This Moment

“Tomorrow has its own worries, wrapped up in its own time. For that, this moment is what you make of it.” – Yecheilyah

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In the world wind of routine and 24 hour clocks, we forget about the power we have to control this very moment. We spend 95% of our lives worrying about what the next day, the next week, or the next year will produce. In fact, we spend so much time thinking about the future that our present is cloaked with uncertainty, and we give birth to idleness. Idleness in turn leads to a loss of direction and diminishes our satisfaction for life itself. For some, it even leads to depression, for he or she has lost track of the vision. The performance of right now and the endless possibilities utterly escape us as we lay the blueprint for the next day. Always remember that we always have the power to choose and nothing is really a distraction (it is only a distraction if you’re not paying attention). Even when there are circumstances that appear so out of our control, such as emotions, there is still a choice. If I’m sad today it is because I choose to be sad. If I’m angry today it is because I choose to be angry. If my reaction to disrespect is a loss of self-control I have chosen to lose control. As such there is no one to blame for missing the opportunities each day holds because we are the ones who decide to make the decisions that lead to the outcome of every single moment. The funny thing is that this can also help with blogging. I know there are a lot of you participating in National Blog Posts and Novel Writing Months and whatnot, and you’re scratching the surface of your brains for something to write to complete the days post. But just relax, and earnestly think about what you have in this moment, and it’ll be a lot easier than just trying to put something out there. You will instead put something out that not only fulfills the challenge, but also something that will be of substance to the reader.

While planning ahead has its blessings, let us make sure that we’re also nourishing this very moment; for tomorrow has its own worries, wrapped up in its own time. And for that, this moment is what you make of it.

Un-Pretty

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She was fourteen when the uglies came
fourteen when she realized that she was un-pretty
You see her mom’s mother’s mother,
and her mother before that
began the process of digestion that would take place through generational blood cells that rejected what they considered…the uglies.
so she regurgitated this face given her by some fierce creator the moment her life began recycling the cycle of teens who refuse to simply look in the mirror
Why should she?
For the laying on of verbal hands became saliva that practiced the breaking down of insults that made this decision mushy, and easy to swallow
and proactive never helped out,
pushing indoctrination further into her mouth until she has no other choice but to chew smooth skin and straight hair with her teeth
was it her fault?
that when she looked in the mirror a strange girl is all she could see
and positive comments slid off of her chocolate skin like empty belief.
Satisfaction never molding this face into something she could see
Beauty
never pushing its mushed up reality down the back of her throat
this
pretty stuff
never making it through adolescence
never making it through to the esophagus
Un-pretty
It was all she’s known and all she could see
never mind her thought process to ever enter the second portion of the digestive tract
for she was stuck
stuck in a world where beauty rocked air force ones and apple bottom jeans
the prettiest trading her cookies in for a better face
this
pretty little face
or that celebrities were simply pretty little liars
because beauty never came with a price
Un-pretty
It was simply a disease, an infection
moving confidence back to the ugly shaped tears that arose in her throat
that generations of house slaves would teach her to stomach
this mushed up ball of ugly too weak to form strong muscles that could stop it from mixing around images of Beyoncé and her sister Solange,
muscles
that could not stop it from becoming pretty plastic properties of Nicki Minaj
WHO forgot to tell this sista…
That in her world of pretty,
pretty was really
un-pretty?

Stereotypes and Choices

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FYI: The images used in this post are Rated R per nudity.


When 20 year old Sara Baartman got on a boat that was to take her from Cape Town to London in 1810, she could not have known that she would never see her home again. Nor, as she stood on the deck and saw what had become her home disappear behind her, could she have known that she would become the icon of racial inferiority and black female sexuality for the next 100 years.

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Sarah “Saartjie” Baartman (before 1790 – 29 December 1815) was the most famous of at least two Khoikhoi women who were exhibited as freak show attractions in 19th century Europe under the name Hottentot Venus—“Hottentot” considered an offensive term, and “Venus” in reference to the Roman goddess of love. While in her teens, Saartje migrated to an area near Cape Town, where she was a farmer’s slave until she was bought in Cape Town by William Dunlop, a doctor on a British ship. At age 20, Saartje headed for London with Dr. Dunlop where, it was agreed, that they would get rich by displaying her body to Europeans; catering to the people’s’ sexual fascination with aboriginal peoples. Prancing in the nude, with her jutting posterior and extraordinary genitals, she provided the foundation for racist and pseudo-scientific theories regarding black inferiority and black female sexuality. The shows involved Saartje being “led by her keeper and exhibited like a wild beast, being obliged to walk, stand or sit as ordered.” Saartje’s predicament drew the attention of a young Jamaican, Robert Wedderburn, who was agitated against slavery and racism. Subsequently, his group pressured the attorney general to stop this circus. Losing the case on a technicality, Saartje spent four years in London and then went to Paris where she was exhibited in a traveling circus, and seen frequently controlled by an animal trainer in the show.

It was here that she crossed paths with George Cuvier, Napoleon’s surgeon-general, who was also considered to be the dean of comparative anatomy. In his capacity of social anthropologist, he arrogantly and erroneously concluded that she was the missing link. She turned to prostitution and when she died poor in 1816, almost immediately Cuvier had her body cast in wax, dissected and the skeleton articulated. Her organs, including her genitals and brains, were preserved in bottles of formaldehyde. Her remains were displayed at the Musée de L’Homme in Paris until as late as 1974.

“Stay on guard this wicked land will try to strip your soul… got our men selling blow our women on the stripper pole. Once your morals hit the floor do anything to pay the bills, 400 years still ain’t on the level playing field.”

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While one cannot control what is forced upon them, one can make the decision to choose a different path. While the treatment of Sara and the retaining of her body parts were horrific, we cannot neglect her choice to prostitute herself. We have all been in positions where we felt we did not have a choice, for struggle and oppression has a tendency to do away with all logic. But what I would like to remind us of today is the importance of not making excuses for those choices. There’s a difference between making a mistake and making a commitment to willfully do. Often we set out to blame outside forces for what we have become because we’ve been deceived into thinking we have no choice. This is not to judge the actions of Sara as a slave, but what we need to understand is that today many Black women are slaves and they are slaves without permission or coercion. There is little difference between Sara Baartman  and the current  Video Vixen. They are both slaves. Today, the Black woman’s mentality leaves her shackled to a  mental incapability of thinking outside of the way she was taught to do so within the physical institution of slavery. She cannot think independently on a physical, mental, or spiritual level outside of what her captives have taught her because of her unwillingness to take responsibility for her own ignorance.

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As a result, every time someone attempts to show the so called Black women the error of her ways she is apt to point to an instance, circumstance, person or persons outside of herself. She may very well bring up facts, but she is unable to see the role she plays to make manifest those statistics. It is always a situation where men have abused or disrespected her. It is always everyone else fault except hers. Either a man did it or the white man did it.  Many of the women seen on TV, such as the Niki Minaj’s are showing women examples of what it means to be a whore, to prostitute one’s body and to be proud of it. Sadly, many of you idolize these women. You sit back and you allow your little girls to be entertained by such filth. Beyonce is a married woman (allegedly) and yet she prances around the stage half naked and you think it’s cute. You do not teach your little girls about Proverb 31 women and about the Sara Baartman’s; you teach them about the Beyonces. As a result, many young women, crossing all ethnicity’s, grow up with aspirations to put basic morals and values on the back burner while they twerk.

The reality however is that everything is not a stereotype. It is not all a conspiracy. Abuse exists but there is still a choice we must begin to understand about the role we play in deception. It’s not always about deception, but it is also about our willingness to be deceived.

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Broke up with my other blog

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At least now I have an excuse to buy chocolates < What’s with this anyway? Where’s the book that says chocolate heals a broken heart? I can’t answer that for you, but I will say it is some prescription. But anyways, I’m digressing < seems I do that a lot.

So, as I was saying, a house of poetry and I finally broke it off. After just a year of hot and steamy poetry I just couldn’t do it anymore. I mean it was nice in the beginning no doubt, but I obviously have fidelity issues. I’m actually not that bad really. I mean, I haven’t thought of any new blogs to create ever since me and PBS started hanging out <why does The PBS Blog bring this smile to my face? See, that’s my problem, I’m in love with the PBS blog, not like we haven’t been over this already though (Ok, so I said the same thing about you, but why we bringing up old stuff tho?) And why am I explaining myself? It’s not like I have to report to a house of poetry posts anymore anyway. Not like I got metaphors hanging from dashboards and love notes between comments and whatnot. Speaking of which, I was really good to you so you can stop making me out to be the bad girl here. I mean, I know that you technically don’t exist anymore but you can give me some credit. You act like I just up and left. I did give you a warning this was going nowhere so technically I didn’t really cheat on you behind your back. Is it really my fault that you ignored the signs? Like you didn’t see all these followers easing their way to the PBS blog in the middle of the night.