Skip to main content

Posts

Showing posts from August, 2010

The One Blog Entry I Never Wanted To Write

It's not the natural order of things for a parent to bury a child.

-- My dad.

Everybody is somebody's child.

-- My mom.

While other kids were learning their colors and numbers, as a four-year old, my mother made me memorize my home address, phone number, and my parents' names just in case something happened to me and some adult wanted to help me. Like most parents, she hoped that if something happened to me, somebody would realize that I "belonged" to somebody and would help me. That somebody would show some compassion and not take advantage of a child, her child. She wanted me to be able to help whoever was going to help me get home. Naively, she believed that were I to be lost, somebody would help me just because I was somebody's child.

Perhaps that's too much to hope for in the new millennium.

I'll admit -- I've been avoiding writing this blog entry.

I took time off to prepare for a barbecue Black Man Not Blogging and I were giving for some dear, …

A Cookie and a Nap

If anyone asks me what my happiest time was during my educational years, I would respond, "kindergarten."

Why? Because Mrs. Anderson, my kindergarten teacher, knew exactly what each of us 6 year-olds needed. And sometimes, yours truly needed a cookie and a nap. Quite frankly, I think JetBlue flight attendant Steven Slater needed a cookie and nap the other day when he let fly an expletive-laden invective and jetted out the back with two beers. He needed Mrs. Anderson.

Mrs. Anderson was an angel of mercy for a little girl like me who didn't want to be in kindergarten. She wore her raven-black hair elegantly swept back in a French twist and wore dresses much like those worn by the characters in "Mad Men" -- cinched at the waist, full skirt, form-fitting above the waist (This was 1969, after all.). She was expert at dealing with little kids like me who didn't want to be around a bunch of snot-nosed crybabies who didn't know how to count or read or know t…

I Hope Elena Kagan Is Gay

It’s really none of my business. Really. But I hope Elena Kagan is gay.

The U.S. District Court in San Francisco struck down California’s Proposition 8 on the grounds that, among other arguments, it violated the Equal Protection Clause because there was no rational basis for discriminating against gays and lesbians. For those of you non-lawyers out there, rational basis analysis is the weakest test applied to discriminatory laws. If you were comparing rational basis analysis to limbo, let’s just say it would be ankle-high: not a hard hurdle to overcome. And yet the proponents of Proposition 8 failed to overcome it.

So imagine how lame Judge Vaughn Walker thought the justifications for Proposition 8 were that he ruled that they didn’t pass rational basis analysis, to wit:

1) Preserving the institution of marriage as between a man and a woman;
2) Proceeding with caution when implementing social changes;
3) Promoting opposite-sex parenting over same-sex parenting;
4) Protecting the freedom of …

My Own Personal Hater (Work That)

I guess I must be doing something right. I have my owner personal hater. Again.

My personal hater, or PH, takes delight in what PH perceives to be my downfall or struggle and, in the guise of offering assistance, seeks to get deeper into my personal business so PH can feel better about PH. Don't know why, but PH can't seem to stand it when I stand out. PH consistently tries to "improve" on my ideas and my work but usually doesn't. Once in a while, yes, but not consistently enough to claim victory or superiority.

You probably have your own PH, too -- at work, in your family, in an organization you work with. If not, it's because your PH hasn't shown him or herself yet. BMNB (my husband, Black Man Not Blogging) has his own PH, too. He doesn't let it bother him.

It wouldn't bother me if I could jettison this PH like I've done others in my life -- even those I'm related to -- but, for the moment, I'm stuck with this PH.

When I was youn…