O Brother, Where Art Thou?

My little younger (because he is over 6 feet tall) brother and I got into an argument the other night. Like a for real, voices raised argument. This is kind of a big deal because we rarely argue and were taught as youngsters not to yell at each other. This, I realized is why when other people argue all loud – I get really uncomfortable and just want to disappear, but that is not the point of this post.

The point is that I just wanted one simple thing – for my brother to take me to the airport next week. And he said no. And I don’t be taking the word ‘no’ so well. (Yes, I'ma take this single, carefree, girl, do you' time and work on that. Maybe. Heh.) Especially not from family who I lean and depend on lots. So then he went into this whole, “you need to ask other people to help you do things because I may not always be here (like in the area here - not, not alive here) and then what you gon’ do?” But what he really meant was: you need to call one of those nigs you tell me be taking you to dinner and such and make them put their money where their mouth is. And other clichés.And then I was like, “well you bet not ask me for nuffin.” And then he said, “what do I ever ask you for?”

Which shut my mouth. Cause ummm…he doesn’t really ask me for anything. And then I got to thinking what do men ask women for? To do for them? I mean beside the obvious. Huzzah!

I mean no man is going to ask me to come put this couch together (which I asked one to do), or help me clean my basement and take this heavy stuff to the trash can (which I have also done), oh and can you go ahead and change these light bulbs that are allll the way up there and maybe wash my car real quick?

Honestly, I have a very hard time asking for help. From anyone. Period. I really don’t like for other people who are not family to go out of their “way” to do things for me. Yes, it is somewhat cray cray when you think about how long I have known the people in my life and I’m sure they wouldn’t mind. And people who I’m only quasi-cool with ask me to do seemingly random things for them and I usually comply if I can – so yeah it’s probably something else I should work on. But…That said, I really try to minimize my asking of men folk to do things, because…

Well because like Courvoisier brought up on Monday, once we get grown, men and women are never really just “friends” - so knowing this, and because I try to be a decent human being, I feel some typa way about inviting a nig over just so he can mow my lawn or spackle my wall or help me paint the living room. Cause I know, I just know that he ain’t coming over just out the goodness of his heart. And here he is probably thinking he’s building up credit, waiting for the right moment to strike and meanwhile I’m just glad someone else is doing the work I don't wanna do. At all.

Cause let's keep it real and funky, I am only an I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T woman by default. In the other life that I live in my head, I strongly believe in the separation of labor. Men do the heavy lifting and take out the trash. When they are around – I mean I do take out my own trash - hence the real life default setting. But no man wants to be used just for his muscles. I’m guessing of course. But I would liken it to the way I wouldn’t want to be used just for what I got ‘tween my legs.

But I think the reason, the real reason I went off on my brother, was because he hit me where it hurts. Made me think about the what ifs? What if there ain’t neva no other nig who loves me enough that I can call on him? And ask him if he could come over and _______? Put together this table. Or take me to the airport. Or kill the spider up above my head. Or pump the gas – all the time. And do most of the driving. Or unclog the toilet. Or shovel this snow. Or rub my feet cause it's Tuesday. What if it’s just me, always depending on my brother, then he gets married and has kids, and they [reluctantly] move me in the house and I’m like the crazy auntie they keep upstairs and slide meals to like in Soul Food?

Yes, the mind is a terrible thing to let run free. But I’m just saying. Right now my younger brother is all I got. And even that gravy train might be pulling away from the station. Especially if keep coming with all these mashed potatoes, smothered chicken, and Thanksgiving sized turkey requests. (Sidenote why did I recently ask my granny why white people's gravy is always white. She was like, "I'ont know. I don't think they use no drippins. Heh.) Sigh. Oh well. Guess if push comes to shove, there's always this place.

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

This song is giving me life right now! I love me some Bilal! I love that this is in black and white! I love that he's singing w/ no mic and his voice fills the room and is so clear and crisp! And I really love that there is absolutely nooo, nothing from the audience. Not a whisper. Not a giggle. Not a 'that boy is sangin' good' moan. Nuffin. It's like everyone is mesmerized. Captivated. In awe. Like literally holding they breath, taking it in, enjoying the beauty, and thinking it over.

Absolut(ly) Necessary

Last week I traveled to celebrate my cousin’s nuptials, hosted by the bride’s family. As we drove there, my other cousin suggested we stop at the liquor store and pick up a bottle of something. (Just for clarification, we were headed to a backyard cookout, not like a reception hall. Although also for clarification that probably wouldn't have made a difference. LOL!) I told him that might not be a wise choice seeing as how this wasn’t our family. And we didn’t know how they got down. My cousin called our cousin the groom, to see what was up. He said there was some alcohol there, but if we wanted something in particular, we should bring it. My cousin was all, “alright! Liquor store!” I nixed that idea. “Let’s just go on,” I said.

It didn’t really matter to my cousin because he had been drinking all day anyway. We arrived to the function and I watched him continue to drink the little bit of alcohol that they did have - that strangely (we'll see why I feel that way in a moment) was kept out of sight from us guests, and doled out in small dosages. And then cousin suggested we keep the party going and hit a bar. We did. But he hit it harder than all of us – throwing back Long Island Iced Teas (what is this college?) and beers alternately.

I watched in awe, overcome by a feeling of fear and sadness. As my cousin slurred words. Fought back droopy eyelids. And nodded off in the car – I fast forwarded 30 years from now. I saw my great uncles in him. Hardworking men during the week who drink even harder during the weekends. But always make it to work on time on Monday. Functioning alcoholics, is what they call them.

As the night progressed my cousin revealed that some chick he was shamelessly tryna talk to at the wedding celebration said she didn’t drink. So he had to keep it moving. “What the fuss,” I asked aloud. Who knew that was a valid reason to nix what was probably gonna be a one night stand? Oh wait. Maybe that’s why. Heh. “I’m saying, don’t you drink every night,” he questioned. “Uhhh…no,” I said. “Oh I do. A beer. Or a glass of wine with dinner. Something every night though.” “Oh,” I said, shaking my head in disapproval.

But the truth, if I allowed myself to be honest with myself, is that there have been times when I have probably, no most definitely, had a drink every night – whether out of a feeling of necessity or habit. And that has been me hitting the bar harder than anyone I came in there with. And that has been me with glassy eyes, incoherent statements, and horrible, horrible morning afters.

There are plenty of scary things in this world, but one of them has got to be being born into (and subsequently raised in) a family prone to and wrecked by addiction. People whose families don’t drink don’t truly understand what you grew up with and around.

That there is always alcohol. At everything. Funerals. Weddings. Cookouts. Christmases. Family reunions. In flasks and pocketbooks. Brown paper bags and coolers. Front and center on tables and hidden in closets. With spades games and fried fish. To ease the grieving process. And to makes sure everyone is having a good time. That it is a badge of honor to be able to hold your liquor. A rite of passage to have your first taste.

Along the family spectrum there are some people who don’t drink at all because they have observed the dark side. Some drink a little. Some way too much. Some no longer because they have been that dark side and are now recovering. But there is always alcohol. At everything.

And it is understood. And expected. And consumed. Whether while alone in bedrooms. Or together around the table. Because there is a deep, private pain that only the bottle soothes. And there is a muted shame among those who know they drink too much, but can’t stop. There are those who serve as cautionary tales, who were conquered by the foe, who let the bottle take them down the rabbit hole and they had to go through hell to be able to see daylight again. As you get older and become more aware, it becomes a scary thing to witness and acknowledge - while you find your own self constantly attempting to walk, shooot to just balance even, on the tightrope of addiction.

And there are times when the truth is spoken in hushed tones or tongue-in-cheek jokes followed by nervous laughter. That we are a family of drinkers. (Because no one would dare say alcoholic) These words are suspended in the air for a moment and are then crammed back down throats and deep into psyches. And the very real cycle of addiction gets excused by the banalities of life of: paying bills, raising kids, working two jobs, keeping a roof over your head, going to school, just trying to make it, getting married, finishing school, just living and breathing. After all of that you need. No, you deserve a drink. Or two. Or three. To help slay your personal dragons. And haunting demons. To allow you to function in this cold, hard world. Plus, it’s not really a problem cause you make it to work on time every Monday...

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

I'm really just posting this cause I love the "blood's thicker than the mud," line... You can also check the live version here, should you wanna see what drug addiction can do! Whew Lawd!

Won't You (Not) Be My Neighbor?

So once, because I’m ignorant, I casually mentioned to a single Black man who was living a life of shiftlessness, getting his hustle on, was an aspiring "rapper," and had a child by some random chick, that there will be a time when Black folk are more divided than we are now. That because of “values” and economics the chasm would widen. He looked at me perplexed. And then I pushed the ignorant meter over and said, “I’m just saying, I’m not going to want my child to play with your child.” Color him offended.

In my mind when I envision my future life, it involves being married with children. And raising those children in a certain manner. Not sheltering them from the world, but making sure they learn certain values, morals, etc. And I am a little fearful of what’s already happening in these here skreets. I work with "inner city" children and their parents on a regular basis – and um let’s just say we’re not on the same page when it comes to child rearing. And so I have decided that we, this would include me and my imaginary family, will live on a compound with other folks I love, trust and respect and their imaginary families.

Although my one friend who’s been invited to the compound said, “so that we don’t look like crazy people who wear long dresses, don’t put on make up and swap husbands, can we call it the cul-de-sac? A cul-de-sac of mini mansions?” Yes! So we shall all live in le cul-de-sac.

A place where while us ladies/mommies will stay flyy, we just might grow our own fruits and vegetables. We won’t go so far as home schooling our kids, but we will have Saturday School, followed by cookouts. Church and then old school, Big Mama’s house, Sunday dinners. Have guest houses for the grandparents. Take field trips into the city so our kids can get some culture. Watch, feed and discipline each other’s children. Take care of each other’s property when a family goes on vacation. Be a community. You know like we used to have back in the day. Before the white man’s welfare broke up the family. Before integration. Before the crack cocaine. When every Black woman had a huzband to herself. Huzzah!

My mother was blessed to have three sisters who lived in the area. So when she and my daddy were off doing their thang, we had built in babysitters – whom mama trusted. Cause she knew they would spank us if we did wrong. Would adhere to the bed time she had set. Feed us only what she deemed healthy. My one aunt watched us every Thursday night for like 10 years. In retrospect I think this was my parents’ date night. My brother and I didn’t notice because we were too busy watching the Cosby Show.

I only have one natural sibling, but I consider my good girlfriends family. My sisters. Or sistas depending on your black-o-meter. And I would find it totally awesome if we all lived in le cul-de-sac together. And raised our children together.

I mean I would love to be able to send my kids to Godmommy Amaretto’s house and know that it will be filled with dancing and laughter and that she’ll read my babies Bible stories. Have them spend the night with Mama Courvoisier where she’ll have them doing arts and crafts (cause mama Rum Punch is not artistically inclined) and then they’ll eat individual servings of mac & cheese that she baked in muffin pans. Send them to Aunt Bellini’s house where she’ll be playing 90’s jams and telling my kids about how she believed in a Black man from Hawaii long before Mama Rum Punch ever did. Leave them at Dark and Stormy’s house, where world music will fill the air, Bob Marley on a record player, and she’ll be breaking down the lyrics. Send them to Auntie Mint Julep’s where she’ll be keeping it RBG and telling my kids never, ever, ever step outside your own house if the police come to your door.

Ahhh yes, le cul-de-sac, a place where, we are family is not just a song, but a way of life. Where people got your back. Where everybody knows your name. Where we set the standards. And said standard is always excellence. So, favorite ladies in my life, I hope y’all are “looking” for y’alls husbands and stacking your pennies cause mama is on the hunt for some land. Hmmm…. And I guess a huzband of my own.

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Proud Family

When I was a young Amaretto, it used to annoy me when upon seeing family-n-friends back home they would comment on how much I had grown. As if that were not the natural order of things, most folks I know don’t have a Benjamin Button approach to life. But as a 12 year-old with big red plastic glasses and a brace face (no Invisalign back then-we’re talking about the shiny silver) I wasn’t trying to hear how much different I looked from the last time they saw me… But what I understand now, and totally didn’t get then, is that it is truly amazing to watch babies become people, complete with personalities, accomplishments and a new view on the ways of this here world.

Now that I am all up in this adulthood thing I have had to check myself a lot because that gosh darn individual I thought I was all those years ago is beginning to sound more and more like a momma. And not just any momma…but my momma, who is proud of anything I do. I guess there is nothing new under the sun. This weekend I bore witness to my 16 year old cousin presenting her award winning speech on the viability of the NAACP in front of an entire church congregation. Several of the people who heard the words that my cousin wrote recalled a time with the NAACP was the only organization speaking on behalf of the souls of black folks in this country. And it wasn’t what my cousin said that made my heart swell with pride and caused a tear to fall, it was the fact that I was there when she was born. I remember when she was the funny looking beady bead and bald head baby-and now she models. It’s hard to understand when all this growing up occurred, driving, looking at colleges, having a broken heart, but it’s what happens…and even though its commonplace it’s still amazing to me.

So yeah, just like how my mom reports every little thing I do to her friends…because every little thing I do is magic, I’m sending my friends updates on what’s going on in the life of my little cousins. And I am sure they could care less. Sorry ya’ll. But what I get now is that, unlike my cousins, I can remember way back when they were nothing (so to speak). And I can’t help but feel proud that the world can marvel at a finished product that I have watched grow up.

See You In Seven

happy thanksgiving

Don't you just love Thanksgiving?!? Food, family and Friday off! I pray that everyone who visits the five from time to time has a fantabulous Thanksgiving. Here's a little laugh from one of my fav animated shows, The Family Guy, to tide you over till next Thursday. Enjoy!

dysfunctional tales, vol. i

So a cousin of mine has 4 kids and she’s not 30, nor did she commence having children in her 20s. Over the weekend, I spent some time with 2 of her kids (both girls). So the littlest one was eager to tell me she had books – the initial indicator that the girl is smart and is willing to learn, so I told her to show me. The child is 5 and is in kindergarten – remember this tidbit as the story evolves…

She gets the book and I point to each word in the title, however she’s creating her own title. Initially, I thought it was being done in jest, but as we turned the pages to the book she couldn’t logically sound out words. So, then I blurt out “Can you read?” And she says "yeah" a pet peeve of mine – it’s YES. So, I point to the word ‘the’ – and her response is a singular letter ‘a’ or ‘i’ – clearly my ass is lost. So, I close the book and ask do you know your alphabet. She retorts, “A, B, C, D, EFG, H, I, JK, LMP… just because she half-ass knows the song doesn’t mean she knows her alphabet. So, now I ask the easiest question of them all – spell your name… A.. y – enough, she doesn’t know how to spell her name.

Time for plan B.

"Get me a sheet of paper, I’m going to write the alphabet." Interestingly enough, she brought me writing tablet paper and not regular college ruled paper—that was a second indicator that the girl is smart and nobody is working with her. So, I write her the alphabet, capital and lowercase letters adjacent to each other and on the final line I write her first and last name. After the letters and her name were written, I began to quiz her on phonics. "What begins with A – name me a fruit, what begins with B — name a color…" This is the process I follow until we hit all 26 letters. So, I inform her that the next time I see her she needs to know how to spell her first name.

Now did the adults really think just because the proper tools were present for thriving learning environment, that osomosis would take place and ooze through the girl's brain and BAM -- she's a reader?

In this household on this given Sunday was the mother, grandmother, and grandfather. Mom is upstairs watching “Two Can Play that Game”, Pa Pa is yapping on the phone, and grandma is watching t.v. and braiding her great neice’s hair. The grandmother was present for my mini-school session. And she claims, "I had no idea all this summer the littlest one couldn’t spell her name." Lord forgive me, but had you struck her ass Bellini would have understood right then and there.

You have a child willing and eager to learn and no adult can put their fucking life on mute and dote on the child.

Ironically enough, I asked the Mother during the beginning of the school year how the 5 year old was adjusting to school and she replied “just fine”. Clearly “just fine” means two different things. I had the impression that she was on point as a 5 year old: could read, or was an emergent reader, identify letters of the alphabet, understood the phonetics of sounds, etc. cue Deneice Williams “Silly of me…” Be’cuz that’s what 'just fine' meant to me.

Unfortunately, the parents seem indifferent to the window of opportunity children have; where there could never be endless of hours of learning and their engagement is full throttle, it will be sad if this little girls aptitude for learning diminishes in the same year she officially started grammar school. And I pity the schoolteacher who has to teach this girl, but can not count on the parents to do their part. And folks holler and shout about the state of public schools, and yet the assumption is parents are doing their part, when clearly that is not the case.

So, I leave with you an op-ed piece from William Raspberry – a former Washington Post columnist during the 90’s who wrote provocative opinions about the state of black America.
Enjoy this kick-ass piece featured in the Post yesterday.

cheers,

Bellini

Party Like A Parent

You know the saying what God has for you is for you? True words man, truer words. A couple of weeks ago I was with family gatherin and reunionin and shit. Let me stop right here and say that I was one of two female cousins over the age of 25 there. My male cousins are plentiful. And they were all there, either married with kids, bunned up with kids, had a child with them (cause they take of they kids) but mother of child/girlfriend/wifey was not present, or just bunned up without kids. I was pretty much the only “grown” person flying solo. So I was left to sit with the widowed old great aunties and reminisce on a simpler time.

Anyway. Once the old biddies went to bed immediately after sunset, it was me hangin’ with the youngins’ (and I’m really using this term loosely) who all seemed to have forgotten they had children. There we were ten grown folk crammed in a small hotel room enjoying an array of alcoholic beverages. It was all good in the neighborhood until… The children began running every which way. “Get in the bed,” the adults would scream. The four kids would jump and huddle into the double sized bed and giggle away. Until… They would get out of the bed and run around some more. And who could blame them? The lights were still on, the television was blaring, the adults were telling lively stories riddled with cuss words and appropriate hand gestures, while laughter erupted and hung in the air. It was a par-tay! Until… “Get in the bed,” the adults would scream. And so this merry-go-round ride went on until I got a headache and had to take it to my own bed.

Now don’t get me wrong, Rum Punch likes a drank and a good time. But I have always thought that once I became a mother I would have to tuck some of my “wild” ways away. This is not to say that good times would be gone forever. But this is to say that I always assumed there would be an appropriate time and place for these good times. And in my mind it involves the kids asleep at the house being watched by Big Mama while my huzband and I are at somebody’s house party, or on a mini weekend vacay with another couple getting our drink, party, love making (not swinger style though) and then our sleep on. I always thought that when you become a parent, you have to let some things go. If you’re sharing a room with your kids then you probably should go to bed with them at a decent hour. And you might not want to get intoxicated (and then some) with them around. And that’s reality so color me purple © Little Brother.

Now contrast this hotel experience with my trip to the beach that weekend with my older female cousin who is married with two young kids. They brought the world with them to the beach: umbrella, chairs, cooler, a huge bag full of shovels, buckets, toys and more toys. All I had was a towel and a huge bag filled with my ipod, cell phone and good reading material. Do I need to point out that this cousin was not in the hotel room living it up? I didn’t think so. Anyway. When it was time to pack it up, I looked around the kids were wet, sandy and hungy, it seemed like we had made a home right there in the sand, and then I thought, “who’s going to take all this shit back to the car?” Of course I took something, but my cousin and her hubby worked like a team. Loading everything up, taking turns to take the kids to bathroom so they could change into dry clothes, keeping the kids occupied while they quietly debated where we should stop to eat. Man parenting it ain’t easy, I thought as I fell asleep in the back of the minivan. I mean I was exhausted and all I had done was laid out in the sun.

And this brings me back to what God has for me is for me. Even though my ovaries start to hurt when I see a cute little baby on the train or getting christened or enjoying a stroller ride and I get that I want a baby twinge (which naturally leads to the gotta find a husband first tug), He knows I'm not ready to be a parent right now because I'm a true believer that once I join the motherhood club some things about me are going to have to change. To me being a parent means making sacrifices. It means growing up. It means maturing. It means being unselfish and thinking of someone else’s needs. And since I’m not ready to change yet, Rum Punch ain't even thinkin bout birthin' no babies. Well I might think about it from time to time, but I'm not actively seeking to make it a reality. Nope. I haven't completely wrapped my mind around the parenting thing. Right now, I'm loving stacking my dough, just packing a bag to take a last minute trip and then crashing on a friend's futon, doing what I want when I want. Partying like a single person without kids! Totally Dude!

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Grandmomma's Hands

Over the weekend, I journeyed to the land of my forefathers… Okay, let me stop making it sound all Alex Haley-esque, like I went back to Africa and found Kunta-especially since I just went down to Tidewater area of Virginia for a family reunion. And beyond the gathering being a chance to watch my mom try to do the Booty Call. Or me begging my uncle to finally reveal that I am, in fact adopted because I can’t be related to these people. Or even during our family history having a cousin reveal that he might have married a distant cousin of ours… This weekend was a chance for me to have a face to face heart to heart with my grandma, where she handed me an old fashioned lesson about enduring.

Let me say that my grandma is one of my favorite people left in this world. It wasn’t always this way of course, especially when I was younger and I could only see her as that old lady who was my mother’s mother. And when my parents were going through their divorce, that old lady said a few unkind words about my father that had me crying and HATING her. But somewhere, thankfully, I got to know her as a person and realized that honesty is pretty much all a person is gonna get from her. Her truth is biting and the type that sometimes you just don’t want to hear. I guess because I’ve grown up in a sugarcoated culture it stings a bit more when granny keeps it real. Stop giggling so much-it’s not that funny! You better not embarrass me in front of these people now! Or that your food Ain’t hitting on nothing. But that’s just how grandma rolls.

And now that I’m older I’m privy to those grown up conversations held in the living room while the children run around outside (also, no more kids table-holla!). It was my grandma who revealed those secrets that paint a more colorful family picture…like who was gay, or an alcoholic and who was adopted into the fold. And somewhere during these care and share sessions, when she gets to something crazy that she just doesn’t understand she always says I don’t know, I guess I’m just old fashioned. And I never tell her she’s wrong, that she is the furthest from old fashioned. Born in 1928 my grandma is still driving her ’98 Volkswagen Jetta, checking her account balances online, and asked me to help her find her a pair of denim capris to wear with her calf boots.

Nor do I know many people my age whose grandma has a Master’s Degree…but mine does. And what I learned this weekend was that she quit her program two times before her final attempt. She told me how she would come home after work and class to find my grandfather reading his newspaper, and my mother and her two older brothers complaining about their hunger pains. And my grandfather’s response to the whole situation? Was that she should have been there to feed them children. Now, I loved my grandfather, but this was some bullsh*t! Two times my grandmother had to quit to tend to their children. Had to put her goals on hold. Had to wait and not faint. I told her that in today’s day and times that would have been grounds for a divorce! She laughed, paused, then said I suppose it would be now. I guess I’m just old fashioned. But you know on that last attempt your grandfather had dinner ready for me every night when I got home. Of course he was retired and the children where grown by then, but that food was good. And I’m glad I stuck with it because now I get an extra $2,000 in my check because of that degree. Well alright Grandma, make it rain! Make it rain!

Of course there was a message, encouragement and pieces of advice that I gleaned from my grandma’s tale, all of which I won’t bore ya’ll with. I’m just glad that old lady has become a friend who shares her stories that get me to thinking about my life and times. She makes me question what I feel I should be, what I should be doing, and what I’m willing to put up with because I’m an educated woman… As she casts her pearls onto me, I realize that I don’t know too much about nothing…and that’s the honest, old fashioned, timeless truth.

See You In Seven

First Comes Love... Sometimes

My friend and her husband welcomed their first child into this world last Tuesday. I am so happy and proud and cannot wait to visit the newest addition to their family. They documented his born day by snapping photos every step of the way, from them exiting the house to her husband putting on his scrubs to my homegirl laying on the table in the delivery room being prepped for her c-section. And of course many photos of the proud parents with their new son in the hospital room and upon his arrival home.

Yesterday I showed the photos to my mom. She was doing the usual "awww" here and "ahhh" there. And then, with a look of deep concern in her eyes, she turned to me and said "when are you going to have one?" @#$%&!? You talkin to me? I'm still screening potential sperm donors! That alone can easily take a decade. A husband would be nice, but I'm not holding my breath on that one. I expressed these thoughts to my mother. Her response was what happens if I don't find that great husband or perfect sperm.

Hmmmm.....

First giving thanks to my mother for that hefty dose of reality, I must admit that I really have some thinking and praying to do on this subject. Like many women [and men], I always dreamed of getting married prior to having children. I've never been one to give a damn about tradition. I feel that marriage first is just more practical. Two salaries instead of one, four hands to hold/change/feed instead of two, twice as many family members/babysitters... all that good stuff. Like the old saying, there is strength in numbers. But in the real world, it doesn't always go down like that.

So am I willing to start having kids if, at a certain point in my life, I am still single? Absolutely. I cannot think of a greater joy than looking into the eyes of my little ones and feel my heart swell with the love of a mother. There are plenty of folk who do not want children, but I have always known that God intended for me to be somebody's mama. And not just because I was born with ovaries.

Now the hardest decision to make will be when to stop executing plan A and proceed with plan B. This will definitely require preparation and planning. I would have to decide how much money I want to have saved, what neighborhood to live in (for scholastic purposes), how much time I will take off from work, etc. The most important of these variables being where is said baby coming from. Do I use a sperm bank? Well a sperm bank can tell you whatever they want about the donor but you never really know until the baby is born. What if they screw up and give me a Japanese man's sperm when I requested a Black man from Chicago? Do I use a personal donor? Meaning someone I personally know who makes an [legal] agreement to donate their sperm to me and relinquish their parental rights. I've seen many same sex couples use this method. Or do I adopt? I've always wanted to adopt a child, even if I get married and give birth to my husband's children. There are too many black babies that need a home and some love. And I don't have to go all the way to Africa to find one. There are plenty right 'chere in the DMV.

Damn that's a lot to consider! I know that I don't need to have answers overnight. But I definitely have some thinking to do. Time don't wait for no man. My grandma told me that one day. She gave birth to my dad and his twin sister at age 42; they were her eighth and ninth children. Crazy, right? Well she had a husband... Lol.

Are you willing to have children if you do not marry?


Tumultuously Yours,
Dark & Stormy

Daddy's Little Girl

You are the god and the weight of her world

So fathers be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

-John Mayer, Daughters

This might be two posts in one, but follow me down the rabbit hole anyway. So, last Sunday it was Children and Youth Day at the church I visited. The choir loft was at least 50 kids deep. So, when they sang one song, three girls shared the “solo” part. Two girls were older, maybe 8 or 9 years old, and the other girl was significantly younger and too cute! They would hand the little one the mic and she would sing her one line with all her heart. Everyone laughed and applauded. You know how we do. So, when they were finished, pastor calls the little girl down and asked, “How old are you?

“Three,” she said. More ooohs and ahhhs.
“You are so pretty. Did you know that?”
“Yes,” she said shyly.
“You did? Who told you you’re pretty,” he asked.
“My daddy,” she said. You could almost hear hearts breaking.
And then pastor asked the father to stand up. And when he did, he had the biggest grin on his face. “She got you wrapped around her finger,” pastor said.

Indeed. There is nothing like having a daddy who tells you that you are beautiful and makes you feel loved on a daily basis. I thank God for mine. And I wish more women had a father like mine. I know that having a father in the home, not having a father in the home, the kind of father you have (whether in the home or not) has an impact, both positive and negative, in so many areas of a woman’s life ranging from how they view themselves to how they interact with other men. Like Chris Rock said, “every man has dated a woman with daddy issues…”

Now this is where I go farther down into the hole, but stay with me. Awhile back when I lived in Atlanta, my friend and I were sitting at a bar of a restaurant named after a jewel and the day of week. They had great 2 for 1 drink specials. Can’t beat that with a bat. So, friend and I are drinking and there’s a group of guys next to us doing the same. So as drinkers are apt to do, we stuck up a conversation with one another. We learned that a majority of the men in the group were married. Rum Punch’s Disclaimer: There’s nothing wrong with a guys’ night out every now and then. End of Rum Punch’s Disclaimer But this was these men’s routine: drink with one another every night to avoid going home. How do I know? Because that’s what they said to us.

“I don’t want to go home. My wife nags me,” the chorus sang.
“Well maybe if you went home and didn’t leave her alone on the daily to raise the kids, feed the kids, wash they asses, help them with homework, put them to bed, she wouldn’t nag,” we said.

And then it was on like popcorn because these men had the nerve to use that tired line and say every man cheats. What? Not our daddies. Oh yes, your daddies too, they said. Those were fighting words. Because these men didn’t know about us. Word up Yonce. Or our daddies. We had daddies in our lives that came home every day on the regular, I mean same Batman time, same Batman place, regular. My homegirl’s daddy used to pick her up from school and make her soup and baked potato, or some “weird” combination that she loved, every.single.day.

I had to let them know that I don’t have any memories of my father coming home late after a night with the guys, missing the everyday moments of my brother and I growing up. What I remember is having dinners together as a family, him helping me with a science project, taking us kids for the day so my mom could get some rest. And I say this not to brag, but to make the point that even though I don’t know the intricacies of my parents’ marriage, growing up I learned and watched my father’s character and actions and they spoke volumes, and were louder than any words ever said. And you know this can work in reverse, right? Yeah... However, in terms of words spoken, my father always said that, “A man doesn’t have to cheat. He chooses to cheat. There is something called free will and self control.” Tabernacle, Synagogue! But as usual I digress...

The thing is that little girls (and sons too, but stay with me) need love from their daddy, regardless of if the father is in the home or not, regardless of the crazy baby mama who won’t “let” you see your child (that’s a post for a whole ‘nother day), regardless of if a man sees his child every weekend or every day. Certain things like knowing you are wanted and loved, feeling important, worthy and valued, can permeate no matter how hard someone tries to block it. And certain things can linger for too many years, like feelings of abandonment, of being unwanted and unloved, or not loved enough.

I had this post in mind before I realized that Father’s Day is this Sunday, but I’m glad it came to me. And I’m glad that last Sunday I saw that little girl and her daddy’s love. It gave me hope. It gave me encouragement. It made me smile. And it made me reminisce. Because despite all the negativity, the statistics, the mess we see and hear in the news and in our everyday lives, there are great men out here, getting the job done by being involved in their kids’ lives. So, if you know a man: your daddy, granddaddy, step daddy, uncle, cousin, baby daddy (I'm sorry father of your child), deacon, neighbor, friend, who is putting in the work to be a good father, tell him how much you appreciate him this Sunday (and of course everyday-but you know) And if you’re a father who is making sure your daughter knows her worth, well, Happy Father’s Day! And shout out to my daddy, the best daddy in the whole wide world who still tells me I’m beautiful! Everybody say awwwww...

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

40 Acres and Some Jewels

I love watching PBS’s Antiques Roadshow. I started watching in undergrad when I lived in the dorm without cable. Saturday mornings were filled with this guy and the antiques roadshow.

So if you’ve never seen the show, here’s a re-cap: people bring what they believe are valuable antiques to be appraised by experts. Sometimes they are pleasantly surprised when they find out they have a treasure. Sometimes they come on the show looking like they are up to their eyeballs in debt and someone said, “hey, let’s take this old lamp to the roadshow that’s comin to town and see how much it’s worth.” Oh they look so sad when they learn the truth: it ain’t worth much.

So basically people acquire their “antiques” two ways. One: They happened to be at someone’s antique store, thrift shop or yard sale and they picked up this curious item at a low, low price. Two: The item has been in the family for generations, something great, great, great ancestor brought with them from the old country or from a foreign trip to the Far East or some other place that seemed exotic in 1722; and the item has been passed on from generation to generation, sometimes with the history or even historical documents accompanying the treasure. Oh the things that people have brought to this show! Jewelry from the original Cartier in France, pottery from the Ming dynasty, art work from renowned painters…

Yeah, so I watch this show and I love this show but it also makes me mad. Why? Cause I never see any Black people on there. That’s right, we don’t have “antiques”. Slavery anyone? We (and obviously I’m making generalizations here) don’t have shit passed from generation to generation since 1762. Except maybe some soul food recipes, grandmama’s thighs and a serious pathology we’re still trying to overcome to this day. All we get passed down to us from our folk is oral history (valuable I know). And now we’re barely getting that. And all we got from our white ancestors was straight hair and lighter skin. And if we do have anything, it’s a kettle that our ancestor cooked on for massa or something massa gave his help after 40 years of service.


Sigh. Yet another reason for reparations. Raises fist in the air and shakes it!

I know that life isn’t fair. I know that we carry a heavy load. I know that I’m stating the obvious by pointing out that slavery left us at a disadvantage (in more serious areas than not having antiques). Besides me hating that slavery robbed us from the possibility of so much and that no one wants to talk about it. Oh just sweep that slavery thing under the rug. Didn’t it happen sooo long ago? Nothing from back then affects y’all today… But like Amaretto & I were talking bout the other day, I hate that the treasures we do have may just be valuable in our community, like an original JET with photos of Emmitt Till's body (shout out to Dark & Stormy's mama) or the tin can of tobacco my mom has that belonged to her favorite uncle who fought in World War I, and provides sentimental value but we wouldn't dare try to take it on the antiques road show. So, we may have things of value, but would they be considered valuable to the mainstream? You know since they decide what's valuable. But that's a post for a whole 'nother day...I also hate that so many of us still don’t have the means to acquire antiques, to have things that are assets and appreciate in value. Sometimes I just look at all that we have and I smile. But then I look at all that we don’t have and I know that we still have such a long way to go.

So, I guess it’s up to me to make sure I get some antiques in the family. I’m thinking I could do this two ways: I could travel to some nice antique shops around the state and could slowly start my collection. Or I could do some research, find my white ancestors, knock on their door, and tell them to let me get one of them vases!

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!

Parents Just Don't Understand

Fifteen. It was a year of self discovery. And angst. An age of knowing that we were smarter than our parents. Couldn’t nobody tell us nothing! We were excited about driving, and moving out and going to college. Just waiting to be grown-legally, because in our minds, at fifteen we already were. Remember that? Makes you laugh now right?

My cousin is fifteen and she has me thinking a lot about my recent youth. It seems like she is so different from me. She’s been exposed to a lot more things than I was in her childhood, and it just seems like she’s lost something that I had at her age. I find myself doing that thing to her that I most hated; smooshing her face until she looks like a little pug dog and telling her how I remember when she was born. When she learned to walk. And talk. And would follow me around wherever I went. Then this segues into me telling her how much she’s grown. Then I realize what I’m doing and I apologize for being corny, but I just can’t help it. And I know it’s annoying to have someone go on and on about growth that is suppose to happen, because I was so annoyed at fifteen. But she doesn’t understand how amazing it is to watch someone not just grow taller, but become a person in the process.

Growing up as an only child I didn’t consult too many folks with my questions. We always lived away from my family so I just had my parents; and I knew that most of the time they couldn’t relate to anything I had to say. Now I feel like it would have been nice to have someone else to talk to about life. So I try to be available for my little cousin. She’s gets on my last damn nerve sometimes though. I won’t go into the hours of conversation I endured in which she discussed, in minute detail, breaking up and getting back together with her little boyfriend. The “drama” she went through-like they were going to get married or something! Arrrgh! (insert my eye roll here)

On Saturday she called me with another tale. She said that she had this friend, who was having sex with her boyfriend and just found out she was pregnant.

“What should she do, she hasn’t told her mom yet?”

Wow. I nearly dropped the phone. You know, because usually when someone is talking about a friend, it’s really them. And I just wasn’t ready to deal with my baby cousin (notice she’s a baby now) having sex. Let alone being pregnant!

But what could be done in this situation I didn’t know. My views on abortion have shifted through the years, but the thought of being a mom at fifteen is an unimaginable reality. And yet I’ve seen the emotional aftermath abortions can wreak. Adoption? To carry a baby to term and give it up. To have that same child hunt you down one day, full of questions and maybe anger. It all seems too much for a young person to have to think about. Too real. Too grown. Especially when the girl’s biggest fear is telling her mom. Not feeding or clothing the baby. Not raising a child to be a productive member of society. Just telling her mom. Arrgh! Kids!

Little cousin assured me that it wasn’t her.

I asked her repeatedly “Are you sure it isn’t you? I mean it’s okay if it is.” It wasn’t though.

“It’s not me! Geez!” Then my aunt started calling her to do something in the background. Little cousin didn’t want to talk about this in front of her mom. Which I could totally understand. As she rushed to get off the phone she said

“So she has to tell her mom right? Even though she’s going to get mad?”

“Of course little cousin, when you do grown up things you have to face the consequences.”

I felt so much older than the 11 years that separate us as I said this. But I was glad she called me, and felt comfortable enough to ask me. The thought of three fifteen year-olds trying to figure out what to do about a baby was scary. At fifteen what do they know? Not a damn thing! But they'll realize that later on, in their twenties.

See You in Seven

national bank of mint julep

a while back, i let my cousin hold some money. this cousin, we'll call her Shirl, is like a mother to me. since the first time i came to live in new york way back in 2001, she took care of me, inviting me to church, sunday dinners. she called me up one day back in october tellin me that her car had been towed that morning for having too many tickets. This carnapping surprised her because she had known of only one ticket on the car but then she found out that one of her daughters, Queeny, had also gotten a ticket on the car, one too many tickets for the city of new york.

being that Shirl lives out in boonies of Brooklyn (yes, such a place does exist) where you must take a long train and a long bus ride just to get back to downtown Brooklyn, i understood her need to get her car out asap. plus, the city of new york is ruthless when it comes to towed cars. not only do they make you pay off the tickets, you also have to pay the tow yard a per day charge of as much as $50 and up just to have your car sit there. i had let her hold $50 before and she had immediately paid me back so i thought nothing of it to let her hold $260, with her assurances that she'd set me straight soon.

fast forward to last week, christmas eve to be exact and my phone rings and it's Queeny. My dumb ass answers the phone immediately thinking that Queeny is calling with news that her sister had had her baby. Sista had gone into labor the day before and I was anxiously awaiting news of the baby, who I'd predicted would be a girl. Now Sista and me are tight, she let me live with her family in Brooklyn when I came back to NYC again in March for a few months until I found a place. Sista is so down to earth and, like me, always cracks on the bullshit predicaments that the rest of her family can get into. And Sista never asked me to "borrow" no money, in part because I kept her right for allowing me to stay in her place.

But anyway back to Queeny, so I answer the phone excitedly, "We got a baby yet? Is it a boy or a girl?" and Queeny fills me, it's a boy. I think, shoot, but yaaay! She chats me up a bit more about the baby as I try to get off the phone since it is only 8am. on christmas eve. exactly! but then Queeny proceeds to give me this sob story about how she needs to borrow $100 because she has no money until pay day next week.

Damn. She got me.

Don't you hate it when your family thinks you got money because they think since you a lawyer or [insert any regular job here] you got to have money. and since you aint got no kids you got to have money. uuuuhhhh no.... and no. my money is for me to do with as i please.

but seeing as how it was the season of good cheer and it was only $100 i figured what the hell, i'll let her borrow it. surely she will pay me back and in the off chance that she doesn't it's only $100. So I say ok, what bank are you with, i'll put it in your account.... Queeny: bank of america but you can't put it in there cause i'm in the negative.

damn Queeny!

this is why i can't fool round wit broke folk (add them to my list 'long with Black republicans). they ass wanna borrow money and then they ass so broke you can't even put it in they account cause they ass is already in the negative owing the bank and shit. this is just not a good sign for my ability to be paid back because Queeny broke ass already owe bank of america who knows how much in overdraft fees... sigh...

still i say ok i'll western union it to you. *cash register sound* add $10 on top off that $100.

so of course, the holidays are now over, another pay day has come and gone and I haven't heard head nor tail from Queeny, not even one of those generic "Happy New Year" text messages. Not to mention that her mama Shirl has not mentioned that $260 either.

I've been going back and forth about whether I should ask them for the money or just convert these loans into charitable contributions and let it go. I think about this song we sing in church at giving time.....give and it will come back to you, pressed down, shaken together and running over.... and think i aint hurtin for it. but then i think about the rest of that song. when you give, give to the Lord.

and neither Shirl nor Queeny is the Lord. although I'm more inclined to let Shirl go cause like I said I like her a lot. It just bothered me that she never mentioned it ever again. At least say, mint julep, i aint gonna be able to pay you back. cool I can live with that.

but its a new year, and one of the things I've been trying (and succeeding) to do well before the new year kicked off was to be more generous.

so i'ma let it go...but you best believe, na'an one of em betta not eva fix they mouth to ask me for money another time cause it aint gon happen....gotta keep credibility with the lender

To Grandmama's House We Go...

I hope that everyone had a great Thanksgiving yesterday! The upcoming series of holidays has got me thinking about family, my grandmother in particular and I realized that we are coming to the end of an era. That’s right. Ain’t no more big mamas.

I’m talking about:

Praying grandmamas. Church fearin, big hat and fresh suit wearin, scripture quotin’ hymn sangin’, shoutin’ and moanin’ grandmamas. Deaconess. Sunday school teacher. Backbone. Big mama.

Working grandmamas. Maids. Cooks. Cotton Pickers. Nurses. Teachers. Secretaries. Civil servants. Factory workers. Working 12 hour shifts. Doing jobs our generation of women could never fathom. And still holding the dual roles of mother and wife. Keeping a clean house and a happy husband. Going without so that their families could have. Deferring their dreams so we could have ours. Big mama.

Cooking grandmamas. Chicken fryin w/ one hand behind their back, pork chop smotherin, sweet potato peelin, collard green cutting, black eyed pea shuckin, peach preserve makin, sweet potato pie bakin, tea & lemonade sweetnin, no measuring needed and it always tastes sooo good grandmamas. Big mama.

Fighting grandmamas. Southern born or Northern bred, each battling their own war against racism, injustice and discrimination. Marching grandmamas. Not letting arthritis or the sugar or high blood pressure steal her joy. Had to walk 10 miles each way to school just to get a basic education. Keeping their families together at any cost, but understanding when to let a man go and having the resolve to raise a family on their own grandmamas. Becoming parents all over again, as they raise their grandchildren because their own kids have gone astray. Big mama.

Black, brown and high yella grandmamas. Black don’t crack grandmamas. Dispensing wisdom cloaked in Southern colloquialisms and lesson teaching metaphors: somethin’ in that milk ain’t clean, just cause you put kittens in the oven don’t make ‘em biscuits, just cause you got money don’t mean you got sense… Quilt sewers. Ass whuppers. Tear wipers. Soothers. Life savers. History makers. The keeper of our deepest values, our stories, our traditions, our people. More than words could ever describe. My grandmama. Your grandmama.

What have you learned from your grandmama? Think about it and cherish those memories. Or you can share them here! Do you think yo' grandmama makes the best peach cobblers this side of the Mississippi? Do you have an infamous beatin story to tell? Is there a piece of advice that you learned from her that you live by? Talk about it! It’s the end of an era y’all…

That’s my time y’all! Happy Rum Punch Friday!