School Daze

Last week, my former coworkers returned to work, welcoming a new group of children into their classrooms with open minds and arms. Last week, I thanked the Lord that I was sitting at home instead of in a school building. For some reason, I was under the impression that I would feel some kind of way about not teaching this fall…actually, I do feel some kind of way. It’s called “Ecstatic than a mugg that I don’t have to ever teach again in my life.” Educating children wasn’t all bad; I will surely miss my summers off and the observation of Random Dead White Dude days. There are some things that I will never, ever, EVER miss. Did I say never? I mean NEVER!!

Bathroom Breaks You know how when you have to pee, you get up and go without asking permission? Unless you’re a student or a CTA driver, you go when you gotta go. In order for a teacher to relieve themselves of the 32oz of coffee required for successfully teaching a bunch of BAK, one must send a kid with a note to the office seeking permission (I learned the note part the hard way. “Ms. Fletcher gotta pee” is not something you want yelled across the main office). Once the note is deciphered, you sit and wait for someone to come and watch your class. This can take anywhere from a few minutes to never. When I was pregnant, I got so tired of waiting for my relief, I’d leave those suckers right in the classroom whenever I had to go and left the kid who was repeating kindergarten in charge. I figured since he’d been there before, he knew all the rules and stuff. *TMI Alert* Even worse is being on your period and having to wait for someone. I just said fuck it, and stopped coming to work on my heavy flow days. I’ve ruined one too many pairs of good panties and worn one too many sweaters tied around my waist. I’m so happy to be able to go to the bathroom when I want to, sometimes, I just sit on the toilet and do nothing, simply because I can.

Pressing charges Have you ever gone to work and had your life threatened by someone, been physically assaulted, or had someone attempt to murder you? Probably not, but if one of your coworkers brought silica gel from her shoe box to put into your coffee, chances are that bitch would be behind bars and you wouldn’t have to see her ass again after she returns from a five day unpaid leave. In Bizzarro World, otherwise known as School, students have more rights than teachers. Apparently compulsory attendance means that since they have to be there and we don’t, our right to not be physically harmed by children doesn’t exist, especially when the child biting a plug out of your arm has an IEP and his mother refuses to send him to a special school. Instead, since he needs approval to be suspended more than 20 days in a school year and he’s on day 19, he returns to school two days after sending a teacher to the hospital for tetanus and rabies shots. The reason he bit her: She caught him in her closet going through her breast pump bag. Since he’s only 9, she couldn’t press charges. Seriously, I’m not going to miss having a kindergartener threaten to go home, get her mother’s gun, load it, and return to school to shoot me in the head. I won’t miss it at all.

Being responsible for shit completely out of my control It was my job to teach children how to read. Explain to me how I could possibly teach a kid anything when he showed up for school two days per week. Truant officers no longer exist, and parents who don’t bring their children to school are sent idle threats from the attendance office. Children come to school ill-prepared to learn, yet the whole No Child Left Behind nonsense mandated that children end up on a level playing field when level is far from where they begin. A public school classroom can house the same individuals one would see in a psych ward or a prison and yet, because we’re not parents, doctors, or police officers, our job is only to teach them, when they require FAR more than learning how to add. I spent two weeks trying to reach the parent of an unruly child when I finally rolled up on her standing on the corner smoking a Newport. Being the good teacher that I am was, I held a conference on the corner of Central Park and Grand. I told her my concerns, she informed me that she had been working a lot lately and her five boys by four different fathers were all acting up because they missed spending time with her. I stared at her for a long ass time, and without me saying a word, she says, “I should probably go home and help them with their homework.” You think Ms. Smith?
I became a teacher because I wanted to change the world. I believed that educating children was the best way for me leave the world a better place than I found it. After nearly seven years of teaching, I’ve decided to plant some trees instead. There are things that I did love about being an educator, watching a child grow academically, socially, and emotionally over the course of ten months is a sight like no other. Watching a child dump your last cup of coffee on the floor because you made her throw away her juice after breakfast is sight you never want to see. Ending my career as a teacher is kind of like getting out of an abusive relationship. Sure there were good times, but I’m kicking Ike’s ass in the limo. My school days are over.

I felt this way EVERY DAY!!

I felt this way EVERY DAY!!

That is all.

Chasing Amy

“The man said, ‘Why you think you here?’/I said ‘I got no idea.'”~ Rehab

The death of Amy Winehouse hit me a lot harder than I thought it would. She was an addict and the life expectancy of addicts, especially ones that refuse to seek help, just isn’t that long. Here’s the thing: everyone who “expected it” and “knew it was coming” somehow sound callous and cold to me. I understand the matter-of-fact nature of blaming a drug addict’s death on their chemical dependency, but one would consider saying it was “expected” when an obese diabetic dies “suddenly” or an uneducated thug hanging on the corner is shot and killed to be cruel. I approached Amy Winehouse’s life, downfall, and death a lot differently than one might expect; I live my life pretty logically, seldom straying from the deductive reasoning of if A, then B. Perhaps it’s because I understand that often times, drug addiction is a manifestation of a more serious illness: despair and unless that despair is treated, drug treatment is useless.

Shortly after my daughter was born, my ex-husband began using heroin again. He said he was having a difficult time being a husband, provider, and father. I believe he started using sooner than he claims, but one thing I learned about addicts is that they truly believe the lies they tell. I’ll never understand why he began his downward spiral, why he chose to escape from reality using a substance that could eventually kill him, why he didn’t seek help for his true ailment elsewhere. I look at Amy Winehouse and see the same tortured soul that I see in my ex. Both are creative and damaged, damaged by the burdens that life placed on their backs. Some of us are mules, able to carry the load along as far as necessary. Others are unable, understand their limitations and seek help before ever lifting. Finally, there are those who take one look at what has been placed before them and run. They run to drugs, alcohol, anything that allows them to escape from what they consider their personal harsh reality no one else could possibly understand. They see their problems as unique, a novelty, unable to be comprehended by anyone. They’re a bit a narcissistic, slightly immature, and their coping skills are non-existent. Deep inside of their drug ravaged bodies, beyond their bizarre behavior, despite their inability to function within the normal realm of society lies the soul of fragile human being.

We mock them. We make jokes at their expense. We treat their illness as fodder for our superiority. We’re better than them. We have to be. We would never turn to drugs. We have way too much respect for ourselves to ever allow drugs to ruin our lives. For the majority of us, this is true. The number of people who seek solace in substance is minute. Very few people decide that drugs are the only way out of their misery; those that do find themselves in a situation none of us truly understand. We will never get why someone would choose the life of an addict, very few of them understand it either.

I’ve spent the past six years of my life trying to figure out why my ex prefers his addiction to the joy that is our daughter. I watch her grow and am saddened by the fact that not only is she missing her father, but that he is missing his daughter. So, on July 23, 2011, when Amy Winehouse left this earth, I cried. It made me realize that the days of an addict, no matter how brilliant they are, are numbered. I almost called my ex, just to check on him, to make sure he’s still alive. I wish I could say I expect him to get better, to be able to one day walk his daughter down the aisle, but instead, what I expect him to do is chase Amy.

That is all.

Happy Belated Father’s Day

Fathers get a bad rap…damned if you do, thrown under the bus and left for dead if you don’t. Every year on Father’s Day, bitter bitches lament over their poor choices in sperm donors and wish death to their deadbeat baby daddies, REAL MEN complain about all they do and the lack of recognition they receive, and the rest of us pay amish (sorry, couldn’t help it) to fathers…our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, friends, brothers, significant others, and the like; the men in our lives who are parents. We harness our disdain for crappy fathers and save the negativity for a stormy day in October, allowing dads to bask in their grilling glory without raining on their parades. Being a father in a baby daddy world is tough and all the fathers I know deserve more than the shitstorm they get every third Sunday in June.

My father wasn’t isn’t perfect. His relationship with my mother was the pits, but as a father, he did exactly what he was supposed to do: make me feel loved, cherished, protected and safe. I never felt as though I needed anyone else in this life to be my daddy, because I had a great one. My parents had the decency to keep their feelings toward each other to themselves and refrained from disparaging each other to us. When they divorced, they remained friends as well as equal and active participants in our lives making my experience not as a child of divorced parents, but as a child fortunate enough to have two loving co-parents. My father didn’t cook, he didn’t show up on time to ANYTHING, and let’s just say he didn’t let being a dad didn’t keep him from dating like a childless bachelor. He didn’t give my mother child support and he didn’t adhere to a court appointed visitation schedule, because he didn’t need to. He did his job without a judge telling him when and how to do it; my brothers and I never wanted for anything. I lived with my mommy and the boys stayed with our daddy. Does he measure up to the modern standards of a REAL MAN? Hell, I don’t know, but he was pretty damn superb as my father.

I could choose to go the bitter baby mama route since my own father didn’t turn me into a man hating, attention seeking troll. I mean as far as baby daddies go, my ex-husband sucks major assage. He’s unreliable, unreliable, and unreliable. Badmouthing him to my daughter is pretty simple; I wouldn’t even have to think that hard to let the ugliness roll out. But if I choose that route, what’s to stop her from questioning my ability to choose a suitable father for her? She’d be well within her rights to call me an idiot for making such a poor decision when I married her father. Whatever I say about him is a reflection of me and while I refuse to paint him as a noble creature, I also refuse to make him out to be a monster because no matter what I say, I not only chose to marry him, I also chose to bring a child into this world with him. Too many times, women complain about the man/men they’ve procreated with without ever stopping to think about their own role in choosing the parent they gave their child. You knew he was a hoe, abuser, thief, asshole before you became his sperm dump. Hell, I had no clue how screwed my ex was and I still don’t place 100% of the blame on him…he only gets 87.4%.

The men in my life are awesome fathers. I don’t know how they are as providers or mates, but I’ve seen them with their kids and those little boogers seem to be pretty happy with the dads their moms chose. Even my own daughter adores her father…as I typed that, I threw up a little… Our jobs as parents aren’t to tell our kids how effed up the other parent is, because honestly, we’re all a little fucked. I always laugh when my friends tell me how the mother of their kids is driving them nuts, most of the time, I kinda agree with Baby Mama. My friends do a fantastic job of fooling their children into thinking they’re good fathers, and as long as the kids are convinced, there’s nothing anyone can or should say or do to prove otherwise. Am I biased because they’re my friends? Probably so, but we all know how close my opinions are to truth. They don’t look for accolades or insist upon being recognized for their superior fathering. They’re good dads because they just are.

One day, this woman went on a rampage about her ex-husband receiving a $15,000 bonus and not giving her her “cut” for child support. She asked us if she should call her attorney or not her ex take the kids on the two week vacation to Europe he had planned. I finally had to cut the bitch off and explain to her that he most likely used the money to finance the extravagant holiday in Rome. She had the audacity to say “Well that’s not what I wanted to spend my money on!” Someone else told her to shut up, obviously sensing the verbal ass whooping I was about to inflict upon her. For every father out there whose name is being dragged through the mud, there are a dozen more silently being the best fathers they could possibly be, seeking nothing more than the big piece of chicken.

That is all.


People have no clue how to mind their own business.  Everyone has an opinion on how everyone else should do absolutely everything, especially things that have absolutely nothing to do with them.  Unsolicited advice has been offered on every aspect of my life, from how to raise my child to where to take my car for repairs.  Most people are well-intentioned and believe that what they’re sharing is wisdom based on experience.  Others have taken their opinions to fanatic proportions and actually believe it’s okay to force them down the throats of everyone they come into contact with.  I, too, have an opinion about things…as a matter of fact, I have lots and lots of opinions on lots and lots of things…and I readily share them.  Do I want you to agree?  Sure, why not?  Do I care if you don’t?  Nah, not really, but today, you’re about to get my definitive position on three things people really need to mind their own business about.

Abortion: I’m not pro-life.  I’m not pro-choice.  I’m pro-if it’s not your DNA then mind your own fucking business.  Pro-lifers amuse me.  I have yet to hear the story of a group of them holding a rally at abortion clinics and offering to adopt the babies of women who are considering terminating their pregnancies.  What really astounds me are men who are pro-life…seriously?  Until you can personally experience the agonizing torture of peeing on yourself every time you laugh, cough or sneeze due to a parasitic growth invading your uterus, you really need to be pro-shut the fuck up.  There are about fi’thy-‘leven arguments I could logically both present and defend about abortion, but today, I choose just one: If it ain’t your uterus, then it ain’t your business.

Homosexuality:  I am not a gay.  If I were a gay, I would probably be single, just as I am as a straight.  People who care about where other men put their penises and other women put their mouths are the most idiotic people on the face of this planet…more idiotic than ten Michelle Bachmanns and 15 Sarah Palins.  We don’t want the gays to get married because…yeah, still waiting on a reason that has nothing to do with someone’s religious beliefs.  Do people still use the Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve argument? Other people continue to *pause* perceived homosexual statements and acts because they’re homophobic idiots.  Wait, calling it homophobia gives people a psychological excuse to be idiots.  I’ll try that again.  People continue to *pause* perceived homosexual statements and acts because they’re idiots.  Here’s my opinion on homosexuality:  Why do you care who someone else loves…unless what really concerns you is that no one will ever love you?  Mind your fucking business!!

Hair:  How many times do  I have to state my position on hair?  This one will be quick.  No one gives a shit if you’re team natural, team weave, team perm or team fade.  Find something else to talk about because this whole hair conversation got old five years ago. I’ve devised a simple test to determine if you should have an opinion on hair. Here goes: Question #1. Consider the hair in question.  Does said hair grow from your scalp?  If the answer to is no, then MIND YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS!!!

In the words of that little boy I have a super crush on:  I’m done.

Man Down! Man Up!!!

Y’all know how much I can’t stand Lebron James.  I have my reasons, all of them superficial, but today, June 10, 2011, I’m here to say that not only can I not stand him, I’m starting to resent his very existence…or lack thereof.  I’ve finally figured out why I can not stand this man-boy: He just might be the most bitch-made person in the NBA. Not only has he accepted his role as the most hated basketball player of this generation, he’s taking it laying down.  Man the fuck up, Bron-Bron!!!  Of course I’m gonna provide you with examples of his doormatting cuz that’s what I do… I present a clear and concise argument and dare you to disagree.

The Back Door

What does a real man do when he leaves his former employer and has to return to announce that his new company is taking over?  Walk through the front door, put his loose change on the conveyor belt of the X-ray machine, pimp walk through the metal detector, walk into the conference room with his Power Point presentation and say, “I OWN YOU BITCHES!!!”  Not King James…nuh-unh.  Amid boos and catcalls, he forgoes the player introductions during the Heat/Cavs game in Cleveland on March 29, 2011. Guess what? Bron bitched out
The game ended very expectedly for me; you can’t enter a room with your tail tucked between your legs and expect to emerge triumphant.  Cleveland fans are going to boo Lebron, some of them even wish his sweatband would slip around his neck and choke the shit out of him, but that should never have kept him from standing tall and taking his jeers like a man. In the bathroom, my ass.

One, Two Way Back

A man’s hairline is between him and that man, but when that man uses an innocent accessory for evil, THAT is when I draw the line.  A man who gets punked by his own hairline is a man I just can’t stand behind.  Let’s take Michael Jordan, the greatest player of all times no matter what bitch ass Scottie Pippen says.  He more than likely started balding pretty early, hence the signature bald head.  He wasn’t afraid to say “Hey guys, look at me.  My hairline just won’t stop receding so I said fuck it and shaved it all off.”  I have zero respect for a man who lies to himself and right now, Lebron’s hairline has no respect for him, either. It’s moving further and further back daring him to shave it all off and what does he do? Hide behind a sweatband. Perhaps he’ll look in the mirror and give us The Decision 2011: Propecia or Rogain but until then, Lebron has been made a bitch by his hair.

The Timeline

Oh is that yo bitch?!

And yet another basketball player has betrayed LBJ.  First Delonte West banged his mom and now Rashard Lewis is boning his girl.  What’s Lebron gonna do?  Play basketball and make another Nike commercial?  The way I see it, no one likes him anyway.  He may as well launch into a profanity-laced press conference threatening to mollywop Lewis, call him a faggot and hold a second press conference apologizing for his behavior.  The next story to break is gonna be that Chris Bosh is hitting Lebron’s  pool boy maid.  The first girl he ever made sweet love to will be next to announce that she had a thing going on with his basketball coach…I’m not sure who his therapist is, but I bet that bitch is paid.

Lebron James will undeniably be one of the greatest players to ever step onto a basketball court. He’ll never be loved like THE greatest player, nor will we love to hate him like THE greatest player’s former teammate (here’s looking at you Dennis Rodman). Very few people can give an actual reason why they hate him, no one outside of Cleveland really cares where he decided to play…downtown Miami, not South Beach, by the way. Lebron, you’re just a bitter little pill and unfortunately, the doctor prescribed a lifetime supply. If you’re gonna be the most hated man in the NBA, do something to justify said hatred because right now, not only do we hate you, but we also think you’re a pussy.

Me, Myself and I

 Some women just can’t be friends with certain types of women.  I am one of those women.  No matter how hard I try (actually, I don’t try that hard), my attempts fail.  There’s always some know-it-all who warns others about women like me, but I refuse to apologize for my inability to maintain meaningful relationships with groups of women.  Perhaps this is why my desire to pledge a sorority failed before it ever began.  I couldn’t imagine calling a group of women I didn’t like my sisters.  In college, I preferred the company of a group of girls who also didn’t fit into the sisterhood mold.  We were a group of individuals thrust together by one common fact: other women didn’t like us.  I used to give a fuck.  I don’t now, but every once in a while, I try to roll with a crew only to realize I should have kept to myself.  I don’t like girls and girls don’t like me.  We get along fine in the beginning, but at the first sign of trouble, all hell breaks loose and shit is never the same.  It doesn’t bother me, and hopefully it doesn’t bother them but in the back of my mind, I know only one of us comes out feeling like a winner. 

I was once friends with a girl.  We became acquainted while we were teenagers and became closer post high school.  During the college years, she proved to be a nut case, excluding me from activities by lying to our other friends saying she told me about what was going on and I declined, when in fact she never told me shit.  She was jealous of the individual friendships the other girls and I had and tried to sabotage them at all costs.  We eventually parted ways and I continued to be friends with the rest of our little crew of misfits.  By the end of college, she left without a single friend having destroyed every alliance made, including a confrontation in which she almost got her ass beat by a group of girls who blamed her for all kinds of shit (I was not a part of said group, I was too busy having sex and getting drunk…I mean studying).  Fast forward ten years to the era of facebook. Social networking is that butterfly that flaps it’s wings in Indiana which causes an earthquake in Indonesia.  They disrupt the delicate balance of years worth of steering clear of ratchet bitches from your past.  I decided to give this chickenhead a second chance and guess what she does?  Yep, you guessed it.  Got jealous of yet another friendship and started going nutty again.  Without sharing too many details, our refriendship ended with a series of text messages at 2:30am calling me all kinds of bitches and hoes.  If you guessed that she’s no longer friends with our once mutual friend, you guessed correctly.  Lesson:  Some women can’t handle their friends being friends with each other.  I can’t be bothered with women who are too selfish to share their friends.

My attempts at group friendships fail each and every time.  I don’t have a crew.  I used to have one. I  had to get rid of those broads.  Fat bitches.  It ain’t easy being the only size 2 in the crew.  Some handle their fatness better than others.  They didn’t.  I’m pretty sure I did something insensitive but then again, feelings don’t belong in your feet, especially if you wear a size ten and someone is always stepping on them.  But when you’re sitting at your childhood friend’s wedding and the only thing you notice is that her bridesmaids are all thin and how you don’t know any of them and where they came from, you might be a fat ass hater (emphasis on fat AND ass AND hater).  Shut the fuck up and enjoy HER day.  Who gives a shit that you’re not a part of the wedding party?  You should feel honored that you were asked to be a part of her special day and wish her well.  There were all kinds of things wrong with this crew and my inability to relate to the oversensitivity of one, the unsolicited, know-it-all assedness of another, and the sheer stupidity of the third led to my excommunication and ultimate removal from the island.  Lesson:  Make sure you invite your friends to be in your wedding party, then choose an expensive dress they can neither fit nor afford.

I was talking to a friend today about the value of friendships and some women place the same dollar amount on every single acquaintanceship.  A baseball team can only have nine players on the field at the same time and not everyone gets the same salary nor do they play the same position and they’re ok with that.  Bench warmers don’t make starting pitcher money and they don’t  get the same publicity, just like associates don’t get the same recognition as friends.  Another funny thing about a baseball team is that while although it’s a team, when you’re on offense, you’re up at the plate on your own.  I roll better that way, I can only be a team player for a short amount of time, but I’m good with three outs and getting right back to an at bat.  Women have a difficult time making the distinction and are offended when that differentiation is acknowledged.  There are only four people in my starting lineup and if you’re not one of them, you’re a bench warmer.  My allegiance is to a limited group of people and men seem to understand that better than women.  If I had two tickets to a Cubs game, my boys would want to go, but wouldn’t get mad if I didn’t ask them.  Now let me have two tickets to a Trey Songz (blech) concert, all of my associates would come out of the woodwork copping an attitude because I didn’t ask them since I know how much the LOOOVVEEE Trey Songz.  I don’t have time for people who don’t realize what their friendship is worth to me or those who pretend to value all their friendships equally.  That’s some bullshit and they know it.   Lesson: Check the salary on your friendship paychecks and make sure you’re playing the right position.  You’d hate to think you’re a catcher when you’re really a short stop.

I never proclaim to be the nicest person you’ll ever meet.  I’m self-centered, egotistical, and a bit spoiled.  I like doing shit my way, and I rarely consider other people’s feelings nor do I care if they consider mine.  I don’t owe nobody shit but my daughter and my expectations of others are pretty low as well.  It’s the way that I am and I’m not willing to sacrifice me to please others.  If you’re looking for a selfless soul, you won’t find it in me.  I give up way too much of myself as a teacher and a single-parent so all other aspects of my life are about me and me alone.  If I find there’s no benefit to me, rest assured I want no parts of it and that’s not the way most women operate.  Either they’re afraid to admit it, or they believe they should be long-suffering because of their gender.  I’ve shed that  belief and with it went my ability to forge and maintain friendships with women dissimilar to me.  I guess I’m a bit of a focused sociopath which is fine by me.  Ultimate Lesson:  The average person spends 2,396,736,000 seconds on this earth.  I’ve used up a little less than half and refuse to waste another second on valueless notions.  Look at me now….fresh..than…

Mulattos, Quadroons, and Octoroons

My daughter is Black, Vietnamese and White. Her dad is Vietnamese and White. Her paternal grandmother is a little old Vietnamese woman from the country Vietnam. Her paternal grandfather is a medium old White man from Indiana. I married their half-breed son and had myself a little tri-breed baby. Wanna know why that’s important? It’s NOT! For the past eight years, however, I’ve heard the most asinine shit in regards to both my half-breed ex-husband and our tri-breed child. Most of it is has been laughable, but some utterances have caused me to question the true existence of common sense. While I welcome curiosity and inferences, one can only wonder what causes even the most intelligent people to say and ask the most stupid shit ever.

He’s Vietnamese and White? Damn, how did that happen?!

Ok, perhaps no one has ever told you that you were fine, but my beauty transcends ethnicities, assholes! So does my intellect, experiences, hobbies, likes and dislikes. Don’t hem me up with your limitations just because you love Black Love and think the only way you can experience love is with someone black. (Just in case you’re wondering: I met my ex-husband at work, he thought I was pretty, he didn’t “act black” and my parents liked him.) Furthermore, while we (us) claim to collectively embrace others, it’s still an oddity for black woman to date anything other than a black man, while black men don’t get the incredulous stares from black women when they date Others. You know who I get most of the bullshit from? Black men. The whole, “What?! We weren’t good enough?” If y’all can like em brown, yellow, Puerto Rican or Haitian, so can we! For the record, I love black men…actually, I love men so when I met my friend’s fine ass Colombian brother at the club, the last thing I was thinking about was him not being black. I only see two things when I look at men: looks and gainful, legal employment, so if you have a problem with me dating black, white and everything in between, two words: Fuck off!

Your baby is gonna be pretty, have good hair, etc.

First of all, my child’s genetic probability of being attractive was pretty fucking high BECAUSE I’M PRETTY not because her blackness was compromised with Asian and Caucasian DNA. And as far as that good hair is concerned, I don’t know what to do with that mess on her head!!!!!! I used to laugh at white people with little Negro children with their hair all over their head. Now I hang my head in shame as I peruse the hair products section (as opposed to the ethnic care aisle) searching for the right Pantene Pro-V product. Recently, someone on twitter tried to “check” me for my Troy Polomalu reference in regards to my child’s hair. A) Fuck yo couch. B) I don’t need to allude to my child’s good hair. If I wanted to say that dumb shit, I’d fucking say it and C) Her hair DOES look like Troy Polomalu’s hair. I always have a point, whether you like it or not, and it is as follows: Nothing about my daughter’s ethnicity makes her special. What makes her special is the fact that she’s brilliant, charming, adorable, and MINE!!! I didn’t marry her daddy so she could be light-skinded with good hair. I married the bastard because I loved him. Truth be told, I just knew I was getting a little brown baby with nappy hair, just like her mammie.

What’s your baby’s nationality? I saved the best for last. Yes, I have had educated individuals ask me what might be THE most ignorant shit ever!!! What the fuck you mean what’s her nationality?! AMERICAN you dumb shit!!!! While everyone may not get the differences among race, nationality, and ethnicity, I fully expect someone with half a brain to understand that everyone born in America is fucking American. Yes, I check more than one box. Yes, if there’s only one box, I check black. No, she’s not Hispanic. If you need to ask all those damn questions, then you probably don’t need to ask me any, cuz it sounds like you’re minding too much of my business.

I don’t have race hang ups. I know I’m a black woman living in America. I know how hard it is for some of us to be black in America. But funny thing is, I see my race as the last thing holding me back. Being a single mother is WAY more of an obstacle. Don’t make your race and ethnicity issues about me, because frankly, I don’t have any so you can miss me with them. I will continue to relax the shit out of my hair, push up on white boys who look like Brad Pitt, and raise Baby Troy Polomalu because at the end of the day, I’m comfortable being a black woman and I have the big booty, wide nose, and thick lips to prove it.

Previous Older Entries

%d bloggers like this: