This discussion on heterosexual couples. No disrespect to other types of couples, but I can't say much about those.
After reading lunacy like this: Relationships: Why Do We Limit Ourselves? **Updated** I have come to the conclusion that this discussion is moot!
Here's a song by Blaque that accurately represents what I think is going on!
The previous blog is misogynistic. It take s Black Women who are doing something in their lives beyond poverty and bashes them based on stereotypes perpetuated either by Black people these days. The bigots and racists do not have to bash us, we bash ourselves... There are many of us who worked very hard and spent a significant portion of our lives to obtain our advanced degrees. We have faced exorbitant about of pains due to ignorance, superfluous, mentally taxing at our careers, jobs, and academic locations.
I am sorry that I have no pity or patience for Black Men who make this lame claim to bash us then turn around and date Buffy, Trixie, Lin-ling and Marquez or even Sheneneneah when my name is Dr. Gina M.-S. or like many of my compatriots giving and dedicating ourselves to community service projects, maintaining our families and caregivers for elders. It is frustrating!!!
I have been married for ~7 years. And a year before I got married, I was partying it up as a new single woman with a doctorate in molecular genetics. It was drilled into my head to DEPEND ON MYSELF! NEVER TO RELY ON ANY MAN FOR MY SUBSISTENCE! And I was well on my way to achieving that end. I relocated to Dallas, Texas. And I did not date... I liked a guy, named "Sexual Chocolate", but the return on him was absent... The only somebody I knew until in the most unlikely place, I met the person who would introduce me to my husband.
My husband is a goof ball geeky nerd. Women liked him, but his communication skills were absent related to romantic relationships. But he was a sweetheart and I knew he was a good man--a good Black Man... The way I see it, there are many good Black Men, they hide--it is a coping mechanism for them to do their jobs, careers and other activities. If they behave a particular way, it could get them arrested or killed while DWB! Whereas, Black Women have to be some other man's perverted exotic sex toy fantasy--or we just don't have the brain wavelength to handle those kind of sick thoughts and do our professional positions...
It is frustrating in the least that most successful Black Women come from decent, churchgoing families with great promise in their lives. They have been succeeding literally since their births and have had love showered upon them. Then as usual as any good daughter wants to do is make family her family proud of her by excelling in school. Then puberty hits, the girl looks like a young woman and she is ambushed predated by sexual perverts! She is immediately pumped into a system of pre-defined and constrained stereotype. Some girls buy it lock, stock and barrel. But many do not and they suppress their inner beauty and develop illnesses that Black girls who do not grow up in this environment never manifest...
- Eating Disorders: Bulimia
- Absence of Self-Esteem
There are more. This are the Black Women who are suppose to make it. Yes! I said it! The come from good, stable homes (single parent or not), have a religious/spiritual tradition, highly intelligent. FAMILY!
The women on TV come from nothing! Drug-addicted crack whores--according to the rap artists, music videos and now social media.
I would think things have improved, they have not. I just had to leave Essence Community because the foul-mouthed behavior of its members who enjoyed cyberbullying me! When are we going to get it? We only have this ONE CHANCE to succeed! THAT'S IT! There isn't any other! If we fail as Black People we will be judged for the REST OF OUR EXISTENCE for being lazy, shiftless, ignorant, prostitutes, whores.
Now I cannot demand respect from others, in fact I want REVERENCE! Even with model examples of President Barack Obama and First Lady Michelle Obama, what scares me is that when their daughters get old enough to date, that NONE of the Black young men will be suitable to date them. NONE! Because I have seen the mentality on social media and while there is much bravado and vitriol, the fact is it has passed their lips, and their hands so the thoughts are already there... Might I suggest that it is pedophiles who say this...
I don't have to prove the wonderment of Dr. Gina to anyone. Why? If someone cannot see it, what do I need them in my presence for? Really? What bills do they pay for me? Moreover, they called me snobby, arrogant--BITCH! AND CUNT! And this is not just ONE social media site I have been on!
It is a totally breakdown on respectable, genteel conversation! GONE! The United States of America does NOT know how to argue in the dissenting position. If it is any indication what I have encountered and seen manifested by young people, then no... We will be losing a lot of arguments for invaders to take over... The Tea Parties are a manifestation of that... Shouting at Health Care people?
What does this have to do with dating? Men suppressing women and guess what, Black Women are on the front lines... So when, we want to discuss dating, we need to realize that we are upon the Age of the Goddess, where there will be a more nurturing environment for humankind. We are going to be there whether we like it or not. Those old bashing behaviors will not continue--they cannot--they are no longer sustainable. And so for the people who believe in "keeping it real" better move, borrow or get outta the way... Because I am a Black Woman--Phenomenally...
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
It's the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
It's in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed.
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
It's in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need of my care,
'Cause I'm a woman
Ego Tripping (there may be a reason why)
I was born in the congo
I walked to the fertile crescent and built
I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad
I sat on the throne
drinking nectar with allah
I got hot and sent an ice age to europe
to cool my thirst
My oldest daughter is nefertiti
the tears from my birth pains
created the nile
I am a beautiful woman
I gazed on the forest and burned
out the sahara desert
with a packet of goat's meat
and a change of clothes
I crossed it in two hours
I am a gazelle so swift
so swift you can't catch me
For a birthday present when he was three
I gave my son hannibal an elephant
He gave me rome for mother's day
My strength flows ever on
My son noah built new/ark and
I stood proudly at the helm
as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
men intone my loving name
All praises All praises
I am the one who would save
I sowed diamonds in my back yard
My bowels deliver uranium
the filings from my fingernails are
On a trip north
I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct
I sailed west to reach east and had to round off
the earth as I went
The hair from my head thinned and gold was laid
across three continents
I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission
I mean...I...can fly
like a bird in the sky...
Poem about My Rights
by June Jordan
Even tonight and I need to take a walk and clear
my head about this poem about why I can’t
go out without changing my clothes my shoes
my body posture my gender identity my age
my status as a woman alone in the evening/
alone on the streets/alone not being the point/
the point being that I can’t do what I want
to do with my own body because I am the wrong
sex the wrong age the wrong skin and
suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach/
or far into the woods and I wanted to go
there by myself thinking about God/or thinking
about children or thinking about the world/all of it
disclosed by the stars and the silence:
I could not go and I could not think and I could not
as I need to be
alone because I can’t do what I want to do with my own
who in the hell set things up
and in France they say if the guy penetrates
but does not ejaculate then he did not rape me
and if after stabbing him if after screams if
after begging the bastard and if even after smashing
a hammer to his head if even after that if he
and his buddies fuck me after that
then I consented and there was
no rape because finally you understand finally
they fucked me over because I was wrong I was
wrong again to be me being me where I was/wrong
to be who I am
which is exactly like South Africa
penetrating into Namibia penetrating into
Angola and does that mean I mean how do you know if
Pretoria ejaculates what will the evidence look like the
proof of the monster jackboot ejaculation on Blackland
after Namibia and if after Angola and if after Zimbabwe
and if after all of my kinsmen and women resist even to
self-immolation of the villages and if after that
we lose nevertheless what will the big boys say will they
claim my consent:
Do You Follow Me: We are the wrong people of
the wrong skin on the wrong continent and what
in the hell is everybody being reasonable about
and according to the Times this week
back in 1966 the C.I.A. decided that they had this problem
and the problem was a man named Nkrumah so they
killed him and before that it was Patrice Lumumba
and before that it was my father on the campus
of my Ivy League school and my father afraid
to walk into the cafeteria because he said he
was wrong the wrong age the wrong skin the wrong
gender identity and he was paying my tuition and
it was my father saying I was wrong saying that
I should have been a boy because he wanted one/a
boy and that I should have been lighter skinned and
that I should have had straighter hair and that
I should not be so boy crazy but instead I should
just be one/a boy and before that
it was my mother pleading plastic surgery for
my nose and braces for my teeth and telling me
to let the books loose to let them loose in other
I am very familiar with the problems of the C.I.A.
and the problems of South Africa and the problems
of Exxon Corporation and the problems of white
America in general and the problems of the teachers
and the preachers and the F.B.I. and the social
workers and my particular Mom and Dad/I am very
familiar with the problems because the problems
turn out to be
I am the history of rape
I am the history of the rejection of who I am
I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of
I am the history of battery assault and limitless
armies against whatever I want to do with my mind
and my body and my soul and
whether it’s about walking out at night
or whether it’s about the love that I feel or
whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or
the sanctity of my national boundaries
or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity
of each and every desire
that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic
and indisputably single and singular heart
I have been raped
cause I have been wrong the wrong sex the wrong age
the wrong skin the wrong nose the wrong hair the
wrong need the wrong dream the wrong geographic
the wrong sartorial I
I have been the meaning of rape
I have been the problem everyone seeks to
eliminate by forced
penetration with or without the evidence of slime and/
but let this be unmistakable this poem
is not consent I do not consent
to my mother to my father to the teachers to
the F.B.I. to South Africa to Bedford-Stuy
to Park Avenue to American Airlines to the hardon
idlers on the corners to the sneaky creeps in
I am not wrong: Wrong is not my name
My name is my own my own my own
and I can’t tell you who the hell set things up like this
but I can tell you that from now on my resistance
my simple and daily and nightly self-determination
may very well cost you your life