The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 3

The is the last installment of my short story, "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you have enjoyed reading this piece as much as I have enjoyed sharing it with you. Please leave me your thoughts below.

“He can’t even protect you” the master whispered.

Now, he was behind her and inhaled her scent. She turned to flee, but he caught her arm. Her tribeswoman’s words played in her ears. He grabbed her around the waist and threw her to the ground. She scrambled up and lunged for the door again only to meet his arm around her waist again. This time he climbed on top of her. She scratched at his face and managed to kick him. She fought the woman’s words away as she fought with her master. He landed an intricate punch.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” she heard him say as her eyes rolled and her body surrendered.

She awoke to the night. Her naked body felt the soft linens. Her eyes beheld fine furniture and soft candlelight. She saw her field clothes cleaned and neatly folded on a chair. Her hands caressed the cowrie shell necklace her Man had made her before the nets, ships, chains, and whips. Something was crawling around her shoulders. She jumped, then realized it was her own hair unbraided and in its full length and glory. She sat up in the bed and faced herself in a mirror, but she did not know herself. Her mind finally held the weight of all that had transpired and shoulders drooped. Now her mind was racing and her body was dressing itself, then was running full speed towards her Shack.

            She found her Man lying on his stomach there, bloody. He had been fatally beaten, whipped, and there were gashes and bruises all over his body. He was supposed to die. He looked as if he were only sleeping. She began gathering materials to clean and wrap his wounds. She could barely hold any of the cleansers. Her dark, thin hands were shaking and boiling hot tears ran heat all over her face. She realized the wounds were already cleaned. He let out a heavy sigh and the wounds began scabbing before her eyes.

He was dreaming. He saw them together in their old village. She was pregnant and he was walking with a little boy with her eyes. He was telling them stories of his travels in other times. Then, he saw himself running to the mansion. He saw the four white men sitting on the porch descend the steps. He clenched her machete and waited for them to approach. He heard the gunshot and felt the pain in his neck. He charged towards them only to be met with more gunshots. He kept charging and felt the whips on his back. He cut the whips and a few of the white men with his machete. He felt the bullet enter his skull. Then, he saw an Elder standing over him in his Shack with a bloody bullet in her hand. Then, he saw darkness.

She raced from the Shack, and back around the field the wind was whipping through her dress and her hair. Her loneliness began to creep around her and slowed her run. She began sobbing as she walked toward the beach. She felt the cool water caress her toes and she walked toward the current. She was the last of the tribe in this hell and she was no longer pure. The tips of her hair kissed the salty water. Her Man had been tortured to the point of death. She had nothing else to offer anyone. Not herself or her Man. She was standing under the water. He would have a better life without her. She knew she would love him again in another time and place. As she inhaled deeply and gave up the ghost, the cowrie shell necklace floated towards the shore and rested in the sand. 

A sharp pain raced up the Man’s back and he sat up abruptly. He could feel her spirit floating around him, but he had to be sure. He had no patience for running, so he flew to the beach. His heavy body thudded as he landed at the very spot her necklace laid. He did not need to see her body floating away from the shore to understand her decision. He picked up her lonely necklace, wrapped it around his thick wrist, then, turned toward the horizon and flew towards another time, so he could find her spirit’s next home. Maybe, in this new place, they could love again. Because the hardest thing to know is that in some times, love is not enough. 

The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 2

 This is the second part of my short story "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you enjoy it and please tell me what you think. 

The Field was bathed in heat by now. The Sun rained down heat. The soil exhaled heat. The bodies absorbed heat and heat bounced from body to body. All bodies in your rows before the Sun can make a shadow. The cane rose from the ground trying to touch the sky. We chopped it down. The leaves sometimes sliced Our skin and sweat seeped in to sting. Emerald sugar stalks stretched up from thick roots that hid biting insects and crafty reptiles each biting uniquely, but pain was pain.

Then, the songs began. Old songs that reminded Us of Home. So many tribes, but We learned each others’ songs. The stolen of her tribe were all dead now. She and her Man were the last. The white overseer wanted to stop the songs, but he was too impotent. Usually, his tribesmen tortured those who disobeyed. They were a monstrous tribe. Always screaming, yelling, fighting, violently. The white men whipped, and beat, and raped, and impaled and burned, and disfigured. But We were yet defiant. No one had been punished for songs, so the songs went on and so did the Day until there was Day no more.

In the shack, She fussed over another new cut across His back with water and cleansers and ointment. He let her. Then, he wrapped his heavy arms around her small waist and kissed Her deeply.  She held his chiseled face in her delicate hands that were rough on the inside. In one motion, it seemed he had removed her dress and his own clothing. He removed the cloth from her head and unbraided her hair. He buried His head into Her hair and breathed in her essence. It revived His spirit. The darkness would conceal their affection from the evil of this place. Now they could love. But they had made provisions. They would bear no children here. Never.

We all want to believe. Need to believe that love can conquer all and endure all. However, the hardest thing to know is that is not always true. In some times and places, love is undesirable. It can make you weak, vulnerable. It can kill you.

The next morning, the Man and Woman dressed in their customary fashion. They were oblivious to the events that would change their very existence in a matter of hours. Before they were in the field long enough to sing, the Master summoned the Woman to his house. While she was grateful for the respite from the labor, the trek from the field to the mansion was laborious as well. She hiked over the hills of tall grass, along the beach, and finally, up the steps and around to the path that lead to the rear door. By now the dirt and sweat bound her once long loose plaits to her scalp under her head wrap.

She entered the rear door to find one of her tribeswomen in tears. The woman’s scarred, caramel face showed tear trails that reflected too much pain. She tried to embrace her but the woman only spoke words close to her ear. “If you fight, he’ll make it worse for you here.” When she backed away from the woman, she noticed fresh crimson growing on her dress. She shook her head in disbelief. “But she’s just given birth,” she thought in horror.

“MARIE-EE,” the master sang out. That’s the name the Woman was given, but she never answered to it. This place was not her home. She was frozen in place. He called again. She could hear his boot steps but they were not enough to thaw her from her place. Her arms were still outstretched from the embrace she’d given her bloodied tribeswoman. He was up on her now, he was breathing on her, but she still hadn’t blinked. She saw his hand as it struck her face. She blinked finally. Unthawed, but still very, very cold.

He screamed and gestured wildly, but his words were still foreign to her. However, she had been a woman her whole life and she knew how to read the intentions of men. He, like the other whites on the Place, were wondering why she and her Man had not made children. The Blacks knew why. It was obvious to Us. Now, he was making a crude comment about her husband’s sexual abilities. He grabbed her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes. She’d never looked at her master up close. His skin was dewy from sweat. His blue eyes looked genuine in contrast to his dark brown hair. No facial hair. He was young, handsome, and terrible.

“Don’t you see Marie. You can live in safety. All you have to do is what you already do. I’ve seen you with the Negro. I can offer you more.” He paused for impact. Nothing. 

The Hardest Thing to Know, Part 1

I am super excited about the upcoming movie, Django:Unchained. I wrote the following excerpt about three years ago. It is part of my short story "The Hardest Thing to Know." I hope you enjoy it and please leave me your comments.

            

          From space, the Place seemed peaceful. Serene. The emerald fields of sugar cane leaves swayed carelessly in the last of the night air. Mosquitoes hummed their vampire song. The crude brown shacks slept as the white mansion snored. From up here, the scene appeared serene, peaceful. But the Sun knew better, so it peaked over the horizon before it showed its entire face reluctant to begin another day of pain. There was no real rest here because there was no peace for the soul or mind. The sleep was artificial like the smiles We plastered on Our faces to live. Everyone would devour this “rest” like greedy pigs although We all knew it would not be enough. The heat rays snuck into the cracks of a shack like coolness thieves. A single ray of light hit a fragment of a strategically placed mirror and that light beamed right into the Woman’s face.
          Her eyes opened. She turned from the beam and looked at her Man. She touched his newest gash. It was an accident. She cut him deeply with her machete while working in the cane fields yesterday. She winced at the image of the abysmal laceration and crimson blood running from his arm. She had fussed over it all night, but it had already scabbed over. She was both relieved and grieved. He healed too quickly from the severest of injuries. Once, while in the old country, he tried to explain to her why. He told her how he had lived in Rome, Spain, and Egypt. How he came to West Africa to find a quiet, peaceful existence. He found his peace in her. Nothing good can stay. Presently, she looked around the Shack. Everything was brown and earthen. The wooden walls and roof, dirt floors, even their folded work clothes were dingy and beige. The only glimpse of bright was the bunch of bananas in the corner. She looked over at the large,ebony heap that was her Man.
          His health allowed them to survive the nightmarish Middle Passage to into this hell. So many people died on those vessels and many dying here. Often, she wished they had died too. She feared they would be here for their whole lives and that was tragic. The other sad thought, if they were here, who was looking over things in the village she wondered. She had heard that much of her village was scattered about in this new land. That thought killed her insides every time and she became infuriated before the Sun was over the horizon. If our generation is lost in this hell, who will teach the next? They will be lost because we have been stolen. A hot tear ran down her sable cheek and her full lips trembled with rage.
          He kissed the cheek. Her full, dark lips revealed spacey, white teeth. Without him, she would have been killed moons ago. Her anger blurs her sense sometimes. She buried her head into his neck and breathed in his heat. It revived her spirit. His hand wandered between her legs and she giggled. There is no time for love now, she told him in the old language. There is only time for work she said as she rose. Her glorious dark body was already beaded with sweat that ran a crooked path down her back along deep gashes from the whips. Souvenirs for not working hard enough. Fast enough. Long enough. She slipped on a work dress and began wrapping her long kinky braids in cloth. He stood. His own body was flawless as if he’d never endured a lash or gash. His body told a lie that only his soul could relay truthfully. He dressed in rough trousers and a torn shirt. As he secured his pants, kissed her neck, and held her in his black, muscled arms. His round, boyish eyes looked deep into her slanted, piercing ones. Dong! Dong! Dong! No time for love.
          They worked together in the fields. She chopped swiftly and he gathered what she chopped. He also chopped down the stalks she missed in her haste. He was watching the back of her dress dance and missed the stalks he swung for. Shhwick! She turned just in time to see the whip lick his back and blood run from His shirt. The white man screamed something in his tongue while shaking the whip at her Man. Unaffected, he chopped the stalks and gathered the rest. She was still staring at the white man and the other slaves moved past. Her fury returned. The white man screamed at Her and walked toward Her with his whip in hand. Her Man grabbed her machete. The white man stopped when he did that. Welding both machetes, He chopped down four stalks in one violent stroke and told her, in the old language: Gather. She obeyed and They advanced. Indolently, the white man returned to his post.

What Are You Willing to Wait For?

Patience is a virtue. We have all heard this old adage yet, it seems, few of us actually practice this principle. Our society has no time for patience. We live in a world of instant everything: instant messaging, instant coffee, instant gratification. Every single American probably utters the phrase, “I don’t have time for this,” at least five times a day. And what is “this”? “This” could be the annoying people you work for and/or with, morning traffic, afternoon traffic, a slow server at a restaurant, the bus, etc.  Anyone or anything that is not ready when we are ready, we dismiss with “I don’t have time.” How can we have time with all of the roles we must fulfill, people depending on us, deadlines and due dates looming about our heads? The world is on our shoulders and we have more worries than we have time to list them all. Or do we?

Thanksgiving night, my husband, his best friend, and I went grazing for the ever elusive, but highly anticipated Black Friday deal. We drove past stores with lines and only went into the few that were open. It wasn't even Friday. Not even close. It was 8:30 on Thursday night, yet there they were. Thousands of people waiting for midnight. Waiting for stores to close and then re-open with new drastic markdowns and discounts. Stores that did not have lines were packed with people anxiously searching for the best price. In Target, people stood in lines that snaked around the aisles. Families sent out scouts for popcorn and slushies. I would love to tell you that we found the bargain of a lifetime. I wish I could write that my husband and I found the computer with everything we wanted for only half of what we budgeted. I would like to say that my husband’s buddy found an Ipod for $75. That did not happen. The prices were not low enough for us to spend three hours in line, so we left.

This excursion of ours was not completely fruitless. I discovered that Americans, who claim to be constantly pressed for time, somehow found several hours to could stand in line for things. Stuff. I realized that our society’s instant gratification mentality only applies in certain cases. We may not have time to call our parents, spend time with our children, or thank God for all of His blessings, but we do have time to wait in line for a television that has been marked down. We make time for what matters most to us.

As the Thanksgiving holiday moves into rear view, and signs of Christmas loom ahead, let us concentrate on the what truly matters most. We may not have time for traffic, and tedious paperwork, but always make time for people, especially your family. If your family is anything like mine, they are much more valuable to you than any electronic device and far more entertaining. 

Thanks for taking the time to read "What Are You Willing to Wait For?". Please follow my blog clicking "Join This Site."

The Natural Question

I have a living bucket list. Since I underwent the “big chop” on my 22^nd birthday, I have vowed to change something with every following birthday. For next the few birthdays, I got a tattoo, went tandem hang gliding, and my natural hair crept down my shoulders. Then, I got bored with my hair. So on June 5^th, 2009, I donated ten inches of my natural hair to Locks of Love, then, permed and cut the remainder into a short short bob: Toni Braxton circa 1996. All was well, until the new growth began. I felt conflicted. I welcomed the hair growth, but how could two textures coexist on three inches of hair? For about six months, I continued to perm my hair and endure the burning torture session called a “touch up.” By month seven, enough was enough. I went back to roller sets, twist outs, and the like. My relaxed hair and my natural hair would just have to get along because I was not going to peel another scab from scalp. I vowed to never perm my hair again. And I haven’t. Then, I got bored and colored my hair on June 5^th 2011.

As with most women, my hair is an expression and extension of my beauty. I love and embrace everything it is and everything it is not. I consider myself a card carrying member of Team Natural now that every strand on my head is natural again, but some argue my credentials. In my travels, I have had many conversations with Black women about what being natural means. Below are some biases on the natural question along with my thoughts.

·         “If you flat iron your hair all the time, you might as well get a perm.”

Negative. A perm is a permanent, chemical process that irreversibly changes your texture and damages the hair. Most women who perm their hair flat iron it as well adding more damage. Not to mention that most White women typically blow dry and flat iron and/or curl their hair everyday or every other day without a perm. We can do the same thing.

·         “If you color your natural hair, it’s not really natural.”

I disagree. While permanent color can alter your texture, it does not straighten it. As I am learning, colored hair behaves different from non-colored hair, but it is all one curly-kinky-wavy mass of loveliness.

·         “If your hair is natural, you need to set it in a twist out, Bantu knots or something.”

Nope. India Aire said it best. “Sometimes I comb my hair and sometimes I don’t.” The most important thing I have learned on my hair journey is that you cannot tame the natural mane. You can only hope to contain it. That’s why I have six different combs with varying teeth. Part of the freedom of being natural is letting your hair do its own thing. It doesn’t have to be in uniformed, military precision curls. That’s the beauty of it.   

·         “You can be natural because you got ‘good’ hair. I couldn’t do that.”

EEEEEENK!! Wrong answer. Caution: I will probably offend someone with the following:

As a people, we MUST let go of the “good” hair mantra. If we honestly look at the root of that statement, it bears a strange, ugly fruit. There weren’t enough Native Americans to procreate with every Black person’s great-grandmother. Our female ancestors were victimized by horrific sexual violence and manipulation, usually at the hands of White men. That chapter in history is over, and “good” hair is not a consolation prize. Please let it go.

 If you want to go natural, do it. If not, that’s cool too. As long as your hair is well-moisturized and growing, it is all good.

Long hair....

Short hair...

Transitioning hair...



Natural hair...



My hair...

You’ve read what I think. I’d like to hear from you. What do you think about “The Natural Question?”

More Than A Right

I have never been a morning person. I’m still not. When I was a college student at Middle Tennessee State University, there were many mornings I did not want to leave my room. Whether I was exhausted from partying or studying or working, some mornings required an extra boost. One such morning during my sophomore year, I drowsily showered, dressed, and prepared for my classes dreading the tasks ahead. At the time, I lived in Gracy Hall, an “exterior” dorm.  In other words, the dorm was like a motel. The door to the room opened to a  balcony outside. When I locked my third floor dorm room on this particular morning, I looked down at the other students moving about their daily routines. The image of heads and backpacks was very arresting. I realized two things: 1) the third floor was pretty high off the ground, and 2) there weren't many African Americans here. Certainly, I knew that I was a minority at MTSU, but as I watched the students from that vantage point it became crystal clear. It was a privilege to be there.

As the product of a single mother, and a working class family, the societal cards were and are stacked against me. Moreover, I am descended from slaves, sharecroppers, and maids.  My ancestors would have loved the opportunities I have been afforded. I have an obligation to take advantage of every single chance I have. Earning an education was an opportunity my ancestors sacrificed, toiled and prayed for. As I stood on the balcony of Gracy Hall eight years ago, I realized that I was living their American Dream.

Like education, voting often seems like more a nuisance than privilege. There’s the paperwork and the waiting, not to mention the added pressure to make the right choice. I am not writing to make plea for any particular party, policy, or politician. This is about doing what others could only hope for. This is about understanding the scripture “To whom much is given, much is required.” If your ancestors were poor, female, non-white, or all of the above, YOU MUST VOTE!! It is more than a right. It is a privilege that we have done little to earn. We owe it to our foreparents.

P.S. There is only one America. Let’s move in it the right direction. Forward.

Falling Out of Love With Rap

When I was five years old, I memorized all of the words to Slick Rick’s “Children’s Story.” That's when I fell in love with rap. My sister was in high school, and I got to tag along when she borrowed our mom's car. We listened to Doug E. Fresh, Heavy D, Big Daddy Kane, and MC Lyte. I wanted to be MC Lyte when I grew up. I can remember exactly where I was when I heard Bone Thugs N Harmony’s debut single “Thuggish Ruggish Bone.” I used to tear up when I heard Eve’s “Love is Blind” because the lyrics were so moving and poignant. “Hard Knock Life” was the soundtrack to my sophomore year in high school and Jay-Z became my favorite rapper. I have written countless papers listening to the Blueprint 2. When College Dropout was released, I felt like Kanye had been reading my journal. My first year as a teacher, I listened to Three Six Mafia’s Most Known Unkowns every morning on my way to work. I LOVE RAP!!

I don’t call it hip-hop because when I was introduced to it, it was rap. Years later, there was a distinction made between rap, which had the negative, street, gangsta, connotation and hip-hop, which was more positive, socially uplifting. Then, the music industry blurred that distinction and it all became hip-hop. I would like to say that as an educated, intellectual woman, I only listened to socially conscious music. I would love to be that person. I am not. If C-Murder’s “F*** Them Other N******” came on right now, I would stop typing, slide my chair back from the desk, and start dancing and rapping because I know every single word. Although I have never done any of the acts portrayed in the song, the lyrics are delivered with such conviction and power. C-Murder eloquently and rhythmically “rides the beat.” This song is his Mona Lisa. Whether you call it rap, or hip-hop, as a genre, I love it. At least I used to.

Maybe it’s because I have gotten older. Maybe it’s because I am a writer and I can tell when another writer takes his/her time to craft a phrase or when he/she just writes down the first thing that comes to his/her mind. Perhaps it’s because, as a teacher, I see how literally young people take the songs they hear. I am not sure of the cause, but I have a hard time finding rap music that I actually like. As I previously stated, I am not above bumping some hard core club only music, but even the club songs are so … well… ignorant. Not in the message, but in the delivery. I am not saying that every song that comes on the radio has to be some deep, cognitively aware form of poetry, but at least make the words rhyme and stay consistent.

Let’s compare apples to apples. The Ying Yang Twins were not deep and their music did not evoke reflection, but at least they painted a picture with their lyrics.  

From “Say I Yi Yi:”

She got her hands up on her knees and her bows on her thighs 
She got the twerkin and the servin so I know that she fly 
She got me hype, I wanna bite her right now yi yi 
Say I yi yi yi yi.

 Not intellectually stimulating, but an attempt. Now, Two Chainz just says random stuff that doesn’t go together, make logical sense, or tell a story. He’s like Waka Flocka minus the colorful sounds. Two Chainz is thirty-six years old and he went to college. Clearly, he can try harder, but why would he? The listeners just want something to get _______(high, drunk, wasted) to.

From “Birthday Song”

They ask me what I do and who I do it for

And how I come up with this shit up in the studio

All I want for my birthday is a big booty hoe

All I want for my birthday is a big booty hoe

When I die, bury me inside the Gucci store

When I die, bury me inside the Louis store

All I want for my birthday is a big booty hoe

All I want for my birthday is a big booty hoe

So what is my point. If the lowest form of rap is sliding into the abyss, what can we say about the rest of it. Nothing. Mr. College Dropout is actually on this record talking about threesomes. There was a time when even the club records had a modicum of literary merit. Now, even that is gone out of the window. What can be said for the rest of the genre? If you’re like me, and you love rap music, stop supporting the crap they’re calling rap and demand better. 

I want to know how you feel about this. Please leave a comment below.

What's Your Story?

        This weekend, I had the opportunity to participate in the Handmade & Bound Book Festival. This festival was a book nerd’s dream. There were self-published authors like myself. People selling zines, which are mini books that often have hand drawn illustrations. Other vendors sold handmade paper and other scrap-booking supplies. The Nashville Origami Club also had a table. Basically, if the activity involved paper, pen, and self-sufficient creativity, there was representation at Handmade & Bound.

My table was located across from Blue Marigold Press, a company that creates handmade books. That’s right. Handmade books. I watched in amazement as a middle-aged man with ear length, brunette hair and librarian eyeglasses sewed linen pages together with needle and thread. He meticulously separated bunches of sewn pages with a tool I can only describe as a flat, plastic handle of sorts. At another point, he fed silk ribbon through slits in the sewn bunches. It was so fascinating that I found myself often distracted from my own potential customers because I wanted to watch the birth of a book.  

The vendor on my right was Thistle Farms, an organization for women with a history of violence, addiction, and/or prostitution. Thistle Farms gives these women a second chance at life by allowing them to create and sell soaps, perfumes, skin creams, candles, and paper products. The women also receive housing, medical and dental treatment, therapy, and educational training for no cost for two years in the Magdalene Program. The Magdalene Program at Thistle Farms was named for the biblical character whose life changed after she had an encounter with her Creator. Mary Magdalene was a known prostitute, but Jesus changed her story.

As the festival came to a close, I thought about the old adage “Never judge a book by its cover.” I contemplated the tables that surrounded me. To my left, I noticed how lovingly the man from Blue Marigold Press operated. Each stitch, pull, and tug meant something that would have an effect on the end product. His love and dedication reminded me of how God must see each human as He creates us. God is the faithful creator lovingly crafting each book, each person, to be a work of art.  To my right, wonderful women who had the courage to change their stories. Life may have left lasting effects on their covers, but God has allowed them to change the text of what would be.

As humans, we have little control over our covers, but we can change the story at any time. God has made us fearfully and wonderfully, but we can make the story of our lives tragic, romantic, or inspirational. The pen is in our own hands.  So what’s your story?

War of the Worlds

 There are a bazillion different theories on the relationship between men and women. For every human that can speak, you will find some variant on the roles of the sexes. In our modern society, we have declared war on the opposite sex, but most have no idea what we are fighting for, or if we are even still fighting. As a married woman, this "war" situation puts me in a bit of a pickle. I am eating, living, and sleeping with the enemy. I'm not the only one. This begs to question, is there still a war of the sexes?

Recently, I watched the movie Crazy Stupid Love. The ladies man character, Jacob, played by Ryan Gosling, proclaims, "The war between the sexes is over. We won the second women started pole dancing for exercise." Interesting. Many women go to these pole dance classes because feeling sexy is empowering for women. I've been to a couple of these classes and men are hardly part of the equation. Each woman is watching herself in the mirror, admiring, critiquing, learning herself. Although, men reap a few benefits, pole dance classes are not about men. 

I thought about all of this while watching movies with the enemy. Then, I realized the cause of this "war." Miscommunication. Men see one thing (pole dance class), think something (strippers, hot sex, SCORE!), and formulate an opinion (woman wants to please her man). Women see one thing (pole dance class), think something (that'll be fun and sexy), and formulate an opinion (my friends will love this). How do we fix it?

War is not the answer. Constantly criticizing, complaining, and bickering about the other sex doesn't work. We've already tried that. Contrary to what people may say, all men are NOT dogs, and all women are NOT bitches. Both men and women have capacities for right and wrong. It all depends on the person. My humble suggestion is that we see each other as equals. Realize that where women may be weak in an area, men are strong in that area. Simultaneously, an area of weakness for men, is an area of strength for women. We need each other because that's the way God planned it. Who are we to question it? 

Make Lemonade

We have all heard the addage that when life gives you lemons, you should make lemonade. This is meant to to be both inspirational and sobering. Sometimes, life sucks. Get over it. But, the practice of making lemonade is easier said than done. Your  tire blows out on your way to work, lemon. While waiting for the tow truck, you catch up on some reading, lemonade. Smaller lemons are easier to deal with than bigger lemons like, say, cancer. 

In October of last year, I found out that my best friend of twelve years was diagnosed with breast cancer. Major lemon. Huge, huge lemon. Quite hard to swallow. First there was the heart-rending diagnosis, then the ravaging chemotherapy, followed by the traumatic surgery, and then more ravaging by radiation. Finally, she is cancer free, but the fight is far from over. 

This past Tuesday, I had the pleasure of watching my best friend rip the runway at the Heroes in Heels Fashion Show in Cool Springs Mall in Franklin, Tennessee. Heroes in Heels is a fashion show that raises awareness and funds for the After Breast Cancer Program through the Middle Tennessee YMCA. I was so proud of my friend for not only surviving breast cancer, but continually making the best out each round of bad news she received.  She, like the other women who strutted down that runway, are master lemonade makers. They inspire me. 

When life gives you lemons, no matter the size, use the following recipe:

1. Cut each lemon in half. God is bigger than all of your problems, especially, if you dissect them into smaller parts. 

2. Squeeze your lemons. Remember, you cannot control everything that happens, but you can control your reaction. Show those lemons who's boss!

3. Add water. Embrace the love and support of your family and friends. Let their kind words water your heart. 

4. Sweeten to taste. God will never put more on you than you can bear. This test will only make you stronger and more dependent on Him. 

5. Serve. Once you have passed your test, share your story with others. You never know who you may inspire.     



  

Who You Callin A Bitch?

 It is a sad, but true fact that rappers typically throw the word bitch around like confetti at a parade. This trend is not new. It's not even a trend. It has become the new normal. Certainly there are exceptions to the rule, however, in the rap world, the rule is that women are bitches and men are niggas. I remember Queen Latifah's anthem "U.N.I.T.Y." As a respected female artist, she proudly proclaimed that not only was she not a bitch, but that NO woman deserved to be called that name.  Both men and women united around this song and its message. Be respectful.

For a short time, bitch was seen as the trump card. The word you saved for a certain level of anger with a woman. It was the ultimate form of disrespect. If you wanted to start fight, call a girl a bitch. Earrings will be removed, Vaseline will be applied, a melee will ensue. That was then. Now, bitch is either a compliment of profound diva behavior, which is a good thing, or the previously stated ultimate form of respect resulting in a good old fashion beat down. So how do you know when to be offended or be proud? In a society that is increasingly politically correct, how did bitch get left off of the "Don't Say That" list?

Which brings me to Trey Songz. Women love him, go to his concerts, buy his CDs, and idolize his every utterance. His music is sensual, seductive, and down right sexy. Trey Songz is our generation's Marvin Gaye. He oozes sex and once proclaimed that he invented it. And we believed him. He's just that good. He takes his mother to all of the "it" events, and we love him even more. If you love men, you are infatuated with Trey Songz. So why does he use bitch gratuitously in his new single "Two Reasons?" On the radio version, he sings "I only came for the ladies and the drinks," but on the album version he sings "I only came for the bitches and the drinks." Why don't his 90% female fan base say or do something? Because its accepted. Trey Songz can call us bitches on one track and sing us out of our Victoria Secret's on the next track because we allow it.

As a society, we have decided that it is okay to disrespect a certain group without question. Women. I propose that we treat bitch the same way we treat nigga. If you don't have a vagina, you should not use the word. And ladies, if we want respect we must demonstrate and demand it.

Black Dynamite Is Out of Sight OR The Many Faces of Michael Jai White

If you came of age in the nineties, like me, then you remember things like VCR's, Sega Genesis, and the X-Men cartoons. The X-Men cartoons hold a special place in my heart because I wanted to be Storm. She was the only black, female superhero I knew of at the time. She was articulate, intelligent, and respected. Everything I wanted to be when I became an adult. In 1997, another moment in black superhero history took place. Michael Jai White starred as the title character of the movie Spawn. Thirteen year old me was thrilled. I was intrigued by this African American superhero who sacrificed his own mortality to save his family. It didn't hurt that Michael Jai White was athletically built and handsome.

Fast forward fifteen years. African American actors have come and gone, and Michael Jai White has kept busy. We've seen him in Tyler Perry's Why Did I Get Married? movies and the spin-off television show, For Better or Worse. I could end the blog here and say good for him. Way to go young brother, way to go. But there is more than meets the eye with Mr. White.


He and Byron Minns are voices, writers, and producers of the blacksploitation cartoon on Cartoon Network, Black Dynamite. The cartoon follows the movie version, which was released in 2009. Both the movie and the cartoon feature Michael Jai White as Black Dynamite, Kym Whitlee as Honey Bee, Tommy Davidson as Cream Corn, and Byron Minns as Bullhorn.

As previously stated, my blackness obligates me to investigate such matters. The cartoon is awesome. The movie is even awsomer. The humor is well timed and not at all trite. In some strange way, they have found a way to honor blacksploitation without being degrading or stereotypical. This seems impossible since part of blacksploitation is stock characters and racial stereotypes. It's a well-balanced dance between parody and reverence. I know. Strange.

If you woke up giddy on Saturday mornings to watch Storm save the X-Men just in time, or searched out other black heroic characters as positive images of African American culture, you MUST watch at least one episode of Black Dynamite. It airs on Cartoon Network on Sundays at 10:30 p.m. CST.

Black Dynamite Movie Trailer

Black Dynamite Cartoon Trailer

Watch Episodes Now







P.S. If you don't know what blacksplotation is, I suggest the following:

Super Fly
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AmZjD2UWoso
The Mack
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2e7VngeFbhE
Shaft (the original with Richard Roundtree)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T1ga1FgU10E
Foxy Brown
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOnqC_acEuI

Early Nights, Late Mornings

In the last five years, I have discovered a startling fact about myself. I am a home body, and I am okay with that. In some respects, I am saddened by this fact. Judging by my age, I should at least miss getting dolled up and going out. On occasion, I do feel the urge to shake things up. Usually, my friends and I will get exceptionally fine, go to a social gathering, and talk to each other over loud music. On most nights, like this one, I sit at home with my husband and we watch television. If we're really adventurous, we may even go out to eat or to a movie, maybe both. Otherwise, we are perfectly happy to spend Friday night on the couch.

This is where the title for the blog comes in. Both of our jobs are very demanding. By the time Friday afternoon comes, we are both exhausted. Friday is like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. We both sigh. . .aaaah when we hit the door on Friday afternoons. Weekends are the best. The early nights and late mornings that we wish we could enjoy Monday through Sunday, but that's just not how life works. We have to rise and grind Monday through Friday. But Friday night, it's time to watch some Comedy Central, snack on popcorn, and doze off around 9 o'clock. For me, that's the best.
Late Nights Early Mornings by Masha Ambrosius