I Don’t Want To Be “Black” Anymore

I refuse to be judged by the color of my slightly brown skin; by my hair which is reminiscent to winter worn wool; by my full lips; by my pudgy nose; by my flawed frame which has been linked to emulate Egyptian queens; by my voice of reason; or by my ancestors’ past. God, why did you place me in this skin … this burlap … this discounted and discontinued fabric? This skin (labeled as “black” or “negro” or “colored”), I can’t wash it off … I can’t even break the thread.

IMG_1559As I take a mental escapade, I envision my childhood in December of 1985. I can see my eight year old self standing in front of a window watching the “white” children play in the rain (screaming, laughing, shouting, jumping in and out of puddles, playing hide and go-seek, and running from each other). I couldn’t go outside because my mom spent several hours straightening my hair with a pressing comb and Dax pressing oil. I can still hear the “sizzle” from the comb as the teeth slowly grabbed my kinky mane, smell the scent of freshly pressed hair, and feel the hot oil flow down my right ear.

As I continued to watch the neighborhood children, tears continuously flowed down my face onto my floral printed jumper like rain tapping the pavement. From that day on I didn’t want to be black anymore. I wanted to stand in the middle of the road, extend my arms with my palms facing up, tilt my head back, and close my eyes … I wanted to allow the rain to wash away the “dirt (color)” from my skin.

I want to live without fear of being chastised … fear of being profiled … fear of being left behind. God, I don’t want to be black anymore.

If I Could, But I Won’t

If I could erase the freckles, the scars, the stretch marks, the skin discoloration, the bruises, the bumps, the hormonal breakouts, and the bloat, I would be an “imperfectly” perfect woman of many colors. I am often my own worst enemy or critic. When I gaze at myself in an elongated mirror, I fall into a transitory trance … a mystified state of mind. I make several half turns to the right and several half turns to the left (with my shoulders slouched and my face without expression) only to remain broken and confused.

What makes one beautiful? Is it their near perfect silhouette? It could be their smooth and flawless complexion (no acne or blemishes, no scattered or uneven rows of hair above the lip or under the chin, no black-heads on the nose, or no skin bruising); their true hour-glass figure (more curves than a coke bottle); their long, dark brown, blonde, or black hair (no kinks or coils to tackle); their thigh gap (yes, I’m speaking of that “Peeping Tom” opening between a woman’s thighs); their perfectly pouted lips (no dry patches or cracks); or their slightly curvaceous and firm derriere (no wobble or jiggle).

The outer shell of a woman is seen as a very exquisite and elegant piece of fine art … a mold crafted only by the hands of an eminent deity. The core of a woman is where she holds her truth, her pain, her love, her wisdom, her courage, her strength, her pride, and her joy.

If seen through the eyes of the world, a perception of beauty would turn into words of hate, words of praise, or a faint misconception. Again, I ask, What makes one beautiful? I would answer if I could, but I won’t.


Dateless and Constipated

Have you ever been forced to chug a cup of warm prune juice? All because you were overly constipated from consuming an entire medium four cheese pizza and stuffing a row of vanilla creme cookies (generic brand) down your throat. Hey! It was cheat week damn it! I’ll be the first to tell you … that “fiberistic” juice will loosen everything (and I mean everything) in your “garbage disposal” aka stomach aka gut. Your stomach will start to speak in tongues and may catch the holy ghost like Sister Bertha at a black Baptist church. Hallelujah!

I drank my first cup of warm prune juice a week ago. And let me tell you, it was an experience. By the way, unlike most people, I love prunes (pit-less) and find the juice to be even more flavorful. It took less than an hour for the juice to hit the core. My stomach tried to resist the Mike Tyson-esque punch, but the juice was not having it. Unfortunately, I was still at work when the rumbling and the growling kicked in. I had 5 minutes left before I was to head home. My legs were shaking, my body started to tremble, sweat started to flow down my face, and my temperature rose to a menopausal level. I almost lost consciousness. I wanted to venture to the local Chipotle before retiring for the evening, but my out of nowhere “shart” ruined that entire idea of adding beans, hot salsa, and guacamole to the overstuffed “pipe.” When I finally reached home sweet home, I had to rush through the door, run up the stairs, and hop on the toilet before the explosion caused a state of emergency. The gas that erupted was like no other fart I’ve ever had the pleasure of releasing. I sat on the throne until I became numb from my waist down to my pinky toe.

I didn’t realize just how fast poop works (or shit works-whichever one comes first) once you give it that extra boost. My toilet is still trying to find the words to improperly curse me out.

This is truly how it feels to be dateless and constipated.

Friday Nights, No Lights, A Blanket, and Sex”less” in the City

I should be snuggling with a bare chest and boxer wearing hunk, but I’m lounging on the couch wearing oversized sweats, a black hoodie (zipped up to my neck), my dad’s old tube socks (the ones with the hole right at the big toe) and the “black girl” bonnet while wrapped in a wool army blanket. What else is a single woman to do on a cold and breezy fall night?

To help ease my pain from singleness, I have 1/2 a coffee mug of Haagen Dazs (attempting to watch my caloric intake) Mango Sorbet, a snack size box of raisins, cinnamon apple chips, and a gallon of water (sitting at room temperature). There’s no such thing as gluttony … it’s just an old wive’s term.

Triple Sigh! I’m watching a marathon of Sex in the City and wishing I had the power to escape my reality and transform into the ethnic Carrie Bradshaw. Hell, I would even be Samantha for a few seconds … minutes would turn me into a certified nymphomanic.

Sexless in the City is my newfound reality.

Southern White Men Hate Black Women

It is a known fact that I am (and have always been) attracted to the “other white meat” (and no, it’s not pork – I’m a vegetarian) aka Caucasian men. Blame it on my parents for teaching me (while growing up and maturing as a child) not to recognize color, but character.

Most of my preadolescent childhood was spent in a predominately white neighborhood (climbing magnolia trees, removing those prickly little things from my kinky textured hair, running to the mailbox in the rain with no shoes on, and camping out in the backyard). I experienced my first innocent crush in kindergarten. I recall standing by the art easels (minding my business) and painting a lady bug (well, it looked more like a beetle). And, this blond and blue-eyed boy asked me, “Do you taste like chocolate because your skin is brown?” I shrugged my shoulders and before I could completely turn back to my art project, he kissed me on the cheek. And, he then replies, “Yes, you do taste like chocolate.” I knew it was love. By the way, his name was Ray. And, till this day, my uncle still calls me “Ray Heart.”

Ray, if you’re still out there .. I’m single and available. This time I’ll kiss you back with a slight slip of the tongue.

As a child, I didn’t recognize a barrier or a difference in color until I was faced with a few racially motivated epithets … “You’re a n*****!” and “Go sit on the porch monkey!” One cannot truly understand what racism feels like until they have faced the communicable disease head-on. Racism is like poison that continuously flows through the veins of many folks … with no known antidote.

Living in the south and breathing the bittersweet country air can be annoying as hell. Many southerners are closed-minded and tend to follow a very straight and narrow path. Some tend to misquote biblical scriptures or verses (I know the Lord didn’t say that) only to mollify their tarnished little lives. And, this unjustified behavior is natively ingrained into the minds, hearts, and souls of both southern “white folk” and southern “black folk.”

Dating in the south … well, uh, yeah if you’ve read most of my posts you get the picture. Caucasian men don’t approach me or tend to look in my direction. I try almost everything to get their attention (stare them down until they feel uncomfortable; follow them around a store, event, or networking function; ask a rhetorical question-usually occurs if I’m at a sports bar or a popular eatery; or ask a friend to informally introduce me). I am only left shaking my head and releasing a long sigh of disappointment and rejection.

Some white men only view black women as “big booty whores” or “little black fantasies” or “bedroom projects.” Wait! Don’t start clapping or giving the dap my black brothers, you do the same thing shit. Always professing, “Oh, I cherish the beautiful black queen” only to turn around and ask a woman to bow down and get on her knees. I can only conclude with … men are men and of course, the obvious … southern white men hate black women.

As cliché as it may sound, love is truly blind; it releases passion, desire, affection, adoration, tenderness, admiration, intimate connections, sparks, and warm sensations …. love holds no color, religion or creed, sexual orientation (heterosexual, homosexual, bisexual, asexual, metrosexual, etcetera … etcetera), status, or any other superficial label.


To Be Continued …

Stepping Out on a Whim

As a woman growing up in the south, I was taught that men are the ultimate aggressors in the game of dating. Men are the “approachers” … the innocent attackers. They are the only gender to “get what they seek.” Well, I must disagree with the “morals of the land” (only in this aspect). We (women) can not only be the seekers, but we can be a little bit more aggressive in our approach; while still allowing the man to be the man. Usually when we (single women especially) see something of interest or something that attacks our psyche, we go after it (clothes, shoes, jobs, status, etc.) without hesitation. So, why can’t we apply that same eagerness to dating?

IMG_1480From personal experience, it seems that the guys who approach me are not what I would consider a fair match. And no, I’m in no way looking, hoping, praying, or wishing for Mr. Perfect. Just a man of substance … one whose first words out of his mouth aren’t, “Yo” “What’s up?” “Hey Little Mama” “You got a man” “Hey Sexy” “Can I take you home?”… I can go on, but I’m starting to get a headache (more like a migraine).

Yet, another long sigh … I miss those days when guys (some, not all) actually had a sense of adventure (rather than a compass and map to your bedroom), displayed chivalry (Can it even be resurrected?), conversed with your parents before going on a date (now, they just honk the horn or send a text … “I’m outside”), hugged you or kissed you on the forehead before they departed for the night (now, you must slap the piss out him because he tried to force his tongue down your throat), called the day after a date (Who created that damn 3 day rule?), and shared his feelings with you without shame (men still “cry” in the dark).

I have decided that I am stepping out on a whim … stepping out on faith. I’m flushing all those rules down the toilet. In order to get what you want, you must go after it. I shall remain a lady along this newfound journey. I am a woman who knows what she wants … well, at least I think I do.

Single Ladies, we must take control of our dating lives. Now, this does not mean for you to go out and start taking care of grown men. We are not trying to be a man’s mother figure … only his other half. We will approach a man of interest and conduct preliminary interviews. If we take some initiative, they may step their “weak and tired” game up.

I will create a follow-up post in a few months. Wish me luck!

Hooking Up is For the Weak

I said it. And, I will stand by every word. Being older and more mentally mature, I’ve come to the realization that some men will never live beyond their pubertal age. Hook-ups are for the socially awkward or those that lack a sense of self-respect or self-acceptance. As soon as I landed in the “City of Singletown,” I was approached by men with swelling penises and obscene pick-up lines … “I want to taste your chocolate” … “Can I come over to do you?” (Actual pick-up lines by the way). My reaction to such indecency usually involves the “black girl” eye roll or the “I know you didn’t” with a side-eye, slow eye roll, and sucking of the teeth.


Dodging protruding wankers and the sexual stench of desperation is not an easy task. These wild, monstrous, predatory, and “no respect having men” will do almost anything to attack their prey. It seems that they will “attack” aka (f-bomb) any woman with a vagina or anything that looks like a vagina. If a hairy and beastly (and I mean hair growing for decades-forget “No Shave November”) vagina (with no face, just legs) was just sashaying down the street, you would suddenly hear and see a mob of half-naked men coming out of sports bars, office buildings, and shopping centers (humping the air) … they would leap onto the estranged vagina like fleas on a wandering canine. I refuse to fall for the cheap and low-grade hook-up lines. If one can’t seem to carry a conversation or tap into his (half-empty) intellectual box, I’m NOT interested.

I’ve noticed that some men will get straight to it, right after the hello … “Hello Sexy, what are your plans tonight?” or “You are hot! Can I go home with you?” What about my name sir? WTH! Guys, not all women are looking to get laid or “get sacked.” We can go to the nearest “after dark” novelty shop and purchase a mighty big, long, and strong “power ranger” with multiple speeds … we can easily choose the color and girth.

Where are the mature, respectful, honest, and semi-comedic men? Could they be on planet Mars? I will say it again, hooking up is for the weak! Dating/Courting is becoming nonexistent here in the “City of Singletown.”