On the eve of this evening’s final Presidential debate, it has become painfully obvious to me that I’m over it. All over it. Social networking battles to the death containing little or no semblance of truth, the ending of friendships over comment strings all serves to do what exactly? Send you to bed pissed off, or worse, out into the world pissed off looking for a release. Here’s a little bit of insight that hit me the other day. Voting is a very self-centered thing. Our current democratic system plays on every fear, real or imagined, that we have THEN asks our paranoid, self-obsessed crazy asses to go out and select someone to lead the entire nation. We go, and we vote our own needs and rarely the needs of others. If you say that’s not true then you’re lying to someone you should never lie to … you.
I know I’m not going to vote in a way that may necessarily benefit a rich corporation more than it’s going to benefit my poor black artist ass. Why would I? It’d be self-defeating. Are there solutions that would be mutually beneficial to all American citizens? Hell, probably. But, that’s not what I’m here to write about. I mainly just want to say that the odds of anyone’s minds being changed by endless online banter and diatribes, t-shirts, bumper stickers, etc. are slim to fuckin’ none. So hush. Go do something more productive, like volunteering and being as selfless as you are with your vote.
Me? I’m plotting my campaign for 2016. Since world domination is clearly just one rageful tweet away. Governing an entire country can’t be that damn hard.
*the following is a reflection of my experience as a triple minority (black/fat/female), any similarities to your experience(s) or that of your loved ones is purely coincidental. Yes, I do realize that my views may be irrational to some, but this here is my blog … I write what the hell I want.
Some folks make we want to draw the purse strings of my human decency closed … Around their neck … Until they are dead. Case in point (and keeping it one hundred, the reason for this post): My dearest friend Eric and I arrive at a high end apartment complex on the high end side of town. We unemployed/lower middle class plebes actually have a friend that lives there. Upon entering the building, walking past an intense argument between a young Asian gentlemen and a female building attendant bickering over the gentleman’s squatters rights, we approach the elevator. The doors open. Dog. BIG dog. REALLY big dog, one of those sombitches that could stand taller than a human being. I don’t know dogs (i.e. breeds, temperaments, blah, blah, blah), but I do know my history with dogs. It’s dicey at best.
Upon seeing the beast my knee jerk reaction came in words:
“That’s the biggest dog I’ve ever seen in my life.” (a slight exaggeration, but it was preeety damn close to accurate.)
Then came an unexpected rebuttal:
“Really?” (dripping with sarcasm)
Pan up from the annoying shoe gloved feet, to slender frame draped work out couture, to JINORMOURS diamond encrusted left ring finger, to almond colored skin, to oval face, to the jenkiest weave I’ve seen in three months.
again, in that bitchesque tone she says:
“Really?!”
As if I were her child and I was carrying on over some non-existent ghost under my bed.
“Yes, really.” I managed.
“He’s a Golden.” she quips …
…like I should have known that at birth, when I honestly didn’t give a fuck what breed it was and didn’t in fact own a pet of the furry variety until I was 22. It wasn’t long before I realized that the dog should have been the least of my worries. It’s master had already proven herself to be a bigger bitch than it could ever dare to be.
Already exasperated by a day full of assorted strangeness we board the elevator.
“Two, please.” I says.
*blank stare* (I mean blank fucking stare, as if I’d been speaking Mandarin.)
Now, regular well adjusted human beings on an elevator standing next to the buttons will often extend the courtesy of pushing the button for the floor(s) others will be heading to. This bitch was not a regular well adjusted human being. The dog actually had a better shot at being one.
“Oh, I don’t work here.”
In that instant I became more disgusted with her than I had been with any human being in a very long time. Her snobbish tone and don’t-you-know-who-the-fuck-I’m-is glare made me want to break something … like her face, her fingers, her legs, well you get it. And I’ll be straight up and say that it’s mainly ego that made me so furious with her. Nobody likes to be belittled openly or covertly and this is what this chick was doing. Somehow the circumstances of this … woman’s life had lead her to believe that extending common courtesy was grossly beneath her, and I’ll go further to say she believed that my friend and I were beneath her.
And … I’ll go even further in my attempt to be honest with myself about the situation and say her impudence carried an extra sting because she was black. There is an implied sense (at least in my black experience) that we are all in this together. This implied sister/brotherhood was grossly violated, and I resented the hell out of her for it. I’d come to expect this type of behavior out of certain types of white folk, but I’d venture to say that even their sense of superiority wouldn’t have prevented them from pushing a damn elevator button for another human being.
During that small exchange some small part of me knew that I probably had more grace and character in my toe nails than she had in her entire self-centered frame. Me having the common sense that God and my Nana gave me I knew the truth, but my ego didn’t. Thus this passive aggressive post, because sometimes I just have to allow myself to be fully angry. Now I have been, and since carrying resentments are like eating rat poison and expecting your enemy to die, I’ll let it go. I’ll move forward knowing that in the not so distant future when I am a filthy rich and famous writer standing by the buttons on the elevator of my exclusive condominium complex, when someone boards and says:
“Two, please.”
I shall not hesitate to have my well trained, denim clad chimp press 2. 😛
2 Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters,[a] whenever you face trials of many kinds, 3 because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. 4 Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. 5 If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. 6 But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind. – James 1:2-6 The Bible (NIV)
I am not a bible-y person. I am not at all religious in fact. I can be buddhist-y or christian-y or hindu-y depending on how I’m moved on any given day. Over the last few weeks people in my life (friends/co-workers) have been moving through some pretty tough life situations. As I heard about each one I felt a deep sadness. While they are not my personal situations and some don’t directly effect me, there is a spirit of compassion that I am fortunate enough to have that allows me to see the interconnectedness of all human beings in existence. It is that compassion, that “gift of sight”, that saddles my spirit with sadness during the calamity of others and fills me with joy during their triumphs. Despite the emotional roller coaster is sometimes produces, I’m grateful for it.
At the cradle of my at times esoteric beliefs is this: There ISsomething … a force, a body, a spirit … that guides us through life and for the most part seeks to protect us from our silly selves. This force is kind, never cruel or judgmental. It speaks to us through music, art, people, situations, and every now and then it whispers sweet nothings into our spirit. Last night while I was trying to comprehend the loss a long time co-worker and friend of mine and his family was enduring the words “Count it all joy …” were whispered into my spirit. This morning they were still there, so I did what any curious 21st century adult would do; I consulted Google.
Imagine my surprise when I found out it was biblical. Imagine my delight when the words that followed were ones of comfort and encouragement that reassured me that despite what we may be going through it will not only be okay … but if we choose to … we will thrive! They were just the words needed at the appropriate time. That’s how it works … and it is indeed all good 🙂.
If any of my folk happen to come by this reading, know that I am there with you in spirit always, and in the flesh if you need me. As bad as it feels right now, there is joy on the other side. My experience bears this out.
I was absolutely BUSTING to be in the middle of the melee that is the DNC in CLT when I arrived in Uptown Charlotte this past Tuesday. No sooner than my feet hit the pavement had I been greeted by the mad bullhorn ravings of the pro-lifers. They gnashed their terrible teeth, roared their terrible roars, rolled their terrible eyes, and brandished their terrible photos of mangled fetuses. They called the president a Muslim as if it were the most wicked thing one could be. They said “Mmmmussslim” in a tone that eerily mimicked the sound of the word Nigger in pre-civil rights Alabama. Then in the next breath spoke about the loving redemption to be found in Christ and how we must protect our children against the threat posed by the Obama administration.
For my money, the pro-lifers are far more threatening and imposing than any presidential administration I’ve ever lived through. It is not their religion, but more so the application of it that is frightening. Using the Bible/Christianity to justify dictating a woman’s reproductive rights mirrors the mentality used to justify the enslavement of an entire race of people. It’s that “white-male-forefather” mentality re-imagined and thinly veiled. It implies that there is one moral code that applies universally when that simply isn’t true.
While there are certain things that tend to apply across cultures (e.g. though shalt not kill, steal etc.) almost everything else really depends on the views of the individuals or groups within a culture. When those “views” impeded on individual human rights then it’s time to re-evaluate those views; as was done with slavery, as was done during women’s suffrage … Oh wait, we have dealt with this shit already (See Roe vs. Wade). Then, as was stated and re-stated during speeches and discussions after last night’s DNC coverage, “Why in the hell are we still talking about it?”
My theory: Because of those damn monsters! Those control seeking, white-male-paternalistic monsters inside the minds and hearts of certain men. They continue to seek to make their religion, their morals, their values the law of the land, all while conveniently forgetting this patch of green wasn’t theirs to begin with. They resist the inevitable transitions happening in this country sometimes aloud with bullhorns, hellfire, and brimstone or sometimes quietly with laws and legislation designed to “protect” women and children. Well I, as a woman and the descendant of those that were “owned”, would like to suggest that these folk shove their ideology up their asses.
I’m a grown woman who is mentally intact (on most days). I’m fully capable of making my own decisions (“right” or “wrong”) about my body. I will resist at the cellular level any attempt to control, dominate, suppress, undermine or otherwise violate my Barbara Goodbush or the body in which she resides. I would hope any woman in her right mind would do the same.
Rosie.
The word of the day is VAGINA. Can you say that Vuh J-eye Nuuuh
Given the history of race relations in this country I find it 100% absurd that black Americans are often silently requested to mute their pride in America’s first black president. At the same time we’re also asked to ignore the fact that every president before him was white and male. God bless America and it’s bottomless self-denial. God bless America’s blissful ignorance that allows people to ignore the air of bitterness, resentment, and out right hatred have supposedly has nothing to do with the color of our president’s skin.
I refuse to hold my tongue a second longer. The fact that Barack Obama is our president and black at the same time does my heart good. Something that was deemed a mission impossible that quite frankly I’d given up hope of ever seeing happen, happened in 2008. I was proud of our country’s ability to galvanize behind someone that more closely represented what we’re supposed to be as a nation, and it’s tragic that some don’t see it that way.
As much as I disliked George Bush, I never hated him. I never wished ill on him. Did I question his decision making skills? Yes. Did I or anyone I knew for that matter create racist bumper stickers lobbying against his re-election … No.
Well, wait. I’d have to be in a position of power or a member of a dominating majority, thus enabling me to withhold certain rights and privileges from another group to in fact be “racist”. So umm no, couldn’t have done that effectively if I’d tried … moving on.
There is a dialogue about race that bubbles under the surface of this country that longs to be had. That erupts in groups like the Tea Party that call for a return to the America of our “Forefathers” who may I remind, grew this country on the backs of slaves. It’s the continued perpetuation of falsehoods about President Obama’s nationality and what religion he practices. Really? Like any of that nullifies that he’s probably one of the most intelligent presidents this country has had and that his story and that of his wife are walking interpretations of the “American Dream”.
The story of blacks in America is a story among many thousands of stories about people who endure adversity around the world. It begins and ends with race for black people in America. Period. To deny the story of race in America would be like Jews denying the holocaust. We would never dream of asking Jews to forget the atrocities of the holocaust, so why then does it seem within reason to ask that blacks in America forget, deny or (my favorite) “get over racism” when it penetrates every facet of our lives? You don’t see it? Then there’s a great chance you’re not black.
My race is not ALL that I am, but it has played a major role in making me who I am. Why am I playing the race card? Because it is the card I was dealt, and dammit we have to play the hand we are dealt. Barack and Michelle Obama played the hell out of theirs and they inspire me to achieve despite any circumstances that are in my way. That lesson applies across race, creed, sexual preference, physical ability, you name it … it applies. Republican or Democrat you can’t deny that.
Barack Obama’s success can be our success as a country. We as a nation have to “call a spade a spade” when it comes to the underlying rage displayed by so many at the mere mention of the Obama name. We’re better than this. We must allow ourselves the opportunity to see the significance of who Barack Obama is and what his story means outside of our feelings one way or the other about his politics. And after that damn speech Willie Clinton laid down, I don’t know about you, but I am FIRED UP and READY TO GO!!! I’m ready to believe, like a five year old in the tooth fairy, that this country can be a nation united.
I’ll be the very first to admit that I don’t know much of shit about politics. I’ll go even further and say that most people who cast their votes don’t either. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We’re all too busy living our lives I suppose. However, as a writer, I sometimes feel compelled to have a “voice” or a solid opinion on “key” issues when all I really have is my experience which is the source of most of the material I write. If it resonates with a group or speaks to larger “profound” vision. Cool. If not, it doesn’t really matter. It’s still my truth, and I am the only person I can speak for.
Now I find myself in the middle of a political convention as a writer wanting to say something, but not feeling qualified enough. There are plenty of people up and down the glorious throughway of North Tryon St., on television, on the internet, and on the radio poised to shove their opinion down, through, and in any orifice you have available whether you’d like it or not. Me, well all I can give you is this whole shindig through my own cultural filter. With that said …
… this is who I am: I’m a lower middle class black female, a single mother of one. I grew up culturally rich but fiscally poor and black in the New Jersey. These elements are my lens through which I see my life. It is that lens that I will present my muses, random ramblings, and flickers of inspiration for the next few days. It may not be comfortable for all audiences. I will be non-belligerent, and as honest as my cowardly soul will allow me to be. I vow to keep is simple as Sesame Street when I can. Come to think of it, that’s what Uptown Charlotte feels like right now … a really warped Sesame Street … only there are too many guest stars and not enough Muppets to greet them so they just roam endlessly and scream about the things that bother them … All while Snuffy sits in the infamous “empty chair” and smokes a hooka and giggles. Anyway … Ready kids? We’re going to the DNC!
Music generated by inspired bodies that brought forth
rhythm, beats, and voices that did not sing about freedom
but that were FREEDOM.
Unbound these voices disintegrated shackles to dust for feet to
STOMP, slide and shuffle across dance floors in dimly lit santuaries
that earthlings called “clubs” but which the liberated ones called
Gateways, portals, to a land beyond the one that would render their being
imperfect.
Here they are GODS moving in time to the Voice
Stepping, shuffling, jirating to a rhythm that origins surpass that of time.
Writhing in ecstasy to a force beyond their control
The heart beat.
That
thump-thump-thump-thumpthumpthump-thumpthump
The souls became one exploding with applause of gratitude
For the gifts of the sanctuary.
The sweat. The aliveness. A high not available on this plane.
It fueled their movements, fired their souls, and united them ––
Under the Gospel of House.
Thou shalt not settle for the petty limitations placed upon thee by petty muthaphuckas.
Thou shalt jump, shout, kick, scream, and MOVE, like there is no tomorrow because there might not be one.
Thou shalt dance away the pain, the stress, the fear, the turbulence of everyday life … because there is nothing a good soul clap and bunny hop can’t cure!
One Love. One God. One Sky. One Day. One Life. Let’s live it!*
Rosie.
*(just make sure you have ibuprofen and an ice pack in the freezer for when you get home ; ) )
House in the Park in Atlanta was a spiritual experience. Here’s
a tiny peak B).
Oh and if Alvin Ailey is ever in your burg, it is strongly suggested that you see this piece live.
Today has been good. I would venture to say, great. It’s my son’s first day of 8th grade (Yippie!) I worked out for a recorded breaking 90 minutes! I actually enjoyed every bit of it, finally overcoming the suffer-the-workout mentality that usually plagues me. I ate a healthy lunch see:
Then … BAM! just as I’m trynna get my snooze on before work this guy shows up:
the green-eyed monsta
Yep, Envy/Jealousy shook me up out of my light doze with social networking notifications which were just too tempting to resist a peek. No sooner than I’d gotten a gander I began to wish I hadn’t. By the time I finished scrolling through my eyes began to well up. I saw pics of my would be classmates at Tisch Asia enjoying their new adventure in Singapore and beginning their school year. I saw pics of people’s “honors children” and felt inadequate because I felt I had failed at parenting because I don’t have an “honors” kid.
I could go through and list all the wonderful things about my life, and their are a great many, but I think what matters most in this moment is that I’m comparing my existence with someone else’s to my detriment. This is a pattern with me which often leads to self destructive thoughts, or worse, self destructive behavior. SO, before that train leaves the station. I’ll do this: Pet and love on the green eyed monsta (sort of like those annoying e-pets from the 90s). I’ll do this by pulling my head out of my ass and sending love and positive energy to others. Ready? Here we go!
To the NYU Tisch Asia 2012 students
You are a group of incredibly talented individuals whose work I greatly look forward to seeing in the years to come. Please enjoy this time in your life. Savor it like a good meal. Create boldly and fearlessly. You are there to tell a story that no one else but you can tell. Instead of envying you, I’ll be hopeful that our paths will cross next year.
To the child that I honor
Zion no thing or no one has enhanced my life more than you. While I will always ask that you strive for the best, I also understand that you are NOT your grades. Middle and high school can be such awkward times. I promise to stay out of your way as much as possible and let you grow. Instead of envying other parents for having honors students, I will wish that every parent has a child as loving, funny, creatively gifted, and charming as the one I have. I love you.
To my e-friends
It is very difficult for a self-centered, co-dependent, recovering low-self esteemer like me to be in the newsfeed of social networking sites. Everyone is a rock star on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram … or at least it seems that way. Know that first and foremost we are living breathing humans with lives offline that are sometimes wonderfully complex, sometimes sad, and sometimes nothing short of miraculous. I admire you ALL so much, and while I may not speak to all of you each and every day, I do suppress my inferiority complex long enough to peak in every now and then to see if you’re okay. Sometimes things are great: marriages, babies, new careers. Sometimes things aren’t so great: death, illnesses, break-ups. Without our permission life is happening. Let’s let it. (I for one would like to “let it” more offline than on … I’ll work on that) Either way, Instead of envying you, I’ll wish you the best, fullest life you can possibly obtain!
There. I think the monsta is full, and it is about time for me to head off to the best job I’ve ever had (and I’m actually not being sarcastic!) Life is good just where I am. Yep. It is.
Rosie.
…and a little musical for dessert for you Mr. Monsta!
I could have baptized a small village with my tears today. I guess sometimes it just has to go down like that. I’m in the middle of a written self discovery process that would be kindred to shoving a sharp instrument into your gut through your navel and emptying your abdominal contents on the floor for you to then examine and analyze. (Next, I get to examine them with someone else!) Sounds harsh, but at certain points I’d rather opt to literally shovel my guts out. Emotional pain is horrible, but the pain of me being stuck repeating the same stupid shit over and over again is a fate worse than death.
Good news is I have a lot of love and support, and every time I have a day like this the universe sees fit so send me a silver lining. Today it was: THE AFROBEATLES! When I came across this ingenious mash up situation, my tears dried, my ass shook, and the world … if only for 1:47 … became a better place. Enjoy!
It was instilled in me at a fairly early age by our dear friends in the American media that to be considered beautiful or precious in these great United States a girl had to be thin, petite and preferably Caucasian. (None of these obviously, described me :p). As a little girl, I watched an ungodly amount of television and poured through mountains of fashion magazines. Rarely did I ever find someone that looked like me (that was until the Cosby Show came a long, but that would be way later.)
My adult perspective mostly allows me to look past the often intentional transgressions of the American media, but every now and then when triggered by certain forms of fuckery, my childhood inferiority complex is shaken back to life. For instance, when the tea party was in full on post-election “take back our county” swing in 2009; I couldn’t turn a corner without seeing a billboard with some doe eyed cherry cheeked cherub staring at me. The message was typically something having to do with protecting her future from “big government”.
Every time I saw those damn things, I’d become enraged. It wasn’t the the child’s image that set me ablaze, but rather what the imagery implied. Not once did I see one of these brazen take back America manifestos with a Black child, or a Latino child, or an Asian child … hell I never saw one with a boy on it. Just a small, White, “innocent”, “fragile” female. As is usual when I am highly pissed off, my creative juices began to flow. I’d already been gathering ideas for a play about the black female psyche called Oppression Pop. 5. I knew right away that my anger about the limited view of what it means to be “precious” in the eyes of some Americans had a place within it.
The subject matter of the play is not easy, but definitely warrants an open honest dialogue. In Charlotte? Open of mind and empty of stomach? Join Kendrea Mekkah and I next Sunday for Dinner and A Reading, where we’ll be reading Oppression Pop. 5, enjoying a delicious meal of soul food, and discussing themes from the play!
On the eve of this evening’s final Presidential debate, it has become painfully obvious to me that I’m over it. All over it. Social networking battles to the death containing little or no semblance of truth, the ending of friendships over comment strings all serves to do what exactly? Send you to bed pissed off, or worse, out into the world pissed off looking for a release. Here’s a little bit of insight that hit me the other day. Voting is a very self-centered thing. Our current democratic system plays on every fear, real or imagined, that we have THEN asks our paranoid, self-obsessed crazy asses to go out and select someone to lead the entire nation. We go, and we vote our own needs and rarely the needs of others. If you say that’s not true then you’re lying to someone you should never lie to … you.
From the Rose's Mouth 