Sister-Girl Prayer Circle, Activate!

It was not on my BINGO card to put this sister's name at the top of the prayer list this month, but Kelly Price?

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Sis. On Blue Ivy's internet in the eighth month of the second Trumpocalypse. YOU went there?

I don't even remember what I was trying to find when I saw your name and face trending on the front page of the Bing search engine last week, but there you were. The headline was provocative (they all are these days), but I decided to click anyway and Lawd, I so wish I hadn't. Because now I gotta write this even though the last thing I want to do is go on the offensive and attack a fellow Black woman. But you said what you said, and now I'm gonna say what I need to say.

First of all, I rebuke your rant in the names of Harriet Tubman, Anna Murray Douglass, Fannie Lou Hamer, Aretha Franklin, and every other Black woman who ever faced the circular firing squad of slings and arrows from so-called friendly fire. Because I get that you were hurt and needed to unleash that anger. Sometimes, it be your own people who say the darndest and meanest things.

Starting with our own children. The homemade shank that is the sharp tongue of your own child stabbing you in the chest with some brutal truth you didn't ask to hear hurts like nothing you could ever imagine. My daughter took one look at my new hair cut last Fall and said that I should go back to the salon to have it glued back on. And while I knew better than to allow the words of a nine-year old to penetrate any deeper than a superficial flesh wound, I got a look at myself from an awkward angle and saw Bert from Sesame Street looking back at me.

Then there are the sharp-witted barbs that come flying from the mouths of our own mothers and/or passive aggressive aunts. I cannot begin to count the number of times my late Mom and her BFF, my Auntie, would gang up to offer some "constructive criticism" that had me questioning whether I preferred being bullied at school or at home. 

So Kelly, Girl...I over-stand.

Secondly, we all know that social media has given people truckloads of audacity to say the kind of shit that they would never verbalize to someone's face. As you so aptly called out their keyboard courage, folks are really bold when they don't have to face the consequences of their words once they hit send. Particularly when engaging with some celebrity, most of the trolls assume that their audience consists of other like-minded serfs and TERFs.

One of the hidden blessings of not having a lot of followers on these platforms is that I've barely got a handful of haters. And most of those people don't even follow me, so it is an occasional aberration in the algorithm that enables any kind of toxic engagement. In order to provoke the slightest reaction, I've got to say something rather incendiary, which rarely happens. It isn't in my nature to be petty or cruel.

However, as a public figure, you are wide open to all kinds of criticism. Folks who have nothing better to do than post toxic and hateful messages subsist just to call you names, critique your looks, slam your outfits/costumes, and generally spew hate at you in the comment section. So whatever was said must have been really savage to prompt you to post a live video right after you finished your nighttime routine...

Third (and this is the part that got me all twisted), did you think this through before you went on that tirade against your fan base? Black women are the very people who pay to see you: the ones who get their praise on to your music, claim you as their honored Soror, and didn't abandon you in spite of your messiness on that reality show. Black women have been riding with you since your eRR Kelly and Mr. Big days. You really meant to blow up your career by calling Black women out like that on Al Gore's internet?

Look, I could dissect and analyze the content of what you said, but that's for the raw-meat eaters on the Clock app. As you can tell from my approach, I come in peace. I'm not adding any more kindling to this fire; in fact, all I have is a little glass of water that won't even quench your thirst in this heat. Because it is obvious to me that someone was looking for attention. If the goal was to get folks talking about you in advance of some upcoming project, that part worked. But then what Sis? After you go on a couple of radio interviews and podcasts, what happens once the tour is over and the hype dies down?

Who's coming to see you then, Kelly Price? 

Let's keep it real--it won't be the tech bros who create and broadcast stereotypical Aunt Jemima memes of plus-size Black women on the Gram, the Book of Faces, or the Buzzard apps. It won't be the Konservative Kathie Lee Karens who prefer Chrisian contemporary worship music with their morning chardonnay. And it certainly won't be the ashy hoteps whose raison d'etre is day-trading insults with the tech bros against Black women. We're all we got.

I am very clear that hurt people lash out and hurt others, so the issue here isn't that you were wrong to be pissed. But let's keep it real...Black women aren't the most disrespectful, we are the most disrespected. In spite of being highly educated, dedicated to our families and communities, and advocates for justice and democracy, we're still human. We're imperfect and messy just like anybody else. And the same way that everyone is quick to disclaim being part of a monolith of all this or that, it is peculiar to me that you would stand in a mirror to point fingers and then act like you're blind to who and what is reflected back at you.

Since I am neither a PR nor a crisis communications professional, I don't have any advice or counsel. This might be the proverbial bridge too far. We're both smart and old enough to know how difficult it is for Black women in the entertainment industry once the tide turns against us. Mo'Nique is still looking for some R-E-S-P-E-C-T from Tyler Perry and the Oprah. Before your video rant, I'm sure Chrisette Michele would've happily traded places with you, just to be on the roster with a bunch of other R&B ladies performing at arenas as opposed to touring city wineries. 

Now, I don't believe that you ought to allow disrespect to go unchecked, I just wish you had chosen some other way to set boundaries and expectations for what shalt not be tolerated by an R&B diva of your caliber. I'm curious to know how this kind of clapback hasn't gone viral before now, because you can't be the first Black performer to confront online vitriol. I'm guessing the others have people to hide or delete those kinds of comments in real time. Or in some cases, comments are disabled or restricted to limit that kind of negativity. Whatever it takes to protect your peace, I urge you to implement practices and procedures immediately. Based on the snippet of your response that I saw, you've been reading the comments before bedtime as a nightly ritual, so it is no wonder that you snapped (again)!

Although I don't have any answers, I can offer a word or two of encouragement. As this is a job that is too big for one Busy Black Woman to handle alone, I am assembling a prayer circle.

To do that, we start by invoking the ancestors already mentioned who knew a little something about being talked about, lied on, betrayed, abused, and ridiculed for being their authentic, full-figured, brown-skinned selves. You're not the first, nor will you be the last Black woman to be hurt by the words of our skinfolks. Each of those women endured both physical and emotional wounds and were called everything but a child of God; nevertheless, none of that suffering is what we celebrate about their lives.  It is their perseverance and resolve to rise above the envy, pettiness, etc...

Can you imagine what would have happened if Harriet Tubman had listened to the doubters who wanted to turn back when they heard the slave catcher dogs? What if Anna Murray Douglass had decided that it would be safer to marry some free man of color instead of risking her own status to secure freedom for her beloved Frederick? You don't think there were Black people who believed Fannie Lou Hamer deserved that beating for registering to vote in Mississippi? And what about the woman we knew and revered as the Queen of Soul? You know good and dang well that Auntie Re-Re didn't lose any sleep over comments written about her on these interwebs.

Next, I am calling in the ladies dressed in white who carry scarves to drape over their knees when they sit so that no one can get an accidental peek at their girdles. The ladies who keep a stash of peppermint, butterscotch, or strawberry candies in plastic baggies to dispense to restless children; sugar-free cough drops for the older folks. If that ain't enough, I am calling on the women of your sorority to gather their poodles and to form an outer ring around those church ladies--a hedge of protection, if you will. If we need more reinforcements, maybe some of your fellow R&B sistren and queen mothers will lend their voices in support.

Finally, because I do want to end on a high note, I sincerely hope that this gathering of Black women ancestors, prayer warriors, sorority sisters, and divas can penetrate the defensive walls you have built around yourself. By and large, Black women are not your haters. From where I sit way back in the cheap seats, ain't nobody who is paying good money to see you deserves to be taunted or belittled. We get enough of that for free on our jobs, in our homes, and whenever we log onto these same social media sites. We may not all be in the same arena, but I assure you that there are more of us here cheering you on than over there casting stones. At the end of the day, we all need the same thing...Healing.

Grounded in the Stars

Emotionally, the week leading up to Mother's Day was fine...until the night before when I found myself gnarled up in an emotional heap over asshole comments on the internet. Triggered, bothered, agitated by online reactions I read to the installation of this statue, Grounded in the Stars, by artist Thomas J Price in New York City's Times Square.

I like it. I wish that I could get to New York to see it up close and in person before the exhibition ends in June, but the way life has been lately, that might not be in the stars...

As for reading the comments, I know better. I've been on Al Gore's internet since the beginning, and I know that people shitpost and troll and get away with being awful because that is the nature of unmoderated free expression. People are going to post their innermost asinine unfiltered thoughts because there are no other places in polite society where one can go around and say whatever nonsense pops into one's head about other people unless they are Donald Trump holding a rally for his cult of deplorables. Not unless they want to get beat down...

So trust, I didn't go looking for negativity. It was dumped onto my timeline by the geniuses who manage the Meta algorithm. Apparently, they get bored once a week and decide to flood the zone with crap that I would never interact with from all kinds of random pages. Or they throw out red herrings since I did happen to like a post that highlighted this very statue; perhaps they thought that meant I would appreciate seeing some alternative viewpoints.

Hell to the naw!

Which brings us to this unprecedented Busy Black content move: I erased a post I had previously shared to my Facebook page. When I saw some of those nasty comments, I was compelled to write on impulse, and even after I allowed my thoughts to marinate overnight before posting, I ultimately changed my mind. I was uneasy about what had triggered my anger though I remain steadfast in my admiration of the work itself. However, once I sat with my discomfort and deconstructed it, I figured I would write about my change of heart.

My initial reaction to the piece was to shrug and think, huh, as in is this a newsworthy distraction given everything else that is going on in the world? In the same week that we got an American Pope from the Southside of Chicago by way of the 7th Ward in New Orleans with Haitian Creole ancestry, does a 12-foot statue of a Black woman dropped in the middle of Times Square really need all of this attention? Of course, I shared Grounded to the FB page as it had become clear that the reactions appeared to be divided between the like and laugh FB emojis. Hardly scientific, but random enough to take notice that while some pages celebrated the installation, others deemed it "woke"--the new buzz word to indicate that something is unnecessarily polarizing. Nevertheless, I posted a quick looky here and moved on...until a post in one of my groups directed my attention to the comments section. Curiouser and curiouser the farther I fell down that rabbit hole...

There I saw numerous cruel and mean-spirited memes attacking the work and Black women, including this re-imagining of the Statue of Liberty as a heavy-set Black woman checking her phone (inspired by this other Price exhibition in Florence, Italy perhaps). Accompanying their laugh and hate emoji reactions were images depicting morbidly obese Black women scantily dressed with exaggerated breasts, protruding stomachs, and thick hips. One meme depicted a woman pushing a shopping cart from the "EBT" store; another picture juxtaposed the image of a woman "mocking" the statue by posting a picture of herself striking the same pose. The most offensive meme contrasted this statue to a "preferred" mock-up to immortalize the recent racist encounter on the playground with the woman from Minnesota. 

Having made a trip to see the iconic Lady Liberty colossus in person just last year for the first time since high school, I decided to share this meme since I deemed it the least problematic. My visit to Liberty Island had been so uplifting and empowering, especially as I learned that this beloved American symbol had been a gift from France in celebration of the abolition of slavery. Over the years, her symbolism evolved to serve as a welcoming beacon to immigrants from abroad (and despite what anyone else says, those dual purposes are not in conflict).

My knee-jerk reaction to this and those other aforementioned memes? An emotional fuck y'all. Fuck y'all racist, sexist, homophobic, fat-shaming, Trump-voting fascist asses! This was the day before Mother's Day, so fuck your Momma (since she raised you to be this special kind of asshole); fuck your Daddy next month when Father's Day rolls around; and whomever else agrees with your fucked up worldview! But instead of all those f-bombs, this is the more thoughtful reaction I initially posted: 

Moment of emotional transparency: I really effing hate how *free speech* on social media has turned this country into a nation of rude assholes.

Really. If I could cuss people out and be convinced that it would matter for them to know that I see their racism, sexism, homophobia, etc. And while it may just be words that aren't supposed to permeate or hurt, the truth is that taken individually, no, you don't hurt me. But the accumulated impact of your cruelty and meanness, yes...it's like pouring lemon juice on a thousand paper cuts. Salted wounds.

I've been writing about the small indignities and micro-aggressions endured by Black women on this page (and other platforms) for YEARS. I know only a handful of people care or are moved. I write anyway because I think that maybe, one day, someone's heart will be pricked, pained by seeing the impact of the hurt that is so easily heaped on others. But I know better. No one who knowingly and casually inflicts pain recognizes or cares about how exhausting it is to wake up EVERYDAY as the object of their insatiable cruelty.

I know who and what I am, as well as what I am NOT. I am NOT the ugly, stupid, classless, undesirable, useless, (fill in the blank with whatever adjectives/insults you've been taught that are supposed to describe Black women and girls)... I am not a mule, nor a beast. I am a woman of flesh and blood, who knows better, even as I foolishly and vainly hope otherwise.

We are taught to let them...Laugh. Joke. Think the worst. Believe the lies of their superiority and our inherent inferiority. Prove their weaknesses and insecurities by highlighting our ability to endure, survive, and sometimes thrive in spite of their best efforts to destroy us. 

I should mention that I did not (will not) post any of those memes but chose this one that spoke directly to how I feel. I also did not wish to attract the wrong kind of attention to engage with my page (I have better ways to waste my time than to argue with morons). A few hours later, my anger wasn't as raw or as intense, but much like seeing a taunt from this DEPOTUS posted on his official social media account, it had numbed. Stings at first, then I get used to the pain of the daily indignities and humiliations because he can, so he does...and the futility of accepting that there is nothing I will ever say in retaliation that can penetrate or appeal to any semblance of decency. 

As far as I am concerned, everyone who sees this Grounded statue as an object of mockery or scorn, that is how they see me, my nieces, my daughter, my sorors, my aunties...my late mother. My dilemma is whether to accept their judgment or to subvert it. I will admit that it isn't always easy to ignore the noise. The attacks began to feel personal upon seeing the fourth, then the fifth, and later the subsequent posts that took aim at this composite of a random, non-famous Black woman. The comments assumed that she's on welfare, that she speaks in her outside voice, that she barges her way into exclusive spaces where she doesn't fit in or was not invited. That she has multiple children by different men. That she doesn't work a full-time job. That she expresses herself in vernacular colloquialisms. That she twerks when her favorite songs play. That she eats at McDonald's and so do her children. That she complains about injustice.

That she exists.

All she did was stop for a moment to survey the sights in Times Square, just like everybody else visiting for the first or even the 50th time, because you try navigating an amusement park without a map to indicate where things are? Doesn't everyone need to take a moment to get oriented to the utter chaos and confusion that is New York's Time Square?

So let's do just that--take a moment to fully establish what Times Square is and what is surely ain't. Like it ain't the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Not the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) nor the Whitney Museum, where I took the Kid on a special trip to see an exhibition on Alvin Ailey last December. It also ain't the Guggenheim. So the idea that any kind of art installation in Times Square is supposed to evoke fantasies of taking a leisurely stroll through some tranquil sculpture garden is insanity.

The most accurate way of describing Times Square to someone who has never been there is to compare it to a large open air, overpriced food court located in the middle of the most crowded and loudest set of city blocks in America. I've never been to the Mall of America, but I imagine that is the same kind of chaos. Thousands of tourists; folks trying to sell you same-day show tickets; the stench of burnt hot dogs and roasted peanut wafting from the carts on every corner; Sirijul and Mujibur; bootleg merchants; overpriced chain restaurants; and ginormous neon billboards with blinking lights. There is a Naked Cowboy and his wife. There are also people walking around dressed as cartoon characters, so if you've ever wanted your picture taken with a Disney character but cannot afford a trip to the other most expensive amusement trap on Earth, then Times Square is a viable alternative. That is, if no one will notice that the Times Square Mickey Mouse always looks like he just lost a bar fight in the alley with Elmo (also on hand in case you get lost on your way to finding Sesame Street, which as it turns out, is within 2 miles, not that far away).

The only reason to make an effort to go to Times Square is to see a Broadway play. I was there a year ago to see The Wiz. The only other reason to be there is to kill time on your way out of town by bus at the Port Authority or by train at Grand Central Station. Otherwise, you're only there to get robbed--by spending too much money at one of the multi-level concept stores (like we did on M&Ms), or by one of those shady looking dudes posing as the Mario Brothers.

As the resident of another city that is full of statues and monuments, I appreciate when something new comes along to break up the monotony of generals, presidents, and historical figures as decorative sculpture. Nothing wrong with a little whimsy here and there, such as past public art installations that featured painted pandas, donkeys and elephants, and now all kinds of vibrant murals. There have been varying responses to these kinds of works. They can be polarizing. They stoke derision. There is no such thing as a universally beloved piece of art that appeals to everybody, so it isn't surprising that some works are more controversial than others. However, as long as people understand that not all pieces are intended to appeal to everyone, then the easiest thing to do is move along until there is something that does appeal to you.

For example, a local favorite piece of public art here in DC wasn't initially an art installation but an advertisement for a furniture store. The Big Chair of Anacostia was erected in 1959 and is located in a strip mall in Southeast DC, across the Anacostia River--a world away from most of the city's other more famous monuments. For years, it was known primarily to those of us who grew up in the neighborhood, but as our population has grown and changed, the chair has become a more recognizable city landmark. It is still mostly significant to those of us who live in the SE quadrant; I doubt that anyone who doesn't have a reason to drive into Anacostia would go out of their way to see an oversized piece of furniture. Nor do people who have only become residents of the city in the last 20 years know that this isn't even the original chair.

In response to Grounded, I had no visceral reaction other than curiosity for why a 12-foot tall figure? Assuming the same question was asked when it was an installation of 10-foot tall Balloon Dogs or the 8-foot tall LOVE sculptures, then part of that answer becomes why not? If public art is meant to be seen, discussed, engaged, debated, then it has to make some kind of bold statement. Perhaps the next logical question is why now, given these tumultuous times we've entered with the return of Donald Trump. Because once the default complaint that this statue was "woke", that became a bat signal for MAGA to come out swinging. To which, my retort: if not now, then when?

For such a time as this, why not celebrate an unassuming Black woman standing in her own skin? Why not look upon that Mama Liberty meme as an affirmation of our power, instead of the insult to our appearance as was intended? Black women worked hard to preserve American democracy and its ideals in the 2024 election. One of us was handed the baton at the 11th hour and still got 75 million votes. No need to cringe as Mama Liberty holds that torch aloft while also busy organizing and handling her business!

To be clear, one can dislike Price's statue and not be a racist. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. My problem is that people were intentional and comfortable in bashing the work through the lenses of racism, sexism, classism, and body-shaming. We've already acknowledged how the term woke functions as a dog whistle; others sought to express their anti-Blackness in more subtle forms. For example, conservative provocateur Matt Walsh penned this pseudo-intellectual opinion piece to proclaim his disdain for Price's oeuvre of public art. Then there is the use of the historically loaded term Mammy which somehow becomes the default description of any full-figured Black woman...

Mind you, Grounded could just as easily have been someone's impression of me during the pandemic. Me, or any one of my friends whose struggles with menopause, stress, and the weight of the world have manifested on our bodies, settled into our curves. Once upon a time, full-bodied women were symbols of fertility and abundance. Isn't there a proposal floating around about paying women to have more children? When did our society become so repulsed by the sight of fleshy, Rubenesque women? Especially since many of our mothers, grandmothers, and your Trump-loving aunties have that same body type...when did we become so intolerant and shallow?

Instead of being distracted by superficial concerns, we ought to be more offended that our society has become immune to the ways that racism and sexism compound to harm the psyche of Black, Latino, Asian, and Indigenous women. Or that we're too proud to admit that the daily drip-drip of undeserved mean-spiritedness, insults to our intelligence and competence, and the outright hostility and disrespect exact a heavy physical, emotional, and psychological toll? Women of color disproportionately suffer from higher incidences of infant and maternal mortality, more diagnoses of autoimmune disorders, and greater tendencies to develop aggressive and debilitating chronic diseases. 

Why is it so triggering that a temporary art installation in the most garish public plaza in the most crowded city in America happens to be statue of a Black woman? If you aren't in Times Square right now, nor will be at any point before June 17, then why do you care? Everything you see in her is a reflection of you: your assumptions, your insinuations, your discomfort, your anxieties, your prejudices and biases, your insecurities. It is incredible to see how much fear and loathing she's inspired just by standing there, taking up space without saying or doing anything remarkable!

Stand tall among the stars and stay grounded.

Didn't We Almost Have It All?

Not long ago, I saw this picture posted on social media of Madam Vice President Kamala Harris with her husband Doug Emhoff, captured in a light-hearted and loving pose. I don't know if this was a recent photo, but the caption was America fumbled so hard, an allusion to the reality that we could have elected someone decent to be our next President. Suddenly, as if there was a radio playing in the background, I began to hear the instrumental intro to Whitney Houston's song and got a little misty. A montage of scenes from the 107 days replayed in my head. I thought back to how upbeat and excited I was on Election Day and how I still believed we were going to win, despite the odds. 

Then like an old school record scratch...

I can't even wrap my mind around the Return of the DESPOTUS 2.0: Four More Years of Daily Fuckery. The White House now an unmistakable Big Top Circus Tent, soon to be occupied by P.T. Barnum reincarnated, who will launch a second season of the Worst Shitshow on Earth. 

When I knew I was finally ready to write about Kamala Harris' defeat, my intent was to compare her loss to the situation I describe here. Because I am clear that a major reason she lost was because she was so formidable--too much for people to feel comfortable with her, in spite of everything else that we knew about the Joker. But my thoughts got too bogged down and unfocused, so instead of wrestling with something unwieldy, thereby running the risk of succumbing to never making my point, I split the baby. 

We could have had it all, America. But y'all gave it away for $1 rebate per gallon of gas.

Twice now, we have elected the worst possible example of humanity to be the American President. He and every Alpha boy he chooses to serve in his harem, from James David the Manchurian understudy to Master Robert the Bear-Eater to the guy whose own mother used to be ashamed of him--these are the people whom America believed were the better choices. The world will tolerate a rapist, a racist, a grifter, a conman, an adulterer, a liar, a cheat, and even a fascist, but it just cannot abide a woman who is unafraid to be her unapologetic, fearless self. 

If you look back at various points throughout human history, women who refused to be minimized by what society deemed acceptable were denounced, rejected, ostracized, abused, called everything but a child of God, and sometimes killed. Centuries later and y'all still refer to Mary Magdeline a prostitute; yet, before his conversion and his name was still Saul how many Christians did he persecute and imprison as opposed to the number of men who allegedly paid her for sex? All manner of men are rewarded, revered, and redeemed in spite of a multitude of sins: feudal Lords, imperial plunderers and pirates, Founding Fathers, Confederate politicians, Gilded Age robber barons, Jim Crow philanderers, the tech bazillionaires, and now once again, Donald Effing Trump. As he infamously said, he could shoot someone on Fifth Avenue and get away with his crimes...and now 77 million voters have proven him right.

We could have had the country that we promote to the world as the beacon of light and hope. But in a democracy the voters get to make grave mistakes as well as inspired choices, so here we are, preparing for another dreary ride to the cemetery...

A month later, and I'm not much interested in the other post-election assessments of why we're here right now. Surely there were campaign mistakes and missteps (because she only had 107 days), but bottom line some voters were either ambivalent about the return of Trump or hellbent against seeing this Black woman just walk into the Oval Office without proving she deserved to be there. Never mind the fact that Kamala Harris had already earned that right when she was elected to be the Vice President in 2020, but apparently that wasn't enough. She should have gone through a bruising primary process at the 11th hour once the big money donors and political operatives lost faith in President Joe Biden. We should have repeated the very same mistake that was made in 1968 when President Lyndon Johnson decided not to seek the nomination.

Well, now we have a 1968 remix. Only this time, we have re-elected a person 10 times worse than Richard Nixon--a verifiable crook, all because some of you were determined to chasten women who have the temerity to declare that we can be anything, including Leaders of the Free World. 

If you still want to argue that sexism and racism don't make one helluva team, just wait until Calamuary 2025 (yep, that term is here to stay). Anyone who is urging calm or to wait and see is probably not worried because they know they will be fine either way. Offended, upset, and maybe even a little more than annoyed, but definitely not endangered or under threat of the retribution. I hope you enjoyed the long-awaited Thanksgiving reconciliation with your estranged brother and family. I'm sure his trad wife's pumpkin pie was delicious.

I believed with my entire heart and soul that Kamala Harris could have won this election, even as I suspected that Trump had become way too confident in the final stretch. It was quixotic for sure, and I allowed myself to get caught up in the rapture of possibility. My bad for forgetting that this country will break your heart. However, I refuse to feel anything but pride for what Kamala Harris tried to do, because dammit, what else was she supposed to do? Just let y'all act like she was invisible, throw away everything she and Biden accomplished in the past four years, and NOT stand up for the rule of law she vowed to protect and defend her entire career??? GTFOOHWTBS!

Right before Eli Pope infamously reminds his daughter Olivia (and all of us) that she has to be twice as good to attain half as much, he admonishes her for pinning her hopes on becoming First Lady. Because why work that hard just to be photographed wearing nice clothes? Of course, the irony is that Kamala Harris did exactly the opposite--she set her sights on the ultimate prize and got punished for not settling.

She made the case that she was ready, and she inspired millions of people to get out in these streets to try to salvage some semblance of what this country purports to represent to the world. That a bunch of billionaire good ole boys had the mean$ to thwart our hopes wasn't entirely unforeseeable, just profoundly disappointing. And typical. I will never concede that that they won this election fair and square, because they spent enough money and effort at re-writing every rule to ensure that they won. Their victory, celebrated in the form of taunts and trolls and every single Cabinet pick, has been intended remind us that they had every advantage and exploited every vulnerability, on their dime but at our expense. 

Exhibit A: Reneging at Spades

How was it even possible that a man whose documented history of racism and sexism was able to turn this election into a referendum on Blackness by using sexism??? From dredging up her past romantic entanglements to misrepresenting her record as a prosecutor to mispronouncing her name and even questioning whether she ever worked at McDonalds, he even had folks on Blue Ivy's internet arguing about how she cooks her collard greens...

Once he had folks fighting at the summer barbecue, his next great trick was to exude so much confidence that he could make inroads and gain the support of disaffected Black men, in spite of their historic loyalty to the Democratic Party. For the past several election cycles, Black women have been touted as the base of the party and rewarded as such with high profile and visible positions. The elevation of individual Black women in political discourse was then framed as yet another advance that has occurred at the expense of Black men overall, despite the fact that there are still more men in positions of influence and power such as James Clyburn, Hakeem Jeffries, Rev. Al Sharpton, Wes Moore, and Barack Obama. 

We have always been clear about the ideological diversity within the Black community, so the shock isn't that there were Black men who supported a return of the Chaos King. It's that some of the most vocal Trumplogytes, like Mark Robinson (R-NC) and Royce White (R-MN), crapped out and have nothing to show for their loyalty, not even a Black job. The others who didn't go quite as far will likely see some personal reward, but at what expense to the rest of us? How much of the Trump prosperity hustle will trickle down to our communities? Enough to buy some sneakers, a Cybertruck, or just a carton of eggs?

Exhibit B: Cat-Fights Over Public Bathrooms

Can you imagine the kind of mental gymnastics it takes to consider a public restroom as a "sacred" space? The same place where you can get a communicable disease from washing your hands. Those 55 percent women are so smart as to allow a man who shits on his own private gold toilet...better yet, the man who bought a beauty pageant so that he could leer at underage girls to convince them that he will be their Protector, whether they like it or not.

If it wasn't clear before that we didn't pledge the same sorority, we sure know that now. 

You've got to hand it to those smart Handmaidens of Patriarchy--the wives, mothers, and daughters who dutifully follow the roadmap of expectations and guidelines that allow some women (not all) to aspire just beyond the realm of what is acceptable. Women who may have jobs and careers, even as high as the rank of being a Governor or a Senator as long as they represent and articulate the values that men proscribe AND make sure dinner is on the table by 6pm every night. 

Contrast their success with that of those smart-assed women who decide on their own, without male permission or approval, to make choices for themselves. Women who did not get married to their high school sweethearts or first college boyfriends, who don't prioritize motherhood over careers, or who have the nerve to call themselves feminists--they represent the kind of moxie that is too disruptive to the Old World order of things. What kind of world would we have if women keep demanding access to previously exclusive male enclaves, like the Supreme Court, church pulpits, C-Suites, and the Oval Office? 

One with gender-neutral bathrooms.

Exhibit C: Knowing is Half the Battle

In spite of how much this loss still hurts, I want it to be known that I DO NOT have regrets. I have gripes and justified rage because we shouldn't be here licking our wounds and questioning who we are. I know who I am, what I believe, and why I voted the way I did. That shouldn't be in doubt--it's those other people whom we need to redefine and see more clearly. 

Thus, let's take the advice Mother Maya Angelou gave us to heart--when people show you who they are, believe them the first time. That applies to Trump, but more importantly to the people who voted for him again, some for the third time. They knew what he was and voted for him in the hopes that he will do EVERYTHING he promised them. Let's accept that the people who proudly wave Confederate flags, who were willing to violently overthrow an election, and who are giving millions to celebrate the return Emperor Conmani Grifticus--they have shown us who and what they are, so we need not waste time or energy expecting anything better from them. 

They will never be moved by the pain endured by others either because they profit from it or are shielded from its effects. What does it matter to them if police officers can harass Black and Latino men with impunity as long as their gated cul-de-sacs remain safe? We live in food deserts and have little to no economic investment in our communities, but they don't, never will and they are fine with that. If they don't want their children to go to school with ours, they can convene at the local coffee shop after morning drop-off to strategize about how to trick us into diverting our tax dollars into funding their private schools.

To that end, we need to stop lying to ourselves that all Americans want the same things. We don't. I don't want sundown towns, mass deportations, or laws that track our daughters' menstrual cycles. I wasn't looking for the annihilation of those with whom I disagree, just some compassion, empathy, justice, or a semblance of common decency. I wanted to dismantle the systems of oppression that have historically denied opportunities to the marginalized. I never expressed any desire that others should suffer, not even a fraction of what has been wished upon me...

Still reluctant to admit who and what we are facing? Still holding out hope that we can appeal to the better angels of people who claim that American greatness is best exhibited by cruelty? From the same people who heard the stories about dead mothers who were denied life-saving health care and didn't shed a single tear? By the fanatics who happily waved signs that read Mass Deportation Now and will cheer when people are rounded up and families ripped apart? Unity with the folks who felt more inconvenienced by a global COVID pandemic and ignored the AIDS epidemic because it wasn't their problem? Ditto for famine, climate change, lead water pipes, or the strategic placement of power lines near communities that result in childhood cancer clusters. Are you that blind to their depravity?

Before you launch into a self-righteous lecture on tolerance, don't. Take that nonsense to Twitter. These are not simple differences of opinion; they are irreconcilable--the kind that place people's lives in danger. Those people aren't looking to live together in perfect harmony. They want to make us feel demoralized, conquered...so any and every suggestion of appeasement or conciliation is bullshit. Some of these capitulators are the same folks who wanted a contested convention, so we need to be clear about them as well. 

This wasn't an American Idol finale. Some of us just can't get over the result and move on as if everything will be fine. Until and unless you accept that there are clear lines between good and evil, then we cannot reassemble this fractured coalition. Because right now, if you are advocating a strategy of if you can't beat them, you will join them, then you have told me where you stand at times of challenge and controversy...on the sidelines waiting to see who emerges victorious. 

Having spent a month in reflection and rest, I still lament what we could have had by electing Kamala Harris. But it's above me now. As another Whitney Houston song begins to play in my head, I have to focus on the future. I've spent nine months mourning my Mom. I don't plan to spend the rest of my life mourning this country. I can't guarantee that I won't get caught up in my feelings every now and then, but I've got shit to do. 

Stay tuned.

Life Goes On (and On)

Scrolling through the drafts and I noticed this one that I had attempted to write during the summer. This was started a week before Father's Day. A lot of this was covered in this piece that was already published in October, so there are redundancies and/or details that might have been more present for me in the short-term as opposed to several months later. I will explain more after the jump. --ADH

It has been a little more than three months. 

When I woke up on the morning of February 27, I'm sure that I had no idea that it would be her last day, even though I had been given ample advance warning that her time was coming. What I remember knowing for certain that morning when I dropped my daughter off at school and the Hub at work, was that I desperately needed to get a few uninterrupted hours of writing done. I had been struggling for weeks to publish anything, so my hope was to finish something (or make some progress on a few of the various pieces I had been writing), and then to see my Mom that later afternoon after my daughter's dance class. 

I mentioned having had advanced warning because my Mom had been in hospice since last September. So I knew...but I had also been lulled into a false sense that she would defy the odds, be de-certified from receiving hospice care, and continue to carry on living in the background of the lives we had built for ourselves. It was a selfish wish. So I knew, but I just didn't want to believe.

There were signs. During the month of January, which I now call Calamuary, everything began to unravel. My Mom's long-time home health aide went out on extended medical leave for a double hip replacement, a procedure she put off for months or possibly years. My parents' long-term care insurance, which had been slow-walking reimbursement payments since the summer, reminded me that they are in the business of making money not paying it out. The home health care agency that recently went conglomerate by acquiring smaller agencies and changing its name to reflect the fact that it was not a conglomerate, informed me that it intended to increase their rates. This is also while they sent us an ever-limited rotation of aides who were certified to work in our jurisdiction. The hospice nurse, who had been jovial and upbeat for most of her weekly visits in 2023, began to look worried mere weeks after the start of the New Year. Then the furnace fucking stopped working. 

We survived. I prayed that we could make it to her birthday, February 1, and then kept praying. On the night of her birthday when I finally made my way over to the house to see her, the indications that I had been warned would signal the end were more evident. She wasn't awake. If she ate, we had to be more careful to prevent aspiration. The pressure sore on her tailbone began to get worse. She looked frail and weak and was rapidly losing weight. I brought her a gourmet birthday cookie, which I think my daughter ended up eating a few days later.

For Valentine's Day, I bought candy and make little treat boxes for the home care aides, including her long-time aide. She had wanted to schedule a visit and a day of beauty for Mom, and had enlisted the services of her daughter, but I hesitated. Not on having her visit, but I was concerned that my Mom wasn't strong enough for anything taxing like getting her hair done. But I agreed in theory that something was needed to lift the heaviness that had begun to permeate the house since the furnace fiasco of the previous month. We still had Christmas decorations up which my brother hastily took down (but I have yet to put them away). So I bought a banner that I intended to hang in her room. We opted for the living room where the now empty Christmas stocking hooks were affixed to the fireplace mantle. My thinking was that she might see the banner along with the weekly bouquet of flowers I brought for her when she was seated in her wheelchair.

There had been signs. I would not say that I didn't notice, but that I was unwilling to fully acknowledge them. In other words, I definitely knew, but I had been operating under the childish wish that if I kept my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears and if I sang aloud, then I could pretend not to notice what was happening. I could fake ignore that my Mom was dying in some futile attempt to avoid it, as if that would have made a difference.

It didn't. At about 11am that morning, after I had settled into a groove of writing, I got the call from the hospice nurse. I took a shower and got dressed. I packed up my computer and my chargers. I called my brothers and then a few relatives. I honestly don't remember if that is the exact order of things, but I know that I was on the phone with my college roommate when I arrived at the house. My younger brother, who had been waiting for me, met me outside to let me know that he was leaving to pick up our kids from school. Inside, my Dad's priest was administering Last Rites and the home care aide (whose name I don't remember) was praying and crying. At some point, relatives began to arrive. One of my uncles sat in the living room with his head in his hands. Someone announced that there was food in the kitchen. Friends of mine arrived. At some point, I even received a phone call from Africa.

Then everyone left. My Mom was still breathing, but with difficultly it seemed, so we questioned whether the morphine would help. We decided that it would, and then we discussed what might happen the next morning...

The details of someone's last day mean more to the people who are able to remember them. Of this I am clear because I don't know what my Mom knew or felt. I can't ask her. I go into her empty room and while I feel her presence, it is not the same as it was when she was physically in that hospital bed, in my Dad's den that had been converted into an accessible first floor bedroom. 

I am not okay.

So if you ask, I will lie and say that I am, not because I want to be deceptive, but because I have made the calculation that answering honestly in that moment will likely require me to elaborate or listen to some nicely intentioned, but tone-deaf speech. I know that my Mom is with me and that she is proud of me (at least I think she is). Yes, I will miss her forever, as I try to figure out how I got through these months without crumbling.

Me and All the Black Women I Know

There is a meme going around on social media that if you receive a certain picture, it has symbolic meaning. Until a few days ago, I would have sent a picture of Supreme Court Justice (and my Soror) Ketanji Brown Jackson to represent the disgust my fellow Black sisters in law feel whenever we have to defend ourselves against specious attacks. She's definitely in the arsenal, as well as a picture of Spelman Founder Sophia Packard (which might not pack the same punch to anyone unfamiliar with how the Spelmafia rolls) but I think my go-to may now be Fani Willis.

If you get this from me, it means you done started something you'd best be prepared to finish. And if you read that and thought, hmm, shouldn't she have said better, then Imma caution you to watch your step and tread lightly. Because if you're judging my delivery and command of the English language in addition to questioning my intelligence while feigning sincerity, this not gonna end well attall!

I spent the better part of two days last week seeing shades of red that I didn't know existed in nature. It began with my frustration over comments made by a certain political pundit who helped Al Gore lose his home state of Tennessee in 2000. That must have provided cover for all of the other keyboard pundits, most of them nonlawyers, to opine about what Ms. Willis should have known better not to do. Then I happened upon some of the commentary from the hotep hallways where nothing any Black woman does is celebrated. And then finally, because it is February and I missed the memo that granted blanket amnesty to all current and future racist content on social media, y'all really been on one this year. Keep at it though, we got an extra day this month...

Let's start with the low-hanging fruit and dismiss any and all musings by the ashy un-lotioned incels among us. Dear Reader, I won't waste your time in linking to that nonsense because it follows the predictable pattern of diminishing the work of any accomplished Black woman. In this case, because they can't denounce Willis for being a bed wench, they can just call her a bitch or a hoe, and those posts get lots of traction from their man-baby brethren. This is in spite of the fact that their purported hero Brother Minister Malcolm X famously said in 1962 that the Black woman is the most disrespected and unprotected person on earth. I guess they all mysteriously missed that particular speech.

On the opposite end, as much as we appreciate the 'love' coming from our #thankaBlackwoman groupies, I am reminded that some of those people have been conditioned to believe that it is our job to clean up after them. As writer Zora Neale Hurston described it in Their Eyes Were Watching God (1937), Black women are the mules of the world. Mules are beasts of burden, intentionally bred for hard labor. Maybe these people grew up in homes where there was a beloved Big Momma, or a trusted maid who was also the family confidante/washerwoman/cook/wet nurse. Or perhaps they watched a lot of television; regardless of what may have informed those expectations, their praises carry a tinge of, yeah just leave the dirty work for that Black lady. 

Thus, the faux outrage that Willis messed things up for all Black woman in professional settings is another problematic argument being touted by the loudest Black-people-are-not-a-monolith Pick Mes. Some of these same lowercase black folks insisted for YEARZ, like trained parrots, that we are not all the same and they prided themselves on being different, independent, suburban with a tan. Suddenly, in spite of their protestations, one pissed off Black woman has the power to make all of us you look bad to your drinking buddies. So you just had to take the time to denounce her to remind them that you are still cool, because dammit, you worked hard to be deemed acceptable and worthy to be allowed in their presence. Perhaps as atonement, they will let you buy the next round.

It is amazing to me that no matter how much we accomplish, no matter how much ballyhooed progress, it is nothing more than an intricate sand sculpture on a small beach. One wave and all of our hard work gets washed away by the tide. All of our accomplishments can be undone in a careless millisecond. Everyone else is allowed to be flawed, make mistakes, stumble through, but let a Black woman reveal the slightest vulnerability and I swear, it's like Jesus and His disciples in the Garden of Gethsemane. While Judas is preparing for his betrayal, the majority of the disciples are in hiding. A chosen few accompany Jesus to pray in the Garden, where they fall asleep. Startled by the arresting mob, Peter loudly denies their friendship. In our most vulnerable moments, we anticipate that someone will betray us, and we expect that most of our friends are either going to remain in hiding or are too preoccupied with their own lives to get involved. But it is Peter's denial--the gratuitous disavowals that Willis should have known better; the acquiescence that this is an unfair system built on an ever-shifting landscape; that in her hour of need some friends wouldn't risk getting as much as a toe wet even if she had walked out on water to save them from drowning... 

It be your own people sometimes. Et tu, Brute???

Finally, let's talk about the I-don't-see-color because I-am-not-a-racist-BUT folks, the ones who have perfected other ways of expressing their biases. The pearl-wearing Birkin purse-clutchers who described Willis' courtroom demeanor as ghetto and made references to The Jerry Springer Show (which they must have watched). They were appalled that an angry Black woman walked into court on her own accord and left that same way, defiant and unashamed. That this Black woman with a law degree, years of prosecutorial experience, and the confidence of someone who was elected as the first woman to hold that position would stand up for herself. That this woman, who upon recognizing that her office possessed the power to pursue justice on behalf of those two Black women election workers who were harassed and defamed, decided to use that power to face off with the most powerful giant the Philistines have. That they assumed this same woman, who personally appeared in court weeks before this sordid soap opera to confront Harrison Floyd for violating the terms of his bail agreement, wasn't going to bring that same energy to court in defense of her career? 

I get it, you prefer a more refined Black woman, one that doesn't have a discernable regional accent and who comports herself with dignity. Right, because when now-Justice Jackson sat for three days at a Senate hearing where it was intimated that she didn't know the difference between a law book and a J. Crew Catalogue by Senator Foghorn Leghorn, I didn't see you take offense or offer her any empathy.  That Black woman also went through law school, had several prestigious federal clerkships, and was herself a federal judge--credentials no one could deny were impressive. Instead, Senator Bull McConnell attacked her demeanor as a performance which met the approval of Senator Butler Mushmouth whose theatrical thumbs down sure did ingratiate him with your MAGA crowd.

Quit playing in our faces! I could offer up the names of countless "respectable" Black women that you have disrespected for the most trivial of alleged offenses. Going back as far as Phillis Wheatley and the American Revolution, every educated Black woman has been subjected to those back-handed compliments, polite insults, and reminders that we will never be good enough. There is an entire MAGA conspiracy theory that Former First Lady Michelle Obama, the epitome of style and grace, is really a man. Madame Vice President Kamala Harris is right there, and no matter that she serves admirably as Joe Biden's work wife without breaking a sweat, these folks get on social media and act like she's the ethnic design pattern on the Oval Office drapes. Some of y'all wouldn't sit next to a respectable Black woman on a crowded city bus, so miss me with your T.J. Maxx condescension. 

If Fani Willis had glided into court performing Tchaikovsky's Pas de Deux, y'all still would have called her graceless and classless. If she had worn the crown jewels and spoken with the elocution of the Queen of England, y'all still would have criticized her body language and demeanor. So Sis came to court as her authentic I-grew-up-in-DC-during-the-80s-crack-epidemic self so act like you know, and I ain't mad! (Side note, she's a fellow survivor of DC's all-girl Catholic schools from that era, so she earns extra cool point in my book for that.)

She was righteously angry about while testifying about her personal life in open court, so she opted not to code switch. Unlike some of these rich men who do whatever the fuck they want as long as they don't get caught, women don't receive justice by remaining silent. There would be no presumption of innocence if she hadn't spoken up for herself, only the perception of her as presented by others. And make no mistake, this was political revenge porn without any pictures, so she had every right to take the stand to debunk the crass allegations and insinuations made about her character. 

You saw her Daddy. Of course he taught her to keep cash on hand and to have a plan that doesn't rely on a man. Me and all the Black women I know got this same life advice from a Black Daddy and/or Uncle. All of us also received some version of that infamous Papa Pope speech about being twice as good to get half of what they have. 

It isn't my place to opine about what she should have expected if someone went rifling through her garbage. My guess is that she expected them to find trash, so even if she was sloppy about not disclosing her past relationship with her co-counsel, maybe it shouldn't have been all that shocking in the first place. God forbid she has a personal life (another sexist stereotype). They discussed work over dinner...and took some of it home...and on a couple of trips out of town. And they went Dutch! The fact that we would hold her to a higher standard of personal conduct than the former President who directed a conspiracy to commit election fraud and the harassment of election workers, is a special kind of sexism. It's the kind that conflates an ethical slip with abuse of power from the highest elected official in the land by claiming that they are equal in magnitude. She should have known better while President Trump was only trying to disenfranchise millions of voters because he's a sore loser.

GTFOHWTBS!

Admittedly when I first saw those Jerry Springer/anti DEI talking points trending, I took it personally. It isn't just that y'all are saying the quiet parts out loud, because that ain't new. And as Willis and I are the same age, we've both endured our fair share of micro-aggressive challenges to our right to occupy spaces that were only accessible to our grandmothers for cleaning. They weren't expecting her to come in with a more powerful broom, nor that she wouldn't ask for permission before redecorating. Of course these folks hate-watched her testimony to dissect and rip the very flesh from her bones--envious haters will do whatever it takes to discredit and disqualify us.

Then I remembered another lesson my Black Daddy taught me about not accepting the negative comments and jabs that people hurl at me with their mean-spirited intentions. Yeah, they might call me all kinds of names but I don't have to answer to them, nor should I allow their descriptions of me to undermine my confidence. It is not my job to control how you interpret what I am. If ghetto is the worst insult that your feeble brains can conjure up, well that's just proof of your mediocrity, lack of imagination, and audacity. 

I used to watch The Jerry Springer Show too, and from what I recall those raucous chants not only greeted Springer when he took to the stage, but also were used to de-escalate the chaos unfolding among the guests. What you heard was both an audience of Black sisters in law chanting Willis' name as she took the stand, and a necessary reminder that she's the District Attorney and she's got this.

FANI! FANI! FANI!

Too Many Open Tabs

I just counted the number of open tabs at the top of my screen. There are 46, not including the 16 other tabs that may be open in a different window. I also have at least five unfinished drafts that I am struggling through and I'm sinking into a depression that I don't seem to be able to avoid.

This isn't normally the type of piece I would want to publish from this blog. I prefer not to put energy into the universe that comes across as a plea for help, but I need to express a few things in order to break through from this cycle, hopefully to something else better. Because I am stuck...

I am over it. I am fried. I am frustrated that I don't seem to have any control over anything in my life, not even my own emotions or thoughts. I am sitting here contemplating if this is what I am supposed to be doing with my life--writing to myself since talking aloud to myself would be a sign of insanity. Is this just me jotting down my rantings and ravings for posterity?

(By the way, I hate this new feature where the computer tries to anticipate what I am intending to say. I find this very fucking annoying <---it didn't guess that I was about to curse. For the record, I do not appreciate artificial intelligence trying to make my life seem easy when I really just want to think and brood for myself.)

For the past couple of weeks I have seriously thought to discontinue writing this blog. I have hit a wall, I don't think I'm saying anything new or interesting, and I barely get any readers anyway. I could try to take a break, but then what would I do? I don't have anything else going on in my life that doesn't involve taking care of someone or feeling as if I have to be in Olivia Pope survival mode ready to handle stuff. I am tired. 

And I know I am contradicting myself, but I feel useless.

The last time I felt this way, I sat down and wrote myself out of the funk. Today I am unsure if that will do the trick. Tomorrow, who knows? Several years ago, I did stop writing for about 18 months or so, and I can tell you that I didn't feel any better about the state of things during that hiatus. But I don't know what else I can do, except maybe get away to someplace where all I need to do is think and write and read and sleep and drink. I just need to be.

I don't want anyone to reach out to me to offer encouraging platitudes, as if that would actually happen. I know it won't because it never has, even when it is obvious to everyone how miserable I am. Because that is the catch--no one notices, and even if they did, no one ever knows what to say to me. Either I'm really adept at putting on a happy face for the world, or I'm an expert at being ignored. Besides, these posters are annoying AF. 

My life is a mess. That is not something I say just to have something to say, because literally I had to step over several piles of things to get to this little space where my computer and chair are in my cramped little office where I can't see the floor. I bought some cards for Teacher Appreciation Week that I cannot find, and I have a bunch of Mother's Day cards that I need to write and mail. At the same time, I am sitting here feeling a bit resentful that I make all of this effort and feel that none of it is appreciated. Who cares if I don't send Mother's Day cards with handwritten notes in them this year? I'm guessing no one.

While I'm navel gazing and stewing in my own pot, I got to thinking about the writers' strike in Hollywood and how I totally understand and can relate to sense that no one appreciates creativity anymore. People just assume that if they type in a bunch of concepts into a computer program, it will spit out a sequence of interchangeable scenarios that will eliminate the need for writers.  Who needs a room full of people with mortgages and kids to feed when you just need one person to keep the paper from jamming in the printer. Isn't that essentially the Tyler Perry model of "content creation"? He's a damn billionaire who could be employing these talented moonlighting Door Dashers and Lyft drivers. I don't know how much he pays the actors (and we know he doesn't invest much in production), but if that is the future of scripted television and movies...

I keep telling myself that money isn't everything. I look at the pictures from the MET Gala and of course I would love to attend those kinds of functions, but then I think about all of the people who services I would need to employ to help me look like that. And then I remember that not only do I not have a job, I'm not anybody important, so it wouldn't even merit an invitation or I would be shunned like this cockroach. Perhaps the People's Ball for the bridge and tunnel crowd is more my speed (not really, but maybe I will make that happen someday.)

A few months ago, someone posted about hosting a reading for their book and how no one came. That is exactly how I feel right now. I worry myself into a tizzy over sentences and punctuation and word choice, but when all is written and edited and I finally hit the "confirm" button to publish, I get these simultaneous feelings of relief and anxiety. Because then I have to figure out how to promote it, and after I agonize over that for a few minutes, then I get wound up in a knot with worry that I should have done this or that or rephrased...

(Yes, I go through this every single time.) So why bother? Because I have at least 9 faithful readers, and none of them is related to me, so no one feels guilted into reading what I've written because I might withhold sex or not speak to them. And honest to God, I am not complaining because it could be worse. Imagine if a certain person did feel obligated to read my blog the way they seem to feel compelled to faithfully listen to their baseball or foodie podcasts...

So now you know why I rarely want people to know that this neurotic side of me exists. Yet, I think it makes me seem more human in case there was some cause for doubt. I often entertain the thought of myself as an abject failure, and then I consider the alternative. I don't have as clear an image in my head of what that might entail, but I'm guessing that in the Alphaverse, that Ayanna doesn't wear yoga pants every day. Yep, I've seen Everything Everywhere All At Once quite a few times since it swept the Oscars; ironically, not entirely all the way through in one sitting.

If I'm not screaming into the void, then I'm just another bewildered housewife living her worst life somewhere in the multiverse. That is actually a comforting thought--it feels good to imagine that somewhere out there, a version of me is the Ayanna I am looking for.

See, sometimes it does work to just write it all out. 

That doesn't mean that I won't entertain any more thoughts of self-doubt. I am a good writer, but I'm no Lin-Manuel Miranda (remember him), finding award-winning inspiration in the life of a forgotten Founding Father. I find my inspiration by scrolling social media and watching cable news. I write about experiences from my own life and my interactions engaging with others. I fancy myself as an undiscovered pop culture critic/political pundit, more accessible and unfiltered. I unapologetically stand up for women, Black women in particular, and despite what some unwoke provocateur might claim, my feminism isn't some issue I adopted in order to exclude the awkward people from the sorority. I am a Believer who sees Jesus in the cracks and crevices. I love this country, but I will do my part to push it to become what it claims to be, and I refuse to accept anything less. 

If you are still reading, that is who the Busy Black Woman is. Nope, not a long-winded wannabe porn model--a writer. When I began this journey, my life was in a much different place. I thought I had a solid plan and attainable dreams, but then the ground under my feet shifted. At times it feels like the earth never stops moving long enough for me to find my footing. But I keep writing.

So while I am discouraged right now, I won't give in to despair. I will close some of these tabs and will finish and publish those pieces. I will send those Mother's Day cards and I may clear a path of floor in my office. I might listen to a few songs from the Hamilton soundtrack. While I hope this strike doesn't last long, I hope the writers hold the line because talented people deserve to earn a decent living in their chosen profession (and that concept should apply universally). If it works for me to cross a few items off my to-do list, so be it, or I might just settle for leaving this house to sit in my car by the water somewhere for a change of scenery. Either way, I will write about it and let you know.

Dear Black Mothers

A few years ago, I attended a rally in downtown DC against police misconduct and brutality, shortly after the uprising in Ferguson, Missouri. This was sometime in the fall of 2014 following the death of Michael Brown. As a veteran attendee of these kinds of events, this was the first time I went as a soon-to-be mother...I was a couple of weeks pregnant.

Here's the thing, I would have gone anyway, but I was definitely more motivated and compelled to attend at that early stage of my pregnancy. It was still too soon to learn the gender, but my rationale was that in a family with one granddaughter and another one coming, both the daughters of my brothers, surely I could expect to bring forth a boy. (Of course, I was wrong as you all know, and for that we can blame my Dad for not passing on his mathematical genius to me, the Hub for his contribution of that second X chromosome, or my pregnancy hormones.) Nevertheless, the point of going was to stand with the other Black mothers, in solidarity as one of them with the same fears and anxieties for my unborn Black child. As I stood in the crowd and put my hand on the not-even-there-yet poof of a baby bump, I was overcome by tears. 

How can I protect this child from a system determined to regard him as guilty from the moment he enters the world?

Since I opted not to learn the gender of the baby in advance, when I gave birth to my daughter, I have to admit that I let out a brief sigh of relief. Sure, there are anxieties attached to raising a young Black girl in this society, of which I am most keenly aware as she heads into puberty. However, I don't have to set as a goal seeing her live to the age of 18 as a measure of my success or failure as a parent. Sadly, that isn't something that Black mothers of sons can assume is guaranteed. 

I became painfully aware of that fact just a few years earlier when Trayvon Martin was killed and his murderer was acquitted. The entire encounter hinged on the right of a self-styled neighborhood vigilante to determine whether the young Black man he saw was legitimately in his own neighborhood. The fact that the killer made the assumption that Martin did not belong is precisely the moment their fateful encounter derailed. I read so many opinions that framed what happened as a cautionary tale about how young Black men ought to conduct themselves. And no matter how many details pointed to what we knew was obvious, none of it mattered. It was somehow the fault of the 17-year old child who was profiled, stalked, attacked, and then killed to have acted in some way to overcome the presumption of his guilt for merely existing.

Since 2012, this pattern has been repeated too many times. There are too many names we vow never to forget, too many Black mothers in mourning. It doesn't stop. Every death renews the need for The Talk, but with constant caveats and revisions. Don't wear hoodies because you might look suspicious. Don't play with a toy gun because it might be mistaken for the real thing. Don't make any sudden moves that might be misinterpreted as threatening. Don't disclose that you are legally carrying a weapon with a permit. Don't make eye contact with the officers. Don't ask why you were stopped even if you didn't break any laws. Don't try to drive to a well-lit area because then you are leading the police on a 'chase'. Don't hang anything from the rearview mirror, not even a rosary or your graduation tassel because you might get stopped. Don't reach into your pocket for your license and registration even though you were ordered to provide them to the officer. Don't get seen smoking or drinking water in your own car. Don't assume that your good credit rating, advanced degrees, military uniform, or fancy zip code will exempt you from mistreatment. 

Do whatever they tell you, even if it consists of 71 conflicting commands all shouted simultaneously while you're being beaten. The goal is to make it home alive. 

In the cinematic build-up to the release of this video of Tyre Nichols, I had already resolved not to watch. It felt wrong both to anticipate its release and to make every effort to avoid it, but I understand that the Nichols' family authorized the timing of the release so that the world could see it, unredacted and raw. And in my internal debate with myself about why I didn't need or want to subject myself to that horror, I kept asking why must we force Black mothers to summon the courage of Mamie Till-Mobley? Why don't we have the option to mourn our dead children without the gaze of the world looking on while offering no comfort?

Of course, that begs the question of why we put Black mothers in the position of having to grieve for our children in the first place. We are always told that it is unnatural for parents to bury their offspring, but life doesn't happen according to how we think it should. And Black mothers are not unique in experiencing loss. However, unless it is accidental or unavoidable, Black death is always political. We die under circumstance that are engineered to kill us, from chronic untreated health disparities to environmental racism to gang warfare to the kind of state-sponsored lynchings carried out by the police. Grief is a permanent reality for Black mothers.

And no one cares. There are excuses and bullshit explanations for every incident. Here in DC there was a debate on social media over the recent death of an unarmed 13-year-old child who was shot by someone who thought he was trying to steal a car. It was disheartening to see that folks had taken the time to type out how bad they felt, but...and you can fill in the blank of any number of mitigating reasons why it was not outrageous that another Black child had lost his life. 

I won't reiterate the very well-written points that have been made about the spectacle of Black death and how seeing such violence further contributes to our dehumanization. And it isn't just Black bodies because I felt a similar sense of disgust over the calls for the Uvalde, Texas parents to allow the bloody photos of their massacred children to be published. The way these mass shootings have been stacking up numbers and occurring indiscriminately across all communities, I thought it was particularly gruesome to demand to see the bullet-ridden corpses of those Latino children. As if the scene of their slaughter would finally convince America that our love of guns is literally killing us... 

Note how similar requests have not been suggested to the families of other mass shooting victims. Also note the contrast between the way accountability was swiftly meted out in Memphis by its chief but how the finger-pointing in Uvalde dragged on for months. I want to believe that the makeup of each law enforcement agency made the difference but having a Black/Latinx police chief or a force that demographically represents those communities didn't prevent either tragedy. Yet, what happened in Uvalde is the norm, and now the police chief in Memphis is under scrutiny for her past leadership of another specialized police unit. Furthermore, as long as we're caught up in a culture war that treats policing itself as its own demographic that exists apart and above the lives of those whom the profession is supposed to protect and serve, then true accountability is impossible.

Perhaps it is endemic in a system that was built on the mythology of Black inferiority, of bodies bought and sold at auction, that it is our utility that has the most worth, not our actual lives. What else explains the organized backlash against the simplest of statements, that our lives matter too? And what of the self-defeatist denouncements of Black culture that come from our own children? I was dismayed to read a tweet from somebody's Black man-child that there exists within Black culture a pathology that glorifies death. And that truly broke my heart because if he's barely 21 saying something so declaratively ignorant like that on Al Gore's internet, as are prominent Black pundits like Jason Whitlock, then is it any wonder why Black mothers cry out loud but find little comfort?

Our culture glorifies death? Meanwhile white families pose for these pictures and send them as Christmas greetings. No one would dare vilify this mother if something terrible happens to one of her children. Yet, the single Black mother of two sons who worked hard to keep them out of trouble; who sent her younger son to stay with his father (her ex-husband) to give him more structure and discipline; who had to endure watching her family being re-traumatized in the court of public opinion after her son's killer was acquitted--she's the bad mother, in spite of all evidence to the contrary. 

Here's the thing Mr. Jason 'Fearless' Whitlock et. al., it doesn't take a lot of courage to talk shit about Black women on a podcast. True fearlessness is standing up in the aftermath of personal tragedy to demand accountability and justice, not whining to the manosphere. In most of these cases, Black mothers are the ones who lead the transition from mourning to marching. In Memphis, it was another Black mother, the police chief you attacked, who took decisive action to ensure that these officers were held accountable. That was supported by more decisive action taken by an organization of real community-minded men, the brothers of Omega Psi Phi Fraternity, Inc. And that must really annoy the folks who pay you to keep the focus on the games meant to distract us instead of the struggles meant to liberate us. 

Dear Black Mothers and Aunties, there is a Balm in Gilead, but it will not be prescribed by those who oppress us and kill our babies. Why should we believe that our families are doomed just because someone else's faith claims that the only proper roles for women in God's Kingdom are as servants, virgins, prostitutes, or widows? The same God who anointed a lowly shepherd boy and made him a great king also performed some of His most transformative miracles in the lives of women. Look at what He did for Sarah, Rahab, Ruth, Queen Esther, Elizabeth, Mary, Jairus' daughter, the woman with the issue of blood, the Samarian woman at the well, and Mary Magdeline at the tomb. Beyond procreation, every other gender-based restriction on earth is man-made and benefits those looking to retain their tenuous grip on power. 

If the patriarchy is threatened by strong women, then Black women, who have had to stand in the gap created by centuries of racist practices and policies that removed Black men as the primary providers and protectors, must be especially intimidating. Harriet Tubman didn't wait for her husband, who was not enslaved, to give her permission to escape, nor was she deterred when he didn't join any of her return trips. Mamie Till Mobley, a widow, was advised to bury her only begotten son quietly so as not to stir up trouble, but she had other ideas. Barbara Johns, Linda Brown, Elizabeth Eckford, and Ruby Bridges were children on the front lines of school desegregation in the 1950s and 60s. Claudette Colvin was an unwed teenage mother, but her arrest nine months prior set the stage for Rosa Parks and the Montgomery Bus Boycott. So tell us again, Mr. Jason 'Fearless' Whitlock about who and what is God-ordained? Who are you to declare that Black women, who have lost fathers, husbands, and sons, ought not to take the lead in our families and communities as necessary? Just as our ancestors pieced together clothing scraps and rags into beautiful quilts, grieving Black Mothers have sewn together the remnants and keep their families together.

You write/talk about sports for a living...so maybe you need to stay in that lane.

I began with this piece by invoking the memory of a protest I attended back in 2014. It has not escaped my notice that Tyre Nichols must have been about 17 years old at that time (close in age to Michael Brown and Trayvon Martin) and how his parents probably sat him down to have what was then, a revised version of The Talk to avoid meeting their same fate. Here we are ten years later and I cannot fathom the pain his mother must be feeling. I look at Mrs. RowVaughn Wells and see a lot of the women I know--classmates, sorors, women at my church, etc. Any one of us could be in her place, even me as I am old enough to have had a son the same age. 

Like this young mother, I am willing to face down tanks and police in riot gear to protect my daughter, but I shouldn't have to. I should not have to worry that in 10-12 years, my young nephews, cousins, and great-nephews will have to be sat down for The Talk, updated with a new set of prohibitions because some other Black mother's son didn't make it home alive. Nichols' own son will be receiving that same Talk around that same time. 

Dear Black Mothers, we must keep praying and marching for the lives of our babies. There is a parable of a persistent widow who sought to be heard by an unjust judge, and though he initially ignored her pleas, he eventually granted her the justice she sought. Keep the faith, my Sisters, because we are fighting a corrupt system, and if we don't keep seeking justice, who will?