Naked Admonition: Raw Advice for the Overprocessed Life Spittin' hot fiyah via Wordpress.com

I have sadly been in dereliction of duty, what with celebrating my birthday, rocking stilettos and actually wearing a top with print designs on it.  (Whoda thunk?)  But, I decided to ease back into this with one of my favorite posts from my solo joint. Enjoy, and all thoughts are welcome.

His reputation preceded him, as is often the case with big personalities.  I didn’t really get to know him until I was about seven.  Memory isn’t my strong point, but I’m pretty sure we met on a Friday.  Lots of poignant events in my life had a way of happening on Fridays, so we’ll stick with that for now.  I liked him right off the bat.  Everybody did.  Sometimes, even with the very young, you know when they have “it.”  That thing which makes people take notice.  My mom thought my infatuation was so cute.  My dad, so him as trouble, so he was not nearly as amused.  He tried to steer me away, but I was smitten, so it was too late.

I just wanted to be around him and hear his voice, even then.  I would drop everything to listen to him.  He wanted to be my man, and had told me as much.  I let him be just that.  My young fantasies always involved him.  My first slow dance was with him.  He needed love.  My love.  Who was I to say no?  There were other crushes, but he was my constant love.

After years of being tight, out of the clear blue, he called me a bitch.  It stunned me.  Have you ever had your mother unexpectedly smack the hell out of you, and all you can do is give that hard blink?  Saying it was hurtful enough, but everybody heard him.  In my embarrassment, and my inability to process it, I explained it away.  My dad gave me the knowing, “I told you so,” lecture.  My mother suggested that I leave him alone.

He made an effort to make up for it, so I gave him another chance.  I was his sister; his queen.  We would go on for hours about building, not only ourselves, but all black people.  We could talk about Malcolm and Haile and the beauty of our black origins.  He said I was his beginning and his end.  His words made me move as he spoke to my needs.  He knew me.  We grew together.  As we grew, his intentions became more explicit.  I remember the day my father found the words he’d penned for me and angrily threw them in my face.  He could never understand our thing.

Young love, however, eventually grows restless.  Rather than fight a losing battle, I set him free to be the person he felt he needed to be.  Of course we kept in contact, and I didn’t always agree with the things he said, or the manner in which he said them, but I understood why he was so damned angry.  Though I set him free, others were more selfish.  They stifled and took from him.  Any efforts he made to grow were met with disdain, disinterest, and derision.  I stayed in his corner, because that was all I knew to do as far as he was concerned.  I felt partially responsible, because it all started with him trying to give me a voice when I lacked words.  He was my champion.  The guilt that came with abandoning him was unbearable.

Anger with what the world was throwing at him caused him to lash out at me again.  He was much more vitriolic.  I was never enough of anything.  Not pretty enough, my hair wasn’t long enough, my lips weren’t thin enough.  So he would parade his new girls that met his qualifications.  There were certainly enough of them.  It was as though he could not miss an opportunity to showcase his disrespect.

The girl he loved since pigtails was replaced by strippers and porn stars, and one at a time was never enough.  He needed all of them, and so many were willing.  They loved him for the same reason I loved him.  For that shine he had within.  We retained contact when I became a mother, but it was always so strained.  How could I let my kids in his company?  I couldn’t.  Not often.

Despite the hurt, I still would light up when he called.  You do that with old loves.  You don’t forget who they were.  Especially when who they were was so sweet and good.  Once I consider someone mine, it’s hard for me to see things any other way, even when the writing is on the wall.  Sadly, the dashing figure in the shiny suits and the dark shades morphed from the person I know, to the person I knew.  True to form, even now he puts up bravado, but I know him too well to not recognize that he is lost, and unable to figure out where he’s going.  The way he treats women, whom he once regarded as his sisters, is nothing short of disgusting.  And since they know who he used to be, they think there’s still a chance.

And even after all this time, he reminds me that he used to be an excited youngster who could render me paralyzed with amazement.  I’m talking about someone who was beautiful, who was bold, who was black.

“Cuz who I’m talkin bout y’all is hip-hop.” (c) Common

And I STILL love him.

But he hate me.

After two heavy posts, let’s shift to a topic that errs on the side of levity:  toilet seat follies.  There is nothing more jarring in the middle of the night, than a surprise episode of splash booty.  And then, the rage begins, as does a lifelong battle for bathroom supremacy.

Personally, I think that putting the seat down is a matter of common courtesy.  The consequences of a raised toilet seat have a higher consequence to a woman than a lowered seat has to a man.  It’s gross.  So, why the seat lowering resistance?

Because men and women are stupid.  Women have made it some exercise in “housebreaking” their unruly male.  We’ve all heard a war story or two, where a victorious woman brags over her conquest.  “Girl, it took six months, but he finally puts the seat down.”  It’s a matter of presentation.  It’s presented in a way that makes a guy feel de-balled.  Naturally, men are going to rebel.  So to prove that you’re nobody’s beyotch, guys choose the road less considerate.

Here’s a thought:  let’s treat each other like adults.  Splash booty is gross.  Have a heart.  Put the freaking seat down.  But ladies, please…give it a rest.  The sooner you treat a relationship like a partnership rather than abject war, the better off you’ll be.  In truth, it’s a simple issue with much large implications.  Implications that we will address in this blog as time goes on.

And the best way we can do that is by answering your looming questions.  Therefore, if something is grinding your gears, stuck in your craw, getting your goat, chapping your hide…or you simply want to incite dialogue and get the perspective of two bright and dazzling bon vivants, please send your questions to nakedadmonition@yahoo.com.  We’ll be waiting.

Cancer Isn't The Only Thing We're Fighting

“Every cancer is a homicide.” –Boots Riley of The Coup (Everything)

There’s no other way for me to put this. Certain people, certain groups, don’t seem to particularly care if women die.

That’s the only explanation that I can come up with for the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force’s recent, stupid-as-fuck recommendation that women 40-49 forego routine mammograms and self-examinations. Before I start laying out a very personal anecdote, I want to ask a rhetorical question. Does this shit even sound like it makes sense? I mean, really.  Does this seem like good advice? It doesn’t. Certainly not to my mind, and surely not to the millions of courageous women who have survived breast cancer.

My wife is one of them. She was a tad under 50 years old – 36 to be exact – when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. She has no history of any kind of cancer in her family. She’s never smoked cigarettes (or marijuana, which is kind of weird if you ask me). She’d never previously been exposed to any radiation. In short, she was extremely low-risk. She happened to discover a lump in her breast during a self-examination and immediately went to get it checked out.

Her doctor referred her to get a biopsy. The results of the biopsy revealed a deadly little cancerous mass that had to be immediately removed. Fortunately for us, it was a stage one diagnosis that required an hour-and-a-half surgery, eight weeks of radiation treatment and, miracle of miracles, no chemotherapy. Now, some eight months after her initially diagnosis, she’s officially a survivor.

But you know what? My wife’s entire medical team, the doctor who performed the biopsy, her surgeon, her oncologist and her radiologist, all admitted that they were seeing more and more cases of young women being diagnosed with breast cancer. If Dr. Diana Petitti, vice-chair of the U.S. Preventive Services Task Force, and her colleagues were sincerely operating in the best interest of women, they would have spent their time investigating the implications of THAT shit, as opposed to telling young women that they needn’t concern themselves with regularly-scheduled mammograms.

Now that the backlash is in full swing, the task force is seeking to clarify it’s position. Tellingly, Dr. Petitti admits that the reaction from the report caught her off guard.  She concedes that, “we probably, in retrospect, could have been more clear.” Actually, I don’t agree.  I think they were crystal clear.  Their message was very simple: “We don’t give a damn.”

And I’m starting to take that joint off.  As much as I want to be frank about what’s going on with the sisters, the recent comments (calling them “recommendations” make me livid) regarding breast cancer screenings and mammograms sent me to another place.

The newer comments stated that women need not obtain mammograms until 50 years of age, mammograms need only be performed every other year, and NO self-examination.  If men were dying of breast cancer at such an alarming rate, I maintain there would have been no such task force to debunk male health care.  Not only do they debunk mammograms, but also state that women need not perform self-exams.

There have been several woman who are close friends who have been diagnosed with cancer, two of whom have passed away.  All of the women have been below the age of 50.  My aunt, who passed away from cancer at the age of 48, died in less than 8 months when her cancer returned.

Meanwhile, prostate cancer can be wiped out damn near at half-time.  Additionally, where men can get their “dude health” checked out during a regular physical, women must pay a premium rate to visit a specialist for their reproductive health.

Sisters, we need to use these damn capes for more than wiping noses.

Hey! You! I don’t like your boyfriend! Be! Cause! You both share the same jeans!

Ladies, our boyfriends have muffin tops.  This is not a good look.  We encourage this by allowing them to continue to be our boyfriends.  Fellas, we think you look ridiculous.  I’m a woman.  I talk to women ALLL the time.  I have never, in my adult life, heard a woman say, “But what really hooked me was the fact that his jeans looked like stretch pants.”  There’s nothing sexy or compelling.

It’s been scientifically proven that as heterosexual men have a base attraction to women with the traits associated with fertility, heterosexual women are attracted to men with the traits associated with virility.  Guess what’s not among those traits?  Man camel toe. But women, we only have ourselves to blame.  The guys who wear these items, have more likely than not, never been told, “Hey, your outfit is stupid.”

Stop it.  Every time I see a dude who looks like he should be wearing boots over his pants with a woman, I want to get medieval on her ass.  She KNOWS better, yet refuses to do better.  I believe it was Dave Chappelle who said that if a man could get laid living in a cardboard box, he wouldn’t buy a house.  So, giving these men attention makes you part of the problem.

Part of me is thankful that men of this ilk are limiting their sperm count, and by extension, their ability to reproduce, but I need this issue eradicated.  It’s a judgment thing.  Men who suffocated their johnsons are not to be trusted.  Yeah.  I said it.  I’m not joking either.  And no, this isn’t a swipe at masculinity or sexuality.  It’s a swipe at being too stupid to give  your wood some air.  Nothing about that sounds like a good idea.  Then, they sag.  So I have to see your moose knuckles AND your underwear.

I want to harm you.  I want to harm the women who are with you.  I want to make them pay a fine.  I want the women who date you to be suspended from something.  Womanhood should come with a membership card, which allows  you to accrue points and demerits.  If you’re caught with a man wearing offensive outfits, you would be denied access to all the things that the ladies love.  No Sister Circle meetings.  Grey’s Anatomy?  No chance.  Oprah won’t be rocking with you.  Access to Cool James?  Denied. Don’t even THINK about trying to go see the musical production of The Color Purple.  You’ll be told HELLLLLL NO!

I know this seems extreme, but these are extreme times.  No male leggings for 2010.  We got a brother in the White House.  I know we can accomplish this.

Peace,

My apologies. This is a reprint from a post I wrote in another blog. I injured my back today and haven’t spent much time today unmedicated. I haven’t had an opportunity to gather my thoughts and commit to a new post. Still, I’m fond of this post and I hope you enjoy it.

My wife is a pharmacist. That means she’s got her doctorate (Pharm.D.) and is a nationally recognized and state-certified professional. I’m not simply bragging on my lady here (not that it would score me any points since she stopped reading my blog long ago). I mean, I’m extremely proud of her and I understand the economic and social obstacles that she’s had to overcome to accomplish her goals, but the whole reason I’m mentioning it is because of two work-related incidents she’s shared with me.

The first was recurring. While we were living in Virginia some years ago, she was working with a pharmacist who happened to be a black male.  At any rate, she began to notice that as soon as he became comfortable with her, he suddenly lost all traces of his professionalism. Propriety and pretense devolved into frequent and often bizarre inappropriateness. In her eyes, this fall into unsuitable familiarity was precipitated by the fact that she was a black woman. Because she was a “sister,” he immediately assumed that he could get away with what one of my Houston frat brothers refers to as, “that ol’ bullshit.”

Fast forward to the present. My wife works with a Jewish man (let’s call him Mike) who is the pharmacist-in-charge. The two of them are the regular, nine-to-fivers at her current location. Other pharmacists are often brought in to provide coverage when one of them needs to take off. Recently, an outside pharmacist (let’s call him Elroy) was hired to take over for Mike when he had a doctor’s appointment. For about a half-an-hour, Mike, Elroy and my wife worked together with seamless professionalism. As soon as Mike left for his appointment, Elroy asked, loudly and to no one in particular, “Alright! Where the party at?” In her words, “This Negro thought that the pharmacy transformed into a nightclub just because a white man went to a doctor’s appointment.”

She’s not alone. EVERY SINGLE black female professional that I know has had to endure (or is doing so currently) some kind of come on, ignorant comment, leer or improper gesture from some brother that gets just a little too familiar. Now, before you rush to judgment about me, I recognize that this is not endemic to my people. Men being what they are, women in general have historically been exposed to both sexual and non-sexual workplace incongruities. Having acknowledged that, I still find it regrettable that some brothers just can’t check that player shit at the office door. If I had a dollar for every complaint I’ve heard, from my wife, sister, mother, and women friends, about some failed attempt at workplace pimpery, I’d move my family to the Hamptons. If any of you would-be office Lotharios are reading this, my suggestion to you would be to focus on your God-damned job. Apart from having to occasionally bear witness to some of the shittiest game I’ve ever seen, I’m tired of sisters at my job regarding me with suspicion just because I smile at them and say “Hello.”

But in the land of relationships, the manless woman is sage?

For some reason, the first person a woman goes to when she’s having relationship problems, is her single friends.  I’m a woman, I’ve done it.  My committed friends do it to me.  Because of course, when your man pisses you off, you’re out the door.  Married women are going to tell you that marriage is hard work, and to stick it out, and that it’s all worth it in the end.  When you’re mad, you’re not trying to hear that foolishness.  You want fire and brimstone to run all up in your lousy man’s ass.

Now, the average woman with sense will come to her senses, and realize that she’s got something worth saving (I hope), and will eventually seek out sage advice from a more experienced, successfully married woman.  Their single friends are a good sounding board, the appetizer if you will.  They go to experienced women for the “food.”

Unfortunately, not enough women do this.  And that speaks to the MAJOR disconnect that exists between men and women.  A woman in a relationship has a completely different dynamic from her single counterpart.  You can truly just speak to your circumstances.  Single women aren’t necessarily coming from a man-hating place.  It’s the logical, “You’re not happy, get happy,” place.  (Single women can be quite pragmatic when it comes to other women’s relationships.)

As women, there’s a pressure to be committed, yet not lose touch with your single friends.  Solidarity in sisterhood is all good, but it shouldnt’ be at the expense of your well being.  Once you are committed, the well being of you, turns to the well being of us, so your single friends can’t always give sound advice, because they’re coming from a different place.

I’m sure there are single women who will take issue with what I have said, but if you think about it, I’m really not wrong here.  We do the best we can, but our best isn’t always a good fit for the situation.  When I was eight and my younger sister was six, my mother spent a great deal of time in the hospital, and my father was our primary caregiver, including combing our hair.  He was taking care of his girls, as always, as best he could, but hair combing wasn’t exactly in his lane.  I remember bragging that my dad could comb hair.  I saw pictures of us during that time, and it was the definition of hot mess.  But I knew my father’s intention, and that was enough for me.  That’s what happens when the people we love, and who love us, give us advice that isn’t always coming from knowledge and experience.

We would do well to seek out people who have a measure of success in our specific situation if we desire improvement.  I’m not saying to dismiss your single friends as uninformed dolts.  I’m just saying don’t go to the dentist for brain surgery.

Just food for thought.