work in progress
Showing 113 posts tagged work in progress
As a man, there’s a time where you upgrade from hoes to women.
And a “ho” is what, exactly?
better graduate from that fucked up slutshaming and misogyny first
I can’t with negroes today.
A ho is a female that have continual pussy sweepstakes giveaways. A nigga is a misogynist because he don’t wanna fuck around with ho’s no more and get a proper woman? Word? LOL. Ok.
Dude, you’re a problem.
You have to be the most simple-minded, baseless, misogynist, bafflin’ negro following me. I have NO reason why you’re here. None.
A woman’s sexual choices are not a man’s to regulate. Period. If woman wants to fuck one person or thirty it’s none of my business and if you define a woman’s value based solely upon the number of times she’s had sex, that’s your problem, those are your insecurities and it has nothing to do with who she is or any value she has to you or anyone else.
When I first came on this site, I swear I didn’t understand all of the vitriol that some women expressed against men generally. I kinda took it personally as I never felt like I was that kind of guy and didn’t know them personally. But people like you actually exist, you simple minded, half-brained ass negro. A dude can sleep with 200 women and never have his character questioned, but let a woman get above three and all of a sudden she ain’t shit, ain’t never been shit and ain’t never gone be shit.
There’s nothing so special about a man’s penis that it changes the character and quality of life of a woman for the rest of her life. It’s sex. It’s what we do. It’s how we survive. And a woman
should be is able to participate and enjoy it at her choosing as much as any man does without any repercussions or the shaming of someone like you.
Moreover, why do you care? If I meet a woman and I genuinely like her and she genuinely likes me, I’m only interested in her sexual history so much as it involves our collective health. I’ve never understood dudes that need to be lied to about how many people a woman’s slept with. (And yes, when she tells you you’re only the third guy to make you feel better, there’s the possibility she’s lying either to shut you up or because it’s none of your fucking business.)
There’s an unfollow button someone on this page as you’re reading this and that button is for you. I don’t know what you think you’re finding here, what you think you’re getting out of it, but you’re wrong. I know that with certainty. I don’t know who you are or what you value you think you have, but I don’t want for a minute to give the illusion that we’re in any sort of agreement or solidarity.
Enjoy life and read a book. In fact, read several.
People want to write Christianity off as a “slave religion” (whatever the hell that mean” and yet Nat Turner the slave famous for the largest insurrection in American history a devoted Christian who credited his faith with pushing him to organize the slave rebellion
Very true, but I think there should also be a safe space to discuss and understand the ways in which Christianity has been and still is used as a tool of oppression for many POC here and abroad. To not acknowledge the way the diaspora was initially introduced to Christianity to what we now know as Christianity and the role Christian institutions play in truly destructive policies in Africa and the diaspora (think the Catholic church telling parishioners from AIDS-riddled nations NOT to use condoms to prevent the spread, the super secretive Christian group of federal legislators “The Family” encouraging Ugandan lawmakers to create and enforce the “Kill the Gays” bill, or state lawmakers across the nation praising MLK from one side of their mouth, then denouncing black political discourse from the other—all in the name of God).
To have a black and white opinion about this on either side is short-sighted, in my opinion. And if we’re not doing the work of being truly critical about our faith from all aspects—how we came to believe what we believe, why we continue to believe it and how our relationship with God is changed by those realities—then we’re not doing the work of being the best Christians we can be.
This dynamic has always been a challenge for me in understanding my faith and, while I’ve not come to any conclusions on what path to pursue and have quite honestly given my search more rest than it probably requires, that history of slavery’s introduction is a serious challenge for me and not one that I take lightly.
A lot of people did some great things in the name of God, many POC among them. But a lot of people have done and are doing some horrible things also in God’s name and I think it’s critical to continually discuss how that affects our lives, our politics and our faith without demagoguing those who find comfort in Christianity or those whose faith rest elsewhere.
Our Imperfect Union - That Lonely Feeling (Cycle 1, Ep. 3)
Young Americans of color talk about feeling isolated when surrounded by their white counterparts.
New episode is online. Thanks for your support.
**Edit** Audio is not working on mobile devices. My apologies for the inconvenience.
Our Imperfect Union - The First Memory (Cycle 1, Ep. 2)
Young Americans talk about their first vivid experiences encountering racism.
Made an error…my bad. Here’s the updated version.
Our Imperfect Union - The First Memory (Cycle 1, Ep. 2)
Young Americans talk about their first vivid experiences encountering racism.
New episode (a little late…I’ve been swamped). Check it out…spread it around.
Will probably make an explanation video soon…
Earlier this week Kimani Gray’s high school, The Urban Assembly School of Design and Construction, sent a letter to parents and staff in honor of the teen who was fatally shot by undercover cops last week after he allegedly pulled a gun on them.
“We believed in his potential from the day he entered our school,” wrote principal Matt Willoughby. “He traveled for over an hour each day from East Flatbush to Midtown West to our little architectural themed high school. The year and a half we had with Kimani allowed us to get to know his best self.
“Kimani made great strides this year academically. He was taking an extra English class after school; he was writing a dramatic dialogue in another English class; his group in Design class was working on a project to design a school. Now they are working to complete their project without him.”
“He always smiled, he came to school every day, and the kids here miss him,”a teacher told the New York Post. “That says a lot.”
I can care less about how well Kimani was doing in school. I don’t care if Kimani was an angel or if he was on his way to commit a mass murder.
Whether Kimani was Obama’s newphew, Satan’s spawn, a drug dealer, an honor student or all of those combined is entirely irrelevant. The only thing that is relevant that he was murdered in cold blood by the NYPD, guilty of nothing more than being a black boy walking in a black neighborhood.
Stop this moralizing nonsense; don’t fall into that trap. The best of us and the worst of us all deserve protection, safety and the freedom to NOT be murdered by those charged to protect and serve.
Make this about racist, violent NYPD cops. Period. Nothing more. That’s all that matters.
May Kimani and the thousands of other black and brown men and women murdered by the NYPD rest in peace.
Young Americans talk about the difference between public discourse about race and their lived experiences.
First episode…check it out. Thanks for your support and remember to REBLOG, REBLOG, REBLOG!!!
How Men Become DOGS | Trailer (by Issa Rae)
After three good men have disastrous breakups with their unappreciative girlfriends, they decide to become womanizers by enrolling in a class that teaches them how to become the “dog” women can’t seem to resist.
Created & Directed By: Marc Cunningham
Written: Marc Cunningham & Yvette Foy
Executive Producer: Issa Rae & Benoni Tagoe
Executive Producer: Yvette Foy
Production Company: Issa Rae Productions & Original Hitta Productions
maybe nice guys need to stop picking the wrong women… ijs
I’m hoping this is satire, because it feels hella sexist/misogynistic.
Stop it slime. You aint real if you can’t admit there some aint shit females doin niggas dirty.
- I never said that.
- Accepting your premise, how does being disrespected/unappreciated by a woman give any man the right to go out and disrespect every other woman they meet? That’s some sad, immature nonsense.
- I don’t have any data in front of me or anything, but I’m certain there are far more “ain’t shit men” doing women dirty than the inverse.
- Oh wait, I do have data: per the 2010 Census, one-third of all black households are led by single women. I’m not saying that ALL of those households involve some man somewhere not taking care of his responsibilities for one reason or another, but YOU’RE not real if you think many aren’t.
- Black folks love to complain about how black men are portrayed in the media, as if the images of black women aren’t important. It matters—especially when it’s us creating the images.
- Who calls people “slime?” What does that even mean?
- Have a seat, sir.
Our Imperfect Union - Cycle 1: Where’s the Post-Racial?
This web docuseries examines the state of American racial politics from the perspective of young Americans navigating racism in what’s often declared a “post-racial” society. These young people share their personal experiences and describe how modern, systemic racism affects their day-to-day lives.
This bi-weekly series begins March 18, 2013.
This is so true in the current climate ‘If voting changed anything they would make it illegal’
The infamous “they” may not be making it illegal, but they are doing everything they can to make it difficult if you’re black or brown, a woman, poor and/or young. I get why people feel this way, but we have several examples of how electoral politics can bring about or prevent change. It matters who’s in office. And while it’s not the end all and be all, electoral politics can be effective when connected to well organized, progressive social movements. Change doesn’t have to be either/or; it should be plus/and.
I have the writing seminar and this was my assignment for this week. I’m not sure why I’m compelled to share, but here it is nonetheless. It needs plenty of work, I know.
I’m not a father, but I am a brother.
I have the pleasure of being the brother to three, intelligent, creative, exuberant younger sisters—Assunta (21), Emani (14), and Orianna (11). Orianna is most like me. We share an enduring optimism and appreciation for all of the little things. We both cling to our youth and share an infatuation for Japanese anime. We both enjoy cooking for the family though, in her 11 years, she has far surpassed my capabilities. And we both do our best to inject humor into all of our interactions. She’s a better version of me, a superior model, if you will. I love her dearly, as I do each of my sisters. I’m her secret conduit to the world she doesn’t understand, as she asks me the questions that she is afraid to ask her mother, knowing I will answer with a gentle honesty.
So, one can only imagine my horror when she asked me what it meant to be a c-word.
Orianna loved Beasts of the Southern Wild and imagined herself a slightly older, though more enthusiastic version of Quvenzhané Wallis’s character Hushpuppy. My sister still stacks cardboard boxes and creates imaginary worlds where she is the ruler of all she surveys, even if it only reaches as far as our suburban driveway. Naturally, she watched all of the 2013 Oscar coverage and, while surfing the Internet, came across the now infamous tweet from The Onion.
I’d like to ask The Onion, “How?”
How do I explain to my 11-year-old sister that she’s been a sexual object about as long as she’s been alive? How do I tell her that men will go out of their way to remind her that, to them, she is nothing more than a willing (or unwilling) participant in their sexual fantasies?
How do I tell her that, because she’s a black girl, that she is more likely to be the victim of domestic and sexual violence? That if she’s a queer woman, that she is more likely to be the victim of homophobic violence? That her blackness and womanhood make her more likely to become a carrier of the HIV virus as well as less likely to have access to adequate healthcare?
I have the ability to look at Quvenzhané and see my sister’s exuberance, her winning personality and her excitement for life. I saw Quvenzhané and saw my own flesh and blood as well as all of the challenges that await her.
When will we all see the same?
When will we know that each of us, whatever our race, sex, socioeconomic status or ability, deserve respect, care and support when we are wronged?
Where were we for Quvenzhané?
And who will be there for Orianna?
I answered Orianna’s question the same way many probably answered their children: I told her that some bad people spoke out of the line and will apologize soon. But I didn’t tell her that it won’t happen again or that someone won’t say the same of her.
I make it a point not to lie to my sister, even if everything inside of me tells me that I should.
Can someone explain to me the obsession with othering in our own community? Like, honestly, stop trying to create false dichotomies like Queen vs. Bitch, and conscious vs. sell-out, smart Black people vs coons/niggas. Jesus Christ.
I have to deeply disagree with this as. I know plenty of no good niggas who will do nothing with their lives. The kind who sell drugs on the block and then complain when they get arrested. As if they did nothing illegal, I did these things and hang in certain circles. Through it all unfelt certain pains in fucked up situations,that said I never once blamed the system for my fuckery As an adult should.so in conclusion there does exsist not only with races but with society as a whole, divisions of groups of people I’m sure this is closely related to the word diverse.
1) The way you define do nothing is completely subjective, everyone on this earth “does something” with their lives, just because you don’t agree with how someone lives doesn’t make you the decider of how much they contribute to society.
2) There are several institutions that exist in the world we live in that marginalizes groups of people, and makes their “success” more difficult, just because you didn’t feel the need to “blame the system” does not negate the existence of these institutions or the effect they have.
3) I never said that there not “divisions” within the Black community, but there are divisions that are based on nothing, and many that are completely meaningless.
4) So in conclusion, no.
I think it’s funny that people like to turn their noses up at drug dealers when most of us either use drugs recreationally or know folks who do and don’t disassociate ourselves with them. Not everything that illegal is immoral. Moreover, when we look at other nations—many in western Europe which we love hold in such high esteem in every other aspect—who have legalized drug use, their rates of abuse are lower and they treat it as a public health problem and not a criminal justice issue. The real question, sir, is why do we continue to criminalize drugs (since that was your only example) when we know a criminal justice solution is not viable.
I’ve lived most of my adult life in black & brown neighborhoods and am friendly with a lot of the “no good niggas” you deem worthless. Mostof them don’t sell drugs because they think it’s glamorous. Mostof them sell drugs because it’s their only viable economic option given a job market that does not reward people who happen to be born to parents who cannot move them away from crappy schools.
Most black folks don’t end their lives well. A third of us will see prison; a third of us will live in abject (not just regular) poverty at some point of our lives. Less than 25% of us will attend college, less than 20% will graduate, less than 6% will attain a masters degree and less than 5% will attain a professional degree or PhD. We die sooner than our peers from other races because we have infrequent and inadequate access to healthcare. And if you happen to be a woman, you will be hypersexualized no matter your chosen career field, are more likely to be a victim of rape or domestic violence and generally disrespected at every turn in life. If you happen to be queer, you are more likely to be a victim or die from homophobic violence.
So as someone who has not had to experience those trials, who has lived a relatively privileged life given what my fate statistically could have been, I will never look down on those whom you call “no good niggas.” They are folks doing what they can with what little they have. That doesn’t make them bad; that makes them survivors.
There are bad black folks out there, for sure. I don’t know who they are, how to identify them or whether it should even be an aim to single them out. The only thing about which I’m certain is that people like you who go out of their way to separate themselves from “no good niggas” so that you can be more easily assimilate into a white supremacist standard of who and what is acceptable are more likely than not among them.
I saw her briefly when I was leaving CUNY tonight. We haven’t spoken in months, maybe a year. I didn’t say anything (for reasons), but it was nice to see that she’s alive and that she looks well.
I need to start writing again…
(I’m pretty sure I’m going to regret writing this, but I committed to the exercise so…)
I’m seriously praying there’s something wrong with you.
Our interactions are far from the stereotypical, nervous, would-be lover to unwittingly adored interactions per those found in your pick of teenage, romance comedy. I manage to maintain my words. (I think.) I don’t begin perspiring heavily. (I hope.) And I’m not afraid to embrace you or kiss your cheek when we greet or depart. No, I believe our moments together, be they infrequent and often for ulterior purposes, are as normal as two casual friends can have.
“Hey. How you been?”
“Good, lady. How about you?”
“I’m good. What you been up to?”
And I focus on just breathing. And I focus on terse responses. And I focus on keeping my hands in my pockets and away from the nape of your neck because I’m terrified to think what I might do should I touch it. Deeply curious, yet deeply afraid to know how you might react. Would those big, bashful eyes that usually search mine for answers lose their sparkle? Would they show the disappointment you’d be too polite articulate?
Or have your eyes already seen what I’ve been trying to hide. Is that what you’re doing when you lean in to catch my purposely soft speech? Are the long stares you take into my eyes your attempt to understand my abstruse, snarky responses or are you interpreting everything I’m not saying and cataloguing my thoughts for your future use? While you answer that, just stay there—close. And I’ll sit here—just breathing. (You chose something lavender today. It’s divine.)
When we first met, I’m sure I looked a few seconds too long. I’m sure I pressed to say something smart. I wanted you to know that I’m intelligent. You complimented me thereafter. You liked the way I think. Dope.
I like the way you think: in circles. Conclusions are the main course, the center of steaks, so you leave that for last. We’re complete opposites in that respect. Where I often find detail useless, you peel back their beauty. You play with the “what-ifs,” parading them between your ears and eventually rolling them down your tongue no matter how silly they may be. They play with the corners of your mouth as your lips curl upward in wonderment and imagination, matching your eyes. Fact is, you never directly look at me until such time that you have something definitive to say or ask. I haven’t taken my eyes off of you for a moment. I’m here. Just breathing.
And trying to focus. I talk about the food and ask you about yours. You offer. I respectfully turn it down. It’s back to politics. Or Brooklyn. Or Black folk. Or dating. You know, the dating we both do, just not together. I comment briefly on mine, but spend most of the time listening to your failed trysts—trying to identify the things you liked in him that you might in me. Trying not to tell you that God made your smile for my eyes. Trying to forget how comfortable your body feels pressed against mine and how quickly our fingers interlocked. It was accidental. It was brief. It was delightful.
So I’m seriously praying there’s something wrong with you.
You’re beautiful. You’re intelligent. Maybe you’re an asshole? Perhaps as you’re making your way home each day, you come across some vagrant kitten that needs a home and, instead of smiling while passing or offering it some scraps from your purse, you kick it. Maybe you treat the kids in your life like little princes and princesses until such time that their guardians disappear, and then you tell them tales of cannibalism and desolation. Do your parents lock themselves away each night in their room under fear of death because, when the moon reaches its highest point, you become some ravenous monster terrorizing Brooklyn streets and leaving no evidence of your presence in the morning?
Maybe you’re just normal crazy. Do you cheat on your taxes? Are you a bad tipper? Stalker, perhaps? Serial killer of former boyfriends? Does that explain why you’re not with another man? Have you killed any man who has gotten close to you? Does that lavender scent draw men to your cave of destruction somewhere south of Fulton Street? What in the world is wrong with you? Because your smile was made just for my eyes. Because your body feels so good pressed against mine. Because our fingers, interlocked, feels…purposed.
I’ve been in love enough times to know that this ain’t that. And I’ve lusted enough to know that this ain’t that either. Truth is, I don’t know what “it” is. But, until such time that I’ve gained some clarity, until such time that I’ve learned exactly what’s behind those eyes, I’m here. Just wondering. Just looking. Just breathing. And hoping—hoping that you don’t feel my eyes paying their last respects as you trot down the subway stairs. Hoping that you still have to lean in a bit, because I want to know what scent matched your mood this morning. Hoping that you don’t know that I know that your smile was just made just for my eyes. Hoping that you don’t know that I know how good your body feels pressed against mine. Hoping that you don’t know that I know that our fingers, interlocked, feels…purposed. Or maybe I’m hoping you know it all and that you’ll save me from having to admit that, “Hey, I kinda like you.”
But while you think on that, just stay there—close. And I’ll sit here—just breathing. (You chose something honey today. It’s divine.)
This weekend, I participated in an organizer training on race that I was not excited attended. Despite the fact that I can be quite the misanthrope and generally dislike new and uncomfortable situations (hence the reason I am NOT an organizer), I honestly abhor these types of conferences, particularly if white people will be in attendance. We all know what happens:
- Everyone introduces themselves and talks about their ethnic and racial backgrounds
- At least one person who is clearly from the African diaspora will talk about how they either a) don’t see race/want a colorblind society or b) don’t consider themselves black or African American.