The Potty Mouth Granny

  • The South Shore Country Club: A Palace, A Fall, A Resurrection

    Before I knew anything about its history—before I understood architecture, class, or the way this city moves—I knew that place as something else entirely. Me and my friends used to go there when we were teenagers to go swimming. And baby… that place was filthy. Not “a little run down.” Not “needs some work.” No.…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • Are Women the Reason Marriage Is Dying?

    Every few months, like clockwork, somebody somewhere declares that women have “ruined” marriage. We’re too independent. Too educated. Too loud. Too unwilling to “submit.” And I always pause when I hear that… not because I’m confused, but because I’m fascinated. Because what they’re really saying is: Marriage was working just fine… when women had no…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • South Shore: Where the Lake Whispers and the Buildings Remember

    There are neighborhoods in Chicago that introduce themselves loudly—glass towers, bottomless mimosas, and a need to be seen. And then there’s South Shore. South Shore doesn’t perform. She doesn’t beg for attention. She just stands there—steady, seasoned, and sure of herself. And if you’re quiet long enough, she will tell you everything. The Lake Is…

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  • The Man Who Can Walk With Me

    He is not loud with wanting. He does not rush the door of my life like conquest is love. He knocks— and waits. He has made peace with his shadows. They follow him quietly now, well-fed, well-named, no longer biting at the heels of women. He listens the way elders listen— with his whole body.…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • Breaking Up With a Word That Knows Me Too Well

    I’ve decided to stop using the N-word so much because, at its core, it’s an ignorant term. But let me not sit up here and lie. I get my sick kicks out of using it. There’s a spark in it for me—something rebellious, something familiar, something that rolls off the tongue a little too easy.…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • We Were Never Meant to Be Silent: A Love Letter to Black Feminist Thought

    Let me tell you something plain—Black feminist theory didn’t come out of a classroom. It came out of kitchens with cracked linoleum floors. Out of bus stops in the cold. Out of women raising babies with one hand and holding themselves together with the other. It came from us. Before anybody gave it a name,…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • The Promise I Kept

    He came to me small enough to fit in the curve of my hand—eight weeks old, all soft fur and quiet trust. I didn’t know then how quickly time would move, how seventeen years would slip past like a long exhale. Now his black has softened into brown, and white threads stitch themselves gently into…

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  • Social Media and the Illusion of Expertise

    Social media has been a wonderful thing, but it has a dark side. It has given millions of people a voice, which in many ways is beautiful. Folks who were once ignored can now tell their stories, share knowledge, and build community across miles and oceans. That kind of connection would have seemed like science…

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  • Ain’t No Apology in My Story

    I can’t speak for all Black women, but I know this much—I don’t owe a motherfucker an explanation about anything in my life. I was a mother to two children by the age of twenty-one. I received welfare assistance. I didn’t get my GED until I was twenty-seven. I know what it means to start…

    thepottymouthgranny

  • Lady Day

    The way Billie Holiday was hounded by the government literally until the day she died is one of the biggest tragedies in Black history. When she sang “Strange Fruit,” that wasn’t just a song. It was an indictment. A slow, haunting autopsy of America. Written by Abel Meeropol, but carried into the bloodstream of the…

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