PottyMouth

I am surrounded by women. Fierce women, fabulous women. Dream catchers, Warriors, Hunters and Healers. I was born into this circle and when I outgrew it, I formed my own. This is why I am as dangerous as I am.

10. You have the right to enjoy comics, snowboarding, bungee jumping, rock climbing, opera… any extracurricular or academic activity without being made to feel as if you are not Black enough. We can do it all and still raise our fist in the air. Except eating someone else’s leftover Mama chicken. You can't do that. That shyt is seriously fucked up.

The Golden Globes aired on Sunday night and Meryl Streep was headline news for her acceptance speech, but something else happened that night. At that event, meant to honor the work of actors, actresses, and filmmakers two prominent films starring black actors was announced incorrectly. On the red carpet, Pharrell was asked about being nominated for his work in "Hidden Fences". As I said these are two different films. "Hidden Figures" starring Taraji P. Henson, Janelle Monae and Octavia Spencer; and "Fences" starring Denzel Washington and Viola Davis. I wish I could say that was the only time it happened, but during the show as the nominees for Best Supporting Actress were announced Michael Keaton said it again! "Octavia Spencer for Hidden Fences..". Come on. AGAIN?! Within seconds, the hashtag #HiddenFences was born and soon posts mashing up titles of classic black films. Such as 'The Color Blackish' which combines the titles of the film " The Color Purple" and the hit television show "Blackish" starring Tracee Ellis Ross. Ross, won the Golden Globe for her comedic performance on Blackish that night becoming the first black woman to have done that since Debbie Allen won the category in 1983. All of that was pretty much overshadowed by the support (or attack) of Meryl Streep for her acceptance speech and the hilarity of the #HiddenFences hashtag. We used our mask. We laughed though our moment to celebrate films highlighting our achievements was ruined. We laughed as though we didn't notice or care that it was so easy to render two celebrated black films as insignificant. So much so that no one could be bothered to learn the correct titles. We used our mask and we laughed to keep ourselves from crying.

Trump won. Everybody died. The End.

We wound up signing on the dotted line. It was ours. I was happy but I saw my visions of fabulousness floating away with each stroke of the pen. We had to share MY walk-in. Sigh. Just take what is left of my soul. We moved in a few weeks later and we managed to each carve out our individual space in the walk-in. I had to ditch my ideas of putting in an animal print ottoman and full length mirror but we made it work. I did however make him promise to never disturb me as I’m gazing lovingly at my shoes while drinking wine. He agreed.

It wasn’t so much the singing, because that’s what Mary does.. Nah, I’m lying. It was the singing, it was the song, it was the whole shyt. What hurt worse was that Mary didn’t get it. She responded to the backlash of her interview via Twitter by telling all of us “haters” to ‘Shut The Fuck Up’. I wish she had taken her own advice and shut the fuck up. Instead of singing that god awful song to Hillary like they were on some “going steady” shyt. She didn’t get it! Mary did not get how tired we are of being polite, good natured, and entertaining in the face of blatant racism. Mary didn’t get how sick our souls had become from swallowing and suppressing our feelings. How unable to “can” we are at this point in time. She didn’t get it. She couldn’t have. If she did there would have been no way that she could be convinced to trot out that “Please love us negroes” hymn that she serenaded Hillary with. I love Mary. Believe me I do, but she makes it hard sometimes. I need her to stop singing and start speaking. I need her to find the words to express how she is feeling watching her people slaughtered. I need her to be as outraged, and heartbroken as we are.

Me: What did you add for seasoning? Her: Salt, seasoning salt, pepper, garlic... Me: Siiiiiiggggghhhhhh *goes to pick up the phone* Her: Who are you calling? Me: 911

I had a friend say to me that in light of recent events she was happy that she never had a son. I told her “Black people been catching hell since day one. Male and female.” And we have. We are treated as if our physical strength is ten times that of the average man. Our very bodies being so pronounced in its curves or musculature that we are both awed and mocked as in the case of Serena Williams. Our intellect is both questioned and feared. Our children are often treated as if they are shrewder than the average child and their punishments are often harsher. How many times have we heard of one of our children being restrained in handcuffs for an infraction that would have normally resulted in a trip to the principal's office or a phone call home if it were some other child. Is this just the times we live in? Nah son. The calendar year changes but the agenda remains the same. It used to be that you had to be extra vigilant with your sons to be sure they were not railroaded or mistreated but the game done changed up. Our girls are under attack as well. They are attacked for their hairstyles, their style of dress, the manner in which they speak. Shyt is tough all over. So how are we as mothers supposed to shield our children from this harsh reality? I don’t have an answer. What I do have is the truth. I tell my kids the truth about shyt although to others it may sound harsh. I give them the real. Then I urge them to look for themselves. Research it, if I’m wrong come and correct me. I feel the best way to help is to arm them with that which is true. As Mama Fatale would say “if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck then chances are it’s a duck. Once you decide that don’t let nobody come and change your mind around..” Unfortunately, our experiences as POC have taught us that they are more likely to be suspected than they are respected. This shouldn’t be a lesson that I would have to teach them but it is something that they need to be aware of. Once you are armed with the knowledge of self, confidence, and intelligence you become dangerous.

With the news of Terence Crutcher’s murder, and yes I am going to call it Murder. The word ‘Death’ is to be used to describe a natural transition from this earthly plane into the next, whatever that may be for you. This was a not natural transition, it was anything but natural. His life was taken from him and I will call it what it was, MURDER. If you don’t like my use of that word for this post then FUCK YOU. I don’t allow folks to come into my home and tell me what to do. This here blog is MY HOUSE and I will do as I like. In the aftermath of his murder I, like most of my peers have voiced my outrage and despair over social media. Nah, that’s not even an accurate description for what I did. I ranted. I went in. I raged. I’ve been wrestling with this anger, this hopelessness, this “I’m so sick of being sick and tired-ness" for quite some time. I’m not sure where it began. I know that with each murder it gets worse, I feel more cold. I feel more numb. Each time we discuss these atrocities I hear the same phrases like someone wrote a script and is passing it out to be used. One of the phrases that really gets under my skin is “I don’t see color..” I don’t know when this became the “oatmeal” of non-racist declarations but I wish y'all would stop. As a Black woman or POC, I have experiences that are unique to my culture. These experiences have helped to make me who I am. So telling me that you do not see color does not make me feel as if you see ME. Acknowledging that I am a Black woman does not make you a racist, judging me for being a Black woman does. If we do not “see color” and do not acknowledge the vastly different life experiences we each have, how does that help? That’s the side effect of colorblindness, you cannot see the full picture.

1. Don't ask if I have seen the video. Of course I have. I've seen every single one. I've seen too fucking many similar videos/cases with the same outcome. 2. Don't talk to me about compliance. Hands up, Hands down, standing still, laying on the ground, being in the playground, sitting in a car listening to music, coming home from the store, holding a wallet, being a passenger in a car and reaching for your license, are all reasons some brothers and sisters ended up dead. So FUCK YOU. 3. Don't tell me I'd feel different if someone I loved was a cop. SOMEONE I LOVE IS A COP! I understand the danger they face and I still see that something has got to change. So miss me with the bullshyt. 4. DON'T FUCKING TELL ME ABOUT BLACK ON BLACK CRIME! First of all, crime is fucking crime. Let's stop the bullshyt. That doesn't give anyone license or reason to treat us as less than human. Second of all, yes we are just as outraged about homicides that happen in our backyard perpetrated by our own neighbors as we are by people killed by police. If you don't know that it is because you don't want to know or don't care your damn self so SHUT THE FUCK UP. 5.Don't try me on this post. You have two options: take me out of your news feed or hit that 'Unfriend' button. I'll delete and block your ass faster than you can blink. So don't waste the keystrokes talking shyt. 6. Do feel free to remain silent until you can figure out what to say or listen to the pain of my brothers and sisters as they come to grips with the fact that No one gives a fuck about US. 7. Do offer them your support. Understand that these constant images and stories are painful. Peace.

Tristan and C-Note.

When I went home for the HipHop Film Festival my sister returned C-Note to me and I bought him home. My son LOVES him! He dresses him up in his own clothes and pulls him around in his Radio Flyer wagon. Seems like Tristan learned the same lesson that I did back in the day. He had love to give and saw a doll that needed love, but If anybody asks C-Note is light skin and from The Bronx where the people are fresh. IJS he gotta keep his Hood Card.

Fast forward to present day and I find myself giving the exact same speech to my teenager after I catch her trying to wipe up a drop of juice with a whole sheet of MY paper towels. WTF is wrong with her? Does she think I’m made of money? Does she know how much paper towels cost nowadays? She better find out. She got me fucked up. I ain’t trying to be spending all my hard earned money on paper towels. I told myself that I was just trying to teach her to be mindful, but that’s not it. The proof is in the pudding. I’m turning into my mother.

What are some of your likes? Me: I hate these things. B: It'll only take you a minute. Me: Not when I have to censor myself... B: Why would you have to censor yourself? Just put down things you like. Me: I like Cheeseburgers, NY pizza, and Sex. Should I put all of that down? B falls out laughing. Me: And comics. Movies, I like movies. Oh and porn. I like porn. Should I put that down too? Did I say Sex? B: Go HOME! Me: I thought you wanted me to finish the survey. . B: GO HOME NIKKII!

Is this the Main Line? Put Jesus on the phone.

My heart is heavy after hearing about the massacre in Orlando, but what hurts more is seeing how this event will cause people to rise up en masse to blame the victims because of their sexuality. To blame the religion of the shooter. My heart won’t allow me to do that. My heart won’t allow me to devalue the loss of lives simply because their love looks different from mine. My heart won’t allow me to hate someone because they pray facing East and their God has a different name. My heart won’t allow me to hate a person from that same religious background and call them all murders. My eyes don’t see it that way. My eyes see people who will never come home. My eyes see people who will never laugh out loud again. Who will never again enjoy dancing to their favorite song. My eyes see the hate that has reached a fever pitch and I want no part of it. My ears won’t allow me to receive that message of hate. I can’t be made to submit to that message. Hundreds of thousands have been murdered in the name of religion. Any religion. No one can claim that their hands are clean. It is the individuals who twist the word and make it fit their agenda for good or bad. It is the individual that decides that murder or death is the only answer. It takes a mind that can not reason to come to that conclusion. My mind will not allow me to abandon all reason. I can not understand this thought path because it is unnatural. I can’t imagine wanting to do anything but grieve with these families that are living through the most unimaginable pain. I can not place blame on any group of people for this tragedy because it is impossible. If it is possible for you then you should ask yourself…Why?

Throughout my life I have always been blessed with good neighbors. Growing up in the hood of The Bronx I had a neighbor, Ms Tina who was like a surrogate grandmother to my sister and I. She looked out for us when my mother couldn't. Checked on us when we had to stay home alone. We went to the store for her. Played her numbers sometimes, got her snacks for her when she couldn't make the trip herself. When I was pregnant with my first child she had a problem with some unruly kids banging on her door and disturbing her peace. I came out of my house with my five month pregnant belly and my bat to chase them away. She was there when I went into labor and stayed at her door while I walked the halls trying to "walk that baby out". She was a wonderful neighbor and I never thought I would meet someone that could hold a candle to her. When I moved on to my own place I had my neighbor Ms. Forbes who came very close to being her equal. She accepted my packages, checked on my mom, witnessed my crazy (on several occasions) and became a friend to my kids and myself. I had Ms. Shirley who was my partner in crazy, watched the walking dead with me, walked with me to the farmers market, gave me the hookup (on just about EVERYTHANG) and knew all the good and funny gossip. Moving to Georgia I thought I had said goodbye to all the good neighbors that were born of the hood and knew what it was like to stick together because we were all we had. Fortunately, I was wrong. In Atlanta I have my neighbor Maddie (name changed to protect her privacy) who finds the time to bless my children with treats although she is going through an unimaginable struggle herself. Her husband was recently diagnosed with stage 4 throat cancer yet she finds the time to bring my kids treats while they play outside. Maddie who brings over boxes of donated food to share with my family though she could keep it all to herself. Maddie who is absolutely in love with my son and never fails to blow him a kiss when she sees him outside or peeking out of the living room window. Her husband although he had to have been in excruciating pain came out to help my husband jump the tour bus when it wouldn't start. These are good neighbors. These are good and kind people. These are people I am happy to live next door to. People say "Good fences make good neighbors.." But I call bullshyt on that. Good people make good neighbors and we should all be as blessed as I find myself living next door to Maddie and her family.