On the topic of "Common Sense"
No. I won't read an article with term "Rape Responsibility" in the title. I've basically gotten the tone of the piece, and I'm in no mood to upset myself with someone else's entitled opinion. What I've gleaned from the Read moreI’ve been reading all my life. Literally since I was 3 1/2. My love affair with words and reading ultimately transferred to a love of writing. But what if life was different? What if I didn’t have to consider phobias, limitations or lack of training? What would I be?
1. Assassin
It’s just crazy…as big as hip-hop is in our lives and everything, and as much as we love it, we tend to shun people for just wanting to contribute to that culture, you know? I guarantee you if you look at a country singer who picks up a guitar and says “Hey, who wants to hear this new song that I wrote,” country music fans don’t tell him sit down. I promise.
- Nerd Ferguson “Day In The Life”
No. I won’t read an article with term “Rape Responsibility” in the title. I’ve basically gotten the tone of the piece, and I’m in no mood to upset myself with someone else’s entitled opinion. What I’ve gleaned from the reactions was that the article was ill-informed and out of touch. It dares to address the “Fine Line Between Victim Blaming and Common Sense.” Since I’m an obliging sort, allow me to assist:
Common Sense Fact No. 1 – When a woman is raped, it is because she has encountered a rapist.
Revolutionary concept, no? What you read about how you are dressed, where you go, how much you had to drink – it’s crap. This is not to say that we are to disregard our personal safety. It’s of paramount importance. But let’s be clear: Never in life has a normal man been going about his daily life, then said, “Wait! Drunk Girls? I suddenly and inexplicably am overcome with the need to rape.” He was a rapist when he brushed his teeth that morning, and was simply waiting for his opportunity.
I look like I got ANYTHING for these hoes?
*Sophia Petrillo voice* Picture it: Olney, Maryland. The year is 2010. I’m in a hospital bed recovering from a rather nasty encounter with a pulmonary embolism, and I’m listening to my suite mate being discharged. She uses “disposable adult undergarments” and discussed the whether or not she should attempt to go to the bathroom. After a slight bit of hemming and hawing, she’s silent for a moment and says, COMPLETELY nonplussed, “Well look…I just went in this one. What do we do now?”
In that experience, I saw my future. I embarrass very easily. I ultimately recover, it could be months, even YEARS later, and I’ll occasionally get totally red faced about it. I won’t pretend to know what she was thinking, but the way she spoke said, “Look, this is what it is, let’s fix it and move on.”
One day, I’m going to be a really old broad, and I kind of want to be like that. I’ll still be me, but I want to be like “Look, yeah I peed my pants, but I changed my alternator and put two kids through college. Holla at ya girl.” Dammit I MIGHT throw up the Roc when I’m 70.
I’ve also decided that when I outlive my second husband, I won’t marry again. I’ll just have a boyfriend that everyone will call Mr. Charles. That may not even be his name. But he’ll know how to hook up your carburetor, and Charles sounds like the most trustworthy name for that type of thing. We’ll have family picnics and he’ll be all, “Go’on on and let that boy have a beer! Had my first beer at 15 years old!” He’ll say it with a square dangling from his lip and I’ll allow it.
I plan on being a pretty kick ass Gram. But I don’t focus on that TOO much, because I don’t want to be the person who forces my kids to have kids. That’s the type of thing that I would love, but it’s gotta be their choice. My kids are awesome people though, so I’ll look forward to having a bird’s eye view of their parenting.
Toting a pistol will definitely be part of my old broad life. I want a hand cannon. I also want to shoot at least one person, just to show the other reprobates that I mean business. Not the regular mischievous kids. I’m talking about the real incorrigible ones. I don’t plan on killing anyone, but I need to put one on JUST the right side of death so that they know I could if they try to test.
Don’t confuse that with me wanting to be an old douche. I have no plans to hate kids. Actually, I want the hooligans to be my friends. SOMEBODY has to watch my Lincoln Town Car when I go to pick up my post-menopausal medicinal reefer. Part of being older, to me, means sharing with the folks that come behind you. I came up amongst OGs, and they never “schooled” me by beating me over the head with messages. The gave weight to who I was as a young woman, and shared what they’d learned with me. That’s part of the joy of being old, I think. Not to look back and hate that you’re not the young person that you were, but to build and give people the benefit of your experience in all things, including just how to love folks. I really plan on enjoying every part of my journey here.
If you know me, you know that family is important to me. I’ve said countless times that friends often become family to me. That’s not me just whistling Dixie. The reason behind that is because my family is so damned good.
I gush over my siblings and my parents (blood and step), because they are amazing people. And what’s awesome about my family is that they aren’t cliquish and clannish. If one of us mistreated a friend, the other would not hesitate to call them out. We don’t roll in exclusivity. If you’re at my house, you’re going to laugh, be well fed and be hugged and snuggled within an inch of your life.
When my mother passed away, there were so many of my friends who cried as though they had lost their own mother. She was THAT person who was always listening, counseling and hugging. She passed that on to all of us. The importance of embracing your family, and realizing that family extends beyond blood.
When one of us has a new baby, we all have a new baby. It’s such an exciting event. Even more awesome is how my brother and sisters have managed to marry people who add to the circle, rather than being “another branch” of the family. Their in laws are my in laws. Having a great family is what made me a greater friend. This unit I’ve been blessed with is what makes me able to deal with anything that comes my way. If I were to lose everything today or tomorrow, I know I’d have them. Just taking a moment to gush.
It’s become something of a running joke… the differences in how cases in which whites go missing are handled by law enforcers and the media, versus similar cases in which blacks (and other minority groups) are the victims.
- Tambay – Shadow and Act/indiewire.com
Next Wednesday “Find Our Missing” will debut on TV One. S. Epatha Merkerson will host the show, meant to shed light on missing African Americans. The linked article quotes TV One President and CEO, Wonya Lucas who says, “Nearly one-third of the missing in this country are black Americans, while we make up only 12 percent of the population. Yet stories about missing people of color are rarely told in the national media.” I posted this article on Facebook, my dear friend Monica had this to say:
Yep. But it should also be an eye-opener. Remember that case where the little Dominican girl in NYC survived a kidnapping after she escaped through a window in the house where she was being held? On some level, our children know no one is going to rescue them.
But what happens when our kids are too overcome by fear, stubbornness, or too troubled to protect and rescue themselves? When that happens, you get Jakadrien Turner, the fifteen year-old Dallas, Texas resident, who was wrongfully deported to Colombia. Each time I attempted to gain an answer in Jakadrien’s story, I unearthed another question.
Following her parents’ divorce and the death of her grandfather, she ran away from Dallas in November 2010. In April 2011, she was arrested for shoplifting in Houston, and gave a false name, belonging to a 21 year old Colombian woman who was supposedly in the country illegally. She was then held for 52 days and by May 2011, despite speaking no Spanish, she was deported to Colombia.
Jakadrien acted against her own interests. She dogmatically stuck to her story, fooling the criminal court judge, the immigration magistrate, and whoever else she was in close contact with in the 52 days prior to her deportation. I find it hard to believe that no one who spoke to her could determine that she was neither Colombian, nor 21.
So far officials have hidden behind the excuse of this minor, “slipping through the cracks.” Would she have slipped through these cracks were she not a person of color? In plain English, would a 14 year-old white girl who only spoke English, regardless of how troubled, have been deported to a foreign country without concrete evidence? A nagging question I have is the word choice in all of the articles I’ve read, which say she was “given Colombian citizenship.” Was she just randomly shipped to Colombia.
One, it shows me how on the whole, this country does not see our children as children. I look at her pictures, and see the face of a baby – a pregnant baby. Not a 21 year old woman. It also shows how a missing 14 year old girl barely registers in a major city a mere four hours away. She was reported missing. In almost two months, no one recognized her? No one thought there could have been more to her story? No one picked up on the fact that she was clearly troubled?
Certainly the federal government has more resources at hand than Jakadrien’s grandmother, Lorene Turner, who was able to find her on Facebook. And once she was found, the Colombian government was hesitant to send her back, and held her in a detention facility for a month. Tell me with a straight face that a pregnant, 15 year old white girl who had been wrongfully deported to Colombia, would have been forced to wait a month before being reunited with her family. The country would have been in an uproar. How do I know?
In 1994, 18 year old Michael Fay lived in Singapore with his parents. He was arrested for theft and vandalism. These were crimes that he committed. In Singapore, they don’t have a whole lot of time for your crap, and their punishments are quite brutal. He was found guilty and sentenced to six strokes of the cane. I ain’t talking Kappas. Basically, you strip naked and a very strong dude beats the snot out of you with a huge bamboo cane. I knew more than I cared to know about Singaporean caning practices, because it was in the news every night. The country was in an absolute uproar over this guilty teen, who was legally an adult. The outcry was so great that Singapore reduced the cane strokes from six to four. For a guilty man.
Meanwhile, a pregnant 15 year old black girl, wrongfully deported, sat in a Colombian detention facility for a month. Just because, and with barely a whisper.
This story offers more questions and answers, for one simple reason: No one wants to go on record as saying, “We didn’t care enough to look.” Whenever a person hides behind “slipping between the cracks” and due diligence jargon, it means they’ve done the bare minimum. When it comes to our children, we have to take it upon ourselves to advocate and create the village where our children can be safe and looked after. I brim with hope when I see people are beginning to use social media to spearhead this effort. We may never have the ear of mainstream media. I believe that if we work hard enough with the goal of our children’s safety in mind, mainstream media may not be necessary (but will probably get on the bandwagon should it become profitable). No matter what, it’s time to take the legs out from underneath this running joke.
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When I was a little girl, the New Orleans Saints weren’t such a hot team. They were bad. Abominable even. As a born and bred New Orleans girl, that was my team. Paper bags, “The Ain’ts,” you name it, I was there for them. Manning is a hallowed name in my home. But, come playoff and (definitely) Super Bowl time, I had to…explore other options. My options were Bret Favre (Gulf Coast boy) and Dan Marino (amazing by any measure). And I still love those guys.* Among the best to EVER do it.
But I’ll let you in on a secret: I’m a bigger fan of I TOTALLY stan for Andrew Christopher Brees.
Graduate of Purdue University, formerly of the San Diego Chargers, currently the bearer of jersey Number 9 of the New Orleans Saints. He is a badass. More than that, he’s just a nice guy. People can’t say nice enough things about Drew. He and his family have become New Orleans citizens. I will get in arguments over him like he’s my play cousin. Without him, we wouldn’t have won the 44th Super Bowl. He is GOLDEN in the book of any Saints fan. If he never did another great thing, we’d love him. And then last night this happened:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wiFOgG6lGE]
It couldn’t have happened to a nicer, or more deserving guy. Deserving because he is driven in practice and doesn’t see this as HIS game or even HIS record. He simply wants to do his best. It’s the most elementary concept, one that most parents and teachers instill in us as quickly as possible. He does this for his fans and his teammates. He motivates and pulls the best out of eery one of those guys on the field. His teammates’ reaction to breaking the record tells you everything you need to know about how they feel about him. So when I read this article by Pete Prisco, I was more than a little annoyed.
The old “running up the score” bit. Drew Brees is not that guy. Nobody LIKES watching their team lose, much less be eviscerated on a nationally televised game. I get that. I spent many a game watching the Saints get stomped out, and every game sucked. The year the Colts won the Super Bowl, we played them in the opener. They beat us. Badly. It sucked. We LOST our opening game this season to the only man standing in the way of Drew Brees and the MVP trophy. But the onus is upon MY team to play better. Not the other team to make them look good. Drew Brees doesn’t play for the Atlanta Falcons (it hurts to type their name sans snarky misnomer), or Pete Prisco. Drew doesn’t even play for his own ego. In fact, Prisco’s article lets you know exactly who Drew plays for:
“I kind of got emotional before the game,” Brees said. “There was a kid as I was signing autographs who said, ‘I’m here to see you break the record.’ It made me think of when I was a kid.”
And none of that matters. Let’s discuss the fact that the other guys on the field, the ones NOT wearing New Orleans Saints’ uniforms are also professional football players. They play defense. It is their job to DEFEND the end zone. When you do not defend your end zone, the other team will score on you. It is not the other team’s job to make you feel good about it. If you’re tired of him scoring on you, stop him. Stop Sproles. Stop Graham. Stop this guy:
Yeah, he scored two years ago. Haven't heard from him since.
But to complain about running up the score? Ridiculous.
And I would be remiss if I did not share this tidbit: The Atlanta Falcons played the Jacksonville Jaguars on the 15th day of December, 2011 in the year of our Lord, and scored SEVEN times in the first three quarters, before the Jaguars even sniffed, not only the end zone, but the scoreboard. Feel free to verify.
But what about this unconscionable show of disrespect:
This comes a year after the Saints danced on the Falcons logo at the Georgia Dome after beating Atlanta last year with one player [Remi Ayodele] from that team that night saying, “I pissed on the Falcons logo.”
“That’s just who they are,” the Falcons player said. “We’ll see them down the road. We won’t forget any of it.”
Our boys don’t forget either. They don’t forget that Atlanta is not only a division rival, but a division rival with a player who likes to make disparaging Katrina comments shortly before facing the Saints. Sound familiar, Roddy White?
So, there will be no tears for the Falcons, their coaching staff, or their belief that they have earned some sort of extra consideration when their defense decides to phone it in. Play the game. Every drive counts. Every inch counts. If more Falcons had the drive of a Michael Turner or a Tony Gonzales, maybe they’d be a bigger threat. But the school yard taunts mean NOTHING if you’re not putting in the work to back it up. Until they do as a unit, the Falcons will ALWAYS come up short in the league.
In fact, I’ll just say the thing I’ve been erased three times in this post: “The Atlanta who? Fuck those guys.”
* Even now, I have a certain amount of sympathy for Favre, who found it so hard to leave the game he loved, and how he went out. What would I do if I was told I had to stop writing?
Adorable, right?
Precious, ain't she?
Yeah. That’s how the get you. Babies are a racket, and don’t let anyone tell you differently. Sure, they bring joy, purpose and meaning. You meet them and can’t imagine your life without them. And this makes you ignore one enormous fact: Kids are douchey little terrorists.
Oh, you think this is cute? Wearing this to meet your boss in a mint green dress? Yeah, so check it…I'm gonna shoot a deuce in this right quick…yes ma'am…all over it, 2 minutes before it's time to bounce. Enjoy being my bitch.
The other day, my almost two year-old niece walked up to my sister took her by the hand and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. It’s okay.” She led her to the living room and said, “Had accident.” (When a two year old walks up to you and tells you “It’s okay,” recognize that these words are LIES! It’s never okay. Not ever.) My sister got to her living room and discovered she was late for the oatmeal finger painting hour. Then she gave her the puppy dog eyes and said, “But I sowwy.”
"Sowwy" don't sound like no country I ever heard of muthafucka! THE OATMEAL!? DID YOU SMEAR IT???
When I was nine, ten years and five kids into the game, my mom lost her shit. There was screaming, things flying across the room and jumping up and down. We all stood there incredulous, thinking, “This batty broad is headed straight for the boobie hatch.” Now that I am a parent of only two of my own, thirteen years in the game, I look back with another type of incredulity: Mama, what the hell took you so long?! Not long after her freak out, she began to channel her frustrations into writing. She wrote a classic poem in our household, “When You Grow Up and Move Away.” I can’t remember the entire poem, but it began something like this:
When you grow up and move away, we’ll visit for a spell
We’re proud of our dear children, we so want to wish you well
Then, this lady proceeded to detail, and a two page poem, how she and the fanny packer would go in cahoots with our future children and dismantle our entire program. She not only described things we had done (such as remove every inch of the tape which operated our burglar alarm system) and killing our friends pets (it was a hamster, and I was only trying to make it smell better); but she upped the ante. I don’t think we ever swung from the curtain rods like Tarzan, and we never broke a window. Who does that? Who plots on their poor little darlings?
I’ll tell you who: a parent on the edge. And yes, a revolutionary.
It’s time that we rise up against these ankle biting gremlins and reclaim our insanity! Remind these interlopers that we run this. Stop letting them win at games. Once they turn eight, they’re going to beat you at everything anyway. You’re preparing them for the future. Don’t be gracious about it either. “BOOM! LOST AGAIN! It hurts, don’t it? It HURTS!” “You ain’t learn yet? I’ve beat you the same way eighteen times son! Do you know what Plato says about that? HA! Of course you don’t, because you can’t READ!!!!! If you could, you’d know that Plato doesn’t talk about Xbox at all! This bores me. Change the channel on the way out.”
But we’re just getting started. Did they get down on the floor and throw a tantrum? You get right down on the floor with them and start kicking and screaming. Are they in the room minding their business? Walk into the room and spill your coffee all over their favorite doll. Yeah Dora the Explorer. Fuck you. You shouldn’t be running around with a monkey in the woods anyway. Lil Man is chomping at the bit to see Fresh Beat Band? Go right ahead and get the bubble guts 10 minutes after you were supposed to leave. Of course, you’re 10 minutes behind schedule because you smeared chocolate on the shirt you were going to wear. Kiki will just have to wait.
Game on younglings. I’ve been making folks cry since the 70s. Your arms are too short.
This is maggot cheese. It's supposed to look disgusting.
Who doesn’t love food? It smells delicious, it tastes divine, and contrasting colors can make it appealing to the eyes. One thing I know about food is that not every meal looks appealing. There’s an art to “staging” food so that it looks appealing through the camera lens. That’s why the burger on the picture rarely looks like the burger on your plate. However, being on Twitter has taught me that with some chefs at the helm, NO amount of staging or photoshopping can salvage the aesthetic appeal (and possibly digestibility) of those meals. Say it with me: ”Friends don’t let friends twitpic their struggle meals.” Clearly though, some of your friends are lacking, or don’t have the guts to tell you your culinary efforts look like day old barf. Here is where you have to be your own best friend. Consider this a checklist to help you figure out if your food ought to be in pictures or Tartarus:
1. You have a “specialty,” but people always ask you to bring the disposable cutlery
Typically hearing, “I’ll bring plates” to a potluck makes us all roll our eyes at your lazy behind. That’s because we’re saving that privilege for the cousin who’s always trying to bring coconut sprinkled chitterling loaf. She’s always chomping at the bit to serve her weird concoctions, and no one will bite. Do not take picture of that to save into your phone, much less to send it out to people
2. Scraping was involved
You should be cooking with some sort of coated pot. You can also coat the pan with a cooking spray, or something similar. If your meal sticks to your cookware and refuses to budge and you have to jackhammer it out of the plate, your kitchen and your life, don’t take a picture of that.
3. This is your first time cooking
Practice makes perfect, and whatever you think you’re doing with the pots and pans, is probably disgusting. Maybe not the most disgusting thing, but I’ll tell you a secret: Every good chef/cook and to start somewhere. People seem to enjoy my cooking, however, I had to relearn how to cook after I started a family. My red beans and rice could have been used to spackle walls. It takes a lot of patience to get recipes right. Until then, put your camera away.
4. You’ve got some weird “Only My Family Eats this” recipe
Nobody is checking for your yammallow. We don’t want to eat it. We con’t want pictures of it.
5. They lie to you about potlucks.
You’re either not invited, or they are super insistent on you not even bringing cutlery, because they don’t want you to get any fancy ideas. ”Oh, I’ll just bring this M&M and frito pie just in case.” No. NO. NO! We actually want you to sit quietly and look pretty.
6. You’ve ever partaken in a meal involving “Prison Spread”
If you have not, good for you. Just know that if you’ve ever heated up ramen noodles in an old bread bag, with nondescript cheese, I have no interest in your cinematic visions for three ketchup packets and half a bag of funyuns.
If you fit into any of these categories, please for the love of humanity, heed my words and leave the pictures to the pros and just enjoy your meal
