A “Loc” on Intimacy

        

         “I WISH A NEGRO WOULD TOUCH MY HAIR AFTER I GOT IT DONE! “ is heard being yelled from a gaggle of African-American females at a brunch. “He better go get a white girl for that” is the follow-up by the freshly done, mohawked co-signer giving cliché snaps and hi-fives in my imaginary scenario. Yet, imaginary or not….at least ONE African-American sister reading this nodded her head in agreement at the reality of such statements before reaching the sentence about it being a made up scenario. We live here. Somewhere between I Wish A Nigga Would Blvd and Madame CJ Walker Ave where it has become okay for our crown and glory to remain nothing more than a show piece head-dress to be paraded in front of our kings like an artifact in a museum; on display but not to be touched. How’d we get here?

        Did we get to this point from the hours upon hours of sitting next to the stove in the kitchen smelling dinner cook as your mom threatened to burn your neck if you didn’t lean your head all the way to the side as Blue Magic sizzled in your ear? Or was it the reoccurring echo of your mother yelling, “Dont let anyone play in your hair while you are at school” that has somehow follow you into adulthood, long after the threat of lice were gone?  Or was it the old wives tales that your hair carries energy and not just anyone should be playing in your hair like it is recess? Whatever the case may be, if your man is good enough to play all up and through your candy land….why can’t he play in your naps? It sounds so silly once I put it that way doesn’t it? You can sleep with me, but don’t touch my hair. I mean, if we told inner city girls that they needed to care for their bush as much as they do their…well..bush, we may have more virgins in the world and cut down on the world population. Why can a man have sex with us… but can’t touch our hair? Strange…..very , very , strange.

        Knowing the Black woman better than she knows herself ( yes, I’m black), I know for a fact that no matter how liberal she may think that she is… she would rather vote Palin in office with Bush as her VP and McCain as Secretary of Defense before she would ever want to see a Black man with a White woman. It is fact. Even the liberal ones cringe at first sight, evaluate a flaw in her, compare it to the flaw in him and then become okay with it. It’s because we wonder…..what in the hell does she have to make him cross melanin lines and date outside of the cotton field. It is not racial. It is a direct example of confusion between Black males and females personified and in the flesh and we are left to face it.  When not in “mixed company” we share derogatory statements like nigger jokes at a country club amongst ourselves about how the White woman will do the stuff that we wont do , never seeing it as a negative for us but rather a negative for her. This isn’t intended to be racial as it is informative. Its Lisa Lamponelli , Carlos Mencia, Paul Mooney and Richard Prior on stage being copy/pasted into the privacy of our own homes. They say what we think…and even reveal what we have yet to understand.

        I’m not a freak by any stretch of the imagination, but I often wonder what do people get out of the whole “pull my hair” segment of sex, I mean who does that? If this were a question on Jeopardy the answer would be “What is Shit that White people do?”. I’m tender headed. I don’t like to comb my hair when I HAVE to yet alone allow a guy to grip and cause alopecia traction baldness in a heat of passion. So what do people get out of that? I am soooooo serious when I ask this question. Outside of kinky violence, I can’t see much else being received from it. Or can I?… Nope, I can’t. But I do have a serious question to ask, a few actually.

        Black ladies…..do you think that we lose a huge portion of our intimacy with our Black men because we often refuse to let them touch our hair? I mean… think about it. To a guy, touching your hair is a subtle way of him sending you a signal that he is feeling you. Swimming or sexual encounters in bodies of water or the shower is on the top of many men’s fantasy lists; seen Baywatch Lately? Men go crazy as a woman does a slow walk out of the water and pushes her hair out of her face. The slow hair blow as a woman gets out of the car was designed by a man, for a man as a way to seduce him via Yaky 1b natural. Yet, ladies…. most of us do not partake in any of these activities. I don’t care if a woman is natural or creamy cracked out…. several will not let her man touch her hair. WE have built up this impermeable wall of Pink Oil Moisturizer and Jam that most black men have learned before they were able to pee directly into the bowl that they do not touch a black woman’s hair. We have unconsciously trained our future kings that they can touch everything on his future queen’s body but her crown. Am I the only one who sees something wrong with this?

       I mentioned this to my big brother on Sunday, and I promise you that if he had wings he would have jumped off the sofa in agreement and flown away. For a moment it looked as if he had caught the Holy Ghost, but it was just frustration releasing. He wasnt even paying attention to my side conversation with his wife…. but I ‘ll be damned if he wasnt fully listening now! lol. I wish I had recorded it just so that women could see the amount of energy and excitement he expressed to finally have a black women expressing his same sentiments. He said, “I would even go as far as to say that THIS (not touching a black woman’s hair) is why SOME black men date outside of the race.” There you have it… straight from the horse’s mouth! Ladies, here you have a black man telling you that he could understand why a black man would date outside of his race….just to feel someone’s hair/scalp… than to stick around and not be able to express his silent form of affection to you. I’ve even posted this question on Twitter and got blocked from tweeting because I ran out of my daily allotted tweets by responding to the sea of guys who said that they wished they could touch their girl’s hair/head. I posted it again today and will see what happens.

        So in closing, Black women… we’ve got to do better when it comes to allowing our kings to touch our hair. Maybe let him touch it for the few days leading up to a retouch, or right after you get it washed. Maybe this is the connection that we need to re-establish in order to allow intimacy to flow from a natural place, unrestricted by social taboos and norms. Maybe, and just maybe this will cause Mr. Lynch to shake in his grave if we can get one woman to allow her man to run his fingers through her hair. Would it hurt us to share this portion of ourselves? Would it kill us to open of a gateway to intimacy that hasn’t been there since the invention of a hot comb? Can we learn that there are things far more important than our hair? I hope so……your relationship is counting on it. And I am not asking you to let everyone touch your hair… just your man. SO yes, if the complete stranger (white woman) standing behind you at the Reagan National Airport decides amongst her friends that you have beautiful hair and decides to reach out and run her fingers through your hair…..(This happened to me)…..just breathe before you commit a felony. Everyone is not as restrictive as we are about our hair….and this is the day that you may need to examine why. It is my suggestion that we ask ourselves if this is the cause of why black love has a “loc” on intimacy.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

A Daddy’s Girl and Her Man

   

     Okay, so a stream of entries are coming from conversations that I had with a few of my friends over the Columbus Rediscovering America Day weekend. The topics that pop up are always about male/female relationships and I think several people walk away with a different persepctive….even the guy who’s relationship we think we broke up because we told him his girl was using him….lol. But it had to be true because any time you can get any group of women to come to a 100% agreement on anything, it has to have been an exercise of divine intervention.

        One topic that popped up was that of me being a Daddy’s girl, and I am. After hanging up the phone with my mother during the brunch someone called me a Mama’s girl and I said, no….actually I am very much a Daddy’s girl. Now before you get confused, those who have read my blog faithfully know for a fact that my biological father is not the point of this entry. God blessed me with two wonderful godparents who are the best godparents that anyone could ask for. So…the Daddy that I am referring to is my godfather, but he is very much my father. When I have traveled to see him in Minnesota, you can find my dad and I out and about town cracking jokes, having fun, and he even lets me drive his car…. and my daddy doesn’t play about his cars! Late nights I was in the garage handing him tools as he worked on cars or helping him drill pilot holes into the wood he was using to build a trailer. Yes, I am very much a Daddy’s Girl and proud of it.

        But much to my surprise, all of the guys at the table rolled their eyes and barked at how being a daddy’s girl is far worse than being a mama’s girl because, as her man, he must now compete with the father. First off…. my name is NOT Oedipus. Secondly, that’s just gross. Thirdly, I don’t live in any of the cross-breeding states. Fourthly, I am not an English Royal in the 1700s. And lastly, I hear you…. but I don’t agree with you.

        The guys ganged up on me when I said that yes, there are things that my daddy will always do just the way that I like it. Why did I say that? One of them told me to listen to what he heard when I made that comment. He said that he heard “Yes, I’ll let you cut the grass but my daddy cuts it better.”  Or, “You can pick the restaurant but my daddy knows how to cook my favorite meal better.” I then had to break it down that , in my situation, my daddy is a very wise individual and I didn’t mean it that way.

        My dad is just that….my dad. He is also a wise individual who is quick to put me up on game for the things guys will do, and he will also put me in check when I play games that females play. My dad made it very clear that everyone will not love like him. My dad is a very affectionate, hugging, loving, and communicating kind of father. Every man is not going to fit into that bill. I remember when he and my mom gave me the book “How to Love a Black Man” and told me to read it carefully…. I still own a copy til this day. It helped me understand that even though my daddy communicates with me the best, I need to know how other men communicate as well. Just because my daddy does things the way I like doesn’t make it better, and just because my man has yet to learn doesn’t make it worse, it just makes it different. Being a daddy’s girl with a brilliant daddy helped prepare me for reality and not a fantasy. My man will love differently and if I in turn love him back then the way he loves me is perfect. I don’t try to measure anyone’s love to my dad’s… they could never reach….because they are two separate kinds of love. So I don’t even try to compare. Whomever I’m dating gets measured on his own scale and I cherish each moment, I learn through each moment, and I love him for each moment that he shows me how he loves , through his way, and in his time. There is nothing wrong with that.

        A true daddy’s girl SHOULD know how a man works, his mood, how he will or wont communicate things well, but how he means well all in the same breath. She should know that men could care less about the latest fashions and will never know the difference between pearl and off-white. And she should also know that I love you may never be said out loud, but that a kiss on the forehead, a pat on the back, the sharing of the last bite, and his undying willingness to protect you at all times should suffice in case of emergency or a moment of questioning if you are loved. The things that I learned from my father I have taken with me into relationships. I don’t cook meat in my dad’s vegetarian cookware, I don’t punch the accelerator above 2 in his E Class, I let him go on some very LOOOOOOOONG winded conversations that make my eyes roll in the back of my head but come to appreciate later in a time of need, and when he says he needs a minute….I walk away, but knowing all the while that this is my dad’s temperament and he loves me just the same. My man gets the same courtesy. I am able to separate the two…my dad has my mom to love him in that manner. And did I mention that my name is not Oedipus? So you see, all daddy’s girls aren’t bad…especially if you have an amazing Dad to begin with.

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter…..but My Dad’s Girl*~

It Takes a Village to Protect Your @$$

A Village would have raised this baby right...lol

 

        I’ll never forget the day that I was watching Blue Print on BET, Nelly was on the couch looking as delicious as always, but it would be what he said next that would wake up my understanding of “it takes a village.” When asked how does Nelly feel about the backlash he receives from the Tip Drill video since he is supposed to be a role model, Nelly replied [paraphrased]:  

“My children have never seen, nor heard Tip Drill in my house, or at all…and I made the video/song. What that tells me is that you are unable to filter what your children watch and listen to and point the blame at me when they are subjected to such material. It starts at home first.”  

        Bam! There it was, a slap in the face to all parents for sucking at Millenium Parenting 101.  A celebrity basically told you that somewhere in his busy schedule of not always being in the same household, yet alone the same country, as his children he has managed to still find time to parent them “correctly”. So what is your excuse? So what if you have 3 jobs and sleep while your kids do homework. So what if you see your kids only on the weekend. So what if your baby’s daddy/mama is bugging this week. A celebrity is telling you that YOU were not the proper role model in your household so your children turned to him, and that is NOT his fault because the only children he is concerned about is his own when it comes to setting the proper example…well not exactly, but you catch my drift.  

        Picture this, teens and parents alike are idolizing the images that they see these celebrities, particularly rappers, portray on their televisions daily without ever taking into consideration that these are false replicas of their home lives. Snoop raps about sleeping with several women, crip walking, always high, etc. When in reality, his own kids are in extra curricular activities. He makes sure that they have positive outlets to keep them out of the same negative influences that he had growing up. OutKast makes jokes about getting married and remembering what “a pimp taught you”, while Big Boi has a lovely home life that he keeps very much to himself so that the outside world can’t taint it. David Banner has a DOCTORATE degree that will never find its way up into his music because it doesn’t sell records, and Diddy probably will never rap about how he keeps making millions without a single consecutive album on the charts. This is a clear disconnect in the village’s line of communication.  

        Let me use Nelly’s daughter as an example ( and I do so with the utmost respect and purely for demonstration purposes). Let’s say Nelly protects only his daughter from Tip Drill, but here is this other child at home watching Tip Drill because it was made available to him since his parents aren’t as strict as Nelly. As time passes, both children will grow up and , for the sake of this demonstration, will meet and fall in love. This young gentleman is a fan of Nelly’s and wishes to impress him whenever in his presence, but behind closed doors he believes in the Tip Drill theory and has enough influence over his daughter to make her the next Tip Drill Vixen, because Daddy isn’t her main focus any more. Can anyone say Montana Fishburne? Or what about the kids who were featured on T.I’s television show? He told these kids that he was a changed man, there was a better way of handling things…and then turns around and gets arrested on some drug charges (allegedly…*side eye*). To a kid who looks up to him that sends a mixed message, but should he look up to T.I.? Or should he look up to the single mother at home struggling to keep up with her other 3 children while this teen is refusing to follow house rules? This same teen could one day grow up to be the thug that he thinks T.I. to be ( since T.I. doesn’t always stick to his word…allegedly) and be the very thug that robs T.I.’s son of a chain, or start a fight in a club deja vu style….catch my drift?  

        The theory of “It Takes a Village to Raise a Child” still stands true, but the meaning has somewhat gotten lost in its translation from an African Proverb to an Urban Legend. Parents, becoming an active part of the village shields your child in the future. You will have had a hand in raising the child next door, possibly preventing them from obtaining psycho killer habits because they knew that someone was there to care for them. Grandmothers down the street with readily available switches will remind them that their best behavior is to be expected at all times. Strangers pinching will be the extra pair of eyes in the back of your head for the mannish male attempting to sneak a peek or a feel at your daughter’s rear end. The theory is rather narcissistic, actually. It is all about gaining control of the elements around you to better protect you and your family. You can’t be in fighting stance and expect to win if you don’t know that your opponent is already suited up and standing outside your door. Now that I think about it…. it takes a Village to keep you from getting your ass whooped…lol. But I digress. Speaking up to tell the kids on metro platforms to behave, if only temporary, will indirectly cut down on the metro cops profiling you when having innocent fun with your friends after a night on the town. It is all rather cyclical…..  

        I’ve been and continue to be a spoke on this village’s wheel. In true Forrest Gump Fashion, ” if you lean on my back and I lean on your back, that way we wont have to sleep in the mud.” Drop your pride, MOTHERS, no one is saying that you are a bad mother and that you don’t know how to raise your kids….unless they truly are saying you’re a bad mother and don’t know how to raise your kids…lol. But accept the extra set of healthy eyes, the extra set of helping hands…..it will all work out fine in the morning. Maybe we can return to the days when we slept with doors unlocked because we know that out neighbors are watching out for us just as we are watching out for them. Maybe we will feel safer to send our children down the street because every door step will view and guide the path of our child while in our absence….maybe, just maybe…… a Villager can dream, cant I? 

Sincerely, 

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

What Happens in this House….:A Molestation Survivor Speaks

WARNING: This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made and PARENTAL DISCRETION IS ADVISED.

        Somewhere, in some part of the world, there is a little girl snuggled in her bed pressed against a wall, head under her pillow with just enough space to inhale for the breath holding ahead and to peek towards the door knob awaiting the return of her personal boogie man. Monsters Inc prepares children for the monsters who reside under your bed and in your closets, but what about the monsters who pin you down to the bed and force you and this secret into the closet….what then?

        I was one of those children, and I don’t know if I have ever stopped being one of those children. To this day, I sleep with my bedroom door locked, a privilege that was not granted to me living under his roof. I have escape routes out of windows in my house just in case an intruder were to ever invade my safe haven. Windows covered in complete darkness resemble the rooms I had growing up because our neighbor’s house was so close and he lived by the rule of thumb that “what happens in this house stays in this house.” Who was I to judge his authority?

(Screaming!) He molested me! *exhales* There, I said it…outloud. Who is this “he”, you ask?

        He was my father, Charles S Carter Jr, and he was the man who molested me from before I could remember until the courts took us away from him when I was 12 years old. People say that I look like him, but I still need a DNA test to even begin that process. He was an electrical engineer with several degrees who spoke several languages, and a normal relationship was as foreign to us as him speaking Korean to me in moments of battle. I was his daughter. His first-born, born from the love that he had once married to my mother, but I would come to learn that although I was not his favorite I would turn out to be Daddy’s Girl. Late night parent daughter talks, asthmatic lungs inhaling the stench of Newports from his chest as the weight of a grown man crushed my prepubescent body into a mattress for no other reason than I was female, easily accessible, and he had a disease that yearned to be fed. Daughter perched on daddy’s lap became a moment to talk about whatever popped up, as eyes were turned to the roaming hands of a step brother who idolized him and my flat chest at the same time. This is where I lived and died daily. I lived with a military man who swore to protect his country but protected the secret of his personal habit even harder. Just ask my crushed toes underneath the Army boots that were now stepping on my feet for not wearing socks or houseshoes…as if being his daughter wasnt punishment enough.

        I remember being punished just for breathing too loudly; popped in the mouth for the escape of a smack reaching his eardrum. A simple tug of his beard meant I was in trouble. One time, he hit me so hard in my tailbone that I lost control of my legs and urinated on myself all in one swift swoop, just to turn around and get a whooping for messing up the floor. A call from the teacher meant that I would have to strip in front of my father and walk the house butt naked and if he saw me ,and felt like it, then I would get a whooping right then and there. I became a master at silently turning door knobs better than he could and dodging in and out of bedrooms and hallway closets just to go to and from the bathroom in peace. Doing number two (pardon the graphics) was the only time I could be in the bathroom in peace without anyone entering.  Fingers entering openings to ensure “cleaning” because I was filthy, followed by my father laying me on the bed to towel dry me off and rub me from head to toe with baby oil. Slow grinding on me was common place. Adolescent hips popping out of socket under the weight of his grinding, hurting, caused me to try to push him off because talking would make him lose his concentration and bring whoopings. He never listened to my cries and held my hands down. There I was, learning the best lessons of male and female relationships from my father. How lucky was I to learn about the birds and bees from my own father? Every girl needs a father in the house, right?

        One day in church I just didn’t want to go back to his house. My aunt couldn’t make me if God told me to go back himself. I’d had enough. Sitting in the police station with male police officers giving me different toys to describe my fathers penis proved unfruitful; I didn’t trust males. They had no choice but to send me back. I got a whooping until I blacked out. My father took me to a therapist to save face…maybe she could figure out where I was “making these stories up”.

        Off of Carmichael Road in Montgomery, Alabama sat my therapist’s office. A soft-spoken caucasian woman who listened intently as my father sat on the other side of the door.  That is until the day she asked me to re-enact with Barbie and Ken what I told the police happened….so, I showed her. She opened the door and invited my father into the room so he could see too. I never spoke of anything again. And yes, you guessed it….I got a whooping until I had an asthma attack and he had to take me to Maxwell Air Force Base to the ER. This time my Aunt believed me and she fought for custody…but she still allowed him visitations until she passed away when I was 15. He came to her house for her funeral and sat in the kitchen and told ever male there not to be trusted around me because I would lie on them like I had lied on him. And he vanished into street legend. I never saw him, or the therapist ever again.

        My father followed me, in theory. I heard stories of him doing crack from friends in high school, but he had taught me the best lesson ever; Never let anyone make you feel like less of a person. I walked those halls of my high school as a virgin…because I was. Guys from all around wanted to be with the virgin and every single one failed. I wouldn’t willingly give myself to someone until I was in college. You see….I was molested, but he didn’t take my virginity.

        Every guy is not my father, nor am I searching for him in every guy that I date….but through all that I wrote above and more that I didn’t write….I was still a human. A demon like him couldn’t touch the best parts of me. He couldn’t reach them with all of his might because his intentions were wrong. My virginity had nothing to do with sex…my virginity was me, my mind, my free spirit, my determination to rise above where people keep putting me, and the favor that was placed over me even though I was entangled in a generational curse. He tried, but I walked out of his house and his presence with the hymen of my integrity and the mission over my life in tack.

        Today, he lives in Baltimore. He’s never been prosecuted, never been made to suffer for what he put me and others through. One day, and maybe soon… I will walk to where they say that he works and tell him that he couldn’t break me. He couldn’t make me feel less than a princess even though my father wasnt a king.

        This is a part of what I went through, but it is NOT who I am. It helped me make decisions about not showing my body to just any guy. You’ll never hear tales of me sleeping with different guys all in the name of love without being in love. You’ll never see pics of me plastered on the internet that show more of my assets than I am showing I am worth. And you will never hear that I’ve stopped breaking the silence. I was molested but I was never a victim. My virginity never has to be born again because it never died. I found strength through this. Dont get me wrong, I’d never go back a second time…. but I made it out, and THAT is something to be proud of. Where I came from does NOT determine where I will go.

       So, to anyone who has been through similar stories….today is not too late to realize that they had the problem and not you. We are of a sisterhood that many will never understand. I salute you and all of your wonderful glory. I stopped holding my father accountable for what he did to me and the effects it had on my life the day I last saw him….that is not my battle. It weighs you down, trust me. I try to find love as much as often in my daily activities…..today.. I love you. One day you will gain the strength to no longer be ashamed of your story…until then I will speak for you, I dont mind. What are sisters for, right?

        My prayer is that, just this once ,you listen to my father: What happened in your house, stays in your house…..including the pain and the shame. We’ve got other little girls to protect. No time for living in the past. Here, take my hand…..I’m with you as we walk out of our molester’s house. God bless!

Sincerely,

~*My Mother’s Daughter*~

This is the house where majority of it happened. On Pinebrook Dr in Montgomery,AL