i know i've been gone awhile

and i think i'm close to making a full return. :)

tonight, though, just a quick note on me- i think i'm one of the most emotional people i know when it comes to beautiful live music. i went to a dartmouth college alumni event tonight, and hearing some of their amazing student vocalists sing brought many a tear to my eye. everyone else was stomping along with the gospel choir, and i was crying. weird.

it's (sadly, oh so sadly) past my bedtime...

i hope you (meaning the .5 people who still probably check this site) are well! i am, everyday, being newly and positively(?) challenged.

i was insulted today

while having a difficult discussion at work.

boy oh boy. i am ready to leave.

i think i'm learning

so i've been shying away from considering the potential of a committed relationship with the man i've been seeing for the past few months. i make lots of excuses- oh, he's too young, he's an actor and doesn't know what he wants, what if end up hurting him?
in the end, i know the real reason i push away conversation of relationships is the way i allowed my last one to end- with my heart and my sense of self crushed and run through a freaking blender. if i weren't such a coward i probably would have tried to end my life (stupid, right?). it really fucked me up. i had nothing left, or so i thought. i acted out, said/emailed/blogged a bunch of cruel things between bouts of drunkenness and binge eating that i thought might make me feel better, and nothing really worked. i basically became a functional alcoholic, and ate myself into 20 added pounds. i guess i was trying to end my life the cowardly way, from the inside out. i thank a divine being and my family and friends for helping me snap out of it, but the emotional scars remain.
i was confronted on facebook today by pictures of my ex and his girlfriend, who seem much happier than i ever felt dating him. i, as "over it" as i am, felt some tears welling up. over that relationship that ended so long ago. over seeing him with a girl i've known he's been dating since, oh, probably a month after we broke up, which is just about a year ago now. not a new idea.
then, as i'm starting to sink into my self-pitying, "no one will ever fit me like that again" abyss, i hear my ringtone through the drone of chrisette michele on my ipod earbuds (god, that's like a bad line out of a "chicken soup for the soul" memoir). who is it? the new boy. the one i spend so much time not considering as a viable love option. the one i make excuses about. he's calling to ask how my day was, to tell me how much he enjoyed our walk yesterday, how an agent thought his headshots are great and will be sending him out to auditions post-haste. if only i believed in signs...

it was like i never left

it has been another busy day, and it continues, but i have to quickly take a moment to thank whoever it is that puts us on this earth for allowing me to find my calling in the classroom. i saw my children today and it was like i never left. i sometimes have to remind myself that some of the most profound connections i have had with people were found in a classroom, and that there are very few things that mean more to me than my children. sometimes i forget what it means to love them, and how it feels to receive that love in return, and what my purpose in life is. i forget, but then i see terrell and ruthie and navaskia and the kevins and cliffannie and alexis and they ask me to return, to come to their houses, to hear about their mom and how she lost her job or how grandma is sick and i remember that my calling is to serve them. and i realize that returning to the classroom next year is absolutely the right decision. slowly but surely it all becomes clear.

password

random note: i don't know if this is happening to you, but a weird pop-down menu greets me when i come to my own blog, asking if i have a password. i don't know what the fuck that is. i am sorry if you're experiencing it as well. if you're not, i am worried about the state of my sorry computer...

also, this is not turning out to be the best week ever. fuck it all, vh1, why can't you leave a little "best"-ness for the rest of us? having a lot of drama at work, created a little personal drama for myself by pressing the wrong button on my cellphone (numerous times) tonight, and am looking at even more drama presenting itself in the office tomorrow. at least i have good friends (new and old) to help me figure it all out (and/or to listen to me babble nonsensically and offer necessarily nonsensical advice).

it's only tuesday.

bring it on, week! i think i'm ready.

there's a lot going on in this post: on mlk and blackness and wanting

jalylah over at hello, babar/she real cool is always teaching me shit. this morning is no exception. her post commemorating dr. king and discussing her own body politic is insightful and feels painfully familiar. the way black women's bodies are simultaneously hyper- and in-visible is one of the most painful aspects of my personal struggle against oppression- sometimes it just feels impossible to change the way people (can't) see you.
anyway, beyond providing an incredible chance for reflection, jb's post also sent me to this link on the kerner report by bill moyers. it's worth a watch. structural racism lives on.
***
on another note, i want to say something about the theorizing blackness conference put on by the africana studies group at the cuny graduate center yesterday. finding the words, though, is the hard part.

i'll start by saying that the 12 pages of notes i wrote speak to the absolute profundity of many of the presentations yesterday. mark anthony neal is amazing. there were two concepts that stand out amongst the many quotes of his that i scribbled during his keynote, and i'll share them here:

1) we need to, when we think about "blackness" in 21st century USA and in the diaspora, think about the distinction between african-american and black.

we cannot continue to assume a shared history around the civil rights movement in the US if we hope to truly galvanize movement toward dismantling structural oppression. our blacknesses are distinct though connected and we have to learn to be comfortable with learning the topography of our differences, not just those between our race and others.

this idea leads to the second i can't really let go of:

2) "unity is a myth. solidarity is a strategy." ~m.a.n.

i think this is so deep. deep! and obvious. and true. but it is also something i think we often forget. standing in solidarity with one another has always been the strategy of successful civil rights movement. there was nothing unified about the american black community in the 50's- there has always been and always will be class/color/location stratification. we never have been and never will be a monolithic, homogeneous group. we have to choose to stand up with one another to make change. solidarity, though, begins with knowledge of one another and ourselves. you have to know who the other is in order to trust her.

as i try to wrap up this post i find myself at a loss. i want to talk about the paper on lauryn hill and madness, the one about transnational translation of black feminism in english, the one minstrelsy and madea, the one on something new and cheryl dunye, the one on racial uplift in the 21st century. i want to talk about bill cosby and oprah winfrey and how they are irrevocably human and how they are rich and how they've been rich for a really long time and how that means they don't know much about the reality of the lived experience of poor black people in the 21st century at all. i want to talk about the ways that tokenism (and the inability for wealthy black people to remember how difficult finding success can really be) works to make solidarity across class lines in the black community almost impossible.

i also want to talk about black women's literature and the importance of our voices. i want to talk about the cute boy i met who i also saw at the black feminism conference. i want to talk about my own ignorance that led me to question the "blackness" of a black man who didn't strike me as being "black enough" at first glance.

i want to talk. to you. and to my former students. and to my family. i want to hear what blackness means to us, and start a conversation about its power.

i want to start a school where visiting scholars come and speak to young students of color about these issues. i want to build the ties between and among black people so we can then start talking with our other allies with confidence.

iwantiwantiwantithinkiwantiheariwantihopeiwant.

that was my day off :).


**funny last note- i google image-searched for "black enough?" and the first twenty images were all barack obama (dr. nassey-brown of hunter college had some awesome things to say about barry at the closing plenary yesterday, btw. keep your eye out for the journal of af-am studies, because some of the papers from the conference will be published there?)! oh wait, you're not surprised :).

liberty city= a havestrength homecoming

i saw april yvette thompson's play on sunday night, the night before my aunt deedee's wake, and it fed my soul.

my great-grandmother largely raised my grandmother and her brother, my uncle george, in liberty city. uncle george and his wife, dee dee, made her house their second home throughout my childhood. it was in my great-grandmother's bathtub, while drying off from a bath, that i asked aunt dee dee to be my second grandmother (because my father's mother passed away soon after i was born). liberty city holds a special place in my heart.

i love seeing/reading/hearing/experiencing expressions of other people's loves for the places i love. i love having that venn diagram moment when you realize that there are things about yourself that you share with others. i took a friend to the play, someone that doesn't know me or my rituals very well yet. afterwards he commented on the way i reacted, audibly, to the references to homemade corned beef hash and hamburger patties with green peppers and onions and cornflakes, wrapped in foil. the way my eyes lit up with recognition when she spoke about a woman's husband taking the boat back and forth to nassau every weekend. the tears in my eyes as she recounted the mcduffie riots, and i imagined my parents, my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents, and where they must have been during that crazy time.

i called my mother on monday morning to tell her about the play. as i explained what thompson addressed, my mother began asking questions about her name and where she went to school- "did she tell you her mother's name? i bet momma knows her family!" it was a homecoming for her through my telling as much as it was a nostalgic journey for me. my mommy wants to take her mommy to see the play. we're just waiting for it to make the journey to liberty city.

you should see the show if you can. it's playing at the new york theatre workshop. 20 buck tickets for all seats on sundays at 7, cash only.

for more information, check www.libertycityplay.com.

i may have a problem

the contents of my "chocolate shelf":


does anyone really need that much chocolate? i guess i do, because i'm cra-azy.

oh, also, i forgot that i took a picture of the david leibovitz chocolate chips i made last week, and they look great, so here's an image.

i think i'm making nicole's addictive chocolate chips this week (sans nuts) so i can share with my pals (especially sonj, who hates nuts and whose preferences i always ignore. :)). mmmm. soup and cookies. and a play. that's a sunday for ya.

the child in the room

i started to write a really obnoxious post trying to "unravel" why it is i'm always the youngest person in groups of people from work/activist circles. luckily, though, i managed to get my head out of my ass before pressing the "publish post" button.

feel free to secretly (or not-so-secretly) hate me for being an asshole. i deserve it.

blogs about me?

hmmm.

double hmmm.

latoya over at racialicious did some numbers on herself to figure out how she shapes up based on all of these "identity" sites. i kinda want to, but as you all know, i already have issues with my blackness. ;)

check it allllllll out.

on the importance of diversity

and by diversity, of course, i mean diversity of man flesh.

mmmm. well i just added a 2nd man to the mix. we'll call this one "the actor," and the first we'll call "BLACK man." "the actor" is also sweet, but he has a bit of a sexy/kinky streak to him. this should be interesting...

:D

proving your _____-ness. fill in the freaking blank.

so i ran across this article at times today (it's listed as one of the "most emailed.") basically, the article is titled "how do you prove you're a jew?" and it has me thinking about an experience i had this weekend with some friends.

i never have to prove my jewishness. i am not a jew. i do, however, sometimes feel that i am asked to prove my blackness. it's something i resent and that i have struggled to deal with and get past my entire life.
(more after the jump)

one reason the whole argument over barack obama's blackness never made sense to me is the fact that i have often been accused of not being "black enough" and both of my parents are black. i have no white mom to confuse my identity. i do, though, have a variety of experiences and a history of self-doubt and low self-esteem that have created an adult who still wrestles with "proving herself."

so back to this weekend. i was hanging out with a boy. a boy that i have a humongous crush on. we went to the black comedy experiment on friday, and the apollo on saturday. it was nice. he's cute. he's smart. he's funny. he's also BLACK (yes, in all caps, just like i told my friend laura a few days ago). i, on the other hand, am black (yes, in all lowercase). he went to an HBCU. i went to a top ten small liberal arts school. he was a tv junkie as a child; i was only allowed to watch tv for a few hours on saturday, after i finished my chores. he loves 90s hip-hop and other "black" music; my fanatical parents only really let me listen to the radio once i was in high school. before that, i was relegated to james dobson's focus on the family, d.c. talk, and jars of clay.

we are different, yes. but is it our "levels" of blackness that are in question? if so, what is this checklist of things that "real" black people must aspire to fulfill?

now, i know that there are tons of complications (in my own mind as well as in the minds of others) on this issue. a few of the ones that come to mind:

1. when white people do/like/are interested in things that are given other racial markers (i.e., things that aren't listed on what white people like), they are regarded with suspicion and considered to be co-opting another culture.
   
2. when black people "sell out" and support/do things that are considered to be negative for their own race, they're seen as "oreos"

now, like i noted, i think that way as well. i think al sharpton's permed hair is an abomination, and white people with locks and dirty clothes that try to preachify on issues of equality and revolution annoy the hell out of me. but i don't feel like i'm trying to be "white." in fact, that's the last thing i want to be. i have devoted my life to education and activism to further the "struggle," yet my authenticity is still measured by whether or not i can recite the script of that boondocks episode by heart.

sometimes i am still the 11 year old girl i once was, with glasses and braces, feeling uncomfortable at the BSA meeting at the prep school i was only able to attend with an almost-full scholarship and countless sacrifices on the parts of my parents. the other black kids at the school, and in BSA, had parents who drove mercedes and lived in big houses in nice parts of town. they called me an "oreo" while laughing at the uniform clothes my mom found for me in the lost and found. i was the inauthentic one, always, because i didn't think the black scholarship boys, who came from liberty city and overtown and played football, were so exciting as to be worthy of my adoration. my hair wasn't permed or pressed yet, and i liked to read and study and get good grades.

any ____-ness, any identity, has its markers, i know. and i know there are any number of reasons to feel like an outcast in a situation. i also know that i was just a nerd, and that was just as viable a reason for the kids to make fun of me as any other. i guess i just feel like i didn't, and don't, want to have to change to be able to be seen as part of my race. if i can't sit at the cool kids' table, so be it. but to not be black because i don't hate acapella singing groups? damn.

that smarts.

"caving" to obama

i want to be able to say that i don't see any of kimberley's critiques in myself. i want to say that i always feel 100% about my support of barack obama. but that's not true. kimberly's article, reposted after the jump from the black agenda report, speaks directly to me. i caved. i did. i have always known that i didn't really feel that barack was on my side of the fence, but i gave in because i felt i didn't have a ton of other options. read the article. she has a great point about the lack of any truly palpable progressive movement in this country at the current moment, and our seeming disinterest in creating one.

yes we can?

Freedom Rider: Progressives Cave to Obama

by BAR editor and senior columnist Margaret Kimberley

"There is no movement left to speak up or fight back."

FRobamaSpeeching The progressive movement is on its death bed, in critical condition for many reasons. Activists are demoralized after George W. Bush cheated his way into office, committed crimes against humanity, and subverted the constitution without punishment or even serious risk of political damage. Eight years of evil doing have taken their toll on activists' willingness to take action.

The Democrats are not blameless. The prospect of a Hillary Clinton nomination was another slap in the face to the most loyal Democratic voters. The Yale educated lawyer claimed she didn't know the Authorization for Use of Military Force Against Iraq was just what it said. The sorry excuses went on forever and the disgust only grew. Her vaunted inevitability silenced Democrats, who prepared to hold their noses and support the lesser of two evils.

The prospect of more humiliation from yet another Clinton put restless Democrats in the mood to look for other options. Barrack Obama scored points because he expressed opposition to invading Iraq back in 2003 when the crime was first committed. It doesn't seem to matter that as a United States Senator his votes on Iraq are the same as Hillary Clinton's. It doesn't matter that he once opposed establishing a deadline for withdrawal. It doesn't matter that he parrots the words of Republicans when he speaks of "the excesses of the 60s and 70s." None of what he says matters, because speaking up would mean fighting back, and there is no movement left to do that.

"MoveOn never bothered to make demands of Obama."

The end of movement politics has infected nearly everyone, like a mysterious illness in a science fiction film. If a movement still existed, MoveOn would not have made an Obama endorsement via popularity contest. They never bothered to make demands of him, to ask questions before giving him their support. Their endorsement is worthless because it gives Obama cover and asks nothing in return.

MoveOn spreads the conventional wisdom that super delegates are more likely to be pro-Clinton and are willing to subvert the popular will on her behalf. They have even circulated a petition to prevent super delegates from choosing the nominee. What MoveOn doesn't say is that both Clinton and Obama have used their political action committees to make contributions to super delegate campaign funds. They also fail to mention that Obama leads in making these contributions.

His PAC has given $698,200 to super delegates. Hillary Clinton has made $205,500 in contributions to super delegate coffers. In other words, Obama is more adept at buying votes than Clinton. "Yes we can" indeed.

"Obama is more adept at buying super delegate votes than Clinton."

MoveOn is not alone. It is incomprehensible that The Nation magazine endorsed Obama after making the following statement. "This magazine has been critical of the senator from Illinois for his closeness to Wall Street; his unwillingness to lay out an ambitious progressive agenda on healthcare, housing and other domestic policy issues; and for post-partisan rhetoric that seems to ignore the manifest failure of conservatism over these past seven years."

If The Nation has so many qualms about Obama, why endorse him at all? The editors could have simply made a statement of non-support for Obama or Clinton. The sad plight of progressives is all too obvious. "While his rhetoric about ‘unity' can be troubling, it also embodies a savvy strategy to redefine the center of American politics and build a coalition by reaching out to independent and Republican voters disgruntled and disgusted with what the Bush era has wrought." The Nation should explain to readers why Democrats ought to "redefine the center" with independents and Republicans instead of having their own agenda and fighting to make it a reality.

If even The Nation bows down in thrall of the over hyped "center," then all hope for true change is gone. In other words, capitulation is the order of the day, and Obama makes it more palatable than Hillary Clinton does.

"Capitulation is the order of the day."

After eight years of Clintonian triangulation, and another eight years of Bush lawlessness, the center isn't what is used to be. The center will accept an occupation of Iraq, as long as there is pretense that it will end. The center will not undo the Bush attacks on the Constitution. The center will tell black people that they are "90% of the way" towards equality. Actually, Obama already declared that "there is no black America" so the fight for equality will become irrelevant.

Black voters are overwhelmingly pro-Obama. Now supposedly anti-war and progressive organizations have also thrown in the towel. Race pride, however misguided in this case, explains Obama's appeal to black Americans. White progressives have no such excuse. Nevertheless they have chosen to suspend disbelief and jump on the winning bandwagon.

The stampede to Obama reveals the emptiness of the Democratic left. They are every bit as cynical as the man they support. They want a seat at the table. They don't really care what is decided at that table as long as they are included. Pro-war, anti-war, who cares? Just spell the name right on the White House invitation and let the triangulation begin.

not sure what to write

as i have the equivalent of three different posts in my head right now, all competing for space. i'm also busy at work right now trying to figure some things out, so i think i'm just going to share some random thoughts after the jump.

one.
there's a pushcart across the street from my job. your usual halal affair, with chicken and onions sputtering on the grill. i stopped for a moment today on my walk by because it seemed the cart was unmanned. then i saw the owner of the cart praying. his own moment of devotion, on the corner of 31st street and 8th avenue. it was beautiful.

two.
i've been reading a lot about rebecca walker's post on huffpo re: feminism(s) lately, and i am attending a women's history conference on black feminism at sarah lawrence this weekend, and both of those things have me thinking about redefining my politics. i feel that as i have distanced myself from the academy i have lost sight of my goalposts, you know? those things that are absolutely necessary for my sanity, those things i'm supposed to be working towards. i hope this weekend will be a moment that will allow me to recenter and refocus on those posts, waaaay at the other end of the field.

three.
i talked and laughed so much this weekend that my throat is an eensy-weensy bit hoarse. that's not a bad thing.

until next time, or until my life slows down a bit...

spring fling

i am interested in someone new, and i can't believe how strange it is. you know, to actually consider someone potentially trustworthy enough to have doings with my heart. you, my dear readers, probably know more about the depth of my heartache post-my last relationship than i do, and, if you recall, a heartbroken havestrength isn't much of a havestrength at all.
(more after the link)

this new person, though, feels good. and gentle. and kind. and smart. but not so good, gentle, or kind that he doesn't challenge me. i bullshitted my way into a corner tonight, and am now going to have to prove my way out of it with facts. bo-ring, right? but no, not really. there's a lot about him that makes sense, but that doesn't change the fact that i'm scared, and probably will be for awhile. in the meantime i will try to have some fun.

i'm headed to the apollo tomorrow morning, so i need to get to bed. g'night. :)

oh wow i'm such a nerd

ooooh finally! i figured out how to hide some of the long stuff so my first page isn't so cluttered! yay me.

smooches!

take back the mic

sharing our voices

who's in?

"diversity training"- what's the point?

so part of my job involves training educators in the use of the curricula created by my org. i travel all over the five boroughs, visiting different afterschool programs that use our stuff. the trainings usually involve some combination of icebreakers, "identity" activities, a pedagogical mini-lesson, and an overview of the structure of the actual curriculum. we call our work "diversity" education, and because we deal with issues of identity, participants generally react to our work as "diversity training."

most of the time, these trainings are not hard. the icebreaker does in fact break the ice; participants have "moments of understanding" around the identity activities, thinking about ways in which they are privileged or not; everyone gets the pedagogy and the structure of the curriculum.

and then there are the other times, when things don't go so well.

how do i judge whether something is a success? to be honest? i only think a training is a success if i have what i feel is evidence of the participants having confronted their privilege.

"okay, so what?" you say. you're shrugging your shoulders right now, i know.

but the "so what" is that i think there's something to be unpacked there. like, why is it that i think forcing people to confront privilege is so necessary in the role that i play? and is that my job? is that my place, to go around asking people to recognize the privilege in their race or class or gender expression? is my need for the validation of their exploration about me or them?

i'm working on a lesson on race for a project right now, and it got me thinking. when we talk about identity, and try to shed a light on the structural nature of social identity, what is our goal? i know that consciousness is the first step towards acting for social change, but somehow i don't think that my job, as described by my boss, is to bring about social change in the lives of afterschool educators. i don't know that the two hours i spend with said educators is really even a viable place or time to undertake such a task. i don't know if i'm even really sufficiently trained to do that.

a few days ago i trained in brooklyn. the student population of the afterschool program is predominantly asian and eastern european. i, the black woman with a big afro, stood in front of a room of 6 white people (one a fairly recent immigrant from italy), and listened while they danced around the identity activity i placed in front of them. when i asked for reactions to the exercise, three of the six people stated that they were annoyed by the exercise, because "none of these things {race, class, gender, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, ability, first language, biological sex, the list goes on...} really matter. i'm just a person. if anything, i see myself as american."

two of the other people stated that it was interesting, because the only thing on there that they ever thought about was age. one, the italian immigrant, said first language was important to her, because she only recently became comfortable with english and is "really glad it is now her first language." this came after a few of her peers spoke about the fact that they never think about first language, because english is so easy! it just rolls off the tongue!

so i tried to unpack, to push. i really did. but no one wanted to go anywhere. anytime i started to talk about privilege, eyes started to wander and doodling commenced. it was really frustrating.

and that, i guess, is why i wonder if it's my place to struggle against all of this at all. if i want to keep my job, at least. because at the end of the day, if the evaluations aren't great, i hear about it. if people feel bullied, or bad about themselves, at the end of the time they spend with me, i haven't "done my job."

it makes me wonder about the role of diversity training, and the end goal. sometimes it seems that making people feel better about themselves while giving them a chance to feel better about the "strange" people around them, is the only real goal.

argh. this is so not my thing.

one ferry, three men, lots of anger

**sorry, long post!**

i took the staten island ferry and to and from SI today for work. both trips started calmly, with my head buried in reading material, and both ended with me in the midst of a good amount of anger. the first time (on the way there), i scribbled a poem in the back of the book i'm reading, almost running into the two men that inspired its writing (it needs revision, badly); the second time (on the way back), i wrote a blog post angrily on the margins of a piece of paper i found in my bag. i'm going to share both pieces here.

i don't know what's up with me and anger lately. there's something, though, about constantly feeling like me and mine are being openly dismissed/used/abused by others that just makes my blood boil a little bit. i bite my tongue, i don't fight, but my silence doesn't erase my anger.

i write my anger, and hope that it will resolve itself.
(there)

tears of rage, or
my brother always says i cry too easy


90 miles,
they say

two white(?) men.
the Staten Island ferry.

90 miles?
yeah, yeah
90 miles from Miami to
Coo-ba

yeah.
so close, they get
here
and their feet are
still
wet!

yuk, yuk.

90 miles.

as a tear of rage
seeped out of my eye,
i neglected to share
that cuba is 90 miles from
key west,
not
miami,

and when they
shouted out
the aryan nation
as the only
"solution"
to miami's
"problem,"
i didn't say
that the problem is
ignorant bigots like them,
wearing 9.11.01 tee shirts.

i didn't say that
i'd prefer
wet feet
over
ignorance and hatred
any
day.

i didn't say
that our country
was built with
wet feet,
or that

it would seem that
along with
drying feet
come
shrinking brains and narrowing
minds.

i didn't insult the
man's
accent or
intelligence,

i didn't make
sweeping generalizations
about the group of
people
i believe he most resembles.

i didn't blame him and
his "kind"
for my lack of
comprehensive health insurance
or my
$60,000 in
student loans.
.
.
.
.
i didn't expect him
to understand
my tears
or my
language.

///
there are just so. many. things. i
didn't say.

*****
(back)

why is it that black middle aged men so often consider my body their property? at least once a week i am confronted with men old enough to be my father commenting on/trying to touch/eyeing my black female body.

there is something in their attention, too, that is about my youth. the way they comment and gesture suggests that i am, at once, their daughter and their concubine, simultaneously innocent and deviant.

today, one man decided that his avenue to interaction with me would be schooling me on manners. after he sat next to me, staring at me for a number of minutes, i yawned without covering my mouth. i felt warmth near my cheek, and i realized he had raised his hand to almost touch my face! "cover your mouth when you yawn," he said. "you're so pretty!"

i gave him the stinkeye and went back to reading. after assuring me that he wasn't "trying to teach me anything," he decided to model the correct yawning "procedure" with his newspaper. i asked him to leave me alone and promptly called my mother, telling her loudly that there was a crazy man next to me. he continued to stare openly and smile creepily throughout the (too long) SI ferry ride, and to place his coffee cup as near my thigh as possible without actually touching me. he protested when i rose to move away.

why do men, black men who are supposed to be supports in my community, alternately ignore and abuse this idea of me? i can't get the attention of an educated black man under 35 for my life, but granddaddies are in large supply for the position of fetishist.

i don't understand what is both so alluring and off-putting about me. is it my independence? my unwillingness, as one friend put it a few weeks ago, to "pretend to be weak"? is it my personality? my expectations? because none of those things are on display. i don't know how to erase myself enough to lose the attention i don't want and to gain that which i so desire. to be honest, it depresses me to think that i will never be fully attractive to the men that are most attractive to me as myself. it depresses me to think that in order to find a life partner i have to deny parts of myself. it depresses me to think that i either have to give up on finding love, or be willing to define love as old men touching my face without permission on a ferry, or young men cheating on me and refusing to call what they feel love. youth breeds man-boys unready for relationships, and age breeds man-boys who want 25 year olds like the woman i am now, "ripe and fresh."

ugh. what a freaking day.

conscious women rock the page!

that's the name of the curriculum i've been spending so much time on for the last few months! we are winding down the production process, and the curriculum is going to come out in march.

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2008 ~ Year of the Hip-Hop Woman!

Coming March '08
Conscious Women Rock the Page:
Using Hip-Hop Fiction to Incite Social Change
A one-of-a-kind curriculum

by: JLove, Black Artemis, E-Fierce and Marcella Runell Hall
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check out the writers' websites for more information on their work. they are an incredible group of women doing good things for the world!