(If you missed the earlier post today, check it out here! Great information for those of you who work with girls ages 10-17!-ST)

Hip-Hop hooray, I won a Black Weblog Awardfor Best Microblog (my Twitter page)! Thank you so much to those who voted. What makes this a whole lot cooler than when I won in 2007 and 2008 is the fact that I didn’t really campaign at all. I mentioned it like, twice. I feel lame asking for votes! No problem asking for donations, but votes? Makes me feel awkward. So thank you for real for just going on and supporting anyway. Microblogging is tricky and I really do try to use my Twitter account to entertain and provoke thought. Glad somebody feels me! Also, a big shout out to the lovely ones over at For Harriet (new site to know and love, folks) for featuring me on their list of Most Inspiring Black Women on Twitter.

I don’t usually mention this on here, but did y’all know I write an s-e-x column for the emerging women’s lifestyle site Madame Noire? Well, I do! It aint for everybody, let me tell you (if you are reading this Mother Toldja…LOG OFF! NOW! PLEASE! I’M JUST PLAYING! AINT NO S*X NOTHING!) , but it is very much in the spirit of this site when it comes to empowering women to make choices and live well. Click here to check it out and if you like it, please visit again and again!

Have a fantastic day and I’ll have something brand spankin’ for ya tomorrow, mmkay?

I demure from connecting with the men that I meet to my online life, for a number of reasons (for starters, an unfortunate number of young brothers would take this the wrong way without proper context). When I’ve known someone for a while,  I’ll welcome him to the Toldjadome, no problem. But following someone on Twitter or Facebook stalking can lead to some inaccurate inferences drawn about one’s character, but also a false sense of closeness. Seeing me Tweet is not hardly the same as seeing me live and it doesn’t really allow you to get to know me.  Not my relationship side, that is.

David Drobis, Chairman Emeritus of Ketchum PR once stated ”In a Facebook world, face-to-face still matters.”  Now that’s the truth, Ruth. Hence, I cannot stand meeting fellas that are happy to chat with you on the phone, text and/or BBM you all the live-long day…but they are real slow on the gun when it comes to scheduling actual face time? Yeah, me too. And it sucks. As I have said before, my interest in someone most certainly has an expiration date. If sparks have not turned in to flames after a while, if I’m not sold on the gent in question, I bow out. I don’t enjoy having a phonebook full of guys who I’m only slightly interested in or keeping around just to say I have options.

Recently, I have found myself constantly in and out of text message conversations with a young man who I met recently (no, not the person I mentioned last week…unsurprisingly, HE knows how to initiate actual face time).  He’s funny and seems pretty smart. I’d be interested in kicking it with him…and he hasn’t made a move to actually plan anything or suggest a date or even made a vague suggestion about hanging out.  He asks what I’m up to all the time, but hasn’t made any attempt at filling that space. Yet he seems to want to chat with me all the time.

There are a number of reasons why a gentleman caller (or lady friend) might drag their feet when it comes to making plans to actually hang out, as opposed to texting, texting and more texting. It could be money. It could be a lack of interest in seeing you. It could be that he or she is seeing someone else. It could be ineptitude in dating. I get this, I do. I don’t assume too much, but I know how to read signs. I also know how to hit the “Stop Requested” button. If someone or something isn’t suiting my needs within a reasonable amount of time…I get off the ride. And since I am one of those insufferably picky and entitled women who demands that her beaus manage to keep her interest intellectually, sexually and otherwise…I don’t waste too much time on those who don’t.

Whatever the reason may be, this man is wasting my free text messages.  Here is where my feminism and my personal dating tastes and experience have a little disagreement. I don’t think there’s a problem with me saying “Would you like to have a drink with me on Wednesday night after work?”, but I would prefer not to. I like men who take a bit more initiative. I have found that those who do not either aren’t really a good fit for and/or aren’t that interested in me. I just sorta feel like if he wanted to go out, he’d ask me out. So while I don’t put my men in a “You must be traditionally male” box, I skew tradtional when it comes to this.

I’m gonna give this particular fella a bit more time before I disengage. But I’m letting these brothers I deal with know: we aren’t in a relationship that is already established to the point where I have enough buy-in to settle for text talk when life doesn’t permit face time.  So if you don’t want to see me, than by all means…bye! I am not a cure for boredom…well, in some ways I am, compared to the human yawns out here in these streets…but not when it comes to ‘sitting in the crib with nothing better to do’ boredom. Download some games on your phone, read a book or perhaps find a woman with whom you’d rather go out with. But you can’t be wasting my free text messages.

If you’ve been reading for a while, then you know that I have been lamenting the lack of effective game spitting that I’m looking for on the streets of New York. Don’t get me wrong: I don’t want to be flat out lied to by some man selling dreams but providing little more than sheet-twisting. Nor do I want to hear a bunch of corny lines that would be appropriate for your 50 year old uncles in Steve Harvey Couture (You know the ones…hat on/suit on/looking like Don Magic Juan…). But dag…a sister appreciates a little ‘g’. These Hush Puppy-shoe wearing crumbcakes are giving me a serious case of the yawns, and I don’t like it.

But BABY, can I tell you that I was the recipient of some grade-A mack game this weekend? And I couldn’t be any happier!

Please believe that much like this beloved video, I will pull ”Return of the Mack” out for any hint of a reason. Why? Because it’s NEVER going to cease to be funny. In fact, next time I have writers block, I’m just gonna type up the lyrics and use that for a post. Pump up the world.

I was mid-conversation with another guy, his friends and one of my BFF’s (Sister Salud!)when the mack-in-question totally Kanye’d his way in and then pulled me to the side and asked me my name. “I was talking to that other guy!” I whispered. “Yeah, well, you didn’t look that interested. And besides, I had been trying to get to you first and he beat me over here.”

What did the young man in question say that was so amazing? Nothing, really. But it was the confident, almost slick-like way he rolled up on me. There was no trepidation, no bashfulness.  And once he’d managed to get my attention, he was charming, funny and engaging. One of my biggest personal complaints about dating is how incredibly boring I find a lot of the men that I meet. Boring is, of course, subjective. And I know that I set myself up to meet a lot of ‘square as a matchbox’ fellas, as Sister HotChocolateChiBK calls them, because I do fancy buppies. But education and career do not excuse being the human equivalent of a yawn. No offense. None taken.

Different strokes for different folks. What works on Young Toldja might not work on the next woman. However, I have heard a number of women make the same complaint about fellas not having any game whatssoever. If I can make a request and a suggestion to my male readers who are trying to get a fun, fierce ladies like my crew…have a little spunk about you. A little hint of mischief and mystery. Say something to make us blush or think or laugh. Don’t be offensive, (“You look like your oral skills are on point” is NOT WHAT A WOMAN WANTS TO HEAR. Even one who has a sex column. Sheesh.) but don’t be afraid either. We aren’t making a business deal, we’re trying to figure out if dinner dates, breakfast in bed and/or Jet wedding pages are in the future. It’s supposed to be fun. Mack us down!

Not long ago, I met a fella that I found to be dope. I wont give you details because 1) God forbid he Googled me and found the site (if so, can you please stop reading right now? Please? and 2)there are perhaps three men who could be reading this and thinking “Is this about me?”. Actually, if this is any man who is/was interested in dating me, can you PLEASE LEAVE THIS SITE RIGHT NOW?, but I was digging the brother.

Long story short: he’s about 15 years my senior and he hits me with the “I don’t think I could get serious with someone your age” memo. I was initially offended: am I not pretty enough? Is it because I’m not class mobile yet? Would a doctor or lawyer my age get the same disclaimer? He knew how old I was when we met, so was “serious” never a possibility, or had I somehow taken myself out of the running with something I had said or done?

To be fair, the gentleman in question also said “It wouldn’t be impossible…just difficult” and explained that most of the women he dates are usually closer to his own age. “Isn’t it the same for you?” he asked, “You’d seriously date someone this much older?” Er. I deal with men between the ages of 22 and 42 (insert a dash of shame at both extreme ends of that spread). It’s not so much that I’m so wide open so as to make the playing field bigger, I just tend to like a lot of different sorts of dudes at different stages of their development.  It’s more about height personality and cuteness connection.

(Pause: can I mention that Maxwell recorded Urban Hang Suite at 21, 22? I have been alternately depressed and impressed at this fact all week. It didn’t strike me as a big deal back then, since I’m so much younger. Now that I have bypassed 22 myself, I just can’t ever recall knowing a dude who was…like that when we were that young. Or at 25. Or 35…I’m just saying. Okay, back to the show.)

Now, at a different time in my life, my second reaction (after the aforementioned self-doubt) would have been ” Oh, I can prove him wrong.”  Mind you, I don’t know this man that well yet and even though I find him to be really attractive, I don’t have nearly enough information yet to say that I like him for real. That doesn’t matter; the game would have immediately changed from “I’m just getting to you know you” to “I gotta show you how dope I am.” The disclaimer would serve as motivation and his disinterest would have made him more appealing. Sick, right? I couldn’t help it.

I conducted myself as such on a number of occasions in the past. If a man said “I’m not looking for a relationship”, I heard “The right woman could make me a believer“.  If he said he wanted something more serious than I did, I figured he’d gladly accept that which I was offering before him. Basically, all a man needed to see was the awesomeness of me and his views on relationships (at least as they relate to me and my aforementioned awesomeness) would adjust accordingly. You can pretty much imagine what the success rate looked like with this take on the world.

Well, things done changed. With age comes wisdom, I suppose…even if said wisdom isn’t sufficient when it comes to getting this particular gent in a Jet wedding photo with me. He said he doesn’t see himself getting in a relationship with a woman my age and so, I will treat him accordingly. I’m not going to attempt to push the issue or approach him in the way I would someone who seemed open to making the Toldjadome his home. Why? Cause he already let me know where he stands on the matter.

This may seem like a whole lot to say about someone I’m not trying to get at on a serious level, but he was just a vessel for me to make a point I’ve been mulling for quite some time. It is imperative that we learn to hear what people are telling us, even when it’s not what we want to hear. This may sound like some old Captain Obvious advice, but boy, how many times have I heard a friend bend and twist a very clear statement in to something more pleasing to their own ear? How much time could we all save if we dealt with the information we were handed from the people we date instead of the subtext we wished was there?

While I realize that people can change their minds over time, I have accepted that I cannot delude myself in to thinking I am just a few tasty home-cooked meals and lovemaking sessions away from convincing someone to change his views and walking off into the sunshine with me. I truly appreciate it when I feel that someone hears what I say and I owe the men in my life the same respect. My bread pudding may just be a game changer…but if you act like you don’t want it, you ain’t gonna taste it.

As we left off yesterday, I found myself chatting up a dude in the mall who wasn’t really my type of hype.  To recap: neck tattoo, tight Armani Exchange threads, Drake ringtone= the three strikes that SHOULD have put him out. But no, silly little me keeps on going.

Now, this fella is a chef at a soup kitchen; he got the job through the as-seen-on-TV trade school he attends. Not usually along the lines of the men I usually date in terms of academic background, but I wasn’t tripping about that. What was…special, however, was when he said that his long term goal was to be a “home chef”. “Oh, like a private chef for someone well off?” “No, like Rachael Ray and some of the chefs on the Food Network. They shoot them at their house. Like a document.”

Run that back, please.

“Like, you know. A document, that’s how they film them.”

What’s worse: that he was trying to say “documentary” and called it a “document”? or that he thinks cooking shows are really taped in someone’s house? Or the “Find Your Love” ringtone? Le sigh.

I wasn’t tripping off the as-seen-on-tv certificate program, but this dude wasn’t quite functioning at grade level. In fact, I peeped a few other misused words and awkward grammatical erros that just didn’t fit a 30 year old man who would be hanging with Young Toldja.

I mentioned that I was hungry and that I needed to go grab dinner and he suggests one of my favorite local restauraunts. Huh, that was kind of a surprise…so was my agreeance to go. Perhaps he was just a little nervous, right? (Document.) I decided to give a brother a chance.

We both needed to stop at the grocery store in the mall first before we ate. I enjoyed the fact that two girls in the Pathmark saw him and said “Daaaaamn.” He was a very good-looking guy. I wondered again “Why can’t he find a woman?” It started getting clearer. Now, my greatest pet peeve in life (aside from Flo Rida) is people who can’t use the self-checkout. He picked up some milk that had a coupon attached and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to remove it, scan it and put it in the coupon slot.  I was displeased.

He pulled out an EBT card to buy his groceries. Strangely enough, I knew he was going to do this. It’s a recession, lots of people are getting benefits. Hell, if I qualified for food stamps, I would be first in the line. Eating beaucoup lobster and shrimp off all the tax money I pay to NYC any darn way. But, the EBT card still got filed in the “something aint right” pile.  He’d mentioned earlier that he lived with an aunt and I…yeah. 30, no kids, essentially living at home and getting EBT benefits. Something just ain’t right.

We walk the few blocks toward the restauraunt and he doesn’t offer to carry my bags, which are heavy. And remember: I have a cane. He mentions that he had “just ate”, but was happy to chill with me during my meal. Translation: “I’m not paying for your food”…which was more than fine with me. At this point, I am all the way turned off and continuing simply for the sake of the story.

During our agonizingly long 45 minute meal, he manages to ask me if I really thought people were born gay (“If they are, that means that God is not perfect…isn’t God perfect?”- asked like a 5 year old child speaking to his mother),  if God was real and if so, how were we supposed to believe in something we hadn’t seen (again with the childlike tone). He also implied that the world might be coming to an end if a good man like him couldn’t find love.

Here is the awesome part: we went on this “date” without exchanging contact information. So when I was done eating and had paid for my food, I shook his hand, wished him well and kept it moving. He looked surprised, but I’m sure he’ll just chalk it up to those pesky days ending.

Is there a moral to this story? Not necessarily. There very well could be a Jersey Shore-attired emo dude with a  Drake ringtone who could somehow be super awesome for me. However, the 3 or 4 times that I have stepped so far outside of what I find to be attractive or appealing…I’ve fared about this well. I like what I like and I know what I gel well with: whip smart guys who are well-read and use words correctly and are way too cool to ever have Aubrey on the ringtone. And you know what? That’s not a bad thing. While I’m not saying I won’t ‘give a brother a chance’ anymore…I’ve been reminded that there is a line between stepping outside of one’s comfort zone and just wasting time. Document that.

PS: To be fair, this STILL does not top the worst date I ever had.

PPS: If you haven’t already, consider The Beautiful Struggler Campaign for Giving. No, for serious.

The first post from my sister in struggle and sass Saida Grundy, who will be appearing here from time to time, is a response to “Dating While Feminist: An Anatomy of an Intellectual Affair” (via Crunk Feminists Collective).

Blog begets blog, and this will be no exception. More typically, however, feminist stances posted to the internet(s) give way to counter-bloggage and commentary retort from those on the outside of our movement. The patient amongst our sister-comrades may even take noble attempts to explain to our foes the histories and social contexts of Black feminist politics that we already knowingly share and understand amongst each other. The less patient among us– say… me– usually just take to internetthugging because my patience for male patriarchs and their allies is limited if not expired.

 So, from the outside, it may be surprising to witness feminist dissent amongst feminists. And yet, this is where I find myself–in ardent disagreement with my feminist community over the sexual consequences of feminism in our romantic lives. 

Without any intention to misrepresent the post’s point, I will summarize briefly the bulk of this lament: The author is a smart and rising feminist academic. The author is a heterosexual and still has a pulse, so she sometimes finds herself attracted to her male intellectual peers and colleagues. These male colleagues often engage the author in deep intellectual discussion(what she describes as “an intellectual affair”) and yet do not reciprocate sexual interest in lieu of presenting said author with the almighty friend card. Where this may seem typical to the experiences of adult professionals across the board, what has been argued here is that this lack of sexual interest coupled with shared intellectual stimulation constitutes a “mind-f*ck” in which feminists in particular are repeatedly used for mental exercise but not considered as candidates for sexual pursuit.

As a homegirl, I can “get” the former complaint, that women—particularly women involved in the incestuous f*ckfest of academia—often navigate the very ambiguous territory of dating within the profession and have to brace ourselves for rejection. But my feminism takes issue with the latter—the notion that our feminist identities and intellectual depth have somehow muted our sexual desirability to men, and, perhaps more disturbingly, that men’s unreciprocated sexual interest while maintaining intellectual interest is somehow “using” us.

­Such a take on feminist ‘dating’ has me doing something I have never actually done before: defending men. While I do understand the hurt feelings that come naturally with any unidirectional romantic interest, I just can’t help but think that men are damned if they do, damned if they don’t on this one.  While there is a valid point to how our political presentations of ourselves make us more or less desirable to potential partners (i.e. nothing makes me lose my erection faster than a man with pronounced homophobia issues) I refuse to think that in the history of heterosexuality a man has ever said to himself “I would totally bag dat if she wasn’t so SMART!”

What black women feminists and non-feminists alike more often encounter with our male colleagues is unwanted sexual advances that place us frequently in positions of disempowerment and compelled feelings to play nice and take it lest we get labeled man-haters. What happens more frequently is the harassment of our lesbian sisters for violating the heterosexual contract and being unavailable to male pursuit. What we regularly encounter are men who fake feminism for the aims of lowering our guard against them (and hopefully, our pants). And yes, what we unfortunately still face is the humiliating real life old school Anita-Hill-Pubic-Hairs-on-a-Coke-Can style sexual harassment in the workplace. It is politically irresponsible to bemoan straight men keeping it above the belt without taking account of the hurtful and devastating consequences that their sexual entitlement has caused black women.This is real exploitation. A man not giving up the penis after intense scholarly debate is not.

Feminism has gifted me the quite pleasurable experience of being able to date smart, kind, and thoughtful men (even within academia!) and enjoy them sexually and intellectually.  But the sexy part? That was all me. I choose and navigate my sexy inasmuch as I am conscious that it still plays to conventional male heterosexual desire.  I won’t give feminism credit for my desirability outside of a brief shout-out for allowing me to feel more in control of my sexual power. But I most certainly won’t have it blamed by my sisters for stifling theirs. To claim that feminism somehow negates our allure to men smacks in the face of the daily exploitation that even feminists face because of our sexual desirability.

I got a text message from a man that I met recently: “Hey sexy“. This was his second communication with me after our initial meeting. I know that people assess sexual attraction early on (like, within seconds of meeting). I’m not insulted to know that he finds me sexy, but I find it unappealing to have it expressed that way so soon. I had a pretty strong feeling that a lot of women felt as I do when it comes to the complaint of the day and my Twitter sistren confirmed that to be true. Here is a small sampling of the response:

@inetespionage: Could he not call me “beautiful?”

@CONVOpolitan Hate it!!! Don’t TELL me that you’re thinking about sex in the first 5 seconds dude!!

@dstarwriter59 it all depends on the intentions between ya’ll. If you know you’re in it to win it (long term) its a no go. If you’re in it just for a good time and a few back-blowing sessions, then it’s cool. All about where you’re at and what your intentions are. 

@kainicole depends on who’s saying it. Truth is if a hot guy calls you sexy, you are going to be ok with it…

I wont lie: in my book, passes are given occassionally on the basis of interest and attraction. This is true for a lot of things, from height to the number of children sired. But when you compromise certain things, you have to be prepared for the consequences. Maybe Mister “Hey Sexy” is a harmless cornball, or perhaps he’s just trying to smack it up, flip it, rub it down (oh no!) without anything else. But even if he is fine, it’s a turn-off for me. Not a deal-breaker, but a turn off.

Personally, I don’t really like being called “sexy’” by a man until we have gone there already. It feels like I’m being reduced to the sum of my sexual appeal, and while desire is EXTREMELTY important (I don’t want a man who doesn’t find me sexy and I don’t want one who isn’t sexy to me either, shoot)…I don’t want to feel like that’s the only thing you want. Unless it’s the only thing I want too, but that’s why effective communication is key, so we don’t waste each other’s time.

As you can imagine, even the women who agreed on the “sexy” tip had different views pet names in general:

@kimmiepooh Much rather be called my name, cutie, or beautiful. saying “hey sexy” & I barely know u rubs me the wrong way.

@Kymberle Names like honey, dear, sweetie annoy me. Everyone gets called that. What’s “special” for me!?!

I’m personally ambivalent about the nickname thing. I’m terrible at names. Terrible! I went on a date with a man who’s name I couldn’t remember. My phone book now is embarrassingly peppered with names of men based on what I can remember about them “Cali Guy”, “Philly Rapper Dude”, “Man at Bodega”.  So call me “Sweetie” if you forgot to put my name in your phone, I don’t have a leg to stand on with that.  But I think a good rule of thumb, one I need to work on: call a new person by their name until you’ve established some sort of connection beyond “you saved my number, right?”

It seems like men are a little bit more inclined than women to toss that “sexy” word around and it’s really not one I think you should use so freely. I hear it from men on the street and even on the net and more often than not, it makes me uncomfortable. Sex is a space you should be invited into. I’m not interested in knowing your sexual desires and tastes simply because I’m walking down the block, because I follow you on a website or even because I gave you my number. The irony is that the actual act of sex (if it was even a possibility) becomes less likely when the idea of it is presented before it’s time. 

Let “sexy” wait until respect and mutual attraction are established.  If you met at a bar and did some sexual flirting, then hey, maybe the time came sooner than later. But more often than not, play the Brand Nubian and SLOW DOWN.

I’ve been called a lot of things in my lifetime: daughter, Jamilah, sister, sista, friend, student, teacher, friend, Sunny, foe, lover, victim, survivor,    b!tch, bigot, snob, slut, assh*le, nationalist, nigg*r, loudmouth, feminist, hater, mentor, mentee, man-hater and, of course, Sister Toldja.

I asked for a few of those titles. Some came naturally and others just unfortunately got attached to me somehow. Since I chose that last one, I’ve made my thoughts and my existence public in a way that has allowed folks the space to label me as they see fit. Whether I like it or not, whether or not I agree with the assessment. I’ve written here and there about how I ended up who I am today (for example: this), but I can’t recall ever sitting down and putting pen to paper fingers to keyboard to explain why it is that I write. There’s a lot of reasons. One encompasses them all: love. Love for women, love for Blackness, love for humanity (like all of it, for real, White people and err’thang), love of freedom, love for the possibility of a new world.

To be totally honest, one of my greatest loves is the one that people don’t always seem to understand. Now, as someone who believes herself to be a skilled writer, I have to be careful about always blaming the reader for not comprehending what it is I say. Just because something is clear in my head doesn’t mean I have articulated it clearly on the page. Yet, at the same time I am aware that because of the -isms that I have inherent beef with, I also have to accept that things can get lost on folks due to the state of the world around them.

That’s a lot of preface to get to this point: one of my primary driving motivations for writing as I do…for LIVING as I do, is my love for Black men. I love Black men. I LOVE BLACK MEN! Perhaps I don’t say it in those very words enough. Perhaps I need to throw some <3′s and glitter on it to make it clear for certain folks. But it’s true. I love Black men so very, very much. I think that people look at feminists and assume that our criticisms of men are either rooted in hatred or have delivered to a place of resentment. And I’d suspect there are a lot of folks who hear sisters like me talk about Black love and think what we are really advocating for is love for Black women. That’s not it at all.

My love for Black men is very complicated. My interest in them is self-serving and for the people at the same time. There’s my relationship to fatherhood (my own very precious bond with my own dad, my concern for the fatherly relationships with others and for others). My feelings of sisterhood to brothers, big and small. My sexual interest in them. My urge to protect them as far as I can and to receive protection from them. My romantic stake. My burning desire to be a wife in some years and a mother. My deep, deep wish to be the mother of sons. These needs and wants and existing institutions are not easily managed.

I want to show love and give love to our men (Yes, our men. Not our implying possession, but being of one another, i.e. “our family”, “our people”).effectively. I wish that was always easy or that it always felt good and could be served with a smile, but that isn’t how it works. I don’t ever want to again coddle or make excuses for them. I don’t want to be perceived as hating or bashing when I’m being critical. I want us to be better, healthier, happier, freer. Feminism is a tool in the kit I got to get there.

On a more personal note (as if I could get more personal in an essay that already has the words ‘me, ‘my’ and ‘I’ in it about 50′leven times), my life would probably be a bit easier if I dropped all this think-y Black people stuff and just dealt with what’s going on with the folks I know. Would you believe that being known as an outspoken feminist can be intimidating and unappealing to a lot of young men? Redic! But I love Black men and Black women too much to just ignore this stuff we got going on and I feel like writing is this thing I’m fair to middlin’ at and I should write about us and that maybe, just maybe, I could inspire some people or get them to talking and that might could help somebody.

As I touched upon yesterday and will eventually engage on a less personal-touchy feely level, we want to love our men and we don’t always know how to do that. I think that I feel pretty good about how I love my brothers: how I relate to the men I’ve dated, the little ones I encounter in my community (even though some of the big ones make me feel like this and so I love the little ones in a way to keep them from ending up in that place), my homeboys, my father. The ones reading this right now.

I think so much of the conversation we hear from Black women about their frustrations with Black men can be summed up under the heading of: “I love you and I want you to love me back”. I also think that we don’t always know what we are doing when it comes to showing love to one another (men and women alike), be it on some cultural critic stuff or in the house or on the bus. We have love issues. Love issues all around.

I strive to love brothers better each day. I don’t think more would be possible, but better, sure. I’m very committed to this love as a sister, a daughter, a future wife and mother to sons*. I’m working on it. This is why there is a site in the first place. This is why I write. This has always been why I write. Love, love and more love. That’s what I’m here for.

*I know I’m gonna have a son. I took a mental picture of a baby boy and prayed that God would put him in the Baby Class of 2017.

There is yet another very compelling narrative to emerge from the discussion surrounding Chris Brown’s BET performance/ redemption/breakdown/moment of narcissism or whatever you’re calling it. I watched the video clip again last night and this time, I paid more attention to the faces of the people in the audience.

From Ann Powers of the LA Times:

Watching Brown’s performance, I was intrigued by the cutaway shots of rapt fans, captured by the BET cameras. Those shown in close-up were mostly women of color, cheering, nearly crying themselves. One mouthed an exclamation that was like a prayer: oh my God.

I read about Brown’s emotional breakdown before I saw the tape, so I can’t say that my own reaction to his performance was what it might have been had I been watching it in real time. But seeing these women so rapt made me think.

A confession: I made a comment when the incident first occurred that I deeply regret regarding the rumor that Rihanna had given Brown an STD. I re-read my first post on the assault from last year and I see where my own tone was (admittedly) less concerned for the young lady than it should have been. As I recall, my friends and I were emailing back and forth about it and someone had some “inside scoop” about Rihanna’s jealous and violent behavior. Until the picture of her injuries leaked, it had become very easy to convince myself that there was a fight, not a beat-down. I thought he’d ‘just’ struck her once or twice in response to her hitting him. I didn’t automatically assume that he’d beat her bloody and even as I acknowledged that he’d done something wrong and deserved to be punished…I essentially took his side.

Part of it was the fact that I was a fan of his adorable boy-next-door image, something I’d wanted young Black girls to have for a long time. I would not have been protective of Rick Ross or Justin Bieber in that way, I’m sure of that. And perhaps Rihanna’s edgy “bad girl” image made it easier for me to buy into the notion of a fight. Had the victim been someone with a good girl persona or someone who we knew nothing about, maybe that would have changed things.  (Side note: I’m a college-educated, well-read feminist in my mid-20′s and I’m revealing how much someone’s stage persona can impact how I view them. Imagine how these things look to a 12 year old.)

Yesterday, I called in and spoke to one of my favorite folks, Albert Butler of ”Al B. In The Afternoon“; he made a really great point about how our desire to combat the external assault on Black men has allowed us to at times be hypersensitive about certain things. Holding a pop singer accountable for a vicious attack on his girlfriend is not ‘trying to hold another Black man down’. I think we have found ourselves at times to be, if not overprotective, protective in a very ineffective way.

A man who sounded to be about 40 called in to defend Brown (“You know how these young girl’s mouths can get and then they get upset when somebody touches them”) and also managed to speak up for R. Kelly (“Yeah, she was 12, but she knew what she was doing and why was she there in the first place?”). I’ve heard both these statements in many different forms as they relate to these famous men (from people of both genders and all ages) and I’ve heard the same sentiment when it comes to non-famous people who are the victims or criminals in cases of rape and domestic violence.

It would be impossible to accurately compare how a Chris Brown situation would play out with a young person who isn’t famous. You’d have far less people weighing in, you’d have to consider the specific community in which it took place, etc, etc. We have long since learned that we tend to give celebrities more leeway than the common man in certain instances and far less in others. However, I do think the public reaction…my initial reaction…to this story (from the arrest to “Man In The Mirror”) speaks to a desire to protect young Black men.  Something we should do, but not at the expense of young Black  women and not in a way that stifles the growth of the men we call ourselves ‘loving’.

I’ve spoken to a number of young women in my community about the Brown incident and I was devastated to hear the “Well, she must’ve did something to get him that upset” meme over and over. Though I shouldn’t have been so surprised, given that even I was having a hard-time letting him be the bad guy until I saw that photograph. When I look at this video from the other day, I couldn’t help to think back to that protective instinct. I’m not condemning any of those women on there, I don’t know what they were thinking. But it put these things on my mind.

One of the big push-backs that I get when I talk about feminism is that Black men have been so callously treated by society-at-large that inter-communal criticism just seems to be adding insult to injury. But I can’t think of anything more abusive and insulting to our brothers than to suggest they aren’t capable of behaving appropriately, respecting themselves and others and being held accountable for their misdeeds.  Unconditional love does not mean the death of expectations and criticism.

I’m not obsessing over Chris Brown, but I am hoping that we can use what has transpired as a teachable moment. I know that I have had allowed this to be an opportunity to take a serious look at myself and the way I process certain things. I hate being called a ‘male basher’, but damn if I want to coddle our men either. Whether its the kid on BET or the one on my block, I want to show love in a way that encourages growth, mental and spiritual wellness and responsibility. I’m working on making sure I’m actually doing that in both thought AND action and I hope others will do the same.

Taking a break from the Feminism series for a spell. It’s much needed, I’d say. If you missed part one and part two, please take a second to check them out. Part three was linked at The Fresh Xpress and my Clutch feature for this week is “Why Feminism?”, a brief rundown of why I think our people need to embrace the concept and fast.

“I didn’t grow up thinking about my marriage and wedding. I really never thought this would happen.” My sister mused over brunch on Father’s Day, the day after her nuptuals. She was the second person to say something along those lines to me recently. Last week, a friend told me “I never dreamed about my wedding day as a little girl. I mean, really, who does that?” Of course, when I picked my lip up off of the ground, I explained that I had and that it was totally normal, thank you very much. I repeated the same speech to my family, to which the newlywed replied “I have always thought about myself at the center of everything when I look out at my life. I never thought about someone else or finding a husband. Maybe that’s why it happened for me.”  ”Well,” I explained “I’ve always thought about starting a family. That matters to me. I want it when I’m older and I will have it in due time. ” Everyone was pretty satisfied with that and I was able to finish the rest of the weekend without feeling like Jennifer Aniston in that one movie where all her sisters are married and she’s doing her boring Rachel Green routine and thus, too boring to find a man.

I actually performed Saturday’s ceremony (long-time readers may recall that I was ordained online a couple years ago, right before she got engaged).  I have the power vested in me to marry people in New York City, if any one is interested. For anyone who’s keeping score, that was the fourth of my father’s five biological and step-daughters to be married. And as I’m still single…yup, I’m the last woman standing. It proved worth my while this weekend, as it seems that the unwed daughter still gets the benefit of Daddy paying for meals and cab rides.  I’m all about the silver linining, folks.

Oh, and I caught the bouquet! Sir Fabulous Himself wants to see the tape, but I promise you I caught it fair and square.  Have you ever been to a wedding in which the officiant catches the bouquet? No, you haven’t. My family is just diffferent and special like that. My sister’s mother-in-law (not the new bride, my oldest sister) very solemnly informed me that I should not have caught the bouquet ”for another 10 years“, because I have a lot of living to do before I become a wife. I agree that marriage is not something I need to fret over in the immediate future (though a decade is probably on the longer end of how long I’d like to wait), but I wouldn’t be too upset if the spell of the bouquet forces me down the aisle sooner than expected.

My father, who was in rare form, told Sir Fabulous that if I was really serious about finding a man, I’d join a mosque and “get an MGT uniform.” I’ll just say this was unexpected advice. As I was holding a baby, I also overheard him tell SFH “I don’t know why her maternal instincts are so strong already, but please don’t let her have a baby yet.” I guess Pops doesn’t know how serious I am about my Jet book wedding and not having a little one before that. No worries, Dad.  Ain’t popping out any little ones anytime soon.

All silliness aside, I must say I was impressed by my sister’s enthusiasm about her new role as one half of a marriage. To be quite honest, I was a bit surprised. Her and her husband have been together off and mostly on for ten years and have lived together in New York for three. I didn’t really think about much of a life change, since they’ve been partners for so long. I debate this with folks all the time, but I’ve always had an aversion to the idea of living with a man I planned to marry. Largely because the idea of coming home to the same house and the same life after the wedding just seems like the marriage is simply a formality. Or permission to start having children. While I still harbor some of those feelings, hearing my sister speak about her commitment to this new form of their relationship, their plans to start a business and the possibility of having children (something she’s always been ambivalent about) truly touched my heart.  She kind of landed at marriage on accident without a course, whilst I’ve pictured the years between now and my 35th birthday as sort of a treasure map with an upwardly mobile family as the pot of gold at the end. I think we’ll both be okay in the end.

**Hey folks! It’s Black Weblog Award time again! And as much as I feel awkward asking, I sure would appreciate it if you took the time to nominate me in the following categories: Blog of the Year, Best Writing in a Blog, Blog to Watch and/or Best Personal Blog.  And also, my Twitter page (www.twitter.com/sistertoldja) is up for Best Microblog. It may seem like a small thing, but these awards really do help those of us who are attempting to parlay blogging into writing careers. If you enjoy the hard work I put into this site essentially for free, then I’d really appreciate it if you took a second to nominate me! Click here! Nominations will be accepted until July 25th.*