an apology to the real good black men

Dear Black Men,

We as Black women have done you a great disservice.

There was a time when statistics had us panicking. We could be found lamenting on the pages of Newsweek and the couches of Ricki, Sally and Montel about how we couldn't find any desirable single Black men.

We complained that most of you were either some baby's daddy, locked up, jobless and/or without degrees. You heard us repeatedly declare that we were in active search of a good Black man amongst all the defaults . Our definition of this man was one with a clean criminal record, career, at least one degree, his own place, car and no kids. We wanted our equal male counterpart and felt that if we could finally find this elusive good Black man that our lives would finally be fulfilled.

A few of you saw this list and realized that you had every single quality that Black women, at the time, desperately desired. Your chest protruded a bit more and you stood a few inches taller because you understood that your degree, car, no baby momma drama and the bills in your pocket meant that you were top choice. With that knowledge you got your serious mack swagger on and I don't blame you.

Across the country Black women were sistergirl high-fiving because some of us had finally found ourselves the Black man we always wanted.

But unfortunately all that falsely glitters eventually begins to fade.

I've heard the countless sad tales of friends, family and associates who were devastated to discover that their good Black men were arrogant, cheaters, inconsiderate lovers, elistists unconcerned with the issues of our race, self-centered, dishonest, faithless and uninterested in Black women.

We created a list of what we thought we wanted instead of what we need.

We forgot that educated doesn't mean faithful. We forgot that no baby momma drama doesn't promise that problems won't exist. We forgot that a mortgage and car in the driveway can't guarantee morals. We forgot that money in the bank won't necessarily ensure happiness.

We overlooked the Black men with kids who are actually committed to being fathers and raising them. We ignored the brother who made mistakes in the past, paid his dues and is trying to right his wrongs. Our noses went up at the hard working blue collar Black man putting in long hours so that he can take care of his responsibilities.

I completely agree with having standards, there are certain attributes that we simply won't bend on. But perhaps some requirements on our lists need to be bumped down or revised.

Black women have made a mistake. To the true good Black men, I apologize.

You are loved for all that you are.

Sincerely,

A Black Woman

spiritual renewal

Looking for peace.

Thinking of fasting.

Let's see what happens.........

I admit that sometimes pride tries to hide my view
And even this gift that you gave me, I forget it’s for You
And all the many days and many ways Your grace I’ve abused
Still you were patient and Your love loved me through
But the wind still blows and the flower still grows and one thing is still true......

Without You life’s a wound that won’t heal

Without You, nothing in this world is for real
Without You, we're just actors on a stage
Like a child who's lost his way
Wouldn't be here today without You

This World

Another child is born
Another race is won
Another dream is shattered
Another day has begun

This past weekend was spent hanging out in the dungeon with Kindred and the reclusive Back Bay Madame.

One of the many reasons why Kindred is... well... my kindred... is because she hates being confined, is always down for whatever and loves the sun as much as I do. So once we saw thin rays of light peeking through the two pinholes that the Madame has as windows, Kindred and I caught a serious case of cabin fever and needed to breakout.

After a walk to Cambridge we tried to make it back in time to meet up with the Dutchess and Madame for a sexuality workshop in Brookline but that definitely wasn't happening. While I showered up Kindred hopped on the computer to research what we could get into. She found info about an independent film festival that was going on in the SoWa neighborhood of the South End.

We tried calling some folks in an attempt to up the melanin level of the audience but unfortunately no one came through. I truly wished they did because what we caught of the festival was incredible. The documentary "BALLOONHAT" was our favorite hands down.

This world is still afloat
No not in Noah's boat
We've only lost the vision
Of the stars we're meant to be

The film follows balloon artist, Addi Somekh and photographer, Charlie Eckert who are disheartened by our media's love for sensationalism. Refusing to view the world as hopeless, they set out on a journey to prove that humankind needs joy to survive.

What stands out in the documentary is not only the breathtaking images but also the beautifully inspiring tales of their travels.

Hopefully, the film does well and their second chance at a publishing deal works out.

Somehow the balloon hats show that at the humancore all we want to be is happy.

Another broken heart
Another lesson learnt
Another harvest eaten
Another night is gone
A new day's begun
Even your dreams they can be real

that good ol' new jack swing

Summer is soon approaching and concert season is around the corner.

So far Stephanie and Corinne are already occupying my time. Also the ladies are thinking about having a mother and daughter day to see Anita. I may add some testosterone to the mix by seeing Michael.

The last time I went to a concert at the one-time Fleet Pavilion, was four years ago to see Angie Stone, Gerald Levert and Luther Vandross. My friends and I were the youngest people in the audience but that didn't stop us from spending the night on our feet, singing along to Luther's classics. At the end of the show we left wanting to be his backup singers. Those ladies were fierce in their bright sequined gowns and undeniable vocal skills.

Saw old Jon B. and AZ Yet videos today and it made me wonder where all the "beggars" went. What happened to the brothers who used to croon about true love and how a good woman made them feel?

Where are the all male R & B groups with the seamless harmonies and temptation-esque sharp dance routines?

Instead, we're bombarded by oversexed Pretty Ricky asking your little sister to playhouse so they can eat (her) body out like lunch.

What the heck?

damn, when it hurts so good

Maybe it's because the sun decided to come back.....

or the things he said....

or what she shared that inspired and made me think.....

Who knows. It doesn't matter.

Regardless of who, what and why, yesterday I ran.

I ran until my chest constricted, my thighs throbbed and sweat gathered right in that spot where my back curves.

I forgot how much I love running. I forgot how on those just right breezy sunny days J and I would have our running dates around the Charles, and compete to see whose legs could last the longest.

When I woke up early this morning with slight aches and sores, it brought back memories of how good and alive the hurt used to make me feel.

Her revolution will be recognized

Congradulations Sarah Jones! The best is yet to come.











-----------
Your revolution will not be me tossing my weave
And making me believe I'm some caviar eating ghetto
Mafia clown
Or me giving up my behind
Just so I can get signed
And maybe have somebody else write my rhymes
I'm Sarah Jones
Not Foxy Brown
You know I'm Sarah Jones
Not Foxy Brown
Your revolution makes me wonder

Where could we go
If we could drop the empty pursuit of props and the ego
We'd revolt back to our roots
Use a little common sense on a quest to make love
De la soul, no pretense, but
Your revolution will not be you flexing your little sex and status
To express what you feel
Your revolution will not happen between these thighs
Will not happen between these thighs
Will not be you shaking
And me, [sigh] faking between these thighs
Because the real revolution
That's right, I said the real revolution
You know, I'm talking about the revolution
When it comes,
It's gonna be real
It's gonna be real
It's gonna be real
When it finally comes
It's gonna be real
Your Revolution, Sarah Jones

this black seed was planted to grow...

I need to escape.

I must go somewhere. Anywhere.

The entire world has officially lost it's mind and I ...maann, I just got to go.

Ever yearn to see the good but the bad keeps blocking your view? And do you ever sense that sometimes unfortunately inorder for situations to improve they must get 10 times worse?

There was a time when you could have called me Ms. Optimist. My glass was once half full.

Unfortunately my feelings run deep and the chaos of the world tends to weigh heavy on my heart. Due to all the wear and tear my glass now has an irreparable leak and all this craziness has clouded the clarity of its exterior.

To be honest, I'm not even too concerned for myself . It's my children I worry for.

How are they going to grow up in this?

I know, I know I'm only 22 and I don't have kids. But the fact remains that one day I will be a mother, so it's imperative that I now contemplate how and where I want to settle down and anchor my roots.

The United States is almost completely out of the question because when it comes to crazy, the USA is Public Enemy #1. Perhaps I should 'quit America' and head to St.Kitts like Randall Robinson.

I'm actively searching for fertile land y'all.

Land made to nurture my future strong, proud and culturally responsible Black seeds.

Any ideas?

----

From the time you were born, . . .

wherever that place may be, this beautiful black seed was
planted, planted to grow and be free . . .whether its bed of
soil was a city of cement and steel, coldhearted haven,
midwest middle of the road village site, big city bright
with glamour and hidden sights, a grit and grace
paradise, or a down home dirt field south of the border,
with the moon as the only streetlight.

This Black seed was planted to grow . .

this Black seed planted to feel the sunlight.

From the Time You Were Born, Charles McClain

feel like a child...wishing there was some kind of heaven

the most innocent of victims have suffered the longest.

wicked and evilous

these past few weeks have been interesting to say the least.

my sister is right: black folks, especially west indians, love to be 'scandalized'. we are definitely entertaining storytellers. no matter how small each tale is told with grand hand movements, animated facial expressions and varying accents to approriately acknowledge all characters involved.

some of the best storytellers i know are my girls. our ladie's breakfasts/lunches/dinners always turn into a ladie's day or weekend because everyone always has several stories to share.

our tales can range from the hardships of running a business from home, finally satisfying a curiousity, preparing for married life, arguing an eviction notice to an electrifying late night rendevouz in a not so discrete location.

in one another's company we are able to momentarily shed our sometimes cumbersome strong black women's armor and allow the entirety of who we are to be laid bare. together we share our passions, fears, insecurities, questions and desires. what cements our bond is food and laughter, which always overflows with abundance when we come together.

great food and great laughs is what heals the heart and fills the soul.

this summer there's sure to be much eating, sharing, scandalizing, building and adventures.

speaking of strong black women, i'm not too sure how i feel about this.

whenever someone who isn't black mentions black people i feel my ears perk up a bit and my back muscles tighten in prepartion of the possibilty of hearing something that may require me to duly check someone.

is it being sensitive or simply aware? can it be a combination of both and on somedays maybe more one than the other? i do admit there are some of us that draw the race card a little too quickly, while others are way too hesitant.