There's Someone For You

A few weeks ago, the singer/dancer Ciara posted a sermon by John Gray, the lone African American pastor under the Joel Osteen ministry. In the sermon, Pastor Gray references Proverbs 31, and discussed being a virtuous woman who is worthy of a husband (insert eyeroll). Ciara posted this sermon to her Twitter timeline with the hashtag #levelup. Now Black Twitter has designated itself the procurer of all things related to Black people, and if you ever want your social media mentions to "blowup", simply post something problematic, and they will subtweet, dig up old tweets, social media stalk you, talk about your mama, well, you get the point.

 Let me say this, I had no issue with what Ciara posted, nor did I take issue with Pastor Gray's sermon. Want to know why? I could give two fucks about marriage. I'm 41, will be 42 in seven months, and I am not interested in being legally tied to anyone at this juncture in my life. If I had met someone, when I was building in my 20's, who I could have built with, then sure. But I am almost 42, no way in hell, anyone is coming to claim half of what I have spent the last 20 years building! Fuck you, no thanks. Now if I were to meet someone, and fall in love (I think I have a better chance of winning the lottery), but if I by chance I did, then I would be open to possible co-habitation without legal ties. That's my ministry!

Another hot button issue around this subject, was when the comedian/actress, Leslie Jones posted a gym selfie. She expressed that although she was working out for health reasons, it would be nice if she had someone to appreciate her progress. Twitter exploded into a firestorm. Ashy/Pickme Twitter started giving advice about how she could improve herself to get this "perfect man" (insert eyeroll). Fake Feminist Twitter told her about self-love (insert eyeroll again), and Sensible Twitter just simply tweeted words of encouragement.

But there are some who do desire marriage,, and who do want someone to grow old with. Well, I am here to tell you, that if that's what you want, don't give up. Don't you let the Black church with its outdated theology, and your married miserable friends, deter you in your quest for marital bliss. Let me put this in perspective for you. Donald Trump has been married three times! Steve Harvey has been married three times! If they can secure companionship with their sexism and outright foolish antics, you can also. Stop letting other people tell you what you can or can't have! Stop listening to women haters telling you, that you have to be "worthy" of a man or be a Proverbs 31 woman to get a husband. Here is what I know to be true: there are plenty of Proverbs 31 women who are single as fuck, and there are plenty of sex workers, and sexually liberated women who have husbands. No matter your past, present, or future, you are worthy of whatever or whomever your heart desires. Instead of focusing on your worthiness as a wife or potential mate, make sure that any man who you choose to spend your life with is "worthy" of you. This is what we should teach our daughters.

Here's what I also know to be true, make sure that your desire for marriage is wrapped in a personal goal, and not a societal one. Society teaches us, that marriage is the ultimate goal, and some of us, who really have no desire to be, have twisted ourselves into human pretzels trying to fulfill a societal obligation. If you want to be married, are willing to do the work it takes to make it work, knock yourself out. Your king or queen will come. But if you are doing it just because you feel that you have to, or it is the next logical step, you will end up just like your married, miserable friends. And no not all married people are miserable, but a vast majority are, and those are odds I choose not to deal with.

Above all, live in your truth. Never accept less than what you deserve, and never allow individuals who aren't directly impacted by your life choices to dictate those choices.

Until next time....

Fatherless Son

The following is an excerpt from forthcoming collection of essays, entitled, I Have Some Shit to Say: 

Chapter 1: Fatherless Son

             My first memory of my father was viewing his picture in my mother’s high school yearbook. To be quite honest, I was never really curious about him until I started kindergarten. Until that time, I resided during the week with my maternal grandmother. On Friday evenings, I would wait for my mother to visit. (She worked in another city during the week, did not have a driver’s license, so it was easier for her to live there, and for me to live with my grandmother). I thought this arrangement was normal. I really had nothing to compare it with.  My grandmother and I had our own family, and that was enough for me. Although I wished that I could be around my mother more than just on weekends, even at the tender age of five, I understood that was best at the time. Then I entered kindergarten, and my classmates started to referring to this concept of a “father”. I knew this figure was a male like myself, older, and different than a mother or grandmother. So I began to wonder who my dad was: What did he look like? Where was he? What was his name? I didn’t dare ask. In my household, as a child, you spoke when someone spoke to you, and matters like this were considered “grown folks’ business.”

            But the curiosity proved too much for my five year old inquisitive self. So I asked my mom, during one of our weekends together. I don’t know if it was the guilt of having to leave me with my grandmother for most of the week, her pity on my little doe eyed looking self, or she just happened to be in a good mood and willing to share such personal information, but she pursed her lips, sighed a little, and told me his name was Darnell Crawford. That was the end. The conversation did not go any further.

            One day while rambling through an old trunk, I found my mother’s high school yearbook. The yearbook was from 1974, two years before my birth. I wasn’t sure of when either of my parents graduated, but I was determined to find my father’s picture. I had to know what he looked like, who the other half of me was. I took the yearbook out of the trunk, to my bedroom, and while my grandmother entertained guests, read her Bible, prayed, or did anything that would allow me to search through that book without any interruptions or risk of getting caught, I searched. For weeks I searched without any type of progress. Neither of my parents were active in school, so their class photos were the only indication that they had actually attended. I was in the area for class of 1975, and I ran across this picture for a Jerry Crawford. Could this be him? I couldn’t read all that well, but I knew that Darnell began with a D, and Jerry began with a J, so this had to be a different person. I don’t know what prompted my boldness on this day, maybe it was part curiosity, and part just tired of looking through this yearbook without progress, so I took the book to my mother, pointed to the picture of the Jerry Crawford guy, and blurted out, “Is this my daddy?” My mother was shocked and almost speechless, but she answered affirmatively with a shaking of her head. She continued by explaining to me, Darnell was his middle name, which is what everyone referred to him by, like Bu-Shea was mine, but his first name was Jerry. I expected a severe scolding for “getting in grown folks business.” Surprisingly, she let me return to my bedroom without a verbal tongue lashing, and I was alone with the picture of the man who had helped make me. I stared at this picture for weeks: the man with the bad skin, puny body, multi-colored shirt; I tried to find some resemblance, or some familiarity, but it was like looking at a magazine, no real connection, just a face and a name. My curiosity had been satisfied for the moment!

            Four years later, it was the summer before my ninth birthday, and my mother was now living full time with my grandmother and me, and we had added a younger sister to the mix. My mother called me from my bedroom and stated, “Your dad is coming to visit today.” I was both  nervous and curious. I was nervous because he was a stranger to me. What would we talk about? Would he like me? Would he continue to see me? I was curious because I wanted to know if he would look like the picture in the yearbook.  My mother looked virtually the same, just with a different hairstyle. Would I look like him? People had told me up to this point that I resembled my mother, but would there at least be one resembling characteristic that would link the two of us?

            Later that evening, he arrived, but he wasn’t alone. He brought his cousin with him. The only thing the same as his yearbook picture was the fact that he had on a loud, multicolored shirt. He was darker; he looked older. He had a generous amount of facial hair, which was wild and bushy, unkempt. We were awkward around each other, and if you placed a gun to my head, and asked what we talked about, I couldn’t honestly tell you. I remembered that my grandmother, went to her bedroom, which was next to the kitchen, which was next to the living room where we were, and read her Bible. My mother stayed in the kitchen, to give us privacy, but at the same time to ensure me that she was close.

            The visit was pleasant enough, but not memorable. He stayed for less than  an hour, and when he was ready to leave, the only affection I remember was him patting me on the head, and bestowing a gift of one dollar to both my sister and me. When he walked out of my grandmother’s living room that evening, it would be ten years before I would see him again.

            In the fall of 1995, ten years after our initial and only visit ever in my life, I was reunited with my father, with the help of my mother. I was now a sophomore at A&T, nineteen years old, and had resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to have any type of relationship with my father. I was sitting in my dorm room, and my phone rang. My mother was on the line, and once we exchanged our initial pleasantries of: Had I eaten today? How was class? How were my grades? If I had seen any of my relatives who lived in Greensboro? Etc. She dropped a bombshell. She told me that she worked with my father’s cousin, and that she had secured his telephone number. This was before the days of cell phones, so I wrote the number down on my nearest notebook, and told her that I would call later.

            The same nervousness that I had experienced ten years earlier at our initial meeting, returned. I didn’t allow myself to get excited or to have any expectations. Why? Because this man had met me ten years before, and had decided not to have any additional contact with me, so I was not about to set myself up for more disappointment. I convinced myself that I would call, since my mother had gone through the trouble of getting his number on my behalf, but any additional contact beyond the initial one, would be left up to him.

            I paced inside my dorm room for several hours. I didn’t know this man! Yes, we had a biological link, but that was where our connection began and ended. What would I say to him? What would he say to me, with me calling him out of the blue, since there had been so many years since our last contact?

            Finally, after about two hours of nervous pacing, I decided to get it over with. I dialed the number, and a male voice answered. “May I speak to Darnell please?” I was nervous as hell, and I didn’t want the phone slammed down in my ear. That would hurt too much. “Who wants to know?” The voice on the other end, became gruff and defensive. I know my voice stammered and probably dropped a few octaves. “Um, this is Corey….his son.” I added that last part in case he had forgotten that he had a son by that name. “Hey…it’s been awhile.” His voice had softened, became more inviting. I quickly explained to him that I didn’t want anything, and his cousin, who I still couldn’t identify, and I honestly don’t know how well my mother even knew him, had given my mother his number. He didn’t seem bothered, and continued to talk. We agreed to meet the next day after my classes were over, and my shift was over at my part time job, which at the time was a discount shoe store by the name of Shoe Show, in walking distance from campus.

            Darnell picked me up from work the next night, and we went to his apartment. Apparently, he lived with his girlfriend, who was also the mother, of two of his four other children, but they were all asleep. We talked for a few minutes, and then he took me back to my dorm room, and we agreed to keep in touch.

            The next time that Darnell visited me, he came to my dorm room. At the time, he asked me what I needed. Now mind you, my mother and grandmother didn’t raise me to be materialistic, so I just said the first thing that came to mind, a refrigerator for my dorm room. At the time, the school cafeteria had horrible food, and I found myself eating off campus more than I ate in the cafeteria. The problem with this was that I was spending a great deal of my income from my part time job on this food. I figured I would save money if I could actually purchase groceries, and a refrigerator would provide me with a place to store these groceries.

            Darnell bought me a refrigerator, which at the time I think cost $150 (he had left the sales receipt on the box that it had been sold in). We stayed in touch sporadically over the next several years. Over this time, I eventually met the two girls who he called his daughters, and found out that one of the girls wasn’t biologically his (the oldest). She had been about fifteen months old when Darnell met her mother, so he was the only “dad” that she had ever known. Wasn’t this something? This man had been absent from my life for over nineteen years, but he was raising another man’s child? This cut deep, but if he couldn’t see the “wrong” in that situation, who was I to tell him so?

            I also met Darnell’s mother, Patricia. I wasn’t really impressed with my other grandmother. Our one and only conversation that we ever had, she spent her time badmouthing my mother, discussing that when they used to come visit me as a baby, my mother was very protective, and thought they weren’t good enough to interact with me. I knew it was a lie. My mother is the last person to act like she was better than anyone. But I had been taught to respect my elders and to never correct other adults, and I let it slide.

            It turns out, my father was also a product of a teen relationship. His maternal grandmother had raised him, causing he and his mother to be estranged, which is probably why I only met her once. He had five siblings, three sisters, and two brothers. I met one brother (Willie), and two of his sisters (Priscilla and Debbie). The other two siblings lived out of state, so it wasn’t possible to meet them. The one thing with my father’s family is they never reached out, they never seem “invested” in getting to know me. Once we exchanged contact information, I had to do all of the leg work. My mentality was that I have lived nineteen years without you, I’m not going to chase you now. I shouldn’t have to because we are family. Our relationship should be effortless, and it wasn’t with these people.

            My father just couldn’t get the father/son relationship down to a science.  I would go months without hearing from him, unless I specifically reached out to him. The truth was, he had a strained relationship with his own parents. In fact, his father, had died the summer after my high school graduation. The only way that I knew he had died, one of my cousins, who I happened to be working with at my summer job, read his obituary in the newspaper, saw my father’s name listed as one of his survivors, and told me. My only memory of my paternal grandfather was reading his obituary in the newspaper! From what my father had told me, his father had married, had three additional children, and forgotten about the “boy” that he had fathered as a teenager.  He was also a terrible alcoholic, so he ended up losing that family and dying alone.

            After years of living without my father, I didn’t expect much from him. I knew that I could depend upon my mother and grandmother, and this was enough for me. In my whole forty-one years of life, I can only remember two times, when he was actually there for me when I needed him.

A few short months after our reconnection after our ten year hiatus, my mother had to have surgery. I was away at school, two and a half hours away, did not have a car, nor a driver’s’ license, but I wanted to be with  her during her surgery . I asked Darnell to take me. I didn’t expect him to say that he could, because anyone who knows my father, knows that he has never had a reliable car, and he was never dependable, but surprisingly he said yes. Darnell arrived on time, and took me to my grandmother’s house, so I could be with my mother during her surgery. Both the car ride, and the pickup went off without a hitch. He brought a cousin along, and the two of them mostly conversed while I watched the scenery from the back. When dealing with an absentee father, there is always the hope that they will get it right, but more than likely, it is always wishful thinking, or at least in my case. Even though the ride to my grandmother’s was unproblematic, returning to Greensboro was a little “dramatic.” My father had agreed to pick me up the following Sunday, around 2pm. The time came, and he was nowhere to be found. All I had was his home phone, and he wasn’t answering when I called. I began to panic! I had already missed a week of class time, and no one was available to return me to school, at least not  to take me over  such a long distance. Finally, around 6pm that afternoon, four hours after our agreed time, Darnell showed up with a million and one excuses. So as not to alienate or disrespect him, I just let it go. I just wanted to get back to school. Besides, my mother gave him an “earful” on my behalf. When he got back in the car, he said, “Your mama’s still mean.”

Another time Darnell was dependable was the summer before my senior of college. I was in the last week of classes for the second session of summer school. I had changed my major three times during my college tenure, and was behind in my major. Since my senior year consisted of student teaching (demo teaching), there wasn’t room in my schedule to “make up” classes, so I had to attend summer school if I wanted to graduate on time. About two days before classes were scheduled to end, I received a frantic call from my mother stating, my grandmother was bleeding internally, without any medical explanation, was receiving a blood transfusion, and she could possibly die at any moment. I was inconsolable. School was the last thing on my mind. I had to get to my grandmother. I telephoned my father, and he arrived on campus with a cousin. Apparently, my father had lost his license due to multiple DUI’s and unpaid court costs. Instead of getting on the road, someone was going to have to drive us, so I had to wait a few hours before we could get on the road. Cell phones were available, but only the affluent could afford them at this point. For me, so besides my mother’s initial call, I had no idea of my grandmother’s condition. I was distracted and nervous for the entire car ride. When we arrived in my hometown, instead of taking me to the hospital to be with my family, he took me to my grandmother’s house, and I had to wait until my mother arrived home the next morning to receive an update on my grandmother’s condition. Luckily, the doctors discovered  her ulcers were inflamed, which caused the internal bleeding, and she was released a few days later, and despite the initial grim diagnosis, she would live on for another two years.

            The last memory of my father was in May 1998. It was Tuesday after my college graduation, the previous Saturday. I had secured a room in a rooming house near the campus of the University of North Carolina at Greensboro, and I was walking to get something to eat. My father had this loud ass van; you could hear him a mile before he reached you. As I was walking, he came up behind me on this clunker, and asked did I need a ride. I told him that I was okay. He told me that he had been at my college graduation. I didn’t know if this was true. We hadn’t spoken in months, so there was no conversation about times, dates, etc., but I was too preoccupied to belabor the point. He asked if I needed anything. I told him no. As I watched his van pull away, there was a part of me that knew I would probably never see him again. Call it a sixth sense, or intuition, but there was something in the finality of our goodbyes, which let me know our highly fractured, dysfunctional, and short lived relationship was over. This was 1998, and I have never seen him again.

            I have heard rumblings here and there of people spotting him close to my hometown, which indicates he may have completely settled back in that area, which makes sense, because he also has two more daughters in that area. Maybe, he wanted to be close to them. I have struggled for many years with the guilt and shame over our fractured relationship. Like maybe, I should have tried harder. Even though it was more work than I wanted to do at the time, maybe it’s my fault that we didn’t have a better relationship. I replayed  in my mind, every conversation, every interaction: Was I disrespectful? Did I make him feel unwanted? Did I make him feel, as if I was ashamed of him? As I asked these questions and more, I always come up empty. I never disrespected him. I was always cordial. If he felt unwanted, it was because I never had been the type of person to “use” people, so if he asked if I needed anything, I wasn’t going to tell him I needed something when I didn’t.

            It took many years, many bad decisions to come to terms with the fact that my father was a damaged soul. His parents had abandoned him, left his care to his maternal grandmother, so he was doomed before he ever had a chance. A fractured individual like that, had nothing to give another human being, much less a child. I realize that now. But as a kid, all I knew was that he didn’t want me, and it had to be something I had done. As a teenager and very young adult, I had serious “daddy” issues, which I acted out in the partners I chose for intimacy. I was nineteen and twenty years old sleeping with individuals in their forties, somehow hoping to find the love and acceptance that I couldn’t get from my father. Although if you had asked me back then when I was participating in this behavior, I would have chalked it up to just being raised by my grandmother, not having other peers my age to play with as a young child, and being more mature than most people my age. All of those things were true, but  had nothing to do with my sexual behavior, or those who I chose to share my body with during my young adulthood.

            If there was any silver lining to my father’s abandonment, was the good, prosperous life that I had without him. Yes, I grew up poor, had to do without many material things, but my grandmother and mother together, gave me good, core values, kept me safe as they possibly could, and did their best. I often think about what my life might have been like had my father been a consistent influence, and I can honestly say, that I would be a much different individual and not in a good way. My father’s world consisted of drugs, a constant barrage of different women, sketchy individuals, and a life in and out of jail due to nonpayment of child support for his various offspring. My life would have been even more unstable. And then there’s the emotional side of it. My father has never hugged me; never told me that he loved me, never shared any intimacy beyond a basic handshake. I blamed this for years on our lack of relationship, but I have witnessed him interact with others, and the interaction is the same, so I truly don’t think he has it in him to be intimate, beyond basic sex, with others. Whereas, with my grandmother and mother, I knew from the time I could talk, I was loved, cared for, and they implanted a seed of belief  I could do or accomplish anything, as long as I willed myself to do it.

            Another positive effect living without my father had on my life was that I never dated, slept with, or interacted with anyone on an intimate level who was not a good parent. I felt it was hypocritical of me to be involved with someone, if they were present in their children’s lives. Although this may seem judgmental to some, it was a personal code that I lived by. It was my belief if they were a bad parent, I would be taking precious time away from their children, and I was enabling their behavior. I didn’t want any child to experience the self-loathing and doubt that I had experienced during my childhood and early adulthood.

            I also made a choice to never have children. There was a small window of time around age twenty-five, where I mulled it over in my head for a few short months, but I quickly nixed the idea, and I am grateful. Back then, I was completely damaged, making bad life choices, and I had nothing to give a child. I would have simply been continuing a vicious cycle. The child deserved better than me, and I deserved better for myself. I wish more individuals would recognize this. For some, I think it is societal pressure.  Their thinking is well, I have gotten married, so this is the obligatory next step. For some, they feel, it is because they need for someone to love them. I have literally heard individuals say this. A poor, innocent, defenseless child shouldn’t bear the burden of making you whole, or loving you. The child is doomed from the onset. Sometimes, I wonder who will take care of me when I am older, or what type of legacy I will leave this earth. As each year passes, these ideas rest heavily on my mind, but I realized both then and now, a child needs a stable, loving environment in which to thrive. I couldn’t provide that at twenty-five, and although I am more stable now, I have also learned, that just because you can do something, doesn’t mean that you should!

I'm Not Boycotting Netflix for Monique

Monique was offered $500K for a one hour special with Netflix, and believed that she was lowballed, especially when they paid Amy Schumer $13 million, DeRay Davis $5 million, and Chris Rock and Kevin Hart hefty sums. She walked away from the deal, and asked that all of her fellow black brothers and sisters boycott Netflix over their racism and sexism.

Let me say this: I'm not here to calculate Monique's coins or her worth. If she believes that she is worth $500K for a one hour comedy special, I applaud her for walking in her truth, and I wouldn't dare try to tell her otherwise. But what she fails to realize is that, just as she made a decision to walk away from the deal, Netflix has the option to say, no we don't want to work with you since you didn't take the money that we offered you! It all boils down to choice.

Netflix offered Shonda Rhimes, a fellow black woman, $100 million for a multi-show, several year deal, and to stream her other current shows on their platform. Netflix also offered Wanda Sykes, a fellow black woman and fellow comedian, half of what they offered Monique, so which means she was offered $250K. She said no, and moved her talents to another platform, where evidently she was paid what she thought that she was actually worth. I don't remember her calling for a boycott or asking anyone to be mad with Netflix on her behalf. She simply took her talents elsewhere, and it wasn't even until Monique made her Netflix offer public, that she even spoke about it. Again, she made a choice.

Monique has been in her field for over 25 years, and I have been in my profession for 20. Now by show of hands, how many of you, can expect to even make $500K in an hour, despite your longevity in your field? I sure as hell can't, which is why I am finding it a little hard to care about Monique's first world problems. Netflix is the not the only platform, and she can certainly move on to other entities.

The truth is  Monique has been embroiled in one battle after another over the last few years. I don't care about her weight, whether or not I or you feel that she is talented, I don't even care about the internet fodder of her being difficult to work with, or having an attitude, blah, blah, blah, etc. The one common denominator in the midst of all of this controversy, is her husbanger (her husband who is acting as her manager). Monique needs a professional manager. Someone who is savvy, professional, and knowledgeable about how deals work who can negotiate on her behalf. You wouldn't send a lawyer to do brain surgery, so stop allowing your bed partner to be your mouthpiece when it comes to your coins. If she gets rid of Sidney, I guarantee Monique will get the opportunities and the coinage that she is so richly deserving of.

We all make choices in life, and when we refuse to see the error of our ways, we have to suffer the consequences of these choices. Monique chose her husband as her manager, and she is suffering the consequences. This is a personal problem, and I'm not boycotting Netflix over someone's personal problems.

Now I'm going to watch Grace and Frankie, a dynamic Netflix original show!

Until next time....

Why Not Oprah in 2020?

Oprah gave a fantastic speech during the Golden Globe Awards. It was nine minutes of pure black girl magic. She gave us a historical lesson, a feminist critique, an admonishment to men to do better in how they treat women, and hope for the future, where women feel free to live without the threat of sexual assault or harassment.

Her speech was so hopeful, there were murmurs that she should run for POTUS in 2020! And this is when all  hell broke loose.

Racist whites said, enough with entertainers for president, when 62 million of their racist, sexist asses voted for a reality star, pussy grabbing, Dotard, who is not even as literate as the average 4th grader (I know because I was accepted into the AG program in 4th grade, and both my peers and I, could read and write circles around him, even at nine years old). Oprah is cool as long as she is entertaining your racist asses in a movie or on her talk show, but you'll be damned if her black ass is in control of the country! Even the so called liberals (the Hillary and Bernie cultists, were naysayers, because for them liberation and excellence only come in the form of a white man/woman senior citizen, when the Democratic base is  women and minorities! I see every one of your racist asses, and it didn't take much for you to reveal your hoods!).

Then there is ashy woke Twitter. These are the blacks who because they have a few credentials behind their name, and dump thinkpieces left and right, or because they are so "woke" they are the procurers of everything black. They tell black people who to vote for, who is best for them. They rally cry, that they are feminists (only if they personally like the woman, otherwise, she is a bitch), and only support those who kiss their asses!

Now I have never actually heard Oprah say that she wanted or would run as POTUS. But guess what? If she does, one of her votes come from me. Why not? This country has elected 45 men, who never had run a country before, the first 12 of which owned slaves, and after Bush Jr, and Trump, no white person or man should say anything.

Oprah understands foreign policy, as she has rubbed shoulders with some of the greatest world leaders, built schools in Africa, funded several hundred African girls' educations, running a successful network, a successful nationally syndicated show for 25 years, employed thousands over the last 30 years, transformed her life from extreme poverty to become a self-made billionaire (There was no daddy to give her a million to start off like Trump, nor has she ever filed bankruptcy six times like him), and influences culture from Millennials to Baby Boomers. If anyone has the "juice", and the knowledge to hire and surround herself with capable people to compensate for those areas that she may not be well versed in.

So I say to you, why not Oprah, if that is what she desires? Perhaps, if you take off the hoods white people, or black people made if you stop with the self-hatred, you could see that a trained seal would be a much better choice, than the shitfest that we have now!

Until next time....

Knowing Your Worth, and Knowing When to Let Go

Last week, I received a shocking email! One of my employers decided that they wanted to streamline their pay rate for all employees, meaning they wanted all of their employees to make the same rate per hour, so those of us who made above the new streamlined rate, would have our pay reduced. Within the email, they sent us a survey, which contained two boxes, one which stated we would accept the new rate and continue with the company, or decline and make our effective last date 1/31/18. I decided to do the latter! No way I am working for anyone doing the same amount of work for less pay, fuck you very much.

The old Corey would have chosen to stay on and have my pay reduced, out of fear that I would miss the income, or that I wouldn't find something else. Fear is a thief of joy, and productivity, and I no longer choose to live in fear, so I did what I had to do, which was told them to kiss my black ass!

It seems since the economy crashed in 2007-2008, employers are asking more of employees for less money, and due to fear of the bad economy, most employees accept it. How many times has a person left your place of employment, and his or her work duties get spread among the remaining employees rather than hiring another able bodied person for that position? I have seen it, and I'm telling anyone who hires me from this moment on, I keep multiple streams of income, and I don't play that bullshit, and will walk at any time.

I will miss the gig! It paid well (at my old hourly rate), and I could do it from home, but it is the principle of the matter.

So the lesson in this is knowing your worth, and never allowing anyone to shortchange you, be it a job, a lover, a family member, or friend.

Until next time....

Black Women Really Don't Care Who You Date

The release of Black Panther next month with an all black cast has many people buzzing. For the overly woke, this is a sign of racial equality. For the ever mad racist whites, I am sure they will boycott. For the comic book geeks, they are just excited for another comic book based film, and then there are those like myself, who are just happy for the actors/actresses involved for the press that they will receive and what it can do for their careers, but really could give two shits, as that is not my genre of movies that I prefer watching.

Well, a few days ago via Instagram, one of the actors, Michael B. Jordan, revealed that he had a Latina girlfriend, and so the rumor mill that is the Internet, fueled by the "ashy hotep brigrade" (black men who love black pussy, but really don't like black women, unless they are fucking them) started a rumor that black women were going to boycott the movie, since Michael B. Jordan was dating a non-African American woman.

Let's just stop right there! Michael B. Jordan does not have a major role in the film, he is a supporting actor; Chadwick Boseman is the leading actor, so he is who people are going to see since he has the more successful career and has a bigger box office appeal.

Also, I suspect some of this stems from the  ashy hotep brigade still being mad over the whole flopping of Nate Parker's Birth of a Nation. Black women did not boycott the film because Parker married a white woman; it's because he is a rapist. Not only a rapist, but an unrepentant one at that. That is why his film flopped. Most decent people draw a line in the sand over rape, and very well we should.

It is 2018; nobody cares who you date or marry. If we are being honest, most black men celebrities who gravitate towards women of other ethnic groups, black women would not touch with a ten foot pole, as either they are ugly as fuck or corny as hell; ie: Tiger Woods, Dennis Rodman, Levar Ball, Cuba Gooding Jr, Taye Diggs. All of these men fit one or both of these categories, and none of the women who I know are checking for any of these busters.

But while we are on the subject of interracial dating, black women do not care who you date, what they do care is that you stop denigrating them for your choices. In other words, get as much white, Latina, Japanese, etc. pussy as you wish, if that is your preference, but don't talk shit or put down black women as not being good enough for you, just because you don't like your black ass mama or because you have "mommy" issues. That is all any black woman cares about!

Also, if black men are going to date and marry outside of their race, allow black women to do the same. I specifically remember some members of the ashy hotep brigade having several things to say about Megan Markle, Serena Williams, Paula Patton, Tamera Mowry-Housely, when these women found love with white men. If you can date and make "adult" choices about others from other ethnic groups, let black women do the same and keep your ashy comments to yourself.

Love is love, and we hear this quite often, but what it really means, is love is love until I or society can't control your choices...Hypocrites!

Until next time....

What About Syndrome and How It Affects Sex Assault Victims

With the whole #Me Too Movement, incredible light is being shone on a systematic and historical pattern of sexual assault and violence against both men and women. You have had famous individuals like Terry Crews, Corey Feldman, Rose Garner, Gabrielle Union, and others who have bravely told their stories. Then you have the perpetrators like you'll president that orange minion in the Oval,  GOP Senator Roy Moore, Democratic Senator Al Franken. The perpetrator list goes from Hollywood elites, record executives, politicians, and plenty of other men in authoritative positions.

But extending beyond that is what I called the "what about syndrome". This is that syndrome where when a favorite person of ours, or someone whom we laud as a hero is revealed as a sexual predator, we immediately jump to their defense, and say, "What about Trump? What about Moore? When the truth is, all sexual predators should be punished.

Here is what we know to be true. When victims are women, gay, or people of color, the criminal justice system does not care, so there will be little or no punishment for their assailants. If the perpetrator is a woman, or person of color, then there will be prosecution, and the largest, most unfair sentence will be given. These two things are facts, and until we get non-white supremacists in position of power within our criminal justice system, this will always be true.

However, just because someone is your fave or hero, does not negate their propensity to be predators. When someone tells you that they have been the victim of sexual assault, and you say what about Trump or Moore, or automatically deflect, what you are saying to that individual is that, although what you experienced is tragic, my need to hero worship, punish the opposing political party, or my need to just be right, are more important than justice for you. Stop it!

It took me two years to tell after I was sexually assaulted, and almost 20 to become comfortable discussing it with individuals outside of my social circles due to the attitudes of general society.

It really is okay, if you don't know what to say after this type of information is revealed, to just stay silent. That is far better than telling someone that they are lying through your words or deeds, or deflecting to another sexual predator. No victim is more important than the other, so even if someone whom you favor is being accused, the first priority should be the victim, not your loyalty to the predator.

Each time you deflect, you create anxiety and PTSD for the victims, diminish their worth and cheapen what happened to them.

Sexual assault is not about sex; it is about power and control, and those two things exceed race, socioeconomic status, celebrity status, and age.

And please stop with the only feeling empathy when the victim is not accusing someone whom you care about, or is not related to you in some way. Every victim deserves to believed, heard, and empowered. Get out of your feelings. Stop making it about you, and allow healing to take place!

Until next time....