My spirit is tired of this country. Still, I won't abandon it.As usual, the state of this country is molded around those who want more, but don't want anyone to have more than they do. Obama presented his 2013 State of the Union speech with great emphasis on " a rising, thriving middle class." Seems mediocre is the best way to live.
Our President explained that we, as a country, must make strides "on behalf of the many, not the few" by "put[ting] the nation's interest before party." I understand the tone beneath it all, but the "few" he speaks or are government officials/ the rich. I understand working for the greater good. I understand Democracy, but I don't agree with casting off the other few - the poor. For a country that has, "In God We Trust" printed on its currency, I can't help but to quote from the book:
Until our country fixes its weakest links, it will always be weak and self-destructing. Since I've already started this off in a semi-negative tone, please don't think I disagree with everything he said, or that I'm Anti-Obama. I just understand that he is one person at the head of a unit & sometimes, it takes an ordinary person to consider ordinary people. Obama's address to the union was well delivered and offered various points of improvement for our country. But the beauty of our country is in the freedoms it has granted its people; the same freedoms which have plagued us, in my opinion.
I'm actually not a good person. That's why I tell my mom not to worry about me. Bad things never happen to bad people. Sometimes, I wonder if everyone out there is proud of their every action. Am I the only one who's made mistakes? Im-fuckin-possible. And that's where my big head comes from -my head size is actually medium. Found that out today. --I'm not a bad fuckin kid. I turned out a-okay.
It's why I don't pity anyone. I've made it up in my mind that people decide their path of their lives. I remember when I did it. It was the day I decided to fill out the papers and apply for private school. I unconsciously made the decision that I no longer gave a fuck about other people. It was 8th grade. And I was about to lose all my friends to be the new girl at this all-white school (across the street from the all-black school. I knew where I was going. *wink*) But I did it anyway. It was the year me, Crystal and Sabrina really became friends. That was our summer. It's like... the first official summer of the Boooyyss (i hate insiders, but I had to here.) They were my best friends --and they still are. We didn't... talk about it lol. We kept it movin like people do. We didn't hang out for a while. & then I came back around and Crystal had lost her virginity. I had to do it too. I wanted know how it felt. Fucking sex? I needed to know. I wanna do it, I decided. Say what you want. I just wanted to know. It was curiosity that fucked Pandora.
I liked the sensation, I'm human... but I considered it a base act. It was something that was done for procreation purposes, it just happened to feel good if done the right way. Sex never really mattered to me. I mean... Liked when it was good... but it didn't hold much importance to me in life. It was there. When I had a boyfriend, it was done. Or it wasn't. Either way, we'd live. Truth be told, sex didn't get "emotional" for me until later in life. Like.. not too long ago, actually. I've only really emotionally connected with like... lol... guys were a joke. I once had a list in my diary of the boys I liked at the moment (but with nick names). And my boyfriend saw it. And he cried. And I laughed. I was evil. I really was. And I gave him the "why are you looking through my things," and went about my business. I apologized a little bit, but I probably called Crystal later and laughed. And please remember, I I loved this boy. I actually did. But I didn't know how to show that. He was my first real boyfriend, and he let me walk all. over. him. I could treat him how I wanted. He gave me what I wanted. Did what I wanted. When I wanted. How I wanted. If I wanted. I don't know what it was. He was cute. Too cute even.
I'm a manipulator. Someone called me that once. And it hurt because it was true. (lmfao).
Going to private school was my first truly selfish act. I knew we didn't have enough to pay for it. I knew my mother would have to work hard. I appreciated it, but I didn't feel bad. I mean... that's my mom. What was she supposed to say when her daughter says she wants to go to private school? No? Not my mother. Not the mother who's basement I had to clean out last summer of the biology books from 1975 that she had kept "just in case" (which she def put right in the shed in the backyard. She's insane).
When it came to school, I could have anything I wanted. I learned that early and abused it frequently. I went to all my school dances and needed an outfit. I needed shopping, man. It's what has always relaxed me. I didn't really abuse her. I mean, I could only abuse her so far. I didn't shop malls, I shopped Salvation Army. So when I ran up a tab, it's cuz my stuff came to like.... $40. It was a lot for us. I had half a heart. I never liked when she spent anything over $100. That extra digit hurts when you have nothing. That might be chump change now, but fuck. The things I could do with $100, I would think. And I wasn't doin shit really. I would go into stores and steal another $100 worth so it seemed like I was doing damage. I was a bad person. That shits not cool. And while I feel remorse for things like that, I don't regret it. Was stealing those things worth it? Yes, I believe so. I believe it was the things that made me cool. I believe that without those "things" I wouldn't have been perceived as "cool" by my peers. But I never wanted to be too cool. I was good with being cool enough. I had (and have) pretty friends. A boy likes me here and there. I was chillin. But I was still super smart. But I was supercool, at least I thought so.
I know you might not believe it, but... I didn't have any feelings towards it. Sometimes I'm afraid of giving my "sob" story because it's easy to feel bad for me, but really --no one should. We went through hard times because that's what happens. That's what needed to happen for us to get to where we are. We're a strong bunch. I don't know the things my brother and sister must have gone through. Because apparently, I had it a lot easier. So, here's the spoiled brat telling her story.
Part of me just wanted to prove I was smart. That I could do it. "If I get in, I want a diamond ring," I told my mom. I was 15. The mouth on this kid, huh? I've never been easily satisfied. And so I passed the exam. And so my mother gave me the ring off her finger. If you don't know, that's my boo, right there. We've come a long way, she and I, but she put a ring on it early. I didn't notice it then, but she'd do anything for me. I got everything I wanted --which wasn't much more than a pair of whites when the school year started. I'd have to buy my own when the summer hit. Then I went to private school and saw my first real-live labels. And got them by any means necessary . With help from the girls who wished they were me. That's what I failed to notice in high school. In reality, they all wanted to be me. Here I was with this complex about my dark skin and my coarse hair and there was beauty underneath there. I just never took the time to care for myself. Which is expected and fine, I was just a kid. I'm glad I had all my esteem issues when I did. Get that shit out the way. I'm not sure what does it to us.
"Ma, did I cry when you dropped me off at kindergarten?"
"No... I... No... I don't think so," she answered.
"Did I ever cry when you dropped me off anywhere?" I asked laughin. She's funny. She never knows nothin for certain.
"No. Tu estaba loca por get rid of me," she laughed back. I was just crazy to get out the house for real. I wasn't a clingy child. I was always good everywhere. With everybody. Everyone has always loved me. Like... people don't not like me. They might not like me, but they know that they have no reason not to like me. Carl said he didn't like me cuz I thought I knew everything. But then he realized I did. Even when I was younger. The teachers loved me cuz I did my work. The troublemakers loved me cuz I didn't snitch. The snitches loved me cuz everyone else loved me & they follow the crowd. I wasn't pretty. I wasn't fly. I was just me. I was smart but I was cool ( I like to think). I didn't start any trouble. I didn't annoy the boys. I was just there. Everyone knew me, but only certain people really knew me. I was the black girl who hung around with whoever I was with at the moment --there weren't a lot of dark skinned girls in Central Falls when I was livin there.
That's why I don't live there anymore. I don't live anywhere.
When I was 5 years old, my mother handed over something that may or may not have belonged to her. Technically, it belonged to the undercover who purchased it. I'm from a place where everyone knows everyone's name and we can be counted on to forget what we have to. However, everyone saw everything clearly and arrangements were made to ship the kids to where they needed to be while mom prayed in a cement box, wiping her tears on the stuffed animals she'd send me. Meanwhile, my dad was in a box, tightly packed in a shitty cemetery (because you've got to show baptismal records to get into the nice ones) and my brother + sister's dad pretended like she and his children were in one (until he decided he needed American papers years later) and so, I'm sure you understand, a woman had to do what a man had to do.The US government gladly gave my mother two-years vacation + a one-way ticket back to where the f*ck she came from - Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. At the age of 5, I began living with strangers. From the age of 5, #CF raised me.
Calvin is... pretty effin great. I have a couple of bosses, but the big boss is so much more down-to-earth than I'd have ever imagined (+ she's a Jay-Z fan #points). Every interaction I have with her, I respect her so much more. She asked our entire department to dedicate a day to community service projects. I chose to work with kids with Free Arts NYC.
I wasn't... scared, really. I just knew. I knew that I don't have any children and any child in my possession is a nerve wracking ordeal. Sparing you the details of "kids will be kids" I can say, I learned a ridiculous amount of wisdom from a 7-year-old. I'd say she mentored me more than I did her.
The Free Arts NYC program we participated in takes place on Saturdays from 10am - 3pm and all you pretty much do is arts & crafts. *sigh of relief* It's brilliant because you don't really have to teach the kid anything... you simply get to spend time & that was what I found most valuable. Sometimes, all you need is someone to make you feel special. To look you in the eye when you're having conversation. My buddy & I talked about everything and nothing: School, art, birds, architecture, God. "Nobody is perfect," she told me as I tried to manage her and another 6-year-old (who was a boss). "Only God." She finished explained. I sat back and exhaled. I spent lunchtime trying to understand how this little girl understood. I was having a tough time, man. Dealing with another person's child is difficult, but in that, you see how beautiful children are. All they want to do is sit, laugh, glue & eat pizza... and make a new friend here and there. A bit of attention. Isn't that what we all need, though? Not only was this great for the kids, but this gave me a bit of outside time with my 9-5 family that I surely appreciated :) (#Secretly, I love my day-job.)
After all was said (& said again) & done, there was one thing everyone seemed to agree with no matter the degree or lack of violence the assign to their solution: Sh*t has to change.
Now, we brainstorm what to do. If you feel like the struggle is yours, engage yourself, your mind & your friends. If you won't participate, I will :) Feel free to join me where ever I am & Keep up with JWWWD Events as I start doing things one might consider a little more beneficial to society. Nothing wrong with being a well-rounded individual & showing support for whatever your heart hurts for.
I'm at work & gots to do my J-O-B, but I'll post some more of my thoughts a little later.
I don't trust you. Honestly, I'm not sure if it was because of your melanin deficiency or because, as you yelled at me for praising champagne, you displayed that same uncontrolled passion-infused anger I assume is at fault in taking the life of a 17-year-old boy. "Stop writing about champagne!" he yelled walking up W21st. "Kids are dying!" He went on. I turned and gave him the thumbs up. I applauded his fury but I had one question for the loud white man walking 30 feet from the silent black woman he was there with: I ask of you, before this day, did you worry about my sons? Because every day I worry about what roadblocks the world will build to make sure he doesn't make it out alive. Because I know every time my son steps out of my front door, someone will assume he is a criminal and decide to prove themselves correct. They will ignore his smile and refuse to hear him laugh. They'll know nothing about his strength and endurance or how sweet he sings because, to most of the world, he is nothing but a gang affiliated goon. In this case, though, Trayvon had nothing to shoot but skittles. Have you tasted the racism?
Ella wept. Behind her gold-rimmed wayfarers, she let her tears stream freely. Fervently, even. Small sobs pushed their way through as she mouthed salty lyrics. Hyperventilating shorty until she broke through the momentary emotional derailment to cross the intersection. Imagine; to have been struck dead at 9:30am because she had been crying about a Jay-Z song. "Rap music kills" would have been the headline. But it had been quite some time since someone spoke to her, never mind speaking to her heart. She didn't mind the lack of communication. What bothered her most was its repetitive failure and the inadequacy of comprehension. The deficiency of understanding. How tragically fantastic her death would have been. Secretly, her life would have been half complete: she'd have died in peace to know that her idols understood her, but would have died being merely a King to Gods without first letting them know that she too was a faithful non-believer.
How fantastically self-centered. The third person POV persists because she feels no one can speak for her but herself --and so she has broken outside of her body to illustrate to you, that she too is a character in this movie called life, but in this particular scene of it, she plays both antagonist and protagonist. Her only aim is to taunt you. Oh my, she's gotten ahead of herself. She patiently presses each button on the keyboard assured that every letter to magically appear on the screen in front of her is exactly the way it should be. How many pixels are in truth? How many minutes? How many tracks? How many daubs of paint? How many chords? Which method is most exact in recording it? Is there more truth in music or paint? In lyric or verse? Dictionary or Pantone? Where is truth really?
"American," I told him.
"No, but what are you?" he insisted.
"American. That's what my passport says."I explained, abruptly and coldly. I have this conversation with almost every man I meet and it always goes terribly. They always give up in trying to persuade me to be something. It's the ambiguity in tresses of my hair: too soft to be black, to black to be white. Mixed, they silently say to themselves. D told me that people look at me funny when I walk down the street. They give me a What is that? look he explained. They can't put a finger on it --but they want to, he elaborated. I simply don't understand why I can't be an American. If anything, I am the American. My roots are so entangled, it'd be unfair for me to claim one soil over another, especially figuring I haven't visited many of them. But the land that I love, the land where I was made, the earth that grew me? That was American, indeed. Besides, if you're not going to accept the answer I give you, then why ask? "French people are from France. Spanish people are from Spain. Germans are from Germany,"I went on to explain. "The Sweedish are from Switzerland. If was born in America, aren't I an American?"I questioned him.
"I know but like..." Either his answer was an inch away from stupid or I was simply too caught up on my end or the argument to pay attention, but I don't quite remember how he responded except to say "meekly" at most. Oh how I despise meek men.
If I am not American, then I am dreams personified. I am the result of battles fought. I am the reason for everything. I am why the molecules came together to form man. So that man could evolved and create countries based on their individual thoughts. These individual thoughts birthed rebels who fled their countries to find free land to raise their children for a new, enlightened generation. Those enlightened generations, one after another, fought moral battles on my behalf before I was even born --giving their lives to the soil that would one day raise me --simply so that I could claim this country as mine. And it is mine, goddammit. This is a country that was build by the working man --especially when that working man was chained, whipped and dehumanized --in the pursuit of gold paved roads and diamond littered rings. Now, no one might have known that all of that was done in the name of a nappy-headed little girl from Central Falls, Rhode Island who had nothing but a dead daddy, a mommy in jail and siblings who --while they had raised her --she barely even knew. Who at six years old, found it too diffuclt to explain to her uncle that no matter how much endearment he meant by it, no one wants to be called, "Blackie" not even if you say it Negrita. My mind functioned at far too young an age so my view on the world was formed earlier than most. I learned what it meant to exist in my body, in my neighborhood, in my time. I understood that this country based on ideals of democracy and supposed equality, but I had seen a few haves and it wasn't matching up with the gross number have-nots. I learned early that the world isn't solely mines, but it is mines. The unwritten capitalist undertones insist that I should make it more mines than anyone else's --I am a child of that sentiment. We are all at war with each other waiting for the time when we can take ownership of the 40 acres owed to us. I'm about to cash in my chips. I wan't what is rightfully mine. & since I understand that it will not be given to me, I am going to take it. In the words of the late, great, Notorious B.I.G, lay on the floor you've been robbed. & ummm... oh yea... Gimme the loot ;)
I'm a bad, bad woman.
I was beginning to feel alone. As if my theory were a signifier of insanity. As if there were a flaw in my hypothesis that I couldn't quite straighten out and it was tearing me apart because I make the most educated guesses, I promise you. I simply couldn't and can't see the error in assuming that I am of the country I was born in. It seems unfair to me that, while my passport looks the same as the next person, I failed to realize that the blue covered white sheets stood for blue eyes, blonde hair. Fuck. She's back to racism. I thought we were don'e with it. We have a Black president, isn't that enough? It might have been until you made him show you his birth certificate. Am I the only one who thinks that there is still and yet a struggle? Over the years, the people who have verbalized my emotions and outlook on the world most accurately have been Mr. Carter and Mr. West. I need not mention again how Mr. Ocean makes my heart swoon. I sat upon my throne and listened as Jay and Ye told their stories from theirs. Most of the time, I get on my Emory Jones and just wannna hear the boy talk fly, but when they're talking about Rolexes that "don't tick-tock" I wish mine would be as discreet. So I only sing along to half those songs. I can only truly say something if it relates to me so while I smile and applauded them for their decorated verses and lives, I was waiting for them to say something that sounded more similar to mine. I've been listening to the album, song by song, line by line because it's about time someone sat and fuckin listened. Each song on repeat and conscious oh what it did to my heart beat but no song spoke to me like "Made in America," especially since all I did was start a little blog to try to get me some traffic. And if I have anything in common with any of these folk, I consider it an advantage in character.
I'm just like them. I'm a king, too. I came from nothing, too. & not to say that we was from the projects, but every time we went to the store, my mom would say, in Spanish, no te antoje de nada. She never said it twice, but it means, don't ask for nothin'. My mother made moves, if not for nada, then simply so we could have papas in our agua. But I didn't complain much, me gustan majadas. Now, my refined poor taste can go on dates to any place, but that doesn't mean the plate is what I was hoping for. I know what there is out there, the good and the bad. That's why whenever I get that one Facebook message from a stranger confessing to me that they enjoy my script, it does enough to almost bring tears to my eyes because this blog is really nothing although it's absolutely everything. My life in the actual physical world is the one that uncovers my sincerest emotions. I reminisce about my losses and plot my advances all the while still at awe that I'm sitting here are this very desk with the opportunity to speak to you --all bills paid. Checks coming constantly. I didn't know where my life would go. I had blind faith in my own ambition and determination but I came from the same hood a lot of people came from so there's no real reason as to why I'm here and they're not. This isn't a shot at them, but I did work hard as fuck to get here. Everyone knows that.
I'm not even supposed to be here. I know it. They know it. When people come in through the door, and see me at my desk, I know they're thrown off by the Black girl with the curly fro but she's fly as hell, isn't she? I saw their doubt when I first started on the job, shaking shaky hands during first introductions, but eventually we saw that I'm damned good at what I do, didn't we? And so this morning, on my way to work --and then again on the train-- I cried as I listened to "Made in America" on repeat because --like I said --I'm not supposed to be here. And while I did feel a bit embarrassed because I know the woman next to me noticed, I reveled in my emotions. I'll never see here again, anyway. I'm not really doing anything big. I don't own nothing but shoes and I empty out my back account with too much ease for my taste, I feel like I've made it because I'm comparison to where I was --in comparison to where I was supposed to be --I'm doing very, very well. I mean, I'm supposed to be locked down, too. To have a kid or two, too. Breaking up and getting back together with my baby daddy, too. Working two jobs just to make it through. Aimless and lost, searching for purpose in the arms of strange men at hours dedicated to a particular profession I don't have to spell out, doing things you should probably consider charging for. Whats the difference between a prostitute and a whore? Between made it and makin' it? Between dreams and dreaming? Between me and the rest of the sorry souls wandering this planet failing to realize they fall behind me in line?
I am a human being to a mob. Mr. Ocean asked pertinent questions and he deserves some heartfelt answers. My dear Frank, I have them all. I am a mob to a King, a King to a God and a God to a non-believer. I am the ultimate threat and the greatest benefit. The worst enemy and strategic ally. I am brushed off answers. I am uncontrolled passion and bitter despair. I am the outlier, the exception and the usual. I am the exact same and the complete opposite of everything. I am church in the wild.
I am an American.
I am King, Queen and Jest.
I am President.
I am Ella. Every one.
The difference is, I know I'm an American, & my goal is to make the dream my reality.
This Thanksgiving, I had to tell my mother that I'm Black. You see, we're Dominican, so Black has a specific meaning to us (and other Latin Americans). We're inherently racist and never fail to point out skin color in the next person as if our islands weren't where the most mixing of persons (rather, breeding of slaves) took place. "You're not Black," she said to me, making me realize where I had gotten my argument from. I used to fight against it. Saying "I'm not Black, I'm A, B & C." Pointing out everything but Black --because Spanish people don't think they are. My question is, if you didn't check the box for Black, did you check it for White? I mean, there was no "Medium" box. What exactly do you think you are? I know the answer to that: Whatever island/country their from, that's what they'll claim. Black people don't have that luxury (seeing how they have no idea where they're really from).
Still, I'm not retracting my entire statement. I'm not just Black. Part of the reason I argued against the label was because calling me "Black" seemed to wipe out any trace of what else I am. I'm Dominican. I'm Cuban. I'm Chinese, even. A plethora of different cultures that have added to and defined who I am ad an individual. None more important than the other. While my racial identity is considered "Black" my cultural identity is more Dominican than anything else. I was raised by my Dominican mother, who was raised by her father --born of the marriage of her island grandmother (St. Lucia, St. Vincent... one of the St.'s lol) to her Chinese grandfather. With that said, in my house, we don't eat chitlins or greens and my mac-n-cheese comes in a blue box.We eat pernil and moro de guandules. Rice & beans & meat, ya'll . I eat rice, beans and meat.
But my skin color is all people jude me on. It's the first thing they see. The thing many can't get passed. Most times, people don't ask "what" I am and say "I thought you was... like... just Black, yo." Honestly, before my senior year in college, I'd have said "I'm not Black at all." I love my "mix" as people call it. And it's gotten me a good amount of "Yo, that's sexy"'s in my day. While it's something that makes me different from those who are just Black, I am no different. 400 years ago, I'd have been right on that field with the rest of you. Imagine me saying "Hey, but I'm not really Black." Riiiight. & Before 1964, I'd have been right behind you in line at the "Coloured's Only" drinking fountain (or "bubbler" for my Rhode Islanders lol).
My distaste for being called "Black" was rooted in the race's inevitable connection to attributes like lazy, ignorant and uneducated. And part of me just didn't want to be that. (Im reading a book called "No Matter How Much You Promise Cook or Pay the Rent you Blew it Cauze Bill Bailey Ain't Never Coming Home Again" by Edgardo Vega Yunque, where the Puerto Rican character, Elsa, feels the same way. Good frickin book btw & awesome title right??!?!) But in saying this is to agree with these stereotypes. For me to say that I didn't want to be Black because I didn't want to be associated with those things was partially from my agreement with the stereotypes. Now, let's be honest here, a majority of Black people are uneducated. Many are lazy. And a large group of them (especially the young ones on public transportation) are ignorant. But this can't be attributed to the "race". It's not genetic. It's circumstantial. I noticed this most when I went to college in Baltimore. I saw Black families. Black professionals. In Rhode Island, I never met any. I never had a Black teacher or doctor or anything. And, yes, there are Black people there. Lots of them. They just ain't doin shit because they have no idea that they can. And so that was the initial idea I had of Black people. You only know what you see. That's how stereotypes form in the first place; from an unrepresentative sample.
Additionally, I loathe the "we're all African" argument. Overtime, with continental drift breaking up Pangea, our continents formed and somehow, someone decided that every piece of land broke off of the original Africa. How about, everything broke off of each other? I mean... it's already been proven with Newton's Third Law of Motion that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. For everyone to "break off" of Africa, Africa would have had to been at a standstill the entire time. It wasn't and it isn't. Continental drift. Plate Tectonics. Why do we all have to be African? How about we're all human?
When I was younger, I tried very hard to maintain my "Blackness". I went to a pretty-much, all-white school but made no friends there. Not many at least. This is when "talking" or "acting" black or white was a huge issue. When many people were trying to find out who, ethnically, they were. I held onto my hood with fervor. I did so until I got pretty far through college and started to realize that the manner I was speaking deterred me from progress rather than helped me. Not to mention, I love writing. I'm in love with language. I couldn't bare to sully it with "Yo" and "deadass" after every statement.
In the afterward of Toni Morrison'sThe Bluest Eye, she speaks of trying to become a legitimate, credible, good, writer, but maintain this same "Blackness":
"My choices of language (speakerly, aural, colloquial), my reliance for full comprehension on codes embedded in black culture, my effort to effect immediate co-conspircy and intimacy (without any distancing, explanatory fabric), as well as my attempt to shape a silence while breaking it are attempts to transfigure the complexity and wealth of Black American culture in a language worthy of the culture...Hearing "civilized" languages debase humans, watching cultural exorcisms debase literature, seeing oneself presented in the amber of disqualifying metaphors --I can say that my narrative project is as difficult today as it was thirty years ago. (Morrison, p 216)"
It takes 50 or so slow reads to really understand exactly what Morrision is saying. And then another 50 to feel it. But here's my understanding (for now):
There is beauty in the Black culture. Granted, there are somethings that aren't as pretty as we'd like them to be. You can't cover those up and pretend they don't exist, but you also don't have to fall victim. Just because the Black culture is infused with yo's and nigga's, doesn't mean you have to speak like that all the time. But there comes a time when yo or nigga is the only term that fits. You need them. You can't get rid of them. You have to take the bad and understand the good that has come of it. Like how my "bad" hair is the perfect fro. I've come to understand that I can't separate myself from people who look like me because society throws us into the same bucket anyway. They look at us the same way. And we look at ourselves the same way -- all of us with the same hesitant eyes.
So I am Black, for that is indeed the color of my skin, but I prefer the term "Complexion Henny Straight": My skin tone is something I am immeasurable proud of. But I am a whole person, not to be defined by any single word society has the gaul to dream up. So instead of asking me "What's your race?" why dont you ask me "What color is your skin?" That's what you mean anyways. Then there would be no confusion in my answer. I wouldn't have to think. Maybe the US government could provide a color wheel (the cosmetics industry can help with this) where you have to pick the tone that closest matches your color. I think this would be more effective method of defining/describing a person. More legitimate, in my eyes. At least it'd be true and easy to confirm. Or better yet, call me an American. I mean, I was born here. My passport is bluer than Suzy's blue eyes. So that's what I want to be called. With no hyphenation. That's what I'm really fighting for.
Matta fact if you ain't callin me "American", don't call me nuffin, Yo.
Other than that, call me by my name. For now, Ella will do ;)
The assertion of racial beauty was was not a reaction to the self-mocking, humorous critique of cultural/racial foibles common in all groups, but against the damaging internalization of assumptions of immutable inferiority originating in an outside gaze.
Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye
I wanted blue eyes before. I can't recall exactly when and I probably didn't make a full out statement, but I know that I wanted them. I might have been around the time when I was wearing colored contacts-- I had to be like 13-- or when I was getting my hair relaxed every month.
I hated my hair. It wasn't long enough or soft enough for shiny enough.
I just finished re-reading The Bluest Eye and this quote made me wonder on the topic of racial-self loathing that I touched on in"Oh, So You Don't Like Black Girls."
I'll figure out what I want to say soon. For now, just think about the quote & maybe read the book!
It's Barbie, Bitch. You can join the wave. --Nicki Minaj in Young Money's "Roger That"
I mean, isn't it about damn time?
Last year, my sister and her husband volunteered to buy a Christmas gift for a child at a local New Jersey school. The little girl drew a picture of what she wanted: A black baby doll with blue eyes and blonde hair. Yea, right. Still, my sister searched New Jersey and New York city and couldn't find a black doll that was of quality --that's if she could even find one at all.
Now, my sister might have been asking me because maybe I could help her out, being the darkest child in my family. But I didn't like baby dolls so I was no help. The only dolls I liked were Barbie dolls. Personally, I didn't like the black Barbie. I thought she was... too black. Now, I'm not sure if she actually was or if I was so affected by society that I preferred the lighter Barbies. I don't quite remember. Theresa was the "medium" Barbie and Christie was the darkest one and I thought she was... (if I call her "crispy" would that be really wrong? Yea, you're right) not representative of me.
There's a group out of Atlanta called The Black Dolls whose aim is to empower young black females by being positive roll models in their communities. Their movement, The Black Doll Affair, was launched in response to the documentary, "A Girl Like Me," by Kiri Davis in which the filmmaker recreated and recorded the 1940s doll experiments lead by Kenneth and Mamie Clark that showed that Black children preferred white dolls over black dolls. The results from their findings were used in the Brown vs. Board of Education desegregation case.
(View Davis' "A Girl Like Me" here.) It's actually really, really sad & eye opening. The saddest part has to be when the kids have to point out the doll that is "bad" and then the doll that looks like them... and they pick the same doll.
As a black woman, I've always wondered, What color doll will daughter play with?Do I choose? Do I let her choose? Do I ban white Barbies completely? What if she like the white one better? Wat do I say? What do I do? I really don't know... yet. I figure I'll start her with Black dolls early so that there is no other option. If there's one thing I learned from Freud in Psych 101, it's how to train children.
The Sleazy Barbie @ Target
But then there are other issues that come about. "Barbie" is actually the name of the white doll while all the others have to take on different names. I also find it partially offensive that in the descriptions on Walmart.com, they have to put "AFRICAN AMERICAN" right out so that consumers aren't confused. Oh, because we couldn't tell she was black? See for yourself. Other black dolls are also highly sexualized. Check out this one Barbie sold at Target that a customer actually complained about: Read article Here. Earlier this year NY Daily News published an article about a Walmart in Louisiana selling its black Barbies for cheaper than the white Barbies: read article.
Cheaper Barbies @ Walmart
Now, there are plenty people upset at Nicki Minaj and her "Barbie" movement injecting self-esteem into Black women, but I'll be the first to say, I really don't mind. It's been a long time --if ever-- that black women have been so proud to be themselves, loving and accentuating their curves in latex and pleather like it's their full-time job. On a YouTube.com video called "Twitter Beef", Nicki explains the Barbie mentality and what it means to her and her fans. She argues that mentally, you have to be a "Bad Bitch" to be a Barbie.
Shit, sign me up.
If Nicki Minaj is what the new Black barbie looks like, I ain't mad at it. As a matter of fact, Vogue Black (Italian issued, I believe) featured an all-black photo shoot issue celebrating Barbie's 50th birthday (even though the Black Barbie is only 30). Check the beauty here. My question is: If a White girl were running around calling herself Barbie, would it be a problem? -- oh wait... that already happens.
I'm just glad I (and one day my daughters) can finally say, "That Barbie is pretty and she looks just like me."
I'm a Bad Bitch, I ain't never been a mixed breed.
WTF is it with everyone?
First, these two guys tell my friends that Black girl could never get with them. Both of these guys are light-skinned. Both, technically Black (according to the US Census Bureau and if they think they are not, they are indeed mistaken). Now, I could publicly bash the guys here, but I'm going to restrain myself. One is my godson's father. The other an ex-convict. I don't date dads or men who have done legit jail-time. I also don't date men under 6'2. & now, I don't date men who don't get salaries. Mostly though, I don't date men who don't date Black women. Don't you worry you're little heads off.
They would never have a chance with this Black girl.
Then, I'm talking to my cousin about her baby son & she jokingly talks about how her son "don't like Black girls. He likes white girls." I responded saying, "He'll learn," but what I should have said is "Poor thing. I'm sorry to hear that he'll be so deprived." Yes, deprived --from good lovin' and good food. BTW, I'm Dominican and so are my cousin and her son. Here's a PSA: If you ain't White or Asian.You Black. Accept it. I promise it doesn't hurt. Trust men, I've been Black for a while.
What might hurt some (and I've seen it hurt my little cousins who are my complexion and/or darker) is when the Black jokes and comments start coming around and they don't know how to defend themselves. I mean, it's only a matter of time until they do and it takes something extra to deal with it. How do I deal? Simple: I know that I'm beautiful. Anyone who's ever commented on my complexion has had far worse things to worry about in their own physical and (even more frequently) personality/intellect areas. I'm not phased. & jokes aren't funny when there's no reaction. That's like the only rule for jokes.
So... I'm a bad bitch and I come in the best flavor.
I have a close guy friend who is Black. (This man is black Black. His family born & raised in the USofA generation after generation. They speak no other language and come from no other country except Africa.) He told me he "doesn't like Black girls." He even tried to convince me that a girl he dated (who is Cape Verdean --a country off the coast of Africa) isn't Black because she's lighter than me. I don't hold it against him, I'm just sorry he hates himself so much.
With all these bright lights on these celebs, we seem to have forgotten what a sista actually looks like. Beyonce, Nicki Minaj, Keri Hilson, Zoe Saldana, Halle Berry, Sanai Lathan, Jada Pinkett-Smith, Gabrielle Union--these are sistas. And they are darker than you think they are. Make-up & bright lights do wonders. Trust me.
The only thing that upsets me in this situation is that many dark-skinned men prefer a lighter woman when many light-skinned women have to make excuses before dating a Black man. He's usually "cute to be so dark." She don't really like you. She might like your money or your _ _ _ _ size. With the last guy I was involved with, my friends could only say, "He has a cute smile". (FYI: This guy was beautifully chocolate and absolutely delicious.)
Lil' Wayne has a lyric in "Right Above It" that goes, "How do you say what's never said? Beautiful Black woman. I bet you she look better red." Excuse me Lil' Wayne, but how do I say, "Fuck You"? I don't want to be red. Do you want to be red? Do you want your daughter to be red? For some reason, people think that I too have a problem with my skin color. No, you have more of an issue with my skin color that I do. I love my skin color. I don't hide from the sun. And I moisturize twice daily to maintain its brilliance. Here's a better question: If those pretty light-skinned girls were dark as me, could they be as pretty as me? Here's the answer: Highly, highly, highly doubt it.
FYI: There's nothing in me that wishes my skin were lighter.
What if I was blue? Would I be dateable then? Cuz I still wouldn't date these minimum wage working, no book reading, can't-spell-assed, small _ _ _ _ size, mediocre stroke having, no respect for their mothers, obviously don't know their history and don't-value-women-assed light skinned men.
When you refused to help the least of these, 
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