING!!!!!!” My heart sank. He wasn’t mad at me after all. Not only wasn’t he mad at me, but he wanted me in his life forever. My best friend was back.

I went out to eat with CB. We laughed. He explained he truly didn’t have the $150 and he wasn’t about to dip in his savings for me to get a sew in. CB had always been cheap and I knew he had the money, but whatever.

Thing is, after I read Wisdom’s message on FB, nothing else really mattered.

CB is younger than me and needs time to mature. I’m not mad at him because I knew from the very beginning that this was only temporary. I’m not hurt by the stuff we went through. I just look at it as a lesson learned. I’m not really sure why God allowed me to meet CB, knowing it wasn’t really a good match. But I do know had it not been for CB, I probably wouldn’t have ever appreciated Wisdom. The shit CB did made Wisdom look like a saint. Had it not been for CB getting on my last nerves, I probably wouldn’t have realized that the petty stuff Wisdom and I weren’t speaking over was not worth losing our friendship. So in a way CB was a blessing.

As for me and CB, I truly am tired. But for some reason have been unable to break the chains that keep me tied to him. I guess it doesn’t really bother me because my feelings aren’t invested; and I know I can walk away at any time. What can I say? Corn field Indiana will make you keep around a dude that you really have no desire to be with.

As I sit here writing I have yet to call my acquaintance turned best friend turned lover turned enemy turned best friend again. As I grow older and wiser I have realized to cherish the people that are in my life, and fuck the ones that aren’t.

For now I’m going to call Wisdom and smile the entire time we talk. Moments like this are the things you remember. And all the other bullshit… fades to black.

Beyonce’s Idea of “Black Culture”

I could hardly finish my midnight snack of porkchops, candied yams, cabbage and cornbread in my enthusiasm to write this post. Now I know I said my last would be the first, and last post about Miss Thing…but she has left me no choice.

Who the hell made Beyoncé Knowles the spokesperson for black culture?

If you’re lost, I’m referring to Beyonce’s new joint “Black Culture.” The song is a sample of Michael Jackson’s hit “Don’t Stop Til You Get Enough” from his 1979 album Off the Wall. Beyoncé has completely murdered this classic, altering it from the 5 star it was, into a 0.5 star.  Really, it makes you want to put your fingers in your ears and sing over the tunes.

Some of the lyrics are as follows:

Party the people, the people the party it’s popping no sitting around,
I see you looking you looking I see you I look at what you started now

Let’s hook up little one on one up come on give some of the that stuff,
Let me freshin’ it with no ruff (let’s go)
Let’s hook up when we start we won’t stop,
Baby, baby don’t stop come on give me some of that stuff (let’s go)

I am, Black Culture
I am, Black Culture
I am, Black Culture
I am, Black Culture

What the hell is she talking about? Absolutely nothing. Not only did she single-handedly annihilate a hit song, but she does a huge disservice to the meaning of black culture. You cannot make a song with such a strong suggestive title as “Black Culture,” and not deliver any insight about what black culture is.

Furthermore, the person relaying the message of black culture through her lyrics probably knows very little about the said culture. Of course this is an assumption on my part, but I’m willing to bet money it holds some veracity.

In all the times I’ve watched or heard a Beyoncé interview, acceptance speech, or her speaking publicly, she has never said anything of depth. Matter of fact, it usually is the exact opposite. Her public speaking tends to showcase the fact that her number one priority was always singing, never education. A prime example of this was when she was interviewed the night of the inauguration of Barack Obama. The interviewer asked her how she felt about singing to the President of the United States of America. Her response, “He makes me want to be smarter.” Rewind. Did she just say…? Yes, she did.

Until Beyoncé can do some, hell any of the following: name a black literary book, name 10 HBCU’s, one black mayor, one principle of Kwanza, the year slaves were freed, a succinct definition of the Harlem Renaissance, the significance of Plessy v. Ferguson, the year of the L.A. Riots, a black inventor, a renowned black published Professor, or the city with the most black people per capita, she has no right singing a song titled “Black Culture,” which has nothing to do with the culture.

Not that the above is everything encompassed in black culture either. But, black culture most certainly consists of more than just singing, shucking and jiving.

Beyoncé is a great talent with an even greater work ethic. But she is not a god. I wish journalist, the media, fans and other artists would stop treating her as such. She is doing the children that idol and emulate her a huge disservice.

What next? Chris Brown will write a song titled “I Know How to Treat A Woman.”