So much to say. So lickle time to say it

Two things happen when you’re a self employed single woman in New York City who writes, edits and researches for your cheese.

#1: During jury duty, you tell the plaintiff’s attorney that due to your multiple deadlines, his manipulative, time-eating banter with Juror Number Four is becoming an economic hardship for you.

#2: You lack the energy and concentration to blog for free.

You know, I recently realized that my relationship with this blog is like that of Angela from Boomerang and the young Black youth at her Saturday art class. Only I’m not pausing on small.medium.large after having my heart broken by a Jehri-box wearer named Maaaaaacuss. I’m forsaking it for the rat race. (Cue in “Love Should Have Brought You A Fellowship Last Night…”)

This is Angela in career gal mode. But she still has so much love in her heart.

Anyway, I want to be the Angela who gets the visit from the kids at her powerful new gig and presumably balances her community work with her for-profit endeavors. I want to be sweet Angie who designs blue people and makes inspired speeches about love.

So today I’m posting, quickly. If you’re still with me here, consider this an IOU, a public meditation of sorts. (And for the commenter who recently took time from her/his action-packed life to post “yawn” on an ancient entry, consider this your lullaby, bitch.)

I, Ak, pledge that I will post after seeing “Precious” on Saturday. Yes, my butt clenches every time I think of Lee “Monster’s Ball” Daniels adapting the pitiful story of a dark-skinned, fat Black teen with two kids by her stepfather and a mother who, at least in the book, forces her to perform oral sex on her. But I should at least see the film before I throw up in my mouth, right?

I’m also posting to tell you, my 16 devoted readers, that the book I co-edited, Naked: Black Women Bare All About Skin, Hair, Hips, Lips and Other Parts, has lapsed from printing. Apparently it sold well for years, then dropped off in the last two quarters. This is what the paperwork says, even though people keep running up on me in the street saying they just discovered and read it. The good people at the publisher’s office are working with us, but it’s still annoying as hell.

Naked, no more? Bah!

OK, this is starting to feel like something bitter-but-powerful Angela would write between barking orders at her incompetent creative staff so I’m signing off. But Saturday y’all.

Solange’s haircut: A delayed-reaction stream of consciousness

Solange’s haircut looks very, very pretty. It allows us to see her gorgeous face and gives us a break from the ubiquitous lacefront. It also reinforces what should be obvious: Healthy Black hair is beautiful hair…

…that’s why I wish she had never made that offhand comment about “going crazy” and “pulling a Britney” before she cut it. She didn’t mean it literally. But with that one little statement, she gave bumbling culture bandits an excuse to define yet another African thing through the lens of Euro-wackness.

The wackness.

Actually, Solange pulled a Jean Baylor…

Jean is on the right.

…or a Badu…

…or a Nina Simone, a Miriam Makeba, or a Masai sister…

There is nothing “edgy” about Solange’s look. Nor is she “bald.” Let’s call this what it is: a Black woman wearing a short, shiny natural with a part on the left.

Solange hit the tweetdeck to shut down the random commenter hateration: “…dont. want. a. edge. up. or a perm. because. im not trying. to make this “a style” or a statement/i. just. wanted. to. be. free. from. the. bondage. that. black. women sometimes. put. on. themselves. with. hair.”

But what if wearing a lacefront wig/weave/whateverelseshehadgoingon was a “statement” and the actual hair that grows out of her head was just business as usual?

Let’s stay woke.

“Good Hair,” Yani and Tyra B.

From Ak:

Yesterday Yani and her Hair Story co-author Lori L. Tharps rocked an episode of the Tyra Banks Show.

Given that Yani and Lori wrote a unique, widely bitten respected social history on African American hair, Ms. Tyra invited them to weigh in on that ooooolllllldddd, Antebellum, white supremacist, seemingly intransigent and overall pesky phenomenon we know as “good hair.”

Although I didn’t see my homies on TV–shademeister Yani didn’t deign to tell anyone the ep was airing and Lori even forgot that it was coming on–I’m thankful that they were on deck to provide some context and analysis. After all, without context, seeing little Black girls choose a dusty-ass Hannah Montana wig over their African coils, curls and kinks doesn’t do anything but break your heart and make you ’shamed.

Sugar and salt really *are* addictive!

From Ak:

I’ve always suspected that salt and sugar are addictive—and that processed food manufacturers flip and bounce those ingredients in bizarre ways to make us freebase increasing amounts of their frankenproduct.

Now I have something besides my predilliction for nacho cheese Doritos and Hairbo gummy cola bottles to validate my suspicion: The research of David A. Kessler, a former FDA commissioner who is best known for taking on Big Tobacco.

According to this Washington Post article, Kessler, a lifelong dieter, went on a quest to get the nutritional content of some his favorite restaurant foods. For instance, to find out what makes Chili’s Southwestern Eggrolls so seductive, he dumpster dived for the boxes with the original labels affixed. Here’s what he found:

The ingredient list for Southwestern Eggrolls mentioned salt eight different times; sugars showed up five times. The “egg rolls,” which are deep-fried in fat, contain chicken that has been chopped up like meatloaf to give it a “melt in the mouth” quality that also makes it faster to eat. By the time a diner has finished this appetizer, she has consumed 910 calories, 57 grams of fat and 1,960 milligrams of sodium.

Instead of satisfying hunger, the salt-fat-sugar combination will stimulate that diner’s brain to crave more, Kessler said. For many, the come-on offered by Lay’s Potato Chips — “Betcha can’t eat just one” — is scientifically accurate. And the food industry manipulates this neurological response, designing foods to induce people to eat more than they should or even want, Kessler found.

Ultimately, Kessler wrote a book about these practices titled The End of Overating. I’m buying that book today so I can find out exactly who the guilty parties are.

Today, I’m also gleefully reframing how I think about my periodic snack resistance. Now, when I say no to the Andy Cap Hot Fries, the Herrs cheese popcorn, the gummy bears, the Whatchamacalits and the…

Sorry. Got distracted.

Anyway, abstaining from sugary, salty junk won’t be about maintaining my waistline so I can fit into The Man’s young-ass kkklothes. It won’t even be about staying healthy. I’m saying no as a fuck-you to the capitalist sociopaths who deign to keep us strung out on their edible crack rock. I love a good self-serving protest.

Ugawa motherfuckers. Ugawa.

There. I said it.

From Ak:

My grandmother has lung cancer that will probably kill her in three to six months. The world is not OK for me right now.

There. I said it.

I’m digging this dude who is really unavailable. He’s compelling enough to make me feel vulnerable. Then angry. Then needy. Then really, really happy. Then scared. Then happy again.

There. I said it.

I’m disappointed in Obama’s first 100 days. The fucking Manhattan flyover, the UN Conference on Racism boycott, the release of the torture memos without the attendant indictments of the motherfuckers who OK’d waterboarding human beings 266 times has made me feel cranky as hell about canvassing for change.

There. I said it.

I saw Sarita “Mississippi Masala” Chaudry on the F train this morning. She’s striking in person. So I stared at her like a stan…until I started picking her appearance apart like the beeyotch who has spent way too much time working at magazines and therefore objectifying myself and others. I saw wrinkles and felt sad. I saw beauty and felt powerful. I wondered what she was working on and felt newsy. Then I felt like a wearout for being so judgmental of her and the whole sighting.

There. I said it.

I’ve had writers block for about a year and I hate writing for free.

There. I said it.

I went shopping for jeans and short sleeve shirts today and didn’t find a single thing that made me feel OK about my body. I know that all comes from inside. Blah, blah, blah. But fuck if manufacturers aren’t trying to make women who weigh more than 90 pounds feel like little piles of dooky. It’s a conspiracy. It just is.

There. I said it.

And I have more to say, but I need to stop. This bad spoken wordish post (“I’m scared to raise a Black sooonnnnn!”) is ruining my self perception as a writer who writes things with some kind of relevance to other people.

Signing off, now that I’ve said it.

This just made Yani smile

Stick with it to the end.

 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/business/2009/g20/7979982.stm

SML Review: No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency

From Ak:

Due to my resentment of mystery theater and faux-African accents, I was skeptical of The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. Thank God my appreciation for Jill Scott, Anika Noni Rose and Black people on TV prevailed. Otherwise, I would have been busy grumbling while something delightful transpired.

Jilly from Philly reps hard

NOLDA has a bittersweet, slightly campy mood reminiscent of Monk (that’s a good thing). It’s set in a midsize Botswana city where folks work, kids learn, players play and big bad men eventually get caught. Sure, HIV looms and poverty is a reality for many. But kind of like in real life, the societal problems don’t dramatically disfigure every Black body and every Black thing.

The biggest plus from where I sit: NOLDA deals with body image! Jill’s character, Precious Ramotswe, catches her share of shade because of her self-described “traditional build.” For example, when Precious goes undercover at the club to catch a client’s philandering husband, he takes the bait, calling her “fat and fabulous” to get her into bed. After Precious dupes him into taking a picture of them kissing, she puts him out of her house. He of the blue balls slinks home claiming he was late because he was helping an “old woman too fat to walk” get home safe.

Now, when Precious shows the wife photographic proof of her hubby’s creepin’, the client calls her the “fattest tart” and a slut. She hurls her put downs with such velocity, you’re not sure if she’s angry about her husband kissing another woman or she’s furious at losing to a fat woman. It’s an interesting look at how weight prejudice divides, conquers and keeps women stuck on stupid.

Precious tricks a cheating husband into exposing himself

Now, because Precious lets the pettiness roll off her back, her weight becomes a symbol of her strength, sensuality and self-posession. She isn’t all Bush Doctrine about her heft, preemtively swaggering to declaw her detractors. Instead, Precious wears her body like she does her natural, her semi-traditional garb, her country values and her smile—with innate pride. When the Lady Detective announces that she’s made of strong stuff, you actually believe her.

Sick

From Ak:

Both Yani and I are sick. I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself since I’m a freelancer. Compared to hellacious illnesses like consumption and gout, this flu-ish cold I’ve had for six days isn’t that deep. But what is deep is the reality that if I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I’m even weighing whether it makes more sense to venture outside for a doctor’s appointment or stay home for the fourth straight day. Isn’t that ironic? I can’t work at 100% because I’m sick. When/if I go to the doctor, I’ll be using the health insurance I pay for with the money I earn working on the projects I’m not completing because I’m sick. I’m making myself feel sicker by blogging about being sick. But the blog needs updating. So I’m updating about (drum roll) being sick.

Ugh. This is some pathetic, krazymaking shyte.

The sanest Chris Brown and Rihanna reaction we’ve seen thus far

From Ak:

I need to see the receipts from the crack-a-lack handlers who let a Polow Da Don-produced collabo between Chris Brown and Rihanna happen. I suppose it makes perfect $ense for everyone with a business stake in these kids’ careers to have them doing the Ike and Tina two-step. But where are the folks who actually see Chris and Rihanna as people in a complicated, dangerous and sad situation? Ugh.

Anyway, check out how journalistic warrior princess Liz Mendez Berry breaks down the knotty issues of intimate partner abuse among non-famous people of color.

An excerpt:

“Sadly, when this issue comes up, conversations tend to follow two paths: blaming the abuser or blaming the victim, with little attention given to preventing future violence. In the Brown/Fenty case, it’s “Team Rihanna” versus “Team Breezy,” as if someone wins at the end. But everyone involved loses when violence is the response to relationship conflict. This isn’t a men’s issue or a women’s issue–it’s a community issue. That’s why, instead of getting caught up in the gossip around this star-studded case, we need to start talking about what’s going on among civilians.”

Make 10 minutes to read the whole thing, please.

sometimes you just have to state the obvious.

I got called a n**ger b**ch!

From Ak:

Tonight as I sat on the subway reading a book and minding my business a crazy, stinky white man called me a n**ger b**ch! His bizarro commentary was the result of my glancing to my left and meeting his unmedicated eyes. For that transgression, Funk Massa No Home thought it made sense to take it back to the days of Ms. Jane Pitman.

Now this New York story should end here with me musing about the apparent failure of the city’s homeless and mental health services. But I’m too prideful, Leonian and unhinged my damn self to let some filthy alabaster roach get one off.

So right before I moved to the next car to escape his krazy stare and eau-de-somebody-died, I explained how ironic it was that he hated bitches when he was wearing sheer knee-highs clearly manufactured and marketed to BITCHES.

He responded with a forceful “Fuck you, n***ger b**ch!”

I responded with an equally nuts “No. Fuck yooooU, you FUCKING BITCH!“

Of course I’m not convinced that my response was effective. But in lieu of a loaded gun or a higher level of Jesusness, counter-crazying this fool hit the spot.

Maturity is overrated.