I just have to say that these conversations are not without their toll on my mind and body. I am tired and I just want to curl into a ball and never leave the house. My stomach hurts and I am pushing away from me all of the people that I love. It's so fucking tiring. I know that I have committed myself to being a "truth-teller" to say all of the things that need to be said, but gracious, it is taking its toll on my happiness. I am depressed right now. I get tired of engaging people in these discussions. I wrote her and email earlier this afternoon in which I said,

Hi "Professor,"

After last week's class and the conversation we had following class, I would appreciate some clarification of my role in the course.

It appears as though we may have different teaching philosophies. I feel as though my presence may seemingly cosign, by proxy, positions raised in class. My ethical orientation does not allow me to wait to address issues of social and racial injustice and disparagement until people are comfortable enough to engage in dialogue.

I am hoping to further this dialogue in Thursday's meeting. And, I sincerely welcome your feedback in addition to your explicit views of my function and role in the course.

Thanks,
nonwhite&woman

She responds with,
I welcome our continued conversation. I think that it's important to focus on
culturally relevant pedagogy throughout a course and to build from a strength
perspective from each of our students. It's not so much comfort that I am
waiting for but to build a community in which to address these difficult
conversations. If we wait for comfort we will never address the issues at all.

We can talk more on Thursday.

"Professor"

No "dear nonwhite&woman." She doesn't even acknowledge me in her response. WTF??!?!??! I don't get it. Not to mention that I have to overlook the very essence of my experience in order to function in this course. Why? WHY? It is so fucking terribly frustrating and disappointing. I'm tired. I'M FUCKING TIRED! I don't have any words today to be polite and respectful. How about someone giving a damn about me? When does that kick in? She, from this email, appears to be personally affronted. SO WHAT? WHO FUCKING CARES? Why isn't there a concern for my feelings and well-being? So, I have to exist outside of the community? I feel like some niggra who has to stand outside of the picture window while all of the white kids enjoy a refreshing glass of lemonade or ice cream on a 150-degree day. Not only is it damn hot, but it's lonely. Let me also mention, the overwhelming hurt I feel when I know they can see me and they know how hot it is outside and they do nothing about it, refusing to help me. If I die of heat stroke, then it's my own fuckin fault, right? I should have gone somewhere to avoid the heat. but they have the only fans, air conditioning, ice, and water within a 2000 mile radius and all of the trees shade their front yard which I'm not allowed to "loiter" near. This is what this feels like. Exactly what this feels like. Gaddam it!

Truth be told, I DON'T MATTER. I want them to feel the same way I feel--frustrated, out of control, powerless, denied, inhuman, unworthy, cast out, avoided, ignored, singled out, fucked in every way imaginable.

Happy Tuesday.

WHITE LADY!!!

This semester, I am assisting a professor with her class. My official title: TA (Teaching Assistant). It's a writing class. So, essentially we are teaching middle and high school (some elementary) teachers how to teach writing to their students. Last week, a woman who teaches in a predominantly black school (I believe it's 99% black) said that the majority of her students come from "broken homes" and as a result, these students lack character. It is her job to provide them with enough outlets and models for creativity and expression to counteract what they aren't getting at home.

Immediately, my hackles raised.

Her language is racially coded, for those who don't necessarily see anything with what this sophomore writing teacher said. But, what's more, her implication is that children from "broken homes" lack character. Who decided that she was the purveyor of characters in the Western world? Secondly, it is not her job to save the niggra children. By her statements, not only do the black children she teaches lack character but so do they families because they obviously don't have any upon entering her classroom. I find this terribly disparaging to the children that I taught and the children she teaches. But rather than addressing the comments made in class, the professor followed up with what appeared to be an automatic "Yeah, that's right and..."

That's right??!?!?!?!????!

I felt so entirely disregarded in that classroom. There is only one other black woman in the classroom and, as of last class, she has yet to say a word. Now, I am getting a grade for assisting this professor, but grade be damned, I have to speak up. When I brought it to her attention she said that it was a dilemma as to decide how to address those comments--either at the beginning of the class and risk losing the student or at the end when the class had built a community of learners. My first inclination is to address the comment right off the bat, from jump, as soon as the words are uttered. And, please believe, I do recognize that I can't fire on a student full-speed ahead. That would not have been my approach. I would have questioned her assumptions and asked her to clarify some of the things that she said and thought. But that didn't happen.

It goes against every fiber in my being and my ethical orientation not to speak up when someone disparages another group of people for whatever reason. This class is designed, mind you, to address the ways in which teachers view their students and to disrupt many of the deficit views teachers hold about certain students for whatever reason. I'm pissed; I'm hurt; I'm a lot of other things that I can't put my finger on right now.

I feel as though my presence in the course is window dressing when the goals of the course were overlooked in order to increase the comfort level of students in the class. What about my level of comfort? Why do I have to overlook who I am in order to make sure white folks find comfort? I've done that for the majority of my life. It reminds me of Jack Nicholson's monologue as Col. Nathan Jessep in "A Few Good Men." If you take out the references to the military and replace it with the fellings, thoughts, and sentiments of black folks, it's pretty powerful. This is what I want to say to her:

You can't handle the truth! Lady, we live in a world that has invisible racial walls. And those walls have to be guarded by whites unwilling to relinquish their power. Who's gonna break that wall of privilege? You? I have a greater responsibility than you can possibly fathom. You weep for black people and you curse white privilege. White privilege affords you that luxury. You have the luxury of not knowing what I know: that black people's existence, while tragic, grants you privilege. And my existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to you, reinforces your privilege and power...You don't want the truth. Because deep down, in places you don't talk about at parties, you want me in this world. You need me in this world.

Black folks and true advocates use words like oppression, prejudice, racism...we use these words as the backbone to a life spent fighting for equality. You use them at privilege "conferences." I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a woman who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very privilege and power my existence provides, then questions the manner in which I experience it! I'd rather you just said thank you and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you join the battle and sincerely reject your privilege. Either way, I no longer give a damn about preserving your entitlement!

Things will look up, right?

I'm sitting here with Fred Hammond's "No Weapon" on repeat trying to think of all of the reasons why I should not harm myself. I'm not in danger. Ultimately, I know that I won't do anything. I can take the bark out of my own bite. However, it doesn't take the longing of wanting to impose hurt upon myself anyway. The root of today's anxiety attacks, hyperventilation, and anxiety-induced vomiting? My professor.

I guess it isn't slanderous when everything I say can be backed up with a clinical diagnosis. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is what my therapist--yes, the one that I no longer go to--called it. Some days are better than others. There are times when I can see him and his countenance doesn't bother me. Then there are times like today. I guess it doesn't help that I have to retake a major exam tomorrow. An examination that he told me I would fail on a number of occasions. Was it a surprise when I failed said exam? Not to me and obviously not to him.

Mental and verbal abuse are just as deadly and harmful when those words and calculations come from a non-family member or someone with whom you are not romantically linked. It's painful. It's petty. And, it prevents me from functioning. I am operating at baseline right now. I am only doing the bare minimum. I can't talk to people except for my mother. I don't want to talk to anybody other than my mother. I just want to crawl into a hole and die. This is the nature of PTSD I guess. It doesn't take much. I had to sit in a meeting with him for two hours today. Everytime he gestured in my direction or the two time he said my name, I could barely function. My stomach dropped. My head began to throb. My heart rate accelerated. I was unable to speak. The second time he uttered my name, it scared me and prompted a quick jaunt to the bathroom to throw up food I hadn't eaten this morning and fluid I didn't drink. I cried as I dry heaved over the toilet. My tears flowed because, one, I'm disappointed in my inability to move past such a debilitating time in my life, that it still affects me. The other problem I have is that he even bothers me anymore; he has no idea of his effect on me and my inability to function. Why can't I move past it? Why does it hurt me still? Why do I hear all of the negative things he's said about me echo in my head when I see him? Why do I give into these damn anxiety attacks? Why do I give into my tears? I feel weak. I feel as though if I were to tell anyone, they would unfairly label me as emotional and mentally unstable. This is the nature of abuse. We hold the victim responsible for her inability to "deal with it" while the perpetrator is free to function, live, and prosper unscathed without fear, without compunction.

So, here I sit. CD's on. Exam's tomorrow. That hasn't changed. After seeing him a second time in the hallway, I can't stop hyperventilating and I can't stop crying. What's more, I can't stop wanting to inflict pain upon myself. Ain't life grand?

Caught in the Matrix

Either she's the one or I'm caught in "The Matrix." ---Jay Z

Hmmm...today? Today, I have been caught in the matrix. This isn't a Murphy's Law kind of day...it's so much more and so much less than that. Where to begin...

First, let me say that I had a particularly weird dream this morning. Of course I can't remember what it was about. I needed to write it down as soon as I got up. But, strangely enough, I didn't want to get out of bed this morning. It was so hard to get moving. Once I did though, it wasn't too bad. So, I was about fifteen minutes late to a meeting. The meeting wasn't horribly important, but I'm usually not late to meetings. There was a time I ran on CPTime or whatever the derogatory, internally oppressive terminology you use for being late, but I usually try to be on time and have experienced success with that venture.

Let me back up. Today is the day I go the prison. I am a part of a creative writing program that services men who have been accused of Class-A felonies. These men have been charged with armed criminal action, rape, murder...I think that covers it. Oh, and serious drug possessions usually with a firearm--intent to distribute. So, I love this class. Of course, to hold true to all of the stereotypes, all of the men are black. (Sidenote: please don't take my derision for truth or lack of concern and/or caring, I'm just drained) And, of course, one of them decides to try to holla today. Damn. There goes my desire to float under the radar. Now, I know that I am not fine. I'm no Halle Berry or Iman or Janet Jackson. I do, however, know that I am attractive. I am intelligent. I have decidedly high morals and an ethical orientation. This, I assume, is a hell of a combination--especially when coupled with sexual deprivation for months on end. I feel for this guy, I really do. I like him. He's funny. He's a decent writer. He's caring and concerned for me when we are in the writing workshop. He is also locked up for a dangerous crime. He's also on the inside and I'm on the outside. I cannot date myself nor do I wish to. Past that, I don't want to tell the black man that has probably heard no all his life and is looking for someone to trust. As he wrote, "I feel safe and I feel I can trust you with my feelings." Who am I to pervert that trust? Who am I to make him question my motives and his judgement? Damn, but this is hard. I don't know how to respectfully decline the offer to write him and let him know I mean it.

So that's one of the incidents. What's next you ask? A "friend" acts like he has lost his damn mind. He called me acting a fool. He knows better. He should know better, anyway. He was acting as though what we have is strictly business. We don't have a business relationship. So I had to set him straight. You can't talk to me any kind of way and get away with it. But that's set off a whole set of dominos in my head. Some of which I will post about later...maybe later on today/this morning. Anyway...I'm thinking what about me has changed that has made me actively reject bullshit. There used to be time when I would passive-aggressively accept whatever a man dealt my way. What's changed? Why did it click today? Will it always click? Will this inability to accept bullshit prevent me from finding love again? I don't know what to expect from myself anymore. As scary as it is, it is also very exhilarating. I'm still not excited about letting old boy down, but I can't let anyone else treat me like they have no damn sense.

Public Enemy Number One

It's 11:34 PM, Monday, January 16, 2006. It is the third Monday of the month. This is the commemoration of Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday. I have been aware the entire day that it is King's Day. I'm just at loss as to what to say. All day I've had Run DMC's "King Holiday" lyrics in my head. I am pondering why we remember King as the man with a dream rather than America's number one threat as he was referred to during the late fifties and sixties. We remember King for his good works, not the work that culminated in his assassination. Why is it that all of the pictures I've seen today have been of King at the Lincoln Monument or King speaking, but not his mugshot?

Martin Luther King was a criminal. We forget that. He was observed, followed, and wire-tapped by the CIA and FBI. He was labeled a communist. We forget these things in our efforts to say that racism is dead. We omit these things from our collective cultural memories in order to forget the atrocities under which black people lived and continue to live. We give King laud in order to take away the power of current Black leaders to forget the racist schema that orders our social context, our thoughts, our institutions. We love to kindly remember King as a friend to Civil Rights not public enemy number one as he was considered during Civil Right Movement.


It seems as though while we remember King's birthday, we forget Emmett Till's murder.



While thinking of King's contributions, we do not have to confront the countless numbers of men and women, both black and white who suffered in the name of Civil Rights...



...who gave the ultimate sacrifice so that we could achieve some semblance of equality.



Those innocents upon which the Movement was built. The youngsters who gave King something to preach about.



So as this day comes to an end, I am plagued. Does this day serve as the remembrance of a man or the countless names and faces that help cast the man we remember today? In remembering King, we-all of us-must take time to remember that this day does not mark the end of racism, but the conscious acknowledgement of racism. We recognize the atrocities that black people have suffered since their involuntary introduction to the United States.



The memories that haunt us and force us to remember...



Today, I ask myself what does this day mean? How is it truly any different from any other day? We mourn the loss of King but seemingly forget the others who sacrificed, died, lost, suffered, fought, killed, cried, walked, marched, loved, sat-in, stood up, sang alongside, signed, voted, were beaten and spit upon, were raped, didn't get up, didn't give up, kept going, bought into, embraced non-violence, and believed in King, in their mission, in equality.

Humbly, thankfully, graciously, and deliberately I take their charge, wishing for and working toward peace and equality on this day and those to come. This is a daily struggle, a daily commitment. Lest we forget, any day is a good day to remember, every day is a good day to fight. This is King's legacy, this is his gift...in fact, his dream.

I'm wondering...

* why a black woman in my department would discourage me from working at a historically black university. The university appears to be a good fit for my interests and located in a city I would love to settle in. She, however, told me to take my "white" education to another "white" school where I will be better paid and widely accepted. She said "white people will smile in your face and stab you in the back. Black people will just stab you in the back." Either way, there's a whole lotta backstabbing going on.

* why I love the Iron Chef so much. I will watch it no matter what else is on but I would not call it my favorite television show.

* why I emailed a woman who heads a program that I would like to work with this summer (without pay, mind you) has not taken the time to email me back. I emailed her at the beginning of last week. But, alas, this is the nature of folks at black schools. Which brings me full cirlce back to musing number one.

* why Tyra Banks has a talk show?

* why sex is such a big deal (which is directly related to the previous musing). Tyra has a talk show about women who love sex. She argues that women who love sex and want it all the time have severe issues. I guess women just can't like sex, there have to be ulterior motives and psychoses.

I mean, I'm just wondering...

Five Idiosyncrasies

What are my idiosyncrasies? I would be lying to myself if I said I don't know or that I didn't have any at all...

*1* When I eat ice cream with nuts, I suck the ice cream off the nuts and spit them back in the bowl. I eat them last.

*2* I cannot open doors with my bare hands due to germs. I will pull my shirt over my hand and open the door. If I am wearing a short-sleeved shirt, I will use my shirt tail or my arm (but not my hand) to open the door.

*3* I often yell in my sleep.

*4* I sleep with a fan on. When I get cold, instead of turning the fan off, I will get more blankets.

*5* I am deathly afraid of spiders. When I see them I'm paralyzed with fear and I cannot kill them.

Ta-da!

I don't know who to "tag."

Emerson
Bubbleflys
Kate

the big sigh: she is disposable

Juxtapose this image with the one found here:

the big sigh: she is disposable

I have never seen Condi so beautiful! In fact, I've never considered her to be beautiful...until I saw the pic Em posted on her blog. Emerson gave me pause to reconsider my position on Ms. Rice. I still think some of her beliefs turned policy are f'ed up...

But at least I paused.

Something for me? What a concept!

Look very, very closely. Children what do you see? (obvious reference for paragraph 4)

So my birthday is right around the corner. I am excited because for the first time I am planning to spend it with a man. This was the same man with whom I spend my 26th birthday. That was not planned. I had had a really shitty day and he helped me to "knock the edge off" a crappy birthday. So this is the first birthday, I planned to spend with someone other than my sister and my parents. How excited am I? Words cannot even begin to express... Things are really starting to look up for me in 2006.

Or not.

My sister decides, after I tell her my plans, to invite my parents to come and spend my birthday with me. She tells them that I expressed my desire for them to join us. I am so pissed right now I could shit fire.

You see, my sister is a moocher. She mooches her way through her life. Whatever I have is hers despite any inconvenience her encroaching may cause me. So in addition to moocher, we can add cock-blocker to the list. I am so utterly and absolutely outdone by her behavior.

She doesn't want me to have anything. For, dear friends, if a man were to spend my birthday with me then that could possibly mean that I am getting close to him. If I get close to a man then that may ruin the good thing she's got going--me taking care of her. So now I'm in a catch-22. I love my mother deeply and I am not going to hurt her feeling by telling her that she can't spend my birthday with me. My only question is: does my sister have to come?

I want to get in the bed (well burrow further into the bed) and pull the covers over my head and never emerge. Can't I have just one good and glorious thing for myself? Is that wrong? Is it wrong to pull the carpet from under my sister's feet and not give a damn where or how she lands? Now, obviously I'm venting, but there is some truth to that statement. I am simply unaware of a better solution. I am so tired of taking care of a woman that is nearly five years my senior. The really disheartening part of matter is that I've been doing it since I was 22--paying her bills and listening to her bitch and moan about her problems as though I didn't have my own problems and responsibilities. So here we are at the seven-year mark. The honeymoon is over and I want a [clink on wine glass with spoon]

a divorce (a la Taye Diggs in "Brown Sugar").

I know she is my family; and, although it is hiding somewhere deep in the recesses of my body right now, I do love her. I just do not like the person she has become or the person that I am becoming as a result of her close proximity in my life. I am at a loss as to what to do. To top it all off, imaginary friends, she's angry with me. She's walking around the apartment slamming doors with her television up entirely too loud for the health of her ears. She's trying to get my attention, I presume, in a passive-aggressive manner. I am too past reason to care. I simply have no energy left to deal with her. I am tired and tuckered out. I cannot do it anymore--even at my mother's behest. My mother often tells me that every tub has to sit on its own bottom.

Well, big sister, let's test your mettle/legs.

Jac

dear ryonnel,

today is the day after your 29th birthday. i hope that you had the birthday to end all birthdays. i hope that you were surrounded by all of the people who love you and you love in return. i pray that you received everything on your wish list and more than what you anticipated. i hope your day was filled with love, passion, peace, and abundance. may this year be the best year of your best years, may you find all that you've ever wanted, all you can hope for, and every good and exquisite thing. while i wish these things for you, my letter is bittersweet.

i am writing this letter to relinquish the negativity, pain, anguish, and disappointment that i have allowed you to usurp over the past seven years. you have no knowledge of this power you've held over me, but i have afforded it to you just the same. i remember many events of our relationship like they were yesterday. sending you letters during the summers i pined for you at home, you telling me you loved me outside the athletic complex. i remember you said it first. your boldness fortified my strength and i said it back. i had never felt so free, so giddy, so emotionally whole. i loved those feelings and i loved you. i remember you bringing frozen chicken, roasts, and steaks from your parents' freezer to my home to cook for you while you had football practice twice a day. you came home to a hot meal. i was never as open as i was with you, never as devoted, never as in love. i thought you loved me in return...i thought. i felt your love in the way you touched me, the way you confided in me, the way you smiled at me. i thought we would be together forever. i understand that many women have this expectation of their first love. i don't look back on our relationship with fondness--with the ability to laugh at my own naivete.

for a long time i have been bitter. i gave you the best parts of me. i bared my person to you and expected the same from you. you didn't simply cheat on me. you lied to me. you were not the man that i thought you were. more importantly, you were not the man you said you were. it is clear to me like it was yesterday. i spent all of thanksgiving moping around my parents' home wondering why you hadn't called. since the summer of my freshman year, we connected with each other on holidays. if we weren't together, we would talk to each other on the phone. when i got back to st. louis, i blew your home phone and pager up. it was a good thing that cell phones weren't as popular, i would have blown that up too. you came over that sunday evening. it was brisk. i remember that most of the trees on my street were orange. i asked you why you didn't call, you told me you were busy. when i questioned you further, you told me that it was my own fault that i expected you to call. we weren't in a relationship. you told me that you "loved" me, but you were never "in love" with me. your words were slowly wrapping around my neck, depriving me of air, of life. my head was swimming. never in all of the time we were together did i ever think that you didn't love me the way your actions told me you did. you told me that you weren't responsible for my assumptions that we were in a relationship. you were never my boyfriend and i was never your girlfriend. funny, you never said these things when you took the key to my apartment. you didn't reject me when i offered my body to you. you didn't tell me that we weren't "more than friends" when we sat in health services waiting for the nurse to bring me a "morning after" pill. it is funny now how our non-relationship was never mentioned in those times.

finally, you told me. it was bridget. from that point on, she was known as "good old bridge" or just "bridge" amongst my group of friends. you had been in a relationship with her the entire time we had been together. of course it's easy to hide a girlfriend that lived in florida. "so see you never could have been my girlfriend. i never would have told you that. i have a girlfriend." those words swam in my head for months after you uttered them. they are still with me now. it's funny. pab told me you had a girlfriend. she told me that she saw her the summer before our freshman year. the night before i left to go home for summer vacation before our sophomore year, i asked you if you had a girlfriend. we had been on the phone for hours, the sun was starting to come up. the dark night was giving way to the bright reds and oranges of daybreak. you told me no.

you told me no.

i proceeded from that moment with abandon. i wanted love, welcomed her, beckoned her into our lives. with your deceitful actions and lies, you perverted the love, trust, commitment,and hope i placed in you. i have continued to suffer as a result. after that, i didn't think i was worthy of loving. i didn't believe that a man would ever willingly choose me. so, i rejected intimacy and embraced sexual relationships. it was easier to give my body than to give of my heart. no more.

this will be the last year that i remember your birthday. i reject your hold over my life. i welcome intimacy, seek it, relish in my ability to share it with another man. i am not ruined, i am not damaged goods. i am a good woman--a damn good woman. i have grown in ways that i am proud of. i am not the same timid naive girl who you used for a home away from home. you are responsible for your actions. you lied. you lied a lot. and what's more, you implicated me in your lies. i did not imagine your reaction to me. i did not imagine your love. when it became too much for you handle a deeply intense and wholly committed relationship, you balked. you couldn't handle it; and, instead of communicating that reality, you chose to place the onus on me. i should have rejected it then, as i reject it now.

i feel so free. i deserve happiness. my relationship with you was not an anomaly. you are the anomaly. most men are good, truthful, honest. most don't tell lies to get what they want. most don't selfishly use women for whatever they can. i am quite possibly staring my dream man in the face and i cannot sell myself short or refuse his best because of your obtusity and base character. i hope you've grown, that you are a different person for your sake and for your wife's sake. i hope that you have developed a strength and depth of character that you didn't have when I knew you. i sincerely wish you all the best. today, i release those negative memories that led me to question my worth and worthiness. i release you to your fate as i pursue my own.

be richly blessed,
nonwhite&woman

Love's Funeral

I had a discussion this afternoon with my dear, dear officemate. We have such wonderful discussions and I am so very happy we are friends. Sincerely, I think she is probably one of the best people I know. She has such extreme sense of fairness, and I appreciate that. But anyhoo, we were talking about relationships. She has a wonderful marriage to a man that really loves her. It's obvious is that way he speaks about her, in the way he touches her, the way he anticipates her needs, helps her put her coat on. I like him a lot. He's nicest of the nice guys. As we talked about what types of wedding bands I wanted and she would have wanted had he not given her a family heirloom, I decided that I wasn't cut out for romantic love. As much as it is disappointing, it's a relief. I don't think that I am fully capable of being loved in the ways that I expect.

For twenty-five years, I have watched my mother care for my ailing father. My father's stroke incapcitated him. He is aphasic and paralyzed on the right side of his body. He is capable of walking and speaking a very limited number of words. He can sing, though. That was a laugh for my mother, sister, and me. at Christmas, to hear my father sing everything from "All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth" to "Silent Night." He was so very soulful, which is just funny in itself. People can rarely understand how we laugh at the hijnx and mayhem that my father causes because of his "condition." I don't have any other explanation other than we laugh to keep from crying. Aside from that, the shit is just funny. But all this to say, my mother has loved my father, truly. She held true to her marriage vows in ways that I would challenge any potential mate to do on my behalf. My mother has loved my father through his seizures when he urinates and defecates in the bed, through having to clean urine and feces throughout the house, through his surliness, through his decision not to go to rehabilitation, through him hitting her with one very, very stong hand, through chemotherapy and radiation, through surgery to remove parts of his lungs, through a hip replacement, through his messy eating habits, with no help and no reprieve. She loved my sister and me enough to allow us to live our own lives--never expecting us to come back home when we were finished with our education or expecting us to care my father in any significant way. In these twenty-five years, my mother has never had more than a week's vacation from my father. In sum, I don't think she's had more than a half-year's break from him. It is so completely overwhelming to list the obvious ways in which my mother has loved my father, knowing that this isn't the extent of the sacrifices my mother has made for my father.

I don't know whether that's insanity, commitment, or the love of G-d. Whatever it is, I don't think that I would ever be able to find such devotion, patience, and love. I would love to hold out hope and believe it will happen, but those types of folks are so very rare. To this point, my expectations for men have been exceptionally low. And, without fail, they never cease to underperform. To set high expectations is to be cruelly let down while the bastard receives some type of depraved pleasure inflicting and possibly observing my hurt and anguish.

None for me, thank you. I've decided to forego that type of orgiastic buffet.

So, I've more than given up on romantic love. In many ways, I abhor the society that provided me with such a warped fairytale. There aren't any Cinderellas or Sleeping Beauties, or at least any that look like me. I'm not bitter, I just recognize the truth of the situation. Who loves like that--past rhyme and reason, past your own wants and desires, past the easy parts of marriage and togetherness. My officemate and her husband give me hope that it does still occur in the age of fifty-eight hour marriages, rampant affairs, and spousal murders. But, for a black girl like me, I've retired the fairytale, along with plans to become president. I sincerely welcome love--the love of friends, family, and possible children. But the love that fairytales boast, that comes every once in a million blue moons, I put those expectations for that kind of love to rest. Gone are my rose-colored glasses. I've given up, given in, and relinquish its hold on me.

For those of you who have found forever love, hold on to it. Be careful not to suffocate it. Appreciate it everyday. Wrap yourself in it when you are angry, lose yourself in its passion. Be still and wait for it to subsume you when all seems lost. Find it again and again in the eyes of your beloved. Cherish the memories and the possibility of making more. For those of you still looking, find some for me. Be bold and brave. Give into the moment rather than the possibility. Enjoy your life, be well, smile at strangers. Find love where you can and damn the consequences. Do the impossible--love--love for all time, for eternity. Leave no stone unturned and don't walk away from the probability of hurt. Love fully with abandon and without regret. This chance will only come once in a lifetime. Surrender to passion and ride her crest until either you or she ceases to be. Be mindful and seek pleasure. Find joy and hold him in the palm of your hand until he becomes restless. Do this for me.

Go Grease Lightning!

I don't think that i have ever found anything funnier than Jeff Conaway on vh1's Celebrity Fit Club 3. If you haven't seen it, you must watch it. Jeff Conaway played Kenickie in "Grease" (1978). Fit Club 3 can be viewed on vh1 Sundays at 9/8C. Good lord the other member looking to shed weight are Moesha and The Parkers' Countess Vaughn, model Kelly LeBrock, comedian/Broadway actor Bruce Vilanch, D-12's rapper Bizarre, activist Chastity Bono, The Cosby Show's Tempest Bledsoe, and former rapper turned producer Young MC.

I don't think that drug or alcohol abuse is funny. But Jeff Conaway is pure comedy. He denies using drugs or coming to "fit club under the influence." He tell the assembled group at that week's weigh-in that he took to benedryl that made him "a little loopy." Mr. Conaway was far past loopy. He could not walk a straight line, played with his spit, fell asleep during an activity, and slurred his words to the point of incomprehension. That was funny. What's even funnier is his denial of being under the influence of anything but prescription muscle relaxers and the benedryl. Lord, I've never laughed so hard.

From what I understand, it is only supposed to get better this week. Happy viewing!

that damn blogger navbar

now, i do understand that there are number of people who hate the blogger navbar. i may be one of the only exceptions. i like the blogger navbar at the top of my site. why? i know you must be wondering who would choose to like such a bothersome trifle.

i like the damn blogger navbar. leave it alone! do not delete it from your site! it's there for a reason, dammit!

what reason? for people like me who peruse blogs by pressing the damn "next blog" button. i am always pissed off when i have to go back a page because someone, against blogger.com's wishes has removed the blogger navbar. everytime i have to press the back button, i become just a bit more teed off. half of the time the blogs that i land on without the bar belong to some teenie-bopper lamenting the ending of her relationship. they are depraved, sick, and, most importantly, uninteresting. i am thinking of leaving a comment on their most recent i'm-so-sad-he-should-rot-in-hell-all-the-days-are-dark post,

"put the damn blogger navbar back and maybe you won't be so sad. don't make people feel like your blog is the bestest most wonderfullest site because they cannot navigate away from it. contrary to what you may believe, most people like being happy. believe me, the word does not end because he dumps you. i've been dumped more times than i would like and i'm still living. you make think i'm a bit jaded and cynical, but i have reasons for that. the prime reason being: you removed the damn blogger navbar. if you don't put it back, then, yes! the world may just end. he didn't like you, was only using you in the hopes of having his way with you, and he really thought you were ugly. but only if you don't put the blogger navbar back. i know i've rambled on here enough.

happy new year!"

ughh!

i love you blogger navbar!

Pblat! Pluhm! Phew! Who needs kissing?

I think that kissing is highly overrated. I was just reading a post about a woman's first kiss and I felt compelled to post about it. With the exception of one man, I cannot think of any man that I enjoyed--truly enjoyed--kissing. But I enjoyed his kisses after three shots of tequila, sober reflection, and a stay, however unfruitful, at a terribly expensive hotel--the heavenly bed and all. But really, what am I to find attractive about, ultimately, licking another human being's lips and tongue? It seriously doesn't have to be the precusor to foreplay and sex, please believe me. Sex is made better when you don't have to worry about another person wanting to inspect your molars, fillings, and possible cavities.

Maybe someone can explain this to me.

About my best kiss ever--there was a bonafide need to kiss him. We had gone to local bar and after a very sensual game of Ms. Pacman with him pressed up aginst my back, we headed to the car. Let me provide some context. There was a build up of sexual tension between the two of us for over a decade as I had last kissed him at seventeen. He came to the passenger's side to unlock my door and as I was stepping up into the truck, he pulled me down, spun me around, and began to torridly attack my mouth with his own. While this seems very violent, it was actually very sensual. And, much to my surprise, I did not lose my balance or look uncoordinated as he pulled me from the truck. We proceeded to make out in a public parking structure for well over forty minutes. It was one of the most sensual experiences of my life. While we were canoodling, he drew his hand between the two of us over my heart and held his hand there. It doesn't get more senuous than that.

I haven't had a similar experience since. I haven't had the pressing urge to uncomfortably straddle a car's middle console to kiss another person; haven't heard those whistles and bells since. As a matter of fact, I don't really kiss anyone or anyone's anything. I'll do a variety of "other things," but never really an actual kiss.

But here's the weird thing.

When done correctly, I like kissing. What is the funky instability in my genetic make-up that allows me to like kissing but find it wholly unnecessary to sexually charged situations? I guess I'll have to wait another ten-plus years to find out.