I luv Mocha

Stop giving me fictional white female characters and telling me “these are the fictional women to admire, the ones that break the mold, the feminist icons, the representation you’ve been longing for.” 

Stop asking me to squint to see myself represented on screen. Stop telling me to “wait my turn”, to support shows with white female leads as though this was a rare occurrence, as though there haven’t been thousands of them through the years. As though white women haven’t been held as the pinnacle of progress and feminism on TV since Lucille Ball.

Stop telling me that a white woman playing a spy, is innovative and feminist when you’ve had Wonder Woman, Charlie’s Angels, Scarecrow & Mrs. King and Alias before Agent Carter.

Stop telling me that seeing Jessica Jones, a white female character with PTSD, on screen is a long time coming, a revolutionary feminist act, when Joss Carter, Abbie Mills, Olivia Pope, Sasha Williams and Michonne aren’t afforded the same treatment regarding theirs from writers, media and fandom alike.

Stop telling me that “romance is not part of the show” when said show is built on the loss of the White Male Lead’s love interest. Stop labeling black female characters as one half of a “brotp”, as the supportive friend, a mammy that does everything but wipe the white man’s ass or tuck him into bed, only to prop up the Random White Woman In The Background as the obvious choice for a new, better suited love interest.

Stop giving me Trojan Horses, those black female characters I’ve longed for, the ones I finally can see myself in, the ones that you’re praised for creating and writing, the ones you make money off of only to kill them later, once they’ve served their purpose.

We are not your first step towards success, we aren’t a tool to be used to avoid criticism, or appease higher ups afraid of losing money because of the lack of diversity and representation in their shows.

We are not either women or black, we are both and we deserve to be spies, the fated love interest, the damsel in distress, the selfish one, the vulnerable one, the pinnacle of feminism and progress, the one who’s turn has come, the one who was a long time coming.

https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/craftmyoccasion/party-supplies-celebrating-children-of-color?ref=user_menu

Join us in celebrating the award-winning OWN series with a week of Bordelon goodness.

DAY 1: Favorite Bordelon

DAY 2: Favorite episode

DAY 3: Favorite supporting character

DAY 4: Favorite relationship, non-romantic

DAY 5: Most Heartbreaking moment

DAY 6: Favorite ship

DAY 7: Favorite Feel Good Moment

Anything is acceptable: 

Gifs

Graphics & Edits

Meta

Playlists

Fanart

Fics

Aja Naomi King’s Inspiring Speech on Overcoming Self-Doubt at the 2017 Essence Black Women in Hollywood Awards   

Our pussies, Black pussies, have been on the front line for a very long time.

My pussy did not wake up last Saturday morning, put on a pointy pink pussy hat, jump on a train to downtown, to march in the Women’s March. My pussy was fucking scared. Scared that some crazy, redneck motherfucka might-could-more easily pick my Afro-power pussy out of the crowd and clearly know that I was not a Trumper. I was scared that if I took my daughter along, she would be hurt. So I let my pink pussy sisters vet that rally before I exposed me and my baby to some shit I couldn’t handle. Am I proud of that? I’m not sure. But that’s reason #1.

Reason #2, My pussy isn’t pink. All the recent hype about “pussy power” I see… y’all there is a vast difference between White girl pussy and Black woman pussy… and n’er the twain shall meet. I am a little irritated by the new flaunting of White girl pussy power. This is not about bearing the Brazilian-waxed, vaginally enhanced, “wouldn’t-you-just-love-to-fuck-me?”, man manipulating, douched and dipped, Victoria-revealing-all-her-damn-secrets pussy power on parade. My pussy is not pink! It does not wear a pink hat! And while the power of my pussy does emanate from between my ears, it is anything but a pink fad.

The other thing my pussy can do is sniff out pussy that’s passin’. Faking the funk, as it were. Don’t get me wrong. I love that we women are seemingly joining forces. Focusing our pussy power for the greater good of this nation, of this planet. But as a Black woman, I have a hard time identifying with this new trend. What is this new found “pussy power” based on? Because I gotta tell ya, there is not greater power in the universe than pussy power. There is no life without pussy. We slide out at birth and belly crawl back into her at death. Pussy is God. So yes, pussy power can heal and kill and love and roar. Pussy power can stop global warming and AIDS and feed the hungry and stop wars.

But pussy power is not new to Black women! Our pussies have not had the luxury of sitting pretty on a pedestal for all to worship and admire. Homage has not been paid to our pussies. We have not spent inordinate amounts of time plucking and plumping and pruning and polishing up our pussies as the ultimate prize to be rewarded to the victor. No. Black pussies have been under siege. Our pussies have worked and slaved and pulled and hauled. Black pussy has birthed and bled and begged and buried our children. Our pussies have loved and lifted and held and hid our men so deep they are still groping in the dark, trying to find their way out. No, our pussies have not been revered. They’ve been too busy humping and grinding to keep our families, our people alive.

So when I look on at the throngs of women in pink hats, fighting for their rights and talking about pussy power, many of whom have only just recently come into their pussy power, I have a hard time identifying with them. Black women’s pussies have been fighting for our lives. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful and proud that my White sisters are feeling the power of the pussy, ‘cause that shit is goooood!  But this is not a passing fad. To own and hold and harness and direct true pussy power is not for the faint of heart. It’s gonna take Amazon warrior pussy to bring about change.

I hope this new movement will not make blind assumptions that all pussies are alike and therefore united. Because our pussies, Black pussies, have been on the front line for a very long time. And we have not been flaunting her or wearing hats on her, or hashtagging her, or hanging slogans out of her. We have quietly and powerfully been honing and harnessing our pussy power to do the work. Unlike the Suffragette Movement which was created to insure the rights of white women, this political  climate requires conscious inclusion.  It will not survive the hubris, entitlement, and ignorance still prevalent in  the dominant culture. It would behoove this new “women’s movement” to consciously expand its awareness to consult and include black women. The Power of the Pussy is in our DNA. Black Pussy Matters.

More from Lorraine on everydaylovelybylorraine.com

The Hobonichi Techo is a Life Book, and you are the author.

2015 marks the 14th year since we first created the Hobonichi Techo. As I reflect on the Hobonichi Techo, I’m starting to think it’s growing out of its own definition as a planner. It’s more than just a schedule book to keep appointments, and it’s not quite a diary, nor is it just a notebook. So I just kind of wonder what it really is.

The first thing I think of is how a user writes about his“Life” in the Hobonichi Techo. Life in a bigger sense, and life in an everyday sense. Turn this into a verb, and you get live, which brings you to all kind of meanings: living in a home, living your life path, and even live in person.

In other words, the word “Life” has two meanings to it: one that’s on a smaller scale, with every little moment, and one that refers to the grander scheme of things. I find it amazing that it can encompass all that. And when I look at people’s techos, I realized the same thing is happening.

If you were to rip out every daily page from your Hobonichi Techo and line it all up on a huge floor, one single day would look like just a single measly page within a huge sea of paper. But maybe one page will say “Ate pork chops today,” and another will say “Had a baby.” And some of the pages will be blank. All of these stand as records of things you personally experienced in your life. And if you stack these all on top of each other like a mille-feuille pastry, you can say, “This is my life.”

I don’t know if this serves as a good example or not, but the other day I read a techo by a professional baseball player who recorded his daily life. I was expecting a professional ball player to be thinking about baseball all the time and writing about it in his techo. But instead, he wrote things like “My dog is so cute,” and “My dog laid on my chest.” No sign of baseball anywhere. (laughs) But all lumped together, that’s who that person is.

Not many people in the world live a life that even sounds like some sort of biography. But living the life that’s written in your techo—working, playing, getting angry, laughing—that’s what it really means to live. And each person’s techo with their life written on the pages, well, that’s your autobiography. It just so happens that you have no way of distributing it to the masses, and each person just has one copy of their own. Maybe someone will want to read your book, and maybe you’ll read back on it in the future. “Book” generally refers to something that has already been printed, but the Hobonichi Techo is a book that’s ready for reading after the fact.

So this is a book that contains each person’s year. It’s a single volume in a vast collection, but there’s something really comforting to know that everyone in the world has one. At the same time, we can feel that everyone in the world deserves to be cherished by someone, and that includes both yourself and others.

So starting today, let’s give the Hobonichi Techo a new definition. It’s a Life Book. You’re the author, and you’re writing this book for the very first time.

As always, the Hobonichi Techo will begin sales on September 1st. I hope we see you soon.

It is never okay to: Read someone’s journal without their permission. Steal someone’s journal Give their journal to someone else Destroy someone’s journal Try to find someone’s journal or tell someone else where it might be Rip a page in their journal Write or draw in their journal Hide their journal Take photos or videos of their entries Blackmail them Share their private information. It doesn’t matter if the journal belongs to a 6 year old or a 60 year old. Everyone deserves privacy, respect, and a safe place for their thoughts.

Because The Power of Black Women (Project) is run by a Black male, who also happens to be my teenage cousin, who thought that what I was doing was cool so he decided to do the exact same thing.

He made several attempts prior to that, behind my back, the last of which he was busted for. He copied everything from the look of my blog to the posts (which most of the time were stolen or reposted, not only from me but others).

He was given the chance to stop and, like the complete fool that I am, I thought if that’s what he wanted to do rather than steal and copy from my blog it would be better if he helped out with it. He accepted after deleting his other blog and promptly collected my ideas and resources (which granted are available to everyone but he didn’t know anything about it until I showed him) only to start The Power of Black Women (Project), again behind my back and still building it to look like mine.

..huh?