New Year's Resolutions
The new year is fast approaching and I guess this is the most fitting time for me to determine what some of my New Year's resolutions are going to be. Here are just 10 of the ones that I have been working on. A few I gleaned from some articles in
Essence magazine.
- I will follow my gut instinct. I think 2004 was filled with a lot of red flags that I just ignored because my "head" told me to.
- I will cultivate a more active social calendar. I missed way too many outings cause I was more comfortable under my blankets at home.
- I will learn how to say "NO" and mean it!
- I will get into shape. I really do mean it this time.
- I will cut my loses and get out of failing relationships, be it friendships or others.
- I will push for the things I want, but with out the black-diva-attitude that my friends have come to know and love.
- I will be more supportive of my bestfriend and his decisions, even when I want to strangle him.
- I will not permit strange men to approach me with meaningless conversations filled with "ma" and "sexy" and "nubian princess". Goddamn it someone is going to learn my name!
- I will continue to grow my afro!!! Despite the stares.
- I will continue to write without interruptions.
FREEDOM
Remember the scene in Roots when Kunta Kinte was being whipped in an effort by his owners to change his name to "Toby", that is what working here has been like for the past 12 months. Unlike Kinte's physical punishment, I endured a kind of emotional and psycological whipping daily. What makes a group of women so utterly evil and self-indulgent? What makes them so spiteful and small, slimy in the why that they slither from place to place to weave tall tales of mischief to others. I know what Eve must have felt like after being tossed out of the Garden of Eden. Like "my God, that serpent left what he was doing, slithered his ass to a tree to bother me and mess with mine. I was this close and he found time in his schedule to come talk to me. Why me?" I am in no way comparing my workplace to the Garden of Eden, if there were a complete opposite to utopia, this would be it. Even if I were condemned to hell (not that I believe in hell) but even that I could stomach at least there would be a reason for the endless suffering. At least I could say I was being punished for this transgression or that one.
But this blog is a happy one. I was finally able to land another job. I interviewed and in comparison with 200 other applicants I was the victor, but I have seen and heard this before, so, begging your pardon if I am not jumping up and down over this new one, but the excitement is still there.
I have gotten the word from around (my informants) that my supervisor had nothing but negative things to say about me when I handed in my letter of resignation. I was a little taken aback by it all but not surprised. There is nothing new under the sun right? I don't think that had she said those things to my face that it would have made much of a difference, but I guess since it was all said in the "behind-my-back-fashion" it had double meanings - their trust and honesty aren't worth a dime!
I have found that in my 12 month stint at this agency I have regressed into an almost primitive woman. My grammar and language have slipped and I caught myself grunting the other day...the native language of the co-workers in sector B.
"Me wah monthly report in hand by high sun on 1-2-3 day of full moon."
I felt (along with a few other evolved co-workers) that all of my hardwork and natural progression in education was all in vain. So like I said before I started job hunting. There were countless reasons from the very beginning why I should have looked for and gotten another job, but I felt that i could make this job work for me. It was not worth it.
I found me another job and so rang the bell of FREEDOM. I handed in my letter of resignation and left as quietly as I had come. No celebration or applause. Just nothing. You don't know that you had something good until it is gone, right? I had resigners-regret and quickly got over it.
In closing, to all the ones that cared - Thank you. To the rest of you - Peace!
Public Transportation Transgressions
Let's pretend for a moment (yes, I am asking you to suspend belief) that all of the people on the bus riding to and from work on this Thursday morning are there by choice. I mean, they could have walked or taken a cab and many of them just prefer the excitement of being crammed into a small space with 15-20 complete strangers breathing, coughing, sneezing and yawning in an enclosed space. I have had countless mornings and late nights on the bus holding my breath for short intervals while the medical contradiction sitting next to me hacks his lungs up, obviously chewing and swallowing the mucus that has been deposited in his mouth. I cring within my woolen shell and pray for this person to get off at the next stop. I promise myself that I would buy myself a car at the first chance that I get. There are the old women with darken growths protruding from their face, chin, necks or ears. The women with the facial hair are the ones that get me the most. I am always stunned at the fact that they appear in public like this. Like someone did not remind them to run a razor over that mess before they left their houses that morning (I know that it is no no for women to use razors on their faces but at least, take a risk and maintain a silky smooth appearance).
I think the worst part of my commute is watching (blatantly staring cause that is all that you can do) the obese people, you know the people that claim genes or depression for their near fatal existance. "Watching" these people negotiate the aisles of the bus as they push and brush past all those that are standing and sitting to get to a vacant seat wide enough to support their girth. I can't imagine what it is like to be so big that you have to be careful what seats to select on the bus, or to see people vacate seats so that you can be accomodated on the bus.
I was almost crushed once by this gentleman that was niether old or senile, as he backed into his seat. I guess if you are a really big person to approach the seat without advance preparation for the landing is mandatory. He climbed onto the bus and here I am trying to figure out if he is thinking about sitting next to me, which in his case would not be wise because there is just not that much space next to me. He was one of those people that does not look at the intended seat directly but likes to sneak up on it. So he approaches then puts his back to me as though he is going to walk away. Then begins to step back. The woman sitting on the other side of him, bolted out of her seat to make way for his arrival, but still it was not enough. I was not even sure what to do, I am caught under his descending ass and trapped. I had to throw myself backwark and slid out from under him...I was clipped by his right ass cheek as I just barely edged out. Two seats away other passengers look on amazed at my brush with death and I had to give him the you-dumb-piece-of-s**t look as I retreated to another seat.
There are some people that treat public transportation like their own living rooms. Those are the people you see on the train occupying four seats, bags, blankets, pillows, labtop and cellphone plugged in and going full force. I especially like the people who think clarity comes with volume. The people the say "HI BABY IT'S ME I'LL BE HOME SOON" three times louder than they should like the background sound is so overbearing that the person on the other end can't hear them.
This doe
s not mean that I have not been guilty of committing PTT (Public Transportation Transgressions) but I believe that mine are less offensive than those of others.
Home and Garden
So I live with a couple friends and an acquaintance. And as recent college graduates or soon-to-be graduates we all cohabitate out of necessity and small wallets. It was one of those rush decisions that in the light of the alternative looked like the best choice. Right now I would much rather take a razorblade to my eyelids.
Without even mentioning the fact that the acquaintance, the boyfriend of the friend that I live with is by far the laziest of all black men I have ever come across in all my days, the situation is quickly evolving into one of those epic dramas that I will still be explaining years from now to my deathrow prisonmates how I did not mean to kill him, my gluck just happened to go off in his direction.
I promised myself as long as we all lived under the same roof I would never find myself raising my voice or disrespecting anyone. But, I am at my end. There have been countless times when I just had to retire to my room to keep from attacking "lil Beatlejuice", although thoughts of murder have crossed my mind, my most frequent daydream of solace takes the centers around me bawling him out in the driveway.
I live with people, with the exception of my girlfriend, that just don't know how to use the damn bathroom. Nevermind we live in an age of indoor plumbing and hot water in the faucet, after they used the bathroom (by the way we have two and this is true for both) there is always little brown and black reminders of their frequent visits. Like a gunshot victim, our toilets are left "wasted", no pun intended. But toilet humor is not what the blog is about.
On night while driving back from an outing (that is a whole other entry) lil Beatlejuice decided that he would deliver a sermon from his pulpit in the driver's seat. As he sat forward clutching the steering wheel peering over his knuckles (they should really invest in cushions) he launched into this monologue.
"There are so many jokers out there that think that they are real men, I'll tell you what a real man is..."
Before I get into that I must note for those of you that don't know me, the only real man that I have ever come across in my whole life was my father, I am still waiting for a close second, now back to the story.
"A real man should be able to provide for his family, aint that right baby?" Every once in a while he would break his long enough to reference his girlfriend in the passenger seat that gave the affirmative nod and "uh huh" to her
man sitting beside her. "Even if he can't work, he should still be able to go out there and hustle to put food on the table", all I could think from my corner in the back seat (I was already sulking from the worst night of my life) was "What food? Whose table? When does he hustle? If this dusty-ass-no-job-having-30-something-year-old-wannabe-gangsta-still-calling-on-his-mama-lazy-good-for-nothing-ain't-no-style-having-tickle-dick-motherf***er woooooooowwww!" I closed my eyes in the dark in the backseat and called on Jesus to take me then, and his girlfriend, "Yeah baby!" I would have slapped them both if it weren't for the fact that I did not have a ride home and it was 3 o'clock in the morning. Even I can prioritize.
But his monologue of biblical proportion and self proclaimation was not the end of his multitude of sins. I have had countless, and to my credit more valid reasons for wanting to bitch slap him. But for now I just lay in wait of "lil Beatlejuice" and his fan club in the master bedroom.
Straight off the Sugar Boat
I need to start exercisng more often, you know like, hardcore workouts are a "heart pumping pace". I don't understand these commercials that advertise products like the BowFlex - anyone remember the ThighMaster?
Anyway, you have these incredibly lean and supertoned athletic-looking models stretching and pressing in these commericals. They expect the viewing and slightly overweight public to "suspend belief" just enough to buy into "just 10 minutes a day for 8 weeks will have you looking like this". The best part is the before and after pictures. The person is in the same clothing just a few sizes smaller, or on the beach in a swim suit running. Like they were really able to achieve that they were now posing in. I am certain that the ThighMaster can be equated to their whiter, brighter smiles, their simply orgasmic hair and well-moisturized skin.
Speaking of which, I was tuning in to USA's rerun of Law & Order, a few nights ago just to have something to watch with a girlfriend of mine. It was an episode about stolen diamonds and poor families that are forced to mine them for the stake of profiting rich Americans. In the middle of our daily gossip and jokes we tuned into the show just in time to see the lead detectives questioning some poor immigrant that got caught up in all the action. By far one of the worst accent immitations (worst that Tye Diggs in "How Stella Got her Grove Back" and the questionable Haitian-Jamacians in "Bad Boys II") that I have ever seen. I don't know why when these shows turn to depictions of Africans, West Indian (Haitians, Jamacians, etc) or other black immigrants the characters take on this extra greasy appearance. Like they just got off the sugar boat.
We both compared this character to the black detective that was also in the room with him, assuming that it is a New York City police department building and there is air conditioning in the interogation room, why would this man be so shiny, he was glistening. He brow was furrowed (as most black men are when in an interogation room) and his gaze a steely one, as he "eyeballed" his captors -
cause you know there was the epic chase through the streets and back alleys of NY before he was tackled and handcuffed by the heroic police officer.
This is the significant difference between shows like Law & Order and COPS. The chase scenes in COPS almost never end with one police officer by himself, having ran for what seemed like 40 city blocks and outlasted his target. I mean real cops know that if the perpetrator wants to get away he will run a mile barefoot and over gravel to get away.
So here is this poor immigrant, obviously illegal and INS has
still not been called to the scene and he is in the interogation room answering questions with an extra thick accent, enounciating every syllable and stressing every "t" and "d" in the english language. The same actor have seen play countless other immigrants from varying countries of origin and here we are asked to believe that he is South African - a fact that we can only know when we are told because most of us are still trying to pinpoint the root of his horrendous accent.
In court he is placed on the stand and asked more questions, this time the question of why he has done the atrocities he is charged with are revealied. In a tearful narration this poor immigrant relates that he has travelled miles from his homeland to murder the representives of a corrupt, capitalistic system that had starved and slaughtered his family.
One has to ask, if he could pay for a flight into the US, why was his family still working in the diamond mines in Africa? When did he have time to find a sponsor? Did he travel economy class? We know he did not take a boat. And when coming in through customs didn't one of our post-9/11 newly trained and well-paid TSA agents notice that the man did not have a passport?
But then again we have illegal immigrants cross our borders every years and can go years without being detected. It was all very interesting to watch being a black immigrant myself. Talk about Homeland Security.
As we sat and watched we had to agree that the only Hollywood production that nailed all of its accents was "A Shark's Tale", that and the fact that they paid real Jamacians to play Jamacian roles - the West Indian American nation thanks you.
Dedicated to the #13 Bus
I think a little reverance is required when one is asked to recall the #13 bus line that runs through Newark, NJ to Irvington, NJ. Not to be confused with any other line owned by the NJ Transit, but demanding special attention by this blogger.
I have ridden the #13 bus for the past two years, to and from downtown Newark and each time I have gotten off at the end of my route I am thankful that I have survived and boggled that I contemplate getting on again.
#13
More than just a regular bus line, the #13 carries its own character. I must admit that the people to board it every day are very much the reason for its character. Other than the screaming and disorderly kids that insist on standing near the doorway to collect reams of yellow reciepts before following their parents to their seats, mothers who stand behind their child while they indulge in the yellow ribbon fantasy claiming that little Rakim has to have it or he will "fall out" - Heaven forbid!
The teenage girls, that always look like grown adults with the Timberlands, puffy South Pole jackets and Baby Phat jeans, tapping at weave encrusted scalps laiden with gel, rap with acrylic tipped fingers on prepaid cellphones while "cracking" on wads of gum behind greased lips. These girls, only a few years behind me in age, roll eyes at strangers in their paths and mutter profanity under their breath as their board with girlfriends equally as provoked.
The young black brothers are the same, dreadlocks twisted and clipped in place, dark jeans hanging from the hips and white tee-shirts under black bomber jackets. I am always amazed that even in the coldest weather a man can wear three tee-shirts and an open jacket with cotton gloves and knitted cap and be fine.
There are mothers, children, teenagers and the elderly on the bus, the token white resident of the urban ghetto that is not afraid to brave public transportation on a sour Monday morning. The bus driver, that has donned blue latex gloves and refuses to make eye contact with the passengers that board his bus and waves off the junkies and crackheads that get on long enough to tell their life's story only to hobble off at the next stop.
A Real Job Please!
I am back on the prowl for a new job. Every two or three weeks I get frustrated or upset and the desire to find a new place to find gainful employment. This week I am back scouring the classified section of the newspaper, calling and inquiring at local agencys and asking for the big bucks. Mind you, I am nothing but a underpaid sweat shop worker, but now with a college degree, I can say that I am an educated underpaid sweat shop worker.
I can say that I am nervous. The idea that I have to send copies of my resume out, sound intelligent on the phone and still don't get call backs is really disheartening.
But I am back nonetheless.
Black Out
My girlfriend and I had a conversation the other day about "Blacking Out" on the people that we know and a forced to endure on a daily basis.
We were discussing the merits of waiting until the opportune moment before "unleasing" on someone. The possibility that a misplaced piece of lint could set off an amazing torrent of profanity and name calling on long time friendsis enough to make this discussion Blogger worthy.
She suggested indulging in the practice often, just to get stuff of my chest. Although I see the long term benefits of establishing dominance and volitility early in a relationship, it is a little harder to swallow the jagged little pill of abused relationships and spoilt friendships caused by the misuse of my "Blacking Out" powers.
We projected that our personas were much like that of superheroes or villians, that with extreme emotion and the right circumstances our undefinable natural and awe-inspiring power of "Blacking Out" can be tapped and released on our foes.
It was interesting to note that although we had both had plenty of reason to "black out" on a few people in the pass couple months, there were many moments when I just could not imagine doing so. I think "blacking out" should be reserved for the most extreme of circumstances. Like if you had dorm-mates that just did not know how to clean up after themselves. The type of people that are just not able to to follow instructions even when they are written down. I would reserve it for the people that you almost get a reflex when you are with them.
Although I completely understand the moments when you want to black out on someone that is worthy but the situation does not call for it. For instance the people that move like molasses in the winter time on the sidewalks in New York, or any other big city for that matter. It is just ridiculous to thinkn that they are not there for any other purpose that to move slowly in front of me. The people that stare up at buildings while waiting for the light to change on the sidewalk. The annoying folks that are on their cellphones but stop you to get directions and proceed to hold to conversations at the same time - "Listen buddy! Are you talking to me or him???"
Or how about the people that get in line at the supermarket with a few items and then leave the line (and the girlfriend) to go back into the aisle to collect an armful of stuff of the shelves and return to register - like they did not have a century and a half to get all this stuff done while they were actually shopping. A BLACK OUT moment if I have ever seen one.
It is strange how we can sit and talk about the process of simply "going off" and showing our "true colors" to complete strangers for their lack of courtesy and to acquaintainces for the stupid things that they do. But as the term implies, experiencing, whether it is on the receiving end or the giving, a black out is not something you can plan.
Consider the term in its real world usage. When a city or town experiences a black out it is caught off guard. It is an unexplained glitch to daily life that may lead to injure if it takes people unawares. It is quick and shocking to the system. It leaves you disoriented and dazed for a moment and when the power finally returns you are left reeling. Even the idea of blacking out (fainting or passing out) is almost the same thing.
In the emotional sense, "blacking out", often times equated with the black female, is much like that. But at the root of it all there is always a trigger that has set everything in motion.
I need everyone to contemplate this theory, the next time I black out on someone.
Man Hunt
I consider myself a relatively normal woman. And I should hope that all the people that know and love me think the same of me too. Being the normal woman (if there is such a thing) that I have just professed to be, I went on a date last night.
He is a 37 year old divorcee.
I am 23 years old. So I agree to go out on a date and the plan is to go to the city and see a movie. Cool, right? I am an adult I can agree to accompany a man to the movie theater and watch a movie for an 1 hour and 30 minutes. I figure what do I have to lose it is not like I have a hundred men banging down my door trying to whisk me away to a romantic dinner and a movie everyday, or every month, maybe I will get an offer once a year - usually it is the drunk on the corner with the brown paper bag, and gray teeth that shouts "Nubian Queen" as I get off the bus, of course he leers after he says that - glaring at my breasts and swaying against the wall of the apartment building. But I digress.
I am decided that I needed a social life. How can I really have one unless I get out there and meet people, so I did. I went out there and met Dane, now this is a guy that has a job and is really a nice person, I am basing this on
one telephone conversation and
one date (scary aint it) but he is 37 years old. Don't get me wrong there is nothing wrong with dating an older man, but what I expected and what I got was two different things.
From our initial meeting we were talking and laughing, which in translation mean that I was searching desperately for a reason why I should not run like hell from the train station.
Let's examine first the fact that he is 37. Do that math with me now:
If I were 3 years younger and
He were 3 years older
Then there would be an even 20 year difference in our ages.
All I could think was
"I am dating my father!"
He was really nice don't get me wrong but being that he has been around the block a few times that he probably owns a concrete slabs on the pavement and here I am having never even approached the block as yet...I don't think I would know the "block" if I saw it, I would probably get lost if I were left there alone.
Anyway, by the time we entered the train we were officially on our date and making small talk. I was really surprised at how much we hit it off but there was that nagging thought in the back of my head like this dude is 37....37 - 14 years from now I will be his age. I can have children in that time and be preping them for the HSPA by that age. I was in awe...not that I have not been around older people or men but it was just the thought that I was considering seeing a man (romantically) that was that old. I could not wrap my mind around it. It was like seeing your reflection in the glass display case in the museum's prehistoric sections. You catch a glimpse of your awed expression as you peer up at the relic. I caught a glimpse of myself doing that a few times.
I could not believe that he was real you know and considering me. Where were the women in his age group? Why was I being asked to squeeze this fruit that had been sitting on the shelf for 37 years. How many other people had squeezed his fruit? And put it back? I know I am missing something.
We walked around the city for a while (yes, I continued on the date) and talked and ate from street vendors and browsed...and talked. I was really impressed by how much we had in common. Or all the stuff I had agreed with him on.
We decided that we would see a movie and being the liberal and feminist that I am, I opened the door for myself and paid for both of us to see the newest installment of Blade (oh my God could Wesley Snipes be more unattractive, I think the word I am grasping for is unfortunate - his body on the other hand...ooooohhhh!).
We just barely got through the previews and he is holding my hand. I mean we had not held hands for the entire time we were outside or in public but once the lights dim his finds my hand and holds it. Please consider my past. The last time a man, in the primary stages of a relationship, held my hand was four weeks into our acquaintance. Here I don't even know this guys last name and he is holding my hand, kissing and sucking on the back of my hand and kissing on me in a dark theater on 42nd Street in Manhattan. "You seem nervous", he says. I had been holding myself so still my back began to ache. I was like "you damned right I am nervous, any sudden moves from me and you will inhale my upper arm." I was too through...it is not that I mind public displays of affections but from people that desire it from. I kept telling myself that if I focused really hard on the screen he will get the picture that my $21 was not going to go to waste on smooching on my "dad".
I don't know which was worst, the walk back through city with him holding my hand and the stares that I kept getting - you know the ones - the "what-is-she-doing-with-a-man-twice-her-age" looks or the awkward moment at the end of the date when I told him that I had his number and I had a good time "really" but would kiss him in public.
I probably imagined the whole thing but damn!
By the time the night ended I just wanted to sit in my room and rock back and forth mindlessly fathoming the eerieness of the situation. He was a nice guy. But I am 23 years old and maybe the remedy for the emptiness is "danger" or "excitement" or "intrigue". I am not asking for Prince Charming - he existing only in Fairy Tales, I am not asking for a man on parole either...just someone that has attitude and charisma and some "STYLE". Where are the men with style gone? The ones that are not following the Sleepless-in-Seatle-recipe for romance. The men that lead real lives minus the DRAMA and the women that bring drama - including but not limited to their MAMAs.
Calling all men with style!
I told him in the end..."we will review your application and get back to you soon!"...I have not called him back yet.
Musically Challenged
I spent the better part of today listening and watching music videos online. I can't say that I was a hardcore (if that is possible) fan of R&B and Hip Hop but what I saw and heard today was enough to make that a definite no!!!
Do you realize how much of what is produced, published and aired sounds like the same thing over and over? With the exception of artists like Jill Scott (whose music seems to be a direct reflection of her) I can't find anyone out there that had made and developed their own sound.
Take for example the American Idol craze that all of America dialing up a storm on their mobile phone. Fantasia won...great but I previewing her album today and I did not get the point of all that fussy. She sound a whole lot better when she was singing other people's music (no offense to her fans, I heard the woman blow and she was amazing in comparison to the other contestants) but let's be honest - is she any different from what is already out there?
I am just not impressed. All I have seen so far just convinces me that we have evolved into a new era...we keep recycling the same thing. Am I supposed to believe that if Kanye West or Snoop Dogg makes a cameo appearance in your music video or on your album and says "YEAH" three or four times you are the new "hotness". I am tired of see these "celebrities" sitting in a dark corner during the jump shots of music videos nodding to the music, bling bling and skanks in tote, that the upcoming artist have got it made. I was enduring one today and I saw Kanye West pull of his hoodie and say "Kanye West is in this one" or something to that effect (don't quote me directly) and throughout the video he says a few lines, while the lead singer - a young black woman in her mid-twenties - thirties wiggled and jiggled her way down the sidewalk in hot pants. I was floored. I mean, was Kanye's appearance coupled with her red weave, halter top and hotpants supposed to distract us from the obvious lack of talent. Has the music industry, this "industry" that so many have crooned about in basement freestyles and demo tapes, reduced itself to cameos and hotpants.
What is with the female artists that must appear in their videos - breast, thigh and leg on display, rotissarie chicken for oogling fans? I was really embarassed to see artists (those that actually have talent) go from tasteful costume selections to simply tasteless. I saw one artist cover herself in what appeared to be oil and roll around on a revolving platform, while lipsyncing her lyrics. I figured she had to concentrated on not falling off the platform - I immediately referenced that scene in Flashdance where she empties water on herself while performing on stage. But that was a movie, the character was dancing for money and the joint was seedy...I guess there must be no difference.
I am at a lost. I can't keep replaying the oldies and as I continue my quest for "good music" I can't shake the feeling that we have done all that we can, Hip-Hop-Honeys and Rap-Thugs and R&B-Lovers have come to the end of their "creative" ropes. When, as a single black female born in the eighties, I am constantly suprised when the remix of an album debuts at the top of the charts and the orignal has not been heard. Can someone please direct me to the orignal version of Usher's "Yeah (the remix)"?
Maybe I am behind the times, maybe the Hip-Hop, R&B and Rap is going places and the evolution has yet to manifest itself to me and the group of people that I hang out with. But if anyone out there finds something or someone interesting - hit me up...
