However… I would be frontin’ if I didn’t admit that I was looking forward to the BET Awards that took place last night. As Jamie Foxx said earlier during the show, “MJ was OURS, and we shared him with the world.” Who else could do a better job at showing love and paying tribute to the Michael Jackson than BET, right?

Right??

Quadruple womp. Before I begin my rant, I’ma just say this. I’m a music historian. Therefore, I’m WELL aware of the realization that music evolves. Music from the 20s sounds different from the 30s, so needless to say it sounds different from the new millennial tracks we hear on the radio now. That works backwards, too. While music from today can be traced and tracked backwards to follow where different sounds originated, it should only prove that much more that evolution takes place. So, no. I’m not going to clown the music that was played and performed and rewarded and awarded last night. I’m not going to say, “In comparison to MJ…” and I’m not going to say “It all sucked.” I don’t believe that. In fact, outside of the tributes, Jamie Foxx & T-Pain’s “Blame It” with Travis Becker forced me to rock out with my proverbial cock out.

What I AM going to say, is this. I look at BET’s current core audience, and I see babies born in the early 90s. The fresh into college/preparing to bounce from high school babies. I look at BET’s current stars and I see 80s babies, 70s babies (on the low, tho’, ’cause they aren’t supposed to be “that damn old”), and 60s babies running the show. Why wasn’t there a video montage of Michael’s greatest hits? His most important contributions to music as we know it? What about the things he did for the artists that these 90s babies adore? Let’s even talk about the GROUND he broke with music videos and MTV? Maybe the way he forced everyone - white, black, blue? you name it - to step their game up if they were going to compete for airtime with him? How ’bout all that?

Were we too interested in giving Alicia Keys some time to post her scam donation number on the screen? Were we too interested in 40-year-old-ass-Pleasure-P having time to perform whatever fuckery he tried to sing? Or was it just something about that Baby Boy sketch at the end that just COULDN’T be cut out to make time for a MJ montage?

I said I wasn’t going to compare the music of today to MJ’s because I think that’s unfair and disrespectful to the evolution of time and the music that soundtracks it. But as far as priorities, BET’s suck. And I’m sorry, but I won’t be watching shit else on that channel. (Yes, I know I said it like I was watching any of it before, but it needed to be said.)

I had an unhealthy relationship with food. It was my comforter. It was my safe-haven. Food doesn’t tell you you’re fat. It doesn’t tell you that your jeans are too tight, and producing some muffin-esque business around your middle. Food doesn’t even mind when you sleep at night with a scarf on your head and no makeup. It just… made me happy. Comforter. Sure - in high school, I got ballsy and chose to abstain from pork and red meat, but that doesn’t ensure a healthy diet in any capacity. It just wasn’t enough. Then, good God, I had the nerve to get pregnant. Talk about weight gain. I left my pregnancy almost 70 lbs heavier than when I originally found out I was pregnant. I was miserable.

So… in all my misery, I decided to move back to Indiana. After a few months, I decided that I needed to seriously consider doing something about my weight. I’m six feet tall. I could get away with a lot of weight because - lucky for me - it was distributed evenly. But something about stepping on that scale and seeing those numbers made me sick to my stomach.

I started working out - 7 nights a week. My mother was excited to see me truly take an interest in my physical well being, so she was eager to sit for me. 1 hour a day, 7 nights a week. After six months, I only lost 37 lbs. WTF? I’m spanking my own ass in the gym, and nothing? NOTHING?

By this time, I gave up and moved to Florida. I just figured I was destined to be a giant fat ass the rest of my life. Not that I wouldn’t still be an awesome person, I just would still be the person afraid to accept what she saw in the mirror. But believe it or not… my time in Florida brought me silence. Pure… silence. I could think. By myself. I could observe what I was doing that was sabotaging my weight loss.

I was eating like a fucking linebacker.

Seriously! 6 Taquitos and sour cream? Giant ass pieces of fried chicken? Fast food?! WTF was I thinking? If I had come to this realization when I was working out 7 days a week, MAYBE I could’ve had different results. Maybe I could’ve simply had healthier eating habits. Maybe the fitness fairies could’ve come down and sprinkled “stop eating” dust all over my tummy. I DO that I’m young, and it’s never too late to start over.

I decided to fast for clarity. I gave myself 29 days. No working out, though. When I needed to eat or snack, I took in some pineapple or some cucumber. That was three months ago.

A month ago, I decided to incorporate a walking trail into the daily schedule for my daughter and I. Two weeks ago, I began attending the gym. Needless to say, I’ve lost almost 50 lbs in this time frame. I HAD to re-evaluate my relationship with food in order to get it done.

Now, I’m making the conscious decision to become a vegan. I limit the amount of junk food that goes in and out of my house. My daughter is an equally picky eater, so she doesn’t like doritos or cheetos - she’d much rather enjoy a nice juicy apple or a banana. Life is really wonderful right now.

I cannot tell you how good I feel to know that I’ve cracked the case of what was really happening to me… which is something I may have to write about later. To know that living my life on processed foods was killing me, liberates me - because on my path to separate me from something so toxic, I was able to watch my own habits… mindlessly wandering off into the kitchen to stick something in my mouth, not paying attention to my portion sizes, drinking juices whenever water would suit me just fine and let’s not even talk about the sugar.

I just… I feel so free. I’ve never been this happy in my entire life. 16 inches down… 83 lbs down… who knows how much else to go.

Every once in a while, I will watch the local news. I prefer to watch something a little more engaging like a politically-focused show, simply because it doesn’t take much brain power to say damn every five minutes as the local newscasters discuss another murder or robbery.

Tonight, I jumped in the shower and left Family Guy on… only to jump out and see the nightly news on. OK, no big deal… until I hear, “the students’ teacher, Gerald Oliphant…” and rushed out - poorly dressed - to my TV to see what the hell was going on.

Unfortunately, this was going on:

Seven high school students are being hospitalized and their teacher is dead after a fatal accident early Sunday morning on the Florida Turnpike.

According to Florida Highway and Patrol, at around 6 a.m., a Chevy Suburban driving south on the turnpike near Coconut Creek Parkway overturned several times, ejecting several occupants.

Family and friends said 27-year-old Gerald Oliphant was driving his students back to South Florida from a senior trip to Orlando’s Universal Studios.

Now, Gerald is a friend of mine… a wonderful person with a huge heart and a strong connection to his community. A big smile, a loving heart, and a warm personality that I don’t find too often in men these days. That type of positivity where clearly nothing is going to ruin your day because YOU say so? Yeah, he had that going on. You’d stick around him simply in hopes that it’d rub off on you.

As I type this, I feel myself starting to cry… just because I know how the world could stand to use so many more people like him, and to lose one more is damaging to not only his family, but his world… ’cause you just KNEW he was set out to change it. They always say that bad things always manage to find their way to good people, and although I hate clichés, damn if this isn’t true.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how one person can leave such drastic impressions on us as individuals as well as the collective “us” in regards to history. When you think about the history we learn in our classes, the subjects are usually headlined by one major individual. Lincoln, King, Kennedy, on, on, and on… the influence of one man, we learn as early as grade school, can be a powerful thing. Positive and negative. The passing of my friend has only illuminated this for me so much more, because as involved as we both were in our department and on the yard in my early college years, I can not think of a single negative thing about this man. When I think of my first year on campus, I cannot help but think of him. How he was so sweet to me with his big hugs and his cheerful words, how me and some of the other music majors would sit outside of the building playing the dozens, and he’d walk past and say “Hey… I’m not trying to mess with y’all so I’ma just keep on walkin’,” and how when I became an AKA to his Alpha… he greeted me and reminded me why it was so wonderful to have that new bond that we finally shared. It may sound trivial, but as I said earlier - the influence of one man can be a powerful thing… be on history or on me, the individual.

I’m the type who believes that a lesson can be learned in everything. The loss of Gerald has reminded me of a few things that I always manage to overlook. To love those - in the present - who influence you to be better, do better, and live better. To love them today, because tomorrow is too late regardless of whether or not tomorrow comes. To live in a manner that strives to help you leave your mark on the world.

Lastly, to always be cognizant of your influence upon others. Understand your position in their lives, and know that while you may be living for you, everything you do affects another human being. Don’t take your life for granted, don’t take for granted the people you love, and don’t take for granted the position those people give you in their lives. Many blessings to his family, and may he rest in peace. If I know anything, he is quite satisfied listening to all the sounds of the dopest band in the land up there.

Detroit, MI, from where I hail (most of the time, anyways), is known to be the ‘hair capital of the world’. I’m not sure where or with whom this title originated but whoever and whatever began this, wasn’t lying. To an extent. When I was home for a short stint this month, I saw that certainly Detroiters, good or bad, have taken ownership of that crown. All manners of colors, styles, bobs, braids, weaves, fusions, contraptions and possibly even contraceptives. After all, we DID invent the automobile and look how that turned out.

Well, in the midst of this, I had to get my newly cropped natural hair colored and cut (some more-no, you’ll never see pics. Me and photos don’t get along). My mother SWEARS by Sophie. Says she’s the best things since sliced bread since she brought her ultra limp hair ‘back to life’. I don’t have that same problem. My hair swings from brillo pad to sheep wool on a good day, rendering my styles VERY much so alive but I do get it pressed for comfort and ease. However, I swim twice a week so whatever my hair may have been at the start of the week it’s quickly gone in the way of the ‘fro but…who cares?  It’s hair, right? Didn’t that nappy-headed broad India.Arie tell us so?

Not so, said the judge of ‘bad hair be damned’. Apparently,  my only having gone to the shop (count ‘em!) seven times (including this last visit) in the last eight years was paramount to saying ‘Rosa Parks aint do shit but sit her big ass down’. Friends, let me tell you, I nearly caused a riot in that shop. About three to four other clients were there, patiently waiting their turn to get their heads scalped/shaved/chemically altered/burned accordingly. Looking up from their Essence/Jet/Ebony mags (they really are all the same, right?), they all proceeded to tell me what a fool I must be for having such an elementary ideal of what may be the single most characteristic of my personality. Or at least, that’s what I think that ’s what they thought they were saying.

What I find so amusing is that the majority of these women, myself and the stylist included, were all careered women with families and associations that more or less spoke more to their character than their respective hairstyles. However, these women, who collectively can be described as ‘urbane’, found very little issue in identifying with something so…mundane and irrelevant in the larger scale of things. I told them I swim frequently with my clients as there is some mutual benefit to the activity and was told ‘what about your hair?’, as if THAT outweighs the therapeutic value in getting in the pool. I told them I’d been saving to find a new and better place to live and was asked was I to be factoring in ‘much needed’ hair treatments in my budgeting. Said my favorite places to shop were Family Dollar and Marshall’s and was told almost IMMEDIATELY that I needed to look elsewhere if I ‘wanted’ to have better hair and products.

This..fixation has turned into a pretty profitable venture. Not only are Black women outspending ‘other’ women 3 to 1 on hair care products (or 11.2 billion more dollars), although we don’t have a study (yet) to prove it, we’re probably outspending our time on this obsession 5 to 1. No, I’m not going to get into some rant about how we should ALL go natural, ‘back to our roots’ or even ‘back to Africa’ but I DO think it’s time we start taking note of how we’ve gotten ‘caught up’ along the way. Our technology for this has become more and more advanced; our attitudes regarding the subject, however, have not. We’ve allowed this to CONTROL us and not the other way around. Is it the ‘ideal’ we’re searching for? The acceptance? The identity? Or is the creativity? Or just the uninhibited, unsurpassed and unhampered exploration we’re rarely afforded in other avenues in our lives? Is it the difference in the texture? I don’t know that this is only it, but it’s a decent enough excuse. Even still–my hair will NEVER equal my life’s journey, love nor labor.

Whatever this obsession may be, I’m looking forward to an extension (pardon the pun) when we’d extend this same sort of passion and concern towards other, more relevant attributes of our world, but that’s another day coming soon, I guess…

Readers, leaving you has been as hard as…well, it hasn’t been that hard. LK has been holding the pseudo-intellectual cut down for a minute, although this seems to be mostly our talking to and amongst ourselves, we always appreciate the support. We really do. So much in fact that…this post is dedicated to you. Since, you know…care so much and stuff.

Now presenting…M Dot’s Curiously Curious Queries, brought to you by the letters K, Y and O:

Is Twitter THAT annoying? Are we secretly deluding ourselves into believing it’s really SO bad to be so enthralled with the minute details of our favorite persons’ lives? I know Maureen Dowd is on some bullshit; she’d be the FIRST to be following Pres. Obama’s feed like a redneck on meth…

If more women (and specifically, Black women) read ‘Sex and the Single Girl’, would we have less Tyra Banks, Oprahs and certainly no Steve Harveys? Less asking ‘why’ and more tips on ‘how’?

What is SO compelling about giving money to giving money to gypsies/westside bums? Am I the only one who wonders if I may be passing by the new millennium Jay-sus or some shit?

Seriously…what is ALL the hype about Earth Day? I’d be willing to bet my addiction to Jelly Belly that very little to no one did shit different to impact the inevitable climate change today.

Speaking of Jelly Belly…what is it about jelly beans? I feel a little lit bit Augustus Gloop every time I see the fruit bowl assortment on sale at Marshall’s…

Why aren’t pictures necessary compenents of resumes…when EVERYONE knows looks matter?

How necessary is a international court in situations like these: here, here, here and here?

Why DO people still listen to R. Kelly?

  Is anyone else scared of North Korea? I know like shit I am. That man looks like he’ll fuck shit all the way up.

I’m happy to say that the episodes are getting much better - this most recent one, I could hardly keep up without turning the volume up and hitting that rewind button a good time or two. It was even my kind of mystery, with my being a lover of [and once obsessor over] Agatha Christie novels. I like the little build up to the crime, and I even like the crimes that are clearly so innocent that you can’t help but be charmed (as in, the two-o-clock doctor.)

Just like I did with Burn Notice (another show that I am PROUD to obsess over, especially as a resident of Miami), I started to hunt all over creation looking for ratings results for Agency. Of course, I couldn’t get what I was looking for without having to read through the opinions of a bunch of self-important assholes purporting themselves to be critics. Now, mind you, I’m not hating because they’re hating on my show - I’ve read reviews of people lauding the show and having not nary an iota of an idea about what makes it so special. However, a couple of the reviews make me wonder what is REALLY going on with American TV.

Reviews, I know, will make you want to tear your hair out. Reading the reviews for Burn Notice had me wanting to put a hit out on some critics because I just KNEW they were going to ruin my show for me. I remember being mad as hell when people questioned that show. “Those writers are gods (small G, don’t crucify me) with No. 2 pencils and I won’t let them be chastized!” I remember saying. That’s how I’m starting to feel about Agency.

Critics question why HBO would invest in something like this - assuming it must be because it is mad cheap to produce, easy to drum up scripts because of the books, and effortless because even though Jilly’s accent is dope… she’s not really acting or some shit - and say that the network should shelve it or ship it off to CBS (a network, mind you, that would treat an ALL Black casted show like hot coal dropped in their hands.) Because the show would look SO much better with 17 minutes of commercials stuffed in the center, and little moving letters advertising CSI at the bottom during the entire episode. They say, the show is not cutting edge.

Cutting edge? Have we forgotten what cutting edge really means? Are we SO confused by the influx of revealing attire, big ass weaves, high-end makeup and plastic surgery, reality-TV-esque fighting, people eating grilled rat and caged with meal worms, film-noiresque scenes of how bodies deteriorate after sitting in the sun for months, and crude humor to actually remember what cutting edge TRULY means? Or is the show disqualified from being considered cutting edge because it’s in Africa? Because it’s actually scripted (in another dialect, another culture, and damn near another language, at that)? Or because there’s nothing but beautifully sun-kissed Black faces grazing the screen? Or… let’s go a step further - because there are nothing but beautifully sun-kissed Black faces living LIKE NORMAL PEOPLE on the screen?

See, that’s the kind of shit that worries me about the reviews of Agency. I can’t help but wonder if the show speaks to a certain part of certain people in our society who don’t understand the concept of colored people living like everyone else, regardless of culture. I can’t help but question if the lack of prostitute makeup and scantily clad women forces the show to lose points from those critics who like to see, well, hoes integrated into the “normal society” that most of these shows create for themselves. I also can’t help but wonder if the show showing a backdrop of a peaceful, serene, and even honest Africa makes it hard for those who demonize the area and its people to take it seriously or write it off as blatant fantasy.

Which brings me to the understanding of cutting edge that EYE have, and that EYE will be teaching my child. To think in terms of etymology, the cutting edge is the part that… well, does the cutting. It’s what slices in half whatever barriers is in the way. It’s what is breaking through whatever is in the way only for the rest to follow - stereotypes, stagnancy, and stupidity be damned - like a pair of scissors. It’d get nowhere without the cutting edge. To put a show with only faces of color in a backdrop of Africa with an intelligent full-figured woman as the lead AND make the shit stunningly interesting? Superficiality aside, the mysteries are intriguing enough to actually be realistic stories! On some “I’ve got you, in the hospital, with an extension cord” type shit? Oh, sign me up. Bringing to light countless concepts that American TV NEVER gets to see, and bringing them to light together? Sorry, that’s cutting edge even though your preconceived notions prevent you from admitting such.

The true meaning of “cutting edge” loses it’s definition, it’s meaning, its principle when it becomes predictable. When a critic can tell you in no implicit terms what IS cutting edge - which, mind you, is mad different from telling you what is NOT - then American TV altogether is in MAJOR trouble. Cutting edge is not getting contestants to dangle from their left ankle as opposed to their right, GAUNTLET. Cutting edge is not having the cast date each other in the beginning before realizing that idea sucks and splitting them up, BIG BROTHER. Cutting edge is not turning a hospital into a whorehouse, GREY’S ANATOMY. Cutting edge is… something new, something fresh, something you’ve never seen before. It doesn’t have to leave you twisted and broken inside to be considered cutting edge. It doesn’t have to gross you out to your soul to be cutting edge. It doesn’t have to leave you horny to be cutting edge.

Just because Agency doesn’t insist on making you squirm - in a good or bad way; just because Agency doesn’t have a fucked up ending; and just because Agency doesn’t have some hoes in this house, doesn’t mean the show must be counted out and shipped over to some sorry network. It may leave you a little uncomfortable or confused, but discomfort is occasionally a good thing. Let your cage get rattled a bit. Take in some new scenery, enjoy the cheerful dialogue, and appreciate the fact that a full-figured Black woman who enjoys giving back to children is being highlighted on a channel that people PAY to watch. HBO knows what it’s doing, and it’s the reason I keep paying them my hard earned money.

Before my pregnancy - maybe seven months before, I read a book called The Road Less Traveled. With a title obviously taken from the poem, I realize what that means now only years after the last time I read it. The thoughts on love are certainly unconventional, if not simply pessimistic and slightly pedantic. How I got the book is actually hellafunny - I had a clinical psychologist as a professor, and after goading me into sharing a strange dream I had with the class, she told me that it’d be in my best interests to take a look at the book, specifically the pages on love. I’m thankful that I did, because it changed my outlook for an eternity.

To say that love is a complicated subject would be much too simple. People are killing for “love.” People are lying, cheating, and stealing for “love.” People are harming other people they “love.” People break their own rules to protect the ones they “love.” How can an emotion be so powerful? So… real? How can a four letter word literally be strong enough to detonate emotional h-bombs?

According to Peck, it’s not. You see, to say those things about love, would be using love to excuse fuckery. An accepted realization for a number of people who’ve been too confused in their emotions to understand the limitless bounds of such an emotion or respect its, well, limitations. Love will make you take a bullet for someone, but I question whether it could make you pull a trigger.

To prepare for my baby I left Miami, a school that I loved, and my phenomenal resume-building performing career to go back to the Midwest to stay with Mom. My pregnancy was rough - culminating in a horrible temper, a very swollen tummy, and ankles the size of peaches, I was glaaaaaaaaaaaad to be on my back in that hospital bed. Couldn’t have been happier. I could talk about my then-boyfriend at the time, but he’s inconsequential. He was as supportive as he could’ve been at the time, even having been gone for so long. He held my hand as we saw our daughter for the first time, and when I held her, the world could’ve imploded around us and it wouldn’t have mattered worth a damn because I was floating.

She was born with a set of lungs that would turn Placido Domingo green with envy… and once she realized that they had taken her away from Mommy, she’d holler and holler. She wanted me. To smell me. To touch me. To be nestled in my arm and held tightly as she fell asleep. I wanted that too… and after a psychologically draining experience like childbirth, I needed it. We loved each other enough to know that we needed each other, and were ready to raise hell to make it happen… that fast.

So, needless to say, after the honeymoon was over, we left the hospital. We had to finally enter the real world. You know, that world where shit gets terribly real as soon as you leave the hospital doors? Yeah, that place. I now had a child. At this time, I wouldn’t have known that months later, I’d be leaving my boyfriend, moving to a NEW state, and transferring schools. I also wouldn’t have known that my daughter would become such a catalyst for change in my life.

See, the book I mentioned earlier discusses love in a very frank and matter of fact fashion. According to Peck, to say that love is what drives a person to chase an ex down in the middle of the night to track him down at his lover’s home is a lie. That’s obsession. To say that love for a child is different than love for a significant other is… also, a lie. That’s combining sexual gratification and desire with love… and is dangerous. To say that love makes you lose your mind when confronted with the end of a relationship is… say it with me: a lie. That may be ego-tripping, or addiction.. but it certainly isn’t love.

This little girl that I loved made me decide to take my trade, and turn it into a business. I took the little money that I had, got an apartment in Texas near my boyfriend’s family, and started working full time trying to build a business. I tried to get back in school, but just wasn’t ready. I eventually left him. Love for my child forced me to get serious about how I was going to eventually raise her… alone. Even more so now than before.

I see love, as a noun, as overused and abused. I see love, as a verb, as neglected and abandoned. It’s okay to say “I love you” to everyone you know, but do you show it? I mean, what do you do when you love someone? Is there some ten commandments by which you abide? Do you only abide by said commandments after you’ve said “I love you,” or do you feel it way before you say it? Is it necessary to say it at all when you feel it in reality, or must you speak it into existence?

I suppose this is what my two year old taught me about love. Because, I just knew. I knew that I wanted to make her a better person. I knew that I wanted to see her grow into a happy, healthy, intelligent and strong-willed person that family, friends, acquaintances, and passing strangers on the road could see and say “Wow, now she’s something.” I knew that I wanted to be there for her in ways she would never forget - that she would be powerful, accomplished, creative, and a movement-by-herself - and that she would grow to be a gift to humanity, and be able to recognize my part in it. That’s love. Not addiction and withdrawal. Not obsession or sexual gratification. To truly - in your heart of hearts - want the best for someone and be willing to move heaven and Earth to give it to them, is what love really means.

If I swap out my child, and replace it with my Mother, my Sister, my significant other, and maybe the genders, the content doesn’t change. The motive doesn’t change. The modus operandi… doesn’t change. Love makes you act in a way that supports the best decisions in someone’s life. Love allows you to realize when it’s time to fall back and let them grow… or hell, let them go. Love forces you to sometimes put yourself aside for something greater, better, or bigger than you and love demands that you recognize when something greater, bigger, or better is on the horizon.

So when my daughter grows up, I’ll have to boot her ass out of my house because I love her. I have to acknowledge when she finally needs me to step aside so that she can learn some lessons on her own. Just like, when I got my own very first apartment and forgot to pay the deposit on the electricity (LOL) - my mom let my ass rot for a night to figure out what I had done wrong.. but she helped ya girl out the next afternoon. She loved me enough to let me learn the lesson. My electricity bill has been on auto-pay ever since.

So… my two-year old genius taught her Mommy that love is all encompassing - that you love your best friend the way you love your mom, you love your sisters the way you love your brothers, and you love your significant other the way you love your child. And although I’m not well versed, I do believe that Corinthians says it best:

[...]these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Straight up.

You know, I wholeheartedly aimed to talk about the increasing violence (not quite as accurate to call it increasing ’cause it’s been alarmingly high for a while, now) in our communities. The need for guns and the will to use them. The way that fight or flight has, essentially, been redefined as “kill his ass” or “hit the gas.” In short, the fight has been replaced with the kill.

Then I realized, all it takes is to look at the news and see that this type of mindset has nothing to do with the Black community. It lives on without our perpetuation. If Blacks were allergic to guns, this shit would still be real. No one’s willing to fight anymore. I don’t know if it’s laziness (I’m, actually, quite sure that it’s laziness), lack of desire, lack of time, or what. I do know that Americans, as a whole, have lost the will to fight.

Without being cliché (damn, it’s a shame that even mentioning the mid 20th century is a cliché), take a look at the Civil Rights movement. People felt as if their civil rights were being trampled over, and they moved clouds from the ground to get their fair shake. Folks were dying, being put in jail, and had their asses whooped to get their rights. Women’s suffrage and feminism? The fight for women to have the right to choose how their lives played out? We were burning our brassieres for that right. And you KNOW how some of us need our bras! What! Come on, B. Women were cutting the fool to get theirs.

I look at right now, and I become sad.

It reminds me of a few years ago, when the Women’s Studies department at Indiana State University hosted a “Take Back The Night” march one night on campus. Being apart of the only non-Greek organization for Black women on the campus at that time, it only made sense that we would go in on it and support. I remember standing there, in my too-tight “Take Back The Night” long sleeved (I’m six feet tall, so clearly the shit was only a 3/4 length for me), holding a folded up banner for our organization, ready to march. Women’s rights are a BIG deal to me, so for me to be there was a step in the right direction.

So… off we went. Needless to say, no one was really taking the chanting seriously. No one understood the need to make the assholes in the 12th floor of the dorm take a moment out of their video game playing or ramen noodle chef-fing stop what they were doing and take note. No one really got the fact that making people think about the cause - for even 23 seconds - was important. No one really cared. Honestly, I think half of them were there for extra credit or something.

Sure enough, I became a little hot under the collar. I grabbed my pamphlet, and started chanting as loudly as I could. Eventually, the “leader” wanted to hand me her bullhorn, but I was so into it that I didn’t notice it and began to shout at the top of my lungs. So there we marched; me, leading almost 500 people in chanting against domestic violence. Anyone with some smart shit to shout out of their windows.. wasn’t heard. I was clearly going to yell right over you. So you could either listen, or shut the fuck up and turn up the volume on the Simpsons. Your choice… but at least you had one. No one was taking that from you.

Before long, the marchers were so crunk that we all felt why we were there. Back then, I didn’t walk much, so I started yelling even louder just ’cause I was so mad I was walking. I mean, it was hype. So hype that I… forgot to unravel the banner in my hand. There are mad pictures of this event floating out around there, but my favorite is the one that landed on the front page (was it the front page?) of the school paper that day - me, my smedium shirt, a folded and slightly falling banner in my arms, hair all over the place, with my mouth wide open… clearly screaming at the top of my lungs. I loved that picture because no matter how fucked up I looked, I was passionate. I was into it. I was real.

I question, a lot of times, why people write posts like this. “Why can’t everybody be like me? I do this shit the right way… so why ain’t everybody following suit?” That shit is wack. But I have to wonder… where is the fight in America? As much as I love our President, I cannot ignore the people who are complaining about his recent economic policies. Why are there no movements to have your voices heard? Why are there no alternate solutions being proposed? (And no, I’m not talking about that bullshit ass “Republican Budget” that was proposed. I’ve seen it - that’s not a real nor viable solution.) Why aren’t people willing to take time to march somewhere and make a statement? A collective voice that loud can never be silenced.. no matter how much you beat it down or try to ignore it. Which, after that long ass story about the DV march, is my point.

Americans, for some reason, have become complacent and comfortable. Microwaves allow us to think that all dinners should be quick… damn how bad the food actually winds up being for us. Cars and planes allow us to think that all journeys should be quick… damn the dangers that are associated with carelessness in use of both OR the fact that your safety is protected at the discretion of someone else you don’t know. Remote controls tell us that we should be able to easily change a channel effortlessly… damn the fact that you can blink and two hours have passed and you’re still in the same ass groove in the couch. Somewhere along the line, we came to believe that everything should be easy.. effortless… painless… and quick. Says who? And why?

I, for one, enjoy the fight. It makes the win that much more rewarding. To remove the struggle but still want to be rid of the problem itself results in what - killing the situation (or the person[s] involved) altogether? Because that’s so much more like right? Because everything that we have - that we enjoy, love, and wake up every morning being thankful for - came so easily? Because when this country was founded, the shit was so easy? Because my grandparents fighting for my ass to be able to do what I do today was… so easy? Give me a fucking break.

Some might find this a rant about me being mad that everyone else’s lives are so easy and mine is not. It’s not. I don’t mind the complexity of my life - in fact, I’ve always welcomed it - because I know that whatever it is isn’t going to stop me from living and loving it. What I do mind is when people see a problem in front of them and instead of making the math work, they make their seat belts click and ride out. What kind of fuckery is that?

Quick solutions - like a gun - ain’t shit. Leaving… ain’t shit. It’s cowardice. You have to see the value in living and loving freely and FIGHT. To see a man - MANY men - killing off families (oftentimes, their own) because they don’t want to be saddled with the trouble of insuring them is… some ho shit. Because they can’t bear to disappoint them is… some ho shit. Because they can’t bear to be ridiculed (read: Columbine) is - say it with me - some ho shit. Guns don’t kill people… people kill people. And I’m that much more concerned with why those people think the answers should be so quick and simple instead of realizing that what they have is so valuable that it’s worth the fight. Be it life, liberty, or the pursuit of happiness.

Thanks for reading my thesis. If you’re gonna grade it less than an A, you damn sure better explain why so I can fix it and earn it.

La Kane: i hate to say it, but i appreciate america so much more when i read shit like this…

On a more somber note, a recent op-ed by everyone’s favorite some-timey radical Nicholas Kristof speaks to the devastating effects of some more of those without options: a glaring 70 to 80 million children are born to mothers who have very little recourse in the way of birth control. Apparently, the mother, Nahomie Necure, highlighted in this piece

…[Is] an intelligent 30-year-old woman who wanted only two children, yet now she is eight months pregnant with her 10th.

To you and I, perhaps this seems a little contradictory (did that on purpose). Intelligent but pregnant with her eighth child after the two she wanted? No way of saying ‘no’ to not just one but two husbands? No advanced birth control methods that would (pardon the crudeness of this expression) allow her spouse to ejaculate in her without running the risk of yet another baby not able to be provided for?

This, sadly, seems to be the way of more than 50 countries that suffer not only from severe poverty but also, subsequently, some serious depriving of human rights, specifically, Article 22 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as established by the United Nations, which states that

Everyone, as a member of society, has the right to social security and is entitled to realization, through national effort and international co-operation and in accordance with the organization and resources of each State, of the economic, social and cultural rights indispensable for his dignity and the free development of his personality.

Upon reading that article of the UDHR, it would seem to protect some of the very same rights La Kane and I (and many of you), take for granted: the DIGNITY to have the OPTION to choose those provisions ‘indispensable’ for her (and communal) development. There is an assumption that the social state in which she resides will guarantee her a system where, regardless of federal opinion on this matter, will allow the security to protect not only her offsprings’ best interest but to also consider the effect on general society. How can a people expect to progress when they are not even able to provide the basics? Kristof writes:

…The mounting academic evidence underscores what is intuitively obvious in Haiti: unless family planning is more successful in poor countries, they won’t be able to overcome poverty.

Although it isn’t implicitly stated, the target of the contraception reform/aid is geared towards women who have lost their collective voices in the name of life. Reformers intend to regain a sense of ownership to a largely patriarch leveled planet. But before you third wave feminists bust out your matches and bras…think again.

Even in America, where we, supposedly, have so much access to all depths and advancement of planning resources and so forth, there are some who want a return to the obsolete and restrictive basics that is Necure and her underdeveloped country ilk. So wrote a contributor about a growing patriarch/mass motherhood movement some time ago in the States to the e-zine Salon, Kathryn Joyce,

…Quiverfull women accept as many children as God gives them as a demonstration of their radical faith and obedience as well as a means to advance his kingdom…It’s a cross-denominational movement among evangelical and fundamentalist Protestants who have adopted some Catholic arguments against contraception and who have spread their ideas through the [conservative community].

How…simply astounding is this juxtaposition of these two worlds? The subject of this particular article, Vyckie Garrison, actually chose to remove herself from the fundamental movement after 7 children (three with a rare bone disease), difficult pregnancies and an increasingly more difficult marriage, citing growing concerns about the well being of her children and herself. Money matters weren’t gone into as much but we can presume some pockets were getting stretched pretty tight. Same sentiments we hear echoed in Necure’s story. Garrison is said to be experiencing times that were sometimes “exhilarating” since leaving her overbearing spouse.  Where do we hear or even expect to see Necure look forward to an attitude of the same?

There is one major cardinal difference between the two scenarios: the fact that Garrison could choose (or not choose) to lead this lifestyle, whereas Necure cannot. Say what you will about the Duggars (’A Whole Fuckin’ Gang of Kids…and COUNTING!’)-the mere fact that our society upholds not only their RIGHT to but dignity to do so as they please (and not be subject to abject poverty) should make you appreciate this rag-tag operation a little bit more, too.

About a week ago, I got dumped. By Facebook. I’d devoted over three years of constant affection, late night procrastinating, adding the sprinkles of the usual lover spats over new formatting and exhaustive new feeding much to our mutual dismay (FB decided a filter was finally in order after two years of bitching about it). Guess he decided my ignoring the constant requests to provide my vitals wasn’t enough to continue our relationship so I got the ‘rate limit’ boot. Whatever the fuck that means. Always something with his tryna-be-complicated ass, it seemed.

Naturally, I was devastated but in true form, I quickly rallied my emotional troops in the pursuit of a new internet homey-lover-friend. It had been said that the best way to get over one social networking addiction is to get under another. I’d been entertaining Twitter but…alas, he just didn’t have the equipment to do me justice. Turns out Twit was more of a Twat. Some listserves and social networking deviations that were good enough before all of a sudden seemed kinda…tiny in comparison to my more advanced needs. Felt a little like Bilal: …this whole thing has got me searchin’…

Then, this week passed. A week sans the usual attention to who and what requested my lowly attention to whatever-have-you, without the added distraction of seeking out updates on my respective affiliations (shouts out to my neo-neos and yep, the Libertarians are still about that thing, no worries there) and certainly missing the limited satisfaction of how many people ‘big-upped’ my statuses (your LIKE’ing the fact that I’m diggin’ the last Dwele does something to me, way deep inside. Everything about you is so down, is SOOO down…).

Truth be sacrosanct, I’d missed the attention a little. Who wouldn’t miss their own standing testimony to their greatness (friend count be damned, I had some good shit on there)? This Black Girl felt a little isolated, like no one cared, no one noticed. Truth is, no one had. (Save a very, very few and for my sanity’s sake, I am so indebted).

In the midst of reviewing windy reports and analyzing social behavior programs (i.e. doing ACTUAL work because I had no choice), I began to think about what it was like before Facebook and related stepped on the scene. What did we do to prove our self worth before the advent of Myspace? Before micro-blogs and Hi5 or Ning (or Ming or whatever)? If you were unfortunate to be left out of that cyber reality, how did you navigate the changing landscape being relatively invisible? Did you? Seems like everyone else is praying to the god of ME, MYSELF AND I (but most of the time someone else)and I’m sitting here all lame, catching up on my travelling Smriti. Hell, even if you don’t have an account with ‘one of the cool kids’, you’re more than likely to be familiar with YouTube-the new-and-improved ‘America’s Funniest Home Videos’, on crack, hosted by any sort of person vying for their fifteen minutes of fame, extended.

No, yours truly hardly considers herself afflicted with the condition of irrelevance, but certainly, I wonder what happens to those who are shut out giving to the masses, our self deification. The New Twilight Zone series had this episode where, as punishment for some considerably ‘heartless’ acts, a man was sentenced to invisibility for one year in the year of 2040 (or something like that-you can read the episode synopsis here) and what was so tripped out is that we’re in the dawn of that, now.

Now that social networking has taken the place of personal interface and the new ’stepping outside of the box’ entails changing your profile picture, what happens when you’re too handicapped to do either? Are we going to be like the man in the story, who couldn’t even get help after being involved in an accident, due to his deliberate ‘unrecognizability’? Or the woman who was trapped for seven years under goo-gabs of who-kn0ws-what-the-fuck-in-her house, maybe because she didn’t have access to call out for help? Maybe even that teacher who had a fugue of the worst kind, leaving her stranded and wandering for weeks at a time because she wasn’t strapped to her Blackberry to give minute-to-minute updates on her status (’going to take a shit. brb!’)? As the technology gap widens, the efforts to sustain the planet’s needs might get relegated to only who has the resources to get to the web grapevine the fastest about nonsense (think: the REAL global edition of Gossip Girl), with substance lost for hype. If you can’t pay, you for damn sure can’t play. Sure, that speculation may be more of the hyperbolic sort, but my question remains unanswered: who will speak for the quickly fading invisible man?

Why, I honestly cannot say.

Should you find yourself unable to click the link, allow me to quote:

It been [sic] years since “Nipplegate” after which he distanced himself from Janet Jackson, cowardly allowing her to endure the overly harsh criticism alone. The outcry against his actions from those of us in the indignant minority was quickly overshadowed by an increase in album sales, multiple music awards and an increase in his Pop stardom miming Black music and culture. Instead of subjecting his next project with trepidation–let alone dismissal–nearly every “urban” club, radio station and music channel on the planet had the masses bumping to a song with a hook that’s about shackles, whipping and slavery.

From behind a wry smile and with his hair faded he actually tarnished a reigning, Black Pop star’s image arguably beyond repair by exposing her breast on national television and then built his street cred further by bringing sexy back, Middle Passage style. He’s transitioned from the post-racialist’s pop culture dream of somewhat harmlessly lusting after beautiful Black love interest in the video for “Like I Love You” into something more sinister. He uses the scapegoat of S&M edginess in which he is the aggressor, the dominant force, to subordinate his object of desire when she is Black.

Now, I went through three phases when I read this post. First, I laughed at the notion that B&D (bondage and discipline; S&M - otherwise known as sadomasochism - isn’t quite the appropriate term for this) is or could be a common day facade for White men to act on their superiority over the Negro Jezebel. Second, I rolled my eyes for a couple of reasons. Mainly because mentioning the Super Bowl incident with Timberlake and Janet Jackson makes me do that, quite frankly; but also because this concept of a White man stealing and profiting from Black culture is wild to me.

The third phase that I encountered, really, was to accept some of this as self-evident truth.

If you haven’t taken a look at the video, please do so. It’s REALLY hard to stomach, just because it looks like Ciara’s selling her chocha - AGAIN - and it’s really poorly directed, evidenced by the clear lack of.. well, direction in it all. Get some poles, a zebra printed outfit, and some big-ass Foxxy Cleopatra afros and boom! If we throw in a leash and collar in the beginning, people will automatically get it. I don’t watch music videos as it is - I’m certainly not going to have my intelligence insulted by one.

The thing about it is, the music industry is pretty easy - you’re either willing to be packaged and sold the way the label wants you to be, or you’re without your contract. There are very few artists who get the creative liberty to do what they want to do, and those are proven earners. A proven earner, Ciara is not. Don’t get me wrong, I loved “Promise” and “Oh,” but come on. Since the industry hasn’t realized that the market that has the MONEY to buy their product is craving individuality, they’re packaging and selling what they know best - sex. To me, it’s much more about the sexuality than the history behind the images presented in it. Thoughtless? Yes. Misogynistic? Yes, but who’s surprised? Racist? Highly doubt it.

I’m slightly getting away from the question posed, which was about how Justin Timberlake could continue to objectify Black women and get away with it. I mean, to ask the question this way insinuates a few things: a) that Justin Timberlake is that conscious of his image, knowledgeable of the history behind it, and still thoughtless enough to do the shit anyway; b) that White men are the only ones objectifying Black women (otherwise, why would it be so special? “history?”); c) that there’s this roaring outcry of anger and frustration - enough to affect his sales and recognitions - and this behavior is still being pushed on the masses. He’s not, they’re not, and it ain’t. So what’s the deal?

To continue to harbor bitterness about his reaction to the Super Bowl incident - and, ironically, to even refer to it as Nipplegate - as if it serves as proof that he hates or uses Black women is ludicrous. The man pulled a sheath from across Janet’s bare breast. Why isn’t it “Justingate?” Or “Gonna Have You Nekkid By The End Of This Song-Gate?” Calling it Nipplegate - because, after all, it was her nipple… and, of course, she HAD to agree to be exposed at the Super Bowl - only further highlights the initial reason why SB is mad in the first place: going out of one’s way (maybe for a joke, who knows) to lay blame to a Black woman instead of sharing the problem equally. It’s slightly hypocritical, and I’m ok with the fact that not everyone may see it that way.

I don’t have much to say about Ciara. She’s inconsequential.. a pawn - big surprise. We’ve been consumers in an industry that only wants to feed you the same ho shit every day. Labels caught on to the fact that the collective “we” like to see scantily clad Black women shaking what their mamas gave them a long time ago. You don’t think they’re going to exploit that? If you must get to race, White men have been “exploiting” willingly participating Black women for decades! What’s the outrage now? Because this particular White boy de-sheathed a Black women’s breast in front of millions? Please. The outrage is thoroughly misplaced.

So what part of this do I see as self-evident? The fact that women - on a grand scale - are doing anything to get in the business, and they’re letting these dudes put them out on the stroll in order to get the exposure they need. Not surprisingly, that includes JT. He’s no different from any other. And if someone wants to be mad at someone or about something, be mad at the women that allow themselves to be put in this situation.

I must also admit - I fought hard to not be biased in watching this show. I’m stingy with my time when it comes to TV, and it’s usually given (unfortunately) to late night fare like Adult Swim (sorry, but the soundtracking is too dope… I can stand 10 minutes of Robot Chicken to get 20 seconds of a new hot song) and The Sopranos on demand. As much as I am a sucker for gorgeous cinematography, if I can’t follow the show, I’d much rather watch Tony fall in and out of love with Dr. Melfi.

So let me just say… the show was boring as hell in the first ten to fifteen minutes. Of course I understand the point of setting up the story of Precious, the lead character played [phenomenally] by Jill Scott, but they could’ve done much better with getting and holding the viewer’s attention earlier on in the show. However, the more Miss Jilly from Philly spoke, the more she drew you in. This is where my bias comes in. Jilly could talk about dirt and mud and stray cats on a track and I’d melt and fawn all over her. That’s how much I love this chick. But the reality of it is… all of the emotion and the pain and hope and excitement and joy and pleasure and anger that she showed? Seeing all that.. I forgot Jill was in the show. Yes. That damn good.

I’m not familiar with Anika Noni Rose - I hated Dreamgirls and wound up leaving to go do something fun. I have to admit, she’s SO awkwardly rigid that I couldn’t help but smile whenever she went to put someone or something in check. I think the most shining example of who her character really is comes near the end of the first episode. I won’t ruin it for anyone who hasn’t seen it.. just know that it’s a total “Awwww!” moment.

What I really want to do is gush all over this.. because I thought I’d hate it at first. The storylines, after the first ten-fifteen minutes or so, were awesome. The characters and their smart-assed comments were natural - it wasn’t everyone cheering Precious on, and it certainly wasn’t the kind of doubt you’d expect from a TV show. The actual happenings and unfolding of the cases, while a little cliche, was terribly charming and could make anyone smile.

I am ashamed to admit that I don’t do chick TV very well, but to see these beautiful and intelligent women taking care of business - one of whom is a non-Hollywood type and still carries the entire show on her ‘fro - struck a chord with me. Undoubtedly chick-esque, but a very important piece or symbolism on a channel as prominent as HBO. It reminds us that there is an outside of the box and people do live there. It reminds us that the “big girl” doesn’t need to be the homely friend, the idiot, or the embarrassment. It shows us that interesting shit happens in places that don’t look like LA or LA made to look like [insert city.] I dig that.. so I’ll keep watching.

Oh, and those accents are killer.

Just a vent. Nothing new. This black girl did something a little different today-I began to listen to those who can’t hear.

 Sound familiar? It should.

 Before I get into my spiel about active listening, let me prologue this mug for a few: It’d be only saying too much to acknowledge the overabundance of false outrage/umbrage concerning the AIG executive bonuses that has been inundating our news over the past few weeks (’ ‘Course they didn’t deserve that money…but of course they did after all!’). Couple that with play-by-play on the Madoff shenanigans (’…whose pockets are the Feds going to attempt to hit up next?’), Congressional mea culpas (kinda),  the usual celebrity deaths, more Big 3 layoffs…and you’ve got one big unhappy American populace.

Or wait-haven’t we heard this before? The usual suspects have been captured and detained: greed, unconcerned legislators, a large group of people duped into drinking the Flavor Aid, delayed response, plans to do things different the next time around but no real concept of how to actually effect that change. I…coulda sworn we been here befo’.

Holy Brangelina-we HAVE! We were here with the rise and fall of housing bubble; we made a trip here with former President Bush, his contract cronies and the Iraqi war; we did a stint back in the day with the hyped up stock exchange back before, during and almost after the Depression; and as far as my memory will recall, we kicked it here for a minute with the rise of Walmart/Enron/Countrywide and them getting away with bloody murder while everyone watched. They told us they were going to do it and they did. We didn’t even ask how. With a grand sweeping display of speeches, hoopla and excitement, the name of that game always changed but the rules hadn’t: keep the people happy or mad enough to spend/not spend, come or go, give or receive, support or collectively deny. Everything…but to listen. So…this? What we hearing on the ‘news’? Not so much.

What’s most disconcerting about this whole big mess of an information decline is that NONE of what we are ‘hearing’ is new nor really that unexpected. Maybe it’s my refusal to believe in this stage of the technology era that much is kept from us. Like the analogy used above, we’ve gotten more accustomed to the noise that we forget to listen to what we should be.  With this ability to ‘hear’, thoroughly scrutinize and take action comes a responsibility to ask questions, follow (or make) directions but most of all: listen to what’s being said. I wish I could trim this post down to something specific like, about how people need to stop being mad about the loopholes discovered in that big ass economic smorgasbord of a stimulus bill when nothing was hid from public scrutiny or how they should have been mad about that shit a long time before (have y’all actually read that mug?) or even how Madoff was OBVIOUSLY pulling the cashmere over simple rich folk…but I digress. Maybe we have every right to be mad…but don’t we also have every right to render ourselves proactively informed?

 If you can’t hear what they’re asking or they’re saying, ask them to speak up. If not, don’t be mad when your ass gets suckered into something kinky like goat sex or watching ‘The Game’.

It totally wasn’t my intention to have my first two posts on TBG to be about cops. In fact, I was in the middle of writing about strip searches on minors, that long-ass article from the Rolling Stone that all the MSNBC talking heads are raving about, and complaining about the downfall of the educated consumer and why populism is so stupid. I just read this and felt awful.

I always have this nightmare about my daughter doing something insane to herself; she climbs up the wall like a cartoon character, only to find out halfway up the wall - much like a cartoon character - that she can’t climb walls and subsequently falls to a painful and unforgiving floor. I imagine myself rushing over to her, dialing 911, and growing impatient enough to jump in my car and speed off to the hospital to save my baby. I’ve done it before.

After reading that article, damn all that.

“My mother-in-law is dying,” said Moats , while desperately trying to leave the officer and be at his wife’s side.

But the officer was not about to let the Houston Texans running back go.

“If you can’t verify you have insurance, I’m going to tow your car. So you either find it or I tow your car,” Officer Powell said. ” I can screw you over. I’d rather not do that. Your attitude will dictate everything that happens.”

The police video continued to record the scene as the two men argued, but then the officer became irate.

“Shut your mouth. You can either settle down and cooperate, or I can take you to jail for running a red light,” the officer said.

Now, in all reality, if you’re speeding, you’re speeding. If you run a red light, you ran a red light and you need to be pulled over. Bottom line. But everything after the point where the officer was told that it was a matter of life and death was completely avoidable and is downright inexcusable. As much as I love Officer Buck, he can’t even SEE me on this right now. Here’s the video. Good luck making sense of this fuckery.

And this is where the c-o-n-spiracy theorist in me attempts to creep out. What made the officer so determined to hassle these two? What type of arrogance and idiocy leads a man to believe that his ticket for a red light takes priority over a woman going to be with her mother before she dies? Nurses are running out to you, the officer, to tell you of the gravity of the situation and you basically give them the finger because… your ticket is so much more important? For twenty whole minutes, you argue about a red light? Seriously? Seriously?

And to top it all off?

[Dallas Police Chief David] Kunkle said Powell still believes he did nothing wrong and was just doing his job.

Seriously, fuck that and fuck him. And in twenty-three seconds, I’m going to say fuck anyone who thinks being sent on paid vacation is sensible for this during the investigation.

Now…a few months later- this: 3 officers dead, one in critical condition after a routine traffic stop yesterday in Oakland. The NY Times correspondent reports that at least 20 bystanders stood not idly by to support means of apprehending the suspect but to…jeer and taunt the victims. Although nothing indicates children being present, I can only imagine what children absorbed from either seeing or hearing of this experience. This last part is the focus of my concern.

My co-author chick friend writes about her early experience of learning to respect our respective ‘boys in blue’ who EVERYDAY (for the most part), put their lives on the line to protect what many of us take for granted: the freedom to navigate in this world knowing someone has our back. While I didn’t have the same experience (actually, I was cussed out by a police officer at age 9 for letting my dog run into a major street), I’ve always held a high regard for the police. I even considered a career in law enforcement until I realized I really don’t look that good in navy.  

However…[and let me interject HERE that no, I'm by NO-way-in-Midwest-hell means justifying the shooting deaths of these officers and wish to convey my serious condolences for this loss]…as I understand the sentiment (not the actions) of the bystanders, my question today is: what do we do when our means of protection turns against us? When our ‘thin blue line’ turns into the even thinner and less blue ‘barbed wire’?

Why do we feel vindicated in this violence? It’s something bigger than the feeling of ‘recouping a loss’. When do we turn to actively making amends? And in situations as relatively recent as these in the last few years (which is a lot, no matter how you cut it): here, here and here, when does it get old? Aren’t we tired of the protests, the marches and boycotts on police violence on the innocent? And a better question to bring that forward is, when the story remains the same, what do we tell our parents, our children, our neighbors and the rest of our peers to expect for the future?

One thing’s for certain-we CANNOT expect to continue to feel like in order to blur the proverbial ‘line’, we must react in ways that only bring MORE harm…just because we ‘feel like it’. Lovelle Milton, the perp, was wanted for assault with a deadly weapon. Come on, guy! Had he not been killed, not even the Blackest of the Black brigade could have saved his ass.  He shot and killed two men, presumably with family and other social connections who can’t come back to benefit their community in any fashion because…he was too selfish to just take the fall for some stuff he did on his own.

So, after that’s all said and done, I can’t call it. Who wins? No one. This is somewhat frustrating to me because in some ways, I miss the idealism seen in reality by Kane and others-when we KNEW we could count on calling 911 to have our backs, not shooting us in the back. Trusting our law enforcement implicitly and completely (or at least mostly). And at the same turn, I also miss when reason and accountability reigned supreme, when if and when one was in the wrong, they could be counted on to maybe pull some doggish move but to (eventually) pay for their actions, not others for them. Most of all, I’m longing for when our communities no longer speak to commending the destructive bullshit but to applauding the healing real.

-O

One day in particular, though, I didn’t go straight to my Barbies. I hopped on my bike and started to ride out around the neighborhood. Before long - as with most big-ol-rode-hard-bikes - my chain popped. Because I was so gangsta and was one of the leanest, meanest, and cleanest trick bike riders in the ‘hood, I kept riding on it anyway. Wouldn’t you know… something broke off my bike. So I sat, mad as sin, on the side of the road trying to figure out how I was going to tell my mom what happened. It wasn’t like she could afford another bike for me - looking back, I’m not sure she could afford the bike I DID get - so I was feeling pretty disappointed.

And up rolls this police car.

Out comes Officer Jim Buck (yes, I still remember his name.) Extra lanky white guy, brown mustache, and brown eyes. He comes over and asks me what happened, and I break down sobbing about my bike and how silly I had been to keep riding it when I knew I needed to stop. He takes one look at it, and sees that I lost a little screw and nut pair on my wheel. He tells me to stop sobbing, because he could help. He walks over to his trunk and pulls out this ginormous tool kit, and fixes my bike. I tell him I recognize him from D.A.R.E. and he busts out laughing and asks me if I remember anything he said to me at school.. and I tell him of course I do. By this time, my bike is all patched up, and I tell him “Shoot, now I’m never going to forget!” He gives me a hug, tells me to go have fun, and of course, that’s exactly what I do. Without breaking my damn bike ever again.

Now, I lived in a really shitty part of Cleveland at this time - Banbury Circle. We were known for being a little rough around the edges. We had the occasional fight (I’m being polite… it was more that occasional), the occasional shooting, and we were featured on Cops a few times, I believe. You’d think it was one of those places where the cops would be like “Eh… we’re gonna let them sort that shit out themselves.” But he literally stopped for a whole twenty minutes and fixed my bike and calmed down a sobbing kid who was scared as sin to tell her mom what happened. Clearly, almost 20 years later, I haven’t forgotten.

Now… that long story basically set me up to say this: Seeing that this happened in Oakland (Thanks to the other chick on this blog for sharing the link) made me cry. I know that not all cops are kind like Officer Buck, and I know that they get involved in some ridiculous and corrupt shit, but I do have a respect for the honest people who put their lives on the line for a greater purpose. And while all cops might not be among that group, I cannot discount the ones that are because of the few bad apples.

I’m all for protests and civil displays of disgust and outrage when it’s warranted. I’m all for alerting the media to an abuse of civil liberties. I’m all for a million and one other ways to show the world that one is displeased with law enforcement, or any other worthy cause. I just feel some kinda way about hearing about cops being killed in the line of duty. (That’s not to say that this is what happened with these three, but that is to say that I know that displeasure with law enforcement in your city can certainly escalate quicker than either side would like or want.) Maybe because I still wonder where Officer Buck is, or maybe because I question whether or not the murdered officers were anything like him and whether or not they were able to make a kid smile the way it worked out for me. It just saddens me.

I guess all I can really do at this point is offer my virtual condolences to the families of those officers, pray that they don’t have young children, and hope that the city and it’s law enforcement can move on from this.