After thinking about writing a blog about Eric Benet’s song Sometimes I Cry, I thought to ask my 200 men the very question that the song brings forth. I mean, after all…. it is so taboo for a man to cry in public. That CANNOT be healthy. I really want to find the very first father who turned to his son and told him to stop crying and punch him in the throat. Well, now that I think about it…. I think a spirit literally just came and smacked ME in the face. Was this something deemed a living legend from slavery? Was this an ancestral chain that has yet to be broken?
I am writing this on February 16th, 2011, and I have no clue when I will post it, but in the midst of Black History Month one has to ask if men not crying stems from slavery. Now I have seen my father cry several times and I think that was so healthy. I have also spoken with one of my brothers about how he cried after an incident. Yet, to see a person that I am in a relationship cry is harder to do than running up and hugging the Queen of England! It’s as if the very gender that needs to release from all of the burdens and stress that they are expected to carry are the very ones who have become socially banned from doing so. But was this rooted in a slave father telling a son not to cry before an overseer, or an elder telling Kunta not to cry while being whipped as not to show a sign of weakness or fear? Did this get passed through the blood to the civil rights age where blacks didn’t cry in front of Bull O’Connor and his water hoses? Or instilled in the students who sat at the lunch counters as the were saturated with hate? And did it carry into the blood of the many men who were castrated and became strange fruit that decorated the roadsides of many southern towns? If so, what purpose does it have today?
So I asked my 200 Men:
Some people think that a man crying is a sign of weakness. Are you afraid to cry in front of people? If so, why or why not?
And they came back with these responses:
”DUKE” BANNER: When my heart aches, or I’m very sad, it really doesnt matter where I am; I’m not ashamed.
Lateef25: I’m not going to judge people for crying, but I’ve never had a reason , since I was young, to cry.
Kycajrome L: I say it depends on what the man is crying about…lol But if a man is emotionally in touch with his feelings then that’s pretty healthy emotionally. Then the problem or question is , are the other’s around him mature enough to handle it [his crying].
Mark D: No, I don’t think there is anything wrong with crying in front of people . We are all human beings, and not heartless animals!
CHRIST- O: It’s not a problem for me, because I know who I am. And no one’s opinion of one aspect of my life will make me change my whole lifestyle.
DA FLY GUY: CRYING IS A SIGN OF MATURITY!
Jesse (TEAM MARK CASH 4 EVER ): I’m not afraid to cry in front of people. It’s not a sign of weakness but a sign of being human.
DSMILEY1: I’m not afraid because I have done it before. Real men cry to show emotion!
on the rocks…:If a man cries in front of others, usually there’s a very valid reason. I can’t see any reason for a man to be all overly emotional over most things..like movies and women and graduations and such [2Deep: Did this nut just say women…. lmao!!! Y’all see why I love their honesty so much..lol]
Allen Ozark: No, but unfortunately I was born without tear ducts. [2Deep: I can’t tell if he is telling the truth or if that is even medically possible….lol]
Kevin R: I’m not [afraid], because I know how strong of a man I am.
Carlos V: No, I think it’s fine for a man to cry.
rroyallty: I think if he is running around crying everyday, all the time..its a problem. But if there is a significant reason and you’re around a select few..let it out or you will snap
godschild 1111870: My ex made me cry too much; not happening any more.
Nigi “Pistol Star” Pu Yi: No and yes. I’ll cry, but not for long, and then I’ll play it off. Because men aren’t suppose to show that much emotion. And it’s because emotion distorts rational thinking.
Jerome P: Although I dont do it often, I’m man enough to cry. It’s very important to release feelings.Thats why jails are over crowded now.
Rated R Superstar: Well, a man crying doesnt make you a weak man, that’s a strong man. We’re all human, and we all feel the same pain…
DON CUE: No, I’ve lost too many loved ones to care what other people think!
LAW.. DA ROC BOYZ: It all depends on what he’s crying about. Personally, I don’t like to cry, but hey, im human so it happens.
Danny P: I’m not afraid to, but yeah it is embarrassing. Because our society still trains men to think it’s not ok. Sure, we talk like it’s ok, like it’s what we all want, but it’s not really. That’s my experience anyway.
BIG SEKZI: Nope, because I’m very confident and secure with myself
Sensual Nupe: No, I’m not. It really depends on the situation. It takes a strong man to show his emotions. If I just lost a family member or a close friend, I will cry and I don’t care whose around.
www. twitter. com/kingdomgate_ ent: Tears of Joy are the only tears you will see me cry. I don’t do emotional tears anymore.
Prestige “The One And Only”: Definitely not afraid but I don’t do it. It’s not a sign of weakness. People just see it that way as if that individual is weak at that moment. For me, I feel stronger when I cry, if I’m crying in front of people it most likely means “Stand the hell by”.
6’5 & NICE WIT IT: Put it like this, one day you will ’cause tears cant stay inside forever
James M: A man crying is not a sign of weakness, but if he’s at the movies crying then that’s a different story. I have cried in front of people and it didn’t make me weak.
Aries Brotha: I’m not afraid to cry in front of people, but I’m only comfortable showing that side of myself with close friends and family. Lame as it sounds, my mom taught me to be free with my emotions, and my dad told me Real Men don’t ever cry. I found my own way.
!!!!! A !!!!!!James L: Heck ,I’m crying now! lol! I think a man who’s in tune with his feelings is a true man and real to life. There are some happy times and sad times that makes us cry and only robots and the dead don’t cry..
And as usual I must have a FAVORITE comment, and all though I have several …. I choose:
Mr. Mayor**DARKSTARZ INC PREZ**: Worrying about what people think is a sign of weakness… Your feelings are your only true form of strength at times. How you fight through hurt, how love can make you feel invincible and how something may move you to tears and still be a man. …..THAT IS STRONG!
And my most revealing comments, and one of the reasons I wanted to write this blog ,came from:
James F: Yes, I think it’s weakness. A man should always dominate his emotion and not be a prisoner of them. I’m not afraid to cry, but I’m just not going to cry in front of people. Like, if someone dies or someone I cared about died, I won’t show that emotion openly. If I cry it’s gonna be by myself. The reason for that, my father always told me “stop crying. You’re a big boy” when I was younger. Plus, the environment that I grew up in…. you couldnt cry. That was so-called being “Soft” or “a punk”. You would be a target. You couldn’t be a sheep around wolves or they would eat you alive.
I have witnessed a guy lose his mother, a football player break his leg, and a DC teen being shot and still ALL of them refused to cry in the presence of others. IN NO WAY IS THIS HEALTHY!!! I think that these are perfectly excusable moments where a man could cry in front of others and people would understand and keep it moving. Yet even in movies like Menace to Society they joke on the men who cry when they are being shot should they survive. Or in Cadillac Records where Muddy Waters runs up the stairs and can be hard crying audibly but wouldn’t cry in front of his wife. This is where I am glad that I am not a man. Because sometimes this world gets too much to bear and you should be allowed to release everything that you hold inside. Now I’m not saying that a man should cry when he stumps his foot, because NO ONE should cry that easily, but it is okay to cry sometimes in public. But as James F pointed out, his environment wouldn’t allow him to cry; it became a method of survival. But I think it was a method by default because those who would have picked on him needed an outlet and since they couldn’t cry, they would have picked on those who felt they needed to and actually did. So in actuality they would have picked on those brave enough to express their true emotions. But as shown, in most cases kids were too afraid to or told by parents not to because they were “big boys”.
I think we should stop putting a gender on crying and rather start putting a situation on crying. For example, if a child is upset about dropping their ice cream cone, we shouldnt say “Stop crying. Boys don’t cry over dropping an ice cream cone” but rather we should say “It’s just an ice cream cone. So stop crying.” This way people will begin to express their feelings better. Because much like how there are gateway drugs, tears are the gateway emotion. You cry when you are happy, sad, mad, confused, upset, and LMAO-ing. SO if you tell a boy/man that he can’t cry you are taking away the gateway to about 90 percent of his emotional expressions. So express to your sons when it is healthy to cry and when it is okay to cry. Also, that it is okay to cry in front of people. We’re all human…we’ve all cried at some point in our lives. So its okay for you to cry too. And if anyone has a problem with it…. tell them to come see me. *Cocks Arizona issued riffle* Yeh, let’s see how fast we can get them to cry…lmao.
So, I have to admit…I didnt watch this last season. My life was so hectic that I didnt even know how to set the sleep timer on my TV. lol. So, when I was searching for something to blog about, this show was right at the top of my list. Yes, I too thought that Lisa Raye McCoy deserved a chance to be put under my microscope. I will TRY to be as respectful as I can be……but if she is the Real McCoy, then I am the Real Deep! Leh’ Go!
Take 2 in , 4, 3, 2, , 2, 2, 2 PlayersClub!
Okay… I want to look like Lisa does ….right now! Wait… did she just get bussed in the lip!? hahahahahahahaha Sorry… that just racked me up! And just to call a spade a spade, honey your ass was on the cover because you took the picture of your ass.
Damn, white is her color. I am loving this dress. Okay, just watching a woman 10+ my senior looking better than me is enough to make me go running. Fuck this blog I need to hit a treadmill!. And hell, even Jackie Reid is beautiful. *sigh* Black doesnt crack, but it can split and dry up. lol. I need to get on my Lisa Raye beauty regimen.
Okay, I am not use to the setup of her show, but what is up with the interview version of the intro? Okay… I am going to Puerto Rico for my birthday. I know I said Australia, but Lisa Raye is making it look like I might want to go. Damn, her daughter Koi is gorgeous too! Damn, her hotel room looks like a fucking house!!! And, fuck me if I am wrong, but does she have mixed matched luggage? BEcause shouldnt all of luggage be Louis Vutton? I’m just saying.
Okay, so I do understand being upset about being upset about a missing bag. But I have a problem with Lisa Raye saying that everything that makes her “her” was in that bag. I wish that I could have a way to tell her that she needs to stop saying that. There are teens that are watching he say that who feel that they cannot be “themselves” withought jewelry or other items. As beautiful as she is… honey you were Lisa Raye before you had that Louis Vutton luggage, etc. But I am glad that they are praying about it. My concern remains the same….I need her to think differently about that statement. It is JUST a bag, you can replace everything in that bag. It may not be the original, nor will it be the same, but you have to be able to let things go in order to make room for new things to enter into your life.
I guess I dont understand the whole personal assistant aspect of this. I have two personal assistants, and when I call on them…they ASSIST, they dont do for me. So maybe I would need to be richer to get to a status where I dont have to sight over my own property. Again, I would have to figure out where she is coming from. Like I am trying to figure out her praying to Saint someone….. Girl, just take it to the LAWD!!! Though shalt not…ok this is a blog and not a church sermen, but you feel me.
Okay, I understand being happy.. but crying and feeling that your family didnt have your back because she misplaced your LUGGAGE? I understand the pillow, I do. But FUCK THE JEWELRY!!!! I am sitting here trying to wrap my head around this. I am trying to understand clinging to material things. Okay, I will get off of it. Second episode [The Real McCoy~ Take 2, Literally]is coming on!!!
WARNING:This is a very graphic and tough topic. Personal experiences and sexual references are made andPARENTAL 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
There's no hope for me if THIS is considered too fat!
AN UNCENSORED WARNING:If you are about to read this..please leave a comment below so I know what you think so I can know what writing works and what doesnt. It simply irks the $#!+ out of me for me to write all this, people read and not respond. Actually, its rude as hell. Now….enjoy.
My night ended and my day began with the discussion of being the plus size friend. Something that is a bit of a taboo conversation, and depending on what region of the world you’re in,it also has a different source of relevancy. Well, being plus size in the Nation’s capital is like being the lone colored person at the taping of Birth of a Nation; you may have the privilege of being there, but trust me when I tell you that you are nothing more than a prop or hired help. Even yesterday my friends and I had conversations of whether or not I was this guy’s “type”. I explained to them that seldom am I ever anyone’s type. One goes on to tell me that I have to stop thinking that way because it could read on me. I swiftly told her that I never think poorly of myself and that I am the business every time I step my foot on this green earth, but common sense can tell you when a person just isn’t that into you; you recognize that and you keep it moving. Only desperate people stay around when they’re not wanted. Thankfully, I am not that type of woman because knowing when you are not wanted can save you the blunt force of rejection that gets thrusted in your face or stabbed in your back by either a casual flirt or a love interests who subtly or boldly lets you know that its your weight that makes you unattractive.
Despite any amount of confidence one may have leaving the house, not even your understanding of placing the whole armor of God on could shield you from the source of hate and disgust that could be issued in your direction upon stepping foot off of your personal property. The amount of separation that the world places on plus size people would never equate to the battle of homosexuals or the holocaust, but it does resemble that of the Civil Rights era. Actually, it could be just a tad bit worse because the bigots dont out right express their hatred for you. Brand name stores like LVLX, RAVE, and Vera Wang are encrypted signs that say No Fats allowed, Fit Persons Only. You should check the seat of the sales person’s size 2 panties as she is about to drop a load on herself when a plus size woman enters one of these stores. She tries to both monitor the items that the plus size person has in their arm and remember the politically correct phrasing for reminding the plus size person that their big ass has no home within the walls of this anti-obese clothing facility. Inside, the plus size person wants to scream, “Trick, can I please shop your jewelry in peace?” or “May I please purchase this size zero for a family member or friend without you preparing a eulogy for the zipper without my having even asked for the location of the dressing rooms?” No matter where we go, we are just assumed to be one way rather than being taken on an individual basis.
I carry the struggle of weight just like the next plus size person, but I am my own person. I can get up and run a mile without complaining….but who does that for fun? lol. I can teach dance classes for hours without even noticing that this is in fact considered exercise, or walk the mall for hours carrying bags and never once request to sit down from body aches. I am NOT by any stretch of the imagination the most athletic person you will ever meet, but I am also not the laziest. If you were to follow me on any given day you would imagine how a person could move around so much and be my size, just to come to the conclusion of confusion when I tell you that I am both safe and harmed behind the walls of my fat rolls. Here I know that not many people will look my way when standing beside my rather modelesque or regular/average sized friends, but I am also safe from the people who would still overlook my mind and what I have to offer just because they are attracted to my outer presence. So, I don’t know the next person’s battle, but mine is to never be seen as just another ass for another deceptive guy to place on his conquer list. My fat has become my defense mechanism….but here I sit watching the world that I was once a part of wanting to belong to it once more …..just without the risks.
So, to all the plus size girls out there….I know what it feels like to fall in love with a guy and to be hidden and confined to after dark visits, never introduced to friends or family and treated differently than when you first met. I know what it feels like for people to swiftly push-off your concerns about how the world treats you by telling you that “if its your weight that you feel is the problem, then why not just lose the weight.” I know what it feels like to walk into a club with other plus size friends and hear a guy yell “Damn, there must be a buffet in the back with all of these big bitches coming up in here” or the guy sporting a shirt with the silhouette of a grotesque replica of a plus size girl surrounded by burgers and fries and other carb induced items adorned with the Ghostbusters “No” sign that reads “I don’t do Big Bitches”. Or to be walking with your friends, dressed in your best from head to toe, feeling confident in your decision as you have not fallen into the BGID [Big Girls in Denial] syndrome,you’re properly & proportionately covered and looking dazzling…just to have a guy walk up to you and say “If that’s your best, I don’t want to see your worse” . He then gives his cronies dap and other male bonding gestures that now makes him a man for trying to defeat an innocent woman just because she wasnt aesthetically pleasing to him. Also,I know what it feels like to be out dancing with your friends as a guy walks over to dance with one of the thinner divas, takes her purse and shoes that she was holding in her hand and hands them to you after saying “Here, you can hold this since no one is going to dance with you anyway.” Or to go to a Howard University homecoming and have a guy videotape and joke on another plus size friend that you came with as you jump in the line of the camera’s shot to block and protect your innocent friend from becoming the target of an internet joke fest…just to have her turn on you and say that you don’t understand because you’re smaller than her and not really plus size. What about reading a tweet that says “….. if you let yourself go, dont expect me to hold on.”? And I also know what it feels like to playfully flirt with a friend and watch him turn to every OTHER friend you’re with while your back is turned and attempt to flirt with them, or to sit in the backseat of a car and have that same guy think that you are either stupid enough or blind enough for the dark of night to mask his holding hands with a friend that you just introduced him to as she sits quietly in the front seat with his hand rested on her knee/thigh. I know what it feels like to sit back after all of this has happened and wonder if being thinner would make you visible again or wonder what could be so wrong with you that people don’t properly take your emotions into consideration.
What I have found after all of this soul-searching is that….. it is not me. Also, it is not my friends’ fault for being who they are. Yet, after all of that you try to compartmentalize the pain that comes with being you…with being a citizen in the land of More of You To Love…just to conclude that there is nothing you can do. I love myself just the way I am and it is wrong of me to let other’s actions in the presence of who I am make me feel as if I am inadequate, or that I am any less of the beautifully God crafted woman who I was intended to be. I deserve respect, I deserve love, and although all of that evades me now…..one day it will come when it is supposed to and I don’t think that me being a smaller size should have anything to do with that match made in heaven occurring for me. In the meantime, I just have to laugh at the many people who overlook the joy that is within me, the intelligence that i house, and the romantic gestures that I wish to one day share with my husband….in a way my size is allowing shallow people to pass me by and in the present mind frame I’m okay with that. My message to the bigots is that I will not try to change you, if you promise not to try to change me. So, with that…I will continue to analyze why these negative comments and actions issued in my direction as if I am not human, not attractive, not capable of understanding that I am being dissed…hurt as much as they do. Why do these comments keep me from socializing on a personal level, reaching outside of my comfort zone and grabbing life by the balls and saying , “Fuck You! Now pass me the plate”. I guess it’s too much to try to process all at once, to dissect and understand so I compartmentalize, and when asked why I am so upset I respond with….I’m just too fat for words.
One day, the world will come to learn that being plus sized is genetics, a taught/learned behavior, a medical disease [a disorder or thyroid], and a process that one jokes on only makes the matter worse. This just happens to be a personal battle that we wear on our sleeves, stomachs, and thighs so many feel they can attack it, ignore it, disrespect it, and judge it. I’d love to see the day when alcoholics, liars, sex addicts, adulteress, and thieves [etc.] could wear their habits on their sleeves, able to be viewed by the rest of the world. Until then, I am a brave soul to know that I hold my head up ever day I walk into the world, fat and all, as the world can see my habits and continue to not make an excuse for who I am. I tell the rest of the world that if you are so above me….why do you hide your habits? Why do you throw up behind closed doors, hold hands in the dark, drink while others aren’t looking or sex with someone you just met in hopes that they will say I love you back and mean it? Yes, I’m fat….thanks for noticing. Now…what else can you see?
After thinking about writing a blog about Eric Benet’s song Sometimes I Cry, I thought to ask my 200 men the very question that the song brings forth. I mean, after all…. it is so taboo for a man to cry in public. That CANNOT be healthy. I really want to find the very first father who turned to his son and told him to stop crying and punch him in the throat. Well, now that I think about it…. I think a spirit literally just came and smacked ME in the face. Was this something deemed a living legend from slavery? Was this an ancestral chain that has yet to be broken?
So, I have to admit…I didnt watch this last season. My life was so hectic that I didnt even know how to set the sleep timer on my TV. lol. So, when I was searching for something to blog about, this show was right at the top of my list. Yes, I too thought that Lisa Raye McCoy deserved a chance to be put under my microscope. I will TRY to be as respectful as I can be……but if she is the Real McCoy, then I am the Real Deep! Leh’ Go!
~*2Deep*~ Uncensored! 