#NOJULZ

 

No Julz.

No Kylie. No Kendall. No Khloe. No Iggy. No Kim. No Miley. No Rachel.

No.

No to all y’all.

This past week has seen Miley Cyrus “give up” hip hop, and Julz whatever her name is cancelled in my city for using the word “nigga” one too many times. Once again, Black women stared in collective confusion wondering (rhetorically) how these women achieved this notoriety in the first place.

WE know. So lemme try to explain it to those who don’t get it, or who are woefully obtuse.

BEFORE you grab a cape and tell Black women – or any other woman of colour, or hell, women period – that this is about race, it’s NOT about race.

This is about being rewarded for plagiarism. Remember that time you let a kid copy your homework and they got the better grade? Yeah. Exactly. Julz and her aforementioned cohorts are regularly criticized for their performance of Blackness. Let me be really clear: these women were NEVER “down”, they were NEVER “cool with us”, and they were NEVER given an invite to the cookout. We get mad with those of you who elevate their mediocrity because we know you only do so because it seems like a novelty.

Meanwhile, those who ARE, those who CAN, and those who will ALWAYS be, are told that they’re just “regular”, or worse, lesser than.

Julz and her ilk are not new. I knew girls like Julz in high school. They dated Black guys to upset their fathers. They even had “likkle brownin’s” that looked like me to further solidify their hood passes. Keyword: pass. Just like Black people have done throughout the years, these women were simply “passing” as a means to an end. They capitalize on the novelty, earning money, fame, and more money from it.

The money YOU give them. The money you won’t give us because we’re not enough of a juxtaposition to make it seem cool. Rather than recognizing the magic, you get excited by three card monte.

They co-opt our shades with buckets of self-tanner stopping just short of blackface. They braid their hair in intricate styles and post up on the Pinterest instead of the ‘Gram. They squat, inject, and twerk their asses to Hottentot proportions and you buy it every single time. But if we object, we’re jealous. We’re haters.

Shut up.

For every NO we say to Julz, there are yes’s to our White girlfriends who sing along to Beyonce with us at the club. For every NO we say to Kylie and her Khornrows, there are dozens of yes’s to our White girlfriends who have Black boyfriends and husbands and we HAPPILY stand as bridesmaids at their weddings. For every NO we have for Rachel, there are hundreds of yes’s for our White friends who stand beside us and shout, “BLACK LIVES MATTER”.

Sure, they sometimes have to get jokes and song lyrics explained to them. They know we can lose a whole day to getting our hair braided (properly). They love plantain even if they pronounce it “plan-TANE”. They body roll to Chaka Khan, think we are beautiful in all shades, and ask for cocoa butter beauty secrets. They watch Scandal and ooh over Olivia’s outfits with the same passion we do. We aren’t mad at them.

BECAUSE:

They don’t try to Columbus our lived experiences for their personal gain, because they are confident in who THEY are and what their relationship to us is in the world. Because they also know how OUR relationship to the world differs from their own. When they call to see how we’re feeling about the latest #INSERTDEADNEGROHERE hashtag, they don’t open the convo with “hey girl heyyyyy” or perform Blackness to engage in a conversation with us– they are our friends and they want to know how we feel.

But you don’t see those women, because they’re not injected and deep-fried for your misguided consumption. So instead, you accuse Black women of being mad that “White women are taking over”, and assume means every White woman.

WE are mad at the White women who are TAKING FROM US because they’re the ones YOU KEEP GIVING YOUR MONEY TO. Because once they’ve exhausted this revenue stream, they will cut their hair into a pixie, put on a long flowing white dress, and pose on the cover of Marie Claire with a doe-eyed expression announcing their return to virtue or if they’re not famous, they’ll submit a personal essay to Jezebel or Buzzfeed. They will talk about lost years spent with all the “wrong people” and detail that one morning they woke up and thought, “what am I doing with my life?” They’ll talk about how misogynistic the music was, and how they’ve realized that bodies shouldn’t be objectified. They will find peace and “real love” through a guy named Will. The main picture will be them sitting on their porch with their cocker spaniel named Daisy. You won’t recognize her at first because her name will be Julieanna, or Chloe, or Sam, her skin will be it’s natural shade of milky white (“SPF 50 is, like, so mandatory”), and her “thug life” tattoo will have been lasered off.

They’ll sit back and reminisce about “those days” with “those people” and they will chuckle softly to themselves while they count all that money you gave them.

As for us? We will go back to living our lives and comfort each other with reminders that these chicks never had the range. We’ll dance in a circle and celebrate our magic. We’ll braid our hair and revel in our melanin. We will say YES to all that is real and wonderful and ours. We will give each other OUR money and be enriched through our mutual support. But YOU will be denied entry from her world…and ours.

So you tell me: why do you keep saying “yes” when at the end of it all, you’re only going to be told, “no”?

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The Worst Non-Tinder Tinder Ad. Ever

One of my friends sent this to a group of us for a laugh and so I introduce to you: Malik. The 40 year old sociopathic virgin.

Oh Malik…

Has it really come to this dude? REALLY?

AS creepy as it is that you’re basically advertising yourself like a lost dog, or some low budget focus group, it’s ever creepier what you’re asking for.

She must be White, Hispanic, Asian and or Native- American – specifically Apache. Now. MAYBE there are few Apache chicks running around New York for Malik to meet. But all I can think is that dude watched that Kimmy Schmidt show on Netflix, and didn’t realize Jane Krakowski is in Redface.

“Curvaciously”, “Thick-bodied” with “Thick, sexy legs” – but not fat. Guy. For reals? Thick thighs don’t have gaps; you’re going to need to pick a side and the FUCK are brown shaded thigh highs? Having had both a thigh gap and thick thighs in my life, I can promise you that skinny thighs won’t hold ’em up.

Points for kinda (?) knowing the difference between nationality and race, but uhm…

(NOPE. Taking them away. You’re more obsessed with Native Americans than Daniel Day Lewis and Mel Gibson combined)

Have long finger AND toe nails?

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Ewwww. Even though there IS a FB group with over 2000 members who love long toel nails. No. Also, Malik my friend, it’s hard to get long ass toe nails into 5” heels.

Pay attention class, notice how Malik is SO ADAMANTLY against “hookers” ,“trannies”, and “he-shes”, BUT he wants threesomes and foursomes?

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Yeaaaaah. We know Malik. You SAY you don’t want ANY of them, but we know. Shhhhh. It’s okay…sit down. #WhoHurtYou? Because Malik you doth protest too much.

Your favourite show is Law & Order SVU. You watch it and take notes so you can avoid prosecution.

BE REAL/PORNSTARS ARE WELCOME

Malik, just because YOU’VE never had sex with a non-pixelated woman,  doesn’t mean porn stars aren’t real.

Unless you just jack off to hentai, then yeah, they’re not real.

“Employed and smart”. But if she were these things, WHY would she take your number?

No commitment. No marriage. No kids. Based on everything else you’ve said, I don’t think this is going to be a problem. You good.

Reggaeton?

 

The Culture of Comparison

Like many, this is the the time of year I start to reflect. I actually start in September, because I treat my birthday as my new year, and I give myself until December 31 to toss out clutter – both physically and metaphorically speaking.

One thing that came up in my refelctations (yes, I’m Wendy Willams-ing words), was that there were people in my life comparing me to them. Or comparing themselves to others. There was a lot of comparing. This… is not cool. Because the comparisons felt so different from my reality.

A few examples:

Comparison #1 – My Dating Life

It was assumed a few times that my dating life was filled with opportunity and privilege. That I had greater access to a wider pool of men and therefore, I had a better dating life.

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Reality Check

I have not been asked out on a date ALL year. Like, all 365 days of it. Unless you count the dude who thought of me as a side dish on his fuck buffet. The year before that, it was NOTHING until November. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

I’ve had “opportunity”, but I’m the opposite of Harvey Specter – I can’t close. I’ve talked at length to men I’ve found attractive and left with no number. I know their blood type, but I don’t even know a last name. Attempts to follow up? #FAIL

So please, stop assuming that your romantic/sex life is the worst. Enjoy a good date for being a good date. Enjoy sex for being sex. Don’t place expectations on yourself based on what you see on the ‘gram. You don’t know what that relationship is like when the filters come off.

Comparison #2 – My So Called (Bougie) Life

I have, a nice apartment in a nice trendy neighbourhood. I have a cute dog. I dine out. One time a friend walked in and said, “look at all you got”. I’ve been told that my life is parties, fun, and…I dunno, “cool”?

Reality Check

My apartment is expensive. I haven’t traveled anywhere in so long my passport expired and I didn’t even realize it. I have a dog that I bought on sale. He eats President’s Choice kibble – and table scraps. He is more therapy dog than he is accessory and yes, I was advised by a professional to get him to improve my happiness (and he has).

I have worked between 70 and 80 hours a week. (Trying to cut back to 50!).

While I truly enjoy my solitude, it would be WONDERFUL to come home to a meal because the thought of cooking (and cleaning) for ONE is exhausting. So I buy takeout instead of groceries. Laundry? Yes, it’s great I have en suite…because sometimes in order to have clean clothes I have wash a load at 12:30 am. I often come home and fall asleep in my clothes because I. Am. Tired.

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Me, almost every weeknight

I do not begrudge your vacation pics…do not envy my rooftop patio pics.

Comparison #3 – “Well you can find clothes easily. It’s harder for some of us.”

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Reality Check

I’m 5’3-ish, 150 lbs. My mother calls me fat. Old on the street call me fluffy. Cat callers will call me a fat bitch when ignored. The labels range from size 8 to size 12 and they all fit the same. I’m not built like a video girl and I live in a city with a disproportionate amount of video girls. So those comparisons are ALWAYS there and they annoy me.

I would rather eat all the foods and do all the nothing. But I can’t. I have a chronic illness. My diet and exercise choices aren’t determined the size of the clothing label; my illness has dictated that for 25 years. If I don’t maintain a delicate balance, I literally cannot walk. I’ve blacked out in the street. I often crawl on the floor of my nice apartment to the bathroom to throw up, because the soles of my feet are in fiery pain. There are days I scream and cry in pain until I pass out. I’ve missed birthdays, christenings, milestones, events, and work because of it. So I do what I can holistically, because pharmaceuticals aren’t effective. If that means the tradeoff is I’m a standard size, then that’s what it is.

Comparison #4 -You have it easier than me because gender/weight/skin tone/income

Reality Check

Think whatever you want. We could sit and play Oppression Olympics all fucking day, and no one is gonna walk away with a medal. We will sit and compare bad thing to bad thing to try and make the other person feel better about their shit until the end of days.

The facts are there are things that are good for me and there are things that are good for you. MY good doesn’t automatically mean that it’s BETTER than your good, or should be the good that you have. Get it?

You know how a bunch of folks will be saying, “leave x behind in 2016”? I wish we could leave behind this culture of comparison. Can we stop using other peoples’ #BestNine as our personal vision boards? Can we take our relationships with each other and focus on what we have in common versus what we have in comparison? I know what load I carry, and if you think this post was in any way some “woe is me” moment, you’ve missed the bloody point.

Trust. There is something that you have someone else envies. Compare what YOU don’t have to what you DO have. If there is something you want for YOUR life, go after it. If there is something in YOUR life causing clutter, GET RID OF IT. Make space for the things you want. DON’T look at someone’s good fortune, good moment, or good filter and think, “I wish I had that”.

“That” which you covet? You don’t want THAT.

You want how it makes them feel.Fill your life with the things that give you THAT feeling.

Because you don’t know what the tradeoff was for them to have that.

/rant

 

Dinner For One…

Okay.

I get it.

What I’m happy about is that I “got it” a lot quicker than the last time.

I wanted a date. You wanted to fuck.

Now. These things aren’t mutually exclusive. Just because I wanted a date (first), it didn’t mean that you weren’t going to get fucked. But I can see how you might think that. But to forget that you had made plans for a date? While still remembering that you wanted to fuck me?

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We didn’t even get started, so I can’t even be mad…

(or even bitter) 

I AM annoyed. I wasn’t sure why at first. So I slept on it.

But I woke up. Annoyed. Thought about it some more.

Then it hit me.

It was the, “I have a lot on my plate” line.

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Cue up Sunshine Anderson, because I’ve heard that all before…

I get having a lot on one’s plate. I do. I really do.

But I’m not parsley, luv.

I’m the fucking steak.

The main course that you can’t wait to dive into. The one you make reservations for. The one you wait to be cooked to perfection. The one you’ll stand in line for when you can’t make a reservation.

I’m not drive thru.

So. Just like that (poof), you are gone.

Nope. I’m not interested in seeing the dessert menu.

I’mma just order some takeout.

xoxo

*

Ain’t It Funny

I’ve been thinking about my exes lately…

Not because I want to.

Like a cold sore on my social life and emotional balance, they pop up…to say hi…to add me as a friend on FB…follow me on Instagram…to join their LinkedIn network…

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Yes, really. LinkedIn…what kind of recommendation am I gonna give you motherfucker?

Now here’s the plot twist: the exes that are coming around saying hello from the other side are not the guys I would expect to come come around.

You may think that my acid tongue has left a trail of broken hearts, but no. Every guy who has come looking for me in the last 12 months…has been someone who dumped me.

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I KNOW, right?

So now we’re exes, yes?

As in X = unknown.

My taste in men are diverse…so I have exes in different area codes, social groups, interest groups, tax brackets… I don’t really have a type. When things end, I’m fortunate (??) enough to not have to worry about “bumping” into them at “our spot” or anything weird. With a couple, we share the same social circles, but those interactions are generally harmless. I rarely add guys I’m dating to my social media channels, so when they come looking, they have sought me out…

I’m confused by this.

Part of my confusion is that I’m not really sentimental and I like clean breaks from things.

I don’t generally cry over breakups – I usually get angry/annoyed. In the past 10 years, I think I’ve cried over one break up. I don’t keep mementoes – I have given back presents! I may delete your number. Usually my reaction to a break up is this…

 

…and my reaction to my exes popping up like whack a moles who have lost their way and are asking me to be online friends is kinda like this:

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Someone suggested that they’re checking in to see who “won the breakup”. Who’s moved on. Who upgraded. Which one is sitting at home posting pictures on their Instagram using the lyrics to All By Myself as captions.

YOU dumped me. Doesn’t that make YOU the loser?

Heh.

But seriously. I can’t compete with them in the breakup games because I forgot to enter the competition. Have I googled an ex to see what they’re up to? Yes. Have I creeped on an ex’s social media feed? Uhm…yes. Right after I accept their request. Do I miss any of them?

(One. But I wouldn’t tell him…#pride)

But I don’t go looking for them. When they come looking for me, I wonder what they’re expecting to find?

As I delete FB friend requests from the scary exes (think “restraining order”) and ignore the LinkedIn requests from the benign ones (again WHAT kind of recommendation are you looking for), I guess I’ll chalk it up to the random that is my life.

Love is crazy, I’m glad I can smile and say

Ain’t that funny