Chris and Ri Ri and nem…

Remember him? He was fine… skin like butter, straight teeth, fresh fade and washboard abs. He was tall, short, medium, dark, caramel, light and handsome. He was the pretty boy or the roughneck, the one everyone wanted and when he chose you, YOU, over all of the dozens of girls who swooned over him you told yourself that you were lucky. Everything was wonderful at first. He told you, you were the only one and you believed him. You ignored the rumors about him and other girls because they were all jealous. Everyone was jealous of you both but most of all HE was jealous. He didn’t like for you to talk to other boys even if they were just your friends and if he caught a boy looking at you he wanted to fight… them. When he told you that he didn’t like it when you wore certain things because it attracted the wrong type of attention you thought it was kinda cute, even gallant. And when he told you that you should stop talking to your friends because they were always saying something negative about him and your relationship you listened because you wanted your relationship to work. Besides, they were all jealous… right? Then one day the two of you got into an argument, you were both really upset and both said some things you’d later regret, and out of no where he hit you… hard enough to make you stop talking. It took a moment then the pain and shock radiated throughout your body. Instantly, he was sorry, he even cried with you and wouldn’t let you leave until you forgave him. You covered up the bruise, the one on your face and the one in your heart, and pressed on… that is until the next time and this time he was less than apologetic.

In my late 20’s I dated someone who was, while not F-I-N-E, good looking. He wasn’t as intelligent or as mature as I was, didn’t have a job and smoked copious amounts of weed and I knew we had little if anything in common but I was bored and he was cute. (It had been a while since my last relationship.) After a couple of weeks of dating he moved in and that’s when I started noticing he had a problem with his temper. He pouted when he couldn’t get his way like a five year old… lip poked out, sullen and defiant… on my couch! I learned to ignore him but then one day when I took him to meet a business contact, that could have resulted in employment for him, he crossed the line.

He sat in my contact’s office in earshot of the staff cursing because the man we’d come to see was late. When I reminded him that we were still sitting in the contact’s office and that people could hear him and he needed to quiet down he said, “Don’t you ever tell me what the fuck to do. See that’s what your motherfuckin’ problem is you talk to goddamn much. You ain’t my wife or my mother don’t you ever tell me what the fuck to say!” I was in shock. It was like someone had kicked me in my gut. No one had ever spoken like that to me in my life. As I opened my mouth to speak the lobby door opened and an older gentleman entered. I told the man I was with that I thought it was time to leave. He agreed and we left. As I started the car, my car, I gathered myself and said in a very calm voice, “Don’t you ever speak to me like that again in public,” (as if private would’ve been better). He began to scream and curse, jumping up and down in my 1990 Hyundai hatchback and hitting his hand with his fist. “See,” he said, “I knew you wasn’t gon’ just let that shit drop! I told you, you ain’t my motherfuckin’ wife or mother you don’t tell me what the fuck to do, etc…!” I couldn’t believe how this fool was performing! I pulled over on the side of a busy street and yelled for him to get out. I was so angry tears streamed down my face, my voice cracked and my body was shaking. He got out albeit reluctantly. I went home and packed all of his things, one box and two duffel bags worth of stuff, which were picked up that night by a third party. The relationship hadn’t lasted a month!

Our tight knit Pan African community was upset over the news of what he’d done. My parents and brothers were relieved he didn’t hit me, that we broke up and that they didn’t have to risk losing their freedom by putting him in the ground. I demanded an apology from him and got it. He started calling again and we saw each other a few times after that but we never got back together. I couldn’t. Shortly thereafter he began dating a woman I knew and was friendly with. He blacked her eye, twice.

Okay, maybe you’ve never experienced physical, psychological or verbal abuse, but we all know a woman who has. If you are one of the fortunate few who doesn’t know anyone who has experienced abuse you do now with the continuing saga of singers, Chris Brown and Rihanna. Turn on the TV, they’re everywhere! Now, I’m no expert or psychic but I’m willing to guess that this is not the first time that these two have fought and he’s hit her. There was an ease and comfort with which the abuse flowed from him. God often sends you a pebble before he sends you a rock and people tell you who they are, it is up to you to listen. My pebble was when the man I was dating decided to verbally abuse me. The way he jumped up and down in my car pounding his hand with his fist let me know that, sooner or later, I was next. The transcript provided by Rihanna to the LAPD reads like the ghetto playbook for wife beaters and girlfriend abusers. “You know I’m gonna beat your ass when we get home,” “Now, I’m gonna kill you.” If this was the first time he’d abused her those statements were the pebble and his fists were the rock.

Message boards on social networking sites have been all a buzz since the news broke about Chris and Rihanna and I have been amazed by how many women, African American women, have either outright defended his actions or said that we shouldn’t judge because we don’t really know what happened. These women began citing instances where a man has hit a woman and they thought he was justified in doing so. To me, this type of attitude is indicative of how acceptable it is for domestic violence is in our community. It also made me wonder how many women on those message boards have been abused by their partners in some way. Now that’s not to say that women are always right in their dealings with men but it is never okay for anyone to put their hands on someone else, debase someone else or attempt to control someone else. Love doesn’t hurt, love doesn’t hurt, love doesn’t hurt!

A few nights ago I dreamed about Chris Brown… someone said something to me and I jokingly said, “Alright, I’m gon’ do a Chris Brown and do you like he did Rihanna.” I could tell by everyone’s reaction, the “oooohs and aaaaaahs” that something was wrong. I turned around and Chris was there. I apologized, I told him I didn’t know he was there and I wouldn’t have said it if I’d known he was there. I told him it was not my goal to be offensive in any situation. Then I talked to him about his current predicament and that he had to use this as an opportunity to explore why he thought it was okay to hit her, to really get inside of himself. He seemed to genuinely listen to my advice. He seemed sorry for what he’d done and knew that this incident could potentially ruin his life. When I awoke I wondered if anyone was telling Chris these things since the whole world seems to be talking to Rihanna then I thought hell, I just did…

Weight? Wait, don't tell me!

There are traders amongst us women, women who refuse to let you enjoy a holiday dinner, office Christmas party, or a night out at the bar. These are women who, because of their own insecurities, have decided to wage war against your self esteem by discussing your weight, a known Achilles heel for most women. These women (men usually don’t engage in this type of warfare) are usually our friends, best friends, mothers and sisters. The conversations start off innocently enough, generally with compliments. Someone mentions that they like an article of clothing or an accessory of yours or just how good you’re looking in general then, out of nowhere, like a hammer someone (either the person who made the compliment or a bystander) undermines the compliment by saying something about your weight which will be thinly veiled by a “pseudo-compliment.” Such pseudo compliments are, “Yeah, you could be like a plus size model,” or “Amanda’s big too, she always has the nicest clothes… I wonder where she buys them?” Another scenario like this may arise if you are talking about dating or being single. One of your so called friends may say “You know there’s a bar that has a night just for plus sized women” or “You should go on Craigslist there are always men looking for big women.” Lastly, if you are an actress you may hear, “I know if that Pinesol lady is getting paid you should be too.”

First, how the hell are these supposed to be compliments to me?!!! Maybe I am living in an utter state of denial but I don’t feel “different.” I am the size I am. I am not delusional I know I am not a size 8 but I feel like most other women, especially black women! I do not have trouble breathing, I run, jump, leap, dance and can do anything I wish to physically barring some injury. I watch what I eat (though admittedly I do have some bad habits) and I teach dance 3 or more times a week. I do not have to buy an extra seat on the airplane and I do not have to purchase clothes by mail order. And while I cannot buy some designer clothing I do not feel alone because most of them do not make clothes larger than a size 10, an extra large is a 12 (!!!) and most American women wear a size 14.

Am I really at a point where my size makes me someone’s fetish? A special night at a bar? Heeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll no!!! As for being a plus size model… I am cute (if I do say so myself) but I’m also 5’5” so I guess my modeling career was over before it started. (BTW most plus sized models are a size 10 because the average model is a sample size 2!) And as for the Pinesol lady, anyone who knows me or has seen me knows we have little if anything in common besides the fact we are both black.

From my late teens to my mid 20’s I suffered from an eating disorder. While it went undiagnosed by doctors it was clear that I was suffering from bulimia. My best friend and my father, away at the time, were the only ones who knew. It was a miserable existence. I’d binge eat because of my feelings of insecurity and loneliness then feel guilty that I over ate and take several laxatives. My weight yo-yoed for years because of it and though I later overcame my eating disorder I still struggle with it. There isn’t a time when I eat that I don’t feel some sort of guilt or anxiety. (And as I think about it I grew up watching my mother struggling with her weight and my grandmother talk about hers, but that’s a subject for another day.)

I don’t know how I over came it but I did. I guess that’s the miracle of God! I still diet and workout like most women but I am careful not to lose myself completely in it because mentally it has a way of beating me down and consuming my life. Also, when I diet now it’s not to be thin it’s to be healthier. Yeah, I’ve thought about Bariatric surgery but I just don’t think it is healthy in my case besides who would I really be getting the surgery for, myself or to satisfy society’s ideal of beauty? (If that’s the case then I need bleach my skin, fix the gap in my teeth, and straighten my hair too and ain’t none of that happenin’!)

So, while I do have the normal issues with my weight and body you are not entitled to project yours onto mine. If you really want to pay me a compliment just say I’m pretty, intelligent, or stylish (men do!) and quit using weight to differentiate my beauty from yours (and make yourself out to be the superior).

I am drawing the line in the sand and anyone that makes a negative comment about my weight is declaring war and I will defend myself by any means necessary and that means pointing out how insecure you are. Here’s how the conversations may go:

Scenario 1

Friend A: Wow, you look really nice… I wish they made clothes like that in my size.

Me: They do… they sell them in stores with other articles of clothing. You just have bad taste. (In professional settings you may substitute the latter sentence with, “But you’ve got to have an eye for style.”)

Scenario 2

Friend B: You should go on Craigslist there are men always looking for big women on there.

Me: I don’t need to go to a special place to find men they find me. Do they have men looking for someone like you on there?

As always it’s been a pleasure.

Najaa

Straight Woman Needs Wife for LTR with Husband & Kids

I have always, for the most part, wanted a wife. No, I am not a lesbian… and this is not my “coming out” essay, for I have nothing substantial to declare. Nor am I a woman who wants to become a man. In other words I like being myself, I like women, but I don’t “like women.” All that being said, I still want a wife. No, not one of these modern women who work and have careers and dreams for themselves outside of the home… no, that chick is me. Thirty –five and unmarried, I recently moved to Los Angeles following my dreams of stardom as a writer and director. I have never been married, never had children, and have never been in any significant long term relationship. But I want to, I want to get married, have a handsome, loving husband and beautiful, smart children and I want us all to live happily ever after. Except, I’m afraid I can’t do it, that I am completely incapable of doing it, which is why I need a wife to do all the things I feel I cannot do. I want my very own, 1950’s style, June Cleaver, wife for my future husband, children and I to share.

For me, she can be my new live-in best friend. She can listen to all of my gripes about work and people I know and give me the neighborhood gossip I miss when I go to work. She can also go shopping with me and tell me what shoes to buy and what jeans make me look like I have a juicy ass, smaller thighs and trim waist. More importantly, she can do the laundry, making sure all of our whites stay white and all our socks have a mate. She can grow herbs, vegetables and fruit in the garden to make organic nutritious meals for our family. Oooh, and she can bake bread and cookies and pies other delicious treats for me and the kids. She also makes the best lunches and the kids never complain and the low fat diet she has me on helps me lose 20lbs. She is my help-mate. So, when I have long stopped being attracted to my husband she can takeover all sexual duties… pretending that 1 minute 30 seconds is all the lovin’ a girl needs or desires.

To my children she is the woman who drives them to ballet class, piano lessons and soccer practice. She is the one who never misses a game and cheers the loudest in the stands. She stays up with them when they have a fever or the flu or just a bad dream. She is the one who sews their costumes for the school play and bakes goodies to sell at the bake sale. Besides my husband and me, there is no one else in the world who loves them more.

To my husband she is the woman who gets his slippers and his paper when he walks in the door. She makes a mean scotch and tonic or whiskey and rye or whatever manly thing it is that husbands drink after a long hard day at the office. She balances the checkbook and never spends a dime without asking him first. She watches sports, plays poker, cooks for him and his friends and cleans up after them without complaint. At night she rubs his feet and tells him how special he is, how that job is lucky to have him and how cool he’d look on that motorcycle, Porsche, or boat. She tells him that she hasn’t noticed his paunch, love handles or receding hair line. She never ever complains about anything.

She is not me.

I cook about three times a week and most of what I call cooking is a sandwich and chips or fish and salad and on a bad night a bowl of whatever cereal was on sale. While I try to watch what I eat and have gotten significantly better I still suck at living the healthy lifestyle… I can’t put kids through that; at least I don’t think so. My mom stayed home when I was younger and she made everything from scratch… cinnamon rolls, zucchini bread, carrot cake, you name it. We had fresh fruits and vegetables either from our garden or the open air West Side Market in Cleveland and she varied our diet by feeding us exotic foods like Falafel, plantains, Fufu, and tofu (unheard of in the early 80’s on the east side of Cleveland). What’s more, we weren’t even allowed to drink Kool Aid because simply put, according to my mother, it was “nothing but dye and sugar.” And while she wasn’t necessarily the best laundress… I had many a faded jean and shrunken shirt to prove it; she did do loads and loads of laundry for my brothers, father and me. I can’t imagine it… seriously, I can’t. (At this very moment I need to go do laundry but I am choosing to write instead.)

Furthermore, some nights when I get home I don’t feel like talking. I just want to take off all of my clothes and lay across my bed and watch a little TV. Can you have moments like this with a husband and children? My married friends who have children only talk to me right after the children have gone to school/bed, husband’s at work or while running an errand to the grocery store. Our conversations can best be described as AOL headlines… one sentence descriptions of what’s happening in our worlds. Talking to them while their kids and husbands are home is nearly impossible. What you get is, “Uh huh… hey what did I just say?” “No… I said no!” “I’m talking to Najaa… __________ said hi.” “Girl, let me go.” Am I willing to put up with that, my life being constantly interrupted?

Moreover, I can be completely self absorbed at times. Obsessed with my own feelings and heartache and laboring over what my future holds or if I still have toothpaste in the corner of my mouth. The list goes on and on, it’s like some internal tape constantly running, only blocked out by the occasional voice of someone else and even then, more likely than not, my internal tape is still playing while I’m supposed to be listening to them. If marriage is supposed to be a partnership how can I not be listening to my partner 80% of the time? And what if I miss something important said by one of our kids, like Dada or… Mama?

Lastly, I desperately want to make it in the film industry, hence this crazy move cross country. Do I, can I, put my dreams on hold for the wants and needs of others, my own family? If the studios called tomorrow and asked me to direct a feature film and the man of dreams showed up in my life proposing a blissful future of marriage and children which would I choose? The truth is both… but I would postpone the marriage and children. But since neither has happened I guess I have nothing to worry about. But when it does happen, and it will, I’d better start writing a personal ad for a wife.