After the Rain

            I am in that place—again—a place of uncertainty as I ponder what to do next. The change of season from summer to fall cause to me pause and reflect. Some seasons stand out more than others; this feels like one to rremember just like the one a few years ago when I decided to return to school, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to. And yet when I started school, I began to second guess myself. I remember my first night of class. . . 

            Thoughts of What am I doing? are interrupted by the carpeted footsteps of my classmates. Their nervous laughter tells me we are joined in thought. We crowd into an elevator heading for our evening destination, then branching out when we reach the first floor. The revolving door moans as I push my way outside. 

            Everything is damp from an earlier rain. The wind greets me, caressing my naked toes and legs before sliding up the sleeve of my denim jacket. The sky is an electric bluish-gray—a Jimi Hendrix song waiting to burst through. It smells like rain, really —not the bottled up kind we find in rain fresh house-hold products. I love the rain, but I like it much better when I’m inside watching it. I’m usually not prepared for rain, and today is no exception. I didn’t check the weather forecast—I never do. But this time I’m not totally caught off-guard because I had a cap and jacket in my car.  

            I thought back to when I got caught in life’s torrential rain. Politics forced me to change jobs, my relationship ended, and I moved back into the home of my child hood. Unprepared for the constant drizzle after the storm, I’d wake up every morning with the rain beating against my soul. This season is difficult for me because I lost my father and my sister during the fall. So I know the source of some my angst is seasonal, but some of it is also the anxiety that comes with embarking onto something new.

            Melancholy musings aside, I need to get started because I don’t have long. I turn on my cell phone and set my alarm for 7:20 because we have to be back in class by 7:25. As I lean against Bennigan’s picture-perfect planter of yellow, red and lavender flowers I feel the buzz of my phone against my hip indicating a text message. It’s my friend—she’s stalking me. The 411 will have to wait until I see her at work tomorrow. I know it’s about the kids. After all these years she is still amazingly passionate about her students. I wish I could say the same. The perfectly placed Hunts bottles on the left side of the Bennigans giant navy blue and white umbrellas adorning the outdoor café tables are a direct contrast to the day-to-day chaos of interacting with children.

            The night and I share the same subdued mood. People are alone in their private worlds on their way somewhere else. Conversation is minimal, and barely audible except for the guy who walks by talking on his cell phone. “Well, you know what, screw it. Don’t even worry about it.” The light changes from green to red and the screeching sound of a green and yellow checker cab in need of a brake job pierces the semi silence.

The sign on the side of a stopped CTA bus reads, “More Me, Less We”--an advertisement for Loyola University. I snicker and shake my head at the irony of it. Our growing sense of entitlement is why we’re in the predicament that we’re in, in the world today.

            The homeless man shuffles down the street like a Hurricane Katrina victim: his eyes downcast, his black wooly mass of hair matted and dreadlocked, his gold outfit shiny with dirt, the remnants of gym shoes covering his feet. 

It looks like he didn’t check the forecast either. But unlike him, I have shelter from the storm. I pray that it will always be that way.

A feeling of satisfaction feels me as I enter the building. I do know what I’m doing. Taking life to the next level, and when life drizzles on my dream, I know between umbrella of support and my raincoat of faith the sun will shine again.

While the sun has temporarily faded behind the clouds, and the rain of change drips into my life slow and constant like the leaky faucet in my bathroom, I know that it will not be ignored for much longer.  I'm stalling, but I will have to face it. And just like before, I know that after the rain, the sun will shine again.

Tubman, Twerking and Self-Respect

"I freed a thousand slaves I could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves." Harriet Tubman

Recent events have been marinating in my mind causing me to—once again—mull over what it means to be a Black woman in this society. Don’t get me wrong; I love being Black and I love being a woman. Why wouldn’t I as they are both integral parts of me. But there are days when it feels like I’m wrapped in layers on a 100 degree day in the summertime.  Hot. Muggy. Stifling and suffocating in this skin I’m in.  I tried to ignore the, itchy fabric of racism and sexism roughly rubbing against my skin. But I couldn’t. So, I scratched until I bled. 

It started when I heard about the Harriet Tubman Sex Tape. It seems that Hip-Hop Mogul turned activist, Russell Simmons has a You Tube Channel called All Def Digital.  And a team of people thought it would be fun to create a parody of Harriet Tubman seducing her slave master while another slave video taped the sex act for Tubman to use as leverage to blackmail the slave master into building the Underground Railroad. I admit, I have a twisted sense of humor and can find humor in some of the unlikeliest places. But what I do among family and friends is different from that which plays out on a stage for the world. In a country steeped in racism and sexism, humor around these issues can be a slippery slope if not handled incorrectly. You squirm.  You laugh. But did you get the lesson?

In this case, it wasn’t funny, It was distasteful. And the lesson learned: All your skin folk ain’t your kinfolk. The Harriet Tubman Sex Tape reduced the historical significance of a fearless woman who once had a $40,000 bounty on her head to that of a hooker turning a trick.  Not only did it degrade and devalue the legacy of Harriet Tubman, it also fed the popularly held myths about the insatiable sexual appetite and cunningness of Black women. 

Simmons who describes himself as “a very liberal person with thick skin” claims that the intent of the video was to show that there is still a great deal of  injustice, but Tubman outwits the slave master in the end and wins. “I thought it was politically correct. Silly me.”  The fact that Russell didn’t recognize the error of his ways until his “buddies” at the NAACP advised him to take it down irritated me. But the fast and furious backlash against the parody soothed by soul like calamine cream. 

But before I could fully feel the relief, I started scratching again. This time the source of my itch: Miley Cyrus.  In trying to reinvent herself, Cyrus has opted for something more edgy. She was quoted as saying, “I want something urban. I want something that feels black.” Translation: ghetto, hood, ratchet or whatever other terminology that is used to describe urban areas-especially those populated by African Americans. The song “Can’t Stop” passed over by Rihanna, but claimed by Cyrus,is her attempt to “blacken” her sound.

Cyrus’ poorly executed appropriation of urban subculture brought so much attention to “twerking” that it has now been added to the dictionary. Thank you Miley. Not only did Cyrus’ performance exploit Black women, it was just bizarre and weird. It made “twerking” look bad. I know girls and young women who twerk, and there is a level of skill required for them to execute the booty-popping, booty- shaking antics that they do. Cyrus’ fake twerking wasn’t even close.

There are those who look at twerking as disgraceful and uncultured. I’m not one of them. There is a time and a place for everything. And posted up on Social Media is not the place for it. Twerking should be done for fun; it should be done in private. I’m always reminded of the words of my elders growing up, “What goes on in this house, stays in this house.” Too many of us have forgotten that lesson. Your public self and your private self should not be one in the same.

The infuriating thing about Simmons and Cyrus is that they both got what they wanted—attention which translates into hits which ultimately translate into money. And they did it on the backs of Black women. And we gave them permission. This makes me itch even more because we choose to participate in our own objectification. Simmons and the actors in The Harriet Tubman Sex Tape were Black. Cyrus’ dancers were Black. Where is our sense of value?

It reminds of the story of Sarah "Saartjie" Baartman a South African Khoikhoi woman who was put display in Europe for her "exotic” body parts.  This exploitation was continued even in death when her genitals were preserved and put in jars for public viewing. During the time Baartman was being exhibited as part of a freak show, an abolitionist benevolent society called the African Association campaigned for her release, and the case ended up in court. But the case was dismissed after Baartman testified that she was not under restraint.

Not under restraint. Simmons doesn’t know that Black women are still under restraint. Cyrus doesn’t know that Black women are still under restrain. And the Black women who signed on for this foolishness do not know that they are still under restraint. What’s next? A video of Harriet Tubman twerking? Where do we draw the line?

I’m hot. And I’m tired of suffering under the weight of isms and stupidity. I'm waiting for the day I'll  be free in the nakedness of my humanity.

Cheating on Garmin

            I fell in love a few years ago, and I thought I couldn’t be happier. And for a while I was very happy. Before I met him, I was truly a lost soul. But thanks to him, I can say, I have found my way. I had a feeling when we first met, that he was the right one for me, but I hesitated. After the first date, I knew he was the one. We met for the first time on Christmas Day. At my niece’s insistence--she’s the one who formally introduced us--I decided to go on a date with him, and I was smitten. 

His name was Garmin Nuvi 200, but my pet name for him was My GPS. He was the envy of all my directionally challenged friends, and they wanted to kick me out of the Can’t Find My Way Club. He was perfect for me—easy to talk to, pointed me in the right direction when I was going the wrong way, and came preloaded with U.S. maps. I stopped sulking around the house because I didn’t know how to get anywhere without getting lost. I could get up and go anywhere, and it was a wonderful feeling! Garmin allowed me to step out of my comfort zone and be adventurous. We were always on the road together, and then we hit a snag. He kept telling me I needed an upgrade, and I ignore him. Then he disappeared for awhile because I invited a thief into my life.

He came back and we picked up where we left off—or we tried to, but I started having a hard time following his directions. Sometimes he would just stop talking to me altogether, and then I was really lost. This was around the same time I met Siri, and I found out that she was good at getting around. Sometimes she was easier to talk to than Garmin. When Garmin started being non communicative, another niece urged to me just forget about him. She said you have Siri now. I still relied on Garmin most of the time, but I was sneaking around with Siri. I felt bad, but I got over it. A girl has to get where a girl has to get. I have places to go, and I don’t have time to get lost. So, I've decided that I need both Garmin and Siri in my life. What can I say, a girl has needs, and if one can't handle it, two will have to do!

When the Fun House Stops Being Fun

As a child I loved amusement parks that had fun house of mirrors. Looking at unreal images of myself was fun; it was part of the creative play of childhood. I laughed as I looked at myself stretched out, then I could look at myself stunted and compacted. Those mirrors made fantasy fun!  I started thinking about those mirror again recently, but from a grown woman’s perspective. I thought about the many conversations that women have—some I’ve been privy to, some I’ve participated in, and some I’ve ease dropped on.  And all of these conversation converged into the idea of fun house mirrors and their roles in relationships.  I wonder how many of us are looking through a distorted view of our relationship reality? I think it’s time for us t to get real about our relationships. So, I’ve composed a list of you ten reasons your relationship might not be real. You know you’re in the fun house when. . .  

• 1.       You only get to see him on the designated Other Woman (the day before of the day after) holidays with the exception being New Year’s Eve which is a couples holiday right up there with Valentine’s and Sweetest Day.
• 2.       He’s too busy. Men make time for what they want to make time for. So, if he’s busy all time, spending time with you is not a priority. He should only be as important to you as you are to him.
• 3.       You’re checking his phone, following him around, hacking into is voice mail and email accounts trolling on Social Media looking for trouble or boldly confronting other women. If you have to expend that much energy keeping him in check, is it worth it? Promise rings, marriage licenses, children and time spent are not bills of sale. You don't own him or control him; you control you.
• 4.       You’re still his fiancee three or more years after the engagement. How long do you need to stay engaged? If you don't know each other after three years, you'll never know each other. You are a long-term girl friend, nothing more, nothing less. If you can’t nail down a date, maybe it’s time to close up shop and go elsewhere.
• 5.       When you want to be married, but you’re not, but you tell people you like things the way they are or you use his last name as if it were really yours.  Do you really want to “play house” for the rest of your life?
• 6.       When you think that having a baby will make him stay. Have you looked at the stats on single mothers? The divorce rates? If he has other children by other women, what makes you think he’ll commit to you?
• 7.       When he’s honest with you, but lying to her. Stop lying to yourself that you’re anything other than the side piece. It’s not that complicated. Something is making him stay.
• 8.       When the only one still in the relationship is you. How hard are you willing to hold on to what has already slipped from your grip?
• 9.       When you find out he has magician like qualities; now you see him, now you don’t. The next time he reappears, you should try a little magic and make him disappear.
• 10.  .When the only time you’re enjoying yourself  you’re horizontal. At some point, you have to be vertical. Can what you have hold up?

I'm no body's relationship expert. These are just my life observations. I'm neither the judge nor the jury on what people choose to do. I’m simply suggesting that we look at the distorted images for what they are--fantasy. When we are honest, we don't accept Fantasy as Truth. Because when when we allow ourselves to be disillusioned, the fun house stops being fun. It becomes a scary, lonely or even dangerous place.