Archive for January, 2013

Am I Wrong? 

I lay the facts out for you as I seem them to present my case

For I need to know, am I wrong?

Am I wrong to want to spend the rest of my life with a black man?

To grow old with him? Share our mortal eternity together?

Am I wrong to desire this to an infinite amount with my whole being?

So much so ‘til it washes over me, fills me up and tears well up in my eyes at the very thought of it?


Am I wrong to only have eyes for a black man?

Not because I can’t or don’t want to see the others

But because when I look at him I see a reflection of myself, our ancestors and all their beauty

Because I am so in love with the unique way God created me, my skin, my hair, my nose, my lips, my cheekbones, my talk, my style, my courage, my strength

That it feels only natural to be attracted to a man designed of the same fashion.

Am I wrong for this?


Because I know that you will understand

When I come home and tell you how I was followed around a department store because of the color of my skin

You will know what it’s like to jump through hoops and play these charades just o get an interview and still not get the job even when you’re qualified…or being passed over for a promotion

Because you will know what it feels like to be lost in this America with no roots to trace

We will share the pain and sorrow of losing a loved one to the streets

You will relate to not having a father and know the importance of your presence should we have offspring

Am I wrong?


Am I wrong to want to prove to myself and our world that the black family can stand firm and united?

That not all black men create babies and leave the mother to play both roles

That not all black men will flee from homes to succumb to drugs, violence, or crime.

That not all black men pro-create six children with five different wombs becoming the center of baby mama drama

That not all black men sit around polluting their lungs and liver listening to so-called musical content about nothing while they wait for the welfare check

That not all black men leave traces of abuse, bruised, beaten, battered women and children.

Am I wrong?


We, as humans, are the only beings that walk this earth and consistently try to defy, change, or live around the laws of nature.

Stop and look!

I have yet to see an elephant pro-create with a giraffe.

The lion, big, strong, fierce beautiful king of the jungle mates with the lioness to produce cubs who too will become big, strong, fierce beautiful kings of the jungle.

Am I wrong?


This is not a hate speech to other races.

This is a love poem dedicated to my black men.

Black man, you just told me last week that I am attractive and you love black women

You love my skin, hair, and curves

This week that statement has changed to “Baby I just love all women period” as you skip off with your new Latino upgrade

I guess you did not share the same passion on the deep-rooted level that I shared for you as I gave myself to you.

Am I wrong?


I love my sistahs – black, Asian, Latino all the same

These are my sisters through the eyes of my God whose image I am created in

As were they

So I see them as my equals and love and embrace them as such.

Why is it black man that you do not see it the same?

I am the regular gas you use to rev up your Buick

All others are the premium grade level you save for the Jag

Am I wrong?


Even the aloe plant will produce more of itself and nurture and feed the new buds that blossom

Black man how come we are not doing the same?

We are dissipating – the black race that is

Am I wrong?

Perhaps that is the goal

Perhaps there was some secret black men’s meeting where it was agreed upon that we will wipe out our race

Because we hate our mothers and our sisters and ourselves so much that we must not come together and bring more who look like us into this world!

Oh heavens no!

They are already killing us out there just because

Why not get the ball rolling and help them expedite the mission?

Obesity – murder

Diabetes – murder

Drugs – murder

Gangs – murder

Abortions – murder

Laziness – murder

Ignorance – murder

All these and more are the blades of suicide that we bring down swiftly and slice our wrists

Am I wrong?


This is not another angry black woman’s rant


Because I know we walk around angry

Scowls grace our face instead of smiles

We are always angry about something right?

So easier fly the coop than stay and try to understand why

God forbid the black man and black woman come together and work out their issues

Can’t have that now can we?


This is not an angry black woman poem

For I know there are enough of us walking around angry, hurt, and just plain bitter

I come in peace and love this day

For a moment I let my black woman anger turn me mad, insane

But I have worked on myself.

I took time-outs several times of this lifetime, years at a time

I took time out from you black man and all men

I have worked on myself

I dug through my bitterness and anger casting those spirits out of my soul to make room for only good things

I have worked on myself

I have consciously decided to flash you a smile when I see you in the store, street, or gas station instead of a frown because you are my brother whether you know it and accept it or not

I have worked on myself

I have emptied my body of all junk and eat only healthy things to feed my temple

I have worked on myself

I have started a regiment of intense exercises to keep this flesh body in tact and pleasing to the eyes – first for me and second for you black man

I have worked on myself

I have peeled off all those phony layers of plastic attachments and allowed my natural beauty to shine through because I know you want a real woman who is proud of who she is

I have worked on myself

I have turned off the reality shows and picked my books back up so we can have more to talk about than the nonsense of Hollywood

I have worked on myself

I learned to cook something other than Ramen noodles and grilled cheese so I can feed you well and offer you options

I have worked on myself

I have developed a new career and built my finances so I have a life of my own and can bring something to meet you halfway at the table

I have worked on myself

I am an independent woman because I’ve had to be

Maybe overly independent so I have stepped back some to allow you to be the man in the relationship and the head of the house as you should be

I have worked on myself

I have developed a stronger, deeper spirituality and relationship with our creator for he should be our first love

I have worked on myself

I have worked on my communication so I am not a nag and we can talk our differences out instead of using limited, ill vocabulary to hurl at one another

I have worked on myself

I have subtracted from this list that I called “standards” to make room for you and your growth

I have learned that sometimes you need my support to back you more than you need my reality checks

I have worked on myself

I have rid myself of loose ideas and shut down this temple to any who don’t deserve to enter

I have worked on myself

I have studied the art of lovemaking and make continuous small deposits to my bank of knowledge in this area because I want you to be satisfied in all ways

I have worked on myself

I have studied our positive and strong effective leaders of our people who came before us because to get where we’re going we need to know, respect, and understand what we come from

I have worked on myself


I have worked on myself

I have worked on myself

I have worked on myself

I have worked on myself

For myself!…and for you black man

And a bulb flashes above my head as I stare at my reflection in the mirror

A teleprompter scrolls thru my brain and it reads: “THE TRANSFORMATION IS COMPLETE”

The message computes and is translated as I stare back at me

I am everything I want to be

Everything I need to be

And everything God has called me to be

So on my end the transaction says complete

For some reason on your end black man it’s still pending

Am I wrong?


Some tell me stop holding my breath

“Niggas ain’t shit!”

Yes this is what they say about you black man

I need to broaden my horizons, try something new, different

And sure I could go out here and get a man of another color

Because frankly they seem to want me more

But I’m smarter than that

I am smarter than being bought for sexual experimentation masked as better living in the big house

I can identify the difference between being loved and adored and just paraded around like some prize cattle

I know the essential part you and I both play to the survival of the black family, our people, our race


So I express this not thru anger, not even frustration

I just have a simple question that I think requires a simple answer

Am I wrong?

This would not be the first time

Still sometimes it’s hard to admit

But yeah…I guess maybe I am


Taken From Chapter 12

I wasn’t sure how it was going to be hanging out with her outside of work, but I actually enjoyed our conversation as we rode to the club. Jillian was cool, real down to earth. She had nice things, but she wasn’t showy about it. She was generous too. Once we got to the club, she insisted on buying the drinks. The spot was nice. The lights were low and the décor very laid back. It gave a very sexy, sultry type of ambiance.

She introduced me to her friend that was hosting. She seemed nice enough, and she looked a little butch. Actually, she looked a lot butch. Her hair was cut like a man’s, and she was dressed like a man in hard bottoms, jeans, and a crisp black button-up. She looked like she was probably an attractive lady at one point.

That didn’t matter to me. The music was good, so I was ready to hit the dance floor. As we danced, I noticed no guys had tried to dance with us yet. That’s when I took a good look around. There actually weren’t too many guys there period. There were maybe ten or fifteen throughout the whole club of about a hundred people. I would say at least five of those guys were employees.

“Jilli, where the hell are all the dudes?” I asked looking confused.

“You got me!” she said then spun around and continued to dance. She was enjoying herself. She didn’t seem to care that there wasn’t too much eye candy. I didn’t really care either. As long as the music was good, I was good.

I danced until the muscles in my legs began to hurt, and Jillian kept the drinks coming. All of a sudden, I felt someone squeeze my butt firmly. I spun around with the quickness, ready to smack whatever dude thought he could just grab my ass like that. To my surprise, it was a woman! It caught me off guard. “What the hell is your problem? You tryna get fucked up?” I said feeling violated. Before she could respond, Jillian got between us and started arguing with the chick.

“My bad, I didn’t know she was with you.” The woman said and backed away with her hands up in the air in the stick up position.

“Are you okay?” Jillian asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I don’t know what the hell that was all about!” I said, still confused.

“Don’t worry about it. She’s obviously drunk out her mind.” She said, trying to calm me down.

I didn’t drink anymore after that, and as my buzz wore off, I started to look around the club. That’s when I noticed. The few men that were there were there with a chick. Other than that, it was a club full of females. Women were grinding on each other on the dance floor. I even saw a female couple huddled in the corner with one woman sitting on the other’s lap. It was like the needle scratched the record in my head, “This broad done brought me to a lesbian club! What the hell?”

Taken From Chapter 9

The girls wouldn’t tell me no matter how much I begged. So I got up to go to the bathroom. On my way back from the bathroom, I glanced towards the front door and who did I see? It was the mysterious lady again. “What the fuck? How the hell is she everywhere I go?” I thought to myself. This time she wasn’t alone. She was there with a man and a young girl. The girl looked just like the lady and looked as though she could have been around fifteen or sixteen. The way the man stood close to the mystery woman told me it must’ve been her husband or boyfriend.

She hadn’t spotted me yet, meaning it must’ve actually been coincidence this time. For once, she wasn’t following me on purpose it seemed. I wasn’t letting her get away this time, though. I walked right past our booth as I heard Keisha say, “Angie where you goin’?” I was just about ten feet away before the lady spotted me. Her eyes grew wide as she whispered something to the man and nodded in my direction. Now, seeing her up close, I could get a good look. She looked a little older without the hood tied around her face, but I knew it was the same woman.

I walked right up to her and said, “Hey! Who the hell are you and why do you keep following me?” The man stood between us as she hurried to usher the young girl out of the IHOP. I could hear the girl asking who I was. The man restrained me as though he was her bodyguard. “And who the hell are you? Take your hands off me! You tell that bitch to stop fucking stalking me!”

The man spoke in a hushed voice “Look miss, we don’t know you. Please just leave us alone.”

“Leave you alone? I’m not the weirdo lurking around every corner. Tell that weirdo to leave me alone! How ‘bout that!”

Just as the man let go, shots rang out, startling us both. POP! POP! POP! POP! They sounded close by, but I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. I just knew they were coming fast. The man grabbed me and pulled me to the floor. I covered my ears and buried my head down into my chest. Panic shot through my heart as I listened to the gunfire. It was coming from two different directions now. I heard the glass shatter right above where I was laying. I peeked up for a second to see people running and screaming in different directions, but I was too scared to get up.

I know this topic has been discussed on several platforms and discussed again. For whatever reason, it’s a topic that never dies down. So I’m jumping on the bandwagon and talking about it too 🙂 ! A while back a male friend and I were talking about this. He asked me why women lie about being celibate and why they lie about the number of sex partners they’ve had. My answer to him was that women lie about being celibate because they think it will make them more desirable or seem more lady-like. I said they lie about the number of people they’ve slept with because of the stigma attached to having too many sexual partners. That is my opinion.

I went on to explain that everywhere you look, men refer to women as hoes, sluts, whores, and being loose when they have several sexual partners. Once it comes to air that they’ve had “too many” sexual partners they become only good for sex and nothing more than that. Well no woman wants to knowingly be labeled as only being good for lying on her back. So she feels the need to lie. Basically, women think that men will think less of them for sleeping around and they do. That is also why a lot of women won’t admit to having a freakier side or high sexual appetites.

I am not going to ask the typical question of how come when women sleep around they’re a hoe, etc. but when men do it it’s acceptable. That one has been ran into the ground and I do somewhat agree with the double standard that lies there. My question is how come men view women who have a lot of sex partners in a derogatory way? How come they just don’t see them as women with healthy sexual appetites who enjoy sex, enjoy having different experiences with different men, and aren’t afraid to explore their sexual feelings? So long as she is being safe, why does that have to be a bad thing and why do men pretend like they don’t like women like this? They obviously do because I’m sure these women didn’t get to their high number of sex partners by having sex with themselves! If you don’t think a woman is a hoe for having a lot of sexual partners, what do you think of her? I’d also like to know, do men really get turned off by women with a high number of sex partners or is it all an act?

Taken From Chapter 4

I smiled as soon as I awoke. I was always excited to see Cal. I was like a little kid on Christmas morning. I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. Even though I was excited, I was always extra nervous when I knew I was bringing something in. Anything could go wrong. The dogs could be there. One of the loons could slip out or the C.O. might feel them during the pat down. I could get caught passing the loons off to Cal, anything. He always tried to reassure me that nothing would go wrong, but I knew he couldn’t know that for sure.

I sat on the toilet for a while. I always got diarrhea from the nerves. Nothing came out though, so I got showered and dressed. I pinned one side of my hair up like I had the night before and sprayed some oil sheen in it. I looked good. I hooked up some grits, a beef sausage, and a scrambled egg. I washed that down with some orange juice. After eating breakfast, I carefully lined the loons up inside my pants again, checked my purse to make sure I had my I.D., and tossed in the bag of leftover tokens I had from the last visit. The tokens were to buy Cal some snacks from the vending machines during the visit. He usually never wanted anything, but I always brought them just in case either of us got hungry.

Just as I was about to head to the door to put on my boots, I felt my stomach bubble. Just like clockwork, the nervous diarrhea kicked in. It never failed. I would always try to go before I got in the shower, but it always waited until I was good and ready to walk out the door to come out. Dammit! I didn’t want to be running late, but there was no way I was about to hold in diarrhea for the next three hours.

I sat back on the toilet and did my duty. It came pouring and plopping out my ass like juice. It smelled something awful too, like somebody crawled up inside me and died. I pushed out loud, long farts. Some sounded like machine guns and some like shotguns. I hoped all the gas was out, so I wouldn’t have to sneak any silent assassins out in front of Cal. It felt like I was wiping for days. I looked at each wad of toilet paper with no end in sight and my suspicions were confirmed. I had mud butt. I used a couple of baby wipes to freshen up since there definitely was no time to jump back in the shower.

I had to get a move-on. Time was ticking and I definitely didn’t want to be late because those bitch C.O.’s would definitely turn me away. I farted in the car the whole way there. I let it rip so much and so hard, I thought I was sure to burn a hole right through the seat of my pants. I cracked the windows even though it was freezing outside. I lifted my butt from the seat and wiggled around a little to air out my jeans. I didn’t want the fart smells to settle in my clothes.

Recently I’ve had the pleasure of meeting two smart, nice young ladies at an open mic event I went to. We went out to dinner afterwards and had an interesting conversation. It was about dating. Get a group of single women together and you know that topic is bound to come up lol. One lady is 26 and the other 28 (just to give you an idea). One of the women mentioned how she doesn’t give her number out to guys when they ask for it – even if she thinks she may be interested in the guy. Instead, she tells them where they can find her (i.e. church or “x” event) and if they’re really interested in getting to know her or seeing her again, they will show up. I thought it was a little different and asked her how come she doesn’t even give her number out if she’s interested in the guy and how are they supposed to get to know her if they can’t call her on the phone. Her point was basically that if the guy is really interested, then he will make the effort to come out and see her, court her properly, and get to know her in person wherever she may be.

The other woman and I agreed that perhaps we could stand to take a page out of her book. My question is: is that taking playing hard to get to the extreme? The second woman expressed her concern with playing hard to get as what if she misses out on “the one” because of it. She agreed that she also wanted to be courted properly but she said how come if two people like each other, why can’t they just come to each other and just say that.

The whole conversation made this one line from that old song, “I Got a Man” by Positive K, pop into my head. He’s talking to the female in the song and she’s not really interested and he says, “you play hard to get and you won’t get got”. Now I know that men enjoy a chase because they’ve told me so. Then there are other men who simply feel they don’t have time for that and why should they when there are other females out there who don’t really play hard to get. So this post is for the men. I’d like to know do you think the first woman I described is extreme or does this sound like a woman who knows what she wants and that you’d be willing to put in that type of effort to get to know her? I’d also like to know what is your idea of playing hard to get and at what point have you had enough of “the chase”? And when I say chase I mean you’re going after the lady who could be the potential Mrs. [enter your last name here], not chase as in just chasing some ass ;).

“Play hard to get. You should be.”

—   Addison Moore

“I realised that when someone plays hard to get, they are making themselves into a character in a story, and they choose the story that leads to the outcome they want.”

Scarlett Thomas