Country songs I actually like. A lot.

As some of you know, I kinda hate country music. Haaaaaaaate. Like a preacher hates the dingdang devil. I have called country music “the soundtrack to lynching.” And that’s not historically inaccurate! Growing up in the South, when I’d hear country music in an establishment, I would make the hastiest departure that I could. There’s something about the twang of a banjo that gets a lotta rednecks amped – better safe than sorry.

That said…I like these songs. Very, VERY much. And I can sing the SHIT out of every single one of ‘em. So, once again, I get to wear the hypocrite cap. Fine, whatever. Come through here and take my Black card if you want to, ahown care.  If Aretha Franklin had stopped smoking thirty years ago I wouldn’t even be looking in country music’s damn direction. Have you heard her recently? Her voice sounds like a rusty Buick tryna crank up. Anyway…here’s my songs.  Don’t judge me.

Fellow buxom, bubbly Capricorn, Mizz Dolly Parton…

And, of course, my unofficial relationship anthem (I sang this in the shower once, to the endless amusement of a certain former lover, LOL), Shania’s best.  Her twang continues to baffle me – she’s from Canada – but apparently being gorgeous covers a multitude of sins because to my knowledge no one’s ever questioned her about it. Enjoy!

Quit tryna jack my Black Black Blackity Black.

Dear World:

Please pay close attention, because I am only going to say this once.

I am Black. In spite of some less-enlightened protestations to the contrary, we don’t got Indian in our family; however. slave-owner/sharecrop boss runs rampant on both sides. I’m not bigenerationally biracial, or mixed-up-with-something else, or maybe-Ethiopian, or kinda Samoan, or Domini-Rican or whatever else people come up with. If I WERE any of those things, I’d be just as proud.

But I’m not. I am Black. BLACK. Southern-born and bred. Product of generations of countless other surviving and beautiful Black people.

I get my Arabic name from my mama, just like you got your white bread one from yours.

I borrowed my grandfather’s eyes and hair, my daddy’s lips and resilient skin, my grandma’s melodious voice and  laugh, and my mama’s flat butt and ridiculously sunny disposition. 

Nothing about me is imported beyond what is now known as the United States. My mama from here. My daddy from here. They mamas and daddies from here. 

It doesn’t make me any less gorgeous, brilliant and fly than I was five seconds ago when you thought I was “more” than “just” Black, and if it does then that’s because you’re an asshole.

If you crossed the room, tried to get my number, held a door for me, smiled too long, and stared too hard because something about me told you I wasn’t Black, then that’s because you’re an asshole.

If my charm,  intelligence and general awesomeness – things that I see everyday in Black folks – are something you find to be “uncommon,”  then that’s because you’re an asshole.

I’m not trying to escape my Blackness. It is part of me. It belongs to me. Further attempts to separate us will be met with violent resistance. If you’d rather not catch a beatdown, do yourself a favor and cut that shit out.

Smooches!

Me

Letter to my 8-year-old self.

Dear Bébé Fiqah:   

I know right now that things seem bad. And I’ll be straight with you – they seem that way because they are. You’re doing a tremendous amount of self-parenting at the moment. It’s temporary, but I know it’s all very confusing. With that in mind, I’m gonna help you out with a few of the stickier bits of this “growing up” thing.   

THINGS FOR YOU TO REMEMBER   

1. Grown-ups don’t know everything. They’re just in control of everything. That is not the same.   

2. Sometimes you can do everything right, and have it all go wrong, like when the first cake you ever made for Girl Scouts fell.  Try again.   

3. You are right to be suspicious when your otherwise well-meaning White second-grade and music teachers insist that they are ”color-blind”, and that you and your classmates are and/or should be.  There’s a reason it feels like a lie. Continue to tune “color-blindness” out, and if they prod you about it, parrot what they wanna hear so they go away.   

4. Don’t call your little brother stupid. He has a learning disability, and the whole world is telling him now and will tell him later that he is stupid because he is a Black male. Knock it off.   

5. You aren’t like anyone else. Everyone knows you’re not like anyone else. One day, you’ll see just how special that truly is. And it’ll be sooner than you think. I promise. In the meantime, don’t try and be anything but you. Don’t pretend you read as slowly as everyone else in class. Don’t be ashamed to know the answer. Don’t hold yourself back – there’s a whole world out there that will try to do that for you. Not too worry. Very soon, NOTHING will be able to hold you back.   

6. Hate to break it to ya, but tying your shoes is something you won’t be able to master until damn near middle school. Sorry, but no amount of poems and songs about rabbits and trees and holes and shit is gonna help you though this one, kiddo. It’s a big, shameful deal now, but its import will lessen as you get older. Besides, someone who started teaching herself to read at the age of three doesn’t owe anybody any explanations for unusual cognitive gaps. To quote King Jaffe-Joffar of Zamunda: “I tied my own shoes once. It is an over-rated experience!”  Just keep balling your laces up and tucking ‘em in your shoes like you been doin’, you’re GOOD.   

Thank the Lord for velcro.

   

7. Keep writing. Your stories are wonderful, and your talent is beautiful. It will lead you to places most folks from your neck of the woods never even dream of.   

8. Speaking of beautiful: brace yourself. You’re a year away from the traumatic start of a seven-year-long pubescent stage. You are gonna look really, REALLY funny during this time. Almost all your crushes during this period will be unrequited. Worst than that, you’ll still be smart, and in spite of their protestations to the contrary, cis boys and men really DON’T like smart cis women and girls. I am very, very sorry to report that for the most part, they don’t ever grow out of it.  It will be a painful and scarring period.  But, about a decade from now, when you (yes, YOU!)  literally – and I mean  lit-rah-LEE – stop traffic in the streets of Amsterdam, Dakar and Paris, it’ll all be worth it.   

9. Your long-held suspicion that the secret of escaping from a life of unfulfilled potential and abject misery in the swamp lies within the pages of a book is correct. Keep reading.   

10. Clean the house. It’ll help take a lotta stress of your mother. And she’ll be quiet. So you can read in peace.   

11. That sound you heard when you climbed all the way to the top of that tree, beneath all the noise of the neighborhood?  There’s a word for it. Buddhists call it Om. And it is the sound of God, being.    

12. Aunt L____ is a bitch. She is. It’s not your imagination, and it’s not just you who thinks it, either. You can tune her out, too.   

13. Your mother is not doing the best that she can. No parent, no matter how loving, EVER does “the best that they can.” This would render them too exhausted to breathe. But. She is doing the best that she knows how. And that is the absolute most that it is realistic to expect of a parent. Give her a break.   

14. You’re gonna get the big sister you always wanted in six years. And she’ll be your real big sister, too. Hang in there.   

15. Your family DOES treat your brother better. That’s not your imagination, either. That’s called “patriarchy within communities of color.” It’s a very common problem. Once again, NOT your fault. You’ll understand it in about ten years. Until then, continue to not engage with them.   

16. You are right. There IS something profoundly wrong with people who don’t like cats.   

17. And speaking of cats: next year, you’ll come home from school and discover that your cat Snowball is missing. Your mom’s gonna say she ran away. Snowball didn’t run away. Your mother’s gonna take her to a no-kill shelter to be adopted. Yes. YOUR cat. If you want to cut your eyes at her behind her back for the rest of your life for it, you are free to.   

18. That girl who used to pinch you and pull your hair in class until Mizz Moore changed her seat?  It’s because her mother hates her beautiful cocoa skin and thick, short curls…so she does, too. You see, while both of you are pretty li’l girls, only you are told on a regular basis by grown-ups that you are. And that is not fair. This is neither of your faults, and it’s so much bigger than either of you. BUT, understand this: neither of you is worse or better than the other. Period. That’s a grown-up lie, like Santa Claus. Don’t you believe it.   

19. You are gonna change your mind about so many things. You won’t always want to get married and have future taxpayers  babies, but you’ll always love buttercream wedding cake! want to be a writer. Remember that it is your destiny to bear witness to your own life. That’s hard, often lonely, and definitely not for everybody. But you know well by now that being in a group of fools where no one understands you is much more lonely than being by yourself with a good book. One day you’ll be surrounded by people as impressive as you are. Until then, continue to cultivate your inner wealth in solitude.   

20. You’re amazing. I promise to be the best grown up version of you that I can. And I promise that you have an abundantly blessed life to look forward to. But you are never gonna get that pony, kid.   

Love,   

Grown-Up Fiqah   

P.S. — Shoelaces don’t add up to diddly squat in the grand scheme of things. They really, really don’t.

Tapas. Quilt scraps. Old…soap…slivers.

In other words, things you throw together to create a single cohesive item/experience. It’s been a while since my last post, and months since I put some original content up here. There are a lot of reasons for that, not the least of which is the fact that Twitter is voraciously consuming my day-to-day sparkly creative brilliance.

Don't let that sweet blue face fool you. This bird's a blog murderer.

If you need your Fiqah fix,  I’m over here, acting up. Please be advised that my tweets are alternately raw, preachy and ridiculous – comme moi. So, yeah, they’re pretty flippin’ awesome. 

I’m currently working on several long-assed, hyper-involved posts, gearing up for NaNoWriMo, and otherwise (re)adjusting to une vie au marais.  In the process, I have discarded several blog post ideas that for whatever reason have not completely panned out. It occurred to me that some of the ideas were pretty good, but not in a stand-alone way. What do you do with something that’s not good enough to use by itself, but is too good to just chuck away? Why, you mash it up, of course!

See, it's like this..but, um, with a post?

That’s not really what I was going for. Hmmm. ::: snaps fingers ::: Got it! This post is like…a bunch of tapas and a lotta really good wine instead of the meatloaf-and-gravy you usually get here.

 

Mmmmm...post-a-liiiiciiiiious...

Ehhhhh? Much better, right? Yup. Aright.

People of color in general and trans and cis women of color in particular are disproportionately under-insured in this country, and if this healthcare crap doesn’t come together soon, we will continue to be disproportionately represented among the dead. That’s not just  empty statistic inflation. For me and millions of others, it is a day-to-day cold, hard fact.  Of the people of color in my immediate social circle (25 or so, all under 44 years of age),  seven of us are uninsured, and five of us Uninsured-erinos are cis women of color. We are staving off  deadly flus, both swine and regular, with vitamins, Echinacea and syncretic faith rituals. (Yes. Really.) Now, some folks might think it’s alright that in a country that stockpiles antibiotics/antivirals/antideath medicines my people are forced to enlist the aid of the spirit world and the dubious healing properties of the coneflower in order to stay healthy. Personally, I think it sucks. I think it sucks big ole hairy donkey balls. So, instead of pitching a fit about it in a post, I decided to learn more about it, and have been quietly agitating my governmental representatives in both states for weeks. I encourage you to do the same.

In a small effort to stop and correct the erasure of trans men and womens’ experiences from various types of dialogue…I am committing myself to using the terms “trans” and “cis.”  It’s part of an ongoing effort to educate myself (and hopefully other like-minded but ignant cis folks) about what it means to truly advocate for real social justice. Privilege has this nasty tendency to be invisible until it is pointed out. (“Progressive” cis women and men are just as guilty of this as not progressive people.) So…point point pointy point point.

Mother Nature is still the boss of you, me, and the whole wide world.   My mama raised me to have a dual appreciation of my selves. This means that I was raised to understand just how big (a lovely, kind, talented and bright child of eternal God) I am as well as just how small (powerless in the face of the awesome wrath of nature, a pawn of the Fates, morally flawed, unquestionably mortal, a speck of a speck of a speck’s speckled speck in the Cosmos and prone to the occasional “owie”) I am.  This is the contradictory duality of the human experience. There’s a reason why at the sub-atomic level everything in existence is composed of essentially the same shit, and I firmly believe that part of that reason is to keep mankind appropriately humbled. Nothing drives that point home for me more clearly than hard-core weather and sudden violent seismic activity.* 

Don't just sit there. DO something.

An amazing friend of mine wrote a very touching post about the recent natural disasters in Southeast Asia and the Pacific Rim. He linked this relief organization, and since every little bit really does help, I encourage you to at least look at the services offered and their greatest areas of need.  I say this because I mean it: a better world really does start with you. Yes, it does. Yes, I know, shit is rough, and we are all struggling. But if you flushed your terlet with clean water today, then dammit, you have it pretty good. Not because you deserve to, but because you are lucky. Here’s a quick compassion exercise. The next time you see or read about someone catching hell through no fault of their own, before you judge and distance yourself from their situation and humanity, say this: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” And then, you know, go work on being less of an asshole.

The agony irritation of self-labelling. So someone who has become very dear to me in a series of months did an amazing write-up via Twitter about why calling oneself an “ally” is problematic. In a nutshell, she said, it’s kinda like coming up to someone, declaring that you wanna be their best friend, and INSISTING that they recognize you as such. The concept of an ally, when you put it like that, is…well, it’s obnoxious as hell! I have struggled with the term “feminist” over the years as well, specifically because feminism as it is popularly expressed speaks to, for and about straight cis able-bodied White women (I’m looking at YOU, Jezebel) and often either ignores or silences the experiences of any woman who lives outside of those categories. That’s also obnoxious as hell.  SIGH. Still haven’t quite figured this one out yet, really.

Dear White people: Black people tan. On purpose. (Really.)  This was actually something I mentioned on Teh Twitteh. While relaxing on the GOOAHGEOUS white sand beaches of my home state, I attracted quite a bit of gawking from White people, who seemed to be baffled at what was clearly my intentional sunbathing. One woman in particular stared, openly and rudely, as I happily basked in the golden sunshine and patently ignored her. As fate would have it, we rode the same bus back to my city’s downtown area. I happened to be sitting behind her and was treated to an up-close view of her disgustingly mottled, prematurely aging back.  Now, here’s my question: if you DON’T have eumelanin (and if you freckle in the sun, then you don’t) why the fuck are YOU tanning?

Oh, Lindsey. The sun, much like Paris Hilton, isn't really a "friend" friend...

 Dear White cis women: Stop referring to YOURSELVES as “White girls.”  A recent  email exchange with a White cis woman who strongly identifies as a feminist bugged the shit out of me. Why? Because she referred to herself, in so many words, as a well-meaning, progressive-thinking “White girl” who was just tryna figure it all out. SIIIIIIGGGGGGHHHHH. She didn’t mean to work my nerves. But the fact that so many White cis women are hesitant to refer to themselves as adults speaks a LOT to sexism and White gendered privilege.  Self-infantilazation does not help the movement(s), anymore than the fetishization and co-opting of the pain (i.e., “strength” ) of trans and cis women of color helps. This shit is toxic.  For you, and for all of us. Recognize.

 Here’s some stuff you need to know about Black women. Lisa said it better than I could. Yes, indeed.

Steve Harvey’s an asshole.   I feel like that one writes itself. I mean, a thrice-divorced philanderer giving romantic advice? And in THOSE suits? C’mon, now.

Motherfucker, YOU scream.

 This concludes the hash post. OH! One last thing about soap bits – you can make eco-friendly art with them!

 

Oooooo! PURTY!

Read all about the Accumulation project, and don’t let anybody tell you that beauty can’t be crafted from bits, pieces, scraps and…ehr-um…chunklets.

 

*THIS IS NOT TO SUGGEST THAT ANYONE DESERVES TO SUFFER FROM THE DEVESTATING IMPACT OF NATURAL DISASTERS. I wanna make that clear.  One issue I have with Gaea theorists is the idea of the natural disaster as collective punishment for  ”sins” commited against the earth. People in nations with smaller GDPs and less governmental infrastructure are impacted more heavily and for longer by natural disasters than wealthier countries. But the worst ecological offenders – the greediest consumers, the highest per capita polluters – are wealthier, “developed” nations. Soooo until I hear about a hurricane leveling the Hamptons and ALL the Bush family residences, I’m giving Gaea theorists the side-eye.

Flashback Bonus: From my personal journal. (Lucky you.)

(July 11, 1993. [CORRECTION: NOVEMBER 7, 1993, i.e., 7/11/1993...yeesh, I forgot I was on some Anais Nin shit with my journals back then...] I was 15 going on 100 and experiencing the normal teenage drama as well as a very painful spiritual crisis. As an art school student, I never wrote rhyming or questioning poems for my writing classes – far too trite, we’ve all heard “Imagine,” let’s move on - but I loved wordplay then as now, and my personal journals often featured cute, short rhyming poems. Years later, when reading Angels in America I thought back to this poem and smiled.  It was penned after a heated debate with an acquaintance on the bus from school, a born-again Christian. There’s a lot of those in red states…anyway. By the way, at fifteen I wasn’t having any kinda sex, or doing any kind of drugs or drinking. No, that would all come much, much later – and with a vengeance. Enjoy “Righteous.”)

I think I’m gonna have a damn good time before I die

What if everything they told you in church was just a lie?

What if heaven’s not as high as what you get from good pot?

What if in the endy end, we all just…rot?

What on earth’s the use of praying on your knees until they hurt?

What on earth’s the use of slamming them shut beneath your skirt?

What if it’s not all about angels, demons,  virgins or doves?

What if no one is watching anymore from above?

And what if prayer’s aren’t answered by a distant voice?

What if God’s will unfolded itself in your choice?

What if there were no preachy soldiers of the Lord?

What if God doesn’t NEED a political sounding board?

What if love reveals itself in physical expression?

What if we didn’t subject it to paranoid repression?

What if holy holies didn’t give it a damning jawful?

What if it was  just fucking – and not just fucking awful?

What if the end isn’t sounded by bells or a gong?

What if there IS no end, and everything they said is wrong?

What if in the end, we all just rot?

What if I am righteous, and you’re…well, not?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello out there!

I’m pleased to announce that My Little Blog That Could officially has tens of thousands of views, and possibly hundreds of regular viewers. And…wow. That’s something that, frankly, I never dreamed would happen. So thanks to all of you for making this moment possible. Which brings me to my point: I have no idea who some of you are! And I’d very much like to engage with you here on the Stew. My comment moderation policy, while vigorously enforced, is pretty flexible.

So, do speak up. You’ll be so glad you did.

You have the floor.

Novel excerpt from chapter entitled “To Save My Life.”

Here it is. Without unnecessary adieu, explanation or apology. And before I chicken out.

I awoke with a choky gasp, my eyes wide in the dark and suddenly flooded.  It registered, somewhere in my sleepy fog, that I was choking because I was crying.  A sweaty hand passed over my cheek confirmed this: yes, sometime during my long winter’s nap, this mysterious sorrow had sublimated, settling as naturally as dew on grass, into a saline mess along my cheeks.  My nose dripped with sympathy, while my mouth, opening and closing in protracted little “ohs“,  objected being left so completely on its own for finding oxygen.  The heat issued steadily from my radiator vents, cozy and comforting when I had fallen into bed hours before, was stifling.  I breathed-gasped again, my chest collapsing swiftly and alarmingly into concavity.

 I stood shakily in the almost-dark of my apartment,  hitting my three-legged nightstand with my elbow.  It had been a gift from the family of a friend who, bemoaning the bareness of my first apartment, had selflessly given  me its classic mahogany austerity to grace my sad little living room.  Perhaps in protest of its final humble resting place, one of the legs had wobbled free of a shoddily-placed nail and remained defiantly unfixable.  On it, my  little television slid forward until I pushed it back, reassuring it of the nightstand’s reliability or, failing that, the implacability of the wall behind it.   From behind my white Roman shades, hazy street lights burned dirty urban amber, suffusing the shiny wooden floors with a golden glow.  It lit the way as I lumbered into the bathroom to rinse my face.  In the glamour of the trifold mirror with its  Hollywood-starlet-dressing-room lights, I was hideous.  My face, puffy and bloated from tears, alcohol and my pasta dinner out with friends, greeted my wincing gaze.   

 “Lord,” I croaked to the apparition in the mirror.  By way of response, my guts somersaulted, throwing me to my knees in front of the toilet, which I stuck my head straight in.  The tortellini and apple martinis from hours before reappeared together, coasting along with my bile and bits of liver in burning chunks of harmony.  My stomach continued its enthusiastic convulsions, giving me just enough time to marvel at the shimmering dots of light dancing in front of my eyes, until there was nothing left to vomit.  I flushed the toilet and stood, bracing myself on the sink.  In the mirror, the apparition looked even worse for the wear, her hair a mess of  uncombed fuzzy curls and her eyes now completely bloodshot.  I washed my face and avoided looking at her.

 I wandered back into the kitchen.  The pain in my chest and throat that the retching had made me forgot quietly reasserted itself, as if we had been interrupted in the middle of polite conversation.   “So sorry.  Where were we?  Ah, yes, of course.  You were crying.”  Through the haze of fresh tears I poured myself a glass of water.  Sobbing, I gulped the whole glass down in a few seconds, and poured a second glass.  The tears were non-stop now.  My head throbbed and my forehead sizzled with fever as fiery bands of grief whipped themselves across my temples.  I hastily assembled a makeshift ice pack with ice cubes and a shopping bag and stumbled back to bed. 
 

Laying down in my bed, the tears changed direction , rolling back.  As I pressed the ice to my forehead, I could hear my next-door neighbor puttering around in his kitchen  and talking with a woman in muted tones.   The words did not register, but the cadence of her voice was similar to my women relatives: Southern, lilting and laughing. In my mind’s eyes I saw my mother’s face, smiling down at me and stroking my hair back.  From my aching lungs and hot cracked lips a sob bubbled: loud, unmistakable, and laden with so much sadness that it paused the conversation on the other side of the wall.  Fuck a duck, I thought, embarrassed.  This is worse than when they hear me farting.  The tears continued their slow course up the sides of my face.  What I had held for so long that I forgot it was even in my hands had turned into a lump of burning coal, searing my tender palms. 
 

I was remembering.

The Bumblebee: A Loving Ode.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am allergic to bee stings. Like, anaphylaxis allergic. In the warmer months, if I am between insurance and cannot afford an EpiPen, I keep  Benadryl  quick-dissolve strips in my bag at all times. This way, in the event that I am stung, I have an hour or so to get to a hospital before my throat closes up and restricts my breathing.  Thankfully, I’ve only ever been stung once as a child, but that’s what started happening then. A HUGE injection of antihistamine in the ER alleviated the need for a breathing tube or surgery, and my reaction was milder than actual shock.

However,  the trauma stayed with me.  Once in college, while I was hanging out with some friends on my school’s quad (is there anything more trite, Northeastern-liberal-arts-college-wise, than “The Quad”? I digress) a particularly aggressive honeybee decided to hover around my head. Mind you, we were NOT in the vicinity of a hive, and of all my friends, only I was allergic to bee stings.  This little asshole proceeded to CHASE me around the quad for several minutes. There was no escaping this bee. I hid (!)  behind a column, a tree, and a fire escape stairwell,  and at one point shouted “What the HELL’S your problem?” at the damn thing - to the sheer speculatory joy of everyone watching. The only thing louder than my shrieking was their laughter. Bastids. Of course, one bystander filmed the whole thing, and if you looked hard enough, you could probably find it on You Tube.  So. Not a big fan of the bees.

 

Yeahhhhh...keep it steppin', homeskillet.

 

Because life is painfully ironic,  one of my first jobs out of college was at a world-famous city garden. I started in spring, when absolutely everything was in bloom.  One evening, on the way home, I brushed a bumblebee with my arm. Dazed, it dipped a little mid-flight, and shook. My heart stopped: I was in for the stinging of a lifetime. But before I could turn to run, the bumblebee shook once more, almost as if to say, “HEY! Watch it, lady!” (it was a Bronx bumblebee, so it probably would have had a New York accent…unless, you know, it flew in along I-95 from Connecticut) and buzzed off.  And that was that. End of altercation.

Well. I had never met a bee that didn’t want to sting me and watch me die slowly, so I was astonished.  I told one of the botanists I knew what’d happened. She laughingly explained that bumblebees usually avoid other animals altogether, and usually only sting defensively when they are protecting their hives.  The largest, hairiest and scariest(looking) of the bees is also the least aggressive.  She further explained that bumblebees – whose wing-to-body-mass ratio per the laws of physics should make it impossible for them to fly – are often needlessly killed by humans who are afraid that they may sting.  Well, that just made me indignant. The world’s nicest bee, suffering because of the reputation of its cousins with the attitude problems.

PLEASE NOTE: Honeybees sting people. Bumblebees do not. (Hey, you've got fucked-up relatives, too.)

 

Since then, bumblebees have had kind of a special place in my heart. I mean, I like just about ANYTHING furry. Everyone in my family is big and furry, so when ever I see something big and furry, I’m biased in its favor. Large-breed dogs…polar bears…Mediterranean men…the list goes on and on.  So I was really dismayed to read that, like its cousin the honeybee, the bumblebee is disappearing, too!   Science dork that I am, I have been tracking stories of massive and sudden extinctions of entire species with growing alarm for the past decade or so.  Because the smallest changes in an ecosystem often have huge and broad repercussions, I’m really worried about this. Granted, in terms of species proliferation,  Insecta leaves the rest of the animal kingdom in the dust and that could also explain why lay people are only noticing the changes recently. Still, it’s a disturbing trend. Bumblebees are exclusive pollinators for several species of fruit plants, and some of those are cash crops, like apples and cherries. That shaking thing they do is actually one of the tools that they employ when gathering nectar.  (Which kinda makes me smile.  When you dance at work, you love your job.)

"Ohhhhhh, you're gonna see your Sheba Shim-my shaaaaaake - HEY! Are you taking pictures of my ass? Pervert!"

 Anyway, that’s my bumblebee post. Hope you learned something. Save the bumblebees!

Today’s Life Lesson: Good friends will (politely) bust your Black ass.

Alright, confession time: I am not Ms. P.C. Perfect.  I admit that I like to imagine that I am.  Like most activist-minded folks, I have a necessarily self-righteous streak, and I am not above smugly envisioning myself as ideologically above reproach.  Because I spend soooooo much time calling out the rest of the planet on its sexist, racist, classist, homophobic, heterosexist, ablelist hegemonic bullcrap, I sometimes forget that I am a.) human and b.) subject to the exact same human fallacies as everybody else. 

With that in mind, I wish to extend a very public heartfelt apology to Ms. AJ Plaid of the Cruel Secretary.  Several hours ago, I stepped out of my face and said some ish that I am really too ashamed to recall here.  (Suffice it to say that as someone who calls herself an Ally, I should have really known better. In retrospect I realize that the topic of discussion had come up once before in our friendship, and AJ had made her stance clear then.  I just should have really listened. Also, I have said for years that NO ONE talks shit about Oprah – in private or public – and gets away with it…but I digress.)  Our IM discussion had been moving along pleasantly and entertainingly as always until I cracked what I thought was a non-offensive remark.  After failing to pick up on her polite attempt at a topical steer-away, and then completely missing her not-exactly-subtle disapproval (this went back and forth for a few sentences…I am really, REALLY slow), AJ had no choice but to firmly state that what I was saying was just Not Cool and that she flat out refused to continue the discussion any further in this vein.

Oh. Shit.

Like a person wrenched from a mental fog by a bucket of icy water in the face,  I woke up.  And I took the necessary introspective step back.  And I looked at the mess I had made.  And what it meant.  And (worst of all worst of all worst of all) what it said about me. Any knee-jerk defensive rejoinder (“but that’s not what I meant,”  “oh it was just an innocent question”, “i don’t mean it like how other straight people mean it”) died in my throat as I realized with mounting horror and shame just how fucked-up what I had been saying was.  Trembling, I moved my hands away from the keyboard and read, through choking sobs and tears, AJ’s very kind – but undeniably firm and, yes, disappointed – explanation of what was wrong, bad and oppressive about it, and why she couldn’t stand aside and let me continue.  I could sense her struggling to convey her thoughts without upsetting me and causing a shutdown.  I don’t think I have ever said “I’m sorry” so much in such a short span of time.  I don’t think I had ever been so glad that my WebCam wasn’t loading.  And like some discussion from Hell, the more I apologized, the worse I felt, because no amount of apologizing was gonna undo anything or make it better. 

After speaking my piece and reading AJ’s responses, I begged out of the discussion, because I needed to go do and some thinking.  Or maybe “rumination” is a better word.  Or “spiritual self-flagellation.”  Really, I just needed to wash my teary face and blow my runny nose.  I know that someone out there is inevitably gonna point out that I am being too hard on myself (<–no such thing), that I am merely human, and that a human being is NOT a perfectible creation.  I get it, and I feel you, but I can’t give myself a pass.  It would be beyond hypocritical.  I feel that I am obligated to be firmly-committed to the idea that I can – nay, that I MUST – grow, and change, and evolve.  And I know that when a person is growing spiritually and emotionally, 9 times out of 10, it hurts.  It’s a’sposed to hurt.  In fact, if it doesn’t hurt, you may want to do some self-evaluation, because SURPRISE!  You may not actually be growing, dumbass.

And that’s what I understand now was really bugging me.  That in spite of all the smiggety-smack I talk about how “evolved” I am from mainstream thought, icky pro-Hegemony ideals have seeped into my spirit.  And it wasn’t even like I was exactly unaware.  I just didn’t want to give up my “right” to do a little Sideways Oppression.  And…fuck.  That’s turrible.  And inexcusable.

Well, kids, as part of my ongoing effort to do what Gandhi said and be the change I want to see in the world, I’m taking this overdue moment of cognitive dissonance and learning from it.  It’s not the first time I have had to take a hard look at some fucked-up crap that I had learned/neglected to unlearn.  Below, a short list of lessons I learned, when, from who, and how they changed my life:

1. White people are not “imaginary”  just because they are on TV.In 1981, from my mother, who explained that while a lot of what was happening on TV was not real life, Captain Kangaroo and Mister Rodger’s were real people.  Muppets and Big Bird, no.

2. Lies can look like the Truth when everyone lies about the same thing.  December 1983, my kindergarten teacher, who openly mocked me in front of my classmates for stating that I did not believe in Santa Claus.  It was really traumatic; as the only child in my class who could read already, I was already an isolated freak.

3. There are still Africans in Africa. 1984, with the Ethiopian famine as covered by…well, everybody.  I knew that Black people had somehow gotten here from Africa, but I figured that we had all “left.” (<– I had an active mind and was still trying to piece things together, and my mother was not ready to discuss the horror of slavery with her six year old.)  By the time American history was explained to me, I had already been suspicious that Black people being here had something to do with foul play on the part of White people, of whom I was suspicious if they were adults. Besides, all anybody talked about being in Africa – then as now – were giraffes and shit.  ::: shakes head in disgust :::

4. Racism is not a “two-way” street. In 1984, when somebody (first) called me a n_____ and I realized there was no equivalent term for a White person. 

5. People do not contract AIDS because they “deserve it.”This in 1987 , when Ryan White became the youngest AIDS Rights advocate ever.  When I saw what people were saying about/doing to a child, I was appalled.  And I was fucking nine!  This is jst one of the many fun aspects of growing up in a red state.  Anyway, I know nobody “deserves” AIDS, and this was not something I learned from inside my home, but I remember hearing things along these lines from lots of people. And I knew that the only right thing to be was compassionate.  And motherFUCK Reagan.

6. Black people have it hard everywhere, not just here.  In 1987, when Cry Freedom (the Steve Biko movie with Den-zellll) was released, and I learned about apartheid.  And was irrevocably pulled down the resistance path.

7. Sexuality is not a “choice.” In 1993, my second year at arts high school, when many of my friends were coming out to their families – sometimes to horrible outcomes.  Once again, compassion became my guiding operative out of a desire to see a better world for the people I loved.

8. Not relaxing my hair does not make me more “conscious” than my relaxed sistren.In 2004, when I was effectively shut down by someone who pointed out that my hair texture is considered “acceptable” for unrelaxed wear by Black folks. SIGH.  I’m still ashamed of my former hard-line stance there.

9. 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.

 Okay, so that’s not such a short list.  I guess my point is that people who cared about me have stepped in and made it clear, at various times in my life, that I needed to change my mind about a lot of things.  Like, STAT.   And for that, I can be nothing but grateful, because all of it has helped shape me into the person I am today.  But I still have such a long way to go.   It’s not a hard thing, to support our friends, to encourage them, to want them to succeed and be happy.  It is hard to tell them where the hell to get off.  But sometimes, in order for them to be the spirits that we know they can be, that is what we have to do.

 AJ, you have said that “Good friends keep you looking good.”  I will add that “Good friends bust yo’ Black ass when you veer into the realm of ridonkulousness.”   Well-done, gurl.

POLL: Does anyone else out there blog naked?

I know it’s like, February and all, but my apartment features a li’l something that is referred to colorfully as “project heat.”  That means that I can see waves of it shimmering off my floors.  The Sahara has NOTHING on my apartment.  So, as a result, I frequently blog in various stages of nudity, from socks and panties to just a smirk.   Is that odd? Maybe.  But like so many things, I know that I am not alone in this.

So come clean.

NEW READERS: I talk about race, sex, and sexuality. A lot.

 

(Props to Hexy  – the definitions post is blogosphere platinum .  Check out her blog.  Her brilliance will make you want to take that 36-hour flight to Australia jut so you can kneel at her feet.)

A recent email from a “fan”  who received a link to my blog from a mutual friend stated that while she liked my blog, she was turned off by a lot of my posts dealing with racism.  Her view: by discussing race in a frank, non-apologetic way, I am promoting racism. (And yes, she was White.)  I can’t keep sending people via links to Racialicious for Race Chat for Dummies; sooner or later somebody’s going to kvetch. I was also recently told by a straight acquaintance and reader of the blog that I talk about queer issues a lot. Like, too much. (I have no idea what that means.)  No complaints yet about all the sex talk, but the year is young.

 I want this post to serve as a heads-up to anyone who doesn’t feel comfortable with the following:

1.) I talk about race.  Critical race theory is a crucial component of my creative work, my offline activism, and my life’s principles.  I’m a thinker.  Compassionate analysis/ deconstruction (think Derrida, Foucault, Fanon, Said, and Baudrillard but with a heart)  is how I enact positive change. Dealwitit.

2.) I talk about gender.  My womanhood is part of my identity.  Identity politics are problematic, I know, and identity itself is often more fluid than many of us are willing to admit, but there it is.  A part of the convoluted beauty of my selves features my great big ole gorgeous brown vajayjay.   Too descriptive?  Then you’re on the wrong blog, homey.

3.) I talk about sex.  Why the hell shouldn’t I?  I’m having it, and I hope you are, too.

4.) I talk about sexuality.  Sexual preference (what kinda person you like to take to your bed) is only a small part of the larger body of human sexuality.  It is also vast, fluid, and complex.  And it is politically charged, because queer people are oppressed – and that oppression matters to me.

5.) More than anything else, I talk about my life, as honestly and entertainingly as I can while maintaining my anonymity.  This is not a paid blog.  Possum Stew is not about “giving the people what they want.”  Sorry.  That’s just not how I roll.

I promise you, no matter who you are, at some point we are gonna disagree.  You are not gonna like what I have to say all the time.  You may find yourself passionately opposing some deeply-cherished belief of mine.  I may find myself not liking your ass very much.  I’d like to think that this wouldn’t mean that we couldn’t get along, but really, if  what you find here offends you, you always have the option of just going away. 

Bottom line: this is my blog. I will not be censored, censured, or silenced by No-Damn-Body. To quote Madonna*: “I’m not your bitch. Don’t hang your shit on me.”

Thanks.

 

Teh Kitteh staffs the Possum Stew Complaints Department. Talk to the paw!

 

*Madonna quote is from the song “Human Nature.”  (You know, from back in the nineties, when Madonna was cool and I still respected her.)

Truths I’m Not Proud Of.

 

WARNING:  The following is a short list of stuff about myself that I am working on changing and/or growing beyond  because, quite frankly, it’s making me a less-evolved spirit.  Some of it is shallow, petty, and just plain old mean. If you consider yourself to be a compassionate and at least semi-intelligent human being, please skip this post.  There’s nothing profound here anyway.  There’s never anything profound here!  This is just the free rant-space of a crazy cat lady.  It’s not too late to stop reading!  So stop!  STOP!

 

 

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Alright.  You were warned.

 

1.) I have no patience for poorly-behaved children.  I know that parenting is a difficult and often thankless endeavor.  I know that parents have it hard across the board.  I know that the more kids you have, the harder you probably have it.  I know that kids have a tendency to be their own little people and do what they do, and you can’t control them all of the time.   Finally, I know that corporal punishment is often an unfortunate outcome of social oppression, and that in recent years parents within communities of color have adopted gentler and more progressive methods of discplining as part of healthy child-rearing.  Having said all of that…

A picture worth a thousand condoms.

 

Screaming children suck ass.  They just do.  If you can’t keep your bad-assed kids quiet in public, please consider harsher discipline or better birth control.   Yeah, I said it.   My mother could quell the beginnings of a public tantrum from us with a look.  A look.  And I know without a doubt in my prejudiced mind that a whole lot of my Black readers are thinking the exact same thing as I am when I look at that picture.  A child, who looks as if he’s old enough to communicate with simple language,  screaming at the tops of his little lungs in public.  Outside of the camera shot there is no doubt a distressed White parent, pleading with Junior to PLEASE calm down and trying to get the little bastard to shut the hell up.  Also outside of the shot: a Black person, shaking their head in disgust at this ridiculous display that would so easily be remedied by the firm application of a belt to a backside.  (I know that Black kids cut up in public, too; however, generally speaking, by the time Black children are old enough to speak, we know that that shit is no longer acceptable.  Why?  Because we become cognizant at a tragically early age that whatever bad thing we do somehow reflects negatively on Black people everywhere.  As a result, children of color tend to not cut up in public…until our pre-teens, when we can go out without our parents and when we realize that grown White people are terrified of groups of us.)

2.)Hyper-competitive people annoy me.  The guiding force behind hyper-competitiveness is always insecurity and envy.   So much historical human strife and pain can be directly linked to envy – which arises from the notion that someone is enjoying something that we are not – that when it shows up in any form it makes me nervous. Don’t get me wrong, I am not knocking ambition.  I’m one of the most openly-ambitious people I know.  Even when I am reaching towards a goal with a zero-sum determining outcome (i.e., I win because others do not), the only person in my way – the only one who ever matters to me - is me.    This is what some would mistakenly call a healthy approach to sportsmanship.  It’s actually the Founding Tenet of Eldest Child Arrogance and Self-Centeredness, which states this:  “What came before me was nothing, and what follows me is irrelevant.”  I’ve been this way since I was a child, but I have learned as I’ve grown that just because you aren’t competing with others does not mean that others do not see themselves as competing with you.  I just can’t help but question the need of anyone to “beat” someone else in order to feel good: about their lives, about what they have, or about themselves.  Friends and acquaintances who reveal competitive streaks to me receive on-the-spot amateur psychoanalysis – which they hate.  

3.)I do not engage in critical analysis dialogue with everyone.    This makes me a Snob.  I used to feel bad about that.  No more.  I have learned that trying to talk to folks who have a vested interest in thinking a certain way is an excercise in futility.  Part of my duty as an activist is to educate the willing.  As for anyone else…fuck ‘em.  I have had to learn this the hard way through the years.  Below is an excerpt from a delightfully-satirical piece on coffeeandink  called “How to Suppress Discussions of Racism”:

“Pointing out racism just makes it harder for us to achieve a colorblind society. You shouldn’t judge people based on their race.”

“Focusing so much on race just shows that you’re racist yourself.”

“Minorities can be racist too, you know!”

“Even if it’s not the best representation of minority characters, it’s better than having no minority characters at all, isn’t it?”

“You’d rather have boringly flawless and politically correct minority characters?”

“Everyone knows it’s bad to be racist now, so why make people feel defensive and ashamed by pointing incidents out?”

“Maybe it’s racist, but what about reverse racism?”   (<— AAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHHH!)

 You can replace “racism” with any -ism and -obia and see how the above statements are a recipe for crazy-making. 

 3.) Gingers gross me out.  Now, I should mention that my issue here is most emphatically not red hair per se.  I LOOOOOOOOVE red hair.  I think it’s quite lovely. One of my cousins has been rocking naturally auburn ‘locks for several years now.  I adore them, and think that they compliment his golden skin.  I also know that gingers encounter harassment to such an extent from childhood on that it is gingerism is now held on par with racism by some.    I know that beauty comes in so many shapes, sizes, colors, ages and all the rest of it.    I know that growing up in South Florida and seeing peeling, nasty sunburned skin on very pale-skinned classmates is a HUGE contributing factor to my knee-jerk revulsion of gingers – most of whom didn’t even have properly red hair.  Finally, I know that when I find myself agreeing with South Park‘s own little Hitler Eric Cartman, I need to take a step back and give myself some immediate and harsh corrective introspection.  Having said all that…

 

Yick.

   

 

  

Bobby Flay, phenotypical sandy ginger: pale, squinty, chinless.

 

 

 

 

 It’s not the red hair, as most gingers are actually sandy-haired.   Phenotypic ginger-ness is the super-pale, no-chin, weird neck, squinty-eyed-for-no-reason general unattractiveness that so many ginger people are cursed with.  Keep in mind that I’m not saying that all gingers are ugly…but I will say that ginger-ugly is downright nauseating.  Now, while I don’t react to ginger children (they are just babies) I can’t help but be visibly repelled by adult gingers. Ladies and jellyspoons, if there’s a hell, I am almost certainly going.  

 

4.)I get immediately pissed when I see unattractive White people with attractive people of color.  For the most part, my attitude towards interracial dating/relationships is live-and-let-live. I  try not to pathologize anybody’s love choices, because desire is complicated, and it would be unfair for me to apply my dating ethics and desirability standards to anybody else – there shouldn’t be too many rules between consenting adults.  All of us loves how we love, and all of us want what we want. For example, while I like and interact socially with lots of  folks of every color, I choose to date men of color and anti-racist White men exclusively.  I also know that looks are not the only factor that anyone should consider when choosing who to love (for me, the winning combo is intelligence/wit and a DEEEEP voice).   I have also said before that women and men of color are not entitled to one another romantically (that’s heterosexism), that Black women are under no social obligation to date ONLY Black men, and that there many, MANY ways to love.  Having said all that…when you see a reasonably good-looking person of color clinging pathetically to a smug White person with no discernible wealth, charm or personality-  and a face like a butt – you know that racism is  at least partially to blame.  I would include a picture with this section, but frankly, we all see this enough to know what it looks like. 

My resolutions list is writing itself. 

 

More Fun with Sarah Palin!

Hat tip to Joshua for this; everyone else, enjoy!

Taking suggestions!

I’m gonna be gone for a coupla days, BUT – I was thinking that I need a new subheader.  Current subheader (underneath my title) is “You know you want some.”  My previous subheader was, “Mmmm-mmmm, bitch!”, which was a reference to a Chappelle’s Show skit that, unfortunately, not everybody got.   I was thinking, “The OTHER other white meat.” (I know, euw…still pretty funny, though.)  I feel like I can do better than those.  So, tap into your brains and give me some of the good stuff.