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Dating Out

I have not been in a meaningful relationship for more than a decade now. And for the last few years I have been toying with the idea of dating out. I love my culture and my heritage and growing up I never entertained thoughts of being with men of other races or ethnicities.  I have gone on dates with men of other races, and I dated a White guy for awhile. To this day, it was one of the best relationships I’ve had, but the race thing was lurking around and I was not mature enough to handle it. Add in that he was my rebound after a bad break-up, and it was a relationship that was doomed. Still he showed me how a man treats a woman that matters to him. Too often, the ones that followed him, could not meet the standard he set.

Because of this idea-- real or imagined--that there is a shortage of "good" Black men, dating has become more difficult. Add that I'm no spring chicken onto the mix, and it is a recipe for disaster.  The men I meet believe I should be thankful to simply be in their presence. They have after all, chosen me among the hordes of women at their disposal, and I should worship at the temple that is Him.

Date # 1

We meet while he's driving the bus. I pull up next to the bus, and he starts flirting. I laugh. He asks for my number, and I give it to him. We talk on the phone and we agree to go out. Conversation starts on the wrong foot and goes down from there. I explain to him that I want to date a man that can make me a priority which is why I don't want to date a man with small children. If he's a good dad, he's spending time with his children and won't have enough time for me.  He disagreed stating that a man is always going to be a father. I didn't argue with that. I simply said the father of a 5 year-old is different from the father of a 25 year old. He went on to explain how his grown daughter lost her job and had to move back in with him. I explained that I understood him helping his daughter. I liked to go out and travel; he didn’t. Because of his line of work he didn’t like bring around crowds of people. He said he liked an occasion movie. Other than that he liked to stay at home. He likes horror movies. I don't. Our first date was our last date.

Date # 2

We meet in a store. He looks young so, I laugh when he tries to talk to me. He’s in his 40s, so I decide to give him a chance.  We talk on the phone. We go out to eat once. He has one child who lives out of state, but stays with him during the summer. I teach so I have summers off. We talk back and forth on the phone a few times. He wants to get together one day after he gets off work, and I'm agreeable to the idea. I don't hear from him the weekend, but the next week he calls me out of the blue and asks what my plans are for the day?  I say, I'm going to movies in the park.  I ask him if he wants to go. I say I have enough snacks for two, and he can join me. He says no because of the bugs and its hot outside and maybe there is a reason why I made snacks for two. I accept that he doesn't want to go and follow my original plan.

Fast forward a few days, he asks me what am I doing on a certain day  I say I'm open to suggestions. He says we’ll touch bases that day. On the day, I get a call from a good friend. She’s crying. Her husband who was battling cancer has died. I call another mutual friend and we agree to go by the house that evening. Knowing that I told the guy I was going to be available, I text him and explain that my friend's husband has died. He tells me to handle my business and he'll get back to me later. I send him a text later that night when I get home. He sends me a text that I'm too busy for him.

I joined a couple of dating sites, and that didn’t work out. So, I’m taking a hiatus from the dating scene. I thought I had worked on me, but maybe I need some more work because I cannot turn off this Neon Sign on my forehead that keeps drawing the wrong kind of men to me: liars, perverts, control freaks and commitment phobes.  Currently, I can’t. I have a wonderful family, great friends, a career that I love and I’m happy and healthy. The good man for me is a bonus. And I’ll wait because I’m done settling.

Given our history and the media saturated stories of the "war" between Black men and Black women and the so-called “shortage” of good Black men, I admit that my battle -weary body can't take much more. There is so much injustice in the word that I do not want to fight my comrades in this struggle for equality and acceptance. More and more I feel like we're comparing war wounds, when we’re all bleeding and hurting. I have not given up on Black men, but I will not limit myself to them. I love Black people and will continue to fight for our rightful place, but if love shows up for me wrapped in a color other than Black, I'm not turning it away.

Under the Bus

I have tire marks

On my neck

My back

My chest

My arms

My legs

My forehead even

And the bus keeps rolling

I have so many tire marks

On my body that

 I’m beginning to think

 That they’re tattoos

I’ve been rolled over

So many times

 That I can’t feel anything

 Anymore

I’ve been

Mangled

Crushed

Dismembered

And the bus keeps rolling

I’ve been thrown under the bus

 So many times,

 That I’m not waiting anymore

I’ve learned

 To throw myself

 Under the bus

And convince myself

That it doesn’t hurt

As much

I’ve been under the bus

So long that

I think this is where

 I belong

And the bus keeps rolling

Why Valentine’s Day Sort of Sucks

It’s not a good look to say that Valentine’s Day sort of sucks on Valentine’s Day. It sounds like I’m sitting around sipping on a big glass of Hater-Aid. So, I waited for the day after V-Day to say it sort of sucks. And it does. But not for the obvious reason of my singleness.  For the last decade, I have been uncoupled more than I’ve been coupled, so I’ve always done my own thing for Valentine’s Day. Sometimes I’ll catch an early movie, or have dinner with another single friend. I don’t give much thought to V-Day except as it relates to my students. V-Day is a big day for middle school students, and that bothers me. How in 7^th and 8^th grade do my students come to expect the exchange of trinkets and gifts to demonstrate their love and affection for each other? 

On Friday, I was driving to work when I saw a young man, small in stature with this gigantic teddy bear! I laughed and I shook my head. He was truly struggling carrying that over-sized stuffed animal. Well, low and behold, when I got to school I found out that it was one of our students carrying the bear. The principal made him leave it in the counselor’s office until the end of the day. She knew that a bear that size would cause disruptions throughout the day. I looked at the bear and I kept thinking, what does it mean? 

New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day are the biggest couples holiday, and my middle school students are not old enough to “show their love” on New Year’s Eve, so Valentine’s Day is their day. The boys are out shopping for candy and cards to give to their girlfriends and the girls are waiting for their gifts. This is why Valentine’s Day sucks. There is the expectation the boys will purchase gifts for their girlfriends. What lessons are we teaching our children? Are we telling them that love is bought and sold?

I remember Valentine’s Day as a child. You brought the cutesy Valentine’s Day cards to school and passed them out to your friends. If your parents were feeling especially generous, then they bought you candy to share with our friends. It was sweet for the most part, but there was also a level of meanness because every child didn’t get a card. If you didn’t like so-and-so, he or she didn’t get a Valentine.

One year, maybe first or second grade, every boy in my class gave be a Valentine Day card. And I had a meltdown. I cried because I didn’t like all of the boys in my class, and I thought that by giving me a card, they had to be my boyfriends. The teacher sent a note home, and my mother and I had to have a talk that evening about why the receipt of cards from the boys did not mean that they ALL had to be my boyfriends.

I can laugh today, but I was confused by this idea of “love”. And perhaps it is my own trauma about love that fuels my issues with V-Day and my students. There were boys who caught my attention in junior high, but I didn’t have a boyfriend. It was strictly prohibited, so if a boy had given me a Valentine’s Day gift I would have been trying to figure out how to sneak it in the house, or better yet just leave it at school. In my tenure as a teacher, I have witnessed many V-Days over the years, and it ain't nothing nice sometimes.

When Valentine’s Day falls on a weekday, the girls come to school all dressed up, and the boys come bearing gifts to show their love. And not every girl who has a boyfriend gets a gift. To be among her peers, and not be acknowledged by her beloved is social suicide. I’ve seen a many angry and/or sad girls on Valentine’s Day. I’ve seen boys come bearing gifts only to be rejected. This breaks my heart. What are we teaching our daughters? What are we teaching our sons?

Adults and Valentine’s Day is one thing, but for adolescents whose hormones are out of whack, it can be too much.Why are girls expecting gifts? What are they obliged to give in return? Where are boys supposed to get money from to buy gifts? Call me old-fashioned or whatever you like, but this idea of “love” in middle school makes Valentine’s Day sort of suck.

What We Can Learn From Selma

When we sanitize history, it lets us off the hook. Stephanie J. Gates

 As I sat in the theater glued to my seat watching Selma, I was visually reminded of the strength and tenacity of Black people.  The words of Amelia Boynton resonated with me when she reassured a reluctant Coretta Scott-King that she was ready to meet with Malcolm X in her husband’s absence because the blood of her ancestors flowing through her body has prepared her for this day. It is a quiet yet powerful scene that reminds me of the greatness of Black people.

Years ago, watching the mistreatment of Black people in films bothered me.  I’d be so angry after watching the gross injustice and indignities African Americans were subjected to because of racist policy and practices in America. But I stopped focusing on what was done to us, and started focusing on what we did in response. I am in awe of the likes of Amelia Boynton, Jimmie Lee Jackson and other unsung heroes of the civil rights movement. And that is one of the reasons I love Selma. It is not a water-down, sugar-coated white-washing of history. It is a docudrama based on actual events. And while some may level charges of inaccuracy, I argue that even historical facts are subject to interpretation. Ava DuVernay made the civil rights movement come alive for me just as it did when I was a child.

As a teenager, every year during Black History Month, I would sit mesmerized in front of the TV watching the Eyes on the Prize documentary series. I wish that I had been born sooner so that I could have been a participant. Though I love African-American history, I have a special place in my heart for the civil rights movement because it seemed like a magical period in American history. Those documentaries brought the movement into my living room. Those documentaries changed my life. I wanted to learn more, and do more. When I became a teacher, the series along with other films became  staples  in my classroom. When one of my students would ask why we were learning Black history and it wasn’t February, I would simply remind them that they were Black 365 days out of the year and 366 during Leap Year. 

Even though there were no lunch counters or buses to integrate when I was growing up, I understood the very realness of racism. When my family moved from the segregated Westside to the integrated Southside, we faced challenges of around issues of race. There were White kids on the block and though we all played together  outside, we did not visit each other's homes nor did my niece and I venture beyond the via dock at 111th and Cottage. Pullman was a White working class neighborhood and we were not welcomed there. And though we lived in an integrated neighborhood, our schools were still segregated.

My segregated existence and love for civil rights collided in college. It was my first integrated experience, and two things stand out:  one of my professors said that MLK was a womanizer, and White people, especially men) thought they knew everything. Whenever I said anything thing that was different from their way of thinking, they simply talked over me until I stopped talking. Learning of King’s infidelities made room for his humanity, and I found my voice again as I learned about our history. My class on the civil rights movement was an eye-opening experience.  My fantasy idea of the civil rights movement was far removed from the truth. It was not this joyous Kumbaya movement where everyone got along. There were tensions, disputes, jockeying for power and plenty of politicking going around. And once I got over the initial shock that my heroes were human, it made my history that much richer.

So as I watched Selma I was reminded of the realness of the people who participated in protests and demonstrations. As I watched Selma I was reminded of what is going on in America today. As I watched Selma, I saw ordinary, everyday people doing extraordinary things. I saw myself in them. When we sanitize history, we strip our heroes of their humanity. We turn them into God-like beings that let us mere mortals off the hook. We don't think that we can live up to the legacy that was left us. But not only do we have to live up to it, we owe it to those who paved the way for us. If they could do it, we can, too. We can learn from Selma how to continue and hopefully, finish the work the civil rights workers started. We should feel the that the blood that pumped through them then, pumping through us now.

An Open Letter to My Ancestors

Dear Ancestors,

To those on whose shoulders I stand, I apologize. From the deepest part of me, I am sorry for the mess that we are in in this country. You knocked down the door of segregation and pushed us inside, but we didn’t know what to do once we got here. We thought our work was done. We gulped the Kool-Aid and didn’t know that it was spiked. Now we’re confused and disillusioned. But there is still hope for us. You didn’t give up; we can’t either.  

We messed up. We think that because we have advanced degrees, live in integrated neighborhoods, drive luxury cars, and send our kids to private schools that we have arrived. We think that because we can afford to have someone clean our homes have a diverse group of friends and maybe even have White friends and family members that we can eat at the big table. We thought we were in the House, but now know that we are still in the kitchen.

If we had not forgotten our history, we would not be surprised by recent events. We first came here as indentured servants, but when it was discovered that the color of our skin made us easily identifiable, we became an even cheaper source of labor--free. Most of us descend from Africans who came here as cargo; property, and we’ve never been able to completely wash away the smell from that trip. Hard Truth: We are the shit on the bottom of America's shoe. And no matter what we do, the stench of who we are stays with us.

Many of the founding fathers were slave holders: Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, and George Washington among others. When Jefferson penned the words “all men are created equal” in the eyes of the Constitution, he was not speaking of African Americans. We were designated as 3/5 of a person for the purposes of property value. We were no different from the farm animals. Not much has changed. 

We should have known better, and maybe we would have done better. Doing the work that needed to be done instead of sitting comfortably on the legacy you left us. We nodded off into the good life thinking that we had accomplished something only to learn that we haven't. We are despised in the country of our birth. We are made to feel like outsiders and agitators dare we speak out against the injustice that is as American as apple pie and Chevrolet. 

The road to freedom is paved with your blood and your broken bodies. But your spirit lives on in us. How could we forget that? We are here because you chose to survive. We are here because you didn’t fall for the okey-doke. For every major victory, there has been backlash. From the Emancipation Proclamation to the election of Barack Obama, we have faced strong opposition to change. We have been, beaten, lynched, raped, bombed and the victims of other unspeakable acts of violence against us, and yet we are still looked at as savages of some sort. That’s why we kill each other, right?

 When Barack Obama was elected President of these “United” States and everyone was wondering if he was ready to be president, I was wondering if we were ready for him. We were not. Never in the history of this country has a President been so disrespected. I’m still trying to recover from the fact that three major networks decided not to air the President’s speech. Who does that?

Assimilated to the point of indoctrination, some of us are inebriated on the idea of inferiority. We actually believe that in America there is difference between Black people and Niggers, not understanding that we are ALL Niggers in the minds of many. From Phyllis Wheatley to Charles Barkley, some of us have drunk too much Kool-Aid and think that our arrival in this country is the best thing that happened to us since home-made buttered biscuits. I have to give credit where credit is due: the brain washing was thorough and complete. Once we learned to hate ourselves there wasn’t as much work to do to keep us in line.

The reality of our situation is that we have only been desegregated. We have never been fully integrated into American society. The society in which we were born into and still live in is racist. And that’s the norm. We can’t forget that. It is what it is. We can’t change the origin. We have to know that and keep moving.

I had to sit back and marinate on what’s happening because at first I was upset. I kept wondering where I was. I was thinking: This is America? Then is I realized, This IS America. I had to remember what so many of you have been telling us for years: without struggle there is no progress. So, I’m glad to see so much social unrest. I’m glad to see us struggle. For I know that progress will follow.

I’m sorry that we lost our way. I’m sorry that we forgot our place. But I know that we’ve always made a way out of no way. You showed us that. We were not expected to survive, much less thrive. But we have always been able to use that which was turned against us in our favor. So, while we might be the shit on the shoe, we also know that it’s our manure that made it happen. America is America because of the shit on her shoe. So, that makes us The Shit, right?