President Obama lauds California Attorney General Kamala Harris by saying she's brilliant, tough, dedicated and "the best looking attorney general in the country."
One of the local news channels here, CBS 13, showed a video of interviews with women -- and a guy or two -- asking them whether President Obama's remarks were offensive to women. The women gave mixed responses.
None of the women were African-American, which pisses me the hell off because, as an African-American woman, I've got a way different perspective on this and I'm tired of white women being the voice of all women. In the words of Sojourner Truth, ain't I a woman?
My perspective is different because I saw President Obama's remarks not as a gendered commentary, but a raced-and-gendered commentary, if you will, and an inside joke between friends. I don't recall President Obama ever making a comment about the looks of a non-African-American female, which is why I, as an African-American woman, respect him -- because his choices in women affirm us African-American women. I know this sounds anything but feminist, but hear me out.
I am one of the few African-American women who served on the Harvard Law Review with the President long before he became president. We weren't buds and he couldn't pick me out of a lineup, but I have to admit -- I expected that he, like many African-American men poised to be successful and powerful, wouldn't even choose an African-American woman as a mate, much less revel in the beauty of African-American women.
Many African-American men like President Obama are told that, precisely because they are successful and powerful, they don't have to "limit" themselves to African-American women. One African-American male student I met while attending Princeton told me that men like him could "trade up" and didn't have to date African-American women. In fact, he even deigned to tell me in so many words that I was lucky he was paying me any attention.
When I see so many powerful and successful African-American men date outside our race, I have to admit -- although I believe love knows no color, I wonder whether they ever considered dating an African-American woman or whether they bought into the message about "trading up." When you see Tiger Woods' parade of women past and present, it's pretty clear that he does not find African-American women attractive.
So when the Leader of the Freakin' Free World not only habitually gushes about his African-American wife's beauty -- a beauty that has been repeatedly derided in the mainstream press -- and goes on to compliment the beauty of another intelligent and powerful African-American woman, I'm not offended. I'm affirmed, strangely enough. So much of what appears in the media about African-American women is negative in so many ways -- like pictures on the internet comparing the First Lady to a chimpanzee -- that I'm happy that the one man who could pretty much choose any woman in the world revels in the intelligence and beauty of African-American women. No offense, but I don't want white women's experiences to be the barometer of whether I should be offended. They don't experience the world as I do. Never have, never will.
I'm not offended, and ain't I a woman?
The President was wrong, though. Eric Holder is the best looking attorney general in the country.
Showing posts with label First Lady Michelle Obama. Show all posts
Showing posts with label First Lady Michelle Obama. Show all posts
Put Your Pearls On For Mrs. Obama
Today is First Lady Michelle Obama's birthday. I'm late to the party, but I noticed on Facebook that there's a campaign to show your support for the First Lady by wearing pearls today called "Girls with Pearls." When I step out today (I'm home from work), I will be wearing mine.
In my 48 years in these United States, I have never seen a First Lady of the United States so disrespected, misconstrued and totally misunderstood. I've seen photos online comparing her to to Tarzan's chimpanzee Cheetah in an email joke. Wisconsin Republican representative Jim Sensenbrenner derided Mrs. Obama for her campaign against child obesity, citing that she had a large posterior. (I find that ironic since any sister with any semblance of a booty will tell you that white men covet our butts.) Rush Limbaugh "slips" and refers to the First Lady as "The First Linebacker."
If you think this isn't about race, you're fooling yourself.
It's time for African-American women and all women of good will to show their support with a gesture that's just as classy as our First Lady. If it's not too late, when you walk out the door, put your pearls on. I might even wear my pearls every day until Election Day as a show of support.
Here's my favorite video of the First Lady, dancing with kids in her "Let's Move" campaign against childhood obesity. May she continue to dance, smile and keep her head up in the days ahead. With pearls on, no less.
Happy Birthday, Mrs. Obama!
In my 48 years in these United States, I have never seen a First Lady of the United States so disrespected, misconstrued and totally misunderstood. I've seen photos online comparing her to to Tarzan's chimpanzee Cheetah in an email joke. Wisconsin Republican representative Jim Sensenbrenner derided Mrs. Obama for her campaign against child obesity, citing that she had a large posterior. (I find that ironic since any sister with any semblance of a booty will tell you that white men covet our butts.) Rush Limbaugh "slips" and refers to the First Lady as "The First Linebacker."
If you think this isn't about race, you're fooling yourself.
It's time for African-American women and all women of good will to show their support with a gesture that's just as classy as our First Lady. If it's not too late, when you walk out the door, put your pearls on. I might even wear my pearls every day until Election Day as a show of support.
Here's my favorite video of the First Lady, dancing with kids in her "Let's Move" campaign against childhood obesity. May she continue to dance, smile and keep her head up in the days ahead. With pearls on, no less.
Happy Birthday, Mrs. Obama!
Do Me A Favor -- This Year, Choose You
“There was this epiphany, “ she says. “I am sitting there with a new baby, angry, tired, and out of shape. The baby is up for that 4 o’clock feeding. And my husband is lying there, sleeping.” That’s when it struck her that if she weren’t there, he would eventually have to wake up. It worked. “I would get home from the gym, and the girls would be up and fed. That was something I had to do for me.”
“The Real Michelle Obama,” O Magazine, November 2007
Happy New Year! We’ve entered not only a new year, but a new decade. So all you tired and haggard mothers, dutiful daughters, caregivers and the like, do me a favor: This year, choose you.
I came across the passage above from an interview with Michelle Obama featured in O Magazine in 2007, and I couldn’t think of anything better to emphasize the importance of occasionally -- or even regularly -- choosing yourself first over the competing but not life-threatening demands of family and work. I don’t mean choose yourself in a selfish way, damn the consequences, but in a self-preserving way in which you sacrifice domestic and career perfection for a little self soothing, care and preservation. In those moments when the world won’t fall apart if were to you do so, choose you.
Last year was tough. This year might not be any better. If you don’t take care of yourself, well, then, who will? How will you have the physical and mental stamina to endure whatever is to come if you don’t take care of yourself? In those moments when we choose mopping over crocheting, balancing the checkbook over balancing on the Wii Fit board, please, please ask yourselves: Is the world going to fall off its axis if, just this once, I choose myself over the needs of others? If the answer is “no,” well, then, consider this a permission slip a la Sherri Shepherd, and please do choose yourself.
Let’s all take a cue from our First Lady’s epiphany and figure out those things we need to do for ourselves just to keep going as ourselves, whether it’s yoga, going to the gym, reading, gardening, whatever. And when the occasion arises that, by choosing yourself, you’re making yourself physically and/or spiritually better off without making anyone you care about detrimentally worse off (I doubt that getting up to feed his kids made then-State Senator Obama any worse off), please, please, do me a favor – choose yourself.
If you don't do it for you, do it for me.
Happy New Year!
“The Real Michelle Obama,” O Magazine, November 2007
Happy New Year! We’ve entered not only a new year, but a new decade. So all you tired and haggard mothers, dutiful daughters, caregivers and the like, do me a favor: This year, choose you.
I came across the passage above from an interview with Michelle Obama featured in O Magazine in 2007, and I couldn’t think of anything better to emphasize the importance of occasionally -- or even regularly -- choosing yourself first over the competing but not life-threatening demands of family and work. I don’t mean choose yourself in a selfish way, damn the consequences, but in a self-preserving way in which you sacrifice domestic and career perfection for a little self soothing, care and preservation. In those moments when the world won’t fall apart if were to you do so, choose you.
Last year was tough. This year might not be any better. If you don’t take care of yourself, well, then, who will? How will you have the physical and mental stamina to endure whatever is to come if you don’t take care of yourself? In those moments when we choose mopping over crocheting, balancing the checkbook over balancing on the Wii Fit board, please, please ask yourselves: Is the world going to fall off its axis if, just this once, I choose myself over the needs of others? If the answer is “no,” well, then, consider this a permission slip a la Sherri Shepherd, and please do choose yourself.
Let’s all take a cue from our First Lady’s epiphany and figure out those things we need to do for ourselves just to keep going as ourselves, whether it’s yoga, going to the gym, reading, gardening, whatever. And when the occasion arises that, by choosing yourself, you’re making yourself physically and/or spiritually better off without making anyone you care about detrimentally worse off (I doubt that getting up to feed his kids made then-State Senator Obama any worse off), please, please, do me a favor – choose yourself.
If you don't do it for you, do it for me.
Happy New Year!
"They Call Me MISTER Black Man Not Blogging!"
BMNB has a bone to pick. Mind you, this is a man who, in more than 26 years of his relationship with me (albeit on and off), has only raised his voice to me in anger once. Yeah, once. He’s cooler than President Obama, he is. So when he has a bone to pick, it needs pickin’.
BMNB would like telemarketers, bank tellers, customer service representatives, and any one else who meets him in a business capacity to know that her prefers to be called MISTER BMNB and not by his first name. He thinks Americans have become just a little too familiar. He likes the formality and propriety of calling someone you’ve just met by their proper name. Don’t just assume that you can call him by his first name when you’ve just met, especially if he’s your customer or potential customer.
For example, BMNB was speaking with a bank teller who pulled up his account, found out his name, and proceeded to address him by his first name, which, for purposes of this blog, is “Black Man.”
“Well, Black Man . . .” and she proceeded to explain something to him. But he couldn’t get past the fact that this stranger was calling him by his first name.
Now, he makes it clear from the get-go: “I prefer MISTER Not Blogging.”
It takes them aback. BMNB would prefer to think that it gets them back to the way their mommas raised them or should have raised them.
First, BMNB believes that you don’t get to call your elders by their first names. Even older cousins in his family are “Cousin So-and-So,” not “So-and-So.” The idea of some pimply-faced customer service rep calling him by his first name when he has visible gray hair in his goatee does not sit well with him, no sirree.
Second, BMNB just isn’t that familiar. He likes the respectful distance that using someone’s full and proper name entails. It requires the person you’re speaking to to decide whether they want you to become more familiar with them instead of you assuming that they do. He likes that because, like most professional black men, BMNB knows you can’t afford to assume anything.
Third, BMNB is, and always will be, a Southerner. And in the South, titles entail respect. I found this out myself when I was a professor at a law school in the South. I allowed my students to become too familiar too soon, giving them permission to call me by my first name as I had allowed my previous students in California to do. One of my colleagues, another African American female professor, told me I had already lost the battle for respect before I had even known there was a battle.
“What’s the big deal? It’s just a name,” I questioned.
She looked at me like I was an alien. “This is the South. Titles mean everything. Titles mean respect. No title, no respect. Just tell me – do they call you “professor” or “miz”?
I stopped and thought. “Well, actually, they do call me ‘miz’.”
She looked at me as if to say “game over.” “’Miz’” is what they call black women when they don’t want to properly address you as “Mrs.”, “Miss” or “professor.”
Oh.
I hadn’t really thought about it that much. In her mind, I had been subtly dissed and didn’t even know it. Funny, I thought they were just being friendly.
And that’s the point – we didn’t need to be “friendly” at that point in the relationship.
BMNB noticed this little phenomenon at work yesterday when we watched Matt Lauer interview Essence Editor-in-Chief Angela Burt-Murray to discuss the May issue of Essence, which features an interview with Mrs. Obama and her mother, Mrs. Robinson. Now, mind you, I would never think to call the President’s mother-in-law anything other than Mrs. Robinson for no other reason than she’s my elder, and I have tried, despite my feelings of identification with Mrs. Obama, not to call her “Michelle” because she deserves the same respect I would give any other First Lady – being addressed and referred to by her proper name.
I guess Matt Lauer felt a bit differently. During the beginning of the interview, he referred to them as Michelle Obama and Marian Robinson.
But not Ms. Burt-Murray. Throughout the interview, she continued to refer to them as Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Robinson. As you can imagine, my husband believes that Ms. Burt-Murray was raised right and is probably Googling her this minute to find out where in the South her people are from.
Mr. Lauer didn’t get it, though. Although he modified it a bit and began to call Mrs. Robinson “Mrs. Robinson,” he continued to refer to the First Lady as Michelle Obama. Ms. Burt-Murray never wavered, though, as if to get the point across to Mr. Lauer. He never picked it up.
Good thing BMNB wasn’t there. He would have checked him: “Their names are MRS. OBAMA and MRS. ROBINSON!”
And, he would have told him, to boot: “And they call me MISTER Black Man Not Blogging.”
BMNB would like telemarketers, bank tellers, customer service representatives, and any one else who meets him in a business capacity to know that her prefers to be called MISTER BMNB and not by his first name. He thinks Americans have become just a little too familiar. He likes the formality and propriety of calling someone you’ve just met by their proper name. Don’t just assume that you can call him by his first name when you’ve just met, especially if he’s your customer or potential customer.
For example, BMNB was speaking with a bank teller who pulled up his account, found out his name, and proceeded to address him by his first name, which, for purposes of this blog, is “Black Man.”
“Well, Black Man . . .” and she proceeded to explain something to him. But he couldn’t get past the fact that this stranger was calling him by his first name.
Now, he makes it clear from the get-go: “I prefer MISTER Not Blogging.”
It takes them aback. BMNB would prefer to think that it gets them back to the way their mommas raised them or should have raised them.
First, BMNB believes that you don’t get to call your elders by their first names. Even older cousins in his family are “Cousin So-and-So,” not “So-and-So.” The idea of some pimply-faced customer service rep calling him by his first name when he has visible gray hair in his goatee does not sit well with him, no sirree.
Second, BMNB just isn’t that familiar. He likes the respectful distance that using someone’s full and proper name entails. It requires the person you’re speaking to to decide whether they want you to become more familiar with them instead of you assuming that they do. He likes that because, like most professional black men, BMNB knows you can’t afford to assume anything.
Third, BMNB is, and always will be, a Southerner. And in the South, titles entail respect. I found this out myself when I was a professor at a law school in the South. I allowed my students to become too familiar too soon, giving them permission to call me by my first name as I had allowed my previous students in California to do. One of my colleagues, another African American female professor, told me I had already lost the battle for respect before I had even known there was a battle.
“What’s the big deal? It’s just a name,” I questioned.
She looked at me like I was an alien. “This is the South. Titles mean everything. Titles mean respect. No title, no respect. Just tell me – do they call you “professor” or “miz”?
I stopped and thought. “Well, actually, they do call me ‘miz’.”
She looked at me as if to say “game over.” “’Miz’” is what they call black women when they don’t want to properly address you as “Mrs.”, “Miss” or “professor.”
Oh.
I hadn’t really thought about it that much. In her mind, I had been subtly dissed and didn’t even know it. Funny, I thought they were just being friendly.
And that’s the point – we didn’t need to be “friendly” at that point in the relationship.
BMNB noticed this little phenomenon at work yesterday when we watched Matt Lauer interview Essence Editor-in-Chief Angela Burt-Murray to discuss the May issue of Essence, which features an interview with Mrs. Obama and her mother, Mrs. Robinson. Now, mind you, I would never think to call the President’s mother-in-law anything other than Mrs. Robinson for no other reason than she’s my elder, and I have tried, despite my feelings of identification with Mrs. Obama, not to call her “Michelle” because she deserves the same respect I would give any other First Lady – being addressed and referred to by her proper name.
I guess Matt Lauer felt a bit differently. During the beginning of the interview, he referred to them as Michelle Obama and Marian Robinson.
But not Ms. Burt-Murray. Throughout the interview, she continued to refer to them as Mrs. Obama and Mrs. Robinson. As you can imagine, my husband believes that Ms. Burt-Murray was raised right and is probably Googling her this minute to find out where in the South her people are from.
Mr. Lauer didn’t get it, though. Although he modified it a bit and began to call Mrs. Robinson “Mrs. Robinson,” he continued to refer to the First Lady as Michelle Obama. Ms. Burt-Murray never wavered, though, as if to get the point across to Mr. Lauer. He never picked it up.
Good thing BMNB wasn’t there. He would have checked him: “Their names are MRS. OBAMA and MRS. ROBINSON!”
And, he would have told him, to boot: “And they call me MISTER Black Man Not Blogging.”
A Devastating Beauty
She’s a Miss Beautiful Supreme
A girl that others wish that they could be
If there’s seven wonders of the world
Then I know she’s gotta be number one
She’s a girl that can’t be beat
Born and raised on ghetto streets
She’s a devastating beauty
A pretty girl with ebony eyes . . . .
“Ebony Eyes” by Stevie Wonder
I was eating dinner when Anderson Cooper revealed the First Lady’s official portrait on CNN. When I saw it, I gasped. It was a breathtakingly stunning portrait. Mrs. Obama, wearing a sleeveless black Michael Kors sheath dress and a double strand of pearls, was the picture of grace, elegance, and beauty. She is a First Lady like no other. I thought to myself, “She’s reppin’ us sisters so well.” Before a smile of appreciation could spread across my face, the criticisms rolled in courtesy of Cooper’s sidekick, Erica Hill.
Ms. Hill deigned to inform us that critics of Mrs. Obama deemed her exposure of her arms too informal for an official portrait and for her husband’s first address to Congress. It was too “cocktail-y,” if I recall her words correctly.
Indeed. If I had Mrs. Obama’s arms, I’d be wearing sleeveless sheath dresses, halter tops, you name it. In fact, if I had Mrs. Obama’s body, I’d have done the official portrait butt naked with a string of pearls, copped a pose like those guys in the Captain Morgan Rum commercials with one leg perched on an ottoman, and asked the photographer, “How ya like me now?”. This is why I will never be the First Lady.
That said, I was disappointed by the criticism. It seemed so, so petty. “Was that the best they could do?” I thought to myself about Mrs. Obama’s critics as I returned to my dinner.
Let the hateration begin, as the young folks say.
No matter what, Mrs. Obama can never, ever be like any of her predecessors because of the fact that she is the first African American First Lady. She will always have her share of detractors – those who don’t want to see an African American woman in the White House unless she’s cleaning it; those who don’t want Mrs. Obama to stray too far from the well-worn and worn-out path of other First Ladies. But she and President Obama didn’t get to the White House by following the tried-and-true formulae of their predecessors. There was no rule book for what they accomplished; they had to write their own rules and make their own way. They had to be true to themselves. This is why they were never off-message, unlike the McCain-Palin camp.
And, race aside, she’s nothing like our other First Ladies. She doesn’t look like her husband’s mother, she doesn’t look like Marian the Librarian, she doesn’t look like she just came up from the peanut farm, and she’s height and weight proportional. She’s probably the first First Lady since Jacqueline Kennedy who could wear a bikini and not make the viewing public cringe.
There is indeed much to hate about Mrs. Obama if you’re not happy with yourself. She’s smart and good-looking. Her kids are smart and good-looking. Her husband is smart, good-looking, and the President of the United States. If you’re looking to hate, there’s a lot there. By why bother?
I thought about the portrait again yesterday while I was washing dishes, and the lyrics from a Stevie Wonder song came to me and stuck in my head:
She’s a devastating beauty, a pretty girl with ebony eyes.
It’s almost as if this song from Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” was written just for Mrs. Obama and the many young girls with ebony eyes coming up behind her.
So, my hope for Mrs. Obama is that, in the words of a great social philosopher, Sheree from “The Real Housewives of Atlanta,” she “lets her haters be her motivators.” I hope that she continues to be who she is because she’s going to be criticized, fairly or unfairly, no matter what. She might as well be true to herself in the process.
I hope her kids remain smart and good-looking.
I hope her husband succeeds against all odds.
And, although it’s none of my business or yours, I hope she’s having the best mind-blowing, toe-curling sex the White House has ever seen. Better than Bill and Monica. Yeah, I said it: Better than Bill and Monica. Good enough to make the ghost of Lincoln blush and go on to Glory like he needs to.
Because the best revenge against your critics is living well, especially if you’re a devastating beauty, a pretty girl with ebony eyes . . . .
A girl that others wish that they could be
If there’s seven wonders of the world
Then I know she’s gotta be number one
She’s a girl that can’t be beat
Born and raised on ghetto streets
She’s a devastating beauty
A pretty girl with ebony eyes . . . .
“Ebony Eyes” by Stevie Wonder
I was eating dinner when Anderson Cooper revealed the First Lady’s official portrait on CNN. When I saw it, I gasped. It was a breathtakingly stunning portrait. Mrs. Obama, wearing a sleeveless black Michael Kors sheath dress and a double strand of pearls, was the picture of grace, elegance, and beauty. She is a First Lady like no other. I thought to myself, “She’s reppin’ us sisters so well.” Before a smile of appreciation could spread across my face, the criticisms rolled in courtesy of Cooper’s sidekick, Erica Hill.
Ms. Hill deigned to inform us that critics of Mrs. Obama deemed her exposure of her arms too informal for an official portrait and for her husband’s first address to Congress. It was too “cocktail-y,” if I recall her words correctly.
Indeed. If I had Mrs. Obama’s arms, I’d be wearing sleeveless sheath dresses, halter tops, you name it. In fact, if I had Mrs. Obama’s body, I’d have done the official portrait butt naked with a string of pearls, copped a pose like those guys in the Captain Morgan Rum commercials with one leg perched on an ottoman, and asked the photographer, “How ya like me now?”. This is why I will never be the First Lady.
That said, I was disappointed by the criticism. It seemed so, so petty. “Was that the best they could do?” I thought to myself about Mrs. Obama’s critics as I returned to my dinner.
Let the hateration begin, as the young folks say.
No matter what, Mrs. Obama can never, ever be like any of her predecessors because of the fact that she is the first African American First Lady. She will always have her share of detractors – those who don’t want to see an African American woman in the White House unless she’s cleaning it; those who don’t want Mrs. Obama to stray too far from the well-worn and worn-out path of other First Ladies. But she and President Obama didn’t get to the White House by following the tried-and-true formulae of their predecessors. There was no rule book for what they accomplished; they had to write their own rules and make their own way. They had to be true to themselves. This is why they were never off-message, unlike the McCain-Palin camp.
And, race aside, she’s nothing like our other First Ladies. She doesn’t look like her husband’s mother, she doesn’t look like Marian the Librarian, she doesn’t look like she just came up from the peanut farm, and she’s height and weight proportional. She’s probably the first First Lady since Jacqueline Kennedy who could wear a bikini and not make the viewing public cringe.
There is indeed much to hate about Mrs. Obama if you’re not happy with yourself. She’s smart and good-looking. Her kids are smart and good-looking. Her husband is smart, good-looking, and the President of the United States. If you’re looking to hate, there’s a lot there. By why bother?
I thought about the portrait again yesterday while I was washing dishes, and the lyrics from a Stevie Wonder song came to me and stuck in my head:
She’s a devastating beauty, a pretty girl with ebony eyes.
It’s almost as if this song from Wonder’s “Songs in the Key of Life” was written just for Mrs. Obama and the many young girls with ebony eyes coming up behind her.
So, my hope for Mrs. Obama is that, in the words of a great social philosopher, Sheree from “The Real Housewives of Atlanta,” she “lets her haters be her motivators.” I hope that she continues to be who she is because she’s going to be criticized, fairly or unfairly, no matter what. She might as well be true to herself in the process.
I hope her kids remain smart and good-looking.
I hope her husband succeeds against all odds.
And, although it’s none of my business or yours, I hope she’s having the best mind-blowing, toe-curling sex the White House has ever seen. Better than Bill and Monica. Yeah, I said it: Better than Bill and Monica. Good enough to make the ghost of Lincoln blush and go on to Glory like he needs to.
Because the best revenge against your critics is living well, especially if you’re a devastating beauty, a pretty girl with ebony eyes . . . .
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