"Let go of my fucking hair Kenya" I said angrily. She held and yanked on my long rope like ponytails. I thought the hatred she had was because of my hair, that hung on the sides of my face like the ropes used to hang my ancestors from the willows that wept for them.....not just her ancestors, but...
Her hair was short and brushed neatly into a ponytail, and picked out into a puffy ball, like a little black cloud sitting directly above a brown earth. (That last line, about the brown earth went over your head.... didn't it? Ahh 5%)
It was my first day, of second grade, my friend Ray Ray had just taught me how to curse, and how independent and 'grown up' it would make me feel. The first time I had ever went to "Real school"
She then maliciously regurgitated words, that I knew were not her own, "You think you cute? Little yellah bitch, you ain't shit. I ought to cut this shit clean off your head". My grandmother would kill me, that was for sure...
"I'm not playing with you Kenya, I WILL FUCK YOU UP!" I angrily yelled, now hyperventilating, sweating profusely through my yellow uniform shirt. My eyes silently threatened her friends who held me down, making it hard to fight. Larette brought the scissors and placed them in Kenya's outstretched hand, sneering and hopeful. Hoping that Kenya would make good on her threat.
I closed my eyes, as tears drummed from behind my pupils, begging to be set free, but they were slaves to my ego.
I wont tell you what happened that day, because whether Kenya cut my hair or not isn't important, what happened in the years to come was...
8 YEARS LATER
I hated to walk down the streets and hear the cat calls of hustlers who were recruiting young girls in the summer to be bottom bitches. I cringed every time I heard the word "Yo, Let me holla at you light skin"
The streets of NY were intense in the 90's and early 2000's. The ignorant stains that the drug epidemic of the 80's had left behind were eventually called children. The children of the crack era, victims of what my criminal Justice books labeled "A Victim-Less crime" A.K.A the offspring of Queens, or should I say crack whores who kneeled before our fathers; Kings...King Pins I should say, who took advantage of the weak. So young men, didn't know how to be young men Not quite understanding that 14 year old girls were not to be dated by 23 year old men with lust in their eyes and bad intentions covered by lullaby-like words. No father figure, no one told them. They were ignorant,I thought. I knew better
I sighed as I walked past Baisley projects, in South Jamaica Queens as a boy I called "Charlie" yelled out his window, "Yo Light skin, when you gonna let me holla at you Ma?" I sucked my teeth, and whispered to myself "fuck you". Then he yelled "Light skin YOU KNOW YOU HEAR ME".
Most of my life, I despised the intruder known as my skin as it tagged along everywhere I went, like a younger sister looking up to her older sibling. "I'm not light Charles, I'm brown" I yelled up to him, weakly smiled and crossed the street. "Nah ma, I like 'em light, like me. We could make some pretty babies" ...
Knowing it would never happen, he cursed me venomously and angrily yelling "Stuck up Bitch, you ain't all that fine anyway" from a 4th floor project window.
I was 14, he was 23. Why the fuck would I care about children, and why would I curse them with the curse I had walked around with attached to me my entire life?
I had denounced my skin color verbally to him, and mentally denounced it years ago in a 3rd floor public school bathroom. I wanted to be the rich Mocha of my twin sisters, and on the same end of the spectrum as my Father and Mother.
Where did I come from?
In a coke induced daze, I believe my mom said that the man whom I thought to be my father wasn't. Her words were slurred, and I was just a baby, but she declared that I was indeed the offspring of a John. I asked if his name was John, since she called him that. she said 'No, he's an Italian man, with no name'.
At that age all I could think about was his clean canvas. A man with no name, free to be whoever he wanted, especially since he had no child to care for. Maybe his name was Eric, Tony, Louis, or whatever, but I knew it wasn't John. I wish I had no name.
Living in a house full of Chocolates, from milk to dark, I constantly tried to prove myself. Eating watermelon until it looked like I was as round as a ball at family gatherings, demanding fried chicken for dinner, reading Malcolm X and roots at 10 years old. I eventually, somewhere in between the books and stereotypical behavior lost my self. Little Mulatto; I called myself. Something Alex Haley had taught me on one of my many visits to the library.
Eventually I got over it, I got over the fact that I would never be the hues I had dreamed of being at night. I accepted my phenotype.
I just want my darker sisters to realize that because you are the color of our ancestors...
Don't be discouraged. Through your own insecurities, you have created the insecure lighter sister, who is always trying to prove herself, who eventually stops trying to kiss your ass and becomes the indignant, cocky creature that she is in her adult years. Who thinks she's better because she's light, because you've drummed it into her head for years. Willie Lynch is still a factor in your life, and you are still a pawn on his chess board.
*To The Tune of You're A Jerk* - "You're A Bitch we know, bitch bitch bitch bitch"
Dudes who Bitch all day about "bitches" are a bunch of Bitches.
I know a dude, who talks about ugly girls, fat girls, and girls with no profile pictures, or profile pictures that he doesn't like allllll day. I sit, stare at him, and think "Why do I associate with this guy, he's a bitch. If I wanted a bitch for a friend I'd get me a fucking puppy"
So therefore.... this friendship is null and void.
Calling People Ugly...
You think it makes you look better, but it makes you uglier, on both the inside and outside, because now that your calling that person ugly, I'm sitting there expecting to find one drop dead gorgeous feature on you, and I can't. (Run on sentence... oh well)
The one you let hit it and never called you again
'Member when he told you he was 'bout the Benjamin's
You act like you ain't hear him then gave him a little trim
To begin, how you think you really gon' pretend
Like you wasn't down then you called him again
Plus when you give it up so easy you ain't even foolin’ him
If you did it then, then you’d probably fuck again
Talking out your neck sayin' you're a Christian
A Muslim sleeping with the gin
Now that was the sin that did Jezebel in
Who you gon' tell when the reprocussions spin
Showing off your ass 'cause you're thinking it's a trend
Girlfriend, let me break it down for you again
You know I only say it 'cause I'm truly genuine
Don't be a hard rock when you really are a gem
Baby girl, respect is just a minimum
Niggas fucked up and you still defending 'em
Now Lauryn is only human
Don't think I haven't been through the same predicament
Let it sit inside your head like a million women in Philly, Penn.
It's silly when girls sell their soul because it's in
Look at where you be in, hair weaves like Europeans,
Fake nails done by Koreans.
How You Gon' Win When You Aint Right Within? Un Un, Come again.
I Think this is the most important verse ever put on a song for women. I feel like my big sister was telling me all the things not to do. I see some wild shit when I go out to these parties. During all four years of college I haven't experienced the stuff that I'm experiencing now.
STORY: I went to a party this weekend, and a drunk Freshman girl jumped on a pool table during a house party. She started doing a tip drill dance, pulled her pants down, and kept shaking her ass. Im trying to figure out where her friends are. I turn around to see if I see her friends at least coming towards her, and when I turn back around she has her draws down, spread eagle, playing with her coochie... in the middle of a room, on a pool table. Her friends finally come, and ......hug her and say "Thats My Bitch". I CANNOT MAKE THIS STUFF UP. Well Im a writer, I can, but .... Im not.
Seeing shit like this only makes me go harder, because I wont be like the past generations of adults who overlooked the generations behind them. These kids need help and if I can't help them all, Im fine with helping a few. SMH.
Controllers & Consoles
Guns For Duck Hunt
There are no directional button's
No analog stick. You can't press R1 L2
You can't blow me and I Work.
Nor can you stick something in me and I produce pictures
Most importantly; there are no cheat codes when It comes to us.
Just when it comes to you .... and your mistress
So If you love X-Box, more than us
...Love Her. Fuck Her. And Make Her scream Your name.
I never thought that I would get to a point in my life where I'm afraid to tell the truth. All that I ask is that you dont ask questions. People can judge me, call me whatever they want, and label me as they please, because all of the greats before me were persecuted for their ideas, thoughts, opinions and actions. As long as me and God are still at an understanding, everything should be ok.
All Of my New York Natives and Bloggers, I was reading the NY times and here is an article that I just want to highlight for you guys. Something we should know but don't because we're eating while others aren't:
A major swath of the Bronx has the highest hunger rate in the entire nation, according to the results of a bombshell new survey.
More than 36% of the people in the 16th Congressional District - stretching from south of Fordham Road and west of the Bronx River - who participated in a Gallup survey responded in the affirmative when asked if there were times in the past year when they did not have enough money to buy the food they or their family needed.
The survey ranked the 10th Congressional District in Brooklyn as sixth in the nation, with nearly 31% of respondents suffering hunger-related troubles.
The Bronx is the number one hungriest place in the nation; Brooklyn is number 6.
I've started 2 different Books, over 9 different pieces worthy of being published in Time Magazine, and Essays and articles.
My essays end up being published in school, hailed as great works, written aggressively and full of passion by one of the most discreet and quiet student's known to attend (my school). My Articles end up in Magazines (not time); however my Time Magazine worthy pieces and books... cant seem to get finished. I put alot of passion, love, emotion, and sleepless, teary eyed nights into them, but It just feels like it's never finished. I have stories to tell, and points to get across.
My greatest stuff is yet to come.
Like Kelly breaking Zack's Heart.
I dont know about anyone else, but When Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski Broke Up ... I cried.
I was young, and that was just not supposed to happen. They're still supposed to be together now. But no she's married to some rich FBI agent on one show, and he's a broke ass DA, and most of his clients end up going to jail, as well as him
Kelly Kapowski is the devil
i hate you.
and stop coming over here to steal our benefits, and our jobs..."
---Girl on facebook.
Response. (WARNING: The views and opinions that will be expressed in this rant are strictly MY views, stating the way that I feel, and do not reflect the thoughts of most of my affiliates, which is sad.)
Its people who've been fed with silver spoons. Black people have gotten too comfortable. Spanish people, have gotten too Comfortable, Middle easterners, Asians, You've all gotten too comfortable, because many years ago people were yelling at us that we need to take ourselves back to our country.
Black people didn't want to do it when Marcus Garvey or Malcolm X Proposed that we should.
To the rest of the races, and people of other various ethnic backgrounds; you're fairly new here, so I assume you enjoy it here, and don't want to go home, or else you would have already. No one really wanted you here when you flocked to the states either. People really need to Cut That Shit Out. However, we're all entitled to our own opinions, thoughts and views, that's the beauty of being an American, other people deserve and want it too.
Having Native ancestry running through my veins as well as the blood of my Western African ancestors, I should be the one complaining. People stole this country from my ancestors, murdered us with their disgusting diseased blankets and slaughtered us when we told them that their welcome had run it's course. As a descendant of Africa, we built this country and it has taken over 400 years for us to see a black man run this country. Allow me to reiterate; we built this country, brick by red cement brick. However, Natives and blacks have the worst living environments out of all of the people in America.Cut That Shit Out.
Americans, especially BLACK Americans; we need to get our priorities straight.Lets focus on our own communities, rebuilding our own communities, and focus on advancing our own communities before we focus on depriving others.
You See, I'm Just A Girl....
A Girl with Unrealistic Hopes, who's grown accustomed to regrets
Who holds on to niggas with bad intentions
A Girl who has spent countless nights crying her soul out... In between Blue college ruled lines
They'll never see it coming down my eyes, I'd Rather make a Poem Cry...
... There is simply not enough space.
A Girl with a story to tell but It's illegal to chop down the trees needed to create the volumes of heartbreak I've endured.
Stories That I Wont Voice...
So i turn Ballpoints into Griots,to pass down stories.
YES, My Pen speaks for me...
I'm Just A Girl....
A Girl who owns a shoulder that they all come running to
A Girl with crooks in her neck from never having one to return the favor so I LEAN ON MY OWN.
A Girl who's heart bleeds blue
for every Amy Winehouse, Billie Holiday, and Mary J, song that she's lived through
... I'm really Just A Girl
Who's had as many shattered dreams and broken hearts as Grandma has had broken Mugs on Kitchen Floors.
My Ten fingers and Ten toes will not suffice in keeping count.