I have so many things I would love to discuss and blog about, the re-election of our President for his second term, hurricane Sandy and the randomly titled winter storm Athena that tag teamed and people's elbowed the east coast, the excitement I have for the new year, even the astronomically chauvinistic ideals of the tea party and their minions.
All of these things I could discuss. But someone tried to question the temperature of the oil I was frying my chicken and I was so ridiculously offended.
SON.
Now, I no longer live by myself and I have a little sister so, sharing space is somewhat mandatory, but there are certain things I just can not handle.
A few weeks ago, I had time on my hands (a rarity) and decided to cook. My immediate family is average size. Four people. However, the number of Aunties, Uncles, cousins, play cousins, etc is huge and our house is the gathering place for all things things family, so when we cook it's for a huge number of people. Every time. My grandfather owned a restaurant that my mother worked in as a chef growing up, so...cooking for a large number of people is permanently ingrained in her spirit. She can't help herself. And apparently, neither can I.
Mixed greens, fried chicken, cheddar bay biscuits, Cesar salad, and key lime pie. Naturally my sister wanted to help, so I obliged. Corn, rice, and raspberry sorbet. My baby is growing up.
My mama came home. Walked in the house and marveled at all of the lovely aromas mingling with each other in the air. She went back to her room for a while and then...she reappeared...in the kitchen.
If I am nothing else, I am fiercely independent. Not to my detriment, because I am no fool. Batman had Robin, Superman had Lois Lane, everyone needs a hand every now and then. But super heroes don't cook.
Keep up out my kitchen.
I don't know what it is about women in the kitchen, but if you ever want to royally piss a woman off, give her your opinion on how she's making her food, without her request.
My mama was nowhere near the stove or oven. She complimented the assortment of seasonings I had on the counter and how good each one would taste on each dish I was creating. She opened the fridge and took a gander at how pretty and delicious my pie looked. But just before she turned to walk away, she said the grease for my chicken was too high and I...I just don't know what came over me.
I shunned her from the kitchen for the rest of the night. We don't have doors to our kitchen, but I built one in my head and slammed it as she walked away.
I'll admit, by the time my mama walked into the kitchen I was on the 12th of 15 wings and perhaps my grease was a little high. But no one asked her!
My mother is an excellent cook. I was a very happy overweight little girl until my weight shifted in high school. But I'm doing things for myself now and I just don't have the patience or time to deal with two chefs in one kitchen trying to do the same thing.
All in all, don't ever, never, ever, ever come in my kitchen with your point of view or opinion unless it's requested because at the end of the day your opinion is not welcome. Even at the beginning of the day, your unrequested opinion is not welcome.
Keep up out my kitchen...please.
dig and be dug...
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Monday, November 12, 2012
A Giant amongst Men
Yesterday, November 11, 2012 around 2PM, I learned something new. Something I vaguely remembering hearing about as a child, but was intangible in my adult life.
Yesterday I found out that people die.
It may sound strange because we're all taught and told that death is, ironically, a part of life. We see people die in movies and even cartoons all the time. But the road runner still gets chased by the coyote everyday and Denzel accepted an Academy award after his death a few years ago. But apparently, real death doesn't work like that.
Yesterday I found out real death is silent and painful and nightmarish if you live through it.
For almost 20 years of my life, I ignored it. Almost didn't believe it was real. I guess I thought it was a figment of my imagination. But it isn't.
My grandfather, Charles Thomas Hall, Sr. passed away when I was 5 years old. I remember the day he left and I vividly remember his funeral. What I was wearing, how my hair was, where I sat, who I sat next to, my older cousin telling me that boys were physically unable to cry and not being able to utter a word even though I knew she was wrong.
After that day, death, to me, no longer existed.
I assume this is in part because to ease the pain of losing someone who was the light of my life, my family explained to me that he was still somehow there. Just not physically. He sat on the fluffiest clouds and watched over me as I played and studied and cried and laughed and grew. But when there were no clouds in the sky, I wondered where he went. When there was a blizzard or a storm, I wondered if he was comfortable.
Sure other people passed after my grandfather, but no one as close as to me as he was. Going to see him yesterday was the most strange feeling I've ever experienced in my life. I remember the day my grandfather left. I know how he left. I know that prostate cancer wreaked havoc on his body.
But for some reason walking up to the KW section of the Veteran's Cemetery to grave 1116, I was hoping he wasn't there. I walked up to him and stood there bent over in tears, completely in shock by what I saw.
A headstone...with his name on it. And to make matters worse, below his name was his birth date with a dash separating that date from another date signifying the end of his...
After I caught my breath, I sat there and tried to talk to him, read to him, sing him happy birthday and ask him how he was doing, but nothing came out. I just kept picturing the man that carried me on his shoulders and sang me funny songs as dust in a box six feet below me and I couldn't believe it was real. I hadn't visited him, in that place since I was about 12.
After all of this time, death was staring in my face, with it's deafening silence and faceless glare and I never expected it.
How...Why would I expect to see my Pop-pop standing there in his whiskey colored bomber jacket, arms open wide, aviator lenses raised on his cheeks because of his smile, saying "I've missed you Muskrat" with that Mississippi drawl that had notes of Brooklyn all under it that made his speech so memorable?!
He died. On June 12, 1993 that voice was silenced. Those arms bent with his hands over one another. Those aviator frames revealed eyes that would be shut for the rest of eternity. That smile lay straight. Reality slapped me in my face and knocked the wind out of my lungs and I never saw it coming.
Yesterday I learned that people die. But only if you don't do what God sent them here to show you.
Physically, Charles Thomas Hall. Sr. lived from November 11, 1935 until June 12, 1993.
However, the man who is responsible for my humility and my defiance, my dreams and my hustle, my disdain for mediocrity and complacency and my compassion for those who help themselves turned 77 years old yesterday.
A giant amongst men.
Your dreams are my dreams and therefore we still have work to do. Plans to execute.
And if I hope for nothing else, I hope that I'm making you proud.
dig and be dug...
Yesterday I found out that people die.
It may sound strange because we're all taught and told that death is, ironically, a part of life. We see people die in movies and even cartoons all the time. But the road runner still gets chased by the coyote everyday and Denzel accepted an Academy award after his death a few years ago. But apparently, real death doesn't work like that.
Yesterday I found out real death is silent and painful and nightmarish if you live through it.
For almost 20 years of my life, I ignored it. Almost didn't believe it was real. I guess I thought it was a figment of my imagination. But it isn't.
My grandfather, Charles Thomas Hall, Sr. passed away when I was 5 years old. I remember the day he left and I vividly remember his funeral. What I was wearing, how my hair was, where I sat, who I sat next to, my older cousin telling me that boys were physically unable to cry and not being able to utter a word even though I knew she was wrong.
After that day, death, to me, no longer existed.
I assume this is in part because to ease the pain of losing someone who was the light of my life, my family explained to me that he was still somehow there. Just not physically. He sat on the fluffiest clouds and watched over me as I played and studied and cried and laughed and grew. But when there were no clouds in the sky, I wondered where he went. When there was a blizzard or a storm, I wondered if he was comfortable.
Sure other people passed after my grandfather, but no one as close as to me as he was. Going to see him yesterday was the most strange feeling I've ever experienced in my life. I remember the day my grandfather left. I know how he left. I know that prostate cancer wreaked havoc on his body.
But for some reason walking up to the KW section of the Veteran's Cemetery to grave 1116, I was hoping he wasn't there. I walked up to him and stood there bent over in tears, completely in shock by what I saw.
A headstone...with his name on it. And to make matters worse, below his name was his birth date with a dash separating that date from another date signifying the end of his...
After I caught my breath, I sat there and tried to talk to him, read to him, sing him happy birthday and ask him how he was doing, but nothing came out. I just kept picturing the man that carried me on his shoulders and sang me funny songs as dust in a box six feet below me and I couldn't believe it was real. I hadn't visited him, in that place since I was about 12.
After all of this time, death was staring in my face, with it's deafening silence and faceless glare and I never expected it.
How...Why would I expect to see my Pop-pop standing there in his whiskey colored bomber jacket, arms open wide, aviator lenses raised on his cheeks because of his smile, saying "I've missed you Muskrat" with that Mississippi drawl that had notes of Brooklyn all under it that made his speech so memorable?!
He died. On June 12, 1993 that voice was silenced. Those arms bent with his hands over one another. Those aviator frames revealed eyes that would be shut for the rest of eternity. That smile lay straight. Reality slapped me in my face and knocked the wind out of my lungs and I never saw it coming.
Yesterday I learned that people die. But only if you don't do what God sent them here to show you.
Physically, Charles Thomas Hall. Sr. lived from November 11, 1935 until June 12, 1993.
However, the man who is responsible for my humility and my defiance, my dreams and my hustle, my disdain for mediocrity and complacency and my compassion for those who help themselves turned 77 years old yesterday.
A giant amongst men.
Your dreams are my dreams and therefore we still have work to do. Plans to execute.
And if I hope for nothing else, I hope that I'm making you proud.
dig and be dug...
Monday, August 27, 2012
Women Journalists
As someone who holds a degree in journalism, I have an unspoken responsibility to get to the point of it all. Like doctor's have a responsibility to save lives when they're in danger, it is my duty to find the truth and tell the world to save it from eminent mass destruction. Yes, my degree IS that important.
Somewhere down the line, my fellow, more accomplished journalists allowed watered down less than news worthy stories to not only make the news, but to make headlines. Even on the snapshot below, the ticker on the bottom is about Ev and Ocho...honestly CNN should not have them on their radar at all. How laughable is it that in the middle of a heated political debate, on CNN, Ev and Ocho creep across the screen?! I expect to know of them and their story, my homegirls, people in the "bar-bah" shop and salon can discuss them, people on my job...fine. However, CNN need not bring them up in discussion or give their nonsense any type of recognition.
But as usual, I digress.
As I was saying, most news stories today have more fluff than cotton candy. In my humble opinion, it seems like most journalists aren't doing too much homework. I wonder how many journalists, could do what Soledad O'Brien did with John Sununu? More specifically, how many female journalists are hard hitting enough to stand up to politicians like Sununu? I'm not talking about my loves Rachel Maddow, Gwen Ifill, or Mrs. O'Brien. They have proven their ability to take down heavy hitters. But how many female anchors could be thrown in the lion's den and come out with all of their appendages?
Recently, Soledad O'Brien interviewed John Sununu, former Governor of New Hampshire and chief of staff for George W. Bush. The topic of debate was the imploding similarities, disparities, and fallacies among the plans for Medicare between Obama, Ryan, and Romney. (Hit the link for the debate.)
Huffington Post Story
Besides me being simply sick and tired of the Republican Party in its entirety, one thing that annoys me the most is their overall tactics for winning debates. Which seems to be turning them into arguments and that seems to mean yelling the same thing repeatedly, like Sununu so eloquently exemplified in the link above.
Most Republican pundits, representatives, political leaders and so on, go into every debate with what seems like a chip on their shoulder. Like they're walking around with something to prove, for example, their intelligence.
With former President G.W. Bush still lingering in the rear view mirror, his antics still fresh on America's psyche, and the reoccurring nightmare that is Sara Palin ever fresh in our memory. Maybe they do.
The Republican/Tea/Conservative Party is out for blood. Whether that blood is represented by voting rights, women's rights, respect President Obama as PRESIDENT, or the right to demand equality, they're coming to get it.
Now before I begin to digress and go down the list of frustrations I have with the party, especially the control they believe the government should have over a woman's womb, I'll get back to the point.
As a journalist, it is our job the convey THE truth. Not our truths or our grandmother's truth, or the sugar coated truth. Get to the point. Under the make-up, and the hair, and the racially ambiguous features, women journalists owe it to themselves and all journalists coming behind them to take the opportunity to assert themselves intelligently and make the person being debated be responsible for their words and actions.
There's power in a pen. Even when the nails on the hand holding it are manicured.
dig and be dug...
Somewhere down the line, my fellow, more accomplished journalists allowed watered down less than news worthy stories to not only make the news, but to make headlines. Even on the snapshot below, the ticker on the bottom is about Ev and Ocho...honestly CNN should not have them on their radar at all. How laughable is it that in the middle of a heated political debate, on CNN, Ev and Ocho creep across the screen?! I expect to know of them and their story, my homegirls, people in the "bar-bah" shop and salon can discuss them, people on my job...fine. However, CNN need not bring them up in discussion or give their nonsense any type of recognition.
But as usual, I digress.
As I was saying, most news stories today have more fluff than cotton candy. In my humble opinion, it seems like most journalists aren't doing too much homework. I wonder how many journalists, could do what Soledad O'Brien did with John Sununu? More specifically, how many female journalists are hard hitting enough to stand up to politicians like Sununu? I'm not talking about my loves Rachel Maddow, Gwen Ifill, or Mrs. O'Brien. They have proven their ability to take down heavy hitters. But how many female anchors could be thrown in the lion's den and come out with all of their appendages?
Recently, Soledad O'Brien interviewed John Sununu, former Governor of New Hampshire and chief of staff for George W. Bush. The topic of debate was the imploding similarities, disparities, and fallacies among the plans for Medicare between Obama, Ryan, and Romney. (Hit the link for the debate.)
Besides me being simply sick and tired of the Republican Party in its entirety, one thing that annoys me the most is their overall tactics for winning debates. Which seems to be turning them into arguments and that seems to mean yelling the same thing repeatedly, like Sununu so eloquently exemplified in the link above.
Most Republican pundits, representatives, political leaders and so on, go into every debate with what seems like a chip on their shoulder. Like they're walking around with something to prove, for example, their intelligence.
With former President G.W. Bush still lingering in the rear view mirror, his antics still fresh on America's psyche, and the reoccurring nightmare that is Sara Palin ever fresh in our memory. Maybe they do.
The Republican/Tea/Conservative Party is out for blood. Whether that blood is represented by voting rights, women's rights, respect President Obama as PRESIDENT, or the right to demand equality, they're coming to get it.
Now before I begin to digress and go down the list of frustrations I have with the party, especially the control they believe the government should have over a woman's womb, I'll get back to the point.
As a journalist, it is our job the convey THE truth. Not our truths or our grandmother's truth, or the sugar coated truth. Get to the point. Under the make-up, and the hair, and the racially ambiguous features, women journalists owe it to themselves and all journalists coming behind them to take the opportunity to assert themselves intelligently and make the person being debated be responsible for their words and actions.
There's power in a pen. Even when the nails on the hand holding it are manicured.
dig and be dug...
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Dear 4:46AM
So...4:46 AM. We meet again. I don't know why you like to see me like this. My hair is a mess. My mouth is dry. I have pimple medicine on my face to rid it of my new friend, Rudy the zit, who is very nicely situated on my brow line. And worst of all...I'm not wearing any earrings!
I can't count how many times I've seen you and had this overwhelming rush of disappointment charge through my body like the Immortals did the soldiers in 300. My mind jumps from 0 to 60 in .3 seconds and now I'm thinking about someone who most likely isn't thinking about me and is definitely ASLEEP right now. Why do you torture me like this?
What am I supposed to do at this hour? The only thing available right now are slurpees and you know I'm trying to cut back. There's no beautiful sunrise for me to gaze at. No friend for me to call. Did you know that I live with people now and if I go around banging pots and pans in the kitchen I'd wake them up and never hear the end of it? Do you want me to fight people?
Yes, I thank you for waking me from a bad dream every now and then, like you did tonight. But most of the time, you just do it for no reason! And then I'm here. Alone in my bed. Awake with my thoughts. Frustrated, a little agitated, and sleepy.
So 4:46 AM. Until I'm making money with you or at leastcuddling making gangsta rap videos when you decide to show up, Stay away from me. You don't treat me right and I can't take this kind of abuse. Leave me alone. I'd rather be with your friend 7:30 AM anyway. He treats me right and can offer me good things like breakfast and by the time he shows up, I've had more sleep. And I think I love him. I've never wanted to be with any other time, like I want to be with 7:30 AM, especially since you started showing up around here.
He and I only have a problem when you're in the hood...or suburb.
Find someone who will treat you right and appreciate you. Someone who will give you everything you need in this time zone. I know you're good for someone, but that someone ain't me. And in the words of Angela Bassett as Katherine Jackson in The Jacksons: An American Dream, "nooooo I don't wan'cha...I don't wan'cha, I don't wan'cha, I don't wan'cha no mo'!"
Sincerely,
Me
dig and be dug 4:46 AM...dig and be dug...
I can't count how many times I've seen you and had this overwhelming rush of disappointment charge through my body like the Immortals did the soldiers in 300. My mind jumps from 0 to 60 in .3 seconds and now I'm thinking about someone who most likely isn't thinking about me and is definitely ASLEEP right now. Why do you torture me like this?
What am I supposed to do at this hour? The only thing available right now are slurpees and you know I'm trying to cut back. There's no beautiful sunrise for me to gaze at. No friend for me to call. Did you know that I live with people now and if I go around banging pots and pans in the kitchen I'd wake them up and never hear the end of it? Do you want me to fight people?
Yes, I thank you for waking me from a bad dream every now and then, like you did tonight. But most of the time, you just do it for no reason! And then I'm here. Alone in my bed. Awake with my thoughts. Frustrated, a little agitated, and sleepy.
So 4:46 AM. Until I'm making money with you or at least
He and I only have a problem when you're in the hood...or suburb.
Find someone who will treat you right and appreciate you. Someone who will give you everything you need in this time zone. I know you're good for someone, but that someone ain't me. And in the words of Angela Bassett as Katherine Jackson in The Jacksons: An American Dream, "nooooo I don't wan'cha...I don't wan'cha, I don't wan'cha, I don't wan'cha no mo'!"
Sincerely,
Me
dig and be dug 4:46 AM...dig and be dug...
Friday, August 10, 2012
We want Prenups?!
It has occurred to me that there is an overwhelming amount of people that I know, personally, who are not only in love...but they're married. Married. As in contractually obligated to go halfsies on life with another person. FOREVER.
But sincemy cousin Andre aka 3000 made the valid point that forever never seems that long until you're grown, it makes me wonder, are people thinking about all of the what ifs? Like...what if this doesn't work? And being that most of the people I know either didn't go to college or just graduated from college within that last two or three years...do they have enough money for 'just in case' papers? You know... prenuptial agreements...
Listen, as a woman/hopeless/hopeful romantic/firm believer in til death do us part, I do not want to ever have to consider divorce as an option, which means I also don't believe prenups are mandatory for every marriage. However, I do understand that a thug changes and love changes. People grow up and apart and what worked all those years ago, just doesn't work anymore.
I think the main reason I have a bone to pick with prenups and the men that demand them, is the vast assumption that the woman you are with is coming to the table with nothing to offer and only wants you for the money you've worked so hard to earn.
Are there gold digging women out there that will fight to win a mans affection and attention only to take parts of his bank account and social status? Absolutely. But I told y'all last month about those trying to "hold it down" with nothing but big butts and smiles. And if you get trapped with/by one of them...better luck next time playa.
However, there are members of the human female species who work just as hard as their male counterparts and aren't out to get your money. Some women just want to, dare I say, love you and all of what that entails. If your issue is you've been burned in the past, whether literally (wrap it up) or figuratively and you're a man scorned who can't really trust women anyway because of some deep rooted issues, then maybe marriage shouldn't be in your vocabulary just yet. If this is you, then that's fine! Some women are just as scorned, no one is out here judging you. Not until you assume that just because someone was born with a vagina and ovaries they are not to be trusted and therefore don't deserve respect or the time of day.
You know how you hate when girls say "all men are dogs", and "I hate men", and "men ain't sh*t"? Well it's a two way street. Shut up. You sound sad, scared, and lonely just like the angry women you complain about.
But I digress. Prenuptial agreements, right? Right. I say all that to say, if you shop in a store of quality, that's what you'll get. You can't go to Payless looking for Louboutins. You may get the look alike but they will fall apart once you ask them to do something they weren't designed for. If you're a man of standard, look for a woman of standard. If you're a woman of standard, look for a man of standard. If you do fall in love some day with the woman or man of your dreams and you both decide to sign a prenup, do it because you want to protect each other, not because you don't trust the person you're marrying. I've always felt like it's important to match your hustle. People always show you who they really are if you give them enough time and space to do so.
Basically, in my unmarried, single, yet to fall in love opinion, it's all in the reasoning.
dig and be dug...
But since
Listen, as a woman/hopeless/hopeful romantic/firm believer in til death do us part, I do not want to ever have to consider divorce as an option, which means I also don't believe prenups are mandatory for every marriage. However, I do understand that a thug changes and love changes. People grow up and apart and what worked all those years ago, just doesn't work anymore.
I think the main reason I have a bone to pick with prenups and the men that demand them, is the vast assumption that the woman you are with is coming to the table with nothing to offer and only wants you for the money you've worked so hard to earn.
Are there gold digging women out there that will fight to win a mans affection and attention only to take parts of his bank account and social status? Absolutely. But I told y'all last month about those trying to "hold it down" with nothing but big butts and smiles. And if you get trapped with/by one of them...better luck next time playa.
However, there are members of the human female species who work just as hard as their male counterparts and aren't out to get your money. Some women just want to, dare I say, love you and all of what that entails. If your issue is you've been burned in the past, whether literally (wrap it up) or figuratively and you're a man scorned who can't really trust women anyway because of some deep rooted issues, then maybe marriage shouldn't be in your vocabulary just yet. If this is you, then that's fine! Some women are just as scorned, no one is out here judging you. Not until you assume that just because someone was born with a vagina and ovaries they are not to be trusted and therefore don't deserve respect or the time of day.
You know how you hate when girls say "all men are dogs", and "I hate men", and "men ain't sh*t"? Well it's a two way street. Shut up. You sound sad, scared, and lonely just like the angry women you complain about.
But I digress. Prenuptial agreements, right? Right. I say all that to say, if you shop in a store of quality, that's what you'll get. You can't go to Payless looking for Louboutins. You may get the look alike but they will fall apart once you ask them to do something they weren't designed for. If you're a man of standard, look for a woman of standard. If you're a woman of standard, look for a man of standard. If you do fall in love some day with the woman or man of your dreams and you both decide to sign a prenup, do it because you want to protect each other, not because you don't trust the person you're marrying. I've always felt like it's important to match your hustle. People always show you who they really are if you give them enough time and space to do so.
Basically, in my unmarried, single, yet to fall in love opinion, it's all in the reasoning.
dig and be dug...
Monday, August 6, 2012
The Hair Issue
Whether kinks or curls, locs, fades, tight waves or straight tresses, as a human being, hair helps define who you are as an individual. As a woman, doing your hair or having it done is part of helping you relax, decompress...makes you feel more like a lady. But as an African American woman, it seems more like a requirement. Some of my earliest memories as a child are in the hair salon, whether I was getting my finger waves poppin at age 7 or listening to celebrity gossip and Maury or Ricki Lake while my mama got her 'do popped for the week, the hair salon is as much of a tradition for Black women as the "Barbah shop" (in my Cedric the Entertainer Voice) is for Black men. Hair is part of individual expression for anyone of any race, creed or color. Like the long haired hippies of the 60s, dreaded Rastafarians, or gumbied, blonde highlighted, faded heads of today's hipsters, hair helps you identify with a group; or at least, identify you, with yourself.
But when you're 16, in Great Britain winning Gold Medals for your country, doing something no other Black woman has ever done ever in the history of the world, why do people care so much about your HAIR?!
Gabriel Christina Victoria Douglas, or Gabby as she is affectionately called across the country and around the world, was chosen as THEE U.S. hopeful for attaining a gold medal in women's gymnastics. And not only did she show up, she showed OUT, winning an individual all around gold medal and helping her team win a gold medal in the same Olympic Games.
My question is: How was she supposed to wear her hair? Box braids so they could slap her in the face? A fresh doobie so she couldn't see the bars? FINGER WAVES?!
C'mon son.
And since all of her team had their hair the same way like most of the gymnasts that didn't have a bowl cut, whattttt were you expecting? Were her hair clips excessive? Absolutely! And mine would be as well if I had to fly across a balance beam, spread eagle, upside down. Last thing I would want is my pink oil moisturized bang laying in my eye and I'm out here chasing my dreams. If your grudge was with her edges, try working out for hours on end, perm or not, and get back to me about how your edges look. AND on top of that,when if I work out, both of my feet are on the ground and only come up for the occasional jumping jack, and though I may not have hair clips lined up across my head like a custom fit headband, I may start soon! The truth is my head is just too big for headbands and the fact that I still try to wear them is probably a sin somewhere.
But I digress.
Gabriel Douglas made history. She had a lifelong dream, created a plan, and saw it through at 16 years old. That in itself is more than most people including myself can say for themselves. The only thing that should be up for discussion is why she's the only woman of any color representing for us and how we can change that. (Recently engaged) Dominique Dawes and the Magnificent 7 were the dream team of gymnastics when I was little, now young girls can look up to Gabby and the Fab 5.
Before you work so hard to focus on someone's physical attributes or search for their short comings, look at what they are doing and how humble they are while doing it.
dig and be dug...
But when you're 16, in Great Britain winning Gold Medals for your country, doing something no other Black woman has ever done ever in the history of the world, why do people care so much about your HAIR?!
Gabriel Christina Victoria Douglas, or Gabby as she is affectionately called across the country and around the world, was chosen as THEE U.S. hopeful for attaining a gold medal in women's gymnastics. And not only did she show up, she showed OUT, winning an individual all around gold medal and helping her team win a gold medal in the same Olympic Games.
My question is: How was she supposed to wear her hair? Box braids so they could slap her in the face? A fresh doobie so she couldn't see the bars? FINGER WAVES?!
C'mon son.
And since all of her team had their hair the same way like most of the gymnasts that didn't have a bowl cut, whattttt were you expecting? Were her hair clips excessive? Absolutely! And mine would be as well if I had to fly across a balance beam, spread eagle, upside down. Last thing I would want is my pink oil moisturized bang laying in my eye and I'm out here chasing my dreams. If your grudge was with her edges, try working out for hours on end, perm or not, and get back to me about how your edges look. AND on top of that,
But I digress.
Gabriel Douglas made history. She had a lifelong dream, created a plan, and saw it through at 16 years old. That in itself is more than most people including myself can say for themselves. The only thing that should be up for discussion is why she's the only woman of any color representing for us and how we can change that. (Recently engaged) Dominique Dawes and the Magnificent 7 were the dream team of gymnastics when I was little, now young girls can look up to Gabby and the Fab 5.
Before you work so hard to focus on someone's physical attributes or search for their short comings, look at what they are doing and how humble they are while doing it.
dig and be dug...
Monday, July 23, 2012
To Dream or not to Dream
So you met them, you come to know them, you grow to love them. He or she is everything you ever needed and more than you ever thought you wanted. Intelligent, outgoing, great conversations, attractive, well spoken, kindhearted, humble...a well educated hustler with a heart full of ambition.
But how much ambition is too much?
We all, at some point, had a goal for our future that was unfathomable to someone else. Whether that someone else was a 'hater' or a person who simply had a pessimistic outlook on life, and that goal was anything from graduating from high school and earning a college degree or physically landing on the moon, someone has doubted that we could make it happen.
So, what do you do when the he or she of your dreams, has dreams of their own? Dreams that very few people ever see come to fruition. Goals that aren't easily attainable and he or she isn't willing to give up on those goals for so called "stability".
When does it become too much? Is it when their short hours and low funds inhibit the things you are capable of doing as a couple? Is it when they are out of work for a while? What if it just takes too long for them to meet the minimum goals they set for themselves? What if you just don't believe?
Now, don't get me wrong, I know some people set goals and never make an effort to get their foot in the door. But what about those who try? The ones who work tremendously hard for what they want to attain and won't take no for an answer?
Remember that hustler's ambition that attracted you to them in the first place? Why should they give up on those dreams and forfeit that drive because it doesn't make sense to YOU? Why should the person with drive, tenacity, talent, and hustle settle for a run of the mill 9 to 5 because you changed your mind about being comfortable with their seemingly far-fetched aspirations?
I don't know everything about love and how it works, but I do know this. Support is one of the many keys to a relationship. It could just be me, but I find it hard to say you love someone and not believe in who they are and what they're capable of. On the other side, if you are the person with dreams and aspirations bigger than yourself, stick to what you set out to do and get it done. Nothing wrong with a man with a plan and a woman with a hustle. But don't leave your loved ones high and dry because you are a man with no idea and a woman with nothing but a big butt and a smile.
dig and be dug...
Sunday, July 22, 2012
The Independent Woman
WAIT! Don’t ignore this. I know the topic of a woman having independence and flaunting it when, where, and how she chooses doesn’t seem too interesting. And yes, there is a predictable Beyonce/Destiny’s Child reference. But you’re obviously already reading this and a quitter never wins…so you may as well continue.
Whether you’ve only seen them portrayed as characters in movies or on T.V., read about them in books, or had to do a history project on what may now be considered a dying species, the “Independent Woman” is someone who has not existed without much controversy. Whether she wanted to vote or buy her own bottle of Moet with the sparklers in the club, someone usually has something to say about it. And there within lies my confusion…
I could be wrong or it could be a simple misunderstanding, but why all of the qualms with a woman who can pay her own way? AND ENJOYS IT? Now be clear. I know there are some women who claim independence and are using it to distract other people from their deeply rooted bitterness and I know some men are very happy to be with a woman that will go half or 100% when it comes to finances. HOWEVER, there are some women who take pride in the fact that they can do very well for themselves and their loved ones, and rightfully so.
Back to the confusing part. If Jeezy can say he’s going to buy a chopper, as in a helicopter, to go to the club to make his old girl jealous, why can’t Destiny’s Child talk about the watch and house they bought? IDK, people.
Then there are the guys, men, fellas, etc who complain about women being gold diggers and trying to trap them and yadda yadda yadda, but are bashing the women that can do what they want, when they want to, and not use their man’s money money to get it done. WHY?! All you have to do for this woman is hold her down mentally, emotionally, and physically. You can spoil her with free/inexpensive things like sweet words, romantic getaways to the gun range, and random slow dances to DMX’s How’s it going Down and splurge every now and then on things that actually cost more than time. And because money is not her focus, you don’t always have to spend it! Seems like a win/win.
Of course every woman, just like every man, is different but if she’s mature enough to handle her own business, chances are she’s mature enough to appreciate a man that does more than just spend his hard earned money on her.
All I’m saying is, if you meet a woman who’s doing her thing, respect her hustle. Every woman who has her own is not incapable of letting a man be THE man. No, she may not need you to buy her Chanel bag or her Red Bottoms, but she has a heart, mind, body, and soul that you can take excellent care of if you put in effort.
If all you have and are willing to contribute is your penis and your wallet then…this isn’t for you. I’ll use SAT words next time so you can learn something new.
dig and be dug...
(originally posted on 7/17/12 at http://politikin.tumblr.com/)
SOM remnants of nostalgia
In today’s society, the element of surprise we had in the past is no longer relevant. Whether it’s the transition from the radio to the ipod, or your favorite artist having their newest project leaked, it’s hard to experience things that are amazing anymore.
But at 1843 14th st NW in Washington, DC, anticipation is still tangible.
Neal Becton, the owner of Som Records sits at his desk surrounded by history recorded on vinyl. Staples Singers lead, Mavis Staples’ strong raspy vocals ooze from the speakers and Roebuck “Pops” Staples blues guitar collides with it in perfect harmony.
Becton started collecting vinyl albums while in high school and only considered the idea of opening a record store as a running joke with friends. Even after attending a life changing concert by rock group The Who, the week of his high school graduation he still wasn’t convinced. When a dj at a bar he was bartending at didn’t show up, Becton’s growing record collection came to be more of a saving grace then a running joke.
After working a few “regular jobs” he decided to follow through with destiny.
Although he was raised in Atlanta, Ga by a New Jersey born mother who loves rock-n-roll like Led Zepllin and the Beatles, and a North Carolina born father who loves Country and the Blues, Becton can’t pick sides.
“I collect Country, Latin, Rap records, Jazz records, I like it all pretty much the same. Just depends on my mood…depends on the time of day.”
Mrs. Becton is just as musically well rounded. Her interest in Hip-Hop has grown, but as a fan of indie-rock, she’s seen the internet work wonders for all genre’s of music.
…”I feel like audiences, whether they’re at the club, or listening in their car, or on their computer, are really exposed to so much that it gives artists a lot of leeway if they want to do different stuff on their albums, regardless of the genre…”
It comes as no surprise that the Becton’s little girl already has great taste in music. Though she can’t say much yet, she’s chosen her two favorite satellite radio stations.
Hip-Hop and the Grateful Dead.
Neal Becton aka DJ Neville Chamberlain, stays true to the original art of DJ-ing with vinyl and only uses Mp3 on some occasions. To him, the internet has proven to be a gift and a curse to music.
“The internet’s great because anyone can sit in their bedroom in the middle of nowhere and have access to everything. But actually going to a store and hearing something and hearing other people talk about it, it’s much more personal…it’s nice to have other people to share the music with…”
Customer’s at Som Records include, well…everyone. From local artist’s such as DC’s own Damo, to people simply looking to invest in a bit of their past.
Like records on turntables, music makes the world go ‘round. Perhaps, God is in fact, a DJ.
dig and be dug...
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