Mama Used To Say

And mama used to say, Take your time, young man...
Mama used to say, Don't you rush to get old...
Mama used to say, Take it in your stride...
Mama used to say, Live your life...

"Mama Used To Say," by Junior

Whenever I hear the song “Mama Used To Say” by Junior, it reminds me of all the things my mama used to say:

Don’t you rush to get old. You’re only a child once. Then you have to grow up and get a job.

I brought you in the world, and I can take you out.

Fast money is no money at all.

You can't ride with me unless you comb your hair.

Do for self. Don’t depend on nobody.

Who promised you fair? Whoever told you life was fair, they lied to you.

I don’t have to do nothing but die and stay black.

You need to stay out of grown folks’ business.

Get your education so you don’t have to depend on no man.

I’m not your friend; I’m your mama. You can have lots of friends, but you only get one mama. (So true!)

What goes around, comes around.

If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say nothing at all.

God don’t like ugly.

God looks after fools and babies.

Don’t make me stop this car.

You’re getting on my one good nerve.

You have to work twice as hard to be considered half as good. (Well, this is what black parents said when I was a child.)

The world don’t owe you a damn thing.

We all fall down, and you can lay down for a little while, but then you’ve got to get up.

There’s no excuse for being funky. A bar of soap only costs (fill in the blank).

You can never have too much toilet paper.

Do it right the first time and you won't have to do it again.

You can always come home. As long as I have a home, you have a home.

You can do anything you set your mind to.

And the most important thing:

Ain’t nobody going to love you like I do.

Happy Mother’s Day, y’all!

Basketball Jones

Basketball Jones, I got a Basketball Jones


Got a Basketball Jones, oh baby, oo-oo-oo


From Cheech and Chong’s “Basketball Jones”

You know, BMNB doesn’t ask for much. He’s a very somber, unassuming guy who has been mistaken for a federal agent whenever he wears his shades and suits. He rarely, if ever, raises his voice to another person. He doesn’t like drama. He’s slow to anger. Real slow.

He also morphs into another being around this time of year: A being that raises his arms in the air as if he’s blocking a shot for the NBA team he’s watching on television. A being who makes loud and strange noises -- noises he would not make otherwise – when the playoff team he’s rooting for scores.

During the NBA playoffs, BMNB becomes “Basketball Jones,” a veritable stranger sitting on the loveseat in our family room with a dinner plate in one hand and the television remote close by, whooping and hollering. This man is not my husband. Beyonce becomes Sasha Fierce when she performs; BMNB becomes Basketball Jones during the NBA playoffs.

During the NBA playoffs, Basketball Jones doesn’t necessarily have a favorite team he’s rooting for. He’s in it for the sheer love of the game, and he’ll root for the team that appears to be playing its heart out and leaving everything – blood, sweat, and tears – on the court. He morphs into this rabid fan of the game who’s just short of putting on a foam hand and donning a jersey from his team du jour.

I’ve learned that, during the NBA playoffs, the most I can hope for is that he’ll do mundane tasks – walk the dog, put the dishes away. I don’t even think to plan any major household projects or travel during the NBA playoffs because Basketball Jones ain’t trying to miss a game for something that could easily be attended to post-playoffs. He doesn’t necessarily shoot me one of those “Are you crazy?” looks, but more like a “Can’t this wait until the playoffs are over?” look.

I’ve come to respect the power of the NBA playoffs.

As a dutiful spouse, I’ve attempted to join in – to try to enjoy what he’s enjoying. Isn’t that what good spouses are supposed to do?

Well, it appears that my attempts to join in fall flat. For example, Basketball Jones yells at players he thinks are trying too hard to “sell the foul.” “GET UP, BOY!”, he shouts at the screen. Mind you, the players he’s shouting at are easily a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than he is, but no matter. He despises weakness and whining from his dribbling gladiators. I doubt he’d address these players in this manner in person. Well, maybe my husband wouldn’t, but Basketball Jones might.

In what I think was the first game of the playoffs between the L.A. Lakers and the Houston Rockets, one of the players, some guy named Battier, was allegedly fouled and was laid out on the court. Here was my chance to join in.

“Get up, you punk-ass bitch! You ain’t hurt!”

Basketball Jones just looked at me. “No, I think he’s really hurt. Look at him. He’s bleeding.”

Not to be deterred, I continued in my anti-foul-selling rant. “That ain’t bleeding! Women bleed more than that on any given day! Get your ass up!”

He just looked at me again like I just didn’t get it. Clearly I had transgressed the bounds of the anti-foul-selling rant.

Battier ended up with stitches and was sent to the bench. He hadn’t been selling the foul.

Basketball Jones and I also disagree on Kobe Bryant. Jones doesn’t necessarily respect Bryant, but he doesn’t hate him like I do. My hatred of Bryant? Not because of his sexcapade in Boulder. I hate Kobe because I still remember him clothespinning Mike Bibby during one of the Lakers/Kings playoff series games and getting away with it because the refs were, as we later learned, a little “biased.” I still remember him disrespecting Shaq. I think Kobe thinks he’s above the rules, the refs, and the rest of the players. I think it’s a karma bite in Kobe’s ass that he hasn’t won a ring since Shaq left, but Shaq has.

This isn’t a safe thing for me to say. Half my family are Lakers fans; the other half, Kings fans. My sister bleeds purple and gold and fantasizes about being a Laker Girl. My oldest brother still talks about the near zero buzzer shot James Worthy made to lead the Lakers to victory over the Kings in the playoffs, in overtime, I think. Yet and still, I hate Kobe. He’s arrogant. He’s a punk.

Basketball Jones? He doesn’t respect Kobe, but he won’t go so far as to join in my Kobe hatred. Why? That’s negative energy that could be better used in loving the game, or at least rooting for Ray Allen and hoping for a Kevin Garnett recovery. Yet another thing we can’t share.

The last thing we can’t share in is my idea as to how a playoff series should end. See, BMNB loves gladiator movies. He loves basketball. I suggested that the NBA should combine the two: The team that wins a series of playoff games should be able to kill the losing team.

“See,” I told him, “If the NBA had done it my way, we’d have been rid of Kobe a long time ago.”

Again, Basketball Jones just looked at me as if I just didn’t get it.

One important thing I’ve learned about the NBA playoffs is that it doesn’t matter what I cook; it only matters that I cook. Dinner during the NBA playoffs isn’t a meal to be savored, oh no; it’s just a bunch of nutrients to provide the energy for all that whooping, hollering, and fist-pumping. I don’t think ol’ Baskteball Jones even tastes what’s on his dinner plate during the NBA playoffs. It only matters that the plate is nearby, hot, and not too remote from the remote.

I’m about ready for Baskteball Jones to go back to where he came from, at least until he learns to hate Kobe as much as I do.

To see the cartoon for Cheech and Chong’s song “Basketball Jones,” visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JIbp5C-5WXM

(I think the cartoon’s a bit racist, but the sentiment – the love of the game – is real).

For the real Basketball Jones blog, visit http://www.thebasketballjones.net/

Go whoever is playing against the Lakers!

Sisterhood of the Motherless Daughters

My poor husband, Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB). He doesn't need a calendar to know when Mother's Day is coming. My annual stank attitude around Mother's Day is more than enough warning.

If my attitude around Mother's Day had a smell, it would be this: Picture a huge pot of gumbo with every kind of meat you can imagine in it -- shrimp, crab, oysters, sausage, chicken, fish. Now imagine that pot of gumbo left outside, covered, for 30 days in 100 degree heat. Imagine that at day 15 someone threw in a dead skunk and put the cover back on.

That smell on day 30 would be the smell of my stank Mother's Day attitude.

Mother's Day is a stark reminder that, going on eleven years, I unwillingly joined what I call the "Sisterhood of the Motherless Daughters" -- women whose mothers are deceased. You know us when you see us. On Mother's Day morning, usually before church, we're at the cemetery. Most of us are in our late 30's and up, taking on the body shapes of our mothers. In my case, that means a wide butt and a tummy. I didn't get my mother's late-life ample bosom, though.

We acknowledge each other in a knowing way; we're all bearing flowers, most of us dressed well to celebrate the day on what I would call the "receiving end" -- being acknowledged as mothers. For my biological sisters and I, all of us childless and middle-aged, we don't celebrate the receiving end of the day. My "spiritual" sisters in this sisterhood lovingly place flowers at the crypts or graves of their departed mothers. Some laugh and joke, some talk to their deceased mothers, some join hands and pray, but we all seem to acknowledge each other with that slight, encouraging smile that says, "Yes, I know what you're feeling; it's tough for me, too."

I rarely see as many sons at the cemetery on Mother's Day as I do daughters, which makes my membership in this sisterhood all the more emphasized.

Mind you, I have much to celebrate even without my mom, SWIE (She Who Is Exalted). I have a great mother-in-law -- I could not have asked for better. My dad's wife is kindly and funny and a force of nature even going on 95 years of age, and although she is sweet, I can't bring myself to call her my "stepmom" because that title includes the word "mom" -- a title I only use in speaking of or to SWIE. I could celebrate Mother's Day with either of them. I have in the past celebrated it with my mother-in-law. But at this juncture in life, I feel about Mother's Day the way I imagine Jews feel about Christmas -- I'm happy for those who celebrate it, but I feel I have nothing to celebrate.

There's so much I miss about Mother's Day, and none of it has anything to do with not being a mother myself, but rather, being a motherless daughter. I miss the competition between my siblings and me to figure out what Mom would want and to be the first to go out and get it. Although she would appreciate our gifts equally, we would kid each other about how "our" gift was the one she really wanted or loved. Our last minutes forays through Macy's would put contestants on "The Amazing Race" to shame.

I miss the inevitable phone call between Mom and her best friend, her older sister, comparing what they got and talking about other people's triflin' children who didn't deliver the goods on Mother's Day.

After Mom died, my sisters and I transferred all our Mother's Day gift-giving energies to my mom's sisters. Although they appreciated the Estee Lauder perfume (one of my aunts said she liked smelling as good as "white ladies"), they were even more appreciative of the visits from all four of us.

Then they, too, passed away, leaving my sisters and me kind of bereft. Now, we just bring extra flowers to the cemetery for my mom, her sisters, and her mother on Mother's Day. Anything else on that day -- going to church with my mother-in-law, doing Mother's Day events -- just feels false to me. I had a good run of 64 years with my mom. My days of celebrating Mother's Day, other than the visits to the cemetery, are done. Mother's Day to me is just a reminder of all that I lost, hence the annual stank attitude I didn't even notice I had until a few years ago.

When I explained this to BMNB recently, he said, "I understand." I know he didn't mean it in the cliched, Bill Clinton-esque "I feel your pain" way, but it just sounded that way to me.

"No, you really don't," I calmly told him. "But someday, you will. And I wouldn't wish that on you for anything in the world."

For those of you who still have mothers, do cherish them and enjoy Mother's Day. Because you never really know how many Mother's Days you're going to have, and I wouldn't wish membership in this sisterhood on anyone for anything in the world.

Justice Sotomayor: An Idea Whose Time Has Come

Justice David Souter is said to be retiring. We should all thank him for his service to our country. But it's time to look forward.

U.S. Court of Appeals Judge Sonia Sotomayor's nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court is an idea whose time has come.

If you look at the federal judiciary, it is overwhelmingly white and male. When a judge on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Fifth Circuit was asked by one of my law students the career path to becoming a judge, he gave the pithy reply, "It helps if you know your U.S. Senator."

Mind you, as a professor, I had hoped for an insightful answer -- that perhaps he had toiled as a prosecutor or public defender or rose through the ranks at a law firm to make partner. That he had argued x number of cases before the U.S. Supreme Court. That he had been attorney general for his state.

"It helps if you know your U.S. Senator."

How many women or people of color can say that? When you add to that the dearth of women and people of color in the federal judiciary -- although it's getting better, the numbers aren't what they should be given the advances made during the Carter and Clinton administrations -- of course it comes down to not much more than social ties, assuming all the qualifications are in place.

It shouldn't be that way.

I don't know Judge Sotomayor other than knowing that she was on the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit. When I Googled her this morning, I found out that clearly I wasn't the only one who had the same idea: It's time to put a woman of color on the U.S. Supreme Court. Because race and gender do matter.

When I think of how Justice Ginsburg has stood up for the rights of women and people of color precisely because she has been discriminated against because of her gender and religion, I know that when issues of race and gender come before the court -- issues of marginalized people in general -- that she is going to give these issues a fair hearing AND a different perspective based on her own life experience, a life experience not shared by Justices Kennedy, Scalia, Roberts, Stevens, Alito, Souter, Breyer, and even Justice Thomas, to a certain extent.

Judge Sotomayor's got all the goods: A summa cum laude graduate of Princeton, Yale Law School graduate, editor of the Yale Law Journal, U.S. District Court judge, U.S. Court of Appeals for the Second Circuit judge. She's enjoyed bipartisan support in the past, and I can't imagine that she wouldn't this time around.

A Latina on the U.S. Supreme Court: An idea whose time has come.

President Obama's First 100 Days --- Hell, Yeah!

There were those Italians who said their country was better when Mussolini was in charge, citing the timeliness of trains under his reign.

There were those Spaniards who said their country was better when Franco was in charge, citing the increased sexual openness after his demise.

And I’m sure there are those Iraqis who say their country was better when Saddam Hussein was in charge. They might have a point, from a day-to-day living point of view.

But those Americans who say this country was better when President George W. Bush was in charge?

They’re full of shit.

First, it’s only been 100 days since President Obama took office.

Second, I believe, but I’m not certain, that:

*President Obama has had more press conferences during his first 100 days then President Bush had during his last term;

*President Obama has taken more action to fight the recession than President Bush did.

*President Obama has done more to earn respect from foreign nations than did President Bush.

*President Obama has put the U.S. on higher moral ground in terms of foreign policy and international law than the moral morass we were in under the Bush administration. For those ignorant Americans who believe that American foreign policy means beating your opponents into submission and twisting the arms of your allies to get them to fight with you, just wait and see what happens when the U.S. is no longer the largest economic engine in the world and India and China start twisting our arms. No empire – whether it’s the Roman, British, Chinese, or Persian – stays on top forever. That’s just God’s way of shuffling the power deck, IMHO.

*President Obama actually wants to observe international law, not subvert it. By the way, Dick Cheney, I wouldn’t accept any packages or heavy envelopes from The Hague if I were you.

*President Obama has taken policy stances on or has stated his intention to take policy stances on issues of importance to everyday Americans – health care, education (I’m so digging the direct student loan program), the environment (no more silence on the mountaintop mining issue!), tax cuts for the middle class, the war on terrorism (It’s Afghanistan, stupid!), the credit card industry (die, Visa, die!), federal spending (going over the budget with a fine-toothed comb and finding savings, even if they are small in comparison to the deficit -- still waiting for that Republican budget!), international economic competitiveness (no more gas guzzling SUVs, GM – what’s good for GM isn’t necessarily good for American OR the environment), torture (waterboarding IS torture!) and more.

And what’s impressive is that I, an everyday citizen, can actually tell you what the President is working on. President Bush? If he was working at all, it was a mystery to me.

The stock market is slowly starting to edge up. The real estate market just might be bottoming out. And I actually know what my President is trying to do for my country. That alone is a stark improvement over the last eight years.

I’ll take President Obama’s first 100 days over President Bush’s eight years any day, hell yeah!

My Michelles Found Their Baracks

Long story short, I got my Baracks. As my dad would say, "God is good, all the time."

I would be lying if I said I didn't have doubts. But I never gave up hope. Never.

My prayers were answered in the form of a speed dater who will remain anonymous. When I explained to him the kind of event this was and the kind of women who would be attending, he embraced this event and brought not only his enthusiasm, but his friends: A whole posse of Baracks. They were well-read, well-mannered, well-groomed, and, I'll just say it -- Fine. I couldn't have dreamt up a better group of men if I had gotten them from Central Casting.

They were worthy of my Michelles. These women, many of whom were goaded into coming (like my niece, Single Parent Goddess), were jaded and, I don't think it's hyperbole to say, bitter. One, who shall remain anonymous, told me she had thrown in the towel on love and wouldn't participate after having RSVP'd. Instead, she worked as a hostess at the event and eventually joined in.

But you wouldn't have known these ladies were jaded by the way they dressed and carried themselves. These women were the epitome of grace, class, beauty, intelligence and style -- the kind of black women who aren't written about because they don't fit the mainstream media's idea of who we black women are. They truly were a room full of Michelles. As they streamed in, I was feeling the pressure -- I needed to deliver men worthy of them. But God heard my prayer and sent Baracks to me, or rather, to my Michelles.

All throughout planning this event, my mantra was, "If the women are comfortable, the men will be happy." I spared no expense paying attention to details that I knew women would notice and would put them at ease -- printed speed dating cards on linen card stock; starched and ironed white tablecloths (which I ironed and starched myself -- I highly recommend heavy starch for tablecloths), white chairs (courtesy of the 40 Acres Art Gallery next door); cherry-scented votive candles; and the one thing that seemed to make all the lady speed daters stop and take notice:

Purple tulips.

Every table had at least one or two vases of deep purple tulips.

As I imagined, the women were comfortable, and the men were happy. So happy, they oftentimes would overstay their three-minute dates and had the hostesses have to scoot them along.

The hostesses, members of the underground books Book Club, were happy to see the excitement in the air -- that intelligent, book-loving single African Americans (and people of other races, too) had found each other and were overflowing with enthusiasm to share their love of books with someone of the opposite sex. The hostesses beamed with pride at these singles with their bright eyes and beautiful smiles, chatting away.

At the end, every speed dater and all the hostesses (and the one host -- BMNB) gave his or her speed dating number or name and his or her favorite author or book. This list was wide and deep -- Robert Persig, Jane Austen, J. California Cooper, Sun Tzu, Toni Morrison, Stephen King --and folks oohed and ahhed at their fellow speed daters' choices. Many compiled a reading list of books suggested by their fellow speed daters and purchased books on the spot, some in preparation for and in hopes of a match with the speed dater who recommended the book they were purchasing.

My Michelles found their Baracks. And I couldn't be happier.

Bring Me Baracks for My Michelles -- A Speed Dating Event April 24 7:00 pm

I didn’t think it would be this hard.

You see, I’m organizing a free speed dating event at underground books, a local African-American-owned bookstore in Sacramento on Friday, April 24 at 7:00 pm. This is a speed dating event for single book lovers – and by “single” I mean not married, not legally separated, and not in a committed relationship. The event focuses conversation on books to make it easier to speed date – i.e., spend three minutes talking to every person of the opposite sex in at the event.

The problem is, I can’t get enough single black men to attend. I have white men attending and some black men, but not enough black men for all the black women who are attending and seeking black men -- black women who read Toni Morrison, Octavia Butler, Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, Paulo Coelho, J. California Cooper, Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, Jhumpa Lahiri, Ishmael Beah, Sue Monk Kidd, Beverly Jenkins, the list goes on . . . . .

I’m slated to have a room full of Michelles seeking their Baracks, and I’m having trouble delivering.

I have to admit – I was warned in advance. I was told by an African American fathers’ rights advocate that, right now, brothers ain’t feeling relationships (his words). Right now, they’re trying to hold on to their jobs, their houses, whatever. They don’t want drama. Right now, brothers are too busy just trying to hold on, period.

But when has that not been the case?

African American men have always had higher unemployment and underemployment rates than their white counterparts. They have always had less wealth, less education, less opportunity, and higher incarceration rates than their white counterparts. Holding on? That’s just part of being black. It’s what we do.

And we’ve never let it stop us from forming relationships, have we? Or maybe we have.

Oh, I’ve heard the excuses from brothers:

“I ain’t even gonna front – I don’t read.”

“I just want to come and check out the sistahs.”

“I don’t want to be in the minority at an event where women are the majority.”

“I know some brothers, but you wouldn’t want them to come.”

“I’m legally separated – why can’t I come? Why not let the women decide if they want to date a legally separated man?”

I sent or emailed letters and press releases to the local papers, KQED, V101.1 fm, the NAACP, the Urban League, black fraternities, the local black newspaper, all of the local television stations, almost every black church in Sacramento, and black student associations at the local colleges and graduate schools. I got so desperate that I started trolling personal ads looking for single black men who even appear to like reading. I joined singles websites and singles meetups in search of single black men who love books. I even talked about betting this blog on black men – that is, threatening to take down my blog if I didn’t get 30 single black men at this event. A close black male friend of mine advised me not to bet my blog on this – he knows how much I love blogging and he didn’t want me to be disappointed.

In other words, he, a black man, expected black men to disappoint me.

Are things really this bad between single black men and single black women? The reason I even organized this event is because a young black woman was telling me how difficult it was to find good, honest, smart, ambitious single black men at her college. Those black men who aren’t dating outside their race are playing the field, she told me. They know the numbers are skewed in their favor, and they take advantage.

And then there’s Craigslist, which, I admit, I trolled in search of single black men who read. Long before the Craigslist murderer, I was shocked and appalled not only at what men of all races are seeking from female strangers – some just straight up said they were looking for free sex (NOTE: If you’re looking for just sex, at least stimulate the economy AND yourself and pay a ho) – but the fact that most of these men couldn’t put together a sentence or use punctuation properly. This is what this young black woman has to choose from. I wouldn’t want to be a single black woman if these are the choices.

Is this what Sasha and Malia will have to choose from fifteen or twenty years from now?

Yet and still, I believe in black men.

I still believe there are black men out there who love, respect, and adore black women, especially intelligent black women of substance.

I believe that, as wonderful and unique as my husband Black Man Not Blogging (BMNB) is, that there are still more out there just like him -- Baracks for my room full of Michelles.

So, I believe God will send these smart, wonderful, single black men to our event because I've done just about all I can do. Here’s the info:

Speed Dating for Single Book Lovers
Friday, April 24, 7:00 pm to 9:30 pm
underground books
2814 35th Street at Broadway
Sacramento, CA 95817
Speeddating4singlebooklovers@gmail.com
(916) 737-3333

I won’t bet the blog, but if you attend, you’ll get to meet me and my husband, BMNB. And please don’t let him be the only black man in the room.