That is SO not post-racial!

You may have heard of Bethany Storro, the White woman in Washington State who, in August, claimed that she was attacked by an unidentified Black woman “with an athletic build” who threw acid in her face.  In spite of serious holes in Storro’s account of the incident (just for starters,  her eyes were protected by sunglasses that she was wearing at night) this story made national headlines.  While police searched for a suspect, sympathy cards came flooding in from all over the country to the hospital where Storro lay recuperating from her injuries. 

 This week, Storro confessed that she made the whole thing up, and that her injuries are self-inflicted. The Black female assailant everyone’s been looking for?  Completely fabricated.

Unbalanced White criminals blaming fictional Black perpetrators for offenses they have committed is (regrettably)nothing new. Susan Smith did it in 1994, and Charles Stuart did it in 1989…the list goes on and on. What seems to be a relatively new twist on everybody’s favorite go-to lynch mob meme is the addition of self-inflicted injuries to the roster.  Remember Ashley Todd, the McCain supporter who in 2008 claimed that she was robbed at knifepoint by a Black assailant who carved a “B” (for Barack) on her face?

Oh, and then there’s Sergeant Robert Ralston, the Philadelphia cop who shot himself and blamed it on a Black man with cornrows.  

Black men with any manner of hair were stopped and questioned by police in the Overton section of Philadelphia for about a week after the incident. Fortunately, no arrests appear to have been made in relation to the falsified report, but the potential for harm was substantial.  I mean, just imagine something like this happening with the NYPD! Oh, wait.

What fascinates me about all this is that the key to making these offenses plausible has been the addition of an imaginary Black offender. The perpetual  troping of Black people as violent and criminal (among other things) creates a myth of  constant potential White victimhood, and the more damaging and sinister countermyth of the necessity of unrelenting vigilance against Black criminality.  What troubles me more is that some White people are willing to actually invent a crime in order to have a Black person to blame it on.  Ralston, Smith and Stuart dumped their crimes at the doorstep of unidentified Black offenders to throw the police off their guilty trails. Todd and Storro made shit up with the specific intention of  vilifying Black people.  Ya know, because we don’t have it hard enough as it is. SIGH.

As saddened and outraged as I am about this, I’m not surprised. There’s bound to be at least one more case like this before the year’s out. World, get better.

Can we talk about how the Israeli government’s on some bullshit now?

We didn’t talk about it when this happened. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this.  Or this.  And now, we have this.

So can we talk about it now? I mean, really. Can we talk about how condemning the actions of the Israeli government is common sense? Can we have this discussion without having it all boil down to ridiculous polarization and accusations of anti-Semitism? And can we openly condemn anti-Semitism when it does appear -because it will - and remain confident that doing so only strengthens the case for right? Can we just come the fuck out and say it when we see shit is WRONG, know that its WRONG, and call it what it is? Can we do that?  

I know that economic sanctions are just not going down (it’s a nice thought, though, isn’t it?), but appalled citizens are welcome to join the ongoing ethical boycott.  World, get better.

Tea Partiers. STILL about the stupidest motherfuckers who ever lived.

::: blink, blink :::

I know I talked about this before, but it bears repeating. I read this sign a few times with my mouth hanging open…proof positive that one can become stupefied by stupidity. Maybe that’s what these folks are going for? I don’t know. I DO know that these were the same assholes who sat with their thumbs up their apolitical butts whilst the previous administration initiated and escalated two concurrent wars-for-profit that made a small cadre of elites rich at the expense of several countries, including this one. I also know that they are LARGELY responsible for this chick’s continued relevance. 

Sarah Palin, pre-$50K makeover, no doubt in the middle of saying something incredibly stupid.

Sarah Palin stepped down from governing Alaska in the midst of a national economic crisis to hitch her moosey wagon to the Tea Party’s star and publicly admonish the President to do his job. Seriously. THAT was her plan. She quit to criticize Obama and promote her book.  Here’s what I said about that on Teh Twitteh. Parenthetically – if she insists on not fading quietly into obscurity (and she does),  can we at LEAST stop calling Sarah Palin a “pageant queen”? She won Miss Congeniality. MISS CONGENIALITY. Hell, I could win Miss Congeniality, right now, sitting here in my funky ole t-shirt and pajama pants with the hole in the crotch. I’m just saying. (Oh, and here’s the sister woman who beat her ass swept the talent portion of the Miss Alaska pageant and was crowned  Miss Alaska 1984.  Go on ahead and smirk. I am.)

Maryline Blackburn. Singer. Model. Democrat.

 One thing I’m glad about? It took the tea baggers and their more violent, extremist ”fringe” (I’d say “core” was more accurate, but okay…) to shock mainstream media out of its reluctance to call them what they are: xenophobic, anti-intellectual, racist, reactionary, anti-progress and most emphatically un-American. Oh, and stupid. Really, REALLY fucking stupid. Did I say that already? Eh. One more time couldn’t hurt.

Oh, Skip Gates. You silly bitch.

I’m at capacity for Teh Stoopid right now, so please read this summation, this hilarious take-down, and this excellent dissemination of this piece of poo.  Enjoy!

Trading That “Good-Good”*: Placing Slave Rape On The Consent Continuum

PREAMBLE:   I’m neither a fan nor a follower of Touré, the person whose online shenanigans inspired this post.  I’ve said before that Twitter is gonna ruin quite a few public images and careers before it goes the way of the virtual boneyard known as MySpace; this certainly seems to be the case with him. In the span of about a year he’s gone from being a journalist I liked and respected once upon a time ago to an attention-hungry jerk  a provocateur who agitates for agitation’s sake.  If one wanted to make the argument that Touré goes out of his way to irritate Black people  they’d have quite a bit of supporting evidence.  Between referring indirectly to Michelle Obama as a “ghetto girl”,   compiling a list of sex symbols for the “thinking man” that was oddly bereft of Latina and Black women (Touré’s schoolboy gushing over “stunning blonde”  femme d’un certain age Governor Jennifer Granholm and omission of brilliant and sexy  Shakira  struck me as particularly odd - buuuuut alright), complaining on Twitter about alllll the criticism his interracial marriage (his wife is Lebanese) receives from Black folks,  asking for tips on caring for his son’s “Black” hair  because he and his wife   just don’t have the foggiest about it,  and most recently his statement that self-identified Black Latina Zoe Saldana plays “Black” (he later stated that he meant African-American), he’s drawn ire from a lot of people  - including yours truly.  Touré’s clumsy race dialogue tweets and half-assed, hyper-defensive apologies have become something of a running joke in my Twitter stream, inspiring everything from snarky hashtags  to virtual halibut smackdowns.  And there you have it, some background on “Not-Quddus.”               

Touré . Who has no idea of how to properly care for "Black" hair. (Yes. That's an Afro.**)

  Here’s where  things get interesting (and relevant to the title of this post): On March 1,  Touré  posted a series of  eyebrow-raising tweets about sexual relations between enslaved Black women and White masters. These tweets were first attributed  to his wacky, “Ph.D. candidate” cousin, who had somehow gotten a hold of his Blackberry and was causing a Twitter ruckus.   Realizing that raising the spectre of slavery-era rape by invoking the trope of the Jezebel and juxtaposing this image with contemporary prejudice faced by Black male-White female relationships was inaccurate and offensive,  Touré  wisely deleted these tweets from his feed altogether and had his “cousin” apologize - but not before said tweets were screen-captured on several sites.    

Watching the whole mess come to a rolling boil on Twitter, I noticed a disturbing theme emerging in the dialogue around the tweets.  Rape,  a sex crime typically defined by the absence of non-coercive adult consent, was redefined before  my very eyes in 140 characters or less.  A surprising (to me, anyway) number of people did not consider sexual congress that took place without the threat of immediate violence (brutal coercion) rape.  Because visuals help me think, I hastily assembled a linear color spectrum to better understand this new information. 

Child—————————————————————————————————Adult     

Enslaved——————————————————————————————Free     

Rape ———————————————————————————————————Sex   

   

The Consent Continuum. (Not great at visuals. Sorry.)

  While my idea of  consensual sex rests firmly  in the purple-indigo area of the consent continuum above, other folks seemed to veer towards the yellow-green part of the spectrum (where I’d place things like absence of physical resistance or encouragement of advances, ability to solicit favors on behalf of self or other enslaved individuals, and so on.) I read comments that argued that the legal age of consent has long been a point of contention; that people didn’t live as long back then so it made sense to become sexually active earlier; that Black people mature faster sexually (yes, someone took it there); that slaves sometimes loved their masters and so it wasn’t RAPE rape, etc.  

 The re-imagining of master-slave sexual relationships is nothing new. It is part-and-parcel of the romanticism that accompanies certain forms of revisionism in the analysis of American history.  Predictably,  Sally Hemings was raised. Hemings’ relationship with Thomas Jefferson is often touted by revisionists as the quintessential slave-master love story. During the discussions, I was dismayed to discover that most people aren’t aware that Jefferson began engaging in sexual congress with Hemings when she was in her early teens, that their children were never officially freed while Jefferson was alive, and that she herself was NEVER freed by Jefferson – not even on his deathbed. In fact, records indicate that Hemings and at least one of her relatives were sold to a nearby plantation in order to settle Jefferson’s significant gambling debts. I argued that Jefferson – by having sex with Hemings when she was a child, by being her owner, and by never freeing her – was a rapist on multiple counts. I also argued that Hemings frequently visited Jefferson’s grave after his death, and that the Abermarle county census of 1833 listed her as a free woman (she died in 1835).  I closed by stating that while it is extremely likely that Sally Hemings loved and was loved by her rapist Thomas Jefferson,  her love for him did not absolve him of his crime, because whatver benefits Hemings or any enslaved women enjoyed by virtue of her relationship with her master were entirely relative to her status as human property.*** 

With all of that in mind, let’s compare this:”…[Some enslaved women] were cunning and brilliant enough to use their bodies to gain liberation thus fooling massa.” 

To this:  

 A stereotype persists of African American women as immoral and therefore less deserving of protection from violence or sexual exploitation. In 1744, Edward Long, in an attempt to support slavery, published his conclusions about African women. He characterized them as “ignorant, crafty, treacherous, thievish, and mistrustful.” 

And this: “Of course most were raped, we know that, but some were sharp enough to trade that g00d-good for status or liberation.”   

To this: 

 Slave women were property; therefore, legally they could not be raped. Often slavers would offer gifts or promises of reduced labor if the slave women would consent to sexual relations, and there were instances where the slaver and slave shared sexual attraction; however, “the rape of a female slave was probably the most common form of interracial sex.” A slave woman explained, “When he make me follow him into de bush, what use me to tell him no? He have strength to make me.” 

Without the aid of actual documentation, musings about the daily survival of our enslaved ancestors are pure speculation. My foremothers were absolutely survivors – I’m living proof. And while I don’t like to think about everything they had to endure, I absolutely believe that in order for this country’s race relations problem to be well and truly healed, we’re gonna have to acknowledge  this and EVERY horror-filled aspect of our national legacy, square-on and courageously. This discussion and the others must take place, and they must be handled with the intelligence,  nuance, sensitivity and historical perspective that they deserve.

 

*Good-good? Really? REALLY really?

** Yes. An Afro.

*** What tends to be forgotten in these discussions is that enslavement was not a natural, immutable condition. A slave’s owner had the power to grant a slave their freedom at any time they wished - if they desired to do so.  Viriginia law did not allow freed slaves to remain in the state, and Hemings, as a free (if kept) woman would have to move to a neighboring state, away from Jefferson.  I strongly believe that Jefferson’s decision to allow Hemings to remain enslaved – in spite of his own grave concerns about the fundamental immorality of the  institituion of slavery –  was tied to his desire for her company, excluding any other possible White suitors. Your woman could leave you; your slave could not.

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

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry Three: I now have “shakes” and night sweats. If I am to make it through the rest of this month, I am going to need a gag order for these wockaflockas.

During moments when the n-bomb hangs dangerously in the air, I have taken to defacing pictures of Tyler Perry. He hasn’t said/done anything particularly ill-advised recently that I’m aware of. I just don’t like him.

There's more art here than in ALL of his movies put together.

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh. Now THAT’S how you spell “relief.”

Oh, John Mayer. You silly bitch.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a John Mayer fan.  To me, he’s indistinguishable from every other suburban White dude who grew up wanting to be a musician because it looked like it might lead him to some pussy. I mean, a guitar and a garage do NOT a musician make. That whole song about body wonderlanding did not make my heart melt. What can I say? I hear words like “porcelain” and “alabaster” and just tune the fuck out; you’re CLEARLY not talking to my sexy brown self, so all we are is in each other’s way. Don’t even get me started on that ridiculous and vaguely creepy song about daughters.  ::: shudders ::: 

Ah, but Johnny, being the jackhole that he is, felt it necessary to elaborate in a recent interview with Playboy, where he basically dropped the n-bomb with abandon and said he wasn’t really interested in experiencing the joys of the cocoa honeypot. (Because, ya know, that’s all Black women are good for. SIGH.)  Now, since Strom Thurmond basically used to say the same thing, I’m giving the statement full-on side-eye.  The lovely Thembi covered this (hilariously) already*, so no need for me to waste time on it.  Because this whole mess feels familiar, I thought it might be a good idea to cross-post Jay Smooth’s take on the Asher “Nappy Headed Hos” Roth and the dangers of becoming too comfortable. LORD.

(*Mayer refers to himself as a “douche” in this interview.  I think he has function envy. But that’s just me.)

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.

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.   

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.

Tiger Woods: “You coulda been so much more!”

Alvin Lau, my Imaginary Poet Husband, thought you could have, anyway. At least back in 2006, in spite of yourself. 

As for me? Pffftttt. I never trust rodent-like muhfuggers with big ass rat teefs.* I’m glad Lau mentioned those fucking awful racist jokes that you thought were off the record. I was done with you then. Ugh.

Too. EASY.

(*Tiger Woods’ teefs are also too big for any sane and rational woman to allow him near her delicate lady bits with his face. Yeah, damnit. I said it. )