The Cover of the Rolling Stone

Everyone has their undies in a knot over the cover of the Rolling Stone this week. The Boston Bomber, the young kid from Uzbekistan who bombed the Boston Marathon is on the cover. People are screaming far and wide about it. Walgreen’s won’t sell it. It’s a big hoopla over it.

I don’t understand it. Or maybe I do. But I don’t see why his picture shouldn’t be there. Is there something going on I don’t know about? I doubt it. He’s newsworthy of course. But I will tell you how I see it.

It’s all part of that double standard. Let’s say for instance, that he and Trayvon were both walking down a street together. And let’s imagine that George Zimmerman and his handy gun was there watching them. I don’t think I need to tell you which one of them George would be watching. Which one he’d be angry about and which one he’d suspect of being up to something. Which one would he accost?

So while he’s making poor Trayvon’s life miserable, our cute little Bomber Boy goes on home unmolested. He can go meet his brother and the two of them can discuss their plans and keep working on their homemade bombs. Nobody suspects them of anything. They look just like everyone else around, for Christ’s sake. What could they possibly be up to? And if they got in trouble, golly gee, give them a break! They have their whole lives ahead of them! No reason to ruin their lives for a silly adolescent mistake. Boys will be boys right?

Unless they’re black.

So Trayvon fights back. The unknown, unidentified white man attacked him and Trayvon fought back and our neighbor hood watchdog killed him. The cops thought it was ok. I mean, he didn’t belong in that neighborhood, did he? What was he up to?

Meanwhile, Bomber Boy and his Bomber Brother refine their plans and get what they need and nobody suspects a thing. Everybody thinks they are great kids and nobody has any idea that they are the ones who were up to something. They are the ones who should have been followed. Did anybody talk to them? Ask questions? Think their behavior looked suspicious? Of course not!

They’re just like us!!!

So while George Zimmerman goes to court, it is really Trayvon who is put on trial. He shouldn’t have been on that street. He should have gone along with a strange man accosting him. He shouldn’t have fought back. He should have allowed the profiling to go on. He shouldn’t have wondered why a man would stop him. All he was doing was walking down the street, talking to a friend on the phone bringing home his iced tea and a bag of skittles. Eight robberies had taken place there in that area. Of course he was up to something.

Robberies. Not bombings. Nobody was killed. Nobody was maimed. It didn’t even get national attention. But folks were scared and so he had to be stopped.

He’s NOT one of us!!

And now Zimmerman goes free. Trayvon’s parents grieve his death. Sentient people the world over wonder why it happened that way. Racists smugly clutch their guns and try to convince everyone they were right after all. That kid was a thug. He asked for what he got.

But now they can’t stand to look at Bomber Boy on the cover of the Rolling Stone. He looks good. He looks like a boy they’d let their daughter go out with except for the fact he did toss a bomb that killed and injured some people. They had no idea that boy wanted to kill as many of them as he could.

Seeing his picture reminds them of their mistake. They would have defended that boy to the end of the earth. They don’t want to have to look at every young boy like him and wonder if he’s all right.

After all, he isn’t the one you have to watch. He isn’t the one you follow, you harass and arrest.

The black kid with the hoodie, the skittles and the iced tea.

HE”S the one who was ‘up to something,’ right?

And that’s why you killed him. 

Talking About Race: “It’s All So Vexifying…”

I remember it was a warm day and I was sitting in the dog park near my apartment on Camp Street. My dog Molly was running about and I was just sitting there on the fountain thinking and watching Molly play with some other dogs. There weren’t many people in the park and it was kind of quiet and I was just sitting there alone with my thoughts when a young girl came and sat near me.

We didn’t speak for a while. I was lost in my own thoughts as I usually am and she was squirming and kept getting up and down and I remember being mildly irritated as she was disturbing my near meditative state with her fidgeting.

I really hate it when people can’t just sit down and be still. You know, just sit there, be quiet and be still. It makes me feel so much better when I do it that I figure it has to work for other people too but unfortunately, there are those who just can’t sit still.

Anyway, I had my notebook with me as I often do and I was taking notes here and there about the weather, how I felt and what I saw. The girl was young and kind of cute in a frivolous way. She had curly hair, though I didn’t write down what color it was. And she had this kind of irritating nasally loud voice. She had come to the park with a couple who had a dog, but they were far more interested in each other than they were in her and it was obviously pissing her off.

Every once in a while, she would yell something to them or get up and go say something to them and it was plain to see they were trying to ignore her.

But there she was, not too far from me, fidgeting and popping up and down and being loud. I didn’t want to go home yet and there weren’t too many other places to sit so I hoped she would either leave quickly or be quiet. I recall she was looking at me, and that I was wondering what her problem was when she finally said, “Your skin is very pretty.”

I am sure I said thank you. She asked me what I used on it and I told her that I didn’t really use anything, I just kept it clean and wore simple makeup. I was wearing MAC at the time and I told her about the regiment I had been on for a while.

She gave me a strange look and said she had wanted to try MAC, but she couldn’t afford it. I didn’t know what to say to that and so, I didn’t respond. She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I was the public information officer for the housing authority. She didn’t know what that meant and I told her I did public relations. She asked if I had gone to college for that job and I remember being irritated but answered her calmly.

“I went to college but not for that job.”

“Did you graduate?”

“Yes, I did. I have a degree from the University of Miami and I got my Masters from Southern Illinois University Carbondale,” I replied.

“Humph. Well, I didn’t finish college so I suppose I can’t get a job like you did.”

“You can always go back,” I said.

“I haven’t met too many colored people like you,” she said, peevishly.

I turned to look at her.

“What does that mean? And I prefer if you address me as black, if you feel you need to address me by my skin color,” I told her.

“I don’t know too many who went to college or ones that speak like you do or have a high paying job like you do.”

I thought about the bills I pay and chuckled at her assumption I had a high paying job. I also thought if I didn’t answer, she would leave.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you people,” she went on.

My hackles began to rise. “You people….” always does it.

“Are you colored or black or Afro whatevers? At least I didn’t call you a nigger like my father always says. I don’t know what I should say.”

“Why does that matter? We all have names. Use them.”

“I suppose now you are all pissed off with me,” she said, “cause I didn’t call you what you wanted me to. This race thing is all so vexifyin’. Ya’ll make it all so hard nowadays. I never know what to say. I was just trying to talk to you.”

And then she got up and left.

I breathed a sigh of relief and tried to go back to my thoughts but she had clearly put a stop to that. I was just a bit angry and wished that she’d been brave enough to continue the conversation but I knew that she had seen that I was mad and she left to escape the cursing out she was probably going to get.

I like to think I’m peaceful and want to teach folks but the truth is, sometimes my temper gets the best of me when I’m around stupid people and I end up just cussing them out. And I was headed for that with her.

I would have liked to explain to her that we were offended and tired of people who saw our skin color and came to all kinds of conclusions about us. Why couldn’t she have sat there and started a decent conversation with me? It was obvious she had some notions that were wrong and hurtful. I would have liked to have straightened that out.

She was angry and resentful and she had brought that out in me as well. I felt bad about that.

I wanted to tell her that college was important no matter who you were or what you did. She needed to know that there are a lot of very intelligent black people who did indeed go to college, who do speak quite well, and who have better jobs than what you usually see in Louisiana.

I remember getting on the streetcar in the morning and seeing the armies of young girls in uniforms going to their jobs as maids in the hotels downtown and in the French Quarter. I thought about all the young black men I saw sweeping streets, bussing tables, shucking oysters and doing otherwise menial jobs.

But I also thought about the past few mayors of New Orleans who were also black men. The lawyers and reporters and instructors that I knew that were black people. The world was changing albeit not as fast as I would have liked.

And yet we still had people who thought like that young girl. There was so much she didn’t know and so much she could have learned if we had talked a little more.

Talking about race really is “vexifyin.” 

What Happened to the Men We Knew and Loved?

Few words bring a chill to a woman’s heart like “Honey, I don’t feel so good!”

For most of us, the thought of having to nurse a sick man is one of the worst things imaginable. Sometimes they are worse than babies.

Consider this -  when a woman gets a cold, she goes to the store and buys some Nyquil and Dayquil and Kleenex and lemons and orange juice. She goes home and has a cup of tea with honey and takes the medicine hoping she will feel better so that she can go to work the next day. It doesn’t occur to her to stay home because of a cold. Work is more important. And for a single woman, there is no choice. She has no other means of support so she has to go to work.

But a guy? He will get a case of the sniffles and will lie in bed, his nose red, his eyes swollen and is suddenly incapable of going to the kitchen to get his own orange juice. He will suddenly become a whining sniveling patient in need of care.

So suddenly, your workload is increased. You have to get up early and get the kids off to school, get ready for work and bring him his tea and orange juice and explain how to take the medicine so that he will feel better. He will look at you and say, “You know I don’t like to take medicine.” That means he wants you to stay home from work and nurse him.

Yes, there are few things in life more awful than having to take care of a sick man.

But it goes deeper than that. Somehow, a lot of men have become as needy as a two year old. Where is that macho Alpha male we kind of like?

He’s become that lazy, whiny, angry pissy ass man that you want to take an iron skillet to. He can’t accept responsibility for anything he does. It’s always somebody else’s fault.

If you catch him cheating with another woman, does he apologize and admit he couldn’t resist and that he was acting like a boy? No.

YOU didn’t dress sexy enough. YOU were too busy with the kids and you didn’t pay attention to his needs. YOU spent too much time at work and you ignored him. YOU didn’t give him sex when he wanted it and the way he wanted it.

It wasn’t his fault. He is a sex addict. He has a behavioral problem.

He didn’t lose his job because he never got there on time or because he refused to take direction. It couldn’t be because he wasn’t working hard enough. It wasn’t because he told off his boss for asking him to do something he didn’t want to do.

“That bastard never liked me. He knew I was smarter than him and he was threatened. He’s a dumb bastard anyway. Why should I work for him?” Or “That bitch hates men. She thought I was going to get her job and she’s a lesbian anyway.”

And if you got tired of his whining, insecure childish ways and left him wow! You were never happy. He couldn’t please you. You nagged and complained all the time. You made too many demands and wanted too much and he couldn’t take it. He was happy with you but he just couldn’t seem to make you happy. You were just a bitch anyway.

It’s never his fault.

Some of my friends and I were talking about sex not long ago. All of us had encountered men who didn’t seem to have a clue about how to please a woman in bed.

“He didn’t know how to kiss. He came at me with this wet mouth like a big fish or something. No technique. It was like he just sucked my face into his mouth and I couldn’t breathe.”

“He was a lazy bastard. He claimed he had a bad back so he only liked it when he could lay there and I had to get on top of him and do all the work while his lazy ass just laid there. Who wants that?”

“He couldn’t find my clitoris if I had painted a big red target on it.”

“The whole thing was over in less than five minutes and all I got out of it was a wet ass and I had to sleep in the wet spot. It never occurred to him that I might want to have an orgasm too. He got his and that was all.”

“I told him what I liked and he just ignored me and did what he liked.”

“He said if I loved him I wouldn’t make him wear a rubber.”

You know what I mean.

They don’t want to take us on dates anymore.

“Why don’t we just hook up?” or “We can just hang out.”

Instead of being a couple, you can be friends with benefits.

All that means is instead of taking you to dinner, they just want you to come over to his place, have some pizza, watch a movie and have sex. You understand there’s no strings, right?

You aren’t the only woman he’s seeing and you are just having fun.

He doesn’t remember your name so you are “boo,” or “princess.” He may even have two or three cell phones so that he can keep all of you compartmentalized.

And you better not ever answer or pick up that phone!

He doesn’t have to woo you or court you or even treat you with any respect. He can call you bitch or ho and you get excited because he seems to like you. You think he’s fun and exciting.

And if you do happen to get pregnant, does he stick around to help you with the baby? Nope. He’s off seeing another woman. YOU got pregnant, so you can handle the kid. He didn’t want a child anyway. (This is the same man who refused to wear a condom when you asked.)

What has happened to men? Where are the big strong masculine fellas that we not only loved but looked up to? We knew those men could make us feel good in bed, they could protect us if we needed it and they loved us.  They used to call us and ask us for dates and bring us flowers and candy and call us baby and sing love songs to us and marry us and help us take care of our children.

They used to care how they looked because they wanted to look good to us. Having sex with us was something they dreamed about and worked hard to get in our favor so that we would say yes. They tried to be charming so that we would want to be with them. They used to look in our eyes and touch our cheeks and we would melt.

They used to be men.

Where did they go? What happened? Will they be back? What do we do in the meantime?

Do they know how much we miss them?

Do they know we loved them?