Horwitz: Listen … If you was a fish, Mother Nature‘d take care of you wouldn’t she? Right? You don’t think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?”
Holden Caufield: No, but—
Horwitz: You’re goddam right they don’t!
Food for thought
The Benediction: Love is Love
I’m not a fan of marriage in general. I did it once, for all the wrong reasons like so many people who refuse to admit so. I think the institution has become as trite and jaded as “the American Dream“, chock full of false expectations, superficial wants and desires that have little or nothing to do with the happiness of the people who are lassoed into filing the papers. So why, you might ask, am I taking the time to write about marriage equality? Two reasons: First, the ability of a person to marry whomever you want is basic as hell. For real … why are we even having to debate this bullshit in court, America? I mean don’t we have bigger fish to fry? It is truly embarrassing that we as a nation are having to take to go to court to argue something that is a private matter between individuals with the contrasting arguments being just as bigoted as the counter arguments to the abolition of slavery, integration, interracial marriage, and women’s reproductive rights (wait … we’re STILL talking about that shit too. UGHK … America, just fucking UGHK.) I won’t get into the white male privilege of it all or the presumption that America is an exclusively “Christian Nation“, but I will say that if certain believers in the “America of Our Forefathers” don’t pull their heads out of their asses, it’s going to be a loooong decade or so … for them anyway.
Now to my second reason. In the same way a person can be spiritual and hate religion, I believe with my whole heart in love and don’t believe that marriage is requisite for a lifetime of loving another person. One of the first times I’ve been stuck dumb by the love I witnessed within a relationship, was one where the couple was of the same sex.
It was roughly 2 am in the morning and this woman came in through the emergency room sicker than hell. She had pneumonia and was so weak that she could barely do anything for herself. While I was assessing her, her partner who’d been parking the car came in. She quietly moved to the opposite side of the bed from me and took her hand. I was just about to stick the sick woman for blood when she sneezed. I froze immediately, to keep from sticking myself or the patient, and looked up to see her partner cleaning snot from her face and clothing without even flinching. She was caring for her with a look on her face that reflected pure love. Sounds sappy, but it was as if I were supposed to see it. In that moment something inside of me said “that’s what I want”, “that’s how I want to be loved by another human being.” Those two women were in that thing together for better or worse, and if a love like that can’t be confirmed through marriage then the whole institution should be outlawed. It has been years since this incident, but I never forgot it or how it affected me.
This past weekend I had the honor of attending the wedding of my friend Séan and his now husband Christopher. It was my first gay wedding, and I have to say that it was one of the most simple and sweet ceremonies I’d ever attended. Words of love and encouragement were exchanged between family and friends .. like any wedding. There were jitters, blunders, and late arrivals … like any wedding. And I, of course, bawled like a complete idiot … like I would do at any wedding. As the debauchery and merriment of the weekend unfolded, I found myself wishing that human beings in their infinite pursuit of control and understanding wouldn’t insist on making others miserable along the way. Love can’t be defined by a court case or really anything rational, if I look at my own life as an example. Love just is.
Rosie.
Give it away now.
Ever since this post and the circumstances surrounding it I have been or have made an earnest effort to be less attached to material things. I’ve found myself giving away earrings I once thought I could never part with or losing some other “treasured item” but being okay with it, sort of like the baby who gets their pacifier taken away, after a few days they’re fine.
Alas, I think my tolerance for letting go is wavering. After conceivably the worse weekend I ever spent in a hotel (there were children, there was screaming, there were ungodly bodily secretions), I lost two of my favorite bracelets. Grounded me would be okay with letting them go, accepting that these items had had their time in my life and it was now time for them to move on to the next owner. The thing is, I’m not grounded me, and I can’t get those two fucking bracelets out of my mind.
So I ask my self:
Q: Is it about the bracelets?
A: Not likely. It’s really about how tossed I feel with this impending move, my son’s general unhappiness and the difficulties he’s having in school, and the feeling that I have zero control over anything that is happening in my life right now. The least I can do is hold on to the things I love, huh Universe? Are you even fucking listening at this point?!
But I digress …
I am not going to return to the hotel in a desperate search for my two favorite bracelets that were so fucking awesome and made noise when I clapped and it seemed like I had musical instruments with me everywhere I went and fuuuuuck!!!!
Re-digressing …
The reason I’m not going back is because I, at my foundation believe that I am going to live and more beautifully simple and musical jewelry will come into my life. It’s just that I need to live with the uncertainty of when and how this new jewelry will show up.
Q: Am I even talking about jewelry at this point?
A: Not likely.
I just want this transition not to feel so fucking crazy or at the very least once again enjoy and be willing to do the things that I know help me feel better. So when my new jewelry shows up I’m ready to handle the abundance of its beauty and musicality, but be willing to let it go … all the way … if I need to.
– Selah
Rosie.
Wait … Am I Your “Magic Nig -ga -ger -roe”?!
Start here:
This, by the way, was and still is some of the most potent realness I’ve seen in a film. Ever.
Now on to the:
Magical Negro: The Magical Negro is typically but not always “in some way outwardly or inwardly disabled, either by discrimination, disability or social constraint,” often a janitor or prisoner.[7] He has no past; he simply appears one day to help the white protagonist.[8][9] He usually has some sort of magical power, “rather vaguely defined but not the sort of thing one typically encounters.”[8] He is patient and wise, often dispensing various words of wisdom, and is “closer to the earth.”[4]
-courtesy of Wikipedia
Now the post:
This morning as I nodded in and out of post third shift consciousness, I perused the good old face space to see what the people in my virtual (and a few in my real) life were up to and I see friends of mine “liking” shit like this:
and I’m like:
I pride myself in knowing and embracing a wide variety of people who represent varying racial and ethnic backgrounds, and political ideologies. It is, however, becoming increasingly difficult to understand how it is that people who I work and socialize with can be so unwavering in their “conservative” views, “conservative” views that have them peeking through the curtains of racism, sexism, and classism’s bedroom window if not sitting in their living room, but still “love” me in the way they say they do. Then it hit me … am I filed away in the minds and hearts of these folk as not being one of those kinds of blacks?! Am I their “Magic Nig -ga -ger -roe” like the Magic Johnson’s, Prince’s, and Oprah’s that have come before me?!
I simply cannot understand how people who show me so much genuine love, concern, and camaraderie can co-sign policies and ideologies that are aimed square at the disenfranchisement of people just like me. YES, as magical as a nig -ga -ger -roe as I may appear to be, I am or have been the 47% at some point in my life. Let’s check my qualifiers shall we?
Rosie’s top ten “those” people qualifiers
1. Grew up in low-income housing to …
2. A single mother who …
3. While working and during brief periods between children received food stamps.
4. I am a single mother who had a child …
5. Out of wedlock! O_O (no dead husband, no failed marriage [that came after the kid … and he wasn’t the father x_x] , just good old fashion fornication with no intention of extended dedication.)
6. I have immediate family members in jail (that I actually maintain contact with and love very much because contrary to what your “conservative” media outlets would have you believe, people don’t cease being human because are incarcerated! … take all the time you need to process that one.) hell I’ve even …
7. Been arrested! (no jail house tats though, but my street cred is up and that is GOOOD), Oh and I …
8. Don’t like working! (for other people, that is), and I …
9. Have been on Medicaid as an adult (quite shamelessly, I paid into that shit for 12 years prior, what?! So know that when I was on it, you’re conservative dollar was technically still free willy), but worst of all I …
10. Voted for Obama to ensure my continued leaching from the great America built by the Founding Fathers off the backs of my ForeFathers!
Again, take a moment, a day if you need to process. There are more qualifiers, but those may bust your heart wide open and leave you with no hope for savage… I mean American minorities. Think I’m overreacting and “making it racial”? Stop and take a look at the “conservative” base and tell me what you see? I may be going out on a limb, but I think to some point I represent some type of saving grace to my conservative friends (who I actually love and accept despite what their views are). I am, I believe, in their eyes “a credit to my race.” I am well spoken, fairly well read, and goddamn it I make them laugh! What they don’t realize is that it’s not always comfortable for me to be the funny nig -ga -ger -roe. What they don’t realize is that there are many times that their sweeping indictments of people who “leach off the system”, or how their tax dollars are paying for this ones healthcare, or the cadence with which they say our president’s name … as if trying to scrape shit off their tongue, often leaves me hating their asses for brief intense periods.
But then I let it go, because my intense hatred will do nothing to elevate the their mind state about the broader reality of minority life, and it’ll run my blood pressure up which we know all black folks suffer with anyhow. So, I just try to live honestly as possible, calling “bullshit” when I see it … when I have the energy to do so, and serving as an example of the many varieties of “those people” who exists. I know I seem angry, well fuck it, I am, but underneath this anger is a pressing need to be understood in the same ways I seek to understand.
If I can manage to separate the political ideology from the living breathing person that I know, then why is it that so damn hard for some to conceive of the fact that I might not be that magical. Maybe, just maybe, blacks and other minorities are not just some mass of bottom feeders that seek to drain an innocent America of all its xenophobic glory. Iono, one day it’ll all make sense I suppose. In the meantime, for those who are ready, consider this an open call to conversation. It’s a call that I will continue to make until I’m no longer able to speak. If we want change we can believe in, we have to believe we can change, and speak that change into existence.
Rosie.
Now go laugh at racism’s sting dammit!
I see you, you see me … and that’s cool.
I see you, you see me … that’s cool.
Posted on February 16, 2013 by StaceyRose
You’ve read my stuff, or you haven’t but surely may after this 
, I goodly suck at relationships of the romantic variety. I know all the issues behind why and I have prayed the prayers, cried the tears, and burned the effigies. There remains nothing left for me to do but do the work. In the process of this work doing I’ve come across a book that I’d actually be given about eight years ago called If The Buddha Dated. I won’t get into the particulars, but one thing I noticed, and which actually tickled me a little is that old adage “you attract what you are” is kind of true, but not in the negative douche baggy way people tend to dole it out.
While reading about compassion, unconditional love, mutual understanding, and facing fear in relationships I realized that these things are often very difficult for me to practice with the men I date because I often can’t practice them with myself. I attract people that I generally want to take care of in someway or another. They’re usually creative types (me), who are great at what they do (Me), who seek out affection/satisfaction from multiple and usually self destructive outlets (ME), and who are often resistant to any healthy/balance/positive change or growth (MMMMEEE!!!)
The issue has been established. Now what’s the game plan. First and most important I continue to fight bravely for my sanity and overall well being while looking at myself with a compassionate eye and speaking to myself in a compassionate voice. I stay OPEN but VIGILANT in my dating situations. I kindly refuse the literally attached, because they have been the worse type of self inflicted pain in my experience. The rest is just about learning. What my likes and dislikes are, and honoring that. What’s comfortable, what isn’t, and honoring that. And moving through fear! There’s an excellent passage in the book that goes a lil something like this:
Dating with a Buddhist consciousness means a willingness to confront anything inside that kindles fear or anxiety. When we start wanting to run away, be deceptive, tell lies, or put on a mask, we need to walk right into our fears, sit down, and talk to them until they become our friends. This doesn’t mean we have a goal of getting rid of fear; rather, we accept it as a part of our unfolding journey.
Boom.
Just last night I found myself entangled in a conversation with a man that fascinates me beyond words, but rather being IN the conversation and enjoying his company, I kept trying to find ways to make him more fascinated with me out of fear that who I am isn’t enough. I fall into that pattern so often it’s like breathing. What’s crazy is he was clearly just as uncomfortable as I was!
Last thing, and I’ll step off my makeshift soap box. Landing the man isn’t the goal. There will be no prize, no acceptance speeches to make, and no academy to thank when you have landed said man or woman. In fact, the prize will come in finding out that they are just as fugged up and human as you, and you still wanna stay. As my friend Antoine told me, “Don’t romanticize that shit, relationships are work.”
They damn sure are, and as my experience bears out, can break you in half if you don’t go in without your priorities straight and your expectations low. From observing relationships of people close to me I notice that the best ones are ones where people have and retain a strong sense of self and enhance their mate. It gives me hope, that if I pick up the pieces of my enfeebled soul that I will have an equally enfeebled soul to bang life out with … or not. Either way through my continued engagement in seeking out a relationship I am given the opportunity each time to form a more “perfect” union, with self.
Saying this to self as I say it to you,
Rosie.
PE: The Unseen Enema!
I’m not sure if I ever feel “special” or “wanted”. I have determined the reason for this is an undiscovered birth defect that children in the future will be tested for. They may even develop a vaccine. It’d play out something like this:
(A happy couple with their new baby in tow, walks into a pediatrician’s office for baby’s first appointment. The doctor sits behind the desk, shuffles mindlessly through papers. It is apparent that all tests and labs are normal. Then he stumbles upon a piece of paper that causes him to stop and furrow his Andy Rooney like brow.)
Doctor: Mr. and Mrs. Happy?
The Happies: (anxious) Yes?
Doctor: I’ve got some difficult news.
Mr. Happy: What is it?
Doctor: There is something terribly wrong with little Johnny.
Mrs. Happy: Oh no! But I did all the right things during my pregnancy! I exercised, ate the right foods, kept my pot smoking to a minimum, and refrained from contact with undesirable societal elements.
(Mrs. Happy dissolves into tears.)
Mr. Happy: (stiff upper lip) Alright doc. Lay it on us.
Doctor: Little Johnny has PE.
Mrs Happy: Oh My God No!!! No no no no no no no nonononononono! aaaaaaahhhhhhh!!!!!
(Mr. Happy slaps the shit out of Mrs. Happy)
Mrs. Happy: (to Mr. Happy) Thanks Honey. (to Doctor) Um, what’s PE?
Doctor: Perpetual Emptiness. No matter how much or how little love and affection you shower that little sonnovabitch with, he’ll still feel like a useless sack of shit, and act accordingly.
Mr. Happy: So, there’s a name for that now? Thanks modern science!
Doctor: Yes, there is a name, and we are mere decades away from a cure! Aboriginal children at a camp in a remote area of New Zealand are currently being used to test the vaccine. When those little bastards stop bouncing off walls and spontaneously combusting we’ll know we’re almost there.
Mrs. Happy: What do we do in the mean time?
Doctor: (ponders) Well it’s too late too abort. There’s always abandonment or general disinterest in his life.
Mr. Happy: Does that work?
Doctor: I don’t know. Go ask your father.
(Mr. and Mrs. Happy share a puzzled look.)
Doctor: Go on, get him out of here. There’s nothing else I can do for him.
(Mr. and Mrs. Happy leave with Little Johnny in hand. Three months later, they divorce. Six months later, Ms. Happy, under the assumed name of “Thunder Clap”, begins a lucrative career in striptease. Little Johnny? I’m not sure, but it is likely that he’s well on his way to becoming the savior or condemnation of modern society.)
The End.
(Cue Cape Fear theme music.)
I may suffer with PE, and we may be saying hello to my son’s great-grandchildren before there’s a cure, but dammit I know you like me! You really like me! (Please say you like me 😦 … and want me 
.)
Alright I’m done being a jackass. Happy Valentine’s Day to the all the lonely hearts!
Rosie.
Consider the possibilites.
“Consider the possibility that we can change the aspects of our lives that we most take for granted.” –– Dr. Angela Davis
I figured I’d take a moment to jot down some of the thoughts that have been jostling around in my head for the last few days. It’s become glaringly apparent to me how small my life use to be and how I very well could have died without achieving much or really even enjoying something as simple as a vacation with my family. It wasn’t until I was an adult that my family and I even went anywhere together outside of the south to visit other family. (I do not count the one horrific trip to Wildwood, NJ I vaguely remember that began and I feel ended with me toileting on the side of the road.)
The point is, it just wasn’t something we thought to do as a unit or if it did come up the obstacles to actually executing it seemed so insurmountable that the effort to make it happen seemed futile. This mentality infused my thoughts about college: I didn’t even apply when I was in high school because it never occurred to me to apply (and not an adult in my life either apparently). My career choice: Despite always being a strong writer in school, and even being told by my 11th grade English teacher that I should be a writer. The idea that I could make a living with my words seemed far beyond me. That was for other people. Sadly, I come from a culture of folks that continue to think and believe in the same way, and no, I don’t mean black folks. I mean people who were just not made to feel that happiness, abundance, achievement, spiritual and emotional fulfillment could exist on this earthly plane, and if so … not for us.
I’m so grateful that I was “found” and made to believe that in this life I could go after whatever it is I desire. The even greater realization was that the satisfaction dwells in the pursuit, and not the goal. All these themes came up last evening when I attended Dr. Angela Davis’s lecture at Davidson College. She was amazing, unabashed, and everything that I want to be when I grow into my big-girl self. She spoke of the freedom fight of Black America and how it is a galvanizing force in the fight for human rights globally, something I have believed for a very long time. There was so much said that filled my spirit I felt sure my heart would burst.
The above quote is what tied all of Dr. Davis’s beautifully simple yet profound words together for me. Although the “wrong” in the world and in our lives seems unconquerable, the hope is found in latent potential for good/better/the best that lives in us all. The possibilities can be unleashed with just the slightest bit of action on our part, like finishing that degree, like making our beds, like spending that extra hour with our family, like spending that extra hour with self. Seems like a load of jive to you? Test the theory, the results may shock you ;).
Rosie.
Kiss my suppressed anger … please.
About ten years ago I was fired for the first, and prayerfully the last time. It went a lil something like this: I worked at No Name Hospital in No Name, South Carolina. It was set to be a busy shift and we were short, so good times were definitely not on the horizon. I’ll keep in mind that it’s been some years since this happened so the details are hazy, but the long and short of it is the therapist that was in charge that day opted to give herself a fairly cushy assignment while giving the other therapists bullshit. Not uncommon in my line of work, but digressing … I made her aware of this. We exchanged words, nothing too over the top, but we did. I took my assignment and proceeded to take on the 12 hours of the shift. She didn’t call me all day. She didn’t come through my unit. I didn’t in fact see her until the end of the shift as another co-worker and I were walking out. I’ll preface the following with the fact that we were black females. My fearless leader for the day was a white female.
Admittedly, me and other said black female threw heavy shade on the way out the door, but nothing that should have ended with me looking for employment.
One day later …
I come to work. It’s an ordinary day. Patients are on ventilators. I’m taking care of them. I’m doing what I do. The moment I signed my last vent check on my last patient at @4:30pm, (this I remember because I can remember looking at my watch and thinking what the fuck?), I am called to the office.
Mr. D. Whiteman, the manager of the cardiopulmonary department, a man who seemed like he could have been the defensive line for his college football team is sitting behind his desk. He is sweating and clearly nervous. He asks me to have a seat. I do. He then begins to unfurl the most blatant bastardization of facts that I’d ever had pass through my ears up to that point in my life (my son would later best him in this capacity).
The above tale of shade throwing and home going was spun into the following fairytale:
Brunettey Locks & The Two Big BAAAD Coloreds by D. Fensless Whitewoman
Once upon a time while working her job to the best of her ability, the fair and innocent Brunettey Locks was headed home to feed woodland animals and contemplate world peace. Suddenly there was a raucous noise behind her. It was cackling laughter. “It’s them!,” she thought, “The Two Big BAAAD Coloreds!” she’d been hiding from them all day, but they’d finally caught up with her.
“Eek!”, she thought, “Maybe if I’m really quiet they won’t notice me.” Brunettey locks got reaaallly quiet and walked reaaallly slowly, but to no avail.
“There she is!”, croaked Big BAAAD Colored 1. “Let’s get her!”, the other Big BAAAD Colored groaned. “I’m gonna bust a cap in her ass!”, the perverted urban menace Big BAAD Colored 1 announced. They erupted in beastly laughter then proceeded to chase the chaste and ever fair Brunettey Locks to her vehicle! Guns blazing, big bubbly lips giggling, massive brown thighs rubbing together.
Brunettey locks, by the grace of Billy Ray Cirus Jesus, escaped the wretched beasts, but was shaken to her very core.
The End.
Now … am I being just a smidge facetious? Yes. Is the story she told nearly as ridiculous? Yes. After being told that story I received, courtesy Mr. D. Whiteman’s trembling hand, a piece of paper to sign. I was being “suspended”. In his anxiety about my menacing nature he accidentally pushed my co-worker’s suspension* form in front of me. Both of the Big BAAAD Coloreds were being removed. Never to return to No Name Hospital in No Name, South Carolina again.
*Suspension is a fancy word for “fired”, gentles. “Suspension” prevents big baaad coloreds from showin’ out as security escorts them to their cars in utter humiliation in front of all their co-workers!Two weeks ago:
I come down to the emergency room at Current Workplace Hospital after being called for a nebulizer treatment. My patient isn’t there, which I found slightly annoying, so I rolled my eyes and blew out air as annoyed people do. The calling nurse (we shall call her Nursey Poo) , whom I did not ask for feed back, decides to announce that the patient was there when she called. To which I reply, “I wasn’t able to get here the moment you called.” To which SHE replied “I didn’t SAY you had to be here right away.”
This is a trap. She is begging for it. She’s baiting me even. I refuse, because thanks to my experience with Brunettey Locks, I am fully aware of what color I am and what a show down like one she’s bucking for would mean for me. I go to follow up with the manager on duty, and before I can do that my patients return. I treat them, and return to my gripe session about Nursey Poo seeking out a manager to talk to when over storms Nursey Poo to the major desk area of the “busiest emergency department in Major City, NC”™, in a decided rage.
“Are you over here talking about me!?”
“Wah?!”, says Blackey Locks*, “No ma’am, I’m in the middle of patient care and we will not be doing this right now.”
*Blackey Locks = Stacey Rose RRTI walk away, wanting ever so badly to buss her in her mouth so hard that the end result would be her portraying varying forms of The Predator for Halloween the remainder of her life. I wish I could say it ended here. Nursey Poo follows me into a crowded supply room and proceeds engage me in a shouting match. My memories of No Name Hospital in No Name, South Carolina in the forefront of my mind, I do not engage.
She rants loud, hard, and fast directly in my face in a manner that my own damn Momma rarely has. There are references to my “attitude” and the fact that I had the audacity to roll my eyes when I came down stairs. This immediately signals my rage. I am metaphorically biting my tongue. I am goin IN, inside my head. I have called her every form of bitch conceivable. The only thing coming out of my mouth?
“Ma’am.”
In a manner that a McDonald’s drive thru attendant my try to quell a customer irate about the absence of pickles on their McPig Heart sandwich. I continued at varying octaves and inflections for what seemed like an hour as she let loose. It descended into insanity when she too got on the “Ma’am” train, drowning me out completely. I then made her aware of the fact that her behavior was threatening. To which she replied, “Good, you should feel threatened.”
Friends! Let the record, my own damn record, show that if I had even danced around this kind of behavior there is a significant chance that I would have been looking for a job the next morning, or have spent the evening in the Major City, NC jail. (I’m mean I’ve spent time in there for even less). Nursey Poo was allowed to “cool down” and return to her work. My assignment was changed (to be transparent, I volunteered for this.) I have yet to hear what the repercussions of her action were and at this juncture, I don’t really care. And yes, whether or not anyone wants to admit it I wholeheartedly believe the bias lies in race.
Black women are simply not allowed their anger, not in its full capacity. We’re always being asked to stifle or suppress it in some way, especially in the professional setting. Professional black women are held to particularly high standard of decorum at the work place. No matter if any real level of wrong that might have been done to us, no matter if we, like any damn body else, are having a bad day. We don’t want … no we can’t afford to be viewed as an angry black woman … God. Forbid. Other women’s anger could get them called a bitch, odds are not to their face. It may even get them a stern talking to by the powers that be, but a black woman’s “attitude” signals inherent danger. A danger that, gone unchecked, could dissolve the universe creating a gaping black hole in the galaxy. (Well maybe this is slightly true … but that’s another post.)
Immediately post face off, I wanted Nursey Poo’s job. I wanted her first-born. I wanted her to experience levels of suffering that would make Jean Valjean shudder. Then, like all feelings, my anger passed and I got to what the root of what I really wanted. I wanted the ability to experience frustration and even full-out anger without fear of retribution. Now should I have carte blanche to show my ass in the manner that Nursey Poo did? Hell no. That type of behavior is inexcusable for anyone.
Alas, I’m not sure when or if ever we’ll get to an America where we can escape the stigma of our stereotypes. Hell, maybe that kind of world wouldn’t be as interesting, but one where our feelings didn’t unnecessarily put us at risk at loosing our livelihood or worse. That’d be a world I’d sign up for.
Rosie.
I’m not justifying this level of crazy, BUT when people don’t know how to STFU …It ain’t about Django …
I and apparently thousands of other Americans went to watch Quentin Tarantino‘s Django Unchanged over the Christmas holiday. This post is not about that film … really. It is about why the film, like it or not, is an important move forward in the discussion of who tells the stories of blacks in America and at what cost. Hollywood (film and television) for better or worse is how many people globally are exposed to African Americans and/or African American culture. If one keeps in mind the images of African Americans that are put out through these vehicles it is no surprise that we are highly misunderstood by the much of world at large. The fact is the “African American Experience” is as broad and diverse as the people who live it. This is a fact that is often over looked or blatantly disregarded to the detriment of Blacks in America.
Our story is this country’s dirty laundry, shoved aside, hid under humor, rage, and stock characters but never fully exposed or wholly understood. Whose responsibility is it to tell the story of blacks in America? The most logical answer would seem to be the people that have walked through it. The next questions could then be: “which” people? Black people, white people, hell the entire country for that matter has some level of interest/perspective in African American history. There are as many “truths” as there are people, but what I feel cannot and should not be discounted or disrespected in the telling of any story of Blacks in America is the ugliness of the past and it’s legacy that bleeds into the Black American existence to this day.
Even then the question of what counts as “disrespect” lingers. It’s all too sordid and was the main reason I left Django Unchained mildly enraged and only vaguely entertained. For me it just leaves the flood gates open for random violation of a history that has already been looted and pillaged beyond recognition. (See shit like this:
… *sigh*)
I wanted lay into their asses something awful, but what would be the point? There is no united front of black folks that are prepared to shut down the Hollywood machine on the strength of disrespect of our culture. (see: Jews vs. Mel Gibson‘s career)
What is there to do if anything about protecting, preserving, and presenting a diverse view of what it is to be Black in America? Well from where I sit there are a few options:
1. Tell my own Black story as open and honestly as I can and do my best to ensure it reaches somebody then somebody else then somebody else …
2. Stop depending on/expecting Hollywood to tell your, my, our “truth” (see: Awkward Black Girl) They don’t give a shit bout nothing but a dollar, period. If they think it’ll put asses in seats … it’ll get made.
3. Stop feeling like it is our responsibility to make people out side our race and culture understand us. Fuck that. We have no control over how people are going think or feel about us. If they really want to understand “the black community”* then they better damn well get off their asses and do the research.
Okay, I think I got it all out. At least for now … until the next bit of unintentional bigotry surfaces … which is probably goin’ down right now at some hipster drinking establishment in Williamsburg. (ugggh!)
Rosie.
* this term should be outlawed and those insisting on using it systematically tortured … but that’s another post all together. http://youtu.be/aAthMi5Kz5gIntentionally Speaking.
I’m delayed in posting this as my New Year began with me a little under the weather in body and spirit, but I’m back (for the most part) and ready to take on 2013. Here goes … A wise man, and quite a few yoga instructors hipped me to the concept of setting an intention. Setting an intention in yoga practice has more to do with giving me a “focus” for my practice. That goal may be something that I’d like to see fulfilled in my life … say … “happiness” … “financial stability” … or “getting laid”. Ok, so I never really set getting laid as the intention of a yoga practice, but BOY have I been tempted.
Anyway … In life intention, at least for me, is similar but magnified to the level of day-to-day living. I set a tangible goal(s) and practice my life in that direction. The trick is, the goal is not the goal, make sense? No? Maybe? Well here’s an example from my life:
Last year applying to and attending grad school was on my “Goals for 2012” list. If you’ve been following me at all over the year you know that I meant business about that shit. I threw all my energy into applying, getting denied, continuing to apply, continuing to get denied until I was ultimately accepted (to a school I technically didn’t even apply to I might add) and ultimately ending up at the school I wanted to attend in the first place.
The gift of that experience, while it was quite unexpected and TOTALLY awesome, was not getting what I wanted but all the hard earned insight and personal growth. The real rewards were:
- Understanding that I need to pay my damn bills because bad credit isn’t going to simply go away.
- Growing a thicker skin when it comes to my writing/understanding that I’m not the best, but certainly not the worse writer there ever was.
- Patience is a virtue … and will mature the hell out of you if you let it.
… and really a whole host of other things if I sat and thought about it.
With all this in mind, I sat down and created my goals/intention list for next year. It was a very forgiving process as there was definitely room for things I did not accomplish last year. It was a joyous process as there were quite a few new things that were added to replaced things I did accomplish in 2012. There is balance, and that is always the goal for me, miss it though I may.
I’ll end with a prayer of confirmation. Yes, I said prayer. Heathens pray too.
G.O.D.*,
I first want to give gratitude to whatever universal forces, ancestors, or beings that guided and protected me into a new year of life. The other night at work while I rushed through unfocused, eager to get off and go about my evening, a patient said something that stopped me in my tracks.
“I count my blessings before I pray for my wants.”
I am abundantly blessed in my life. I am relatively healthy, as are my son, and family. I have an amazing network of friends that love me unconditionally as I do them. I am gainfully employed at a job that I genuinely enjoy. I’m a thriving theatre artist about to embark on an amazing opportunity of a life time at NYU. Now the real miracle: Despite any circumstances that came down the pipes I did not use drugs or alcohol as a means of getting me through the problem. I celebrated 3 years clean in 2012!
There are so many other things I could have listed, but this post needs to end at some point (and besides … G.O.D. knows my heart right? 😉 ) Now, my “wants”. In 2013 I want to be: A better mother, a better friend, a better daughter, a better sister, a better lover (of self), a better love (of others). I want to create healing in the day-to-day practice of my life through art, healthier relationships, and open honest communication.
I want to continue to be able to grow through recovery, face my fears, hell maybe even embrace them. I want to continue keeping the faith when it feels like nothing is going right. I want to continue keeping the faith when everything is going right (because for me these are the hardest times to be faithful.) Most of all, if it is in a higher will, I’d like to be here this time next year writing about how I got through it. If not, I will like my life to be a testimony on how it is quite possible for a poor girl from the mean streets of Elizabeth, NJ to get over.
All this I pray in Sweet black baby Jesus, Buddha, Mohammed, The Ancestors, and whoever else will listen’s name …
Selah!
Happiest and most prosperous New Year to you and your folk!
Rosie.
*in recovery we sometimes call GOD, Good Orderly Direction. No one will ever stir my soul quite like Mahalia
From the Rose's Mouth 