I am a Black woman who is contemplating my life and my place in a society that is for lack of a better term, fucked up. Currently resides in Chicago where I ear hustle conversations on public transportation and watch the antics of humanity with fascination.
Today the world was shocked and saddened by the death of actress Betty White who was loved by all. She was an integral part of my childhood experience because I’m a total television junkie and I literally grew up watching her. Her career spanned over 70 years and she was the living definition of The Crone.
I watched her on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Mama’s Family, and my favorite comedy of all time, The Golden Girls. The episode when Rose and the crew went on a game show and competed against each other was a study in comic genius.
She was funny, talented, and so much more. When I learned of her passing, I broke down and cried like a baby. I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t cry on the last day of year because I had cried so many tears this year but I couldn’t help myself. So many people from my childhood have crossed over from relatives to celebrities that I loved and it’s been a bitter pill to swallow. No one told me that the worst aspect of aging is losing people because it forces you to think about your own mortality.
So rest easy Miss Betty. You gave joy to millions of people from one end of the world to the other and you will be missed. Knowing that you really didn’t blow up until you were a Crone gives me hope for the future. You were loved and revered Tee Tee Betty.
My name is Kathy and I’m an ex drunk. Up until October of 2020, I would drink at least four days a week. The app Drizly became a close friend and I was swigging tequila like water until I was diagnosed with epilepsy. Due to the medication I take daily, I can’t drink anymore. Well I could but I would be putting my life at risk and it’s not that serious. But during the past 14 months since the last time I’ve taken a drink, I had the time to self reflect and learned how dependent I was on alcohol.
I started drinking at the age of 15 and my first drink was some rot gut wine called Night Train and looking back, that shit was nasty as hell. But I liked the affects of alcohol. It made me lively and witty. Brave and bold. I was too naive to realize that I was all those things without liquor but life is a continuous learning experience.
Over the years, I drank many liquors but my favorite became tequila. My homey, my boo. Mixed with any type of juice, it was a toss up between Patron, Don Julio, or Hornitos and I drank tequila for six years running. After work and the weekends. Holidays. Especially last year when my brother died which is so ironic because he was an alcoholic. And I was on the road to alcoholism too until I was diagnosed with epilepsy. Or cursed depending on I how I feel.
My mind has been so clear since I’ve stopped drinking. So clear that I can see that I was a straight alcoholic. A highly functioning alcoholic but a drunk all the same. I’m just blessed that I didn’t have to go into rehab.
I can admit that I miss tequila. The taste, the feeling, the euphoria of being high and giggling but I love life more. And that’s my confession for the day. I used to be a drunken sot but not anymore.
Black folks (including Black women) don’t like women and girls. They really don’t. And for those who think this is a figment of my imagination and I’m lying, shut the fuck up. And listen to what I’m about to say.
When a Black woman or girl is murdered, she is blamed for being murdered and the killer is coddled and his murderous behavior is excused. Because Black women and girls are some loud mouthed, ignorant bitches who probably said something so foul that she deserved to die.
When a Black woman or girl is raped, she is blamed for “getting” herself raped. Because she was walking around half naked enticing these men and you know that the man couldn’t help himself. Even if she was clothed from head to toe, she brought it on herself because she should stayed her ass in the house. Because women don’t deserve direct sunlight and air. All she needs is darkness. And when a little Black girl is molested and sexually abused, all onus is placed upon the child and not the nasty, amoral, deviant child molester. Because little Black girls are whores too.
When a Black woman or girl is abused and beaten due to domestic violence, she brought it on herself because she talked too damn much and if she had been quiet, more ladylike, knew how to rest in her “femininity,” and was more submissive, that man wouldn’t have had to lay hands on her. If that little fast ass girl hadn’t got slick at the mouth, her mother’s boyfriend wouldn’t have had to beat her with an extension cord until she bled. Just be quiet and stay in your place as a female.
Whenever a Black male celebrity does something heinous to a Black woman or girl, his behavior is justified because Black women and girls ain’t shit. Historically, they have been in cahoots with the Man to bring Black men down, especially Black men with money. Black women and girls are nothing but a bunch of gold diggers who are looking to come up off a hard working brother.
I’m writing this with much sarcasm but this is the mentality of a large portion of Black folks, if not the majority. The men of the Black community are looked at as gods and the women are looked at as serfs and serfs don’t deserve kindness and respect. They are considered commodities to be used and need to be beaten and abused on a regular basis because they ain’t nothing but a bunch of whores. And the Bible said so. Due to this sick, pathetic mentality, I’m starting to suspect that the Black community is cursed. You can’t treat the womb, the creators of life like garbage and expect good tidings. And until this mentality is disabused and stomped into dust, the Black community will continue to keep getting this cosmic, karmic ass whupping they been receiving as retribution for treating the creators of life like a nonentity.
I’ve loved the musical artist and cultural icon Madonna from the moment she burst upon the scene. It was in 1983 and her song “Holiday” was being played on radio stations everywhere. On January 14, she made her national debut on American Bandstand, a staple in households across the country and she was so cool to me. I had never seen a female singer who dressed like her. And she was confident. Bold. With balls of brass.
And after that, she was everywhere. Literally. I followed her career which was easy because she was in the magazines and tabloids on a weekly basis. When she married the actor Sean Penn, the press went crazy and followed them everywhere. And she didn’t mind because she learned how to manipulate the press in such a slick manner, that they were too stupid to realize it.
During those days, all she had to do was wipe her ass and the media would bug out and accuse her of breaking down the morality of the entire world. The Catholic Church couldn’t stand her, especially in 1989 after she released the video for her song “Like a Prayer” and had the Black actor Leon portraying the role of Black Jesus. They lost their entire minds and showed their asses. Their constant bewailing led to Pepsi canceling an endorsement deal that they had with her but Madonna being Madonna didn’t lose a beat. She kept on rising.
She made several movies, won many awards and is currently the best selling female music artist of all time with 300 million albums sold all over the world. She’s also worth $850 million dollars but those statistics isn’t why Madonna is my boo.
It’s because she’s always lived her life according to her standards and needs. She’s never given a fuck about the opinions of others and I admire women who live their lives on their own terms. It’s hard being a woman in a patriarchal society in which the behavior of women is heavily regulated and most women fall in line for fear of offending the status quo. Not she. She thumbed her nose at these antiquated ideas about womanhood and look her now. Damn near a billionaire. She’s my kind of broad.
This month two exes who are currently married called me and asked me why I am still single. One was even bold enough to say that I’m not getting any younger so I need to be concentrating on finding a fella. If men don’t have anything else, they have more balls than a brass ass monkey.
One of the things that I have noticed about men is that they are eternally befuddled with the idea that a woman can be single and actually happy. I guess they are so used to the female friends in their lives constantly bewailing about being single that they believe that all single women are a miserable lot and then they come across me and are shellshocked. But let me continue my tale.
Now why these happily married men (so they claim) are worrying about me and my relationship status I will never know but it’s three specific reasons why I am a currently single woman. The reasons are relatively simple but at the same time, complex. Let me explain.
Number one: it’s easy to be single in 2021 considering the state of gender relations in this culture. The men I’ve come across are so dang angry and filled with bile and unrealistic expectations that’s it’s a turnoff. I’ve seen men with missing, yellowing teeth who think they are entitled to the most beautiful woman in the world. And in addition to being highly unattractive, they have the audacity to have rigid gender standards for women.
In their world, women are only good for fucking, cleaning, cooking, and more fucking. I just want to know how do these men have the nerve to be both homely and entitled at the same time. And on top of everything, they expect women to jump through hoops of fire for their affections and I’m not doing shit. We live in a patriarchy and I thought men were the hunters.
What woman in her right mind wants to be bothered with men who have that mentality? Not I. Unlike many women, I’m not parched for male companionship or validation. My bed will never be that lonely.
Number two: I have a disability and any man that I decide to be involved with needs to be able to deal with that fact. I’m an epileptic and as long as I take my medication, I’m seizure free and that’s a beautiful thing. But suppose I do have a seizure? How is he going to react? Is he going to jump into action or crumble? I need a strong man, not a wimp. You can die from a seizure and I need a fella who can help me, not be a hinderance to my health.
And lastly, at this stage in my life, I don’t want to be bothered. I’m not trying to male bash but many men are feminine energy vampires and they will drain a foolish woman dry. And I’m not foolish. So many women are walking around looking like life is whupping their asses and it’s because of the men in their lives. I look pretty good for an old broad, especially when I put on my concealer and eyebrow pencil. And I’m going to continue to stay looking fly and living stress free. But one day, I hope to find a nice fella. A man who makes my soul sing and my body tingle. A man filled with a passion to match my own passion for life. And who read books on a regular basis. Until then however, I’m single and chilling. Happily content.
I would like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas to everyone but in particular to everyone who has suffered the loss of loved one this year or previously. The holidays are rough for those who are grieving and it’s hard pretending to be happy when you’re not.
While on Facebook, my memory feed popped up and I saw a picture of my brother Larry who died last year. The picture was taken seven years ago and he looked so happy and I was so happy to see him. We ate good, drank good, and had a marvelous time commiserating with my children. And now he’s gone and all I have left is memories and it’s so hard for me to believe that he’s gone.
There are many like me who are experiencing this sense of loss, loneliness and confusion during what is supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year. So get some rest and chill out my fellow grievers. Don’t let anyone work your nerves. Brighter days are coming.
Before I joined the social media, I used to read articles from the website Salon.com and debate folks in the now defunct comment section. At one time, Salon had a website named Open Salon for the readers who were writers and yours truly won Editors Choice a few times. But I’m digressing as usual so let me tell this tale.
What fascinated me the most about Salon is that whenever articles from prominent feminists were posted, the men would be foaming at the mouth like rabid dogs in the comments, writing barely coherent paragraphs filled with rage against them stanking ass feminists and spewing how the world was a much better place when women knew their “place.”
And the vast majority of these men were white men. It wasn’t a lot of Black folks in the comments during that time period and I was just amazed at the anger from these men who are on the top of the economic and social totem pole in America. Even with all this power, they felt threatened by women having autonomy over their lives.
I’m really not surprised. Feminism which can defined as women being able to have the same rights as men drives normally sane people batshit crazy. Because you know women are supposed to stay in their place, cooking and cleaning, having babies, and shutting the fuck up. Women are supposed to walk in the shadows, never basking in the glory of their own sun. How dare these bitches think they have the right to control their own destinies and bodies without male interference? Shame on them!
But I hadn’t seen nothing yet until I joined Facebook and saw the venom that so many Black men have for the ideology called feminism. These men blame feminism for kicking Black men out of their homes by giving poor Black women access to welfare. For allowing Black women to become educated and have careers. For breathing. For weave. Makeup. Everything that’s wrong in the Black community has been placed at the feet of feminism. And it’s the most pathetic shit in the world.
Feminism makes the world a better place because it gives women options. The option of not having children or ten children. The option of being a career woman or a stay at home mother. And the option of doing absolutely nothing at all. Freedom to live without a ton of societal rules, expectations, and regulations just because you were born female. It’s nothing wrong with women being free to control their lives. Nothing at all.
I’m sure that any folks who come across my blog and read my work is probably thinking “Man she morbid as hell!” And I don’t mean to be but so much has happened to me in such a short time. Loss of loved ones, health issues, all kinds of shit. But someway, somehow, I manage to persevere. The way I go about it might be puzzling to some but it makes perfect sense to me.
American culture shames people for having emotions outside of being constantly happy all the time. Even through times of immense grief, people are expected to put on their best faces and pretend that they aren’t hurting in order to not offend anyone. How selfish and inane is that mentality. How cruel and heartless. And utterly American.
So as I dwell in the valley of the emotion called grief, I’ve decided that the best way to deal with it is facing it squarely in the face. I look at pictures of my lost ones, laughing on some days and on other days crying. But I have to see their faces so I refuse to stop.
I’ve started a collection of pictures on my Facebook page called “Blackness Personified” and it’s filled with pictures of Black people from various decades. Some of the pictures are of celebrities and some of the pictures of regular Black folks. I chose those pictures because they reminded me of simpler times, when I was a little girl and my family was still alive.
I reread books that I read when I was a much younger woman and marvel at how much I’ve grown as an individual. Certain passages in those books I didn’t get in 1989 I understand totally now in 2021.
I talk to my ancestors too. I’m not a religious person. I’m downright heathenish for the most part but I do believe in the power of the ancestors and that they watch over us from wherever they happen to be.
I talk about them constantly because I have to keep them alive, if not in body but spirit because if I don’t, they will truly be dead and I cannot face that. It’s enough that I will never be able to see them again in the physical but to pretend that they never existed just because they died is beyond cruel: it’s sick.
So I will continue to tell their stories. Like the time my mother and I beat up my older brother because he was drunk and ignorant and we had to let him know the true power of Black Girl Magic by whupping on that ass. My memories is all I have left of them and I will continue to tell their stories. And when I become an ancestor, my children will do the same for me. Or I will haunt their asses.
The first man who broke my heart was a black cat named Boogie Woogie. He became my cat in February of 1980 and he was my first pet.
Back in the 70s and 80s, the schools in Chicago stayed on strike and it was during one of these strikes that Boogie came into my life. It was a snowy day and I was outside playing in the snow with my friends Rosalyn and Derrick when we saw a man walking down the block.
He was a tall, dark skinned Black man wearing a black wool trench coat, a black fedora hat on his head, and a black cat wrapped around his neck (I swear I’m not lying). Derrick asked the gentleman,”Can this little girl have that cat? She loves cats and need one because her house has a mouse.” And we did. The fucker had chewed up one of my dolls.
The gentleman took the cat off his neck and gave him to me and strode off down the street, never to be seen again. I took my new cat into the house and fed him some lunch meat and when my mother came home from work, she was greeted by the sight of me laying down on the couch with my new pet that I christened Boogie Woogie. Can’t remember why I gave him that name but he was Boogie Woogie for then on.
Boogie was in my life for just two short years but during those two years, he became my little buddy. He would walk me to school and would be waiting on the porch when I got home. He slept with me nightly under the covers and would sit next to me when I read to him.
My mama wasn’t a cat person but she tolerated him and would toss him the innards of the whole chicken she cooked every Sunday. I can see them right now with him waiting patiently to get his weekly treat and her rolling her eyes but still feeding him.
He was an outdoor male cat who wasn’t neutered so sometimes he wandered off for weeks but he always came back to me. But one day he didn’t and I never saw Boogie again. For years, I dreamed about him and in those dreams, he came home and jumped into my bed purring like crazy because he missed me too.
During the years since Boogie left, I’ve had many cats and currently have one, a bad ass cat named Diddy but Boogie will always have a special corner in my heart. My first pet. My buddy. And if there’s a place where souls go after they cross over, I’ll see my Boogie Woogie again when it’s my time.
Those two years he was in my life were very special and he made a little Black girl happy although his absence brought pain. I will cherish those two years forever and will always remember a black cat named Boogie Woogie.
I was introduced to Greek mythology in the sixth grade and I loved it. Full of drama and adventures, it was filled with stories of heroes rescuing damsels in distress and evil critters with horns who spit out fire. But looking back, the Greek gods were a trifling bunch who would be right at home on today’s reality shows. It was 12 major Greek gods and bunch of minor ones but I’m only going to discuss the most dysfunctional Greek god in mythological history. In my fabulous opinion
Zeus was the supreme ruler of Mount Olympus and king of the gods who was a horn dog of the highest order. He was the original baby daddy who had children scattered around the world and made the lives of mortal women hell on earth because they were unfortunate enough to catch his eye. Like poor Io.
All she did was exist, he saw her and he fell in lust. When he was caught chilling with her by his pathologically jealous wife Hera, he turned her into a cow. But Hera wasn’t no fool and knew her husband well so she asked for the cow because it was so pretty and his goofy ass gave Io to her. She would then put a creature named Argus in charge of watching Io because Argus had a hundred eyes and Io couldn’t escape. Eventually the god Hermes would come to her rescue by killing Argus allowing her to run away but even then, Hera stayed on her ass. She sent a gad fly to sting her constantly and it drove her mad. She jumped over a part of the sea in order to get away from the fly that would be called Ionian after her.
Eventually she made it to Egypt and Zeus would turn her back into a human. She would have a son with him named Epaphus and one of her descendants would be Hercules. But damn she went through hell because of Zeus’s horny ass.
Several women went through the bowels of hell because of Zeus and that is why he’s the most trifling, sneaky underhanded Greek god of all time. His entire existence was centered around his cock and as long as he was getting satisfied, he didn’t give a fuck about anything else. Not his wife whom he cheated on constantly. Not the women’s lives he destroyed because of his cock. Not the children created by his unions who were often left motherless because of his shenanigans. He cared about no one but himself and as I’ve gotten older and have reread his stories with an adult eye, I believe the writers of Greek mythology were giving game to women. Telling them how some men got down and to avoid them at all costs. Stay away from those Zeus fellas ladies because all they bring is cock and drama.