Proud Moments in Blackness: Brokey McPoverty Salutes BHM

This is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen in my life.   Best one: 

Brandon Peterson

First man to tell a woman that she was “fine as frog’s hair.”

I damn near peed myself. Genius. Go read!

UPDATE: 28 Days Without the N-Bomb, Day Five

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry Two:  I have reconciled myself to the fact that using the n-word in my dream is (probably) beyond my control and (mostly) not my fault. I have never been able to completely master lucid dreaming techniques; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that whole dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream thing happen, à la Waking Life.  Still…something about it, feels vaguely like cheating. Silly maybe, but I feel how I feel.  (I may not always know what to do or what course of action to take, but I always know EXACTLY how I feel. Can YOU say that? I hadn’t thought so.)

Soooo many interesting discussions have sprung up from this project/experiment. Partner-in-crime,  friend and friend-of-the-blog Dopegirlfresh (she’s over here and here) and I have discussed how extraordinarily tempting it is to use that word.  It’s the ultimate trump word.  You whip it out and you basically win the game (whatever the game is). As is her wont, my buddy summed up the Word That Wouldn’t Die succinctly and brilliantly: “I been thinking about it, and what I realized it that when call someone an n-bomb, you’re basically saying  ’fuck your life.’ ” And she’s right. The n-bomb is more than just a fighting word –  although that alone would be plenty.  It’s a killing word. It is designed to murder one’s soul. And, as someone who has been on the receiving end of it more times than I care to recall, lemme tell ya, it’s pretty damned effective.

Anyway, dopegirlfresh had the awesome idea of substituting the n-bomb with…wait for it…Wocka Flocka Flame. Now, the name is so absurd that it immediately diffuses the rage that inspired the n-word to leap to mind in the first place, and it’s creative and awesome. Drawback? Most people hear “Wocka Flocka Flame” and think of this:

While I hear it, and think of this:

"Wocka wocka flocka!"

It’s gonna be an interesting month.

UPDATE: 28 Days Without the N-Bomb, Day Three

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry One: I am pleased to report that my four-week fast from the n-bomb has been quite successful thus far. It has even inspired some fokes in my social circle to follow suit. And here’s the thing we have all agreed on less than 72 hours in.

Not saying that word? It’s hard. HARD.  Even for those of us who only use it selectively, like, I don’t know, less than 15 times a week,  it is reeeeealy difficult to find a substitute that satisfies in conversation. This has, of course, led to some creative solutions.  I’m employing words I used from my childhood when I wanted to insult someone, but couldn’t cuss because adults were nearby, just looking for a reason to make me go and get my switch. I’ll be the first to admit that no other word seems to have the same evil energy – which is why soooo many slurs, ethnic and otherwise, use the n-bomb and a hyphen. (Think about it.) The n-bomb definitely has a gratifying crunch to it…until you realize that what you’re actually chewing is broken glass.  Yeah. That’s not good.

SIGH. Sorry, Huey. I guess I'll see you in March.

I’m also embarrased to report that in spite of eliminating all the obvious sources of the n-bomb (Films set in barbershops, beauty salons or at barbecues; ANY movies by Quentin Tarantino; The Boondocks, etc.) in my daily environment,  The Word That Would Not Die has seeped into my sub/unconscious mind.  That’s right, I said the n-word in my dream. A lot. And for no clear reason! In the dream I was having a heated discussion with a friend about why it is that White people like RUN DMC so damn much.(I know, I know, my dreams are fucking weird.) My theory in the dream was that the frequent employment of guitar riffs in the more popular songs was comfortably familiar to White people, who might otherwise be alarmed.  Highlights from this discussion: “[N-bomb], how YOU gone tell me? That [n-bomb] Dave Chappelle basically proved this shit in that skit he did with that [n-bomb] John Mayer!”  I dropped the n-bomb like it was going out of style in my dream, and when I woke up, I felt guilty! I don’t even know what to make of all that.

I KNOW I can do this. I’m going to stay on the righteous path and let the Mooney guide me. Ohhh-OHMMMMdon’twannasaythenword…Ohhh-OHMMMMitshamestheancestors….Ohhh-OHMMMM…

I don’t wanna talk about Haiti.

And I’m not. Not that I have nothing to say (when is that ever my problem?), but that this whole mess makes my heart hurt. And I’m kinda at capacity for heart ache at the moment. No more, all full, thank you.

Anyway, Joe’s got it covered.  He talks about Haiti and Guantanamo,  Pat Robertson’s stankin’ ass,  Haiti’s beautiful natural features and extraordinary history,  the absurdity and racism of supposedly liberal  media reports of homeless amd starving Haitians “looting”,  and the best way to help Haiti.    Go read his blog. Get like me.

This Just In: Protest for Haiti in NYC

Friday Protest Will Demand: Emergency Relief Must Get to the Haitian People Now!

When: Friday January 22 12:00 noon (press conference) 4:00 – 7:00 pm Street protest

Where: United States Mission to the United Nations, 140 E 45th Street (3rd & Lexington)

The Haiti Emergency Committee announced today its opposition to the Obama administration’s conduct towards Haiti in the wake of the earthquake of January 12. It issued this statement: With 500,000 Haitians feared dead under the rubbles following the earthquake, Haiti needs robust Emergency Assistance. The first 48 hours in the aftermath of the earthquake were very critical. The Haitian people have been helping one another with their bare hands from the very first few moments of the earthquake. People everywhere are striving to support the Haitian people any way they can. Yet, the U.S. military having wrestled total control of the ports and the main airport in Port-Au-Prince as well as throughout the country is refusing to allow cargo planes from different countries such as Turkey, Iran, Venezuela and Cuba to bring urgently needed medical supplies, water, food, and medicine to the people in Haiti. For days, the US and UN officials on the ground stopped volunteers from distributing supplies to the people in the hardest hit places. This is mass genocide. There is a real Humanitarian crisis in Haiti and it must be dealt with as such. The Haitian People must be assisted and not be portrayed in the media as animals and criminals. The Haitian masses in Haiti – as they did in New Orleans during Katrina – did the best they could in mobilizing themselves to deal collectively with their situation. These efforts must be supported in all aid programs. Volunteers must be facilitated to distribute the aid provided by other countries around the globe and should not be suppressed. The United States, instead of providing the immediate aid necessary in the first critical hours, mobilized a whole arsenal of military hardware and personnel with at least 11,000 soldiers to reinforce the occupation of Haiti adding to the 9,000-strong UN military force in the country. The Haitian people need Humanitarian assistance – water, medicine, medical supplies, healthcare workers not a military arsenal. We say NO to this military deployment in Haiti. We oppose the occupation of Haiti now and forever. We demand: 1) Let the aid get through to Haiti! Let the Haitian People organize! Stop U.S. Military interference with international rescue & Humanitarian aid. THIS MUST STOP! 2) Stop denying Humanitarian entry into the US for Haitians whose lives are at risk! 3) END U.S./U.N. occupation of Haiti! 4) Stop the World Bank/USAID sweatshop plans in Haiti! 5) Stop the removal of people from their communities!

 Contact: bosolidarity@yahoo.com Marty Goodman 646-898-7328

2010 Black History Month Challenge: 28 Days Without The N-Bomb

As some of you are aware, I don’t use The Word That Wouldn’t Die in my written work. I explained it all in a previous post that featured a list of life lessons  that I’ll excerpt here:

It is NOT okay for ANYONE to use the “N-word.”  As late as 2004, when I tried vainly to make the argument that the kids in my predominantly Latino neighborhood used it with an impunity that was just unacceptable.  The person I was talking to, a biracial man who self-identifies as Black, argued back that the word, which could never be reclaimed, was viral and out of control, and that Black people using it amongst ourselves had made that possible.  I’ll never forget that discussion, where I defended my use of the Word That Would Not Die with the usual lame-ass* rationale.  Of course, I have made it a point to try and not use it ever since; it’s hard.

Do you see that? All that blah blah blah and here am I talking about how I’m giving up the n-bomb for the month of February like it’s some kinda grand Lentine sacrifice.  I freely admit that this is one of those places in my life where I am a hypocrite.  I drop the n-bomb exclusively in the presence of other African-American women. Not Black, specifically African-AMERICAN, and only women. (These categories frequently overlap, but not always.) Why? As my buddy and co-warrior (REVOLUTION! And…whatnot)  dopegirlfresh put it during one of our looooong conversations, “Black women say it in a way that captures our frustration with damn TKON!”  She’s right. Patriarchy within communities of color is, of course, systemic, but like all systems of oppression, takes shape in the hands of participating individuals. All that is to say that a lotta what we call “whorish” and/or “triflin’ shit” is actually SEXIST shit. And sometimes, a well-placed “THIS [insert word I hate here]…” in a discussion captures the disgust and fed-up-ness (<- real word, shut up) that a whole lot of us feel towards TKON.

Now, like I said before, I know that setting “preconditions” for using the n-bomb that read like growing instructions for a particularly temperamental species of orchid still doesn’t make it okay. I know that I can’t make anyone stop using this word, and many people argue that making its usage a social taboo has only served to enhance its appeal.  I kinda think that’s a bullshit argument, and if you read Jabari Asim’s The N-Word: Who Can Say It, Who Shouldn’t, And Why, you’ll understand my reasons. ( By the way, someone needs to send Junot Diaz a copy like, already ago. I’m just sayin’…)

I welcome all of my readers to join me in my 28-day-long ban of the n-bomb. I’d love to hear feedback here or at one of my other virtual hangouts (no links – if you know, you know, and you know why). It’ll be harder for some of us than others, but if Paul Mooney can do it, then damn it, so can we!  

Let the wisdom of Negrodamus be your guide and inspiration.

(*I also don’t use “lame” anymore. I left it in because taking it out of the passage would have been disingenous.)

Another dollar-outta-fifteen-cents post, Special Birfday Edition.

Happy New Year, dear readers! I’ve got a lot to chat about that really wouldn’t add up to much by itself, sooooo as promised in the last scraps post, here’s another hodgepodge piece. Enjoi!     

My first New Year’s Eve alone was extraordinary. I walked down to the beach (three miles – oy!) at about 10 p.m. and arrived fifteen minutes to midnight.  There, under the light of the full, blue moon, I swam and watched the fireworks from the nearby pier, meditating on my life: all that I had been granted in the last year, and all that I wanted in the new one.  It was amazing.  The only thing that would’ve made it better would have been if Rush Limbaugh had died. Ah, well.     

Okay, now just imagine her, but darker, chunkier, bustier, and with much darker, thicker, curlier hurr. That

 January 10, 2010 is my Golden Birfday! I am super excited about it because I have been waiting for 01/10/10 since I was a kid.  You see, dorks loooooove binary. Not everybody gets a binary code birthday. It’s just further evidence that I’m special.   The original plan was to have a faaaaabulous brunch with Mama here and then spend the rest of my day on the beach. Seeing as how we’re expecting SNOW in parts of my county this evening, that’s kinda not happening. SIGH. The winter loves me so much it followed me.  That’s okay. I can still have some cake.     

That's a sexy cake right there.

  Sci-fi rill life bullshit.  The year long siege of Gaza has been shamefully absent from the national headlines. (Not like, “brutal and repeated rape and terrorization of women in the Congo” absent, but definitely absent for a cause that most Americans are purportedly concerned about. I wonder what it takes to stir compassion for women raped so viciously that they lose control of their excretory function for life? Maybe if they were just a smidge more White Bosnian? Anywhooo…) Just when I thought that the racist, fascist face of  absolutist Zionism couldn’t GET any uglier, here comes this horrifying story of ILLEGAL organ-harvesting of Palestinians by the Israeli government.  Special thanks to Joe for bringing this to my attention. I have NO IDEA why this shit isn’t on 60 Minutes.  No, wait. I know why. Stupid ole mainstream media.  o_O     

Speaking of “shit I cain’t believe”: Whitney Houston’s Oprah interview.  Let the record show that, because crack is  cheap and crack is whack,      

     

Whitney and Bobby laced their weed with rock cocaine.      

     

Ya know, because that’s classier.  SIGH. Y’all, this had me stuck in side-eye for a WEEK. 

ENVY ME!!! I own this bag, the beautiful and “green” Michelle Obama shopper. Neener neener NEEner! 

So sharp you might wanna reach for it handle first!

If one more person compares my lips to Angelina Fekking Jolie’s, I’m gonna vomit.  Like a lotta Black girls who grew up before Naomi made “beestung” lips acceptable to the mainstream, I got a lotta self-esteem levelling crap growing up for having a very, VERY full mouth. I don’t consider the lauding of a feature that I was ruthlessly made to feel ashamed of because some White chick  a celeb has it a “win.”  And I never will.  My lips were lovely before White folks decided to openly covet them, and they will ALWAYS be. Comparing them to Jolie’s is some vurry nasty, backhanded-complimen-type appropriation, and it is what  Kyriarchy uses it to conquer the self-esteems of little girls of color everyday. Soooo, if you’re gonna compare my lips to anyone’s, please refer to Chrisette Michele. I love her.      

Just. GOAHGEOUS.

 Junot Diaz needs a nut punch and/or corrective therapy for literary Tourette’s Syndrome. Like everyone and their mother, I read this book in the summer of 2007 and looooved it. Seriously, in spite of its RIDONKULOUS later popularity and the somewhat condescending tone of some of its critical accolades (“voice from the gutter”? Fucking REALLY?) it remains one of the Best Books I Have Ever Read. SIGH.  Having said all that, throughout this exquisitely woven tale, Diaz dropped the n-bomb with an alacrity that was inexcusable.  Seriously, Diaz tossed  The Word That Wouldn’t Die out like a nine-year-old throws pellet firecrackers on a hot sidewalk in summer.  Fuck that “he writes like he talks” nonsense. As a writer, I know what a lack of narrative restraint looks like.  However, because every person of color in my life adored this novel, I was seriously loathe to bring it up or engage in critical discussion of the novel, particularly with regard to race (which was explored really well and sensitively – with that one glaring exception).  It won the Pulitzer. I think I can be gently critical without getting any static about it now.   

I will be writing in “Black Black Blackity Black” on the U.S. Census form this year. Either that or “Knights-Who-Say-KNEEgro”. Tee.  Oh, and er-uhm, speaking of  “Negro”…  

This is one of those moments where I roll my eyes, exhale loudly, and mutter, “WHITE people…” I recommend that y’all do the same. I have to say the ruckus around Harry Reid’s ignorant-assed comments amused me more than anything else.  Code-switching is a survival technique that many Black fokes (including yours truly) employ on a day-to-day basis in order to simply LIVE.  Some amphibians breathe air and water their whole lives.  Plenty of PoC occupy dual worlds in the same manner.   

Lungs: CHECK. Gills: CHECK. Effective camouflage from predators: NONE. Toxic skin when handled, ingested,or otherwise fucked with: CHECK.

  
And while one’s ability to effectively code-switch does help ensure survival, it  is NOT necessarily a reflection of any aspect of one’s character, nor does it necessarily reflect one’s talents, intelligence or abilities. I am always amused at just how much some White people – who never have to code-switch and always carry Whiteness and its accompanying privileges with them – have to say about the “Negro dialect.” I also like to say some real Black shit in all-White settings, just to see White people squirm. Seriously, next time you’re talking with a group of oh-so-liberal White fokes, throw something like, “One monkey don’t stop no show!” into the middle of the conversation, and see if the mofos don’t stare at you like you whipped a tampon outta your purse and used it to stir some sugar into your glass of shiraz.  

I am hesitant to  publish the Black hurr post because of all the crap Black women are getting from MSM recently. It’s like Chris Rock took over a major network or some shit.   

And my jaw-drop moment of the New Year. Flava Flav’s “music” video. In Autotone. I don’t think I ever laughed so hard.  Oh, Flava Flav. You wear the late crown. You rilly, rilly do.   

2009 Farewell VideDedi: Ebony Bones’ “Warrior”

Okay, so I looooooooove Ebony Bones. Aside from the fact that the lead singer is wacky and awesome in that way that Lady Gaga keeps TRYNA be (yeah, I said it), their music is really unlike anything else out there right now.

If George Clinton and Grace Jones had a baby, this would be the funky-punky offspring. And I mean that in the most complimetary way.

I first heard this song last year and fell all the way in love.  You should totally download listen to their album – I did!  As always, my darlin’ dears, enjoi, et Bonne Année!  

Missing Gotham (and somebody I left there).

Over here at Possum Stew, we smile through our tears. It’s Christmas, dagnabbit! 

My buddy Joe is on FIYAH!

In addition to editing one of my favorite blogs , professoratin’, and taking care of this sweet wittle guy,

*SQUEEEEEEEE!* Who's dat good boy? Who's da good boy? *ahem* (Sorry.)

he’s got a new website showcasing his faaaaaahhhhbulous multidisciplinary artworks.  You should hire him take a look.  Oh, and um, bonus: He is rill foxy. See?

What'd I tell ya, huh? Fox-say!

Anyway, check him – and everyone else listed under “Friends of the Stew” over there —–> – out. You’ll be glad you did!

An important announcement.

*ahem*

<Li’l John ><crunk>YEEEEAAAUUUHH! TENTH HOUSE IN THE HIZZ-OUSE! CAPRICORN, WHHUUT! OHHHKAY! </Li’l John>

Thank you.

Happy Birthday, David Joseph Bohm.

Why am I wishing you a happy birthday, when so few folks out there know who you were? Simple answer. Because I am a  special kinda dork, the  Hawkingphileo-Saganite variety.  And because in addition to all your amazing contributions to the field of theoretical physics (or, as I like to call this subfield  “God’s footprints”) you gave the world the Bohm Dialogue.  Which changed my mind and my life in ways that I wouldn’t even be able to grasp until years later. Which made me the woman I am today.

So, you’ve passed on. This was predictable enough. People die.  Really, you only live as long as someone’s memory of you. But energy, ideas, and wonder? Those are forever. And so I thank you, Dr. Bohm, for helping me and so many others grab hold of the only immortality that matters.  Happy birthday to you.

David Bohm (December 20, 1917 - October 27, 1992)

Mama. You gotta love her.

Going through our family photos, I found this.  Eerily enough, I made it for my mom EXACTLY  25 years ago today! She keeps it with my report cards, old honor roll certificates, school pics and…um… baby… teeth.   ::: head shake :::

Awwwwww.

By the way, my hands and feet were outsized growing up, and by the time I was eight I wore a woman’s size ten shoe – so the point of very small hands was largely missed here, as you can see.  SIGH. Ah, well, my freakish proportions aside, it was a great gift, and remains one of my mother’s very favorites.

Lisa Solod Warren can’t tell her mixed-race Black fokes apart.

Filing under “W” for “White lady, sitchoassdown”: Ms. Warren thinks that Tiger Woods and Barack Obama (!) have been done in by their big, Black hubris. Here’s an excerpt:

It is tragic when an icon falls. When a black icon stumbles the tragedy seems doubly problematic.

Funny, she doesn’t sound so sorry. You can actually hear the glee in that sentence. Really, read it. See? Oh, and this:

Both men are of mixed race. Yet the majority of the country, including black Americans, sees them as black. That’s not a bad thing. Except when such men of intelligence and talent, men who have such influence and power, can’t help but succumb to the age old twins of greed and power. Although each has risen from ordinary beginnings to be at the top of their field but now things don’t look so good for either of them.

Hmmm. While I could really go in here about  (White) mainstream media’s defense of  Tiger’s right to not self-identify as Black (half, quarter, or whatevs)  versus Barack Obama’s self-identification as the Black son of a White mother from the start, I won’t.  (I will note that it is interesting that Warren states that lots of people see Tiger Woods as Black, and many glom whatever negative notions that they have about Blackness onto him the same as they would any Black person – including her.) There are things that my current chosen path no longer permit me to say or do. Like shout, “Oh, bitch, PUH-LEEZ!” and slash a person’s tires.  I feel like it would be more satisfying to do these things than engage in discussion with Ms. Warren about all the neo-liberal racist fail in this piece.   HuffPo is really doing a number on my ulcer in 2009.

UPDATE: If you wanna read a good and extended critique of Warren’s piece, Sister Toldja’s got one.