Black Men are Crazy
Patriarchal cultures throughout the world share commonalities, but they also have distinctions.
One distinction that makes Black Patriarchy different from patriarchy in other cultures is that it is a system where men seek to rule, but refuse to build.
For example, if we look at Black neighborhoods throughout the United States, we notice a pattern that either White men and/or non-Black immigrant men do most of the building and control most, if not all, of the resources (water, electricity, fuel, food, shelter, clothing, medicine, transportation, education, law and order, and communication systems).
What I find so funny about all of this is that Black men do the most talking about “building,” but do the least amount of building in Black neighborhoods. Of course, none of this is the Black man’s fault, “because White supremacy.”
Black patriarchalist men want Black women to submit to them and obey them in a patriarchy…
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Recently I posted my third grade class photo and I can’t help but be fascinated by the little girl that I used to be in that picture. I was third from the left with two pigtails parted straight in the middle (my favorite hairstyle) and I had on a red turtleneck sweater and a denim jean skirt on. I had a huge smile on my face and I looked so happy.
That was in 1978. I was almost eight years old and I was a genuinely happy child during that period in my life. Although my father only came around sporadically, it didn’t matter to me because I had my ladies or The Matriarchs as I now refer to them. These ladies consisted of my mother, my aunts Rosie, Mary, and Maggie. My grandmother and my cousin Cleo.
I was the youngest child born to my mother and the youngest grandchild of 46. I lived in a building with my ladies and I was spoiled and petted. During school vacations, I would wait for my mother to come home from work and be in her face for a little bit and when my aunts got home from work, I would be in their faces. My grandmother didn’t work so I would spend lazy summer days with her, listening to slave narratives about hants (Southern vernacular for ghosts) and bones who refused to stay still.
Anytime my cousin Cleo would look like she was going anywhere, I was right by her side because where Cleo was, fun times was around. We go visit our other cousins in Bronzeville and sometimes she would take me and the rest of the cousins to to the Museum of Science and Industry or to the beach.
Life was so easy for me in those day before I got molested which would take place three years later and continue for four years. So much of my innocence was stripped away and I can tell when I see other pictures of myself as I grew older. Cynicism and wariness was in my eyes although I still had that big beautiful smile.
Maybe that’s why I absolutely despise child molesters, rapists and their ilk. These monsters strip away the innocence of children and childhood is supposed to be the happiest time of a human’s life. No child should have to worry about what’s going to happen when it gets dark. Or have to wear their street clothes to bed for fear of being groped.
But I see that little girl in the face of my grandson Karter. The same smile, the happiness, the joy of being alive and carefree. I would kill a motherfucker if I thought someone was trying to take away his joy.
Brainwashed Negro: A Black individual who has internalized every negative stereotype about Blacks and their culture and is seething with self-hatred and low self-esteem. Usually believes that the only path to success and true happiness is to marry or assimilate into White culture, hoping to escape the sins of blackness.
One of the biggest problems in the Black community is a lack of unity caused by years of self-hatred. Self-hatred in the Black community is due to centuries of brainwashing by the dominant culture into believing that Blacks and their contributions to mainstream society are worthless and that Blacks themselves are worthless and ugly. Self-hatred has caused some Black folks to demean themselves and other Blacks in many hurtful ways that are not productive to anyone. Here are 10 ways to find out if you as a Black person have been brainwashed by the dominant culture:
10. If you are still running around claiming that your family has “Indian Blood”, particularly, Cherokee. I wonder why the only Native American tribe some Black folks can name is Cherokee, as if Iroquois, Mohicans, Seminoles and others do not exist.
9, If you believe that all Black NBA players are married to White women. 86% of married African American NBA players are married to Black women.
8. If you deny the African within by stating that your descendants are from the Caribbean. How in the hell did you think all those Black folks ended up on those islands?
7. If you believe that all White people are rich, beautiful, educated and are endowed with special magical powers.
6. If you tell a dark-skinned Black woman, “You are so pretty to be dark”.
5. If you give an automatic pretty pass to light-skinned women just because they are light-skinned and have long hair.
4. If you refuse to frequent Black-owned businesses because you believe that their services are sub-par as compared to White-owned businesses.
3. If you believe that “Good Hair” consists of hair that is long, flowing and silky, not kinky.
2. If you believe that it’s perfectly okay for other races to demean Black people by dressing in Blackface or if you are completely silent when other races demean black culture because you are so worried about losing your spot as the Anointed Negro and want some of that magical White fairy dust to sprinkle on your trifling ass.
1. If you make statements such as “Black women have too many problems” or “I cannot find a Black man that is on my level” to justify dating outside your race. There is nothing wrong with interracial dating unless you are using it as a way to escape the deep psychological problems of hatred for one’s race. Perhaps the problem is not Black people collectively but YOU personally and all YOUR issues and burdens of being Black in America.
We are currently in the Season of the Scorpion, the greatest zodiac of all time. I remember reading a long time ago that the Scorpion sign governs the pelvis, and reproductive (sexual organs) and I have learned the hard way as a Scorpion woman that this is true because my reproductive organs have been giving me hell my entire life. Three c-sections, a miscarriage, an ectopic pregnancy that almost cost me my life and did cost me a Fallopian tube and now at a stage when I should be in menopause, I have been diagnosed with two uterine fibroids (one the size of a grapefruit and the other the size of an egg, and a benign cyst on my left ovary.
And I am also going through perimenopause which is the period before menopause in which hormonal imbalances causes your brain to turn into mush (brain fog), you are constantly sweating and freezing at the same time (night sweats and chills), and you hate everybody (mood changes). But I am digressing because this article is for men who refuse to stay their asses out of the reproductive health affairs of women.
From the old ass white politicians who are a stroke away from using Viagra (if they are not using it already) to dusty Hoteps who are getting paid off the gullibility of silly ass Black women by telling them to eat nuts and berries to stop their menstrual cycle (starving their dumb asses for dick) and making them pay a fee, these men will not shut the fuck up. I have never seen such men who think that they know more about the bodies of women than actual women.
These men tell women that childbirth is not dangerous although the United States leads in maternal deaths, more than any other Western country in the world. The same men who have not had a physical since high school and think that wiping their asses is “gay” so you know that they are not getting a prostrate gland exam on a yearly basis.
I have been truly trying to become a better person in my online social media interactions with misogynistic men because I know that they have been heavily indoctrinated through religion ideology to believe that they are smarter and superior than women and they are just lost souls but I need these fuckers to hush and stay in their lane. Worry about your own bodies which are falling apart due to being too stubborn, proud, and scared to see a doctor on a regular basis. Stop drinking so damn much after a certain age because it affects your sexual performance and may be a cause of erectile dysfunction. Worry about your own raggedy asses.
I have been trying to be nice but due to my current health issues as a woman, I am dragging arrogant, clueless men to hell and back anytime I see them commenting on women’s reproduction. You don’t have a vagina, uterus, ovaries or Fallopian tubes so you can’t say shit. Nothing. Nada. No Bueno. Learn to stop pissing all over the toilet and wipe your asses properly, you over coddled, clueless grown ass toddlers and remember that having a penis does not give men special, magical powers and a vast abundance of intelligence. Be humble ninnies.
According to the standards of American society, I am considered a middle aged, overweight Black woman. Which is the bottom of the barrel according to some. But I cannot tell because this fat, old, black woman has never been desperate for male companionship. Never had a problem getting a man; if anything, the problem was getting rid of the bastard when I got tired. However, it must be be a man shortage in inner cities throughout America with a large black populace because these chicks on Facebook, Twitter and other social media are desperate as fuck.
As a person who is on the social media daily, the antics of black women online desperate for male attention and validation is a sad sight indeed. These women shame other black women for receiving child support (because you are not supposed to bring a black man down. Fuck them kids. Let them starve), for wearing weave (You just want to be a white woman), for wearing your hair natural (You nappy headed bitch you), for being a single mother (You making us look bad and that’s why I can’t find a man), for not having children (Bitch you think you are better than us), for being fat (Go sit down fat bitch and eat some chicken), for having a nice body (Hoe bitch tramp). I mean the list goes on and on.
But I do understand why these women are so parched. We live in a system of patriarchy which conditions women to look at each other as competition. Especially in the black community where dick is God. And if you don’t have a dick in your life and you are a woman, you ain’t shit. A black woman can have a bachelor’s degree, a master’s degree, a juris doctor degree, and a PhD but unless she has a man attached to the crack of her ass, she is considered useless.
Yeah, these sisters be working real hard to get some dick on Facebook and social media platforms and the sad part is that it’s not working because desperation breeds contempt. The same men who call me everything but a child of God on Facebook threads be in my inbox trying to get their mack on. But that’s karma for that ass. You are out here shaming other black women for their personal choices in life just to get attention from men and your dumb asses still don’t have what you are searching for: dick. These chicks are still single and parched for the easiest commodity in the world: penis.
So much about being a Black woman in America is denial. Denial of your womanhood because being Black is considered more important than being a woman. Denial of your sexuality because being chaste and pure is considered more important being sexually free. Denial of anything that will make the Black male gaze disappear although these men get on the Internet daily and declare to the world how little they respect any Black women, whether she is clothed from head to toe or buck ass naked. Miss. Priss or Hoeletha Jones. No in-betweens because we ain’t that complex and only come in hoe or nice girl.
But there are a group of women who live their lives proudly unaffected by the patriarchal poison that has permeated our culture. These women are considered outcasts, rebels, insubordinates, mutinous because they refused to be tamed. Often paying a high psychological cost for this freedom, these women are unrepentant and are tired of living in the shadows of a male dominant society. These wild women are coming out roaring and it is scaring the shit out of the respectable ones. They are the hood rats, the bust downs, the women of dubious reputation and their stories need to be told.
They are the women you see daily in inner-city neighborhoods throughout Black America. They are your neighbors, the women who bought a dish over after the death of a family member. The women who don’t have a problem with walking children to school not their own and picking them up. The women who did something strange for a little piece of change to help some bills. The women who don’t mind sharing her food stamps if it means another child will eat. Yes the Undesirables of The Black community. Scorned on a daily but they still manage to rise on a daily basis. Beautifully brown in shades of the deepest chocolate, caramel and vanilla latte. Full and voluptuous to willow slim. Powerful and rising. Phoenixes.
But it took a lot of pain for these women to get to this point of not giving a fuck about respectable Black folks and their opinions. To be able to find their voices in a culture in which Black women are continuously shouted down and silenced. They have literally stared into the fires of hell and managed to survive, dealing with issues of sexual child abuse and beatings, neglect, poverty, a piss poor educational system, and men who did everything in their power to spiritually destroy them.
How do I know all of this? Because these women are me and I am them. I have been called everything but a child of God in my existence on this planet and as Celie said in The Color Purple, “But dear God! I’m here! I’m here!” To tell my tale and encourage other women to find their voice. And I am not alone. Many women like me who have thrown off those chains and feel so free sometimes I cry. For those sisters still living in the shadows, it is okay to come out and shine. The chains that are enslaving you are not real; just a social construct. Find some joy and live your lives. Really live. Without fear of judgement. With love.
Everyone thought she was a stupid, uneducated slut. She didn’t finish high school or have a job and her only occupation in life was a different man every night of the week. Not quite good enough for the local boys to bring home to mama, but good enough to screw. Not good enough for the stuck up little broads in the hood to be friends with, but good enough to call over to someone’s porch to find out some local gossip. Yeah, everyone thought she was stupid. But she had them all fooled. No one suspected she was leading a double life.
Normally, she would play the role of the ignorant hood-rat with nothing on her mind but a high and a new man but for the last two weeks, it had been different. She had put on her longest dress, pulled her hair back in a neat bun, and she went to church. The first time, she was there for bible study; this time, revival week. While there, she would allow herself be swept up into the drama of it all and she would stand up in front of the church members to declare her sinfulness to the world, begging for someone to rescue her from her this life of depravity. As always, it would be a righteous man, a god fearing man who saw that beneath the long dress was a body that was full, voluptuous, and needed to be touched. He would pretend that he wanted to help this poor, misguided young woman. There would be the conversation, the sweet nothings in her ear:
“Everything is going to be okay baby. Now that you are here in the house of the Lord, He will make it better. All you need is the love of a good man and everything will be just fine.” She would smile sweetly and look up at him as if he was her reason for being alive. Still looking at him, she would say, “I walked here because I didn’t have any money for carfare; could you give me a ride?” Naturally, he said yes.
How could he resist such a young tender girl with eyes that were so beseeching but yet so inviting? Of course she would have to meet him on the next block, couldn’t have the hens of the church clucking. Always the same behavior, just dressed a little bit nicer. She used the same routine the last time. Amazing how gullible men could be. On the ride home, she would act like it so hot to her. She needed some air and would ask could they go to the beach. It was so emotionally draining, telling all her sordid secrets to all those people and some fresh air would feel good. Naturally, he was down with that. It was in the fall and not too many people would be there.
At the beach, she would talk about the series of disappointments that had been her short life. The mother who showered her with love and affection, until she reached an age in which her mother saw her as a predator looking for the same prey: men. The father who was gone so long she could not remember his face. Her mother’s husband who took away her innocence and left her with filled with self-loathing and sexual knowledge too much for her to understand. She would also talk about the men who made her feel like a queen at night, but would not speak to her in the daytime. The girls with the fake cheerleader smiles and serpent-like personalities. The school system which had no time for disturbed little girls who needed nurturing, not more emphasis on state wide test scores. Then the tears would pour, real tears of pain, over the half-life she had been leading on this planet.
Always the arm going around her shoulder, the accidental, on purpose brushing of her breast, the awkward first kiss. She would let the kiss deepen to get things going. Slowly they would fall into the sand, and by careful maneuvering, she would end up on top. She would make him feel so good, so great for that moment. Then, with a quick, savage movement, she would slash his throat deeply. There wouldn’t be time for a struggle, his basic instinct for survival being thwarted by his sexual need. He never saw the tiny switchblade that she hid in her hair, the hair she had loosened from the bun she wore earlier. He never saw the look of calculation in her eyes because he was too busy looking at her breasts.
Afterwards, she would watch him for a few minutes, making sure he was dead. Then she would drag his body towards her car, the car her victims did not know she had and had hid near the area where she would make her kill. She deliberately went to this part of the beach because it was very secluded. She would take the towels and blanket out of the trunk and with care, cleaned the blood from his body. Unruffled by the night, she rolled his body into the blanket. With a strength most people had grossly underestimated, she put the body in the trunk of her car, closed it, rinsed her hands off, got in her car and drove away. She went to the outskirts of town, and dumped his body there, into a shallow grave she dug earlier. The other time, she used the city dump.
Last week was the first time she had killed someone. She did it the first time just to see if she could actually kill someone in cold blood. Everyone thought she was such a dumb, pathetic, excuse for a human with the intelligence of a slug. To kill, one had to be cold-blooded, methodological, concise, and cunning. No one knew about the deep-rooted resentment and hatred lurking in her heart. No one cared. Of course, her heart was cold. Her own mother pretended to love her until her natural jealousy of other women turned her against her own flesh and blood. She knew dude was screwing her daughter. She just didn’t care; she was too busy getting drunk and trying to hang on to her trifling husband. She felt the girl brought it on herself, walking around with her breasts bouncing everywhere.
The girls in the neighborhood felt the same way. The girl was the first to develop, with a pretty face how they hated her for that. The boys were always skinning and grinning in her face, although they talked about her like a dog to them. What was so special about her anyway? Bitch. And men! From the moment she developed, they wouldn’t leave her alone. Her perverted stepfather who had warped her sexuality before she even had the chance to warp it herself. He even had the audacity to be a deacon at a church! The boys in the hood who pretended they liked her but only wanted some sex, and wouldn’t even acknowledge her if it was daytime. And especially, these last two self-righteous, horny bastards she found in the church. Going around pretending as if they really gave a fuck about her. Just like her stepfather. Ha! What a joke. They deserved to die. All these fuckers deserved to die and she was going to be the one to do it. Going to church with their wives and families, pretending they were so holier than thou and then using the church as a trick stop. It made the decision to kill these type of men so much easier. The ability to kill had given her a thrill and a thirst. The next time, she would have to change her routine. People might catch on. Oh no but of course not. Everyone thought she was so stupid. She had killed twice and hadn’t been caught. They had better watch out. She was out there.
One of my favorite songs is by the artist Richard “Dimples” Fields, a soul artist from back in the day and the song is called “She Got Papers on Me” and it features the wonderful Betty Wright. The song is about the “plight” of a married man stuck in an unsatisfactory relationship with his wife and he sings plaintively about “the sweet little thing” he has on the side (side hoes have been around since Juvember but folks want to play brand new and act like we used to have morals).
The song would be very forgettable if it was not for Betty Wright’s 2 minute primal scream as the unsuspecting wife who walks in on her husband singing in the shower about his bae towards the end of the song. Hurt and angry, she hurls out a rant that will be always remembered in black music history. She talks about how everything on his back, she paid for, from his drawers to his shoes. How she paid for the car he drives to go see his mistress. How she paid for him to go to school and how she still pays the mortgage without his assistance. That he needs to pay her now (although how can a man who never paid for shit be expected to pay for alimony) and he should take his little albums and his raggedy component set that never worked and scat.
This song was released in 1981 and when I was a little girl, I thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Like “she checked that nigga!” That is until I grew older, analyzed the song, and realized that she was bragging about taking care of a grown ass man. How she put him through school and he still wasn’t financially sufficient enough to take of her and the family they created together. And now because he’s cheating, he has to go. Not because she’s working like a dog to fund a grown ass man and his habits but because he is fucking someone else.
And folks that is the very definition of struggle love. Telling women it is okay to take care of grown ass men in the name of love. He can beat your ass, use for your money and when he gets on, he is going to remember your never-ending loyalty and stupidity and reward you. Just as long as he does not fuck someone else. Yeah right. The era of the ride or die chick that will doing anything for her man from going to jail for the dirt he did to working three jobs while he works none needs to die a painful death.
Black music has been selling struggle love for years to black women via love songs such as the one above and several other songs that normalizes dysfunction in black relationships. From blues songs such as “No Good Man” by Nina Simone to “He’s Mine” by Mokenstef, black women have been sold a bill of goods that tells them that pain is love. Love is about struggle and conflict. It is about putting up with a man’s physical and verbal abuse, infidelity, children conceived by other women, financial instability, and a multitude of other unhealthy, irrational ideas about love. Just so a woman can say “At least I got a man!” to her friend who is merely trying to give her some advice about leaving the sorry bastard.
The ironic part is that struggle love is never sold to black men through the music, the media or anywhere else. There has not been a song created in the history of black music that tells black men to find them a welfare queen in the projects with five children who just need the love of a strong black man. Black music tells black men to find the baddest chick in the club with longest hair, lightest skin and the biggest ass.
The social media is not helping with this struggle love concept either. Daily black women are bombarded with memes that ask stupid questions such as “Would you be comfortable with going to McDonald’s on a first date?” or “Would you give up a $5,000 a month alimony check to marry a man making $8.50 per hour for love since a stipulation of your alimony agreement was if you got married again, the monies would be cut off” and all sorts of nonsensical, unrealistic bullshit. Black women are expected to jump through hoops of fire to prove themselves to black men who do not have a pot to piss in, a window to throw it out, and another pot to catch the piss when it comes out the window. What is crazy though is that every time one of these memes is posted to a group on Facebook, legions of parched, thirsty heifers respond with “Yes I would! Pick me!!!!,” not understanding if one of them decides to take a chance and actually date one of these men, have a child with him, and he turns out to be a deadbeat, she will be blamed for not “choosing better.”
These irrational beliefs about love have black women stuck in unhealthy relationships for years only to wake up eventually and find themselves angry and hurt when they look at all the time and energy they wasted on a man who was not worth two dead flies. Because a man that truly loves a woman is not going to sit on his ass and watch her work like a mule while he walks around like he’s King Ding a Ling. A man that is truly interested in getting to know a woman is not going to make her jump through hoops with silly ass tests such as taking her to an expensive restaurant to see if she orders the most expensive thing on the menu to see if she is a gold-digger. A man like that is not worth a woman’s time and energy. And somehow, someway, someday, black women will realize this too.