Flight

Flight fascinates me. Each time I fly, I am in awe of how an airplane is crafted to give man wings. How we defied nature and learned to fly. We have exceeded that of birds in that we can put hundreds of people aboard an airplane, have multiple airplanes in the air at one time, and we have mastered how to do this safely. We have created this intricate web of air travel that allows us to traverse the globe. Think about what it takes to fly; it’s amazing! And it speaks to the genius of mere mortals.

But Man is both brilliant and stupid at the same time. We have the intellectual capacity to fly in the sky, but we have not figured out how to put out heads together and get along on the ground. Why is that? How can we be so smart and so dumb? Why do we hate and disrespect each other so much when we’re on the ground? Why are we bearing witness to the atrocities of Man against Man? We are humans who have lost our humanity.

Every time I fly, I notice the kaleidoscope of people moving through the airport, hopping on and off planes. We are every race and creed on the planet. We are young and old. We travel for business and for pleasure. We travel with family and friends. We travel alone. We are part of the world. We are pieces of the fabric that is our society. The pilot, the flight attendants and passengers are all blanketed by the same prayer: to make it to our destination safely. We are not thinking about the superficial barriers that separate us.  

But once we land, our differences move front and center and start to divide ourselves. The fabric that binds us in the sky starts to fray at the edges as we snatch and pull away from each other. We think that we are different—better in some way. We separate ourselves into opposing teams. We become Us and They, and whoever is not Us, is automatically They, and They (who ever They are that’s different from Us is the enemy). And we treat them that way.

What will it take to soar above our differences when we’re on the ground? I wonder?

The Plight of the Light-Skinned Black Man: President Obama’s Other Problem

A play. A book. A movie. And a host of disparaging comments against the POTUS has me pondering the plight of the light-skinned Black man in America. 

 As the next election nears, I am taken back to the days following the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president of the United States when so many of us were caught up in the magic  of the moment—that Change had indeed come. But as much as things have changed, much has remained the same and America’s race problem is colored by its complex relationship with complexion. 

I believe that some of the criticism of Obama’s presidency is cloaked in colorism and sexism--something that we either are not aware of or simply not willing to talk about. But I think looking at the role of color of complexion, and how it relates to our definition of masculinity can explain some our discontent and/or ambivalence to the President. 

I’m amazed at how often we speak about race, but remain mute on issues of color even though there is a color hierarchy in place in America. We talk about racism, but we don’t talk much about its first cousin-colorism. In the book, The Color Complex—The Politics of Skin Color Among African Americans, the authors suggests that skin color bias is not a thing of the past. “Beneath a surface of Black solidarity lies a matrix of attitudes about skin color and features. . .”

Too often any examination of colorism is through the lens of gender and how it relates to women—especially dark-skinned women of color.  Rarely do we discuss the impact of color and those of lighter hues nor do we discuss how it affects men at all. But some recent cultural experiences brought the ideal of colorism and light-skinned men, particularly the President, to the forefront of my mind. 

Yellowman, a play that was the 2002 Pulitzer Prize finalist for drama, examines the color stratifications in the African-American community. It is the story of Eugene and Alma, childhood friends who fall in love but whose relationship is ultimately doomed because of the color caste system embedded in the African-American community. The title takes its cue from Eugene, born to a light-skinned mother and dark-skinned father, and hated by his father because his father thinks Eugene’s complexion gives him an unfair advantage. Color looms large in their relationship and takes a devastating toll on it.

When Obama was poised to be our next president, I remember hearing Radio Personality Tom Joyner joke that light-skinned brothers were back in again. And those of us that understood the inside joke laughed along. But we didn’t discuss his and other comments that can shed light on an issue that has long haunted us. Raised by his white grandparents in Hawaii, and living out the American dream by ascending to the highest office in this nation, President Obama has been naive about race and its implications in America, but has first-hand knowledge now.

I listened to the rhetoric about Obama being ready to be POTUS, and I questioned if we were really ready for him. He was the ideal African-American presidential candidate who had ascended the slippery slope of race and color by being light enough to appeal to white voters while also being black enough to appease black voters. While white America is more accepting of a less menacing looking (darker) Black man, black America needs some sure signs of melanin. Even though the president is bi-racial, his dark brown wife and his adorable daughters made us sigh with relief that he was a “real” black man.

I enjoy reading Black Historical Romance, and while reading Passion’s Furies, I was returned once again to the plight of the light-skinned Black man. In this story, Solomon Dikembe, a wealthy mulatto businessman is charged with insulating Jacinta McIver, a free woman of color, from harm. Jacinta is secretly working with Denmark Vessey’s slave rebellion. Solomon has the means to protect Jacinta and he supports the revolution, but his mixed-race heritage causes Jacinta to distrust him. Though the story is fiction, there are elements that are true even today. There is a level of dislike and distrust in the African-American community for those among us with less melanin in their skin. We both admire and envy them and it’s been that for hundreds years, and the irony of a light-skinned Black man in the Oval Office is not going to change that.

We thought we had the best of both worlds, only to find that old, die-hard feelings around race and color have reared their ugly heads—again! What begin as the perfect picture to the American public has turned against Obama. His none threatening presence the light coloring, intellect, and charisma have turned on him. He is a charlatan and a tool of good old boys network. Cornell West’s tirade surfaced feelings had been dormant. West couched his language in political rhetoric but it was ultimately a sophisticated name calling of Obama as a house Negro alluding to the tension and distrust that has exist among African Americans since miscegenation created the tragic mulatto and all of its deviations.

Those of mixed-race backgrounds or lighter coloring have had advantages since the days of slavery, but it has not come without a price. Many of our leaders and firsts have been fair in complexion carrying the burden of race and color. In The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Malcolm shared his conflicted feelings about his complexion—thinking it was a status symbol, but feeling his mother’s pain of being a child of rape and ultimately hating his White heritage, and his father, though dark skinned, was not immune to the effects of colorism. “Father was belligerent toward all the children except me. . .I actually believe that as anti white as my father was, he was subconsciously so afflicted with the white man's brainwashing of Negroes that he inclined to favor the light ones and I was his lightest child."

What role did color play in these relationships? Did Malcolm’s father marry his wife because of her nearness to White? Did Malcolm marry Betty in an effort to dilute his Whiteness? Was color a factor in the marriage of Barack and Michelle? To deny that color does not play a role in our interactions with another is to deny a part of our reality.

We have a racist and sexist perception of what a “real” Black man is, and a light-skinned Black man ain’t it. First of all, as a society we don’t even want to acknowledge Black men as men. We refer to them as boys and/or males. And then when we want a Black man to “man up”, we want him to be the stereotypical Big Scary Black (dark) Man—an image that is unfortunately worldwide. I was reminded of this when I watched the movie, The Intouchables, the story of a quadriplegic, wealthy Frenchman who hires an ex-con as his live-in caretaker. The care-taker character, Driss, is played by a strapping Black man who uses his size and color to intimidate. And as I sat there watching the movie, I wondered what the real caretaker looked like. And at the end of the movie, I was not surprised to see that he was neither Big nor Black, but was actually short, chubby and a person of color, but not identifiably Black. He didn’t fit the stereotype.

The irony of the light-skinned Black man is that he can never be light enough or Black enough to be considered a “real” man. In the case of our President, it is this “otherness” working against him. There was the obsession with his birth certificate, and then there were the finger-pointing incidents with Congressman Joe Wilson and Governor Jan Brewer who reacted to the president in a display of disrespect that would not have happened to a White man in America.

And let’s not forget, Bill Maher’s disappointment that the President is not more “gangster” in his blackness, and that if Obama were “fully black” and not just “half black”, he might be a better president. Comedian DL Hughley said that the President’s intellectual response to matters makes him “closer to being a White kid.” There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground for light-skinned Black men.We either accuse them of being part of the status quo or of  becoming revolutionaries and hooking up with dark sisters to compensate for their pale pigmentation. We don't seem to want to just let them be.

As a teacher, I have seen colorism played out in my classroom. I remember  two light-skinned boys' narratives that stay with me. One felt like he had to fight all the time to prove his worth because he wasn't "man enough" to the other boys. The other student was so moved by a conversation that we had on colorism that his mother called and thanked me. She said she didn't know what I had said to her son, but that whatever it was made a positive impression on him. My students learned that some of the issues they faced were not of their own doing, and our conversations around color gave them permission to be OK with who they were, and that's where we need to be in this country.

 President Obama faces issues of race and color because America has a color problem. And we are all affected by it. Either we are judging or being judged on the superficiality of skin color.

Moving Toward Peace

My mother lay curled up in the bed watching TV, or maybe like me—the TV is watching her. As the sounds of the church program drone on in the background, my mother looks to be deep in thought. I look at her fragile form cocooned in the center of the bed—the only place she wants to be—and my mind takes me back to one of my favorite stories that she used to tell.

Coming home from work on the second shift one night, she boarded the front of a standing-room only bus. Holding on to the pole with one hand and her purse secured in the fold of her other arm, she felt something move against her and turned to look. A man had his hand in her purse. Reminiscent of a scene taken right out of Langston Hughes "Thank You Ma'am" when Roger tried to snatch Luella Bates Washington Jones purse, the tables turned on my mother's would-be-thief. 

As the words, “You roguish motherfucker!” rolled off her tongue, my mother drew back and left-hand slapped him. “If you steal from me, you’ll steal from your momma.” SLAP! “It’s a hundred passengers on this bus. Why you single me out?” SLAP! “Cuz I’m small?” My mother said the people on the bus watched in stunned silence, but parted like the Red Sea as she slapped the man from the front of the bus to the back. The bus stopped. The driver opened the door, the guy exited, and my mother went on home.

Like Schroeder’s blanket, this story comforts me as I adjust to this period of change for her and me. The mother I remember is the one from the bus: strong-willed, resilient, and tenacious and with a tongue that cut like a fine blade. I’m trying to get used to this “little old lady” lying in the bed, and it’s a struggle for me. Like many children, I believed my mother to be Invincible and Immortal. But the reality is that she is neither.

A solid-size 12-14, I bought my mother some pants recently and I was shocked when the 6 was too big. I know she had lost weight, but there was no way to know how much because she wears pajamas all the time. Because my mother was still going to the farm to pick fresh fruits and vegetables into her early 70s, I was not prepared for that trip down the one-way street to old age in her late 70s. The signs have been visible: rails in the bathroom, the portable toilet, putting her meds in the weekly container every Sunday morning so she knows what to take and when, but I rally against her aging and I am losing.

My mother says she’s tired. She says she has lived her life. And my feelings vacillate with this notion of her believing that her life is done. Sometimes I’m angry, other times, I’m sad, but always I am thankful for her 80 plus years on the planet even though I want her to live to be 100.  The adult in me knows that her declining health is taking its toll; the child in me wants her to be the fighter that she used to be. But who am I to dictate how she lives her last days? My mother has always been one tough cookie, and maybe, just maybe she is tired of fighting. 

My mother has made her peace with God and her time on this earth. And I am working on making peace with my mother.

Violence in America

"I like everyone else am saddened and angry about the deaths in Colorado yesterday.... and yet i am equally saddened that at the death of 12 innocent people in Colorado the whole Nation responded, Eric Holder flys in,the President responds immediately, every news anchor and Network station stays on it 24/7 .....BUT THAT IS A TYPICAL WEEKEND IN CHICAGO and the Nation is silent.........WHY??????????" Father Michael Pfleger of St. Sabina Church

The loss of innocent lives to senseless violence is tragic and horrific. The violence in Colorado clearly shows that something is wrong in our society. And the violence in blighted urban communities also shows that America is plagued by violence. 

 Communities are broken and wounded by unrelenting violence in cities across America. A child outside playing while her mother sells candy doesn’t deserve to die anymore than a young man celebrating his 27^th birthday at a midnight movie showing. And yet, the violence in urban areas only captures headlines in local media where as the violence in Colorado captured not only the attention of the nation, but the world as well. Responses from President Obama, and Presidential opponent Mitt Romney were swift. Media coverage has been 24/7. Why?

Is violence in inner cities more acceptable because that’s what’s expected? Why are we numb to the daily toll that violence takes but continue to be shocked and outraged by the actions of one who methodically plans an attack that kills people? Have we been lulled into a sense of safety that has been shattered by this shooting? The Colorado shooting is a grim reminder that none of us are safe. We can run, but we can’t hide from the violence erupting in cities across America. We forget that that which implodes will eventually explode. 

When the blood of innocent people is spilled in a crowded movie theater or on the street on a hot summer night, those in mourning want to know that the rest of the world cares no matter what the zip code of the victim is. We’re all in this together. We need to recognize that.

My heart goes out the families of victims of violence regardless of their zip code.

Praying for Pariahs

It seems like one of the "Jesus" people has done it again. Perusing the internet recently, I ran across an article about a Christian principal of a public high who school who resigned after making controversial comments during a school assembly. She is said to have remarked that gay students were going to hell and pregnant teens lives were over.

The principal reminds me of the mother in the film, Pariah. Audrey, a devout Christian, and devoted but strict parent is so consumed with her daughter’s budding sexuality that she is blind to her own disintegrating marriage. Pariah, a multi-faceted coming-of-age story will probably turn many potential viewers away because of its subject matter, but the story is so much bigger than Alike, the central character’s sexual preference. Alike must come to terms with all aspects of her burgeoning self while trying to please her parents, please her friends and everyone else. Isn’t that what we all struggle with as we grow into our own?

There’s a pivotal scene in the movie when Audrey learns that Alike is a lesbian and Audrey loses her self-imposed rigid control. Later when Alike attempts to reconcile and says to her mother, “I love you,” Audrey responds, “I’ll pray for you”and walks out of her daughter’s life.

Alike is a brilliant student, an excellent writer and a seemingly good daughter—her “problem”: she likes girls. Watching the scene I don’t know who I felt worst for—daughter or her mother. And even though Pariah is movie, there are so many pariahs in real life.

Once during a book club gathering, we got into this heated debate about homosexuality. So, I said to one of my friends who has children, what if one of your children were gay. And you would have thought I was in the room with Linda Blair in The Exorcist as fast as her head whipped around to tell me, “Don’t that on my children!” I quickly retreaded and used my nieces and nephews as an example instead because I don't have children. I love all of my nieces and nephews to life. I told her if one of them happened to be gay I couldn't see myself loving them any less.

Another time I was talking to a woman who was upset because her son had been looking at male-on-male pornography. During the course of the conversation I asked what if that was his preference, and she said, “I don’t believe in that.” I didn’t offer a rebuttal; I just listened. And I don’t know what ultimately happened with her son. But I wonder what will happen if is in fact gay.

“I don’t believe in that,” was the same thing my Christian co-worker and friend said when we had a situation involving two girls from our classroom. It wasn’t so up-close-and-personal, plus it was creating havoc at work, so I said to her that it wasn’t about her morals or values. We had a problem that was getting of hand and we needed to address it. We had to have a conversation with our students about respect and how to treat people period. A male student confided in me that he had been sexually propositioned by another male student,so I shared my concern with a male colleague who refused to address the issue because he said homosexuality doesn't exist in Africa.

This gay-bashing by religious zealots baffles because I have yet to figure out how homosexuality became the sin of all sins. Some many people sin on Saturday and show up to church on Sunday, but we’re not as quick to send them to hell in gasoline drawers. It’s gay people's sexuality that bothers us and I don’t understand why because heterosexuals engage in the same activities with or without spouses or sometimes with someone else's spouses. Are they going to hell as well?

Gay people didn’t fall out of the sky. They belong to us—they’re our family, friends, colleagues and neighbors. How does the the right to judge super cede the right to love? So while we’re praying for the pariahs in our midst, we need to pray that God blesses the rest of us with some compassion. Lord knows we need it.

Whitney: A Reflection

While many people sat glued to their TVs watching the funeral services for Whitney Houston, I went about my day. I had a full agenda that day so I knew that I would not be tuning in. Not that I had planned to. I don’t like funerals. So, I am not in the habit of watching any of the funeral and/or memorial services for well-known people.

Like so many others I am shocked and saddened by Whitney Houston’s death. I am grappling with her passing because I feel like I grew up with Whitney. We were born in the same year. I recently celebrated my 49th birthday. Whitney didn’t live to see hers. It is disturbing when someone your age dies because your immortality is staring you in the face.

Her death reminds me of the way we love in the African-American community. Hard. Strong. Unforgiving at times, but forgiving in the end. We place our icons on pedestals, and when they fall, they hurt themselves and they hurt us. But we rebound take and them back with open arms no matter how far down they have fallen. It was this way with Whitney.

When Whitney first appeared on the scene we loved her Golden Voice; she belonged to us. But when she crossed over, we got upset. Never mind that it was about the dollar, to us it was about loyalty. She was a “sell-out.” Then she married “Bad Boy” Bobby Brown and got her black card black. Then her star started falling, and all you could hear was the tsk, tsk, tsk tongue sucking comments of those standing in judgment.

All is forgiven in her passing. We are fiercely protective of the image that we want to project of our beloved Whitney—a sharp contrast to the one we feel is being forced on us by the media. All they want to talk about is the crash and burn where as we want her to be remembered as the shining star that she was.

In the days following her death, everybody with an opinion has an opinion on Whitney— her drug use, her relationship with Bobby--you name it somebody has something to say. The truth is we will never know what really killed Whitney Houston. We’ll learn what the toxicology reports say, but we’ll never really know why Whitney Houston died that night. And when learn the “cause of death” will it make her any less dead? Will it soothe the souls of those who loved her?

There are those who are saying that her family and friends didn’t do enough. Somebody should have intervened. Again, we stand on high looking down. Who among us doesn’t know someone in need of an intervention— drugging, gambling, drinking, beating or being beaten? How many of us step in? Or do we stay on the side lines and watch them self destruct? And we have the audacity to talk about what someone else should be doing?

I have never done drugs in my life. I’m not bragging. It is simply a fact of my life. I grew up when crack ravished urban communities—mine included. People who I went to school with are either dead or dead-walking looking for the next hit. My first love is strung out on drugs. He was brilliant, and I believe that he could have been anything he wanted to be. I see him and I am sad and angry at what his life has become. I want him to get his life together. I am also humbled by and thankful for what mine has become. Only by the grace of God have I not followed the same path.

We were all rooting for Whitney’s comeback because we don’t like to give up on one of our own. But the heart-wrenching lesson is that we don’t always get what we want no matter how much we want it, especially for someone else. Whitney Houston is gone, but her legacy will live forever. Her death forces me to reckon with what my legacy will be.

When Black is a Bad Thing

“Act your age, not your color.”
Old saying in the African-American community.

I clearly remember hearing older Black people warning those of thought to be acting out to “act our age and not our color.” And though I found it odd even as a child, I never questioned the adults who uttered these words that have stuck in my psyche all these years. It has taken time to grapple with and come to some understanding of the meaning of a statement that was meant as an admonishment against inappropriate behavior, but was actually a thinly disguised veil for yet another layer of self-loathing that so many of us African Americans find ourselves so tightly wrapped in it that we don’t even realize we’re choking on it.

This article hit the proverbial nail on the head about being “too black” whatever that is, which is opposite of not being “black enough.” In my forty something years of blackness, I have yet to learn what is the exact degree of blackness needed to simply just be who we are with no apologizes to the rest of the world.

We have gone from colored to Negro to Black to Afro American to African American, from the ghetto as a place to a state of mind. But through it all, the painful truth is we have always been the niggers of American society I don’t care how much we try to run away from it. We’ve tried burying it, and calling it the N word. But what America believes about us in this pretend age of post racialism, we also own. Ouch! That hurts. But we live with it.

I know black people who will tell you point blank how much they hate niggers following the whole Chris Rock, there’s-a-difference-between-Blacks and niggers routine. And although I wanted to slide under the table when my friend explained his I-hate-niggers philosophy to our white co-workers, I felt the same feelings of animosity wash over me when I woke up in the middle of the night to hear my car alarm going off and I saw the shattered glass of the passenger side of my car window. In that moment I hated Them who had violated Me.

The duality that W.E.B. DuBois spoke of so many years ago is true today. I have fought valiantly with the duality of my existence, and I am not always clear on who the victor is as I look for oneness in the many reflections of what it means to be Black in America. I have been the woman in this article—acting my age and not my color--because to act Black was to discredit the race. Even though, at the time, I understood it to be “being raised right.”

I grew up on the idea of speaking “proper” English and I had a “snobbish” attitude about it looking down my nose at those who did not speak the King’s English. In my early years as a teacher, I noticed that my students consistently made the same grammatical errors, and my perplexity sent me on a journey to find out why. What I learned about African-American English Vernacular (AAEV), was life changing. Contrary to rumors about Ebonics, we are a bi-lingual people. And so I accept that I have a mother tongue as well as a second learned language. And while I am fine with it, it doesn’t sit well with some of my family, friends or colleagues. It’s a constant battle to reconcile two tongues and be ok with it in front of non-black people.

Once I wanted to strangle a friend of mine in heated debated about the validity of AAEV. Although he acknowledged that it existed, and that he and his wife spoke it, it was adamant about his children not speaking it which was stupid because they live in to house with him and so they will absorb it as he did. I thought that his public denouncement of AAEV gave others permission to continue to devalue our culture.

Another time an upper middle class friend of mine, the daughter of a doctor back in the day when the title meant something, was irritated by my use of the vernacular “ax” in the front of a White woman. First of all, my sister drilled “ask” into my head as a child and I can remember a White woman remarking that I was the only Black person she ever heard actually say ask with a “k” sound and not an “x” sound. So, I was usually conscious of articulating the “k” sound, But I guess on that day during our three person wring group—the two of us and the instructor--I took off my educated cap and slipped into the comfort of the vernacular and committed the unthinkable.

It’s been years since the incident, but I can still feel the sting of her comment not because I said in front of a White woman but because I embarrassed a Black woman in front of a White woman.

I am a teacher. I am a writer. I love words. I love language and I have grown to appreciate all of its varieties and I try to teach it that way. Language is constantly changing and evolving just as we are as people.

And language is only one obstacle to learning to love and not loath who we are as African-American people. Everything we do is under the microscope. As a child, I loved the TV show The Monkeys, and my nieces and I often monkey walked down the street. One year we went on a cruise, and it was Kerokee night. I wanted to do the Monkeys, but my niece refused. She said she would not give white people permission to call us apes when that’s what they thought of us anyway. I know people who won’t eat watermelon or bananas in the presence of non-white people. The list goes on as to what we won’t do to identify with being “too black” which translates into “ghetto” which translates into “niggerish”—non of which any self-respecting African American would want to be associated with.

It has taken time to be comfortable in my skin—all aspects of it. I’ve reached a place where I don’t care what others think because if a person is prejudiced or bigoted in any way, my actions will not change the feelings in their heart. So, when a foot-stomping, head bobbing, finger-snapping song comes on while I’m driving, I like to turn the radio up and sing and dance along. And for those who find my behavior deplorable because it feeds the beast—the stereotype of the singin’/dancin’ happy, but clueless Negro, I make no apologies for “neither acting my age nor my color.” I’m not tiptoeing around stereotypes; I’m living my life out loud.

Why Color Still Matters

If you’re white, you’re alright
If you’re yellow, that’s mellow
If you’re brown, stick around
If you’re black, get back
Old saying in the African-American community

For two days, I sat in auditoriums filled with a kaleidoscope of black people--a living document of our mixed heritage. The first night I was at DuSable Museum and the audience was made up mostly of adult women waiting to watch the Dark Girls documentary. Not widely advertised, the movie had been listed under the museum’s events and spread via social networking and word of mouth. Due to overwhelming demand for another showing, in less than 24 hours, one of the auditoriums at Ice Theaters was filled to capacity. The second night was still mostly women, but also sprinkled with men and children. Standing room only, a makeshift bench and folding chairs were set up to accommodate the overflow. And we all wanted the same thing: understanding and healing around an issue that has plagued us far too long.

A woman in the audience at Ice Theaters said when she’d heard about the film, she thought that the issue was archaic. She said she wondered why we’re still talking about it in 2011. I shook my head at the thought. This subject matter is not archaic, but real and relevant and we need to talk about it. The fact that it’s been taboo for so long is why it has become a more insidious issue. It’s like a poisonous vapor permeating our being. And it’s time to talk it out and toss it out of our psyche.

Every day, I see the harm our silence is costing us. When I first became a teacher in the 90s, there was a beautiful young dark skinned girl in my class who told me that her color was a curse, and that nobody could tell her otherwise because no one else was as dark as she. I had light complected boys who felt like they had to fight to prove their “blackness” much like our President has to do today. I had another girl who hated another student because of the texture of the girl’s hair. In a heated argument, she yelled at her, “So what you got Indian in your family!” A group of girls threatened to cut the face and hair of a light skinned classmate because of something she had no control over. The stories are endless. Our children have learned to hate themselves from us.

Much of what’s wrong with our youth is an innate sense of self-loathing from the internalization of eurocentrism. What we fail to accept about perceived ideas of standards, is that if we have a superior standard, then we must have an inferior standard. So, if Europe is the pinnacle of all that’s beautiful then the antithesis of that would be Africa in a world where only white and black exists. Colorism is a by-product of racism, but it lives and breathes because we have not made peace with our past.

One of the experts in the film said that we are the keepers of our soul, and it’s time for us to become better care takers. We owe it to ourselves and our children.

The Hierarchy of Love

The movie, I Will Follow is as much a meditation on loving as it is on grieving. We follow Maye as she packs up her recently deceased aunt’s house and prepares to leave and return her own life. A cast of characters pass through and help her to reconcile her aunt’s death and begin life anew.

The aunt, Amanda, an eccentric character and professional drum player who dreamed of playing in a rock band, succumbed to breast cancer. The two had a close, loving relationship that demonstrates the complexity of how we love. As a naïve little girl, I thought love was love, but I grew up to learn that even in loving there is a hierarchy. The greatest love is reserved for mothers, then fathers as evidenced by how much more attention we give to Mother’s Day than we do to Father’s Day. After all, it is mothers who bring us into the world and we should love them the most, right?

After parents then it’s siblings and after that we have to figure out who’s next on the tier for our affection. In the extended family there are grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces nephews and in-laws. Figuring out where everyone fits is tricky. The hierarchy changes when we marry and have children and so we shift and shuffle the ways in which we love and oftentimes things get complicated like they did for Maye when we break rank.

We meet Fran, Amanda’s daughter and the tension between the cousins is immediate. Aunt and niece had the kind of relationship that should have belonged to the mother and daughter, but didn't. Amanda and Maye's relationship went against the hierarchy and Fran resented Maye for that. At one point, Fran asks Maye if she has ever thought that the very qualities that she loved about Amanda didn’t make her the best mother. Fran also demands that Maye give her all of Amanda’s things because they belong to Fran and her children because she’s the daughter. The movie never reveals what happened between mother and daughter nor does it ever tell us anything about Maye’s mother.

Love isn’t the same for everyone; it can complicate, create confusion or cause pain when someone loves out of order. So,I wonder about our capacity to love. Is it limitless and boundless, or are there known but unspoken restrictions? How do we love? Do we do it differently depending on the family pecking order? What happens when relationships change? Or order isn’t followed?

Mae is single with no children. Fran is married with three children. So, did Fran’s sense of obligation to her immediate family prevent her from being there for her mother? Mae loved her aunt so much that she left her boyfriend and moved to another state to be with her aunt. During a phone conversation, Maye asks him why wasn’t he there for her and he said that he couldn’t just pack up his life and move away like she did.

Like Maye, I am also single and childless and I wonder what this means for me on the hierarchy of love. What do I do if my hierachy is missing a tier or two?

A Dangerous Place

“The most dangerous place for an African American is in the womb.” Really? The billboard stirred up so much controversy when it was put up in New York that it was taken down. I look at this ad in jaw-dropping amazement at the audacity of Life Always, the pro-life organization behind this mastermind. This is not simply an issue of women having abortions; it’s so much deeper than that.

The intent was to draw attention to the alarming number of African-American women undergoing abortions, but it missed the mark. This is a child. A little girl. Not a fetus in utero. This billboard implicates all African-American women—child bearing or not—in an act of incompetency. We’re damned if we abort and damned if we carry to term depending on which statistics you want to give credence to.

Is it our perceived hyper-sexuality and irresponsibility that makes Big Brother feel the need to watch our wombs telling us what to do and when? History shows that our fertility has never been ours to own. So, I wonder if and when we’ll be thought of as capable of making our own decisions regarding our bodies?

Just recently I was speaking with a friend of mine about her co-worker who had suffered a miscarriage. A struggling single mother of two, neither of thinks she should have another baby until she can better provide for them. Who are we to tell a woman what she needs to do when we don’t stand in her shoes?

“The most dangerous place for an African American is in the womb.” Wow! I don't know if I should bless or curse my existence.

Seating Arrangements

As we move through the remainder of the holiday season, many of us look back at the year for lessons learned and plan for the year ahead. What do we need to do to make the new year better than the current one? As we reflect, now is a good time to think about the seating arrangement in this stage of our lives.

Is it time to rearrange some seats in our life? Are there people front and center who might need to be moved a few rows back? Are there people on the main floor who need to take their place in the balcony? Are there people on the sides who need move up and in a few rows? Do you need a few fold able chairs for the people who come and go? Who needs to be in the nosebleed seats? Who doesn't deserve a seat at all? Are you still reserving seats for people who fail to show up?

The seating arrangements in our lives will change; very few chairs (if any) should be permanently assigned because we need to assign seats as needed in order to evolve into the people we are meant to be.

What seats need to be changed in your life?

Girl on Girl Love?

I know it can’t just be me, but for the past few years I’ve been noticing a disturbing trend among mostly some African-American women. Sometimes my thinking can be a little unorthodox. This might be one of those times. Recently I was out to dinner with my twin goddaughters, their mother and brother, and I noticed a couple sitting at the table next to us. She was light-skinned twenty-something woman with shoulder length black hair. I wouldn’t have paid them much mind except she had a mustache which kept drawing my attention to her face. Her other half had left and when He returned to the table, I realized that He was a She--slim build, locks at the nape of the neck left hanging and some in the top swooped up into a ponytail. “She” had on a white t-shirt, and slim jeans—a common outfit among African-American males. I asked my friend if she thought they were a couple and she said yes which confirmed my thinking, but there was no proof. They could have just been two friends out having dinner, but this phenomenon was something that I’ve witnessed frequently and there was no doubt that the two were a couple. Now before we get to the part about me being anti gay and anti lesbian, I’m not. People love who they love.

What’s disturbing about this trend is not the same-sex relationships, but the nature of the relationship. In the type of couplings that I’m speaking of, the “male” tries especially hard to evoke his manhood from the haircut, to the style of dress complete with sagging jeans and boxers showing, to the way He takes the lead in the relationship. One couple was shopping. He paid for the shoes and carried the boxes. Another twosome was sitting so close at the table that they only need one seat. This isn’t Nick and Jules in The Kids Are Alright or Hillary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry. This is Snoop from The Wire in real life, and they’re trying hard to imitate heterosexual couples. It’s like they’re playing dress-up, only they believe that it’s the real thing.

With all of the negative statistics about the state of black male/female relationships, I wonder if some women have resigned themselves to not having a “real” man so this is the next best thing to one. I’ve seen lesbian couples of different nationalities, but only among African-Americans have I seen this level of hyper masculinity that screams, “Look at me! And that’s what concerns me. Who’s trying to dupe who? Are the “males” transgender or gay? Are the females lesbian, bisexual or something else? Is this self-expression? Is it proof that sexuality is fluid and not stagnant like we’ve been taught to believe? Or is this another way to castrate the Black male image?

What's a Girl to Do?

It began with an innocent comment on Facebook. Someone sent me a request to sign a petition against Target's support of a right wing political candidate, and I made a joke and said, "No Walmart, no Target, what's a girl supposed to do?"

There were two responses to my statement: I was advised to shop at Costco because they're owned by decent people, and it was also suggested that I patronize my local vendors.Even though both comments make perfectly good sense,I had to shake my head and laugh at the absurdity of it all. Something that began innocently has morphed into an internal debate about what do I do, really?

There has been a boycott of Walmart because of its unfair labor practices, and if there's no Walmart (which I'm not a big fan of anyway), then there's also no Sam's Club shopping since they are both owned by the Walmart family. And so, even though Walmart is cheaper, I honor the boycott and shop elsewhere. My co-worker had a computer notebook, and I asked her where she bought it because I'm in the market for one, and she said Walmart. I told her I didn't shop at Walmart, and explained my reason, and she said she likes to shop at Walmart and save her money. She said the notebook and some other items cost her $400.00 at Walmart, and the same items would have cost about $600.00 at Walmart.

The stores closest to me are Walgreens, Target and Jewel Osco, and I struggle with shopping in the blighted area where I live because the quality and quantity of vendors is lacking. The dollar circulates in the African-American community only once before leaving, and so I shop to keep to keep businesses in my community even when I have to ask for items that are housed under lock and key. I shop in my community when the store hours posted say 7:00 p.m. and the door is locked at 6:52, and I have to show the clerk the time on my phone so that she can open the door. Sometimes I don't shop where I live because the customer service because I know deserve better, but how will my community thrive as it once did if the people who live there shop elsewhere? What is my political stance because I have to take one.

I like Costco, but shopping there requires a membership fee, and it is not in close proximity to my home. So, I have to spend more time and money to shop there. It's only me, so I don't buy in large quantities so I don't know if I get much bang for my buck, but I can shop there if I want.If I want to travel I can go to Whole Foods or Treasure Island, too. I have options should I choose to exercise them, but what about people who have limited or no options--the ones who may not have the extra cash to spend or the transportation to travel outside of the 'hood?

Even on Facebook, I am reminded of the growing chasm between the "haves" and the "have nots" in our society and it's an settling like something I ate that didn't properly digest and is churning around in my stomach. I live in two worlds and they do collide. I don't want to support unfair labor practices, nor do I want to send the message that it's ok to support political candidates,but I also want to see my community thrive, and so I ask again, what's a girl supposed to do?

Trigger

The rhythmic thump-thump of a beating heart in Rihanna’s Russian Roulette reverberates through me as the hypnotic lyrics pulsate in my brain. If you play, you play for keeps. . .Suicide—The unspeakable remains unspoken.

What pushes people so far to the edge that they’re ready to end it? What makes someone put a gun to his head and splatter his brains on the floor or the walls? What makes a person slit her wrists until she bleeds to death? Or swallows pills and mixes potent substances to silence the screaming pain? What flashes through their mind as they pass from this world to the next—triumphant, sorrow, regret or relief?
Many people are bothered by the idea of suicide. We wonder why some people want to kill themselves because nothing is that bad. We think people who commit suicide are cowards; that they’re selfish for putting other people through that. We think suicidal people are weak. We believe those that attempt suicide and those that complete the act are different from the rest of us.

I used to think those things too, but not anymore. Experience has taught me that we can never know the depth of another person’s pain. And the history and legacy of African-American people doesn’t really lend itself to healing the hurt because we’ve become so accustomed to the pain that we think it’s normal. We are socially conditioned to push ahead no matter what. And while many of us would never admit to even considering taking our lives, we engage in destructive behaviors that may ultimately lead to our death, but won’t be ruled a suicide.

How many of us subconsciously contemplate suicide everyday through our actions? We read. We watch the news. We listen to the radio. We surf the net. We know that there are things that can shorten our life span, and we figure out what the hell. We’re going to do it anyway. We eat and drink too much of the wrong things. We kill our spirit because we live to work instead of working to live. We walk around not wanting to die—not wanting to live. All of our troubles are someone else’s fault so we don’t even see our finger on the trigger.

I know I don’t. Every day I am thankful for my life, that I’ve lived to see another day. That I’m of sound mind and body with a few aches and pains and senior moments. But I play Russian roulette with my life even when I know better. I blow off workouts and trashy my system with food that tastes good too me but is not good for me. I know the risks, but I play anyway because I convince myself . . . that I must pass this test.

What’s in the chamber of the gun you have pointed at your head? What’s your trigger? A drink or two to unwind? Toxic people? A relationship beyond the staying point? What will you do, put the gun down or just pull the trigger?