Dear President Obama,
On behalf of the citizens of the United States of America, I am sorry. I am sorry that those who did not vote for you decided to ruin the opportunity for some of America’s school children to hear your speech. I am sorry that national media outlets chose to give voice to and empower the minority of Americans who are members of the ultra-right. Never mind that these are the same people who attend town hall meetings on health care and decry health care reform as socialism, compare you to Adolf Hitler and believe that your policies will cause the euthanasia of some of our nations’ most precious citizens, the elderly.
I am sorry.
I am sorry that like many who voted for you I have not watched your State of the Union addresses and interviews in their entirety. Like most, I always have things to do and am too tired to listen to you while I chat with my friends on Facebook or Twitter my latest thoughts, comings and goings. I am sorry I haven’t attended a town hall meeting in support of health care reform (which I do believe in) most times it is too far from my house ( I think) and is in the evening when I am taking a dance class or working out. (I should always look my best, right?) Most of all, I am sorry that I haven’t been as vociferous as members of the far right supporting your efforts to transform our nation and take us into the 21st century where the environment is important, the consumer is protected from predatory creditors, scientists have the freedom to do valuable research and where everyone can afford health care. So, I am sorry Mr. President.
I hope you will accept my apology.
Sincerely,
Najaa I. Young
PS. I think I’ll watch your speech to America’s school children now. Perhaps, I can learn something.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Somebody already broke my heart…
Child, three days ago I was so in love I couldn’t stand it. Yes, I literally made myself sick. In the last few months someone who’d been out of my life for the last few years had re-emerged. He is spiritual, intelligent, ambitious, funny and… fine! On top of that, this man thinks I am supremely talented and supports the work that I do creatively. (Sigh…) Perfect, huh? Not quite, years ago I had a major crush on him and nothing ever evolved from our friendship and now… well now… we have a joint venture we’re working on together and shit, I am scared to tell him how I really feel. Rejection is a hell of a drug….
A few weeks ago I reconnected with an artist I know from my hometown, an extremely talented guy, a painter. For as long as I can remember I have always fallen for talented, dynamic men. For me talent is the best aphrodisiac in the world and this brother has no shortage of it. Phone calls about business quickly turned into personal and a conversation ending with him saying how he was attracted to me. (Sigh…) Attraction is a hell of a drug…
It has been a long time… two years to be honest, since I’ve been attracted to anyone. It’s difficult for me because over the years I have developed standards. I can’t just date the corner boy who hollers at you while you’re in line at the post office because saying, “A yo you sexy than a motherfucka” just won’t cut it as a pick up line. Nor can I date the Jamaican man in his 50’s who smokes weed outside in a public park who wants to “elevate me spiritually” but didn’t offer to purchase my meal after he followed me to the restaurant. Kick rocks weed head, Dred! And I cannot date the man whose self worth is caught up in what he drives and where he lives who thinks that registering as a Republican makes him special and smarter than the rest of us. I also can’t date someone who doesn’t read, watch the news, have a spiritual center or himself have standards! Standards are a hell of drug…
So when these two men entered my life imagine my happiness, joy, euphoria. Days and nights spent exploring one another’s thoughts, being honest and ones self… being admired. (Sigh…) Then it all started going south…
Mr. Ten Years Gone Too Long never talks about dating anyone and almost never inquires if I am either. To be perfectly honest I never ask him about it either because his answer, should be it that he is indeed dating someone, would be a piercing blow. Not good, I know… I should ask but… like Sade says, “somebody already broke my heart” and I am not willing to let my feelings change for him just yet… the fantasy I have of us being together building in my head is, to borrow a line from Seal “like an addiction that I can’t deny.” I just like being in this state of ignorant bliss (sigh)… Ignorance is a hell of drug…
Mr. Talented Attraction thinks we may be soul mates. We were born on the same day three years apart. We both want successful long term relationships. We both are tired of serial dating and meaningless sex. We both want a muse to inspire us creatively. (Sigh…) We haven’t seen each other in at least three years. We have never actually gone on a date or even hung out. He isn’t as financially together as I would want him to be, though to be fair neither am I. He is talking about moving back in with his mother to save money to move to Toronto. Sometime he rhymes when he talks because he is also a spoken word artist and sometimes he has VERY sexist views about women. Last night he said he thinks we should just do it… get married, this after a 2 hour heated debate. Love is a hell of a drug…
Yesterday, Mr. Ten Years Gone Too Long dropped a bomb on me. All of my plans went right out of the window… I wish I could elaborate but I can’t. I can say though I was disappointed in him and with everything going on. Our business venture may even be on hold for a while things are sorted out. My fantasy of there one day being something more gone blowing in the wind like cherry blossoms shaken from a tree. Oh the love is still there like the tree but the beauty of the blossoms, the fantasy, is gone. Reality is a hell of a drug…
I always want what I can’t have and what I have right now may not be enough… like the song says, “somebody already broke my heart” years before these two came along so I am asking God to please send me one that won’t.
A few weeks ago I reconnected with an artist I know from my hometown, an extremely talented guy, a painter. For as long as I can remember I have always fallen for talented, dynamic men. For me talent is the best aphrodisiac in the world and this brother has no shortage of it. Phone calls about business quickly turned into personal and a conversation ending with him saying how he was attracted to me. (Sigh…) Attraction is a hell of a drug…
It has been a long time… two years to be honest, since I’ve been attracted to anyone. It’s difficult for me because over the years I have developed standards. I can’t just date the corner boy who hollers at you while you’re in line at the post office because saying, “A yo you sexy than a motherfucka” just won’t cut it as a pick up line. Nor can I date the Jamaican man in his 50’s who smokes weed outside in a public park who wants to “elevate me spiritually” but didn’t offer to purchase my meal after he followed me to the restaurant. Kick rocks weed head, Dred! And I cannot date the man whose self worth is caught up in what he drives and where he lives who thinks that registering as a Republican makes him special and smarter than the rest of us. I also can’t date someone who doesn’t read, watch the news, have a spiritual center or himself have standards! Standards are a hell of drug…
So when these two men entered my life imagine my happiness, joy, euphoria. Days and nights spent exploring one another’s thoughts, being honest and ones self… being admired. (Sigh…) Then it all started going south…
Mr. Ten Years Gone Too Long never talks about dating anyone and almost never inquires if I am either. To be perfectly honest I never ask him about it either because his answer, should be it that he is indeed dating someone, would be a piercing blow. Not good, I know… I should ask but… like Sade says, “somebody already broke my heart” and I am not willing to let my feelings change for him just yet… the fantasy I have of us being together building in my head is, to borrow a line from Seal “like an addiction that I can’t deny.” I just like being in this state of ignorant bliss (sigh)… Ignorance is a hell of drug…
Mr. Talented Attraction thinks we may be soul mates. We were born on the same day three years apart. We both want successful long term relationships. We both are tired of serial dating and meaningless sex. We both want a muse to inspire us creatively. (Sigh…) We haven’t seen each other in at least three years. We have never actually gone on a date or even hung out. He isn’t as financially together as I would want him to be, though to be fair neither am I. He is talking about moving back in with his mother to save money to move to Toronto. Sometime he rhymes when he talks because he is also a spoken word artist and sometimes he has VERY sexist views about women. Last night he said he thinks we should just do it… get married, this after a 2 hour heated debate. Love is a hell of a drug…
Yesterday, Mr. Ten Years Gone Too Long dropped a bomb on me. All of my plans went right out of the window… I wish I could elaborate but I can’t. I can say though I was disappointed in him and with everything going on. Our business venture may even be on hold for a while things are sorted out. My fantasy of there one day being something more gone blowing in the wind like cherry blossoms shaken from a tree. Oh the love is still there like the tree but the beauty of the blossoms, the fantasy, is gone. Reality is a hell of a drug…
I always want what I can’t have and what I have right now may not be enough… like the song says, “somebody already broke my heart” years before these two came along so I am asking God to please send me one that won’t.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Hate the Sin, Love the Sinner... This and Other Hypocritical Bull----!
On May 9, 2009 one my best friends in the whole world suddenly died. In June he would have been 40 years old. He was diagnosed with HIV about four years ago and when he shared the news with me together we cried and prayed for a healthy, bright future for him. He was my big brother, my rock and my confidante. I told him things that I couldn't tell others. He was as nonjudgmental as a person could be. He’d calmly listen to you and then help you work out a solution. He also taught me a lot about life and people, seldom was he wrong, but he’d never preach to you or shove his opinions down your throat because he’d say ultimately you’re going to do what you want to do anyway. He was calm and patient and he treated his friends like gold. He was also extremely private.
A few months ago, when his health began to take a turn for the worse, his other close friends and I secretly began to call one another to discuss his health, progress and strategies to encourage him to get the medical attention that he needed. We did this in secret because he would tell each of us only bits and pieces of what was going on with him and besides that he would have killed us for discussing him behind his back. Well our little plan worked and he got the treatment he needed. When he was released from the hospital he was back to his old self. When I spoke to him on the phone he sounded vibrant and full of life that is until he went to fill his prescriptions.
He had medical insurance through his job but apparently it didn’t cover HIV medication. One prescription was $400 and the other $700. He only made about $25,000 a year, minus rent, car payment, and two wage garnishments he could not afford it. I immediately began researching national non profit agencies that were designed to help people like him get these critical medicines and forwarded the information to him. He called and was told he made too much money. Slowly, but surely, his health began to deteriorate once more.
It began with a persistent cough which he blamed on his allergies and other sinus problems. Then he would tell me he had follow up doctor’s appointments but wouldn’t tell me if he actually went or what the results were of the appointments. We friends began to call each another once more. The last time we all conferred with one another was the day that he passed away in his sleep… his best friend and roommate was preparing to take him to the emergency room.
I was devastated, we all were. Sometimes I still think that I can pick up the phone and call him. (We talked every Saturday morning for hours and sent each other text messages throughout the week.) I shared with my family and larger group of friends, some who knew him and others who didn’t, about his passing. There was an outpouring of love and support but I’ve also taken note of how people react when I say he had HIV. They make a little face or there is a pause in their conversation. It is judgment… about a man that in most cases they didn't even know.
What do they think they know about my friend? He was gay? He was promiscuous? He was a junkie? What? Or is it that they still consider HIV and AIDS a disease of filth… “Oh you must have been doing something nasty or wrong to contract it, so you got what you deserved.” He was a gay man, not a junkie and no more promiscuous than the average straight man his age. He contracted HIV the same way straight people do, by having SEX with someone who has it. HIV/AIDS doesn’t care if you’re straight or gay. If you have had unprotected sex in your lifetime you are at risk of contracting HIV/AIDS or an STD. Why? Well that’s because in some people it can take weeks, months or years to be detected in their blood stream and quite frankly alot of people don't get tested. Oh and before you start on how people shouldn’t be having unprotected sex with people they don’t know, shut up! If you have ever had sex with someone, anyone, without a condom in the last 35 years you may have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, period. It doesn’t matter that you’ve known your partner for 10 years or two weeks nor are now involved in a monogamous relationship or that you’ve turned your life over to Christ. There is a chance that you could have contracted the virus.
“But I know my partners and they’re all healthy.” Really… do you know what they did before they met you? Do you know everyone they’ve ever slept with? More importantly, do you know what they do when you are not around? Yeah, that’s what I thought. By the way, I know several people, straight and gay, with HIV and they look very healthy and if they never told you, you would never know they had the disease. So, looks can be deceiving.
(I used to work for the Family Health Council of Greater Pittsburgh in the mid 90’s and I remember talking to nurses at Alma Illery Health Clinic in Homewood and one said that she saw a pregnant 16 yr. old girl who’d contracted the HIV. She refused to tell the nurses and the health department who the father of her child was out of shame and fear but she did say he had multiple children in the community. I’m sure he didn’t look sick either or she wouldn’t have slept with him. )
You don’t choose to get this disease but your choices may lead to you contracting this disease. It doesn’t mean you are evil, dirty or deserving of this disease no more than a cancer patient deserves to have cancer. As my beloved, now deceased, friend would put it, “it is what it is.”
My friend’s sister asked his best friend/roommate if her brother was gay, without thinking he said yes. She paused… but then she said I really wish he would have felt comfortable sharing this information with me but my parents, if they knew, they would have cut him off. Needless to say, my friend also never told any of his family that he had contracted HIV or that he'd been ill in the last few months.
After his body was released from the coroner in New Jersey his family quickly had a funeral. We were told about the funeral on Friday and the funeral was Monday. Though his sister didn’t think her parents knew about his sexuality, we all know they did. At nearly 40 yrs. old your son has never brought a girl home or talked about being in a relationship… come on! They’re older but not dumb. Our group of friends began wondering if the family had a speedy funeral so that most of his friends, which includes me, couldn’t attend the funeral. We suspect they didn’t want a certain element to attend but alas we’ll never know. What we do know is that our friend deserves respect in death as he did in life.
"Judge not lest ye be judged."
"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."
"Hate the sin but love the sinner" now that’s just bullshit! Why hate?
Dedicated to:
Rayfield Johnson, Jr.
“The Lord will make a way.”
June 1969 - May 2009
A few months ago, when his health began to take a turn for the worse, his other close friends and I secretly began to call one another to discuss his health, progress and strategies to encourage him to get the medical attention that he needed. We did this in secret because he would tell each of us only bits and pieces of what was going on with him and besides that he would have killed us for discussing him behind his back. Well our little plan worked and he got the treatment he needed. When he was released from the hospital he was back to his old self. When I spoke to him on the phone he sounded vibrant and full of life that is until he went to fill his prescriptions.
He had medical insurance through his job but apparently it didn’t cover HIV medication. One prescription was $400 and the other $700. He only made about $25,000 a year, minus rent, car payment, and two wage garnishments he could not afford it. I immediately began researching national non profit agencies that were designed to help people like him get these critical medicines and forwarded the information to him. He called and was told he made too much money. Slowly, but surely, his health began to deteriorate once more.
It began with a persistent cough which he blamed on his allergies and other sinus problems. Then he would tell me he had follow up doctor’s appointments but wouldn’t tell me if he actually went or what the results were of the appointments. We friends began to call each another once more. The last time we all conferred with one another was the day that he passed away in his sleep… his best friend and roommate was preparing to take him to the emergency room.
I was devastated, we all were. Sometimes I still think that I can pick up the phone and call him. (We talked every Saturday morning for hours and sent each other text messages throughout the week.) I shared with my family and larger group of friends, some who knew him and others who didn’t, about his passing. There was an outpouring of love and support but I’ve also taken note of how people react when I say he had HIV. They make a little face or there is a pause in their conversation. It is judgment… about a man that in most cases they didn't even know.
What do they think they know about my friend? He was gay? He was promiscuous? He was a junkie? What? Or is it that they still consider HIV and AIDS a disease of filth… “Oh you must have been doing something nasty or wrong to contract it, so you got what you deserved.” He was a gay man, not a junkie and no more promiscuous than the average straight man his age. He contracted HIV the same way straight people do, by having SEX with someone who has it. HIV/AIDS doesn’t care if you’re straight or gay. If you have had unprotected sex in your lifetime you are at risk of contracting HIV/AIDS or an STD. Why? Well that’s because in some people it can take weeks, months or years to be detected in their blood stream and quite frankly alot of people don't get tested. Oh and before you start on how people shouldn’t be having unprotected sex with people they don’t know, shut up! If you have ever had sex with someone, anyone, without a condom in the last 35 years you may have been exposed to HIV/AIDS, period. It doesn’t matter that you’ve known your partner for 10 years or two weeks nor are now involved in a monogamous relationship or that you’ve turned your life over to Christ. There is a chance that you could have contracted the virus.
“But I know my partners and they’re all healthy.” Really… do you know what they did before they met you? Do you know everyone they’ve ever slept with? More importantly, do you know what they do when you are not around? Yeah, that’s what I thought. By the way, I know several people, straight and gay, with HIV and they look very healthy and if they never told you, you would never know they had the disease. So, looks can be deceiving.
(I used to work for the Family Health Council of Greater Pittsburgh in the mid 90’s and I remember talking to nurses at Alma Illery Health Clinic in Homewood and one said that she saw a pregnant 16 yr. old girl who’d contracted the HIV. She refused to tell the nurses and the health department who the father of her child was out of shame and fear but she did say he had multiple children in the community. I’m sure he didn’t look sick either or she wouldn’t have slept with him. )
You don’t choose to get this disease but your choices may lead to you contracting this disease. It doesn’t mean you are evil, dirty or deserving of this disease no more than a cancer patient deserves to have cancer. As my beloved, now deceased, friend would put it, “it is what it is.”
My friend’s sister asked his best friend/roommate if her brother was gay, without thinking he said yes. She paused… but then she said I really wish he would have felt comfortable sharing this information with me but my parents, if they knew, they would have cut him off. Needless to say, my friend also never told any of his family that he had contracted HIV or that he'd been ill in the last few months.
After his body was released from the coroner in New Jersey his family quickly had a funeral. We were told about the funeral on Friday and the funeral was Monday. Though his sister didn’t think her parents knew about his sexuality, we all know they did. At nearly 40 yrs. old your son has never brought a girl home or talked about being in a relationship… come on! They’re older but not dumb. Our group of friends began wondering if the family had a speedy funeral so that most of his friends, which includes me, couldn’t attend the funeral. We suspect they didn’t want a certain element to attend but alas we’ll never know. What we do know is that our friend deserves respect in death as he did in life.
"Judge not lest ye be judged."
"Let he who is without sin cast the first stone."
"Hate the sin but love the sinner" now that’s just bullshit! Why hate?
Dedicated to:
Rayfield Johnson, Jr.
“The Lord will make a way.”
June 1969 - May 2009
Read his obituary at: http://www4.vindy.com/content/records/tributes/294489040750190.php
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Nice Day for a White Wedding
Over the weekend I had the pleasure of watching Skin starring the wonderful Sophie Okonedo. The mixed race British actress portrays Sandra Laing, a Coloured South African woman born to “white[1]” Afrikaner parents in the late 1950’s. Coloured is a term used in South Africa to describe any person of mixed race. Sandra Laing ‘s father famously and successfully fought the Nationalist (that’s code for racist) government of South Africa to have his daughter classified as white like he and his wife the only problem was Sandra didn’t remotely look white. Her head was covered with tightly coiled kinky hair and her skin was a beautiful café au lait and while the government and her immediate family recognized her as white no one else did. Her parents in an effort “help” her fit in bought skin lighteners and hair straighteners, none of which were effective in the long term. She had few white friends and the white boys her age didn’t want to date her. At 14/15 she ran away with a black South African man, was thrown in jail for 3 months for breaking the country’s strict laws against miscegenation, was released and subsequently had two children by this black man. She was disowned by her family.
Upon watching the film for the first time I felt anger towards Sandra’s parents for ignoring the obvious, Sandra wasn’t white! No amount of fighting, racial classification or skin lightener was going to change that fact. Their blindness and ignorance doomed Sandra to the miserable childhood and adolescence she ultimately led because they refused to be realistic about the appearance of their child.
Then I watched the film again and thought though I hated her parents’ politics, they were staunch members of the Nationalist party who were the authors and enforcers of Apartheid, they ultimately wanted the best life for Sandra. If Sandra were declared Coloured she could be taken from them to be raised by strangers, she would not be able to attend the best schools, vote, live in certain areas, or hold certain jobs. Hell, she wouldn’t even be allowed to sit in public places or drink from public fountains set aside for whites. With that in mind I started thinking, maybe her father was on to something.
It’s Monday night and I am still thinking… how would I feel if a child I’d born looked nothing like me racially? I am chocolate brown, as chocolate as they come, with a head covered with the same tightly coiled kinky hair as Sandra’s. If my child were born with straight blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’d love him or her but I can’t say I wouldn’t slightly resent their appearance. My people fought (and are still fighting) very hard to accept dark skin as beautiful. Hell, I fought very hard to accept my own dark skin as beautiful and now I am downright conceited about it! If my children were “white looking” how alien would that feel to me? Everywhere we’d go there’d be questions, looks and stares. I’d have to impart a sense of pride in African/African American culture and history to children who do not wear their Africanity on the outside as I do. Do I continuously drill into their heads that despite their appearance they are black and would this give them some sort of inferiority complex about their skin color? Would they wish they looked blacker? How would this govern their interactions with other blacks and/or whites?
I know some of you reading this are probably thinking I am over analyzing the issue, and perhaps I am, but if I don’t decide how to deal with this issue society will. I have a multitude of friends of various backgrounds and some of them are in interracial relationships. A friend from college is white and married to an Asian man and their children look Asian. How does she feel about that? What does it say on the kids’ birth certificate? I have African American friends married to white spouses and their children either look mixed race or black. How does that make their white spouses feel? Then I have a friend back home whose two sons from her previous marriage to a white man look… Native American or Latino at best but not mixed race and certainly not black. You should see the stares she gets because these boys look nothing like her. When asked what do the boys say they are? I also have friends who are biracial and multiracial or just look like they’re mixed when they aren’t. People can’t rest until they find out what they are and will go to various lengths to find out.
Call it xenophobia but I want my children’s appearance to reflect my racial background regardless of my spouse’s race. Some of us like to act like that race doesn’t matter, and really it shouldn’t, but it does. It is a political statement as much as it is a statement about one’s ancestry. It helps to shape one’s frame of reference in this world by both positive and negative experiences and it can unite or separate people. Lastly, if you don’t choose someone else will always choose for you… whether it’s right or wrong. So how do we transcend this thing called race and just see people? Is it even possible? Is it wise? Does skin color or ancestry dictate race? How do or did you choose? What say you dear friends of many races in various interracial, multi-ethnic relationships? I am really curious to find out what you think…
[1] Genetic tests were done on Sandra Laing’s parents and both of them were discovered to have African ancestry though neither of them claimed to know of any such ancestors. Interestingly, Sandra’s youngest brother, like her, also looked more Coloured than white.
Upon watching the film for the first time I felt anger towards Sandra’s parents for ignoring the obvious, Sandra wasn’t white! No amount of fighting, racial classification or skin lightener was going to change that fact. Their blindness and ignorance doomed Sandra to the miserable childhood and adolescence she ultimately led because they refused to be realistic about the appearance of their child.
Then I watched the film again and thought though I hated her parents’ politics, they were staunch members of the Nationalist party who were the authors and enforcers of Apartheid, they ultimately wanted the best life for Sandra. If Sandra were declared Coloured she could be taken from them to be raised by strangers, she would not be able to attend the best schools, vote, live in certain areas, or hold certain jobs. Hell, she wouldn’t even be allowed to sit in public places or drink from public fountains set aside for whites. With that in mind I started thinking, maybe her father was on to something.
It’s Monday night and I am still thinking… how would I feel if a child I’d born looked nothing like me racially? I am chocolate brown, as chocolate as they come, with a head covered with the same tightly coiled kinky hair as Sandra’s. If my child were born with straight blonde hair, light skin and blue eyes I don’t know what I’d do. I know I’d love him or her but I can’t say I wouldn’t slightly resent their appearance. My people fought (and are still fighting) very hard to accept dark skin as beautiful. Hell, I fought very hard to accept my own dark skin as beautiful and now I am downright conceited about it! If my children were “white looking” how alien would that feel to me? Everywhere we’d go there’d be questions, looks and stares. I’d have to impart a sense of pride in African/African American culture and history to children who do not wear their Africanity on the outside as I do. Do I continuously drill into their heads that despite their appearance they are black and would this give them some sort of inferiority complex about their skin color? Would they wish they looked blacker? How would this govern their interactions with other blacks and/or whites?
I know some of you reading this are probably thinking I am over analyzing the issue, and perhaps I am, but if I don’t decide how to deal with this issue society will. I have a multitude of friends of various backgrounds and some of them are in interracial relationships. A friend from college is white and married to an Asian man and their children look Asian. How does she feel about that? What does it say on the kids’ birth certificate? I have African American friends married to white spouses and their children either look mixed race or black. How does that make their white spouses feel? Then I have a friend back home whose two sons from her previous marriage to a white man look… Native American or Latino at best but not mixed race and certainly not black. You should see the stares she gets because these boys look nothing like her. When asked what do the boys say they are? I also have friends who are biracial and multiracial or just look like they’re mixed when they aren’t. People can’t rest until they find out what they are and will go to various lengths to find out.
Call it xenophobia but I want my children’s appearance to reflect my racial background regardless of my spouse’s race. Some of us like to act like that race doesn’t matter, and really it shouldn’t, but it does. It is a political statement as much as it is a statement about one’s ancestry. It helps to shape one’s frame of reference in this world by both positive and negative experiences and it can unite or separate people. Lastly, if you don’t choose someone else will always choose for you… whether it’s right or wrong. So how do we transcend this thing called race and just see people? Is it even possible? Is it wise? Does skin color or ancestry dictate race? How do or did you choose? What say you dear friends of many races in various interracial, multi-ethnic relationships? I am really curious to find out what you think…
[1] Genetic tests were done on Sandra Laing’s parents and both of them were discovered to have African ancestry though neither of them claimed to know of any such ancestors. Interestingly, Sandra’s youngest brother, like her, also looked more Coloured than white.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Yay, another assistant gig in LA!
Recently, I was sent a job posting for an assistant position at a major music television network. A couple of weeks ago I was lamenting over the state of my life, why am I here, what am I doing here, where am I going, etc… (I teach dance here, in Los Angeles, not what I came here to do.) So, I called a friend to vent and she said she’d “keep an eye out” for me, then sent me the job posting for the assistant position. As I read the requirements for the job and the duties I couldn’t help thinking, “I don’t really want to do this.” Theoretically, I should WANT to do this, it is in the entertainment industry, I could make invaluable connections and there are possible opportunities for advancement. But the truth of the matter is that I don’t really want this position. Six months to a year ago I would have sent a resume the day I received the posting and added it to the hundred or so other resumes I have already sent for similar positions in and around Los Angeles. However, having friends in these positions has tainted my view.
There’s the friend who works for a large children’s television network that had a crazy boss who thought you could cue up a DVD like a videotape then hand her the DVD and say “Hey, I cued it up for you,” smiled in her face then wrote nasty emails about her to other execs and blame her when she neglected to do her own work. Then there’s the other friend who barely has a moment to spare during the week or the weekend. The same friend who has gotten two promotions but has not gotten a raise in pay! More work, even longer hours, same pay! She’s so busy reading scripts and writing coverage for her job that she has no time to write her own stuff. This friend is happy to have a job but not exactly happy to have this job.
When we moved to Los Angeles we all had dreams of stardom. We write, we direct, we have MFAs. At graduation we were told that the world was our oyster. We were commanded to go west and make our mark in the entertainment industry. If we didn’t have internships secured prior to our arrival, we did as we were taught in school. We called and emailed any and everyone that we knew asking them for advice, for their contacts and if they knew anyone hiring. We were lucky if for every five inquiries we received a response. Promises were made, most never kept and over time and several jobs (most gotten on our own and not through our “network”) some of us managed to break in to the complicated and duplicitous entertainment industry.
The most successful of us shunned “Hollywood” or traditional entrée into the entertainment industry and made films on their own, financing, producing and crewing (staffing) it with friends. They “made it” but not without heavy sacrifice. They lived in cramped apartments and houses with numerous roommates, sleeping on couches, driving a beat up old car or catching the bus, buying groceries at the 99 cent store or eating off the Taco Bell Value Meal menu, if they had enough money to eat at all. They finally get their film made, have an agent and have the all important buzz surrounding their name. The only drawback is, as one classmate put it, waiting for the next project because no one tells you that your next project is not guaranteed… you could go back to living on Taco Bell and your friend’s couch next week.
So what are we, am I, to do? Do I pack up and go home? No, hell no, I don’t do Midwestern winters. Besides, I came out here to do everything I did at home on a larger level, take my career to the national and international level and I will. Do I apply for entry level jobs as assistants? No… I mean yes, I mean I need to weigh my options. If it is an excellent opportunity for me at a company whose work I respect and/or love I will go for it. I don’t have a problem being an assistant I have a problem applying for jobs just because. Hey, I don’t want to work for the aforementioned unnamed music television network, it’s not even the cool one, trust me! So, I’ll continue writing and teaching dance around the city. I like it; I’ve met really cool people, made some lasting connections and lost some of my baby fat (from when I was a baby). Besides, Hollywood ain’t what you know it’s who you know and definitely not how you got there. Here’s to finding your own way!
There’s the friend who works for a large children’s television network that had a crazy boss who thought you could cue up a DVD like a videotape then hand her the DVD and say “Hey, I cued it up for you,” smiled in her face then wrote nasty emails about her to other execs and blame her when she neglected to do her own work. Then there’s the other friend who barely has a moment to spare during the week or the weekend. The same friend who has gotten two promotions but has not gotten a raise in pay! More work, even longer hours, same pay! She’s so busy reading scripts and writing coverage for her job that she has no time to write her own stuff. This friend is happy to have a job but not exactly happy to have this job.
When we moved to Los Angeles we all had dreams of stardom. We write, we direct, we have MFAs. At graduation we were told that the world was our oyster. We were commanded to go west and make our mark in the entertainment industry. If we didn’t have internships secured prior to our arrival, we did as we were taught in school. We called and emailed any and everyone that we knew asking them for advice, for their contacts and if they knew anyone hiring. We were lucky if for every five inquiries we received a response. Promises were made, most never kept and over time and several jobs (most gotten on our own and not through our “network”) some of us managed to break in to the complicated and duplicitous entertainment industry.
The most successful of us shunned “Hollywood” or traditional entrée into the entertainment industry and made films on their own, financing, producing and crewing (staffing) it with friends. They “made it” but not without heavy sacrifice. They lived in cramped apartments and houses with numerous roommates, sleeping on couches, driving a beat up old car or catching the bus, buying groceries at the 99 cent store or eating off the Taco Bell Value Meal menu, if they had enough money to eat at all. They finally get their film made, have an agent and have the all important buzz surrounding their name. The only drawback is, as one classmate put it, waiting for the next project because no one tells you that your next project is not guaranteed… you could go back to living on Taco Bell and your friend’s couch next week.
So what are we, am I, to do? Do I pack up and go home? No, hell no, I don’t do Midwestern winters. Besides, I came out here to do everything I did at home on a larger level, take my career to the national and international level and I will. Do I apply for entry level jobs as assistants? No… I mean yes, I mean I need to weigh my options. If it is an excellent opportunity for me at a company whose work I respect and/or love I will go for it. I don’t have a problem being an assistant I have a problem applying for jobs just because. Hey, I don’t want to work for the aforementioned unnamed music television network, it’s not even the cool one, trust me! So, I’ll continue writing and teaching dance around the city. I like it; I’ve met really cool people, made some lasting connections and lost some of my baby fat (from when I was a baby). Besides, Hollywood ain’t what you know it’s who you know and definitely not how you got there. Here’s to finding your own way!
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
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…
Thursday, December 18, 2008
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
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
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