I was going to write about love and sex, two of my favorite topics but, instead I am going to write about Leon Walter Tillage. When I saw his book lying on a table with other donated books for my teens (whom I teach dance to) I instantly knew that no one was going to pick the book up but me. The book entitled, “Leon’s Story,” is the coming of age story of Leon Walter Tillage who grew up in the rural segregated South but that’s not the reason why I knew no one would dare pick up his book. It was the cover, his picture, a black and white photograph of a smiling young black boy no more than 11 years old with coffee colored skin much like my own. You see, we are conditioned as black people to reject images of ourselves, anything that shows our blackness or some would say African ancestry and Leon is BLACK (definitely of African descent).
I watched my children, class of teenagers, run eagerly to the table of donated books to make their selections then gleefully choose several books. After they were done I was invited to make my own selections and I did, there was one by H.G. Wells, another one called, “A Fungus among Us,” and still another about African American women. When I saw Leon at first glance I gave it a pass. I thought it was about a child living in rural Africa and I wasn’t interested. I considered myself pretty well informed on the subject and it held no interest for me and, to be quite honest, I thought it was going to be about how (insert bad fake African accent here) he was so poor but happy and how men came to his village to build an irrigation ditch and a school, etc… you know, the typical portrait of a child growing up in rural Africa.
As I was walking away with my selections, my supervisor invited me to take more books that were left over and so I took more books… one about a child growing up in Nazi Germany and a couple more about a young black girl and her mother and finally…, “Leon’s Story.” I picked it up out of guilt and shame because as much as I mentally mocked what I thought this book was about the real reason I didn’t want to pick up this book was because I didn’t want to read the story of the little black boy who so very much looked like me. See, I can dance around the issue all I want but the truth of the matter is that at first glance I saw nothing beautiful in Leon’s photograph. I thought it was average and lacked anything remarkable. Instantly, I felt ashamed because I was passing this book by for the same reason the children were because he is so… BLACK.
Now my friends and other people who know me will probably find my statements shocking because not only do I have an African name (Swahili, to be exact) and practice a traditional African (Yoruba) belief system but I also study traditional African dance. I don’t hide from the sun, I revel in it and can be often overheard saying, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice…” I mean, I am supposed to be the poster child of a healthy African (black) identity but, I am not. I am a product of this society and our culture just like everyone else and my psyche, like yours, has taken a beating.
Growing up dark skinned in America is rough, a hard knock life. Thankfully, I came into the world in the 70’s after we discovered “Black is Beautiful” but, even that had taken a back seat in our consciousness when I was growing up. In the 80’s my skin color was the topic of many conversations and the source of many insults from BLACK FOLKS. A male cousin told me I was too dark to be a cheerleader and another time when I and some other cousins were playing in my aunt’s makeup I was told I looked pretty because the makeup made me “not look so dark.” Neighborhood kids made comments about me playing in the sun, “‘cause I would get too black.” Boys would say “ugh… she’s too black,” then secretly want me to be their girlfriend. And when someone wanted to insult you they merely had to call you black or African. The only way for a dark skinned child, female or male, to escape this cruelty was to have “good hair” (long, straight, wavy or curly hair) or “pretty eyes” (blue, green, gray or hazel would do just fine). I used to stare in the sun, risking blindness, so that when someone walking past saw my eyes they appeared to be hazel.
Our objects of beauty and affection were anyone who was light skinned preferably with “good hair” and “pretty eyes.” It didn’t matter if they were cute or not they had met the basic requirement for beauty if they had any of the aforementioned physical characteristics. Seriously, I have seen some butt ugly folks be called attractive because they were merely light skinned and whatnot. If you were fortunate enough to be dark skinned and thought of as attractive people “qualified” your beauty by saying, “she’s cute to be so black.”
Now, amongst whites I fared no better. My first real interaction with whites came when I was in junior high and before that I mainly experienced them through TV (where girls nee children like me were nearly absent). In junior high I felt invisible to whites so I did my best to impress them. I talked about heavy metal and rock (which I really did love) and chatted them up about anything else I could think of but I still remained largely ignored. I was caught between a rock and hard place so, I developed a pretty healthy case of self loathing. The only way I could think of getting some love from my people was to date (and hopefully marry) a light skinned guy or Puerto Rican (white guys weren’t really “in” in my neighborhood) and boy, did I love some light skinned men though seldom did they love me back.
I carried this love throughout my 20’s as my own black consciousness evolved (separate from the one I’d inherited from two Afro centric revolutionary parents). It had become second nature so much so that I hardly noticed that I almost always chose light skinned men to adore. When my best friend pointed this fact out to me it became my shame and I felt almost powerless to reverse this often undeserved attraction. Then in earnest I began dating and I dated decent looking and some down right handsome brown and black skinned men, though I did and do still find myself drawn to a few light skinned brothers. I tend to believe it is my inner child still seeking validation from my race.
I read “Leon’s Story” and it was wonderful. I felt that the ancestors were talking through him to me, telling me that I cannot forget the cruelty our people endured to live and survive in this country and… how beautiful we are as a people. Now, when I look at Leon’s smiling photograph I am reminded of myself. He kind of looks like my father at this age smiling in a school photo, except with more innocence. I look at Leon now and see exquisite beauty, hope and joy in his photo and I’m ashamed that it has taken so long for me to find my own. I embrace him as I embrace myself and I know that I will never ever feel ashamed again.
4/2/08, 1:03am
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Must haves...
Today’s blog is very simple. Periodically, I am going present you a list of must sees, must reads, must listens or must haves. Some of you will probably have already seen, read, heard, listened or have these things but here goes nothing:
Must sees:
Sicko by Michael Moore – I am not a 100% fan of all of his films because at some point I always feel manipulated by him and his flare for the dramatics (such as taking Columbine survivors to WalMart headquarters or a boatload of ill Americans to Cuba) but this film illustrates how poor healthcare in America truly is.
Ganga Zumba – A film based on the true story of an enslaved African, Ganga Zumba, who manages to escape to the hills of Brazil and live free with several colonies of other escaped Africans for decades before being recaptured. Other peoples of African descent in the new world known to have done the same are the Garifuna in Central America and the Maroons in Jamaica. (Don’t ever let folks tell you we didn’t fight back!)
Sankofa – It’s been a while since I’ve seen this but this film by Haile Gerima ignited a passion within me as a black woman and as a filmmaker. It also showed the brutality of slavery without romanticizing our ancestors’ experiences for mass appeal.
Bandit Queen – I love films from India but not Bollywood and this is one of my favorites. This film is based on the true story of an Indian woman, Phoolan Devi, forced into marriage at 11 yrs. old and raped repeatedly by her husband who escapes to help lead the resistance against India’s corrupt caste system and the government. This movie shows why women can overcome anything and rise to be victorious!
Salaam Bombay – Another Indian film, directed by Mira Nair. Most of the films actors were actually children living on the streets of Bombay. It was heartbreaking because it shows the cyclical nature of life and how inescapable poverty is in most countries.
The Great Debaters – I consider myself a pretty smart chick but I’d never heard of this debate beween Wiley College and Harvard before. It was an uplifting film beautifully told by Denzel Washington and he’s made me hungry for more of his work. (My friend and I actually clapped at the end of this film… yes, we are nerds and proud of it!)
Other films:
Earth, Fire, Water – a trilogy of films by Indian filmmaker Deepa Mehta
Michael Clayton – an excellent understated film with amazing performances by Tilda Swinton and George Clooney.
No Country for Old Men –I love the Coen Brothers; they tell a mean story that leaves you with chills running down your spine.
Broken English – a film I discovered at my local library and fell in love with, directed by Zoe Cassevetes. It’s a love story for all of us cynics who desperately want to believe in love.
Must reads:
Octavia Butler – If you think Anne Rice has one hell of an imagination please read Octavia Butler who seamlessly blends science fiction and science fact to create believable futuristic and supernatural worlds.
Stephen King – Don’t sleep… Stephen King is a master writer whose words both terrify and offer insight into the darkest recesses of the human psyche.
Edwidge Danticat – I envy her, I really do, because she discovered her talent and became successful at such a young age. She has a collection of stories about the Haitian experience entitled, Krik Krak, that I love and another semi-autobiographical book about emigrating to America entitled, Breath, Eyes, Memory that are among my favorite books.
Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye – As a dark skinned girl growing up in a world that did/does not appreciate dark skinned girls this book spoke to my own need for love and acceptance and more importantly how racism has impacted the black standard of beauty and severely damaged our psyche.
Must listen:
Punta from Central America – Straight up party music where one winds their waist as fast as possible while twirling in a circle. A woman, regardless of size, can’t help but to feel sexy doing this dance!
Bachata – Whew! This dance can be pure sex on the dance floor if done right. Passion oozes between the man and woman holding them together like glue.
The Nightwatchman – Tom Morello formerly of Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave hits us with insightful politically aware music once again with this solo project. (Yeah, I have a crush on him, so what?) Black rock rules!
Floetry - Damn, I am so sad that they broke up because these sistahs made some serious music. I am praying for a reunion.
Erykah Badu – She’s a consummate artist; her music is deep, witty, and lyrical. She inspires me to “do me” at all times.
Other must haves:
Decency
Courage
Sense of humor
Pride
Humility
Peace!
Must sees:
Sicko by Michael Moore – I am not a 100% fan of all of his films because at some point I always feel manipulated by him and his flare for the dramatics (such as taking Columbine survivors to WalMart headquarters or a boatload of ill Americans to Cuba) but this film illustrates how poor healthcare in America truly is.
Ganga Zumba – A film based on the true story of an enslaved African, Ganga Zumba, who manages to escape to the hills of Brazil and live free with several colonies of other escaped Africans for decades before being recaptured. Other peoples of African descent in the new world known to have done the same are the Garifuna in Central America and the Maroons in Jamaica. (Don’t ever let folks tell you we didn’t fight back!)
Sankofa – It’s been a while since I’ve seen this but this film by Haile Gerima ignited a passion within me as a black woman and as a filmmaker. It also showed the brutality of slavery without romanticizing our ancestors’ experiences for mass appeal.
Bandit Queen – I love films from India but not Bollywood and this is one of my favorites. This film is based on the true story of an Indian woman, Phoolan Devi, forced into marriage at 11 yrs. old and raped repeatedly by her husband who escapes to help lead the resistance against India’s corrupt caste system and the government. This movie shows why women can overcome anything and rise to be victorious!
Salaam Bombay – Another Indian film, directed by Mira Nair. Most of the films actors were actually children living on the streets of Bombay. It was heartbreaking because it shows the cyclical nature of life and how inescapable poverty is in most countries.
The Great Debaters – I consider myself a pretty smart chick but I’d never heard of this debate beween Wiley College and Harvard before. It was an uplifting film beautifully told by Denzel Washington and he’s made me hungry for more of his work. (My friend and I actually clapped at the end of this film… yes, we are nerds and proud of it!)
Other films:
Earth, Fire, Water – a trilogy of films by Indian filmmaker Deepa Mehta
Michael Clayton – an excellent understated film with amazing performances by Tilda Swinton and George Clooney.
No Country for Old Men –I love the Coen Brothers; they tell a mean story that leaves you with chills running down your spine.
Broken English – a film I discovered at my local library and fell in love with, directed by Zoe Cassevetes. It’s a love story for all of us cynics who desperately want to believe in love.
Must reads:
Octavia Butler – If you think Anne Rice has one hell of an imagination please read Octavia Butler who seamlessly blends science fiction and science fact to create believable futuristic and supernatural worlds.
Stephen King – Don’t sleep… Stephen King is a master writer whose words both terrify and offer insight into the darkest recesses of the human psyche.
Edwidge Danticat – I envy her, I really do, because she discovered her talent and became successful at such a young age. She has a collection of stories about the Haitian experience entitled, Krik Krak, that I love and another semi-autobiographical book about emigrating to America entitled, Breath, Eyes, Memory that are among my favorite books.
Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye – As a dark skinned girl growing up in a world that did/does not appreciate dark skinned girls this book spoke to my own need for love and acceptance and more importantly how racism has impacted the black standard of beauty and severely damaged our psyche.
Must listen:
Punta from Central America – Straight up party music where one winds their waist as fast as possible while twirling in a circle. A woman, regardless of size, can’t help but to feel sexy doing this dance!
Bachata – Whew! This dance can be pure sex on the dance floor if done right. Passion oozes between the man and woman holding them together like glue.
The Nightwatchman – Tom Morello formerly of Rage Against the Machine and Audioslave hits us with insightful politically aware music once again with this solo project. (Yeah, I have a crush on him, so what?) Black rock rules!
Floetry - Damn, I am so sad that they broke up because these sistahs made some serious music. I am praying for a reunion.
Erykah Badu – She’s a consummate artist; her music is deep, witty, and lyrical. She inspires me to “do me” at all times.
Other must haves:
Decency
Courage
Sense of humor
Pride
Humility
Peace!
Monday, March 17, 2008
It's Because He's Black... Obama 2008
When people see me they see two things a, black, woman. It is an undeniable fact that I am indeed a black woman, black, of African descent, and woman, person of female gender. I am also a registered Democrat and a proud graduate of a women’s college. I say all of this because for some reason people think there is some dilemma I must be facing or some war raging inside of me over which Democratic candidate I support. “It’s clear isn’t it,” I say to all of my friends, “I am supporting the best candidate for me, whose politics and experiences are most closely aligned with mine.” The Clinton campaign says Hillary is the far more qualified candidate but, if I am asked to vote my conscience on Election Day then I must vote for Barack Obama.
Over lunch my good friend, Ana, a white woman, asked me who I was rooting for and I told her that in my case it was okay to assume that I was supporting Obama. I know that some black folks get upset by this but I’m not. Why should I be? Hell, I’m proud of Obama for having the gumption to mount such an ambitious campaign and the tenacity to stay in the fight. Furthermore, Obama, to me, is the embodiment of America and its’ dream. He is of mixed race yet he and the majority of Americans see him as black. (If that ain’t American I don’t know what is!) His father was absent throughout most of his life. He did not grow up rich and privileged but middle class and he had to take out student loans to pay for his education, like me. He was also the first African American elected president of the Harvard Law Review. He isn’t an actor, oil tycoon or owner of a minor league baseball team but a civic minded lawyer and now a Senator and perhaps one day, a President.
Obama is also Martin Luther King’s dream very nearly realized. He has brought together the races toward the greater good of making change in America. People, at least in the media and other public forums, judge him on the content of his character not by the color of his skin yet the fact that he is a black man running for President is not lost on them. His speeches rouse and ignite the listener and make the impossible seem possible. People, hungry for something new, latch on to him. He represents the little guy, the every man fighting against the political machine, fighting for his equal share of the power. He is the face of the disenfranchised, while Hillary is not. If he is elected President the world will celebrate America’s ability to somewhat transcend our racist past and America will be the first major western country to elect a person of color to lead a country.
Barack and I have shared experiences. Issues that I am most concerned with are racism, classism and sexism, in that order, and race has had the most impact on my life. I have often times been the only or one of very few black(s) in social and professional settings and I have found that whenever I achieve some level of success inevitably my race enters into the picture. Once, I received a promotion at a large insurance firm and a white female colleague said that I got it because I was black, never mind that the majority of the other people who were also promoted were white (five out of the eight who were promoted were white). In graduate school I was selected to make a 35mm film with the total financial backing of the school, I was one of five, some of my white classmates began griping that the only reason I was given this honor was that I was black. (The other recipients were two white men, an Asian man, and a white European woman; I guess I took some poor white man’s space.) In both instances it was my race that set me apart from the others and made me a target of scrutiny not my gender much like the way Geraldine Ferraro said the only reason why Obama has gotten so far in this campaign is that he is black man. (The funny thing is that if we fail it’s because we’re black and if we succeed it’s because we’re black… we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.)
Gloria Steinem asserts that if Mr. Obama were a woman with his credentials he wouldn’t have gotten this far and the fact that he is a man has everything to do with his rise to national prominence. She lists his credentials as a person who became “a lawyer after some years as a community organizer… served as a state legislator for eight years, and became an inspirational voice for national unity.” Then she poses the question, “Do you think this is the biography of someone who could be elected to the United States Senate? After less than one term there, do you believe she could be a viable candidate to head the most powerful nation on earth?”
Hillary supporters like Steinem like to simplify and devalue Obama’s experience saying that Hillary has 35 years experience in public policy but this is due in part to her husband’s various political offices where she surely served him as an advisor. She has only served one full term in the Senate and her experience in the White House was as First Lady… FYI not a political office. Furthermore, if Hillary has 35 years of experience in public policy then Hillary is part of an antiquated political machine in Washington, a woman in an old boys club. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she went through pure hell at times but she is a part of the machine. In fact, she is such a part of the machine that in order to save she and her husbands’ political careers she turned a blind eye to his numerous documented dalliances and transgressions, standing stoically by her man. She is a centrist in a party filled with centrists there is nothing radically new in her rhetoric and the truth of the matter is if she is elected to lead this country not a whole lot of our policies will change and after the initial oohs and ahhs of having a woman president it will be in effect, business as usual. She will prove that we can run a country as good as any man but not… better.
What Geraldine, Gloria and other Clinton supporters resent is Obama giving Hillary a run for her money. Let’s face it none of us thought his campaign would last this long but it has and Hillary and her cronies can’t believe she has to prove herself against, of all things, “a junior Senator from Illinois.” The funny thing is Geraldine in some ways is right. Race is a factor in this political race because the Clinton’s wrongly assumed that Bill’s presidency had bought the black races’ vote for Hillary but they never counted on the little upstart from Illinois. And no amount of saxophone playing on late night TV, visits to African American churches or counseling from high profile black ministers during a marital crisis can make you… black. (Just ask Duane “Dog” Chapman, the bounty hunter, he found out quite publicly that going to jail does not also make you black.)
Now, I am not a fool. My day to day existence as a black woman in America will largely remain the same if either Hillary or Barack are elected. Electing either of them as President will not change the minds of racist cops who negatively profile me and other people of color as criminals when we drive down the street. Nor will it create a fair and balanced judicial system that does not sentence blacks and Hispanics more harshly than their white counterparts. Nor will it ensure that my gay, lesbian and transgendered friends will be given equal rights as heterosexuals to legalize their relationships and in turn have the private sector, such as HMO’s, recognize those partnerships. Our children will not be magically moved from over crowded classrooms in deteriorating buildings with no books and computers to sprawling state of the art campuses of learning. No, none of these great things will happen… not in Barack or Hillary’s four years as President of the United States of America.
But maybe, just maybe, an Obama Presidency will give those racist cops cause to pause before they pull us over. Maybe, just maybe, parents will begin to demand better schools for their children en masse so that their baby can grow up someday and become… president. Maybe, just maybe, I and others of my race will feel inspired to Pledge Allegiance to this country that has left us largely disenfranchised and stand shoulder to shoulder with their white counterparts and say we are proud to be American. But maybe, just maybe, it will inspire us all to believe in America’s dream of equality, freedom and justice for all.
Over lunch my good friend, Ana, a white woman, asked me who I was rooting for and I told her that in my case it was okay to assume that I was supporting Obama. I know that some black folks get upset by this but I’m not. Why should I be? Hell, I’m proud of Obama for having the gumption to mount such an ambitious campaign and the tenacity to stay in the fight. Furthermore, Obama, to me, is the embodiment of America and its’ dream. He is of mixed race yet he and the majority of Americans see him as black. (If that ain’t American I don’t know what is!) His father was absent throughout most of his life. He did not grow up rich and privileged but middle class and he had to take out student loans to pay for his education, like me. He was also the first African American elected president of the Harvard Law Review. He isn’t an actor, oil tycoon or owner of a minor league baseball team but a civic minded lawyer and now a Senator and perhaps one day, a President.
Obama is also Martin Luther King’s dream very nearly realized. He has brought together the races toward the greater good of making change in America. People, at least in the media and other public forums, judge him on the content of his character not by the color of his skin yet the fact that he is a black man running for President is not lost on them. His speeches rouse and ignite the listener and make the impossible seem possible. People, hungry for something new, latch on to him. He represents the little guy, the every man fighting against the political machine, fighting for his equal share of the power. He is the face of the disenfranchised, while Hillary is not. If he is elected President the world will celebrate America’s ability to somewhat transcend our racist past and America will be the first major western country to elect a person of color to lead a country.
Barack and I have shared experiences. Issues that I am most concerned with are racism, classism and sexism, in that order, and race has had the most impact on my life. I have often times been the only or one of very few black(s) in social and professional settings and I have found that whenever I achieve some level of success inevitably my race enters into the picture. Once, I received a promotion at a large insurance firm and a white female colleague said that I got it because I was black, never mind that the majority of the other people who were also promoted were white (five out of the eight who were promoted were white). In graduate school I was selected to make a 35mm film with the total financial backing of the school, I was one of five, some of my white classmates began griping that the only reason I was given this honor was that I was black. (The other recipients were two white men, an Asian man, and a white European woman; I guess I took some poor white man’s space.) In both instances it was my race that set me apart from the others and made me a target of scrutiny not my gender much like the way Geraldine Ferraro said the only reason why Obama has gotten so far in this campaign is that he is black man. (The funny thing is that if we fail it’s because we’re black and if we succeed it’s because we’re black… we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.)
Gloria Steinem asserts that if Mr. Obama were a woman with his credentials he wouldn’t have gotten this far and the fact that he is a man has everything to do with his rise to national prominence. She lists his credentials as a person who became “a lawyer after some years as a community organizer… served as a state legislator for eight years, and became an inspirational voice for national unity.” Then she poses the question, “Do you think this is the biography of someone who could be elected to the United States Senate? After less than one term there, do you believe she could be a viable candidate to head the most powerful nation on earth?”
Hillary supporters like Steinem like to simplify and devalue Obama’s experience saying that Hillary has 35 years experience in public policy but this is due in part to her husband’s various political offices where she surely served him as an advisor. She has only served one full term in the Senate and her experience in the White House was as First Lady… FYI not a political office. Furthermore, if Hillary has 35 years of experience in public policy then Hillary is part of an antiquated political machine in Washington, a woman in an old boys club. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure she went through pure hell at times but she is a part of the machine. In fact, she is such a part of the machine that in order to save she and her husbands’ political careers she turned a blind eye to his numerous documented dalliances and transgressions, standing stoically by her man. She is a centrist in a party filled with centrists there is nothing radically new in her rhetoric and the truth of the matter is if she is elected to lead this country not a whole lot of our policies will change and after the initial oohs and ahhs of having a woman president it will be in effect, business as usual. She will prove that we can run a country as good as any man but not… better.
What Geraldine, Gloria and other Clinton supporters resent is Obama giving Hillary a run for her money. Let’s face it none of us thought his campaign would last this long but it has and Hillary and her cronies can’t believe she has to prove herself against, of all things, “a junior Senator from Illinois.” The funny thing is Geraldine in some ways is right. Race is a factor in this political race because the Clinton’s wrongly assumed that Bill’s presidency had bought the black races’ vote for Hillary but they never counted on the little upstart from Illinois. And no amount of saxophone playing on late night TV, visits to African American churches or counseling from high profile black ministers during a marital crisis can make you… black. (Just ask Duane “Dog” Chapman, the bounty hunter, he found out quite publicly that going to jail does not also make you black.)
Now, I am not a fool. My day to day existence as a black woman in America will largely remain the same if either Hillary or Barack are elected. Electing either of them as President will not change the minds of racist cops who negatively profile me and other people of color as criminals when we drive down the street. Nor will it create a fair and balanced judicial system that does not sentence blacks and Hispanics more harshly than their white counterparts. Nor will it ensure that my gay, lesbian and transgendered friends will be given equal rights as heterosexuals to legalize their relationships and in turn have the private sector, such as HMO’s, recognize those partnerships. Our children will not be magically moved from over crowded classrooms in deteriorating buildings with no books and computers to sprawling state of the art campuses of learning. No, none of these great things will happen… not in Barack or Hillary’s four years as President of the United States of America.
But maybe, just maybe, an Obama Presidency will give those racist cops cause to pause before they pull us over. Maybe, just maybe, parents will begin to demand better schools for their children en masse so that their baby can grow up someday and become… president. Maybe, just maybe, I and others of my race will feel inspired to Pledge Allegiance to this country that has left us largely disenfranchised and stand shoulder to shoulder with their white counterparts and say we are proud to be American. But maybe, just maybe, it will inspire us all to believe in America’s dream of equality, freedom and justice for all.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Somebody should have told Sharon Stone…
It is the duty of a woman’s best friend to let her know when she needs a mint because her breath smells remarkably like fresh shit, when she’s had way too much to drink because she completely missed the toilet and pissed directly down the back of her pants, and when she is way too old to play a sex kitten even when you made the role famous 14 years earlier. Where the hell were Sharon Stone’s friends when she was asked to make Basic Instinct 2?
As a recent transplant to LA money is tight and I have found really great ways to save money, one of them is renting movies at my local library instead of Blockbuster or subscribing to Netflix. This often means that I watch movies that I have no real interest in but they just happen to be on the shelf. When I saw Basic Instinct 2 on the shelf I knew it was probably going to be bad, really bad, awful in fact but, I still picked it up. I was hoping it would be the kind of bad that makes something good, a masturbatory delight filled with great and lurid sex. Instead, I got an over the hill, robot like Sharon Stone whose acting consisted of icy stares and a throaty monotone paired with a hunky David Morrisey who looked uncomfortable having sex on screen. But I digress this is not a movie review.
This is about knowing when to stop. Did Sharon Stone really need the money they offered her for Basic Instinct 2? In our celebrity obsessed culture surely the story of her cash shortage would have been all over the press. So, if it wasn’t the money what possessed this grown ass woman (pardon the African American colloquialism but Sharon’s been an adult for quite some time now) to take all her clothes off for the camera, again? Okay, she is in great shape if you like that too thin waif look popularized by Victoria Beckham and The Olsen twins. But it was hard for me to appreciate her great shape in clothes that were too young for her to pull off, white shirts that showed off her nipples, and tight pants that showed that she had no ass. It was sad. I felt bad for Sharon… even her character Catherine Tramell could have told her that as women age what made them sexy in their twenties is not what makes them sexy in their forties. Having a great shape helps but women in their forties no longer have to solely rely on their bodies to attract men and the old adage “less is more” applies. (A hint of skin and a whole lot of experience and innuendo is all she needed.)
I see these older women out sometimes, clearly in their 40’s and beyond, wearing outfits from the junior’s section of Nordstrom or worse yet Forever 21. In clubs they are often the loudest and/or the drunkest. They usually hang out with much younger women and offer unsolicited sexual advice. They are the widowed, divorced, or never married women whose children are finally old enough to take care of themselves. And they spend so much time trying to look young that they actually look older.
My mother had a friend once who told anyone who would listen how she used to be a “baby doll” and how men used to love to take care of her. Her nickname was Legs Diamond. When she met her common law husband he was married to someone else but as she tells it she “had to have him.” Legs hunted him down… she went where he worked, to places he hung out and even called his house, where he and his wife lived. (Talk about a bitch.) Legs won, she got pregnant, he got divorced and they moved in together. They shared a home for over 18 years. He had other affairs, she had an affair. Eventually, like all good things it had to end. Legs lost her job and went from full time school administrator to freelance consulting. She got her own place and she started hanging out with my mom more. Enter my 26yr. old brother.
My brother can be an asshole by his own admission. He is 6’3”, big and black, and has traveled the world, living in New York and California at one point. Women, young and old, love him. He and Legs’ son (a couple of years younger than my brother) were friends. At some point they, Legs and my brother, started fucking each other. When I found out I was horrified much in the way big sisters are always horrified to find out who their brothers are fucking. My other brothers and I began joking that the one brother was a Geritol Gigolo. By the way, Legs at this point was in her late 50’s and she looked great with lovely silver gray dreadlocks.
Most everyone knew about the affair and we all knew it wasn’t serious, except Legs. My brother was seeing at least three other women that we knew of. All of the three other women were in their 20’s. Legs had met all three of the women before in various social and religious settings and slowly, before out very eyes she began to transform. She went from dressing in blouses and slacks to low-rise jeans and thongs. Her locks transformed from regal gray to dark brown and she got a tattoo.
To my brother and his friends smoking weed is damned near a religious rite and Legs Diamond openly partook. She also began giving my brother money and driving him around town in her very new and expensive car and for a time things were good. Until my brother decided to cut her loose for a younger woman.
My mother, bless her soul, actually thought she was going to stay out of this debacle until Legs began calling to tell her about how my brother was doing her wrong and used her. Immediately my mother began fussing at my brother who, of course, didn’t want to hear it. When my mother called me to vent I told her what I thought. My brother is an asshole and Legs is an idiot. Sounds harsh, I know. I didn’t then and I still don’t doubt that my brother had used Legs but she also used him… for sex and self worth. She could not have had any expectations of monogamy with my brother who told her and anyone who would listen that he believed in polygamy. (Don’t ask…) As for the money, hey, you can’t buy love and as a woman in your mid 50’s I would expect her to know that.
Her mistake was in thinking that transforming herself into this younger version of herself that my brother would choose her. But, why we he choose a copy of youth when he had access to the real thing. She forgot her power and it isn’t her sex but her experiences and wisdom.
What made her beautiful was her poise and grace not how young her face and slender her waist.
As a recent transplant to LA money is tight and I have found really great ways to save money, one of them is renting movies at my local library instead of Blockbuster or subscribing to Netflix. This often means that I watch movies that I have no real interest in but they just happen to be on the shelf. When I saw Basic Instinct 2 on the shelf I knew it was probably going to be bad, really bad, awful in fact but, I still picked it up. I was hoping it would be the kind of bad that makes something good, a masturbatory delight filled with great and lurid sex. Instead, I got an over the hill, robot like Sharon Stone whose acting consisted of icy stares and a throaty monotone paired with a hunky David Morrisey who looked uncomfortable having sex on screen. But I digress this is not a movie review.
This is about knowing when to stop. Did Sharon Stone really need the money they offered her for Basic Instinct 2? In our celebrity obsessed culture surely the story of her cash shortage would have been all over the press. So, if it wasn’t the money what possessed this grown ass woman (pardon the African American colloquialism but Sharon’s been an adult for quite some time now) to take all her clothes off for the camera, again? Okay, she is in great shape if you like that too thin waif look popularized by Victoria Beckham and The Olsen twins. But it was hard for me to appreciate her great shape in clothes that were too young for her to pull off, white shirts that showed off her nipples, and tight pants that showed that she had no ass. It was sad. I felt bad for Sharon… even her character Catherine Tramell could have told her that as women age what made them sexy in their twenties is not what makes them sexy in their forties. Having a great shape helps but women in their forties no longer have to solely rely on their bodies to attract men and the old adage “less is more” applies. (A hint of skin and a whole lot of experience and innuendo is all she needed.)
I see these older women out sometimes, clearly in their 40’s and beyond, wearing outfits from the junior’s section of Nordstrom or worse yet Forever 21. In clubs they are often the loudest and/or the drunkest. They usually hang out with much younger women and offer unsolicited sexual advice. They are the widowed, divorced, or never married women whose children are finally old enough to take care of themselves. And they spend so much time trying to look young that they actually look older.
My mother had a friend once who told anyone who would listen how she used to be a “baby doll” and how men used to love to take care of her. Her nickname was Legs Diamond. When she met her common law husband he was married to someone else but as she tells it she “had to have him.” Legs hunted him down… she went where he worked, to places he hung out and even called his house, where he and his wife lived. (Talk about a bitch.) Legs won, she got pregnant, he got divorced and they moved in together. They shared a home for over 18 years. He had other affairs, she had an affair. Eventually, like all good things it had to end. Legs lost her job and went from full time school administrator to freelance consulting. She got her own place and she started hanging out with my mom more. Enter my 26yr. old brother.
My brother can be an asshole by his own admission. He is 6’3”, big and black, and has traveled the world, living in New York and California at one point. Women, young and old, love him. He and Legs’ son (a couple of years younger than my brother) were friends. At some point they, Legs and my brother, started fucking each other. When I found out I was horrified much in the way big sisters are always horrified to find out who their brothers are fucking. My other brothers and I began joking that the one brother was a Geritol Gigolo. By the way, Legs at this point was in her late 50’s and she looked great with lovely silver gray dreadlocks.
Most everyone knew about the affair and we all knew it wasn’t serious, except Legs. My brother was seeing at least three other women that we knew of. All of the three other women were in their 20’s. Legs had met all three of the women before in various social and religious settings and slowly, before out very eyes she began to transform. She went from dressing in blouses and slacks to low-rise jeans and thongs. Her locks transformed from regal gray to dark brown and she got a tattoo.
To my brother and his friends smoking weed is damned near a religious rite and Legs Diamond openly partook. She also began giving my brother money and driving him around town in her very new and expensive car and for a time things were good. Until my brother decided to cut her loose for a younger woman.
My mother, bless her soul, actually thought she was going to stay out of this debacle until Legs began calling to tell her about how my brother was doing her wrong and used her. Immediately my mother began fussing at my brother who, of course, didn’t want to hear it. When my mother called me to vent I told her what I thought. My brother is an asshole and Legs is an idiot. Sounds harsh, I know. I didn’t then and I still don’t doubt that my brother had used Legs but she also used him… for sex and self worth. She could not have had any expectations of monogamy with my brother who told her and anyone who would listen that he believed in polygamy. (Don’t ask…) As for the money, hey, you can’t buy love and as a woman in your mid 50’s I would expect her to know that.
Her mistake was in thinking that transforming herself into this younger version of herself that my brother would choose her. But, why we he choose a copy of youth when he had access to the real thing. She forgot her power and it isn’t her sex but her experiences and wisdom.
What made her beautiful was her poise and grace not how young her face and slender her waist.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
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.
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.
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