“About five years.”
-- The answer I received from my friend Sheila, who now lives in North Carolina, when I asked, “How many years of marriage does it take until you start feeling comfortable in your marriage?”
On Saturday I celebrated five years of marriage to my husband, BMNB (Black Man Not Blogging). We celebrated by allowing each other to do what we really wanted to do – I went on a gardening tear while he vegged on the sofa and caught up on some much needed sleep.
I can’t say that I was always assured that we would reach five years.
Right before I got married, I made peace with being single. I embraced it, had started to plan my life on the assumption that I would never marry. Having married late in life, I’ve tended to be somewhat utilitarian about marriage – that marriage should make you better off than you would have been had you remained single. Not financially, but emotionally.
That hasn’t always been the case in my marriage.
I’ve felt, at times, that I carried more than my fair share of the burdens without an end in sight.
I’ve felt, at times, that my wants and needs came in second to his more pressing wants and needs.
I’ve felt, at times, that being a good wife meant taking on certain roles and responsibilities, whether I liked them or not.
Then I grew the eff up.
I realized that, contrary to what I was lead to believe, yes, people do indeed keep score in a marriage, especially if they’re carrying the lion’s share of its burdens most of the time. No one can be expected to carry more than his or her fair share for an indeterminate amount of time. So, I’ve learned that if you’re married and you’re not carrying your fair share, whether it’s financial responsibility, division of household labor, or caring for the kids, you need to give your partner some certainty as to when the situation is going to even up, lest your partner ask, as I once did, “If this is what marriage has to offer, why would I choose this over being single?”
I realized that no one – not your husband, your mother, or your father – is responsible for your happiness other than you. If you’re not happy, it’s on you to speak up. Few spouses can read minds. Taking responsibility for your own unhappiness starts with voicing it. Whenever I’ve spoken up, BMNB has listened and taken me seriously.
I've realized that, like Bishop T.D. Jakes says, marriage is the union of two imperfect people. And, quiet as it's kept, I'm so far from perfect, they don't have a measure for the distance. Light years don't suffice. So when I get a notion to criticize my husband's shortcomings, I try to remind myself of my own glaring imperfections and the fact that, more often than not, he overlooks them.
I realized that, as one of my bridesmaids advised me, no two marriages are alike. What works for other folks in their marriages may not work for you. Just because all your girlfriends cook and embrace cooking, if you don’t like it, being a wife isn’t going to make you like it or embrace it all the more. If anything, it will lead you to ask, “What did he do for dinner before he married me?” You have to tailor your marriage to the two people in it.
I realized that it isn't always what I say, but how I say it. I've got quite a sharp tongue, and I don't want to sharpen it at the expense of my husband's psyche. Quiet as it's kept, apologies don't really erase words spoken, because they don't eliminate the fact that you actually thought the words. Better to step back and think clearly about the effect of one's words than try to take them back once spoken. Because you really can't.
I realized that you have to allow your spouse room to be who he is, with the proviso that he allows you room to be who you are. BMNB is never going to embrace cooking, period. Just doesn’t like to do it. Looks like he’s being punished when he has to. Conversely, I’m probably not going to be attending church with him every Sunday. Maybe the church of my choosing, at best, but probably not the church of his choice. Mind you, these were both things we said we’d “embrace” during our pre-marital counseling, kind of a tradeoff we each were supposed to make for the other. Five years later, nothing doing. It went against who we both really were and are. Now, I think we’ve reached some peace with it, or at least détente.
The most important thing I’ve realized is that marriage isn’t a destination, but a journey through the joys and vicissitudes of life that you share with an incredible partner. Not a perfect partner, but an incredible partner. And I can’t imagine sharing this journey with anyone else, so much so that I hope to predecease my husband because I can’t imagine this journey of life without him. Now that he’s a permanent part of my world, I don’t want to know a world without him. I don’t even want to imagine it.
Realizing all this is the best gift of all after five years of an incredible journey with an incredible partner.
Happy Anniversary, BMNB.
Patience: I Plant; God Decides.
“If you’re not killing plants, you’re not growing as a gardener.”
A gardener quoted in my local newspaper.
Patience. It’s so hard to have at this time of year in the Sacramento valley. It’s hotter than Hades, and, if you’re like me and you’ve been slowly working on making a garden out of quintessential south Sacramento valley soil – a big plot of clay and weeds -- it’s easy to be impatient when you see everyone else’s impatiens and other plants in bloom.
Patience. It’s the mantra of the novice gardener. Really, it’s the mantra of life.
I’m trying not to spend too much money on this garden, since I’m only renting this big plot of clay soil and weeds. The last time I spent substantial sums to put in a garden in a rental (which some would say is, by itself, a sign of insanity), I received a 60-day notice to quit a few days after my plants were in the ground. But my efforts to save money have lead to even more frustration – the seeds I tried to start in my home office were overtaken by mold, and the sweet broom, Spanish lavender and pink jasmine I transplanted from my brother’s house (he no longer wanted them) have pretty much up and died. Only the butterfly iris I transplanted from his house have seemed to survive.
I planted cheap gladiolus bulbs from the Dollar Tree in corners of my backyard, thinking that, hey, if they don’t grow, I’m only out a few dollars. Given my impatience and resulting inattentiveness, I’d pretty much given up on them. Oh well.
And they up and surprised me. Tender green shoots poked out where I had planted them, undaunted by the dead sweet broom plants that, had they lived, would have taken up too much space and blocked out the sun. I plant, God decides.
Isn’t that pretty much how life goes?
Emboldened by my undeserved success with the glads, I planted more of them yesterday. I even had the nerve to buy some roses that knocked me off my feet with their fragrance – Heirloom and Fragrant Cloud. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have some success with them, too. But I will have to learn to be as patient with them as with everything else in my garden. I plant, God decides.
Even the liatris bulbs I planted after my first round of gladiolus bulbs are starting to peek out. I had given up on them too, concluding that my dog had probably peed on them and killed them. Female dog urine is a powerful thing. It’ll take out whole patches of your lawn if you let it. I plant, God decides.
I also have to learn to be patient with people I care about. To overcome the urge to shake the living shit out of them when they don’t understand that what I’m trying to urge them to do is for their own good, not mine. I have to take a step back and ask myself, “Who made me queen?” Sometimes people aren’t ready for the message you’re trying to give them, and you can’t make them any more ready by being insistent or persistent. I plant, God decides.
Patience. A good garden, and a good life for that matter, requires it.
A gardener quoted in my local newspaper.
Patience. It’s so hard to have at this time of year in the Sacramento valley. It’s hotter than Hades, and, if you’re like me and you’ve been slowly working on making a garden out of quintessential south Sacramento valley soil – a big plot of clay and weeds -- it’s easy to be impatient when you see everyone else’s impatiens and other plants in bloom.
Patience. It’s the mantra of the novice gardener. Really, it’s the mantra of life.
I’m trying not to spend too much money on this garden, since I’m only renting this big plot of clay soil and weeds. The last time I spent substantial sums to put in a garden in a rental (which some would say is, by itself, a sign of insanity), I received a 60-day notice to quit a few days after my plants were in the ground. But my efforts to save money have lead to even more frustration – the seeds I tried to start in my home office were overtaken by mold, and the sweet broom, Spanish lavender and pink jasmine I transplanted from my brother’s house (he no longer wanted them) have pretty much up and died. Only the butterfly iris I transplanted from his house have seemed to survive.
I planted cheap gladiolus bulbs from the Dollar Tree in corners of my backyard, thinking that, hey, if they don’t grow, I’m only out a few dollars. Given my impatience and resulting inattentiveness, I’d pretty much given up on them. Oh well.
And they up and surprised me. Tender green shoots poked out where I had planted them, undaunted by the dead sweet broom plants that, had they lived, would have taken up too much space and blocked out the sun. I plant, God decides.
Isn’t that pretty much how life goes?
Emboldened by my undeserved success with the glads, I planted more of them yesterday. I even had the nerve to buy some roses that knocked me off my feet with their fragrance – Heirloom and Fragrant Cloud. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have some success with them, too. But I will have to learn to be as patient with them as with everything else in my garden. I plant, God decides.
Even the liatris bulbs I planted after my first round of gladiolus bulbs are starting to peek out. I had given up on them too, concluding that my dog had probably peed on them and killed them. Female dog urine is a powerful thing. It’ll take out whole patches of your lawn if you let it. I plant, God decides.
I also have to learn to be patient with people I care about. To overcome the urge to shake the living shit out of them when they don’t understand that what I’m trying to urge them to do is for their own good, not mine. I have to take a step back and ask myself, “Who made me queen?” Sometimes people aren’t ready for the message you’re trying to give them, and you can’t make them any more ready by being insistent or persistent. I plant, God decides.
Patience. A good garden, and a good life for that matter, requires it.
If They Steal It, I Will Walk
Black Democrats need to have their own nuclear option going into the convention in Denver. Here’s mine: If they steal it, I will walk.
That is, if the Democratic party steals the nomination from Obama by increasing the number of delegates needed to secure the nomination or seating the Florida or Michigan delegations, I will not only not vote Democratic, I will vote for McCain.
I say this as a third-generation Democrat, the granddaughter of a black woman who named her twin sons after Franklin D. Roosevelt and Huey P. Long. Yes, I come from those kind of Democrats, blacks who have been loyal to the party since Roosevelt. Loyal despite moves not to seat the integrated Democrat delegation from Mississippi from the ‘60’s to appease racist white Southern Democrats (Fannie Lou Hamer, anyone?). Loyal through a bunch of loser nominees like Dukakis.
It’s time for the loyalty that blacks have demonstrated time and again to the Democratic Party to be returned in kind. I’m not asking for special favors for Obama; I’m just asking that the rules not be changed from what the candidates started with in order to alter the outcome specifically in favor of Senator Clinton.
Word on the street and in the press is that Senator Clinton is telling superdelegates that she should be the party’s nominee because she’s attracting rural and blue collar white voters who won’t vote for Obama, but that blacks and latinos will vote Democrat no matter who the nominee is.
Oh, I see.
But not this year, sister.
I’m not afraid to punish this party by taking it out on the country. Black people have survived administrations I would politely call “not African-American friendly” (Reagan, Bush I, Bush II). We can survive another Republican administration. Hell, we survived slavery. We are the people who can “make a way out of no way” and can “make a dollar out of fifteen cents.” Four years of McCain? Yeah, I can do that if it means getting the Democratic party to respect the will of African American voters.
So, I have my nuclear option in place. If you’re a black Democrat, you better have yours.
That is, if the Democratic party steals the nomination from Obama by increasing the number of delegates needed to secure the nomination or seating the Florida or Michigan delegations, I will not only not vote Democratic, I will vote for McCain.
I say this as a third-generation Democrat, the granddaughter of a black woman who named her twin sons after Franklin D. Roosevelt and Huey P. Long. Yes, I come from those kind of Democrats, blacks who have been loyal to the party since Roosevelt. Loyal despite moves not to seat the integrated Democrat delegation from Mississippi from the ‘60’s to appease racist white Southern Democrats (Fannie Lou Hamer, anyone?). Loyal through a bunch of loser nominees like Dukakis.
It’s time for the loyalty that blacks have demonstrated time and again to the Democratic Party to be returned in kind. I’m not asking for special favors for Obama; I’m just asking that the rules not be changed from what the candidates started with in order to alter the outcome specifically in favor of Senator Clinton.
Word on the street and in the press is that Senator Clinton is telling superdelegates that she should be the party’s nominee because she’s attracting rural and blue collar white voters who won’t vote for Obama, but that blacks and latinos will vote Democrat no matter who the nominee is.
Oh, I see.
But not this year, sister.
I’m not afraid to punish this party by taking it out on the country. Black people have survived administrations I would politely call “not African-American friendly” (Reagan, Bush I, Bush II). We can survive another Republican administration. Hell, we survived slavery. We are the people who can “make a way out of no way” and can “make a dollar out of fifteen cents.” Four years of McCain? Yeah, I can do that if it means getting the Democratic party to respect the will of African American voters.
So, I have my nuclear option in place. If you’re a black Democrat, you better have yours.
Dude, Where's My Lawn Sign?
I joked about it. With family, friends, and online.
But I didn’t really think it could happen.
Now really, who would be so bold? Bold enough to come like a thief in the night – literally – and take it.
Take what, you ask?
My Obama for President lawn sign. Somebody actually had the nerve, the temerity, the – whatever you want to call it – to rip my lawn sign from its rusty posts and leave the posts behind as some wicked monument to their crime.
Evildoers!
Well, to whomever it was, you’re on notice: I got more money than you’ve got cojones. There will be another Obama for President lawn sign on my front lawn. And with each purchase, the Obama campaign gets $14.00 richer. That’s right –stealing my lawn sign will only make the Obama campaign that much richer.
But don’t let me catch you. ‘Cause I will -- as they say down South – “beat you like you stole something.”
But I didn’t really think it could happen.
Now really, who would be so bold? Bold enough to come like a thief in the night – literally – and take it.
Take what, you ask?
My Obama for President lawn sign. Somebody actually had the nerve, the temerity, the – whatever you want to call it – to rip my lawn sign from its rusty posts and leave the posts behind as some wicked monument to their crime.
Evildoers!
Well, to whomever it was, you’re on notice: I got more money than you’ve got cojones. There will be another Obama for President lawn sign on my front lawn. And with each purchase, the Obama campaign gets $14.00 richer. That’s right –stealing my lawn sign will only make the Obama campaign that much richer.
But don’t let me catch you. ‘Cause I will -- as they say down South – “beat you like you stole something.”
Your Women's Do-It-Yourself Self-Esteem Kit
“You may not get what you deserve in this life, but you’ll damn sure get what you settle for.”
My friend “Trevor”
I spent the weekend with one of my favorite female relatives, and she was recounting her horrible marriage to her ex, a much older man who, in my opinion, is worth more to the world decomposed than alive. That aside, she told me how he had called her his “retirement plan” because he had had no intention of working and had planned to live off of her, until she got wise and divorced him.
I asked her how she had gotten into such a sorry relationship to begin with. Her response: Lack of self-esteem.
Mothers (and fathers, for that matter), can you imagine how much heartache and pain you could spare your daughters if you sent them out into the world armed with self-esteem?
Now, I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve got way too much self-esteem. Not the kind of self-esteem that would make me try to squeeze my size fourteen behind in a thong and size eight Daisy Dukes. I’m talking about the kind of self-esteem that gives me little if any patience for people who are trying to get over on me like my relative’s ex-husband tried to get over on her. Especially if they’re male.
I’m talking about the kind of self-esteem that made a professor at U.C. Berkeley make her diamond engagement ring from her ex-husband into a toe ring. In her view, wearing the ring on her toe symbolized that her ex was “beneath her.” That’s the kind of self-esteem I’m talking about.
When it comes to my self-esteem, to borrow a phrase from an Erykah Badu song, “I get it from my momma.”
My late mom, whom I have referred to in this blog as She Who Is Exalted, or SWIE, had self-esteem in spades. Like me, she didn’t always have it, but the mom I knew in her late thirties and forties is much like the woman I’ve become in my mid-forties. I know my worth, and I don’t settle for anything or anyone unworthy of me. Life’s too short. I’m sure if SWIE had known she was going to check out at age sixty-four, she would have adopted that attitude a lot earlier.
My mom gave as good as she got, checked my dad when he needed it (often), and let us kids know that she was the momma and we were the kids, period. Yes, she put up with a lot just because of us six kids, but she had her limits, and she was quick to let you know when you had reached them. Like she did with my poor aunt.
At some family gathering, one of my aunts made the mistake of saying something rather, well, unflattering about my oldest sister. My mom sprang into action. She gather up us kids and took us home. Then she went back and cussed her sister out for talking about one of her kids. Then she came home like nothing happened. We begged and pleaded for her to tell us what she said to our aunt, but she told us that it was none of our business. Mind you, she said this as calm as an assassin, standing in her customary position at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes or something, her right leg bent at the knee and crossed behind her left. I don’t think she even looked up at us. She simply handled her momma business and got back to the task at hand – feeding her brood of six unruly children.
It was years before we found out she had called her sister a two dollar you-know-what (our other aunt told us). We were like, “Way to go, Mom!” We were proud that she had stood up for my sister and, in effect, us. Her response? “I’m not proud of that.”
That’s okay. We were.
So since SWIE isn’t here to share with you what I learned, here goes:
A woman with self-esteem stands up for her kids, but most important, stands up for herself.
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t stay in abusive relationships, be they verbally or physically abusive.
A woman with self-esteem knows her worth and doesn’t settle for anything less. She has no problem telling an exploitive employer, lover or husband to kiss her behind (more on that later).
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t wait for men to do things for her – she does things for herself.
A woman with self-esteem makes and manages her own money, and sometimes her husband’s money, too.
A woman with self-esteem stands up for other women and children who can’t stand up for themselves.
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t care what anyone – male or female – thinks of the clothes she wears or how she wears her hair, ‘cause she’s the one who paid for them.
Now that you’ve got some of the rules, here’s the women’s self-esteem playlist (to get your self-esteem mojo going) and SWIE’s self-esteem lexicon of phrases to go with it. (Warning: SWIE was prone to curse words, as am I, so I won’t edit at the risk of losing the essence of who we both were/are).
Playlist
Ruth Brown, “If I Can’t Sell It, I’ll Sit On It”. Mind you, this song supposedly talks about furniture in a second-hand store. But with lyrics like, “If I can’t sell it, I’m gonna sit on it, ‘cause I ain’t gonna give it away,” you know what she’s really talking about. Takes a lot of self-esteem to sing those lyrics.
Aretha Franklin, “Respect.” No brainer. And Aretha didn’t always have self-esteem either. Chain of Fools, anyone?
Whitney Houston, “Step by Step” and “Greatest Love of All.” For the woman who is coming back from the abyss of self-doubt and moving toward self-esteem.
Anything by Millie Jackson. My mom used to say that Millie was downright nasty. Takes a lot of self-esteem to be a nasty woman.
Erykah Badu, "Tyrone." Both funny and empowering, especially the last line, "But you cain't use my phone."
Prince, “Little Red Corvette.” Okay, work with me on this. The lyrics include the verse, “I guess I should have closed my eyes when you brought me to the place where your horses run free; I got a little ill when I saw all pictures of the jockeys who’d been there before me.” Now, it takes a woman with a lot of self-esteem to not only have up photos of the prior “jockeys,” but to not care what the next jockey would think. You don’t have to be that woman; you only need to have her self-esteem.
Jill Scott, “Golden.” Then again, everything Jill does is golden.
India.Arie, “Talk To Her.” This song provides guidance on how you should expect people to talk to you or any woman for that matter: “When you talk to her, talk to her like you’d want somebody to talk to your momma . . . Don’t get smart with her, have a heart-to-heart with her just like you would with your daughter . . .”
And my favorite:
Leslie Gore, “You Don’t Own Me.” I first heard this song in the movie “The First Wives’ Club.” Gotta love these proto-feminist lyrics:
And don't tell me what to do
And don't tell me what to say
And please, when I go out with you
Don't put me on display, 'cause
You don't own me, don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me, don't tie me down 'cause I'd never stay
Okay, now that you have the playlist, here’s the lexicon of self-esteem phrases from SWIE:
1. When some man tries to tell you that you need him:
“I don’t need you. I was born by myself, and I’m gonna die by myself.”
2. When some man tries to make you think you need his money:
“I GOT a job. I make my OWN money. You don’t have shit that I can’t get.”
3. When some man expects way too much of you:
“Oh see, you just want too much sugar for a dime.”
4. When your husband gets on you about your spending:
“I made this money. I didn’t see you up on my job. Did I ask you to pay my bills? I didn’t ask you for shit.) (Substitutions: “a God damned thing” can be substituted for “shit” when appropriate)
5. When your kids try to get over on you:
“Oh, you must think I’m a fool. Ain’t nothing you can do or think of doing that I ain't already thought of.”
6. When you husband/lover threatens to leave you:
“Please. I got you; I can get another.”
7. When you’ve finally reached your limit – at work, at home, etc:
“Oh, see, you can kiss my PRETTY black ass.” (Now, that might not work as well for white women, but you get the point.)
Okay, ladies, copy these phrases in your new self-esteem notebook, tee up your IPod self-esteem playlist, and get to steppin’. My momma didn’t raise no fools, and now that you’ve read this, consider yourself raised. By SWIE.
As my friend “Trevor” pointed out to me once, “You may not get what you deserve in this life, but you’ll damned sure get what you settle for.”
My friend “Trevor”
I spent the weekend with one of my favorite female relatives, and she was recounting her horrible marriage to her ex, a much older man who, in my opinion, is worth more to the world decomposed than alive. That aside, she told me how he had called her his “retirement plan” because he had had no intention of working and had planned to live off of her, until she got wise and divorced him.
I asked her how she had gotten into such a sorry relationship to begin with. Her response: Lack of self-esteem.
Mothers (and fathers, for that matter), can you imagine how much heartache and pain you could spare your daughters if you sent them out into the world armed with self-esteem?
Now, I’ll be the first to admit, I’ve got way too much self-esteem. Not the kind of self-esteem that would make me try to squeeze my size fourteen behind in a thong and size eight Daisy Dukes. I’m talking about the kind of self-esteem that gives me little if any patience for people who are trying to get over on me like my relative’s ex-husband tried to get over on her. Especially if they’re male.
I’m talking about the kind of self-esteem that made a professor at U.C. Berkeley make her diamond engagement ring from her ex-husband into a toe ring. In her view, wearing the ring on her toe symbolized that her ex was “beneath her.” That’s the kind of self-esteem I’m talking about.
When it comes to my self-esteem, to borrow a phrase from an Erykah Badu song, “I get it from my momma.”
My late mom, whom I have referred to in this blog as She Who Is Exalted, or SWIE, had self-esteem in spades. Like me, she didn’t always have it, but the mom I knew in her late thirties and forties is much like the woman I’ve become in my mid-forties. I know my worth, and I don’t settle for anything or anyone unworthy of me. Life’s too short. I’m sure if SWIE had known she was going to check out at age sixty-four, she would have adopted that attitude a lot earlier.
My mom gave as good as she got, checked my dad when he needed it (often), and let us kids know that she was the momma and we were the kids, period. Yes, she put up with a lot just because of us six kids, but she had her limits, and she was quick to let you know when you had reached them. Like she did with my poor aunt.
At some family gathering, one of my aunts made the mistake of saying something rather, well, unflattering about my oldest sister. My mom sprang into action. She gather up us kids and took us home. Then she went back and cussed her sister out for talking about one of her kids. Then she came home like nothing happened. We begged and pleaded for her to tell us what she said to our aunt, but she told us that it was none of our business. Mind you, she said this as calm as an assassin, standing in her customary position at the kitchen sink, peeling potatoes or something, her right leg bent at the knee and crossed behind her left. I don’t think she even looked up at us. She simply handled her momma business and got back to the task at hand – feeding her brood of six unruly children.
It was years before we found out she had called her sister a two dollar you-know-what (our other aunt told us). We were like, “Way to go, Mom!” We were proud that she had stood up for my sister and, in effect, us. Her response? “I’m not proud of that.”
That’s okay. We were.
So since SWIE isn’t here to share with you what I learned, here goes:
A woman with self-esteem stands up for her kids, but most important, stands up for herself.
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t stay in abusive relationships, be they verbally or physically abusive.
A woman with self-esteem knows her worth and doesn’t settle for anything less. She has no problem telling an exploitive employer, lover or husband to kiss her behind (more on that later).
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t wait for men to do things for her – she does things for herself.
A woman with self-esteem makes and manages her own money, and sometimes her husband’s money, too.
A woman with self-esteem stands up for other women and children who can’t stand up for themselves.
A woman with self-esteem doesn’t care what anyone – male or female – thinks of the clothes she wears or how she wears her hair, ‘cause she’s the one who paid for them.
Now that you’ve got some of the rules, here’s the women’s self-esteem playlist (to get your self-esteem mojo going) and SWIE’s self-esteem lexicon of phrases to go with it. (Warning: SWIE was prone to curse words, as am I, so I won’t edit at the risk of losing the essence of who we both were/are).
Playlist
Ruth Brown, “If I Can’t Sell It, I’ll Sit On It”. Mind you, this song supposedly talks about furniture in a second-hand store. But with lyrics like, “If I can’t sell it, I’m gonna sit on it, ‘cause I ain’t gonna give it away,” you know what she’s really talking about. Takes a lot of self-esteem to sing those lyrics.
Aretha Franklin, “Respect.” No brainer. And Aretha didn’t always have self-esteem either. Chain of Fools, anyone?
Whitney Houston, “Step by Step” and “Greatest Love of All.” For the woman who is coming back from the abyss of self-doubt and moving toward self-esteem.
Anything by Millie Jackson. My mom used to say that Millie was downright nasty. Takes a lot of self-esteem to be a nasty woman.
Erykah Badu, "Tyrone." Both funny and empowering, especially the last line, "But you cain't use my phone."
Prince, “Little Red Corvette.” Okay, work with me on this. The lyrics include the verse, “I guess I should have closed my eyes when you brought me to the place where your horses run free; I got a little ill when I saw all pictures of the jockeys who’d been there before me.” Now, it takes a woman with a lot of self-esteem to not only have up photos of the prior “jockeys,” but to not care what the next jockey would think. You don’t have to be that woman; you only need to have her self-esteem.
Jill Scott, “Golden.” Then again, everything Jill does is golden.
India.Arie, “Talk To Her.” This song provides guidance on how you should expect people to talk to you or any woman for that matter: “When you talk to her, talk to her like you’d want somebody to talk to your momma . . . Don’t get smart with her, have a heart-to-heart with her just like you would with your daughter . . .”
And my favorite:
Leslie Gore, “You Don’t Own Me.” I first heard this song in the movie “The First Wives’ Club.” Gotta love these proto-feminist lyrics:
And don't tell me what to do
And don't tell me what to say
And please, when I go out with you
Don't put me on display, 'cause
You don't own me, don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me, don't tie me down 'cause I'd never stay
Okay, now that you have the playlist, here’s the lexicon of self-esteem phrases from SWIE:
1. When some man tries to tell you that you need him:
“I don’t need you. I was born by myself, and I’m gonna die by myself.”
2. When some man tries to make you think you need his money:
“I GOT a job. I make my OWN money. You don’t have shit that I can’t get.”
3. When some man expects way too much of you:
“Oh see, you just want too much sugar for a dime.”
4. When your husband gets on you about your spending:
“I made this money. I didn’t see you up on my job. Did I ask you to pay my bills? I didn’t ask you for shit.) (Substitutions: “a God damned thing” can be substituted for “shit” when appropriate)
5. When your kids try to get over on you:
“Oh, you must think I’m a fool. Ain’t nothing you can do or think of doing that I ain't already thought of.”
6. When you husband/lover threatens to leave you:
“Please. I got you; I can get another.”
7. When you’ve finally reached your limit – at work, at home, etc:
“Oh, see, you can kiss my PRETTY black ass.” (Now, that might not work as well for white women, but you get the point.)
Okay, ladies, copy these phrases in your new self-esteem notebook, tee up your IPod self-esteem playlist, and get to steppin’. My momma didn’t raise no fools, and now that you’ve read this, consider yourself raised. By SWIE.
As my friend “Trevor” pointed out to me once, “You may not get what you deserve in this life, but you’ll damned sure get what you settle for.”
Remember the Time?
I watched a lot of footage of events marking the 40th anniversary of the assassination of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember as a four year-old seeing a photo of Dr. King on the cover of either Ebony or Jet, with him laid out in his coffin. I remember thinking at that time, “Why do they have a picture of this man sleeping in his bed on this cover? What a pretty bed it is.” It took me a while to figure out that, one, he wasn’t sleeping, and two, although pretty, it wasn’t a bed. I would never really understand the enormity of the loss and the sacrifice he made for me until I was older.
On Friday I also watched HBO’s “The Boycott,” featuring Jeffrey Wright as Dr. King and Terrence Howard as Rev. Ralph Abernathy during the time of the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Clearly they weren’t cast because they looked like the people they were playing, but Wright, who is most certainly assured of an Academy Award somewhere down the line, captured Dr. King’s cadence and what I imagined to be his mannerisms. Howard was no slouch either, and Erik Todd Dellums, who captured Bayard Rustin’s homosexuality for those who knew what to expect, was a tour de force. But what struck me about the movie was the portrayal of the wisdom, nobility and determination of those involved in the boycott. Their identification with those in the Bible who had suffered, too, and their determination to meet every challenge to them with non-violence, pride, and dignity made me long for a time when we as black people not only aspired to those traits, we embodied them. It made me wonder:
Would we have the likes of many of our hip-hop stars if there were someone with the moral capital of a Dr. King to tell them that they should aspire to more than glamorizing sex, money and excess?
Would our kids be dropping out of school at alarming rates if Dr. King were alive to tell them that he put his life and the lives of others on the line for them?
Would the so-called “black church” (I say “so-called” because there is no such thing as one “black church”) wield more social and political power were Dr. King and his cohorts still acting in concert and keeping it on task?
Would we have Bill Cosby penning books such as “Come On, People” if Dr. King had been alive to see the things that made Cosby so angry and spoke out accordingly?
As much as we black people may not want to admit it, when Dr. King died, a big part of us died with him. The part that embodied dignity, nobility, non-violence, and humanity within the race, across class lines.
Remember the time?
To that end, I also note with sadness the passing of Charlton Heston, who provided financial support to the Civil Rights Movement. Sure, he was all wrong on gun control, but he was right on civil rights and right on time about it
On Friday I also watched HBO’s “The Boycott,” featuring Jeffrey Wright as Dr. King and Terrence Howard as Rev. Ralph Abernathy during the time of the Montgomery Bus Boycott. Clearly they weren’t cast because they looked like the people they were playing, but Wright, who is most certainly assured of an Academy Award somewhere down the line, captured Dr. King’s cadence and what I imagined to be his mannerisms. Howard was no slouch either, and Erik Todd Dellums, who captured Bayard Rustin’s homosexuality for those who knew what to expect, was a tour de force. But what struck me about the movie was the portrayal of the wisdom, nobility and determination of those involved in the boycott. Their identification with those in the Bible who had suffered, too, and their determination to meet every challenge to them with non-violence, pride, and dignity made me long for a time when we as black people not only aspired to those traits, we embodied them. It made me wonder:
Would we have the likes of many of our hip-hop stars if there were someone with the moral capital of a Dr. King to tell them that they should aspire to more than glamorizing sex, money and excess?
Would our kids be dropping out of school at alarming rates if Dr. King were alive to tell them that he put his life and the lives of others on the line for them?
Would the so-called “black church” (I say “so-called” because there is no such thing as one “black church”) wield more social and political power were Dr. King and his cohorts still acting in concert and keeping it on task?
Would we have Bill Cosby penning books such as “Come On, People” if Dr. King had been alive to see the things that made Cosby so angry and spoke out accordingly?
As much as we black people may not want to admit it, when Dr. King died, a big part of us died with him. The part that embodied dignity, nobility, non-violence, and humanity within the race, across class lines.
Remember the time?
To that end, I also note with sadness the passing of Charlton Heston, who provided financial support to the Civil Rights Movement. Sure, he was all wrong on gun control, but he was right on civil rights and right on time about it
You Really (Don't) Like Me
"You like me. You really like me."
Sally Field, upon winning her second Academy Award for "Places in the Heart"
When I was young, it used to upset me when people didn't like me for no reason at all. My mother used to tell me that there are people who aren't going to like you just because, and it has nothing to do with you. To me, it just defied logic -- how could you dislike someone who has done nothing to you?
Now that I'm older, I totally understand what my mother was trying to tell me. And my attitude has changed, too. In my twenties and thirties, I would have seen someone's unmerited dislike of me as a challenge, and I would have waged a personal PR campaign to prove myself worthy of being liked by them.
Now that I'm in my forties, eff 'em. Including the ones I'm related to.
That was the hardest part -- accepting that, yes, there are people I'm related to who don't like me. For reasons unrelated to me, for things I've never done (or at least I'm not aware that I've done). I remember at a recent family reunion, a cousin I hadn't seen since I was a teenager remarked to my sister in my presence, "Wow, I thought she was all stuck up." At first, I was pleased to see that I had inadvertently won yet another PR war. It later dawned on me that I shouldn't have cared whether this person liked me or not, even if she was related to me. I could count on my hands the number of times we had interacted, and there's a significant age difference between us such that, even as cousins, we wouldn't have run in the same circles. We hadn't spent enough time together for her to have made any judgment about me, but, lo and behold, she had. Whatever.
I'm done with trying to make people I've done absolutely nothing to like me. We all should be. My mother was right. And my best friend's mother used to put it best: "They talked about Jesus, and he was perfect; what makes you think they're NOT going to talk about you?"
Yesterday, I got on the elevator with two older co-workers I've not really interacted with since I started my job here in December. I've had a frigid reception from them since the day I started. But there's something about being in your forties that frees you from caring about petty things like this. I just smiled to myself and thought, "Eff 'em."
Sally Field, upon winning her second Academy Award for "Places in the Heart"
When I was young, it used to upset me when people didn't like me for no reason at all. My mother used to tell me that there are people who aren't going to like you just because, and it has nothing to do with you. To me, it just defied logic -- how could you dislike someone who has done nothing to you?
Now that I'm older, I totally understand what my mother was trying to tell me. And my attitude has changed, too. In my twenties and thirties, I would have seen someone's unmerited dislike of me as a challenge, and I would have waged a personal PR campaign to prove myself worthy of being liked by them.
Now that I'm in my forties, eff 'em. Including the ones I'm related to.
That was the hardest part -- accepting that, yes, there are people I'm related to who don't like me. For reasons unrelated to me, for things I've never done (or at least I'm not aware that I've done). I remember at a recent family reunion, a cousin I hadn't seen since I was a teenager remarked to my sister in my presence, "Wow, I thought she was all stuck up." At first, I was pleased to see that I had inadvertently won yet another PR war. It later dawned on me that I shouldn't have cared whether this person liked me or not, even if she was related to me. I could count on my hands the number of times we had interacted, and there's a significant age difference between us such that, even as cousins, we wouldn't have run in the same circles. We hadn't spent enough time together for her to have made any judgment about me, but, lo and behold, she had. Whatever.
I'm done with trying to make people I've done absolutely nothing to like me. We all should be. My mother was right. And my best friend's mother used to put it best: "They talked about Jesus, and he was perfect; what makes you think they're NOT going to talk about you?"
Yesterday, I got on the elevator with two older co-workers I've not really interacted with since I started my job here in December. I've had a frigid reception from them since the day I started. But there's something about being in your forties that frees you from caring about petty things like this. I just smiled to myself and thought, "Eff 'em."
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