Reblogged from Welcome to The Spectrum:

One day, I hope to have children and I am going to have to explain my generation’s taste in music. Now if I was raised in the 70s I could say that we listened to Marvin Gaye and Nina Simone. But no. I have the one and only Nicki Minaj. (I’m praying that her name will be erased from the history books by the time I procreate. *crossing fingers and toes*) I’ve never been a Minaj fan. Her music, style, and antics just don’t appeal to me. Every artist isn’t going to have the depth and grace of Nina Simone or …

I haven’t heard the song but I knew it was bad news. When I read your post, I was almost in tears with anger and frustration at the ignorances of these mainstream rappers, that includes Minaj, Jay-Z, and Lil’ Wayne. I don’t know who I can’t stand more.

but I could never with a clear conscious say that my life, as a human being, is more important than the life of a hummingbird’s or even an ant’s. Why do we, as human beings, think and are made to believe that we are so much more gotdamned precious than everybody and everything else?

I’ve seen ‘white people treat animals better than they treat Black people/POC’ come across my dashboard on tumblr on multiple occasions. I know it’s true, I’m not arguing against that and I think its fucked up. But I wonder: Do the POC who say that believe that animals should be treated horrifically in order that they, as humans, be treated better?

I understand that Black people have been treated and still are not treated any better than mules and dogs that whites and their own people don’t like, worse even. But why do we have to have a one-up over somebody, anything, in order to feel justice? Why does our right to freedom and humane treatment somehow justify cruelty towards animals?

Did you know there’s a study that suggests that there are Americans who believe that one American life is worth more than tens of fifties of hundreds of Afghan and Iraqi lives?

Where are we going to draw the line at whose life is more valuable?

For most people who aren’t racist, xenophobic assholes, that line is between humanity and animals.

I was very pacifist as a child and this is that pacifism showing.

Anybody who has been following me on tumblr long enough might know that I love cats. Cats are a part of my family.

When I was in the 12th grade, I was required for my biology course to engage in the skinning and dissection of a cat. Many Black people hate and loathe cats, to the point of violence, I know this from experience. I think, if I remember correctly, I got a ‘D’ in that class; it was huge chunk of our grade and I could only do so much and then go home and look my cats in the eye, but hey I passed and went to college.

At the time, I wondered what kinds of lives the cats had had, why they had to have pregnant cat for one group in the class, how the cats died and how they got on the dissection in front of me and why. In my head, none of the answers were pretty and it sickened and poisoned me to listen to students and the teacher–Ms. Mason, who hated cats–take a twisted pleasure in cutting the bodies of the animals up, peelings away fur, skin, and muscle.

I am a omnivore, I get much of my food from the slaughter and grotesque treatments of millions of animals a year. I’m not proud of it, I feel it’s poisoning me spiritually, if not bodily, every bite I eat. I believe some people should be punished by pain of death, meaning capital punishment. I’ve tried to take my own life and still think my existence in this world is a mistake. But it doesn’t change what I believe in–the sanctity and preciousness of life, that includes animals, and I don’t believe humans should make them to suffer anymore than we make each other to suffer.

Where do we draw the line at what life is valuable and what role does anthropocentrism play in the answer?

evermore pensive,

Queenly

• “Angry” Black Woman—father issues
• Slut-shaming/sexually liberated/had some experiences you regret—father issues
• Autonomous individual—father issues
• Outspoken/Political/feminist—father issues
• Can’t clean the house, take care of man and his kids—father issues andit’s your mother’s fault

I’m just not okay with everything to do my upbringing being attached to how identical my family structure was to the Cosby’s or some normative middleclass family model of one dad, one mom, two kids, one dog, and a house. I think it undermines how far I’ve come, raised by a single mother in a world that dictates to us that a male and female parent are necessary and normal.

I am bastard child, so what?

I understand that for some wimmin, growing up without a father figure is a big deal. They attribute fatherlessness to:

• Why they have low self-esteem
• Why they date sorry ass guys
• Why they don’t feel loved
• Why they don’t “behave like a woman should behave towards a man”
• Why they become dependent on [sorry ass] guys
• Why they dress the way they do
• Why they get pregnant by guys they wish they would’ve thought twice about
• Why they end up in abusive relationships
• Why they never get married

I think that this yet another messed-up hand dealt to us by Black heteropatriarchy in Black communities. In trying to uplift Black men, a lot of people believe that subjugating Black women to Black men is the answer because they view the natural order as Black men being in charge. Its sexism and internalized oppression at work as we have been taught to conform to white hegemonic, heteronormative, heterosexist standards of social relations and community-building.

I’m not saying that women don’t need examples of and experiences with Black men who are decent humyn beings. I’m saying I am not defined by my fatherlessness.

Yes, my mother and father were never married. Yes, my father never lived with us. Yes, my father was not involved in my life. Yes, he took the paternity test. Yes, my father has more children. Yes, he’s poor, and he hardly ever paid child support. I don’t care about his reasons and I don’t think his behavior and absence should reflect on me. As a child, I never really wondered where he was and I scarcely thought about him. A parent was taking care of me, that was all that mattered.

I try to imagine what my life would’ve been like if my father had been in it. The only thing I can see is my young, female, Black self being indoctrinated into a culture that teaches me to play the kinds of games that Black men like to play. I don’t think he’s a bad person, but I don’t see what he could have offered me anyway.

I met him when I was either sixteen or eighteen. The last time he said he saw me and my twin is when I was three. I consider my father to be kinda “my friend who happens to be my father”. The last time I talked to him, I ended up hanging on the phone on him because he tried to lecture me about adulthood.

I became an adult without him and it made me angry when he tried to impose himself into my life as anything other than a friend because he’s lucky to have even that type of relationship with me.

But, anyway, that’s just me.

Point again: I grew up without a father figure. Don’t try to construe me or mind fuck me into thinking I have problems that I don’t have because it justifies and validates your ideas about women’s lives, how they’re supposed to work, and how her life should revolve around her father or fatherlessness.

really,

Queen

“You’re seeing problems that don’t exist”

“You probably just misunderstood”

This year, I officially decided to stop relaxing my hair after pondering the topic for some time. I have been transitioning for about five to eight months now, my last relaxer treatment being sometime before June. I don’t even remember it now. The last time I wrote about my decision was in on Aug. 30th.

The feeling

It just feels right. I’m not worrying about my next relaxer or scared to scratch my head because I’ll burn in relaxer hell the next time I sit in the stylist chair.

Of course, because of the thickness of my hair, I have my moments of wishing my hair was straight. I have 4c type hair. I have anxiety over the fact that I don’t have the money to go to a professional sytlist and am not very good at doing my own hair, like my sister is.

But it’s a good feeling. The last time i really lived my natural hair was a long time ago when I was little girl. It feels good not to be wrapped up in something or straightening or relaxing and weaving and such.

What I’ve been doing

I’m not much of a hair person, like my sister. I used EVOO (extra virgin olive oil) to moisturize, or lock in moisture, whatever, and washing it every week to two weeks. I keep it plaited and wrapped up. I have not cut off the relaxed hair thought I have considered it. My mother, though what she thinks doesn’t really matter on the subject, insists that she will kill me if I cut off my hair, even if I am transitioning.

evermore,

MsQ

I was reflecting on two things: 1) Why I identify as Black feminist andwomanist, 2) Angie Stone’s song “Brotha”.

Womanism as defined by Alice Walker who coined the term can be found here:

A woman who loves other women, sexually and/or nonsexually. Appreciates and prefers women’s culture, women’s emotional flexibility (values tears as natural counterbalance of laughter), and women’s strength.  Sometimes loves individual men, sexually and/or nonsexually. Committed to survival and wholeness of entire people, male and female.  Not a separatist, except periodically, for health.

If this is part of the definition of womynism, I wonder why so many womyn, particularly heterosexual women, seem to forget that the womynist is “committed to the survival and wholeness of the entire people, male andfemale” (and non-gender binary/genderqueer, where’s that?).

Black feminist and womanist are IDs that are oftentimes used interchangeably, but this what I thought the difference was:

The Black feminist, I feel, is not caught up in her love and appreciation of the Black man, she is not caught up in love period though criticizes because she loves. The Black feminist is unyielding in her criticism of the abusive and subjugating system of Black male patriarchy. The Black feminist does not overlook intersectionality. The Black feminist does not turn to whites and she does not turn to other womyn or people of color for their opinions about and interpretations of her life but looks at her own life experiences for the truth and for validation.

But looking at the definition of womanism now, I kinda don’t see that much of a difference. However, I wonder how it came to be that love is somehow interchangeable with blind devotion, which is what I feel Angie Stone’s song “Brotha” exhibits? I don’t think Alice Walker meant blind devotion and slavishness when she talks about “loving individual Black men”, I think that this wording was very intentional: meaning you don’t have to love all men and the things they do to be a womanist. Why make the distinction?

Black men’s track record with embracing feminism and supporting and understanding Black women today remains unimpressive to me. I view them overall as a group dedicated to achieving white male power or as close to it they can get.

I used to really like Angie Stone’s song. Now I give the extreme side-eye whenever I think about it or cross it on my little mp3 player. Not only is the extremely heterosexist, it starts off as follows:

He is my King, He is my one Yes he’s my father, Yes he’s my son I can talk to him, cuz he understands Everything I go through and everything I am That’s my support system, I can’t live without him The best thing since sliced bread, Is his kiss, his hugs, his lips, his touch And I just want the whole world to know, about my [chorus]

This song is just one in a long line of soul and R&B songs by both male and female artists that posits Black wimmin as slavishly devoted to Black men, no matter what they do, creating this ideal image of Black men’s relationships to Black wimmin.

So no, Angie Stone, I will not be professing my love of Black men in neo-soul lyrical ballad even if it is true that within this need for justice, within this anger and hurt I truly do love my people, including the men who participate in oppressing me. Even if there are a few “good ones”, I have yet to meet any of them.

No Angie Stone, I will not be calling any man who does not view me as his equal ‘my king’.

No Angie Stone, I will not claim the man who abandoned my twin sister and I when we were three and did nothing to help us.

No Angie Stone, I will not give Black men credit for “understanding me” when for the majority of them, this is the furthest thing from the truth.

No Angie Stone, I do not want the whole world to know that Black men and their sons have talked down to me, called me angry, bitter, a bitch, a ho, a chickenhead, a piece of meat, some rip, hostile, ugly, less than women of other races. I do not want the whole world to know that Black men have shamed me, for speaking up for myself and others, because of my hair and because of my weight. I do not want the whole world to know that though I would prefer to be with a man of my own race, I do not want many of them because they do not want me for I will not place my head beneath their foot and because I do not have the coveted “Latina booty” and complexion, “Asian petiteness”, straight or curly “white girl hair”, a tiny waist, or other markers of the erotic and exotic. No I do not want to tell the whole world that Black men do not admire and respect my intelligence and spirit and they value Black children in so far as they serve a utility or resemble white children with good hair.

No Angie Stone, he is not my support system and I will continue to survive and live despite his efforts to destroy me and in doing so destroy himself.

evermore,

Queen

Saying that a slave master (and we’re talking U.S. slavery here) had to have been in love with his slave is 1) to me utter bullshit and 2) an apology for the rampant sexual abuse slaves of both sexes suffered for generations and beyond. It’s saying that the girls/women weren’t victims and therefore lends more credence to the idea spawned in slavery that Black women are unrapable, that BW are whor…es and temptresses, excuses used to rationalize slave rape. It’s basically lying and gaslighting and goalpostshifting trying to rename rape, often child rape, as love. —witchsistah

I was one of only two other Black female student in a classroom that was 1) mostly white, 2) at a predominately white university, 3) an American lit course, 4) the only one who ever opened my mouth against racism and sexism. I was asked to write a creative piece about the experience instead of doing a test by the professor and this was it. Excuse me, there may be a few “she” and “her” pronouns instead of “I” and “my” still mixed in there because I rewrote this in the third person for another novel of mine which is in progress.

The word “slavery” came out of his mouth and I tensed.

“Thomas Jefferson was not only a great inventor, he was an innovative thinker. Though he had slaves, he treated them well, considering the time period. He was adamantly against slavery.”

My pupils dilated, a sudden and uncomfortable stretch inside my irises.

I was trapped again.

My heart pounded dully in my throat and in my fists where the nails of each hand pressed into the skin between my knuckles. The voices around me went on, a radio I couldn’t tune out or turn off without leaving the room.

Crackling in the background, I was the static.

I didn’t like the commentary and I couldn’t change the station, but she was the listener trying to tune the dial.

I was the voice that none of the children whose ancestors owned the radio studio could hear.

Ryan, giving his report on the third president made some joke about Jefferson, with his many talents, being a myth. They laughed. Thomas Jefferson was great, he invented a lot of really cool things, and Ryan admired him.

The witty presentation displayed all the reasons she thought Ryan was alright. Kid had a sense of humor, that was for sure. Distraction…distraction.

“He treated his slaves well, let families stay together.”

My mouth pinched. My brow furrowed delicately, just enough to let me know how angry I was. The fire under my skin bled out, flushing from the pit inside my chest where myshredded heart valiantly raised its sword to protect my soul from its pain, and from the rage of its fury. It was trapped inside of me. The pain. The rage. The tiredness. The flame.

I’m trapped again.

My heart pounded dully in my throat and in my fists where the nails of each hand pressed into the skin between my knuckles. The voices around me went on, a radio I couldn’t tune out or turn off.

There was another Black woman in the room, but she didn’t even look at me. I didn’t want to know if she knew what I was feeling or if she even cared. I don’t need validation for the way I feel.

My legs ached from the urge to get up and my skin lit with furiously from the inside. There was no room for the prickling pain inside my heart, no room to see it their way without distorting what I knew was the truth inside of me. Stand up and speak! a voice commanded inside of me. It howled, raising its proud head for justice. Never bow your head—not for them, not for anyone….

If you turn the radio off, do they stop broadcasting?

I sat there for a while longer, arguing inside herself. Howl, breathe the fire threatening to consume you, or leave it to bandage, to patch up your heart’s wounds only to send it out into the world to be torn apart again?

They clapped, they applauded. They laughed. Ryan sat in his seat again. Discussion was welcomed.

“What were Thomas Jefferson’s views on the rights of women?”

“He held pretty traditional views about women, was the answer. You have to keep things in the proper context of the times, you know.”

“He was against slavery and he had slaves. You have to keep things within the context of the times, you know.”

“He had slaves, but he treated them well. He let families stay together.”

Much conversation about all his great inventions and how nice his estate was, but I was too numb inside to take in much of it, too far gone. Think positively, think optimistically. Context is important. That invention was kind of cool, wasn’t it? I thought.

Someone said, “I saw the slave quarters at his estate and, um, they didn’t look all that great….” The comment shone like a thread of light in the darkness as the world shrank away from the room and tightened all around me in a vice. My pen point punched a hole in my notes. I didn’t exactly feel thankful to the white girl sitting over in the third row on the other side of the room, but the fleeting thought that someone had half a brain around here briefly filled her mind.

Someone said, “He was very progressive in his thinking and he was against slavery, of course.”

“Yeah, yeah! Did you hear that he had a mistress who was one of his slaves?”

“Oh yeah! ‘Sally’!”

“He was really progressive in his thinking.” They might as well have canonize him for daring to rape—and I do mean ‘love’—his black slave during a time where no one would have batted an eyelash. It was as if to say, he “loved” black women during a time when it wasn’t fashionable so he was awesome.

“Did you know they had a son”—as if together they decided to bring a mixed, bastard “child” into this world—“and he passed for white and went out into the world!”

I jerked, eyes too wide for my face.

The woman inside me stood up. The blood inside me raised, crying out.

I stuck my hand in the air.

The professor (part Native American) gave me the go ahead and I let my trembling voice do for me what no one else would.

“As a Black, female student at this university, I’m sorry I can’t share the same sentiments with which the direction of this conversation is going. I won’t romanticize the relationship of Thomas Jefferson to ‘his’ slave. She was his property. He could have done anything he wanted to her and no one would have stopped him. I won’t commend him for his ‘innovative thinking’. I won’t admire him for having slaves while at the same time claiming to abhor and be against slavery. I won’t admire or put on a pedestal anyone in the past. So sorry I can’t agree with the sentiment of this conversation.” The last was sarcastic and I hoped it sounded something like that. Hopefully, it was to the effect of raising my hand very slowly and saying, “Fuck…you?” It was all I could think of to say, I was so angry. Shut them up and put that conversation right in check though.

Reblogged from Ars Marginal:

The play I wrote, Tulpa, or Anne&Me, has at its emotional center an interracial friendship and possible romance between a queer Black artist and Anne Hathaway*. (*In the sense that Being John Malkovich is really about John Malkovich.) Strangely enough, it’s only been recently that I’ve started thinking about how that core relationship fits into the portrayals of interracial relationships in film, TV, and other media. Representations of interracial relationships are particularly revealing when it comes …

When I was an undergrad I experienced the same thing in classrooms.

As I checked in and out for a message I was waiting on today on tumblr, it has been a very bad bad day for me as I read quotes from Black female feminists that have been co-opted and posted by men and white folks.

The words of Black female feminists whether directly from them or used by people who are outside of the experience of being a Black woman lose their meaning when they undercut, silence, and erase the very Black women the words are meant to be for.

I’m done.