H.A.M.

Is it just me or did is seem like it took a second for Mr. Jackson to remind himself that Michael was his SON. He couldn't just speak from the heart and say he loved him and he's devastated? No, this proud FATHER had to mention his new record label. Nice Joe. Real frickin' nice. To think that when I receive a phone call from my child's daycare in the middle of the day my heart almost stops... Even thinking about the loss of my child is almost too much for me. Normally I don't judge how other folks deal with grief, but damn. Really?

The Loss of Innocence

Yesterday, I mourned the loss of innocence. Over the weekend I had thought about writing a post on the early eighties. Those are the years I look back on with an overwhelming sense of peace and nostalgia. I remember shadowing my big brother, always being underfoot, and my father trying to fit half of the neighborhood kids in our van so we could go fishing. There were always street football and baseball games in the summer and the boys would attempt to break dance, ride skateboards and their BMX bikes. I laugh when I think of my father always burning something and hiding the pan in the snow from my mom, or recall cutting my dolls hair punk-rock style and streaking what was left with Mom's best fingernail polish. The ass-whipping that followed - not so funny. Those were my halcyon days and Michael provided the soundtrack.

It's hard to express how much he meant to me during those days - he was everything to me as a kid. Most of my chore money was spent on his music, posters, stickers etc. I even loved Weird Al's "Eat It" because it was connected to MJ (funny as hell too). Would fall asleep listening to the worn out tape of "The Jackson Five's Greatest Hits." I grew up, but I was still a fan. As Michael grew older, the world watched as he (and we) stripped away his innocence. The little boy who sang "Ben" was nowhere to be found in this strange man-child who emerged and ultimately hid away in seclusion only to resurface more unrecognizable than before.

Yesterday, I was revisiting the idea of an 80's post and remembering those days when crazy happened. Again. Despite the life drama with the ex that is sometimes discussed here, I have treid to maintain my belief in the inherent goodness of most people. So nothing prepared me for level of pure unwarranted evil (post forthcoming)that came my way as I prepared for the long commute home. As I walked downtown and tried not to cry in front of the baby - the phone call came. Michael was dead. For a moment, I couldn't breathe or think. As it sank in, I thought of his children and his family and the grief they must now endure. And then I realized that a major touchstone to my happiest days in past was gone. And so was any sense of innocence I once had.

Yesterday, we drove home and listened to his music and the stream of newscasts. The baby she asked me, "Who is Michael Jackson?" I told her someone mommy used to love and cranked up the music.

What the Le Leche League Doesn't Tell You

I have a problem. Thankfully it does not involve the ex. Nope. This situation requires much more patience and diplomacy.

This weekend, I was unceremoniously awakened by a sharp painful pinch. Understand, gentle readers, that I was in the middle of an orgasmic dream. There I was with an entire afternoon to myself, sipping a tall mocha at an independent bookstore...hot eh? Prepared to squish whatever it was - I sat up (causing even more pain) and there, howling in protest, was my problem: the toddler.

"Gimmie back my boobies mommy!"

She is three. I breastfed her until she was two. She was weaned and doing well - then we came home to my mother's house. She has had two relapses since our return. Once during "Operation Night Night" where she was learning to sleep in a room alone, and this one. I have explained to her that there is no milk in there. Milk all gone. We buy milk at the store. "But I waaanitt, I tell Nama and Ms. L (try explaining that to a daycare teacher who thinks once they've sprouted one tooth it should be all over) on you!"

I showed her the teeth marks, explained that I was wounded and boobies were out of commission forever. The pitiful wounded look on my face satisfied her - for now. Her pediatrician informed that she has been advising more mothers on this situation recently as breastfeeding has seen a rise in popularity. Her advice: firmness and patience.

My boobies are losing both.

For My Father

He just couldn't help himself.

He is really really sorry.
Dumbass.

Plantation Negroes Running Amok!

Sending someone a not so nice email from work is a bad bad thing. Bad. I called my ex boyfriend's manager (see The Misrepresented Negro post) a plantation negro. In my defense, it was one line in a rather lengthy email regarding his actions before, during, and after my pursuit of child support. This person has made it clear that he thinks of me as a baby mamma who should have never had my child. I informed him that his client was in default of the support order and he replied that he didn't think he rated a conversation with me. My response was that he didn't "rate" back then due to his tracking down people at work, numerous calls and emails regarding the return of a magazine to my ex (seriously) when said ex had not visited his child or assisted financially in six months. I informed him this was plantation negro behavior. Mean. Bad.

His response: He fired off an email stating that he was actually going after my ex for money owed to him. He then critiqued my "victim mentality" and blathered on about the three major religions, Karma, and how being mean to him was going to come back and haunt me. He also opined that my ex must have been "good enough for me for at least one night." Um...Okay...

My favorite line from his email: Good luck on getting your money. Your interests oppose mine. In short, I plan to get my money before you get yours.
Nice eh? Translation : Screw yo baby! I gettin' paid fo' you.

And then he hopped on his broomstick, made his way to my job, and with quivering indignation and my email in hand demanded to speak to a supervisor regarding an employee who is harassing him. In short - he acted like a victim. My toddler does less crying when she gets a boo boo. Damn dude. Who does that?

I have lost my father, grandmother, home, had the father of my child put his hands on me when I was pregnant, his mother condemn me for being selfish and leaving, fought for almost a year to even obtain child support, been called all kinds of whores, bitches and treated like shit, and guess what? I fought back. I planned in advance an left. I take responsibility for my choices and actions. Life is hard, and I may fuck up at times, cry, get angry and be sad. Humans do that sort of shit. Most days I still smile and make jokes. Into every life a little rain must fall.

So guess what beeyotch? I work through my shit. I write. I have a beautiful baby and people who love me. And I'm still here - with my career intact.

I am not a victim.

You Mr. Manager: Still a plantation negro.

*If the following video offends you - go obtain a cursory knowledge of black history and get back to me.

The Kid's Alright: Part I

This beautifully written post at blackink's site reminded me of how time passes us by a little too quickly...

This weekend I attended my eighteenth year high school reunion - the prequel to our official twentieth reunion. As I was viewing everyone through a drug induced haze (Claritin-D Non-drowsy my ass), one thought kept reverberating in my mind: Where did the time go?

During the last two years of high school I could not wait to get out of my hometown. Eighteen years later I find myself feeling the exact same way. I returned home last November with my daughter to live with my mother. Leaving my friends and the city that I now consider home was difficult, but it seemed like the wise thing to do.

After the break-up/flight/removal of ex by the PoPo, my family and I had a series of discussions. The rationale behind the return went like this: Temporary, it's only temporary! It will give you a break from all of the chaos and stress! You'll be able to recuperate from the nuclear bomb that was just lobbed onto your finances! You can commute without giving up your career, the baby's daycare! Most importantly, it will give you a chance to help out your mom! So, I moved home.

Big mistake.

There is nothing inherently wrong with my hometown (once you get past it's dying industrial townness, fuckall to do, pervasive use of scrunchies, hair gel, and general ass backwardness). Kidding... I actually have a lot of fond memories of this place. Unfortunately, most of these memories involve my father who died a few years ago. Being here in this house without him is difficult. Seeing my daughter and realizing that she will never have memories of him makes it even more so.

I have helped my mom in some ways, but she has helped me a lot more. Patience is not learned til it is tried, and lord knows we have tried one another's. As my time here draws to a close, I have been taking a serious inventory of myself (based on reunion pics, my ass is entirely too large) and the direction my life is headed. Like Mr. Cooke sang, "A Change is Gonna Come." But, first I will be taking a look back at the roads I probably shouldn't have travelled. Hindsight is a bitch.


Too be continued...

Since I am not at the concert tonight...

I'm going to have my own private jam session. Enjoy.



Scuse me while I go get a drink.



Ok, I got my apple juice. Closing my eyes - envisioning myself in the front row.



I'm not mad that I am at home. Really.

No Bitchazzness Allowed

The following statements were made by two single mothers at my daughter's daycare center:

"I came up here an saw him playn' with Barbies. When we got home he was being all whiny and shit. I started shoving on him and told his ass he betta stop all that cryn' shit. I ain't raising no lil punk ass."

"Boy get your ass in the car and cut out all that damn crying!"

The children referenced in the above statements are three and four years old.

Certainly, some women feel they have man up their little boys. Daddy ain't around to teach them to be men so it's up to mom to ensure her male offspring does not become soft or *gasp* gay. I will address the ridiculousness of the previous statement in another post. Lord knows playing with a doll might lead a young boy to decide he likes penis instead of vagina...


This is nonsense. Life and parenting will teach a child what he needs to know. A child comes to his mother to kiss his boo boos, defend him when necessary, and send him back into to the world with love and confidence. Terrorizing a toddler by telling him to not act like a "punk ass" is setting him on the path to a misogynistic bullying existence that will most likely end up with him sitting in a court room awaiting sentencing.

While it's fine to write all of this on my blog - there has to be some way to discuss this with these women. Realistically, is there a way to talk about this with them?