Subconscious Civil Rights

I have been reading reviews of the movie The Help that came out this past week. The movie is based on the book of the same name and from what I read is the fictional coming of age story of a white woman in 1960s Mississippi.

After reading the reviews I have mixed feelings about seeing the film, or reading the book. In many of the negative reviews I've read there is much criticism of the stereotypes that are revived by the black characters in the story. The most hated of all, the mammy. The black mammy is portrayed as the overtly happy, frumpy, overweight, asexual black maid that loves the white family she works for.

Of course the word that struck me the most was asexual.

Asexual-a person who is not interested in or does not desire sexual activity, either within or outside of a relationship.

This word often pops up when naming the unflattering stereotypes given to black women, and I am starting to believe that I have subconsciously made it my mission to combat that awful, awful word.

I have been teased by others, and have also made jokes at my own expense about my flair to write about things of a more carnal nature that I haven't experienced. I am a horny virgin subconsciously on a mission to show black female sexuality in a non animalistic, Jezebel way which is the total opposite end of the stereotype spectrum.

Black female sexuality is not to be constrained or exploited, it should be respected and desired. And I for one intend on leading the charge if I have to write a a freaky soliloquy everyday for the rest of my life.

This is all really a bunch of self-righteous nonsense that I am using to justify my over-zealous attraction to exploring my lust on paper and do with my pen what I'm to afraid to do in person, nevertheless it is an issue that is an unfortunate part of being a black female.

Sucks to be me.

If I were a poet

If I were a poet I would say

When I met you I was reminded of the time in Dr. Jones African-American history 2 class, while we were discussing Malcolm X, when he pointed to one of the black boys in class and said "Ladies, I would like for you to meet God" the realist in me would say you are not God, but the poet in me would say my God, you are a divine creation, inspiration that leads me to believe that if Jesus was similar to your nature no wonder Mary Magdalene stayed so close

If I were a poet I would say

You have skin the color of homemade syrup, and you smell like my grandmother's breakfast on Saturday morning and when I'm with you all I hear are 90s love songs and lonely, lonely is a curse word

If I were a poet I would say

That the time you walked up behind me in the crowded MSC and whispered hello in my ear my insides liquefied in that manner that on the most intimate of occasions a woman can tell a man without words he has made a very good impression

If I were a poet I would say

Thinking of you takes me back to the days when I painted masterpieces on concrete with sidewalk chalk and played Brown Girl in Mr. Rowe's music class and I always hoped to dance in the circle with you

If I were a poet I would say

That if God were to give me one gift it would be this, that I could make footprints over the sands of time with you by my side and we would make babies and have grandbabies and both sit at opposite heads of the family table at Thanksgivings and Christmases and be the first to go down the soul train line at the family reunion, for you to open my door and all the young girls say I want a man like him, and for me to bring you your food and all the young boys say I want a wife like her, and for us to sit together in church and the young couples say we want to be like them

But I'm not a poet and its not easy for me to think of creative metaphoric ways to say that everyday when I roll over and see you on the right side of my bed that I just love you. 

The List

It seems as though when it comes to love and life the heart and the mind like to wage war. Even though I have had those all nighter conversations with myself about certain someones I believe that I have always been sensible when it comes to choosing men, so sensible in fact I stay away from the decision altogether even have a list, I like to call it...

The kinky conundrum of why I can't have coitus with you

1. We're unequally yolked.

Spirituality and all its related activities are important to me. This includes church. If you have issues with organized religion or consider yourself spiritual and not religious then you can bet that we will be just friends. I have been raised in the church and have formed my own relationship with the man upstairs. If that seems silly or a waste of time for you believe me I feel the same way about our relationship. Catch me at Carverdale Church of Christ nicca! (Did I just do a church shout out?)

   2. You have no attainable goals.

I want to be a lawyer and a successful blogger. What about you? Men who can't finish school, can't keep a job, or have no inkling of what they want to do in life make me itch. I don't mind a brotha with dreams. If you want to own a ribbon making factory great! If you majored in dance in college cool, open a dance company and get your Alvin Ailey on, but you got to show me some initiative. I have seen too many women in my life get swindled by some man into being their sugar mama and I just can't do it church.

   3. You are with child.

I have some guy friends who are fathers. Some are great, some could use a  little work. I am more than happy to be apart of a child's life as auntie kinky, not step-mama kinky. I am still at a point in life where children seem more of a burden than a blessing, and to be honest I am way to irresponsible and/or selfish to be put into the position of rearing a little person. I have had men try to tell me that their child is not my responsibility and all I have to worry about is being their woman but I have to disagree. If our relationship is to be long term then at some point or another I will be directly or indirectly be responsible for the well-being of your child. That is a lot of pressure, then there is the chance that your child won't like me and who's to say I'm going to be head over heels about Jr? The most important issue however is the mother of your child. You are now linked forever with a woman who has seen you naked, that is a problem for me.

   4. You are to "eurocentric"

All my life I been black and all my life I been happy as heck to be it. I've had this nappy hair for over a year now and I'm not turning back. I'm trying to get back to Africa next summer and I have read the Autobiography of Malcolm X. A sista is quick to throw up the black power fist ok? If you ain't down to fight the power every once in awhile or at least have a conversation about it then to you sir I say good day.


    5. Non-argumentative

You can blame this on my highschool sweetheart. I've always been slightly confrontational but thanks to him I now need a couple good arguments a month to keep me on my toes. The strong silent type is good in theory but I need a little passion in my life. Not thug passion or anything that one may find in the urban section in Walden Books just someone who doesn't mind going toe to toe with me. Plus if we never fight how will we ever make-up? wink. wink.

There it is, the top 5 things that I look at to decided if  I am worth a man's time (I didn't type that wrong, that's what I meant to say). I suppose I should back door with a list on what increases a man's coital chances. So I guess this post should be called The List pt.1? Well join me tomorrow kids for part 2 of our segment. Same kinky time, same kinky place.

Photographs

I f*cking hate to take pictures.

Somewhere between ages 18 and 19 all the cameras in the world said "we gon f*ck this girl up." Very few pictures taken of me after my 19th birthday do I find flattering. The worst part is I hang around picture happy bishes that have Tourette's syndrome with their effing camera phones. Any random event that occurs is a photo op for these skeezers and its freaking annoying.

For instance the birthday dinner that my friend planned for me was very sweet and I enjoyed every minute of it. Except for the pictures! The fake smile plastered on my face is now plastered all over Facebook. Which means I have been tagged in these awful arse pictures for the f*cking world to gawk at.

My friends, as lovely and kind hearted as they are, simply don't understand that I don't care if they think the pictures are cute, I don't care if the entire world thinks that the pictures are top model status, I hate them and that reason alone should be enough for them to stop forcing a camera in my face everytime I f*cking turn around. In my opinion the camera does not love me, that bish hates my f*cking guts and is out to get me. I aint never ran from a nigga but I will sprint right past a camera everytime.

I realize that I am overreacting yes it is that time of the month and that my friends just want to capture our times together on film seeing as though any of us can kick the bucket at any given time, but sh!t, damn, motherf*cker I think I have a personality that will remain even in the case of my demise, I mean really we don't know for sure what Jesus looked like but we're all still talking about him. Same thing for me, I don't walk on water or anything but I do tell a mean Knock Knock joke so we're basically two peas in a pod.

I am a genius behind a camera not in front of it, I'm part native American anyway the camera steals a piece of my soul everytime someone gets a snap shot. You see what these heffas are doing to me? They're stealing my f*cking soul.

Tramps.

*Fun facts about this post*
The word f*ck was used 6 times.
I'm pretty sure I misspelled Tourette's.
I'm not part Native American.

21

Yesterday was my 21st birthday. My best friend and roommate (same person is case you were confused)planned a surprise birthday dinner for me, we went and got a few drinks and I spent the last couple of days with her and her cousin whom is also a dear friend. I had a good birthday and I'm so touched that I was thought of enough to have her plan a celebration for me.

But while I was driving aimlessly on the freeway last night I began to feel overwhelmed and even scared of what this birthday means. On one hand I no longer have to play the "I forgot my id" game when purchasing alcohol, on the other hand I am about to graduate from college. In a matter of months I will be considered full grown and it is not all it's cracked up to be.

I am not my mama's baby anymore, heck this time in my mother's life she was getting married! I breakout into hives at the mention of commitment. I'm quite confused about what to do or how to go forward. I mean I will be putting in my law school applications very soon, and I will continue this blog because I do indeed enjoy it. I fully intend on incorporating both of these passions (blogging, environmental law) into my life for ummm ever if I can.

I suppose I am not so scared for my future  in the "I'm going to be a bum" way because as cocky as this may sound I know I'm going to be successful in one way or another. Success is what I do, it's what I've always done despite the major setbacks that I've had this year. Though in the very near future I could be moving out of my mother's house, dealing with issues like relationships, sex, marriage etc. I mean basically my life is about to turn into an episode of Girlfriends.

Hell, I can't even think of a good way to end this post, so I'm thinking it's all down hill from here. See how backwards and confused I am? Good day.

Natural hair stereotypes. Is it really that bad?

These are my confessions...

1. I'm natural.
2. I have been to Africa.
3. I write poetry.
4. I don't eat pork.
5. I'm a tree hugger.

I could go on and on but you get the picture. I pretty much encompass all the stereotypes of black women who wear their hair in its natural state. A few things on the list I have done before I was natural, the others despite the fact that I'm natural. Either way I embrace all the stereotypes about natural sistas because once a person gets to know me I will either confirm or disprove the assumption.

Though while perusing blackgirlwithlonghair I read a post where some women were adamantly against the tree hugger/mother Africa stereotypes that came along with their decision to no longer relax their hair. I mean these women were mad. Neck rolling, finger shacking, in your face mad (see what I did, I played up another black woman stereotype). And I for the life of me could not understand why these women were so frustrated. Many of them gave reasons such as "I don't want to be put in a box" or "It's just hair, it's not a big deal."

The thing is, most stereotypes attributed to natural haired women are not that bad. People are more likely to assume you're educated, down to earth, politically aware, a freak, and generally an overall nice person. In my opinion that is a damn good box. Its as if these women are saying "don't be fooled by my ability to defy social stigma and wear my hair as it grows out of my head, I can be as ratchet as the girl with the blonde weave, with 3 babies by 4 different men, who works the popcorn stand at CVS."

And in all seriousness black people, we are kinda a big deal. There is rarely something happening in the black community that the world does not pay attention to. Examples? Of course?

1. The African continent.
2. Jazz.
3. The Civil Rights Movement.
4. Rock n' Roll. Yes that was our sh!t, Elvis was the king of thieves.
5. Hip Hop.
6. Booty.

And now Hair. If it was just hair, Madame C.J Walker would not have had the consumer base to amass her fortune. If it was just hair Koreans wouldn't be sending their kids to med school off our Remy weave purchases. If it was just hair there would be no need for workplace seminars on how "ethnic" hair is unacceptable for the workplace, and little black girls wouldn't beg their mothers for relaxers. If it was just hair hell we would all be natural!

I understand that with all the adversity faced by black women everyday some might find it offensive to be judged on something that should be trivial, but based on the fact that natural black hair is still an anomaly in our communities assumptions will be made, besides stereotypes do have some truth in them they may not all apply to you personally but is it really that serious?

Say my name, Say my name

I used to love this song, I still have my The Writing's on the Wall tape, yes tape. The original Destiny's Child was together, at least until the video shoot, it was a much simpler time then. Unfortunately this has nothing to do with unfaithful men who can't even control their wayward dhick's with their girlfriend on the phone.

Yesterday I hung out with two very dear friends of mine, both male, and from one I was given the idea for this post. As stated on this blog before or on afrolista, I love men. One of the things I love most is a man's voice. There have been times that I longed only to hear the voice of a man friend. And trust me when I say it is in the most innocent of ways that a man's voice can make my whole day or night feel better, but the most spine chilling word a man can ever utter is Coiette.

Whenever a man says my name my entire body perks up, and I am entirely focused or refocused on him. I don't know why I have this addiction to it, maybe it's because throughout my lifetime people have always had trouble pronouncing my name, or maybe  because when people know you they just start talking to you instead of calling you by your name. In any case while my friend was rambling incoherently about strippers I (sorry guy) drifted in and out of listening, however when my name slipped out from his vodka stained lips his story began to slightly interest me again.

My name or any variations thereof said with the right amount of bass by the right man gives me butterflies, I get nervous, and this chill comes across my body no matter how hot it is. Even seeing my name written in text by the right man produces the aforementioned bodily sensations. In fact the more times a guy says my name the more it endears him to me. I can't recall anyone else that has such an addiction to hearing their name said by the opposite sex outside the constrains of a horizontal situation, and maybe I'm just a super narcissist, whatever the case may be say my name, you won't wear it out.