“She dances like a Black girl.”
What?
Is there something distinct about the way in which we move or speak that is noticeably…Black? Before, I would have denied this. There’s no way you can identify movement or speech as distinctly Black. Right?
Maybe.
A few years ago, I took on the unbelievably complex and daunting task of constructing the maternal branches of my family tree. My first step was to sit down with my grandmother and listen as she recounted the names of her grandparents and their parents. Granny relayed some wonderful, albeit slightly inaccurate information.
My Great-Great Grandparents
Beyond my great-great grandparents, I had no names. Most importantly at a certain point in history, Black people in this country didn’t technically have distinguishable last names, or really any last names. I was frustrated and the last thing I wanted to do was turn to government records but that’s just what I did.
I’m getting old. No, my hearing isn’t fading, my sight isn’t any worse than normal and my bones don’t creak but I’m aging. I know this because my sports heroes are all in their twilight years. It hurts me to watch Kevin Garnett and Allen Iverson as they slip out of their respective primes and into the realm of “remember when”.
Remember when Kevin Garnett was good for 20 and 10 every night? Remember when Allen Iverson was the quickest dude in the NBA?
I do.
Dear Black Woman,
First, let me commend you on succeeding against all odds. Somehow you managed; you managed to make it through junior high and high school with your confidence intact. Despite my incessant barrage of negative imagery, you somehow made it this far in your life with a positive sense of self. I applaud you for that. While I constantly tried to beat it into your head that you were undesirable, you somehow managed to discover just how amazing you really are. And again, I applaud you for that. But don’t let your guard down. I have a trump card.
No man=no happily ever after. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I thought it was enough to drill it into you every night but I see I have to remind you because Beyoncè has tried to undo all of my hard work. Let me say it again: NO man= NO happily ever after.
Apparently Wale’s conditioning has been conditioned. I haven’t seen his newest video but it caused a bit of a ruckus on Twitter last night, for its apparent lack of color. The song, “Pretty Girls” pays homage to the feminine form, like every other song on the radio. The issue is that Wale’s pretty girls were all light skinned.
These past few weeks have been stressful so I won’t try and formulate a coherent opinion on any of the hot-button topics. To be honest, I’ve just been too tired to deal with much of anything lately. Instead, I will share something with you guys.
I haven’t lived much. 23 very short years, in fact. With that, I know that I haven’t seen much of anything or done much that is noteworthy. So when I am able to speak with people who have lived long and fruitful lives, I listen. And those moments, those very few moments have been instrumental in shaping many of my thoughts and practices. One of those moments came exactly two years ago when I was invited to interview one of the unsung heroes of the Civil Rights struggle.
I grew up in a house with two loving parents. My mom and Dad have been together for 26 years now and I don’t think they’ve left the honeymoon phase of their relationship yet. So I’ve never been confused about the notion of Black Love. To me, it was always a Black woman and a Black man involved in the equation. Once I got older and experienced other things, the equation expanded to involve two Black people who are in a loving, nurturing relationship. Never have I considered expanding that idea to include non-Black people. However, many people thought that Essence was doing just that by putting New Orleans Saints’ running back Reggie Bush on the cover of their Black Love Issue.
I was going to write about New Year’s resolutions but let’s be honest half of you have already fallen off the wagon anyway so there’s no use in wasting time and space here.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am critical of racial representation in popular media. I raise a lot of dust anytime I think people of color are represented in negative light. But apparently I failed as a Black person because I actually liked Avatar and had very few negative things to say about the film.
Sue me.
At least it wasn't the native princess trying to assimilate this time, right??
At this point, I have no expectations for Hollywood. It’s almost impossible to be let down when you don’t expect too much.
This post will contain spoilers. You’ve been warned.
I love sports. But I don’t necessarily love athletes. If it isn’t Tiger’s melodrama, it is Dwight Howard’s attempts to sue the mother of his child for posting pictures of their son on Twitter or his banning her from speaking his name (who does he think he is? Voldemort?!)
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named
As a volunteer and organizer, I often struggled with the appropriate way to move people to action. When I was a senior in college, I had the opportunity to talk to Mukasa Dada, formerly known as Willie Ricks, one of the key members of SNCC. Mukasa, known as the “fiery orator” of SNCC, told me that the key to organizing is in teaching people how to organize themselves. That’s what is effective. You don’t lead people, you teach them to lead. That’s what causes progress. And that’s exactly what the Young Women’s Project is all about.
YWP teens hard at work
