sometimes, longing

sometimes longing looks like obsession and takes the curvatures of long lazy shallow rivers crowned in curling greenery, fingers of trees reaching out to skim the surface of brown waters as a lover reaches out and runs it’s fingers through the hairs of one beloved, dripping poisonous snakes and rare neon blossoms onto and into the press of time that lollygags its way through my memories and sticks to me like humidity left behind. sometimes longing plunges its roots deep into the earth and climbs towards the heavens and a child climbs up it and sits among wide waxen leaves cradled in the gentle arms of a hospitable mother, who offers up blooms sealed in velvet to press to her daughter’s lips, that when opened are as big as her child’s head, fragrant, creamy, professions of affections, confessions of a need to have her there, to be a part of her, to be embedded and rooted in her memory and her daughter’s daughters’ memories. sometimes longing blooms a thousand miles away in curtains of lavender and wafting breezes of wisteria framing a wood that is biding its time to take back the earth silly humanity thinks is theirs, when everything is wild and slightly crazed with a need to decorate itself in some bright finery to catch the attentions of the calling mate to bring newness and wash away some cold winter when the sharp air stung lungs and numbed hearts and we huddled around a hearth for a moment and were completely together. sometimes longing is the city under the sea brass shouting winds embracing the sensuality of a funk and the sweet piles of confectioner’s sugar addictions as much as cocaine to the junkie, the cochon to the gastronome, the musical mistress the artistic melange of spanish french indian black white master slave and the driving drumming rhythms of sundays freed round intonations of yat smattering eardrums and the arms of a kindred spirit who knows all your pains and joys and sorrows and you know theirs and to be there near them quiet is a joy and a privilege and a constant reminder that this world is bigger than our longing, sometimes and small enough to find each other, and maybe ourselves within it.

white privilege

"You know, honey, us colored folks is branches without roots and that makes things come round in queer ways." - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

In discussing Trayvon Martin with a friend the other day, she tells me that Sanford, FL is the next town over from Eatonville, FL, the first all black town founded post Emancipation, and the home of Zora Neale Hurston, playwright, poet, anthropologist, novelist, cultural icon. And Sanford is where a seventeen year old kid was murdered because he wore a hoodie. Because he had Skittles in his hand. He was murdered, because he was black and in a state where shoot first, ask later is a protective mandate.

"White privilege may be defined as the "unearned advantages of being White in a racially stratified society", and has been characterized as an expression of institutional power that is largely unacknowledged by most White individuals". [Neville, H., Worthington, R., Spanierman, L. (2001).Race, Power, and Multicultural Counseling Psychology: Understanding White Privilege and Color Blind Racial Attitudes]

So, if White Privilege is defined by an expression of power that is unacknowledged by white individuals, I take the leap to say that the most blatant example in current events is the murder of Trayvon Martin. White Man assumes he has the privilege to take a life because he doesn't like the way that life looks in his gated community. I've seen people liken the hoodie of today to the trench coat of the 90s. Fuck that. Some maladjusted unpopular kid went into a school and murdered everyone while wearing a trench. Trayvon Martin was walking home and being stalked by a paranoid racist in a gated community. He was. A kid. My kids own hoodies, and I'm not going to stop them wearing them, but I seriously doubt my blonde haired blue eyed baby girls could be deemed threatening to anyone except for maybe their dangercute may induce heart stopping squees, or in a spelling bee, or pokemon tournaments. I'm going to wear my hoodies, but my slightly overweight, pale, freckledy face isn't gonna strike fear in the heart of a weird stalker who will chase me down then shoot me, against the advice of 911 dispatchers, and it'll be ok, because laws protect the shooter, not the shootee.

Now this child's mother gets to hear his screams for help while the killer walks free. She has to petition the Feds to get justice for her son, when if the tables were turned, and he had killed a white man on suspicion, Trayvon would be sitting in prison waiting for grand jury. This nonsense has to stop, all of my people who read, or care. We absolutely have to realize that:

We are all a little racist. What we do with that and how we allow it to inhibit or shape us is what makes this a more open, or less tolerant world.

We do not deserve anything because of our color or nationality or creed or ethos. We don't deserve privileges that go largely unacknowledged. We don't deserve hearing our babies scream for help after they get fucking gatted in broad daylight. We deserve to live and let live and THAT IS IT on this little planet in this one corner of one galaxy in this universe. That is all anyone really truly deserves inherently.

We are more alike than we are different. When we pick apart our differences and live in fear, we become victims of ourselves. Only we can empower us.

At the end of "Sucka Nigga" by A Tribe Called Quest, the Midnight Marauder Tour Guide Says,

"You are not any less of a man if you don't pull the trigger. You're not necessarily a man if you do."

I wish everyone knew that. That the hip hop foundries of the nineties that are the basis for fear (hoodies, sagging pants, gold teeth, fear, fright, whatever) were promoting non-violence. Were promoting acceptance. Were promoting safety. I wish we all knew what I know. It hurts my heart my girls live in a world their friends may be killed because of how they look. Because of how they are born. It's not a world I want them in and it is my job to change it.

If we raise our babies right, we can change the world. We can make the world a place where my blonde haired blue eyed baby girls can wear hoodies and where Trayvon Martin can walk home with a sweet tea and some Skittles and not get capped by a neighborhood vigilante on a power trip.

How do you recognize white privilege or race privilege and what can you do to affect change to make that world a reality? Cos that's our future, y'all. That's the people governing our future. The ones the Zimmermans of the world are shooting based on sight and assumption.

Can't Support Women's Rights; Gotta Bake a Pie

Facebook is rife with little bombs for me, Internets. I'm pretty far left politically, to the point where I've been prayed for after being called a Marxist by my Facebook community at times. Most of the community hails from Mississippi, as do I, so it's not that I'm surprised when this happens, just taken aback or disappointed.

Mississippi really surprised me in November by shutting down an attempt by Personhood, USA to criminalize birth control in Mississippi. All birth control. IUD's. Life saving surgeries for women experiencing ectopic pregnancies. Anything that interferes with a zygote implanting in the uterine wall of a mother, or being removed due to safety concerns. Got that? It was to be the legalization of the murder of women by medical neglect for entities that have not implanted in a uterine wall even. Well, my little ultra conservative Christian state took a stand and told our lawmakers NO! We value life, including our own lives. I was so delighted, elated even.

But, being familiar with the political machine and their tactics, I knew that with the Presidential race gearing up, and the ways laws get pushed through congresses without the approval of the constituency it wasn't the last I'd hear of it from home.

Rick Santorum says states have the right to make that choice anyways, on his nationalized campaign pedestal, which one of my friends who was very active in the movement to stop Personhood in MS put to Facebook as an outcry against potential leaders who would legalize our death and inhibit our sexuality for pundits and "morality". We still say no, and we are still fighting it, but this national exposure is infuriating, until I encounter strange women such as Pink up there.

Pink thinks I am just angry, and have no experience being entrenched in moral debates across the aisle from me. Pink thinks that unmarried women are basically slatterns who consider children a burden and need to have their vaginas controlled because we can't do it for ourselves. Pink is part of the problem, here in 2012, that perpetuates a myth of "Feminazia's" (does that rhyme with Anastasia? Dysplasia? Enlighten me, Pink.), you know, that scourge to society that believes women deserve equal legal, financial, and medical rights to pursue happiness and life. Grown ass women who are alive and contributing to society. We nurses, physicians, lawyers, stay at home mothers. We who have had ectopic emergencies save our lives. We who fight cancer, we who teach children to love one another, we who pray for the decency in others and to raise up the humble and deplore the rich. All us wicked Feminazia.

Pink further thinks that to entertain discourse with we, the wicked, interferes with her ability to get in the kitchen and bake a pie for her boyfriend, a man she is not married to, who has the power to allow her to edit her ability to think for herself by not even knowing he wanted a pie till she baked him one. None of us in the Feminazi Party know how to bake cheesecakes from scratch, or knit scarves for our children, or send them to Easter service in dresses we smocked with our own evil hands.

Pink makes me regret having a critically thinking brain attached to my vagina. One of them obviously has to go in order for me to be a good woman and person and contribute to society.

I'm really sorry, Pink. I'm so sorry I've failed my gratuitous X chromosome and all the Y chromosomes out there and not lived up to what 1957 lay out for me. I'm sorry I required intervention for an ectopic pregnancy while with my former mate. It's obviously because I was errant in my morality and not at all because nature doesn't protect every zygote to fruition in any genus or species. I will keep my mouth shut and my legs closed and barefoot in the kitchen because that's where I'll get my man, and uphold decency for my daughters in this day and age. Please pray for me, Pink. I need your strength and fortitude as I create a world we can all advance ourselves within.

The Technological Evolution of Boyfriends

Two years ago, when I left my baby daddy, I had to get a cell phone. He had cut me off our plan. I made a pittance as a student nurse part time, was a full time student, and would require hundreds of dollars down to get my own cell phone plan at the time. I did what any reasonable ghetto fabulous newly single domestically abused woman would do. I got a Pay as You Go Phone.

It was ok, you know. It served it's purpose. I could be got a hold of, and could get in touch if need be. It wasn't any worse than any other cell phone I'd had. I still had to text a-b-c 1-2-3. It was REALLY EXPENSIVE THOUGH! Especially for what I got. I had to pay $1.00 a day just for the privilege of using it. Each text was fifty cents, if I didn't buy them in bundles. It was minimally functional, but costly, time consuming, and ultimately dissappointing. Kind of like my relationship with Mystery Science Theater (more to that later) aka My Baby Daddy.

After I graduated from nursing school, I was finally free to explore the cell phone world. So many people had Blackberries and iPhones. I wanted to play! I didn't commit for a long time. I wanted to see what my options were. Finally I settled on a smart phone. It had internet access, google, unlimited texting, Facebook. Coincidentally, I started dating a guy who was a major step up for me. He was a college grad, really cute, really smart, a hard worker. He made fun of my "magic phone", mostly my words with friends addiction. Said he wasn't into trendy stuff. Insisted it wasn't worth it, that his old regular phone served it's purpose and his bill wasn't nearabout as high as mine was. I laughed it off, considering him a hater cos he was locked in a contract with some old bobo phone.

I really loved my magic phone, y'all. So many nice features. I've spent several months getting really familiar with it, till I know my way around it without looking. Since then, the android generation of phones have come out. I have not been interested. Nothing would match up with my magic phone. It had everything I needed. I was not convinced with greater picture clarity, with access to all my favorite apps, with a better service plan. I know what I like about my set up and I'm into it.

Two weeks ago, my boyfriend cheated on me with his ex girlfriend. It occurs to me know that if he is the Blackberry to Mystery Science Theater's Go Phone, then my next boyfriend surely is an iPhone or an Android. The thing about technology (and boyfriends) is that yes! It's cute! Man, it's convenient knowing all the little details about this platform. Some of them are pretty amazing. But the fact remains that the technology out there is growing EVERY single day, and it's entire purpose in existing is to BLOW MY FUCKING MIND. And, while it's easy to hang onto this familiar little comfort zone, with all these aspects that are thoroughly explored and part of your language in life, that the new shit is really fun to play with.

It doesn't have to brag about it. It just demonstrates it. I don't have to convince it that it deserves my business. It wants me on it's plan more than anything. It needs me and celebrates my participation in it's success, and looks to me to know how it fails so it can improve. It does not blame me for it's fuckups.

So, goodbye Magic Phone. Hello, evolution.

Just Tell Him He's Ugly

My two daughters were having a very deep discussion after I picked them up from school yesterday. Audrey was complaining that a boy in her class yelled at her and was mean to her. Corrine, the elder, advised her,

"If that boy is mean to you, just tell him he's ugly. That's what I do."

to which Audrey responded,

"Well, he got in my face, and I pushed him down and then I stepped on him."

and Corrine advised, "Well that's awesome, but be sure to tell him he's ugly."

Let me take this moment to say HELL YES! My kids have al*ready* gotten ok with not letting a hater keep them down. But secondly, I'm super proud of my mini bitches. I've also come, vicariously, to the opinion, that being a bitch is one of the best things they can have going on for them for the scope of their lives.

I don't mean bitches in the bitch n moan sense of the word. Nobody likes a whiny bitch. I mean the bullshit it eschews when a woman is in possession of herself enough to carry on about her life whether or not they are approved of.

NOT chasing approval. NOT breaking down over a little speed bump in the road. NOT questioning the motivations of others. FEEDING your own growth and independence. Yes, I think it takes a bitch to turn the world around.

I'd also like to apply this to the male gender. It's recently dawned on me that men love bitches. That nice guy finish last nonsense is just that. Women chase assholes, men chase bitches. A guy I was seeing once was fairly obsessed with a girl who treated him like shit, didn't put out, and left him broken like, years ago. He was nice to me. We had fun together, but he was absolutely hung up on how he was treated by this bitch, and lets it inhibit his growth.

He's not the only one. I treated my ex like shit. I just had no interest in his efforts. He did not do it for me, as much time and effort I spent trying to convince myself otherwise. And he still makes suggestions at me, and does whatever I ask of him, and I wouldn't fuck him with Joan River's pussy.

In fact, all of the guys I know, have dated, been interested in, or even platonic friends who bemoan their relationships to me, ALL of them are obsessed with the bitches in their lives. The women who were not validated by a mere relationship state, and who are independent and proud of it. These men will get drunk and pour over pictures online, or become doe eyed saps in the presence of their exes (and currents), when the women in question were and are literally, cheating, lying, whoring, getting on with their lives bitches. And while the men themselves are doing this hindsight with rose colored lenses, the women are getting better jobs, stronger willed men, and everything they couldn't bring themselves to do with my friends and lovers.

I've been way too fucking nice my entire life, apparently. I'm taking a page out of my kickass kids' books and I'm just gonna tell him he's ugly.

Narcissism in the Morning

As an exercise, I decided to come up with thirty things that are fantastic about me. I got 32. Because I'm a narcissist, I am sharing them with you. I encourage you to make your own. It's really hella fun.

1. I named my kids after goddesses.
2. I laugh. Loudly. At inappropriate times.
3. I quit doing drugs a decade ago.
4. I have really pretty eyes.
5. I'm the biggest book nerd I know.
6. Despite a Lifetime Movie of the Week past, I'm independent and awesome.
7. I can do backbends.
8. My dancing inspired this comment recently; "Your ass does things I didn't know were possible."
9. I consider "fuck" and all it's variations punctuation. I'm still very smart and have standards.
10. I consider love a verb.
11. I survived Spinal Meningitis. Therefor, boys are fair game.
12. I taught ballroom dance.
13. I make people laugh, even when they are dying, or crying.
14. I worry incessantly.
15. I was bathing a dirty old man once when I was a student nurse. He groped my ass and died the next day. It's that awesome.
16. I can ride a horse and a 4Wheeler.
17. I'm a dead shot, but hate handguns.
18. I give blood in my patients' names.
19. I can talk myself into and out of any mood.
20. My friends trust and love me enough to testify for me if necessary.
21. I will *always* try to find the answer. Therefore, I'm always questioning.
22. I make up words. So did Shakespeare.
23. I love being a nurse.
24. I spend 90% of my waking hours taking care of, comforting, and loving others.
25. I know every word of Forrest Gump.
26. I speak fluent kitty cat.
27. I can talk to anyone, about anything.
28. I'm writing a book. Any similarities to actual people or events are purely coincidental.
29. I develop crushes easily and thoroughly.
30. I'm ok with going without makeup.
31. My teeth are straight and I've never had braces.
32. My life is fantastic and I'm excited to watch it get better all the time.

Straight, No Chaser

You know, there are only so many shots of tequila a girl can do before she's dancing, by herself, in the midst of a wide open empty floor, to booty music interludes between the emo wristcutting renditions of karaoke Chili Peppers. And apparently, that many for me is somewhere between two and seven.

I was informed the next day that my three hours spent dancing while leaving my decidedly Segzy but entirely un Byachlike designated driver to people watch and field questions from a brigade of my friends by himself, was stupid looking. A lone girl grooving by herself with every ounce of her never getting out soul looks strange when any other people who may decide to grace the dance floor are doing so in the one-two manner of rhythmless white folks everywhere. I'll take it as a compliment, honestly. I may have looked stupid but it is relative stupidity. I looked stupid only because I was rocking out, and everyone else was Rockaway. The sheer awesome of my flailing eclipsed the bored back and forth of everyone else. But I was probably too inebriated to notice at the time, anyways.

Other things I failed to notice on this particular night of debauchery include knives being pulled, a la West Side Story, my Freddie Krueger hat being pinched by no fewer than three people and the car window and STILL managing to make it home with me, that four inch stilettos and fourteen tequila shots are probably not the best mix for ambulation, and that my bartender failed to charge me for god knows how many drinks. Bless her bleach blonde heart.

See, this is what happens when you don't get out much. The buzz which occurs completely blinds you to things that totally warrant attention, as outlined above. MAN! I missed it all, but did I? No, I really didn't miss it. I don't miss it. I was doing one of the things that I count highest among my hobbies, which also included a hip hop rumba thing with an excellent and incredibly gay man. (Gay men are my favorite dance partners. I have no qualms whatsoever about getting down when being led by a skilled homo.) At any rate, how can you miss something you never were aware of? Like Scout Finch, who only missed reading when the right was removed from her, how can you miss breathing? You just do it. How do you miss amazing Brews of Our Lives drama unfold when you're busy being enveloped in your own universe of musculature manifestations?

That being said, gratuitous apologies to my DD for ignoring him, to my friends for having to purloin me from empty dance floors in order to garner my support for their own karaoke needs, and to the people who were utterly pwn'd in their attempts to dance by my fantastically fantastic interpretive art.

LOVE YOU BYACHES! <3