When A Woman's Growed Up

So most times I try to operate from the place that God knows my needs and what I can handle. I like to call this, “God knows what’s up.” This mantra is apparent in the big things like when my life is spared or when a lesson is learned. It can be less obvious in the things that seem to have no clear answer for someone who can't tell the future, like when I ruminate on why I’m still single and ain’t got no huzband. And then little scenarios like the ones below give me pause.

So I know a lady, let’s call her Paula. So Paula has a son, who’s 9 years old. She and the son’s father, aka baby daddy (Steven) are not currently and have never been married. However, Steven did want to marry Paula for the longest time. Even put a ring on it. But Paula preferred being out in the skreets and had Steven on a string, until he cut that string, and married the first available chick who came strutting by. And since they are in the A, it didn’t take long. So Steven and new chick, (Tanya) get married. Cool right? I mean blended families are a thing of the Brady Brunch. And every other weekend ain’t no thang.

Well Paula loses her job. And she stays unemployed for awhile. A good while. Like at least a year and still going while.. And the whole time she’s been unemployed, Steven is paying for everything. Everything? Everything. © Katt Williams. Her rent, her bills, her lifestyle. Now one could make the argument that he has to take care of his son, and Paula is just an extension of that responsibility. But one could also make the argument that Paula is a grown ass woman and that supporting her for up to 3 months was cool, but once month 4 hit, lil youngin’ is moving in with us and her ass is grass.

But see that’s my single, selfish side talking. That’s my, y’all weren’t even married, it’s not like you owe her alimony, so I'm out this motha cause I can do bad all by myself (all royalties to Tyler Perry) talking. Cause maybe from the view from here, I can’t see the forest for the trees.

Maybe I don’t know what it’s really like to be all deep down in the muck and mire of being a two. To put aside selfishness and finger snapping and neck rolling for the good of the team. Maybe this thing called marriage is really about compromise. Maybe it’s about not stepping on a landmine and saying, “Nygga you done lost your mind if you think that money that could be spent on this household is goin to pay for that heffa to get her hair and nails done,” knowing good and well that he loves his son, would do anything for him, even if that means making the mother of his child a kept woman – as my mom put it. Maybe it’s about understanding that being a single Black woman is not the business, so once you found a good man (and trust me Steven is a good man and FOINE) you gotta hold on to what you got and make it work.

Now I’m not saying if I were married I still wouldn’t think this scenario was pure craziness. And wouldn't be giving Paula my inner side eye and emailing her job posts on a daily basis. I mean I’m Rum Punch through and through. But when I look at the complexities of this situation, all the layers, the unkowns that could happen once you finally commit, it makes me realize that I still got some growing to do. Not just so I can get me a huzband, but cause that's just how this thing called life goes. And that's what's up.

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

The Real World

I am of the opinion that everyone lives in their own world. Not saying that everyone is sitting in a corner, staring off in space, drooling and having sharp objects kept away from them. But I as continue to get my adult on, I realize that perception is reality, and sometimes what is perceived is false!

For a long time I thought that I was a very understanding person. I thought I was the type of person who tried to understand where someone else was coming from. Or what it was like to walk a mile in another person’s shoes. But as you can see from this, where I was more than sure that he was being a racist and nothing else, maybe I am not “very” understanding at all. My perception of his actions became my reality. I doubt that I was wrong (tee hee)…but maybe I was. The fact that in my world, what I perceived was right has now shaped a whole different opinion of this man. From now on, he will be defined by this one conversation that he’s probably forgot about. Meanwhile, I’m in my cube wondering why people still can’t see me as a person and not just a young Black woman.

And my perception of things has affected relationships with friends and family. A friend of mine was once afraid to tell me that they had accidently broken something of mine because they were afraid of my reaction, they perceived that I would not be understanding. For years I thought my dad was a certain type of person because of something he did, not knowing (until 8 years later) the reason why he did it. If only I had known sooner, or at least been aware of what was really going on, then things could totally be different in our relationship now. Yet for years I threw a pity party for myself. For years I harbored anger and resentment, that now I view as just wasted time, wasted emotions.

And how easy it is for us (especially women folk) to get tied up in our world of emotion because of what we think we see. If your boss doesn’t call on you in a meeting then it must mean you are getting fired. If your significant other doesn’t call you at the same time for two days, then they must be seeing someone else. If you don’t get invited to the party then no one in the world likes you. Not saying anything against women’s intuition, but at times all these thoughts and emotions seem just as silly as thinking the coat rack at night is a monster lurking in corner. The reality is the world is not always how you perceive it to be.

See You In Seven

Puedes oir me ahora?

Hola! Que pasa ya’ll?

Okay, so my title is supposed to say Can you hear me now. I apologize to all the Spanish speakers of the world if I used the wrong word or I didn’t conjugate correctly. I was trying not to use that ghetto Spangish that comes out after a few Mojitos where I just add an "o" to everythingo. Plus, it has been a minute since my introduction to Spanish in the seventh grade. Though I really should be a fluent speaker by now considering that I live in the Virginia part of the DC metro area. Everything in my barrio is in Spanish and then English. No seriously, it is. The ATM at 7-11 asks me if I want to complete my transaction in Spanish and underneath that English is offered. Say what now? Now you know just by following the rules of the alphabet something is wrong with that one.

And speaking of my previous miseducation, I remember learning about the adventures of Lewis and Clark, and the Louisiana Purchase with a little Manifest Destiny peppered in for flavor. I also remember my teacher stating that if it weren’t for the English coming over and doing the darn thing we’d all be speaking Spanish right now. Ha! Clearly I am a child of the 80s and my teacher would never have a job as a psychic friend. Times they are a changing mi amigos.

This past weekend I was wandering around my town when I realized I was thirsty. I went into a little restaurant called Chicken Granjero. Please picture with me families (this includes parents, an elderly member-possibly a grandparent, and a boatload of kids at least 3) dining on seasoned chicken, ensalada and Inca Cola. There was joy, balloons and chicken skin in the air. So I’m standing in line and all the transactions ahead of me are being conducted in Spanish. This really is common place where I’m from so I wasn’t stressing because usually when I approach the clerk gets their bilingual skills on and addresses me in English. But on this fair day in April things weren’t going down like that. “Hola” she said. This was cool because there are Spanish speakers of African lineage, so she could have thought I was one of those. But then I said, “Hi, I would like a lemonade” And then there was silence, followed by the scrunching of her face, the tilting of her head and her uttering the word “Que?”

What. Da. Hell?

Now this is not about how I feel about immigration, illegal or otherwise. I’ll have ya’ll know that some of my best friends are native Spanish speakers…okay that’s a lie. But I do enjoy the people and their many different cultures (read: unlike my Granny, I know they aren’t all Mexicans). I love salsa music, dance, and sauce. I feel a childhood isn’t complete without the memory of blindly swinging at a giant donkey piñata full of candy. I do enjoy watching Telemundo (I’m also part of the REC). And I know for a fact that “I Love Lucy” would have sucked if it weren’t for Ricky Ricardo and his rendition of “Babalu”.

Yet, I feel some type of way about happened to me on Saturday, and really what’s been happening a lot lately. Like I’m the one who’s wrong for daring to communicate in English. Are things shifting to the point that I need to look for “Yes, we speak English signs”? Maybe. I mean, for some reason America doesn’t have an official language, I guess for the sake of the melting pot. So can I really be mad? But it’s just interesting that many different people have come to these shores and opted to subscribe to culture Americana (read: mainstream) and adopt English as their tongue…yet with these hermanos y hermanas I’m the one being asked to change.

Hello? Or better yet, Hola?

Well in case ya’ll care, I got my lemonade. Thank goodness I know enough Spanish to function, find the nearest bathroom and say the cat wears brown hats. But can I just mention that when a White couple walked in, heard everyone speaking Spanish, they gave me, the Black girl, a knowing and annoyed look before they turned around and walked out. I guess they hadn’t heard that there’s a new language in town…

See You In Seven

Building a Universe

There are quite a few things in this life that I just don't understand. As a young girl sitting one summer in my grandparents' kitchen, waiting for some homemade sweet tea and a tuna fish sandwich, my Grandma told me that I could build a universe with all the things I did not know. I mean she was right, obviously, but it seemed like such a harsh thing to say to a little girl who just wanted to know why granny took so many pills before breakfast? Or why grandpa fell alseep while watching tv, or why did the caged bird sing...

But in the spirit of I don't know what to write, taxes, and annoying yet inquisitive children, I feel the need to share some of the things that I just don't understand.

Numero Uno: Did Bracky forget he's running for President of the United States and not just the in the intellectual meccas of the east and west coasts? Is it wrong to say he shot himself in the foot, maybe with the rifle of a bitter middle American? I think they (Hills, Gramps and the media) are going to ride this faux pas hard like how a man just out of jail makes love. I'm just hopin' Bracky can change all of this. Maybe with his hand gestures and a smile. Or maybe with a story about how his po' unbitter mother would tell him how much she loved God while polishing off her rifle.

Letter B: Why am I seeing Hillary Rodham Clinton drinking pints of Guinness with the masses? Is it because she's a woman of the people? I guess the Rodhams are notorious for having a good 'ole time after coming home from the factory? Show 'em girl! You ain't an elitist like Bracky! Ha!

Three: Why is everyone going Pope crazy? Granted I'm not Catholic, so maybe I don't understand. But there are T-shirts and bobbleheads for this man. Jesus anyone? No. Okay then.

Little D: Mariah Carey's kind of scary (c) Biggie And I don't know why. Touch My Body? I mean I'll probably start liking the song in a couple of weeks. But what happened to her? I'm not saying that she has to go back to her Tommy M., curly hair, black bodysuit and high waisted mom jeans... "Someday, oooo someday..." But I think that Butterfly was a happy medium album. Pre boob job and the emotional breakdown of Mimi...

This was my jam!

And I don't understand why. Maybe it was Bone Thugs! Oh Krazyie Bone how I loved thee! Next time I'm in Cleveland dude *wink*! Maybe its because compared to some music today this is darn great! Or maybe its just one of those things not meant to be understood, just a part of this here universe, and therefore should just be enjoyed...

See You in Seven

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