What is with the MIND?

Why does your mind torture you with old situations? Old memories? Old love? Old hate? Old mistakes? Is it just me or does your mind obsess about things you can not change and on times when you felt more stupid than Jessica Simpson at a MENSA meeting? It seems like you should have more control of your thoughts. Maybe some people do. I am not blessed with that power. I’m packing away and my thoughts drift to the times I’ve made a fool of myself over a man, the times I’ve said something nonsensical to a person I’m trying to impress, or the times I’ve been caught without the reading done in that stupid Socratic method. Why am I lingering on each and every faux paux? I can’t change any of them. I can’t go back and say what I wanted to say. I can’t go back and slap the guy in the face instead of begging him to pay attention to me. But my mind just keeps going back to taunt me. To mock my judgment. To tease bad clothing choices. To ridicule my decisions. (EXHALE) I should get back to folding clothes, lamenting over bad memories, agonizing over the future, and totally neglecting the present.

(Anyone remember Adriana Evans? She got a nose job. The horror.)

Ahh, the 90s....

Remember when a girl could wear her hat to the back, a hockey jersey, baggy jeans, and combat boots and still be considered feminine because she had a full face of makeup including the chestnut lined lips with shiny gold lipstick? Thrown a little African jewelry and you had a FIT! Now you must be half-naked to be considered a sexy woman. Remember when Diddy was Puffy and he was the mack in the back (not the chump in the front) giving us the HOT beats of Mary J. Blige, and the rest of the Uptown crew? Now he cheats on his beautiful, Black girlfriend with white and latin girls. Remember when rap was about intricate lyrics, the Wu-Tang Clan were the kings of Hip Hop, Jay-Z was good, Biggie and Pac were still alive, rap was still conscious, there a variety of rap voices and the only thing out of the south was Outkast? Now all we have are “hood niggas,” southern faker cheerleaders, and in the closet ex drug dealers and gun runners. Remember when R&B girls didn’t walk around naked and sang songs that were about feelings and emotions not money and material items? Now we have girls sing about furs and clothes. Remember when a dark skin girl could get a record contract without winning a national contest, black people acknowledged weaved in tresses were about white supremacy, soul was making a comeback with Maxwell & crew, light skin boys were in style, any color Black girl was in style, and there were Black TV shows on the major networks? Damn, I’m old.

A Black Woman’s Heaven

To wake up one day in the not so distant future and be appreciate for strength of character and mind. To be love and revered for her womanly shapes and womanly ways. To be considered a HELPmate no matter if the help sometimes come with a bitter pill. To not be degraded because she is not “nice.” To not be discarded because she speaks up and out. To not be shunned because she did remain quiet and dutiful. To know her beauty is worshiped in all its incarnations from blackberry cordial to white chocolate. To feel comfortable and proud with her hair that does NOT move and is NOT a sheath of silk. To have a God-Given Mate who sees NO one but her. To know that her dream of a family that looks exactly like her is not an antiquated or prejudiced idea. To realize that her love for her God-Give Mate is reciprocated with no conditions, abridgments, or additions. To have had ten marriage proposals from good, decent, hard-working, moral MEN. To know her son AND her daughter do not have to fear each other when they meet in the world.

A Black Woman’s Hell: today.

(I’m baaaaaaack!)