Baby Boy has got to be one of the most irritating movies…ever. Aside from the fact that it seems to be the only film BET thinks the world should watch, the main character’s nickname is Jody. Really, how many brothas do you know named Jody?
He didn’t illustrate it in the most appealing way—I’m pretty sure we all got tired of seeing Tyrese’s big behind on a bike—but John Singleton was actually on to something. His film illustrates the harsh thrust from the wonderful world of childhood when someone older is always blamed for our actions to the bill-paying, difficult decision-making, hard-working world of adulthood.
Just when I thought the hardest decision I had to make was selecting the right dress to wear to prom and which boy I’d take, my parents sent to me to this really cold, usually depressing place where the meals are few and fatal, and the sleep is even worse. They called it college—and tried to convince me that during some severe lapse of sanity I’d actually chosen to be here and that I would somehow be better off after I left—but sometimes I thought I’d be better off at boot camp, at least it’d be cheaper. Deciding which classes to take, which people to trust, which boys to run away from, which dish not to eat at the dining hall was all hard. Negotiating with tuition collector’s who thought I could pull $45,000 out of my butt, speaking over the bold bastards in class who thought I’d checked some magical affirmative action box on my application to get into college, and holding onto my faith when it felt like every demon in hell was working against me, was even harder. It was all part of this weird adulthood I’d somehow earned simply by being alive for eighteen years.
Regardless of when we burst onto the grown-up stage, and no matter how well we have been prepared, there is still some shock and pain involved. There is a lot to be afraid of in the world that we meet in our adulthood. There’s the credit crisis, the war in Iraq, the seriously ill auto industry, job freezes, layoffs left and right, tuition hikes and grant/scholarship decreases, racism, classism, sexism, HIV/AIDS, cancer, unexpected pregnancies, abuse and assault. These monsters of maturity make for the perfect storm. The issues of the world we live in make for the perfect excuse to retreat back to the safety of childish things. Sometimes the shock is so great, we can be tempted to retreat from life altogether; three students at my school proved this when they committed suicide this past semester. No matter how often your “mama said there’d be days like this,” there is a big difference between expecting the trials and triumphs of adulthood and experiencing them. But we have to remember that it is in this same adult world that we have elected the first Black president of America. With privilege comes great responsibility.
What we can all use our brilliant adult minds to conclude is: life is not going to get any easier, but we can be as joyful or despairing as we decide we want to be. I like to look at adulthood in the context of a popular adult pastime (um…not that I know anything about this personally). Adulthood is like drinking. You spend every moment longing for it once you first learn about it, and how much fun it’s supposed to be. At first, you try to keep up with your friends, but eventually you realize you have to get your own pace. You see some people get really messed up by it, but you know as long as you’re responsible, you’ll be fine. And when you get really bold, you take it straight, no chaser. You know going in that there will be some pain and burning when it goes down, but you know the buzz you get in the end is all worth it.
Cheers baby! Here’s to leaving that baby boy/baby girl mentality behind.
Disclaimer: This blog does not advocate the consumption of alcoholic beverages. If you must drink, drink responsibly (translation: only do it if you’re at least 21, not on medication, not driving, and not holding your phone).
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Beyond the average
Are you an 80 or a 20? You know, Mr. Perry’s concept of the neat boxes that every person with a romantic companion fits into. Either you’re the conniving heifer who spends all the money, doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, but whose utter irresistibility renders her the mistress-turned-main chick – that makes you a 20. Or you’re the bend over backwards for my man, brings home the bacon and fries it up in a pan without trampling too hard on his innate need to feel important and needed, with some unforgiveable flaw, in Jill’s case about 100 extra pounds (Why Did I Get Married?)– congratulations, you’re an 80. Which means you’re 80% good enough for your man, 8 times out of 10 he’ll actually be active in the relationship and will only sleep around with every 2 out of 10 twenty percenters that come along.
Right?
Ummm…no.
I enjoy six figures just as much as the next hopeful college student, but enough is enough with the numbers. They are not the end all. They provide us with a way of thinking about things, like if the discount on the BCBG booties at the Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale is a higher percentage than the reduction on the MAXX New York clutch. At the end of the day, you make the choice.
Numbers shouldn’t depress us or give us the final forecast for our futures. The CNN Black in America Report brings to light the potentially fatal obsession Americans have with numbers--stats. I recognize CNN for its attempt to show the world what it’s like to walk in the shoes of over 40 million people in what will end up being less than 8 hours of film (I mean really, it just isn’t possible). But, the damage that these numbers can do is incredible. If I am a young, successful, black female college student, what am I supposed to think about my prospects on getting married in this lifetime? If I buy into the numbers, I either have to throw out my Modern Bride magazines, or, start figuring out how I’ll explain to my kids that mommy’s black, but daddy’s white because all the black men were in prison, or dead, or just dead broke. What if I was planning on moving to D.C.? Do I scrap my dream and move to Atlanta because CNN’s stats say the odds of me finding a HIV-negative mate are slim to none?
When we are constantly confronted with a bleak picture, we tend to accept it as reality. But numbers do a poor job of capturing the reality behind them – the lives, the people, the souls. They didn’t wake up one day and become statistics, decisions were made. No matter how bleak or bright the picture the numbers paint, we ultimately choose. Even in times when personal situations reflect someone else’s decision made without our consultation, we choose how we respond. We choose before they have a chance to put us into someone’s reported percentages. God just doesn’t leave us hanging like that.
I’m 100% black. 100% woman. 100% God’s child. But, in essence, 100% Timeka. And I’ll be damned if my man calls me an 80. Regardless of whether they appear on a bank statement, in a CNN report, or on the (ever-changing) scale, numbers do little to sum me up.
How about you?
Right?
Ummm…no.
I enjoy six figures just as much as the next hopeful college student, but enough is enough with the numbers. They are not the end all. They provide us with a way of thinking about things, like if the discount on the BCBG booties at the Nordstrom’s Anniversary sale is a higher percentage than the reduction on the MAXX New York clutch. At the end of the day, you make the choice.
Numbers shouldn’t depress us or give us the final forecast for our futures. The CNN Black in America Report brings to light the potentially fatal obsession Americans have with numbers--stats. I recognize CNN for its attempt to show the world what it’s like to walk in the shoes of over 40 million people in what will end up being less than 8 hours of film (I mean really, it just isn’t possible). But, the damage that these numbers can do is incredible. If I am a young, successful, black female college student, what am I supposed to think about my prospects on getting married in this lifetime? If I buy into the numbers, I either have to throw out my Modern Bride magazines, or, start figuring out how I’ll explain to my kids that mommy’s black, but daddy’s white because all the black men were in prison, or dead, or just dead broke. What if I was planning on moving to D.C.? Do I scrap my dream and move to Atlanta because CNN’s stats say the odds of me finding a HIV-negative mate are slim to none?
When we are constantly confronted with a bleak picture, we tend to accept it as reality. But numbers do a poor job of capturing the reality behind them – the lives, the people, the souls. They didn’t wake up one day and become statistics, decisions were made. No matter how bleak or bright the picture the numbers paint, we ultimately choose. Even in times when personal situations reflect someone else’s decision made without our consultation, we choose how we respond. We choose before they have a chance to put us into someone’s reported percentages. God just doesn’t leave us hanging like that.
I’m 100% black. 100% woman. 100% God’s child. But, in essence, 100% Timeka. And I’ll be damned if my man calls me an 80. Regardless of whether they appear on a bank statement, in a CNN report, or on the (ever-changing) scale, numbers do little to sum me up.
How about you?
Monday, February 4, 2008
Traveling Light
I didn’t remember putting it there in the first place, but last week I looked for it anyway. I looked hard. I looked long. I got frustrated and confused when I peered deeper into the mirror but still couldn’t see it. That mark, that sign, that unmistakable neon marquee etched somewhere between my brows and hairline that told boys, “choose me, lie to me, let me be the one you disrespect.”
Despite some not-so-happily ending experiences with guys and relationships that suggest otherwise, there is no neon sign on my forehead. Neither are there signs on some of my closest female friends who have recently experienced similar woes. We are all beautiful (which requires an appeal that radiates from the inside out), successful, grounded, fun, intelligent, ambitious, driven, loving women with our own unique personalities. We attract men just fine, the problem lies in the fact that the ones we actually find worthy and compatible enough to devote time too, are ridiculously inconsistent, inconsiderate, fickle, selfish and sometimes dishonest.
I should warn you now that this blog may seem a bit angrier than others. But rest assured that I am not bitter, just disappointed.
I’m disappointed in the fact that some men can claim to be one thing, and act like another. I’m disappointed in their blatant refusal to devote to one woman joyously and whole-heartedly. I'm disappointed in their dishonesty in sharing their intentions.
This weekend a good male friend of mine, David, reminded me that there are good men out there. That has never been something I’ve been confused about. My father is a good man. My favorite uncle is a good man. My closest male friends are good men. And I know there’s one out there pegged just for me. I’ll marry a good man. But that gives me little consolation right now; while I’m barely 19 and way too involved in finishing the semester with my head on straight while making dean’s list and juggling my internship and three student orgs to think about a good man 10 years from now. I, like my friends, want comfort now.
Then David said something that I think about all the time. He said, all guys were good guys at some point, until something happened. Someone hurt them, someone said something, did something, didn’t do something, something happened that made them shift. What he was talking about was the motive and reasoning behind the action. Now I’m in no rush to justify mistreatment, disrespect is disrespect. But the optimist in me believes that behind every selfish deed is something deeper. Hurting people hurt people.
When we carry baggage from past hurts every future relationship is affected. I don’t know when my guy will come, or what he’ll look like, but I do know that I want him to see me for me. And I want to see him for him. So in the name of karma and Godly principle I’m traveling lighter. I’m dropping all of my baggage. All the extra stuff that I’ve carried along the way and never needed. All the regrets and disappointments and worries, I’m losing that dead weight and keeping myself open to hope and love. I don’t have to tell you that it’s easier said than done, but I’ve started. And so far, I’m thinking this light, airy look is definitely my style. Could you stand to drop a few pounds?
Despite some not-so-happily ending experiences with guys and relationships that suggest otherwise, there is no neon sign on my forehead. Neither are there signs on some of my closest female friends who have recently experienced similar woes. We are all beautiful (which requires an appeal that radiates from the inside out), successful, grounded, fun, intelligent, ambitious, driven, loving women with our own unique personalities. We attract men just fine, the problem lies in the fact that the ones we actually find worthy and compatible enough to devote time too, are ridiculously inconsistent, inconsiderate, fickle, selfish and sometimes dishonest.
I should warn you now that this blog may seem a bit angrier than others. But rest assured that I am not bitter, just disappointed.
I’m disappointed in the fact that some men can claim to be one thing, and act like another. I’m disappointed in their blatant refusal to devote to one woman joyously and whole-heartedly. I'm disappointed in their dishonesty in sharing their intentions.
This weekend a good male friend of mine, David, reminded me that there are good men out there. That has never been something I’ve been confused about. My father is a good man. My favorite uncle is a good man. My closest male friends are good men. And I know there’s one out there pegged just for me. I’ll marry a good man. But that gives me little consolation right now; while I’m barely 19 and way too involved in finishing the semester with my head on straight while making dean’s list and juggling my internship and three student orgs to think about a good man 10 years from now. I, like my friends, want comfort now.
Then David said something that I think about all the time. He said, all guys were good guys at some point, until something happened. Someone hurt them, someone said something, did something, didn’t do something, something happened that made them shift. What he was talking about was the motive and reasoning behind the action. Now I’m in no rush to justify mistreatment, disrespect is disrespect. But the optimist in me believes that behind every selfish deed is something deeper. Hurting people hurt people.
When we carry baggage from past hurts every future relationship is affected. I don’t know when my guy will come, or what he’ll look like, but I do know that I want him to see me for me. And I want to see him for him. So in the name of karma and Godly principle I’m traveling lighter. I’m dropping all of my baggage. All the extra stuff that I’ve carried along the way and never needed. All the regrets and disappointments and worries, I’m losing that dead weight and keeping myself open to hope and love. I don’t have to tell you that it’s easier said than done, but I’ve started. And so far, I’m thinking this light, airy look is definitely my style. Could you stand to drop a few pounds?
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