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Feminism, Women
July 21, 2014

10 Things I Liked & Didn’t Like About #GIRLBOSS By Sophia Amoruso

I’m not a fashion gal. And I hate shopping.

Call it the result of being forced to spend hour after hour shopping with my mother. Ma can (and does) shop from sun up to sun down. From St. John’s suits to a quaint San Francisco boutique to an outlet mall, if shopping is involved, she’s down. My grandmother once joked that Ma should quit her 20 plus year career in higher education, move to L.A. and become a personal shopper to the stars. I concurred. Ma laughed at the idea.

I wear what I think looks good on me. I admire the legion of fashionable women in NYC who pair high and low pieces or vintage and chic to make a fly ensemble that I would’ve never imagined. People’s personal style is intriguing, but I doubt I’ll ever be the chick who loves to shop, gawks at the glossy pages of Vogue, knows high end designers or will scour a thrift store rack for hours.

For all those reasons I was clueless about Nasty Gal’s founder and CEO, Sophia Amoruso. The one time I thought I should shop more online and less in Soho, I ran across a blog post that listed Nasty Gal as one of the top sites for women’s clothing. I still had no clue who Sophia Amoruso was until about a week ago.

What I wore to the Jay & Beyonce #OntheRun concert. Dressed in all black like the omen. See? Not a fashion killer.

What I wore to the Jay & Beyonce #OntheRun concert. Dressed in all black like the omen. See? Not a fashion killer.

Sophia turned Nasty Gal into a $100 million business in seven years. Homegirl started the business on her couch selling vintage clothes on ebay. How did she do it? That’s where #GIRLBOSS comes in as a half-memoir, half-business guide. Her cult following and the massive media push ensured #GIRLBOSS would spend 10 weeks on The New York Times Bestseller list since its release in May.

When pictures of #GIRLBOSS crept into my Instagram feed I rolled my eyes. Hard. I figured it was another Lean In, which I’m ok never reading in life for reasons mother bell hooks and other feminists have pointed out.

But for some reason #GIRLBOSS appealed to me more than Lean In ever did. I tweeted that I was going to give it a try hoping people who had read it would hit me with a yay or nay. My guy friend saw my tweet and texted me shortly after.

“Hey. If you want the girl boss book I’ll send it to you. The ebook.

For the free?

“Yes, please!!!!” And so it began.

I started the book on a Thursday evening and had finished by Saturday afternoon. It was a super easy read. Basically #GIRLBOSS is Amoruso’s abridged story of a chick who went from Subway sandwich maker to unemployed to petty thief to CEO and Founder of a $100M business in seven years, all by the age of 30. It’s unheard of and was enough to pique my interest.

Homegirl was a mess. But the mess actually turned into being what Steve Jobs calls “connecting the dots” because it all led to who she eventually became. Sophia moved out of her parents’ home before finishing high school, stole, hitch hiked with strange men, slept on couches, got fired from several jobs and probably never made more than $14/hour at any job before starting Nasty Gal. Her personal story is what led me to read the book.

We have very different journeys, but loads of personality similarities—we’re both Aries— if that tells you anything. As you’ve read, I’m on this positive journey so I’d like to not give shine to the things I dislike. But I’m a writer and a critical thinker. That will never go away. So before we get to what I didn’t like, let’s start with what I did.

Advice & illustrations from #GIRLBOSS

Advice & illustrations from #GIRLBOSS

LIKED….

1. A life worth writing about
For me this is the draw of the book. Like Sophia, I have not led the straight and narrow path. Neither has Oprah or a lot of other “girl bosses.” Sophia makes it clear from jump she never intended to start Nasty Gal as this massive business that would make her rich. All the missteps she took certainly didn’t indicate she’d land on Forbes and Inc’s top lists of the year. She owns her weirdness. Her honesty about being an introvert, sarcastic, a reformed thief and her success kind of just happening unintentionally is refreshing.

2. All the ladies who’re independent, throw your hands up at me
The chick is a real self-made millionaire. To grow a business that pulls in over $100 million annually in seven years is major. To do so without any debt is something of a miracle. She never borrowed one dime from the bank to finance her business. Investors didn’t come calling until she’d already made mad money. Sophia really did make an empire with her own sweat and tears. I doubt any blood was shed.

3. “Stay humble, but let these n*ggas know”
No, this white girl didn’t say that or anything remotely close. But the popularly quoted IG post applies here. I have no clue if she’s humble in real life, but I didn’t get a lot of boasting from #GIRLBOSS. I did get from it that she knows what she’s accomplished and is damn proud of it. There were times she would let you know flatly: I’m a “bad bitch” (yes, she uses that phrase quite a few times), I did this while living in a Bay area apartment full of thrown out furniture and now I’m running shit. I’m not mad at that.

4. If you don’t do anything else in life, be your freaking self
I know a thing or two about the publishing industry. I personally do not believe Sophia wrote the book because, well, she’s not a writer. That’s what ghostwriters do. Call me for book #2, girl. Whoever wrote it captured Sophia’s quirkiness and realness. She cursed like hell. She didn’t kiss anyone’s ass. She proudly admitted she hated NYC’s Fashion Week. So.Do.I. Barf! There was a theme throughout about daring to always be yourself. It’s actually authenticity that leads to success, which is what most rich people will tell you. Being herself and playing to her strengths is exactly how she created Nasty Gal with zero knowledge in business.

bet on yourself

DIDN’T LIKE…

5. For the youngins
I’m 29. This book ain’t for me or anyone over 21. It’s very much a book about her story. “Hey, I’m Sophia. I’m only 30. I run a $100 million dollar business. I had no plan. But I ended up here.” It’s simple. Compelling, but simple. I’m not sure anyone who has been in the workforce for over three years would gain much from #GirlBoss that you didn’t already know.

6. Don’t expect any real advice on how to be a boss
Sophia is like Rick Ross. Constantly hollering/grunting, “I’m a boss,” but very little direction on how to be a boss or what all it entails. The few tips go something like: spell check your resume (bitch, who doesn’t know that?), be polite, know when to shut up and don’t write a cover letter that’s all about what you want from the employer. To be fair, I did think tips like save 10% of every paycheck in a separate account and changing all your passwords to inspirational phrases were cute tidbits. However, I wanted to know more about how she navigates being a boss as a woman. Does she struggle with people taking her less seriously because of her age? How does she deal with sexism in the boardroom? How does she remain stern without being considered a bitch? The chapter on hiring and firing probably had the most tips, but it wasn’t meaty with information. Firing someone is inevitable, she says. Don’t tell the person you’re firing it’s harder for you than it is on them because that’s a crop of shit because they’re now unemployed. Duh! What else, Sophia?

7. Keep feminism’s name out your mouth if you don’t really get it

In the very first chapter she addresses the F word.

This book is titled #GIRLBOSS.
Does that mean it’s a feminist manifesto?
Oh God. I guess we have to talk about this.
#GIRLBOSS is a feminist book, and Nasty Gal is a feminist company in the sense that I encourage you, as a girl, to be whom you want and do what you want. But I’m not here calling us “womyn” and blaming men for any of my struggles along the way.

Girl, stop. Because that’s all feminists do is refer to themselves as “womyn” and blame men for their struggles. This is idiotic and shows a deep lack of knowledge on what feminism is truly about. Why even write something so…misguided?

I believe the best way to honor the past and future of women’s rights is by getting shit done. Instead of sitting around and talking about how much I care, I’m going to kick ass and prove it…Is 2014 a new era of feminism where we don’t have to talk about it? I don’t know, but I want to pretend that it is.

Bye, Felicia. I don’t care how she identifies. I do care when your one sweeping generalization of feminism is the tired trope that all feminists do is whine about the problems men have created as if misogyny, sexism and patriarchy aren’t real issues globally. I don’t expect a 30-year-old rich privileged chick to be well read on bell hooks or Gloria Steinem, and it’s obvious she is not. Fine. Just keep feminism’s name up out your mouth.

sophia amoruso 2

8. School ain’t for everybody, but everybody can’t afford to not go to school
College is not for everybody. Student loan debt is a crisis in this country that needs to be seriously dealt with. Sophia barely graduated high school. Community college didn’t stick either. She found success without it as have others like Mark Zuckerberg and Steve Jobs. But notice anything about all of them? You guessed it: White. Black folks at large can’t afford to not go to college. The statistics for poverty show that the numbers are exponentially higher for black people without college degrees. Hell, even Oprah has a college degree (from my beloved HBCU, #TSU!).

This anti-school attitude is not for black folks. The same rooms she can walk in to have meetings with big time investors with only the knowledge she learned via Google and from running a company? We can’t even get in those rooms with Ivy-league degrees let alone without them. This sentiment throughout the book really bothered me because I know she was writing it from a perspective of white privilege that she doesn’t even realize she has. I worked damn hard for my undergraduate and postgraduate degrees just to have the publisher of a magazine once tell me my Master’s was antiquated. Because a black woman who is both younger and higher educated than him means my degree is “antiquated.” Right. So for the young black adults reading #GirlBoss, you need to go to school or learn or trade or have a damn good plan with money to fund your plan. Continue living by the creed we all know to be true: We have to work twice as hard and be better than them just to be on an equal playing field. That will never change, even once we’re bosses.

9. All optimism is not created equally
At the crux I do believe that with hard work, belief in yourself, taking risks and following your dreams you can become whatever you want. Only it’s really not that simple, especially for women, especially for women of color. Sophia gave no real nod to any real hardships she had to face. Nor did she mention how her “put your head down and do the work” tactic could still limit certain groups from succeeding, or could take them 20 years to do what she did in seven.

10. Learn when to leave the party early
This book could’ve ended at its halfway point. It nailed the point that she was an outcast her whole life for way too long. We get it, honey. Without any elaborate advice on how to be a boss it started to drag like she just needed to fill the pages.

This book wasn’t written for me, and I think that’s fine. Everyone has a target demographic they cater to. And typically since I don’t support people or businesses that let me know they couldn’t care less about speaking to me as a black woman, I’m glad I didn’t pay for it.

I am glad I read it though. Her story is interesting enough. Although I didn’t find a ton of helpful gems (there were a few) I can’t hate on a self-made woman. Book aside, she went from couch surfing and dumpster diving to managing over 350 employees, saving $1 million in her personal bank account and paying cash for a Porsche all before the age of 30. That in itself makes you at the very least interested in what she has to say about success. Once you read the last page you can go back to your life before you knew who Sophia Amoruso even was.

And all will be well in the world.

22
Journalism, Music, Pop Culture, Race
July 10, 2014

T.I.’s New Found Colorblindness For Iggy Azalea

After I interviewed him in 2012 leading up to the release of 'Trouble Man.' He was charming, funny, laid back & a southern gentleman. Tiny was in hair & makeup and T.I. couldn't stop going in her dressing room. The love was palpable.

After I interviewed him in 2012 leading up to the release of ‘Trouble Man.’ He was charming, funny, laid back & a southern gentleman. Tiny was in hair & makeup and T.I. couldn’t stop going in her dressing room. The love was palpable.

I walked into SVA Theatre for T.I.’s “No Mediocre” screening late rocking midnight black and gold shades. For once, a rapper was on time. He was already on stage talking to the evening’s host, Lil Duval, discussing his upcoming album Paperwork. Basically Paper Trail Part II, unofficially.

T.I. was doing that charismatic thing he does where he tries to navigate two worlds: the life of the streets from his past and his modern day Cosby-esque image portrayed on his hit reality show “T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle.” In one breath he wanted it known that he’s still a “real nigga.” In the other he needed the room full of mostly white media and record label heads to know he can sound book smart.

His big booty white girl protege, Iggy Azalea, sat two rows in front of me rocking a slick bun pony with humongous gold hoops. The “Fancy” singer was surrounded by a bunch of black dudes, a couple chicks and some celeb notables like Irv Gotti.

Music editor boyfriend had convinced me to come out knowing I’d been down with the southern rapper since the days he went by T.I.P. before promptly changing to T.I., out of respect for Q-Tip.

When his debut I’m Serious dropped in 2001, I was a high school junior in Nashville. The east coast wasn’t checking for T.I. yet, but in the south where trap beats reign supreme, he was golden. “Dope Boyz” and “Do It Baby (Stick It Baby)” knocked hard in our tricked out whips with two 15s in the trunk. It wasn’t until the sophomore follow-up, Trap Muzik (2003), that’d end up being the blueprint for what would later catapult him to mainstream success.

By then I was a ride or die fan.

T.I. and Duval are babbling on, dropping a lot of “niggas” and “mothafuckas” when the topic of Iggy arises.

“I can’t believe we’re at a place in America where we still see color,” he says in direct response to people (read: black women) who’ve asked him, “Why couldn’t it be a black woman?” Because apparently people had been asking him why he couldn’t mentor and put on a black female rapper.

I was immediately uninterested in where the conversation was going. To be fair, I’m not interested in anyone who talks about colorblindness. It’s both an ignorant concept (every single person sees color) and it shouldn’t be the goal. I don’t want people to not see my color. I don’t want to be oppressed and discriminated against because of it.

Hearing talk of colorblindness from an artist I’d been a fan of for more than a decade, all because he wanted to cape for a white female rapper who once rapped, “When the relay starts I’m a runaway slave-master,” was disappointing. A black man from the once-segregated south who understands the unfair sentencing in the judicial system— one that he has his own history with —really thinks we shouldn’t see color? Ok, Clifford.

Duval isn’t a cultural critic or journalist so I didn’t expect any type of nuance about the idea of colorblindness. Enough of his tweets have creeped in to my timeline to know he’s not exactly W.E.B. Dubois smart, or even Tyler Perry smart. So, there’s that.

T.I. stops doing the whole double consciousness routine to play some snippets from his forthcoming record: “I’m A King,” the Pharrell-produced “Paperwork,” “G Shit” and “New National Anthem,” which he referred to as a politically charged record.

Before introducing “New National Anthem” T.I. said, “They’ve always tried to make it seem like we were the problem. However, now we’ve seen in recent history that they have bigger problems than us. ‘Cause we don’t run in movie theaters killing people, we don’t go in schools in Connecticut shooting kids. This is not us.”

Wait. You don’t want America to see color when it comes to your championing for Iggy yet you recognize that we, the Black folks, aren’t “Go[ing] in schools in Connecticut shooting kids” like they, The Whites? T.I. is no more interested in being colorblind than he is in going back to jail. He wants to appease a white demographic for the white female rapper he hopes will make waves in the rap game. I see you, bruh.

By the time he played the first official single “No Mediocre” featuring his beloved Iggy Azalea, I was unable to deal with his synopsis about the song being for women and how we should be oh so thankful for it.

Because I love women so much, I chose women as my topic of discussion. So, you’re welcome. Now ladies, you were already born on a pedestal. The only thing that can take you down, is you. Ok?…It’s conveyed through your actions and presentation of yourself. I’ll give you an example, if your bras and ya panties ain’t matching and you know you gon’ get naked later on and somebody else gon’ see it, man, you being mediocre. You need to get yourself together.

It was more of the same of the Floyd Mayweather Jr. school of sexism and respectability politics that proclaims women are asking to be disrespected if dressed too sexy.

Somehow a white female rapper appropriating black women’s whole style with a fix-a-flat booty, faux southern ‘hood accent isn’t mediocre, but black women with their tracks showing is soooo mediocre. And this song is for us. Cute.

I couldn’t get out of the listening fast enough.

Maybe I was so bothered by his rhetoric because the room was hella white, and some white people tend to take what black celebs say as the holy grail voice of The Blacks. Maybe I’m overly sensitive because Iggy gets to appropriate shit black women have authentically been doing for decades, but gets to do so without the scathing degradation of insults of being a “bitch,” “hoodrat” or “ghetto ho,” something black women aren’t exactly afforded the privilege of. After she’s done playing dress up, her whiteness remains intact. Maybe I’m sick of culture vultures dominating black music and the black men who rush to co-sign or save them. Maybe I’m frustrated by the trendy suburban white boys whose voices and pens are at the forefront of coverage on the culture black folks created while black journalists and black press are treated like dust. And yes, I’m definitely sick of hip-hop writers/journalists (black and white) who do very little critique of hip-hop, no pushing the culture forward, but come to events to stan out, get a quick quote for their blogs and tell everyone how dope the music is.

'No Medioce' screening

‘No Mediocre’ screening

James Baldwin once noted, “I love America more than any other country in this world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.” It’s akin to how I feel about hip-hop.

The personal is always political. Separating the misogyny and cluelessness some artists have about race (looking at you Pharrell with this “new black” BS) from the music is an impossible task. And just like I want rappers to be more informed about their ideas about race, misogyny and sexism, I want journalists who cover hip-hop to be more honest, critical thinkers, and to create better content around the culture we’re consuming daily.

There was a time music journalism did this. I’ve heard the stories of rappers and their cliques coming up to magazine offices ready to bang you out over an unfavorable album review. I’ve read the public articles taking Dr. Dre to task for horrifically beating up Dee Barnes. Not advocating for the days a rapper would come see about you, but the honesty and fearlessness music writers had then, is desperately missed.

This must be what it feels like to be the old lady in the club.

Everybody’s too busy dickriding now, I suppose.

No one wants to be called a hater. Few reporters wants to ask hard questions because the artist may end the interview. No one wants to think beyond how the beat makes them bop their head. It’s much easier if we all write the same corny lists and praise the artists we love.

God forbid someone say maybe Iggy just ain’t that good; and she’s benefitting from the machine of the mainstream media agenda to make her pop, cultural appropriation and black men’s co-signs. And God forbid that dissenter be a woman.

May as well put back on those black shades, nod to the beat and shutup. The bass is too loud for anyone to hear you anyway.

*Full disclosure: I’ve interviewed both T.I. (read here) and his longitme friend and business partner Jason Geter (read here). Both interviews went incredibly well. That was business, this is my opinion from a fan and cultural critic perspective. 

61
Uncategorized
July 9, 2014

Young, Black And In Therapy

I almost didn’t pick her. She looked mean. Curly ‘locs draped past her shoulders shaping  her round mocha face perfectly. Her eyes were stern, uninviting. I bypassed her to call a seemingly happy-go-lucky professional instead.

But something kept gnawing at me. Don’t give up on your determination to find a progressive black female therapist. Call her. Her voice was nothing like the small photo I’d saw while searching, with great fervor, a popular online database for NYC therapists. Her tone was almost demure. Welcoming, kind, knowledgeable, happy to answer my queries. I knew she was the one.

No one thing led me to make that cold-call on a bright spring day. It was a culmination of events, habits, triggers and feelings. It was time.

By the time many of us have hit twenty we’re royally screwed up from childhood traumas, loss, abandonment, dysfunctional relationships and all of the other storms life throws our way with no roadmap on how to survive wholly. Here I was in the last year of my 20s on a quest for better—better being happiness. Real happiness. The kind that wasn’t fleeting based on circumstances, rather a joy I could feel deep in my soul.

Zora said, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” The four years I’d lived in NYC had been the former.

For over 15 years, on and off, I’d felt the same way. Me against the world, like Pac said. How did he know my life? Everybody was out to get me. And I believed none of it was my fault because…hard life.

My mom was emotionally abusive, physically too, although she’d never admit either. Her negativity and detachment from emotions weren’t easy to deal with as a child. The darkness of certain adolescent memories has forged an unmovable barrier halting the mother daughter relationship I’d yearned for for so long.

My dad was finding himself and dealing with his own battles many states away. (He has an awesome story, but it is not mine to tell). Summers with him in Baltimore were always glorious, but weren’t enough. Three months a year weren’t enough for me to feel completely loved. I’d resented him for not saving me.

As an escape from the chaos in my home from not only my mom’s bitterness, but from the dysfunctional relationship she had for nearly a decade, I found an escape in reading, dancing, acting and writing.

Fortunately my mother had the smarts to put me in every extracurricular activity you can name— everything from Taekwondo to ballet to Girl Scouts— and by high school she encouraged me to audition for Nashville School of the Arts for both dance and theater. I was accepted for both.

Achievement was how I coped with constant pains of feeling like both my parents had failed me in some ways.

Lack of attention in the home is a hell of a drug. Ma’s career was always first. The older I get the more I realize it wasn’t at all self-serving. In her mind, the more educated she became, the higher the career ladder she climbed, the better the life she could provide for me, a child she had at 25 (college degree in tow) and was raising on her own. And I am forever grateful for her commitment to education, sense of pride in being black, making sure I knew I could be anything I wanted and allowing me to see the image of a prideful black woman who was dedicated to her career.

But kids need attention. I’d been a latchkey kid since the age of seven. Because my mom’s career was demanding and she was doing it all alone, I spent more time home alone, at after-school activities and the houses of the community she built— the village who helped raise me.

By high school all of those pent up feelings turned into a plethora of problems: low self-esteem, lack of self worth, loneliness, rebellion, unhappiness, no respect for authority and negative self-talk.

By college bad habits had become as natural as breathing. I’d tried to commit suicide when I was a freshman in college. I’d ended up in a domestic abusive relationship and had no clue what a healthy one even looked like. I’d done things that I’m not ready to share with the Internet that caused many, many problems and hurdles in my life for years to come.

By the time I hit my late 20s I realized I was still doing shit I’d done in relationships when I was 17. I had habits that weren’t so easy to shake just from reading a handful of self-help books. One day a self-proclaimed prophetess tweeted something to the effect of “God has to tire you out from your own mess.” And tired I was.

After attempting suicide the week before Halloween my freshman year of college I spent about 10 days away from school in a state psychiatric ward.  I was told minors (I was 17) who attempted suicide had to be sent to the facility for examination. I’d resented my mother for sending me. Only now can I imagine how difficult it must’ve been to send her only child to sleep, eat and shit behind the saddest grey walls I’d ever seen in my life where I was relegated to one visit and timed phone calls.

Shortly after being released I’d tried my first therapist. After a couple sessions the therapist had decided my mom was a trigger for me and I needed to remove her from my life. Ummm. No thanks, lady. I never returned because in all honesty I wasn’t at all receptive to the idea.

Twelve years later I found a black female therapist in NYC. The one session we had was ok for the time being although not a match made in therapy/client heaven. I’d called her before our next session to reschedule (and yes, it was last minute so that’s my fault) and she talked to me as if I was a child. I knew then I’d never return.

I was still relentless in my search. Between the last therapist and my current therapist I’d read Be the Miracle by Regina Brett. I’d also picked up Learned Optimism but got distracted with life. I knew books were great start or could be a supplement to therapy, but I needed to see a professional.

Therapy has been freeing. Ain’t no honor in suffering in silence.

It’s reinforced a lot of what I already knew—I’m way too hard on myself, I can let go of the tactics I used as survival when I was a child, fear has crippled me, I must forgive my parents, self-love is key, I have the power to change, I need to live in the present— just to name a few.

It’s been a space to completely be me. Flawed and vulnerable. Honest about how I really feel without judgment. Mostly I adore my therapist and sessions because it’s practical. Every week I have homework that is relevant to actually making changes. My therapist isn’t a longterm therapist, meaning she doesn’t have any clients longer than a year. So she is serious about being action-oriented and change driven. I’m also relieved to know I’m not “crazy” (yup, I asked my therapist if I was “crazy” or bipolar to which she thought was funny I asked and quickly determined I wasn’t). Nothing is wrong with me that a shift in thinking, habits, positive self-help and letting go can’t heal.

Although I have much work to do and years of trauma to work through, I’m grateful I found a trained professional to assist me with the process. And what a process it is.

“How you gon’ win when you ain’t right within?”

Lauryn knows. And the fact that she assumingly wasn’t ‘right within’ when she rapped those prolific words is a reminder we all have stuff and we’re all trying to do the best we can with what we’ve been given.

*Finding a black female, progressive, feminist leaning therapist was crucial for me. There are nuances and pain specific to black women that I didn’t want to have to explain. When I was unemployed without insurance I talked to a former friend about needing therapy and she suggested resources for the uninsured, but there were no black therapists. She implied I shouldn’t be picky considering I didn’t have health insurance. Nonsense. Would you just choose any ol’ OBGYN just because you don’t have insurance? I’m glad I waited. Finding a therapist that is the right match is critical to the actual growth and healing you hope to do.

**Currently I’m reading You Can Heal Your Life by Louise Hay. I haven’t finished it, but highly recommend it. There are literally thousands of testimonials on how this one book single-handedly changed lives.

*** Here’s a book list of 30 self-help books that my awesome boyfriend sent me. The authors are overwhelmingly white though. Take from it what you want, leave the rest.

15
Any & Everything, Culture, Life
May 18, 2014

Help Send Inner-city Youth To Barbados For A Good Cause!

Excuse me while I scream with excitement.

I’ve entered the final round of my first-ever blogging competition! I’ve been blogging for five years and have never been moved to actually blog to win a contest. But throw out the words inner-city youth, international travel (Barbados!), good cause and writing, and I’m all in.

Atlantic Impact is a Detroit based non-profit who works with Detroit high school students for three years beginning their sophomore year.  The organization provides year-round programming through workshops, after school sessions and international travels. Through the focus on international travels Atlantic Impact’s goal is to empower students to think critically about their own communities and global ones. With all the resources and travel abroad opportunities Atlantic Impact provides them over the years, these students from some of the most dangerous ‘hoods in the country become college ready high school graduates.

The Detroit high schoolers attending the trip attend the bottom 5 percent of the worst performing schools in their state. All of the students receive either free or reduced lunch. Most come from single parent households; and none of them have a single family member who has traveled out of the country. Because of their environments they have a difficult time with their academics as well as life in general. But with Atlantic Impact’s commitment to taking them abroad they’ll have the chance to see life outside of their blocks, ‘hoods and cities.

Let’s be clear: These students are not to be pathologized. Many of them are brilliant. They just don’t have the resources to excel that students from more privileged backgrounds do.

Here’s why I need your help: it’s a competition. The blogger who raises the most money has a guaranteed spot on the trip. The importance of me being on the trip is for students to be able to interact with someone who has had so many life, education and professional experiences that they otherwise wouldn’t be exposed to. It’s really a short mentorship over the course of the 10 day trip. By being on the trip I’ll also be able to help them understand the importance of traveling abroad and how it can impact their lives. The students will journal what they did and what they learned and present to their classmates when they return home. Hopefully this will inspire their peers from the same failing schools, from the same neighborhoods, to think outside the box.

I’m excited the chance to travel with the students because I’ve literally been traveling abroad since I was six months old. St. Maarten was one of my very first trips overseas. And I haven’t stopped traveling since. From Venezuela to Cayman Islands to Mexico to St. Kitts to Jamaica to Tokyo, it’s been adventure after adventure. Traveling expands your perspective, makes you appreciate other cultures, fuels your imagination, allows you to dream bigger. If there’s anything I know from working in NY public schools and NYC charter schools it’s that students are eager to learn and be exposed to new experiences as long as the opportunity is there. Barbados for them is the trip that will ignite a fire inside these students’ bellies and reinforce the idea that their dreams are valid. Word to Lupita.

I’m hoping you’re as excited as I am to help me raise money for a good cause!

The goal is $2,500, but the more the merrier. Since Atlantic Impact is a non-profit all donations are tax-deductible. The money donated goes directly to Atlantic Impact who in turn uses the funds for international programming (travel related costs like flights, accommodations, food, insurance, activities), technology and school supplies.

No amount is too small. Please spread the word via Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, Tumblr, email and text. I’ll be sending out personal shoutouts on Twitter as well. The deadline is June 9, 2014.

Thank you so much for taking this journey with me! Whether it’s through donations, words of encouragement or just posting to social media, I am so grateful for your support. Now, let’s go! #TeamBené

For more info visit: http://atlanticimpact.org/

To donate go to https://www.crowdrise.com/benedoingitfortheyouth/fundraiser/beneviera or see below.

Fundraising Websites – Crowdrise

0
Life
May 11, 2014

I’m Trying To Adopt A Dog, But The Way My Patience Is Set Up…

One day our walk to the babysitter’s house was interrupted by a loose Chihuahua. To the other kids this was a fun surprise. For me it was a moment of terror and panic. I had a crippling fear of dogs. I knew if I ran he/she would chase me. As I crept toward Ms. White’s house the hyper dog must’ve sensed my discomfort. Before I knew it I was running around in circles as the dog barked and chased me. It was like a never ending merry-go-round complete with barking and screaming. It was quite the show for the kids who weren’t scared of the dog. I was the joke of the day.

My fear of dogs lasted until I was nearly 25— a grown ass woman. The only dog I was comfortable around was Poo Bear, my grandma’s Shih-Tzu who was part of the family.

We never had pets growing up. My mom is allergic to pretty much everything so I’ve only had fish after my grandfather convinced my mom to let me get a fish tank.

All of my dog fears went out the window when I started dating a guy with a Pit mix while I was in grad school. His dog, Swag, was big. And initially I wanted nothing to do with him. “Don’t play with me!” I’d warn. “Put Swag in Deandre’s room.” But the more time I spent over Ex’s house the less realistic it was to put the dog up every single time. Who knew the solution to my fear of dogs would be to date someone with a big ass Pit?

My dream dog. AKA Charlotte's dog from SATC.

My dream dog. AKA Charlotte’s dog from SATC.

Five years since conquering my fear I’m ready to become a mom.

Last fall babe and I hit up a pet shop in the suburbs on one of our occasional trips to LI for the Cheesecake Factory. He wasn’t really serious about getting a dog for himself, but I was becoming attached to the idea. For about an hour we played with the few dogs I liked: small, cute, chill. We talked to the pet store owner about what breeds would be good for me as a first time pet owner. For obvious reasons I knew a Chihuahua was out of the question, or any dog with too much energy. I fell in love with a Cockapoo while he found a soft spot for a Beagle. But neither of us was ready to drop $1,500 that night so window shopping would have to suffice.

photo (2)

Until it wouldn’t. The idea of having a dog kept gnawing at me. Why not? I turned 29 this year, I’m in love with my brownstone apartment, I work from home three days a week (perfect if I need to train a puppy) and my finances are good.

For my personality and lifestyle it has to be a Cockapoo, Shih-Tzu or Shihpoo, King Charles Cavalier Spaniel, Maltipoo or maybe a Dachshund. I did my research. I already knew puppy mills were bad and found out dog breeders are also frowned upon. What I didn’t know was there’s a whole movement against buying dogs, especially from pet stores. An XO Jane contributor made a strong argument against people who buy pets considering the large number of dogs in shelters and rescues, and 5500 die in shelters every day in this country.

After reading almost every comment on the XOJ piece I’d decided I wanted to adopt from a shelter or rescue. I figured I could give a dog in desperate need of a home a loving one and save some money.

But there’s a caveat that isn’t really discussed: the tedious process. Before going in to the process I’ll mention shelters and rescues want to make sure the dogs find a “forever home.” Many of the dogs have had traumatic lives so the volunteers want to avoid dogs being brought back to the shelter by an irresponsible owner who didn’t consider the cost or amount of work it is to have a dog. I get it. With that said, these rescues and shelters are picky as hell.

Shihpoo!

Shihpoo!

Let’s start with the fact that the specific breeds I want that will fit my lifestyle and work as me being a first time pet owner are not the kinds of dogs overflowing in shelters. Then there’s the sad reality that many of the dogs are already adults, have health issues, behavioral issues or all three. I saw a couple heartbreaking pictures of dogs with one missing eye. But determined to still adopt I plowed through 80+ pages on Petfinder. 

I saw a handful of dogs that didn’t have behavior or health issues that could work. I put in an application with the adoption agency for a Shih-Tzu I really liked. The application was very detailed about work schedule, how you would train the dog, experience with pets, what you do for a living, your financial plan to care for the dog if it gets sick and more. Most agencies want three personal references as well as a home visit all before you get approved. Once you get approved you still may not get the dog you want.

On Saturday night I received this email.

photo (1)

Sigh. I was prepared for this. A few of the commenters in the XOJ piece criticized the author for not addressing how hard it is to adopt. More than a few people had been denied up to seven times for either not having a 5″ fence or because they worked eight hour days. Excuse me? So working a full-time job could hender you from giving a dog a home? Yeah, no. That’s ridiculous.

I wasn’t sure if the email was an all out denial so I asked for clarification. She flat out said they were too busy to accept new applications right now, plus the dog I wanted has behavioral issues (which weren’t listed in his bio) so she doesn’t think we’d be a good match.

This is partly why people buy pets. Adopting dogs is not free. It can run up to $500. People are going to have an attitude if they’re paying half a stack to have a volunteer tell them because they work full-time they’re not suitable to be a dog owner. (That hasn’t been my case but it was something mentioned in the comments.)
People also want what they want when they want it.

While I may have the patience to go through 100s of pages searching for a dog, filling out an application, handing over personal references, waiting for a response, having a volunteer all up in my home, many people don’t have that kind of patience or time when they can walk in a pet store and 30 minutes later walk out with their new pet.

If so many dogs are being euthanized a day there has to be a smoother way to make sure the dog is being placed in a safe forever home and also that people trying to adopt don’t feel like they’re being vetted for the secret service or being denied because they have to work to make a living. The same living that affords them the lifestyle to pay for a dog’s needs.

I’m only a few months in and the pet store is calling my name…

0
Life, Women
May 8, 2014

‘and you tried to change didn’t you? closed your mouth more. tried to be softer.’ – warsan shire

A little sad warsan shire’s archive of brilliant word play in the form of poetry no longer exists. ‘Twas a real treat.

One night I spent two plus hours reading those poetic stories. I cried. I wiped my face. In my head I thought, ‘Me too, warsan. Me too.’ Her ability to capture the sadness of life that so many of us are too afraid to give words to, let alone write about them publicly, was something magical. When people say black girls are magic they are referring to warsan shire.

My obsession with her, her word, her vulnerability started three years ago. ‘For women who are difficult to love’ did me in. How could this 22-year-old (at the time) be so wise. Be so right. How could she masterfully turn such emotional truths into such beautifully poetic words. I still don’t know.

Years after first reading ‘For women’ I sent it to a lover. He in turn surprised me with her book. I’ll always cherish it.

I pitched her story as a profile piece to a music magazine. The pitch was accepted but the story fell through. Tight deadline, our schedules didn’t align.

I still stalk her timeline for gems like this:

And this.

“How far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their lap?” That’s a word right there.

And this doesn’t begin to capture her brilliance.

For anyone who needs it.

‘For women who are difficult to love’

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.

1
Uncategorized
May 8, 2014

‘U&Me&EveryoneWeKnow’

A former lover loved Jean Grae. He was a stan. It was cute. He’d tried to force her on me every time the opportunity presented itself. His new girlfriend appreciates what I didn’t. They listen to her together.

I liked the idea of her but wasn’t all the way into the flow although she is a lyrical beast. On one of those long trips from Manhattan to Long Island I finally hit play on Cookie or Comas. It had some joints. “Blame Game.” There was another song I’d play on repeat from one of her LPs but have since forgotten.

I rediscovered Jean reading Maya’s timeline. She tweeted the lyrics to “U&Me&EveryoneWeKnow.” Girl, listen. No. Really listen.

Rap references because you get em all…

…

I think
Too much
Over analyzing everything sucks
I’m over over-dramatizing everything but
You’re never on the level I’m on, unless we’re cut-ting
Plus then we never argued when thrusting but then
After all, it just turns to dust, brother
Swear I’d never love another if this really worked out
But this is just like watching fitness informercials from the couch
Ouch
I know, you’re lazy
It’s easier to pick a partner less crazy
Much less work, less purpose, less of A to Z
Cause I’m an alpha, bet it’s hard to stay with me

For ever doubting Jean, I apologize.

0
Entertainment, Pop Culture, Race
May 8, 2014

Kim K Never Thought About Racism Before Her Daughter, And Water Is Wet

In today’s shocking-to-no-one news, Kim Kardashian admits she’d never given racism or discrimination any thought because, well, it just wasn’t her problem.

In a post titled “On My Mind” posted to her website the Vogue cover girl wrote:

To be honest, before I had North, I never really gave racism or discrimination a lot of thought. It is obviously a topic that Kanye is passionate about, but I guess it was easier for me to believe that it was someone else’s battle. But recently, I’ve read and personally experienced some incidents that have sickened me and made me take notice. I realize that racism and discrimination are still alive, and just as hateful and deadly as they ever have been.

Kim wants to take a pledge to ensure all children grow up in a world free of judgment because of race or sexual orientation.

“So the first step I’m taking is to stop pretending like this isn’t my issue or my problem, because it is, it’s everyone’s,” she wrote.

Better late than never, Kimmy Cakes. I’m not mad at her for at least wanting to stop pretending racism isn’t her problem. Like she said, it is everyone’s.

However, one must wonder how racism was never addressed pre-Kanye with all the black men Kim K’s dated, including the one she married at 19, the one who is the ultimate source of her fame (hi, Ray J), the second one she married (what up Kris Humphries) and the one she’s engaged to and had the gorgeous North West with.

Racism just wasn’t a thing Kim could worry her pretty little brain with.

Did none of these men ever talk about the day-to-day struggles of being a black man in America with their darling eye candy? Did they talk about anything other than…never mind. Perhaps they didn’t discuss race because they were the “new black” (looking at you Pharrell) where racism isn’t a thing because “black isn’t a color, it’s a spirit, and it’s ubiquitous.”

(Chile these “new black” Negroes are exhausting.)

When racism made national headlines like the Rodney King case (she was young, I know) or Sean Bell or Donald Trump’s not so subtle racism insisting president Obama prove he’s American or president Obama being called the “food stamp president” or Jordan Davis, did Kim bury her head in the sand? Was she too busy X-raying her booty for ratings to prove to America it was real? Was she out tanning?

It’s not just Kim though, as vapid as she is. Bless her heart. This is how white privilege works. White people have the privilege of walking around every single day without ever having to think about race. People of color aren’t so privileged.

Hopping on black peen doesn’t mean Kim—or anyone else who dates black men/woman—knows a thing about racism or discrimination. Obviously. It also doesn’t mean they can’t be racist, but hey, I’m not even supposed to be blogging right now. We’ll table that for later.

Get your girl a few books, Ye. May I suggest Nella Larsen’s Passing or Race Matters by Cornel West or the Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison or Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison or one of my personal favorites The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander.

Racism is real out here in these streets, Kimmy. Even for your millionaire fiancé who is constantly critiquing how the fashion industry basically told him, ‘you can’t sit with us.’

Help her out, Ye!

#FixItJesus

Hopefully Kim is also reconsidering her decision to raise her daughter to be colorblind. All of us who can see will see color, always. Seeing race isn’t the problem. It’s when there’s a system designed to oppress and discriminate against people because of race  that is. Colorblindness isn’t the goal; it’s accepting and appreciating people for their racial differences .

North West will be biracial, but she will not be exempt from racism that is inevitable for people of color, particularly blacks. Depending on her skin tone as she gets older, that beautiful baby may be viewed by the world as a black girl and later black woman.

It’d be helpful if  she had a mama who was fully aware of what that’ll entail.

12
Journalism, Life, Writing Excercises
March 20, 2014

What I Know About Writing (For Anyone Who Has Ever Asked Me For Advice)

I was home on Thanksgiving or Christmas break when I started the now defunct WritingWhileBlack.wordpress.com. It was 2009. I felt so excluded from my mostly white graduate J-school and needed a platform to write the thoughts that were in my head. I’d outgrown the Notes section on Facebook and I wanted to engage with people outside of my bubble. 

Surprisingly, people were interested in what I wrote. The site grew, I hustled my ass off to become a published writer and eventually my byline became recognizable. The WordPress blog was deleted, writingwhileblack.com was born and was finally revamped to beneviera.com. I’d gone from unknown writer to writing for Clutch.com then ESSENCE magazine and later Gawker’s Jezebel in a year. Not bad for a chick who moved to New York with few contacts and little money.

I was polarizing. You either vehemently disagreed (and hated me because of it despite having never met me), or were proudly part of the “yasssssss, girl” choir. I’m passionate about race, black women, feminism, social justice and relationships so I wrote about those topics. I was overly active on social media, constantly promoting my work, engaging readers or defending one of my pieces. I’d receive emails daily from self-proclaimed aspiring writers wanting to know “How did you do it? How can I do what you did? Please give me advice.”

Many of those emails went unanswered. I thought it a strange thing for anyone to look at me as some sort of inspiration, let alone someone who could dole out advice on how to break into an industry that I’ve barely touched the surface of after five years. But posts like “A Year Later” and “The Faces of Domestic Violence Pt. 1”  made people cry. It inspired. Others were just happy they weren’t the only one going through it, and they graciously told me as much. The “me too!” responses became my motivation.

Long before I knew I wanted to be a writer I was writing. I have old journals of raps I’d written (yes, they’re terrible), poems and short stories. My first byline was in The Saginaw News in seventh grade. Yet none of that made me think ‘I’m going to be a writer one day.’ I knew for sure I’d be a big time sports and entertainment or civil rights attorney. I took the LSAT. I even thought after getting my Master’s I’d pursue a JD, but I finally gave up that dream in 2009 and have been writing professionally for about five years.

I’m honored that my truth and story resonates with people from all walks of life. I’m often humbled by the emails I’ve received in some of my darkest days when I didn’t think I could pen a sentence worth much of anything, or the days I complained about not getting the credit I was due. Those emails carried me during the times I felt I had to stop writing about race because mainstream would put me in a box, or that I wouldn’t make it because I didn’t have a clear niche. I cried when I’d read the encouraging words of total strangers during times I needed to read them the most. Those words were a beacon of light from Mother Universe pushing me forward, telling me I was doing exactly what I was supposed to be doing, and I was exactly where I was supposed to be. For those I didn’t thank personally via email, thank you. I am forever grateful.

As a writer I’m not sure I’ll ever be totally satisfied with my writing. Hell, I still break grammar rules. The English language is tricky. And because I can’t write magically like Chimamanda Adichie or Zora, it feels weird to give advice to younger writers. But I know my voice is valuable. I know something about being the underdog. I know about going from a grad student with no writing credentials to interviewing everyone from Diahann Carroll to Anita Hill to Rev. Al Sharpton to Nas to Trayvon Martin’s dad. I know the full-time freelance hustle. I know about working in mainstream from my experiences at The Network. I’ve written essays and profile pieces and Op-Eds and news stories and low-hanging fruit lists. I know things about the media industry because I’m in it. And I’ve studied it.

So here’s what I know and what I’d tell anyone if they asked for quick advice about being a writer.

You’re not an aspiring anything. Either you is or you ain’t.
I don’t remember who gave me this advice early in my career, but I do know from that day forward I never introduced myself as an ‘aspiring writer.’ I am a writer. Period. Titles matter. It’s why we celebrate promotions at work. It’s why there’s a difference between being a man’s friend versus his girlfriend versus his wife. More than anything, this gem was a lesson about speaking your life into existence and the power of words. The words you speak aloud manifest in your life. If I’d kept referring to myself as an aspiring writer I may still be aspiring.

Read more than you write.
If you write more than you read you’re doing this wrong. Reading mind blowing writing all the time should make you a better writer. Read everything. Even what you’re not interested in. Magazines. Fiction. Non-fiction. Literary journals. Subscribe to ESSENCE and VIBE, but for the love of brown Jesus read the The New Yorker, New York Magazine, Esquire and Fast Company. Love you some Zora and Zadie and Chimamanda, but don’t overlook Virginia Woolf, Flora Nwapa and Junot Diaz. Everything you read doesn’t have to be mainstream either. There are literally tens of thousands of blogs with important content. Seek them out. Just read smart, funny, thought provoking, dope ass writing.

Get rid of your idols. No, seriously.
Idols disappoint. Get them the entire fuck off of that pedestal you’ve created. Including myself. I’m sure by now I’ve disappointed the same readers who once spazzed when randomly meeting me in person. (I will never get used to that happening.) One of my writer idols disappointed the hell out of me when he/she hopped in my DMs over the backlash he/she was getting from some inflammatory shit he/she had tweeted. Said idol spoke their peace, I spoke mine, then he/she promptly let me know they were unfollowing me on Twitter. “I’ve greatly enjoyed your wrtg through following you. Unfollowing, because as you can see here, I have no respect for subliminals. Peace.”

There have been other times with even pettier stories of idols 20+ my senior minding business that is not theirs to mind then denying me an opportunity because of it. Humanize the hell out of these people because if you don’t you only have yourself to blame, if and when they disappoint you.

You are not Lola Ogunnaike or Ta-Nehisi Coates. You’re you.
Comparing my writing—more honestly my journey—to other writers, has been a cause of much discontent. Let’s unpack the writing piece first. Admire your favorite writers’ words all day long. I don’t even mind you temporarily borrowing pieces of their style until you find your own. This is common for new writers. But don’t you dare try to become a knock-off version of them. Your voice is what makes your writing different from everyone. If your voice is a cheap imitation of someone else’s words then you’re not really a writer. I’d give my 80+ pair shoe collection to be able to write like some of my faves. I study their words. I’ve practiced writing with more color, more anecdotes, more alliteration to mirror their beautiful sentences. But I am still me. And my words will always be authentic to my voice.

When it comes to comparing my career to that of others I’ve mastered that shit like Chelsea Handler’s mastered unfunny, racist comedy and riding black penis. When I’m having a meltdown to my man I always refer to Demetria’s career. It’s one I’ve admired from the sidelines and now know on a personal level as she’s been a great advisor over the years. “But Demetria got a job at Honey from writing a blog. Then at ESSENCE she built her platform and visibility. Every successful writer has a niche. Demetria is all about relationships. Touré does race. I don’t even have a niche!” My patient and loving significant other always reminds me, “That’s not your journey, though. Everyone has a different path. You have to stop comparing yourself to other people.” Whether you’re comparing your career to peers or mentors who have years on you, it’s self-defeating. Not to mention pointless. You are where you are, you’ve accomplished what you’ve accomplished, and it has absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. Travel in your lane. Of course you want bigger, better, more. Figure out how to get that on your own terms. Stop comparing your chapter one to somebody’s chapter 20.

Be real with yourself.
Do you want to be the EIC of a magazine one day or is your end goal to start your own magazine? Are you writing about music for the culture or do you just want to attend the open bar music listenings to snap a picture with an artist for the ‘gram? Your goals will change as you accomplish old ones. Be real with yourself about why you’re writing, why you want to do this and what you’re willing to endure to get there. If you’re not willing to be poor in the early stages of your career, wait sometimes up to 90 days to get paid, doubt your writing pretty much forever, pitch ideas, hear “No” often and get down right ignored by editors, you may want to consider another industry.

Are you a writer or do you want to be in the industry?
As tempting as it is for me to write about the people who are obviously in the media game just to be in the industry, I’ll spare you. This shit is not glamourous. Yes, I’ve posted IG pics posing with Nas and Brandy and Diahann Carroll. Sure I’ve heard classic albums like Kendrick’s good kid, m.A.A.d. city before it dropped. I’ve been the only journalist in the studio interviewing OGs like Busta Rhymes. I watched the early screening of Django Unchained with the private theater. This could all be considered perks of being a journalist, but be very clear, it’s a job. I don’t attend events just to be there. I’m completely uninterested in being on the scene. Don’t get into this game because you think it’s going to be a lot of hobnobbing with celebrities. No, it’s going to be a lot of 14 hour days, working a 10-6 you don’t love but it pays the bills, attending events, getting home at 11p.m. to have to write a post about said event for the next morning. There’s going to be a lot of alienating friends and family because there isn’t enough time in the day for your day job, freelancing and your side hustle. Half the time you forget to eat because you’re doing 723 things at once. Something has to suffer and it will be your relationships. This shit ain’t a movie. If you want to be in the industry for the sake of being in the industry you and I have nothing in common. And you’re not a writer. You’re a socialite posing as one.

Keep your head down and do the work.
Oh Denene Millner. This gem has carried me through, do you hear me? I was stressing over not knowing where to go next. What to do. How come I’m not further along? And baaaaby. Denene gave me a word. When the woman who has written 24 books (some NYT Bestsellers) talks, you listen. Not to mention her pen game is bananas. Instead of all the worrying I was doing she first reassured me that nobody starts out with a niche so to get that out of my head. She then told me to “get the burden off my shoulders” by comparing myself to her or Aliya S. King or anyone else I admire. Then she went to church. “You have to learn your craft. Keep experimenting with your words. Keep your head down and do the work.” That’s it. I won’t elaborate on this too much because Denene said it all. Opportunities will come to you as you’re working, as you’re perfecting.

Write until your fingers bleed.
Discipline is something I’ve vowed to do better about. I can’t in good conscience tell you to write every day. But write as often as you can. Experiment with word play. There’s no shortcuts. Repetition breeds mastery. Practice all the time. Say yes to every story that challenges you. Write for publications off of the radar. Take every assignment. 10,000 hours. Read Malcolm Gladwell so you’ll get that reference. Stylistically switch it up. Write until your fingers bleed, or at least until they feel cramped.

9
Culture, Entertainment, Pop Culture
November 21, 2013

Black Male Celebs Must Do Better Ft. Kanye, Jay Z And Nelly

Kanye West was one of the few rappers other than Nas I’d think, ‘He gets it’ and knew that he really did. That was the College Dropout to Watch The Throne (2004-2011) days. This is now.

I’m not on the ‘Kanye has lost his mind’ train. It’s more complex than that. I’m also no therapist so I figure I’m not qualified to come to such a conclusion. Since Kanye has become part of the Kardashian camp, though, his appeal as an artist and person has plummeted.

His ego was never bothersome for me. I’d actually always defended him for his radical act of self-love. I also knew that a lot of hatred toward Kanye was racially coded. Sure he appears to be a “jackass ,”as the president has called him. But much of the hatred from middle America is rooted in society being uncomfortable with a black man who thinks so highly of himself. A black man must know his place. And that place isn’t walking around calling himself god or a genius.  His candid public musings on race didn’t help his popularity among the melanin deficient. Saying awesome shit like, “George Bush doesn’t care about black people” was the nail in the coffin, or maybe it was him snatching the mic from Taylor Swift, which by all accounts has only helped her career.

I loved Kanye for all of the reasons America hated him. But Kanye’s changed.We all evolve. At least if you’re living right you should be. It’s not him changing it’s who he’s become.

The “Drug dealers buy Jordans, crackheads buy crack/But the white man get paid off of all of that” Kanye is buried underneath layers of an inferiority complex where he’s begging for white approval. All of his rants about classism— which he thinks is new— are about white designers not letting him sit at the table. Marrying a woman who said they’ll raise a colorblind child is about his obsession with white women, one that has been a consistent theme in his music and videos for years. His blatant disrespect for the president is about him having a temper tantrum because the president spoke truth about his fiancé being famous for fame’s sake and kids wanting to emulate celebrities for the wrong reasons.

Ye lost me with the disrespect for the president and selling confederate flag merchandise. Now I’m not one of those ‘don’t air out our dirty laundry in front of the white folks’ kind of gals. Valid criticisms of President Obama are fair game. But this, “Well I feel like he shouldn’t mention my baby mama name…You know, we both from Chicago, and you know…” Nope. Not here for it. The audacity of this mothafucka.

The confederate flag and his response to the criticism of him selling confederate flag tour merchandise is disgusting. It’s laughable that Kanye believes Al Sharpton’s threats to boycott him are a form of self-hate. Kanye is becoming the epitome of self-hate. I’ve worn tired of the faux black power act. What is he doing for kids in Chicago? Has he randomly popped up at an HBCU to give a speech and giveaway 300 free tickets to his show the way he did at Harvard School of Design this past Sunday? Does he make sure to rock and promote black designers since he insists the fashion industry is racist and classist? Of course he doesn’t. He just likes to be a rebel without a cause. Someone DM me when he comes back down to earth. You know, where the rest of us human beings live.

confederat flag merch

Then there’s his big brother Jay. Jay Z couldn’t be more different than Kanye in the way he’s carefully constructed his image in the media, making very few missteps. There was him stabbing Un, mushing a woman in the head backstage, the Cuba fiasco and now Barneygate. Other than that he’s been the media’s darling.

But Barneys’ PR nightmare has blown up in his face. Of course he played victim. Whoever hoped the ultimate capitalist was going to drop his partnership with Barneys was mistaken. I knew he wasn’t. And true to form, he didn’t. The first thing I thought after reading his explanation for not dropping his partnership was, ‘Oh. This mothafucka thinks we’re stupid.’ He really does.

Mr. Business, Man goes on and on about how now 100% of the funds will be donated to The Shawn Carter Foundation, and how he’ll have a seat on council in dealing with racial profiling. Bullshit. Then he frames the conversation by insisting that dropping the line would have been the easy thing to do. Bullshit times two.

The easy thing to do is to continue your line and have your publicist write a cute little statement that on the surface appears to be a “smart business move.” I swear to baby brown Jesus if anyone tells me it was “smart” I  wish a million Tyler Perry movies upon them. Jay should have taken a stand. He should’ve made a huge statement to corporations that he wouldn’t support any businesses practicing racial profiling. Under the guise of charity he’s urging black and brown shoppers (whoever can afford it) to buy the line, which is only available at a store guilty of racially profiling. And this is with whom you want to place your faith? Harry Belafonte was right about this dude. And so is André Leon Talley.

“Any African-American, male or female, with any consciousness of what has happened would not go into Barneys right now,” André Leon Talley, the former editor at large of Vogue, said in an interview this week. “Nor Macy’s.” He said that if he were in Jay Z’s position, “for the simplicity of making a broad statement I would pull out.”

barneys-new-slaves1

I remember when Nelly’s sister died of leukemia in 2005. I also remember the controversy around the “Tip Drill” video in 2004 when a group of Spelman women requested a conversation with the rapper about his degradation of black women. Long story short, Nelly refused to have the conversation with the Feminist Majority Leadership Alliance (FMLA), he pulled out of the bone marrow drive and the story gets murky from there.

Nearly 10 years later and Nelly still blames the group of women for his sister’s death. On HuffPo Live he goes as far to say the only thing he would’ve done differently is “kicked some ass.” Kicked whose ass? A group of women? Nelly is threatening violence on women and it goes unchecked by the interviewer who happens to be a black man. Unreal.

FMLA responds and has a different version of events. According to them the drive still went on and they shouldn’t have had to choose between addressing health and the dehumanization of black women.

I’m reluctant to offer an opinion on this because Nelly’s obviously still grieving. But he’s wrong. Nelly doesn’t get it. He thinks his actions don’t qualify as misogyny because no one made the woman participate in the video or the degrading act of having a credit card slid down her butt cheeks.

It’s exhausting to explain feminism to people committed to misunderstanding it. Nelly doesn’t have the slightest clue based on the interview. How patriarchy and misogyny works are beyond his understanding. So is what feminism is all about.

spelman

Moya Bailey, the former president of Spelman’s FMLA during the time, broke it down for it to be forever broken.

Often Black feminists are represented as advocates for censorship. People often portray us as sex-hating, stick-in-the-mud conservatives concerned with respectability. That couldn’t be further from the truth. In fact, we like sex so much (NSFW) we dare to think that women should enjoy it and not be subjugated to images that define our sexuality in limited ways. Music videos and lyrics, including yours, often portray women as silent partners and objects of male attention. This silence, Nelly, is not unlike the silence you expected from us regarding your visit. Women are instructed in many songs about what to do, wear, drink, how to dance and behave to make themselves appealing to men.

The heterosexist and cissexist nature of these images reinforces the idea that women’s sexuality, our bodies, are not our own and are ultimately in the service of men’s needs. “It must be ya ass cause it ain’t your face,” literally reduces women’s value to the attractiveness of their body parts.

Glad to know if you had it do over again you would have “kicked some ass.”

Just name the time and place, sir. I’m ready.

Oh, one more for shits and giggles. The Best Man Holiday was good, really good. I wrote about it. I specifically loved that it showed black men in marriages having emotions. Every black male character cried. Yes, fellas. You can be manly and still have emotions— even tears. But TBMH is fiction. And this is real life:

best man holiday

Discuss.

11
Culture, Pop Culture, Race
October 27, 2013

You Tried It: Ft. Chris Brown, Jay Z And Trayvon Martin Halloween Costume

I’m on a gossip blog detox. And let me tell you how lovely life has been. Minding one’s own business and keeping your opinions for paid columns is a beautiful thing. But chile, it’s only Sunday and folks have really tried it.

I’m pretty much done with Halloween. Yes, for like, ever. It’s become covert racists’ favorite pastime. The holiday’s only saving grace is the kiddies who dress up like André Leon Talley and grapes made from balloons. Chicks like Julianne Hough ruin it for everybody. The former “Dancing with The Stars” contestant  must’ve thought it was a brilliant idea to don blackface this year by dressing up as Crazy Eyes from Netflix’s hit series “Orange Is The New Black.” I’m unsure how no one on her team thought, ‘This is a bad idea.’ Or told her she could pull off the costume without, I don’t know, NOT DOING BLACKFACE.

julianne-hough

Think pieces galore are written like clockwork around Halloween time outlining what’s offensive. Every single year these lists explain, in detail, why mocking someone’s ethnicity or culture is offensive. Every year the articles nearly beg the clueless to not dress up in blackface and Indian garb. And every year folks do it anyway. It really isn’t Neuroscience, people. Since we live in such a disposable society many offenders know they can do something offensive, apologize and people will have moved on to something new within 24 hours. It’s precisely why I don’t care about the apologies when racist celebs do racist things. Acknowledging you’ve done something offensive or racist is necessary, but I’m more interested in whether or not the lesson was learned. Does Hough really understand the history of blackface and why it’s offensive? If not, she can keep her apology. Black people are exhausted from the blatant racism we experience or see every single day. When the racism itself isn’t enough to drive us mad, we’re told to “lighten up” or worse, “stop playing the race card,” to which we think, ‘Get a gotdamn clue.’

Speaking of clues, I can assure you Dumb, Dumber and Dumbest have not an ounce of a clue. William Filene and Greg Cimeno thought it was slap-your-knee funny to dress up as Trayvon Martin and George Zimmerman. Do you know what kind of person you have to be to think this is a joke worthy of laughter? Racism aside, who comes up with the idea to dress up as a dead kid? Racists, that’s who. Imagine if two black guys decided to dress up as one of the dead kids from Sandy Hook and Adam Lanza. They’d certainly be in the unemployment line by Monday.

trayvon costume

Chick standing between Dumb and Dumbest (Kt Cimeno) is no innocent bystander. Little Miss Racist posted the picture on Instagram four times. She is one of the Internet’s biggest trolls, dying of thirst. Her racism runs deep. On FB she also posted a a picture of a little black girl sporting a ‘Black Girls Rock’ t-shirt, and basically wrote, “mommy lied to you.” She then theorized on how it would be received if she had on a shirt that read ‘White Girls Rock.’ Our school system has truly failed Kt. Making such a comparison is asinine. I’m with whoever suggested making all three of them unhirable. Let Google cache haunt their little racist lives forever. What’s truly infuriating is the reality that Sybrina Fulton and Tracy Martin will most likely hear about it. They’ll be slapped in the face yet again with the gut-wrenching truth that Trayvon’s gone, justice failed them and racists have turned his death into a despicable Halloween costume. Jesus wept.

Team Breezy can stay mad. I don’t care. I’ve not been here for Chris Brown since he beat Rihanna to a pulp. Over the weekend the “Fine China” singer was arrested in D.C. on a felony assault charge for an alleged physical altercation with another man. He was in D.C. for Howard’s homecoming to host a party. Since he’s still on probation from physically assaulting his ex-girlfriend he could face up to four years in prison. He’s being held without bail until Monday, October 28.

For all those who rallied behind I Can’t Keep My Hands to Myself, is this too, the media’s fault? Nope. It wasn’t then and it isn’t now. Chris’ inability to control his anger is no one’s fault but his. I also suspect drug use and a team of enablers who need him to maintain their lifestyles.

I never ranted against the media on his behalf (except when comedian Jenny Johnson verbally attacked him and played her privilege up for national media attention). I’ve never bought any of his “my life is so positive, I just want to focus on the music” campaigns either. Domestic violence is obviously something very personal to me, so it’s safe to say I was never going to be a fan.  However, all of his run-ins/blowups/temper tantrums after the incident solidified what I felt. Chris is not a kid anymore who can chalk his mistakes up to being young.  He’s a grown ass man who needs other grown ass adults—including his mother—to stop enabling him. Chris needs to get it together. He’s burning and crashing; and as much as I’m not a fan, it’s no fun to watch.  Therapy, isolating himself and getting prayed up is long overdue.

Jay Z. Where do I begin? Barneys NY is experiencing a PR nightmare, as they should. A black male college student was arrested for purchasing a $350 belt because the store clerk thought he couldn’t afford it. NYPD hauled him off to a precinct assuming his debit card must have been stolen. They only let him go once the bank confirmed it was in fact his debit card. After the news of the first incident broke a black woman came forward accusing the police of questioning her after she purchased a $2,500 bag from Barneys. Racism still alive they don’t even be concealing it. Word to Kanye. Old Kanye, not new Kanye.

It’s the classic case of Shopping While Black that black people from every income bracket, region and pedigree know all too well.

Jay Z’s partnership with Barneys has raised quite a few eyebrows. 12,000 have signed the Change.org petition started by Derick Bowers urging Jay to drop the partnership due to the store’s racist practices. Apparently 25% of the proceeds made from the Barneys/Jay Z deal go to the Shawn Carter Foundation for college scholarships for underprivileged students. I hadn’t really thought of Jay much because, well, I am more concerned with what Barneys plans to do to rectify their racial profiling and how the racist NYPD will be held accountable for their constant racial profiling. “I don’t put much faith in celebs. Putting the pressure on Jay to drop his Barneys partnership undermines our own power collectively,” I quickly tweeted.  “Do I wish celebs were more socially conscious? Absolutely. Have I long given up the idea that they should be? Absolutely.” I fully understand the line of thinking in putting the pressure on Jay. I just don’t expect that much from a man who raps, “I’m not a businessman/I’m a business, man.”

Jay finally released a statement on  Life and Times and I remembered why Nas is the G.O.A.T. Dead ass. Jay’s statement in full can be read here. But I’m rolling my eyes hard over this:

I move and speak based on facts and not emotion. I haven’t made any comments because I am waiting on facts and the outcome of a meeting between community leaders and Barneys. Why am I being demonized, denounced and thrown on the cover of a newspaper for not speaking immediately? The negligent, erroneous reports and attacks on my character, intentions, and the spirit of this collaboration have forced me into a statement I didn’t want to make without the full facts.

I cannot with your fave. His statement was incredibly unprofessional. The arrogance reeks through the page like the church deacon who wears cheap dollar store cologne. Jay does not handle public criticism well, and it shows. What other facts could he possibly be waiting on? The facts are: A black college student legally purchased a $350 belt and was arrested for being black. This is racial profiling. #Factsonly.

The problem with statements of this ilk is that it assumes the public is dumb. Although Mr. “Can I Live?” writes that he won’t make a dime from the partnership, somebody/some entity is profiting. Believe that. There’s 75% of funds not accounted for. All 75% could be going to Barneys, or the 75% could be dispersed between multiple parties, but essentially anyone who uses their hard earned dollars at Barneys for this initiative is monetarily supporting a company with racist practices. And Jay’s failure to acknowledge that with such a flippant statement is where he fails as a celebrity FOR ME. This is exactly what the legendary Harry Belafonte was talking about. #teamHarryBelafonte.

I’m not advocating for Jay to drop his partnership. I think the onus should be on the racist salesclerk, Barneys NY and the NYPD. Jay could’ve kept this statement though. The facts are clear as day. To the “I don’t react off of emotion” point, boy, bye. There’s all kind of emotion in the “woe is me” pity party expressed by his questioning of why he’s being demonized. Luckily, I was never a fan so I’m not left feeling disappointed. I stay woke. And while Jay is a great rapper, iconic even, he only sees green. Jay is a capitalist. Everything else will always take a backseat to his bottomline. Did I already say this is another reason why Nas is the G.O.A.T.? Ok. Just wanted to make sure I made that abundantly clear.

5
Culture, Life
September 19, 2013

Defend Her Honor?

Bridget Todd was met with a barrage of queries on why her husband was only “sad” and “yelled at [the driver] to let me go” while a cab driver allegedly choked her out last Saturday night. Bridget, a D.C. based writer and activist, tweeted her account of events accusing an Uber taxi driver of choking her for kissing her white husband. Mrs. Todd is black.

Bridget’s story was quickly picked up by bloggers who after further investigation found holes in her initial allegations. She is now being accused of having fabricated her story. Black Twitter was concerned about the alleged assault of a woman by an alleged violent cab driver, but the urging question was why in the world her husband didn’t beat the cab driver’s ass.

so question… you’re okay with your man not defending you @BridgetMarie???

sorry this happened to you but while ur at it investigate why ur BF Husband w.e did nothing while another man choked u @BridgetMarie

@BridgetMarie are you gonna have your husband investigated for doing nothing after you got choked out but getting “sad”?

And yall still married ?? Cuckold ?? “@BridgetMarie @TraceyBVoice @Karnythia @travisk Husband was sad and yelled at him to let me go.”

Tweets of this ilk from black women AND men flooded her mentions. Complete strangers were baffled as to how Bridget’s husband could sit idly while she was choked by another man. More than one person suggested she divorce him for his lack of action. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit this is a cultural reaction. The white women tweeting her were a bit more sympathetic to her husband’s state of shock citing jail time as a reason for him not to intervene. It’s not that white men don’t fight for their women or that white women don’t expect their men to whoop some ass for them, but in all the conversations I’ve had with white women about dating I’ve never heard them mention wanting a protector or a man who isn’t a punk as something they look for in a potential mate. It’s a common requirement for black women.

I was in to Alpha males from the moment I started dating seriously. Protection is important to me.

I moved into Wilson Hall at 17 as a college freshman. Despite proudly being attached, fresh faced hormonal college boys would still try their luck only to be denied. As part of my scholarship requirement I was a work-study student in the boys freshman dorm, Watson Hall. I’d inevitably become cool with most of the guys since I saw them daily by working at the front desk.

One boy from Memphis was all mouth. Tall, dark, lanky and disrespectful. Every time I’d see him he made some sexist off-the-wall comment. Call it a crush or not knowing how to relate to women. Whatever it was it was annoying. I’d handle it on my own, but still vent to my boyfriend in typical everyday chit chat. Since he didn’t go to my school he was dying to know who Jarvis was. My patience was wearing thin, T’s was thinner.

One night Nicole and I headed to club Hurricane on 2nd Ave with T and his boy Dan for a college party. Before T and I part ways he overhears “Jarvis!” being yelled over the loud music. Fortunately, he only heard the name but didn’t see Jarvis respond. I quickly pull T’s arm to usher him to the dance floor because I knew things could go terribly wrong.

“Which one is Jarvis?” he asked me.

“I’m not telling you. C’mon. Let it go, babe.”

“No, which one of these n*ggas is Jarvis?”

“It’s not that serious. Let’s go dance.”

“Hey Jarvis, what’s up man?”

Shit. He overhears someone else talking to Jarvis, but this time he sees Jarvis dapping up the person who’d called his name.

“Are you Jarvis?” he says once he’s in Jarvis’s face.

“Yeah, mayne. Who are you?” For all who don’t know, mayne is inarguably a Memphis thing in the way “what up doe?” inarguably originated in Detroit.

At this point I’m grabbing my boyfriend’s arm begging him not to do this.

“Man, listen. My girl says you’re disrespectful. From here on out don’t say shit else to her dawg or else we gon’ have a problem.”

T is 6″5 205 pounds. And an athlete. He was the last dude you really wanted to fight, but Jarvis had a mouth.

“Mayne, nah. It ain’t nothing like that. I can’t believe you approached me over some bullshit.”

Their conversation heats up and is causing a commotion. Security nips the situation in the bud by throwing me, T and Jarvis out. Fuck. Nicole and Dan are still inside. I call her phone frantically to no avail. Dan’s not answering either. Double fuck.

Jarvis turns into another person once we’re all outside standing in front of the club’s door. Now he wants to dap T up as if everything is cool.

“Everything is cool man. You could’ve just come at me a different way,” Jarvis says while laughing. “Mayne I’m just saying don’t ever approach me about no bitch.”

“Bitch? Who the fuck you calling a bitch?” I jump in Jarvis’s face within seconds. T quickly moves me out of the way to get at Jarvis, but security threatens to call the police if we don’t move away from the premises.

With no word from Nicole and Dan we head to the car since T drove. I immediately notice Bradley’s blue Tahoe parked a few spaces from us. Jarvis most likely rode with Bradley because they’re thick as thieves.* Before I can suggest we leave the parking lot to ride around to the front of the club to wait for Nicole and Dan I spot Jarvis walking toward the truck with Bradley, Big Mike and two other dudes. I know all of them because I work in their dorm.

Shit. Why haven’t Nicole and Dan answered their phones?

Jarvis laughs his stupid laugh while they all climb in the truck. For a minute it seems like they were pulling off without incident until Jarvis says something slick and hopped out to fight. Now that he’s with his boys he has courage he didn’t have when he was alone. T immediately flips Jarvis to the cement and is getting the best of him when all four of his boys hop out the truck. I quickly jump in front of whomever I can to let them know jumping him is out of question.

“Baby girl please get out the way. We don’t want you to get hurt,” Big Mike says.

“Big Mike, y’all gonna have to get through me! Let them fight one-on-one. If y’all jump him y’all some hos for real.”

“I hear you, B. It’s not about you anymore babygirl. Just please move. We don’t want you to get hit.”

Big Mike is, well, huge. Football player big. At least 300+ pounds of grandma’s home cooking. Big Mike picks me up to move me so he can get to T. Bradley is the first of the four to swing while T and Jarvis are still fighting. Nicole is finally running toward us. She and I, both 5″1, 100-110 lbs start plucking big ass men off T. At one point we’re pushing the guys while yelling at them for being cowards. Bradley runs to his truck and hollers, “Police coming!” The police were nowhere in sight, but Bradley was a Magnet school graduate who really wasn’t about that life. He didn’t want any of what was to come once T’s friends got word he’d been jumped. They all ran to the truck and peeled off.

T was livid. He paced the sidewalk screaming about having a Timbaland boot imprint on the side of his face. Dan eventually picked up his phone while in the club. Through the loud music and me screaming that T was jumped he made his way to the car as their other boys from the ‘hood showed up shortly after to do what hotheaded boys do when they’ve been disrespected. As much as I pleaded there was not calming any of them down. Rationale thinking didn’t kick in until much later.

When T’s aunt (who was no more than six years older than him) got word of what happened she was pissed. According to T, she was angry I hadn’t jumped in a fight with five grown ass men. She was so upset she’d apparently mentioned wanting to put hands on me. That never happened.

The funny thing is that at 17 I was young and wild. If “ride or die chick” was popular then I’d have considered myself one. I may not have jumped in T’s fight, but I certainly wasn’t sitting there threatening to call the police. I was pulling dudes twice my size off of him. T never forgave me for getting jumped. To him, defending my honor—the honor that I specifically begged him not to defend— came with a heavy price.

Years later as friends he proudly proclaimed he’d never stick up for his woman again no matter the situation.

Bridget probably wasn’t expecting to be questioned about what her man did or didn’t do to defend her, or maybe she did. It’s not as if a black woman she’s oblivious to the expectations of a man in these sort of confrontations, even if he’s white. Had Bridget’s hubby done more than yell at the cab driver to “let her go” he could’ve ended up in jail or one of the men could’ve ended up severely injured or dead. You always have to think of the worst case scenario. Yet, I’m inclined to think her husband should’ve done more. Fear to the point of freezing up aren’t viable options when your wife is being attacked.

But maybe there’s a bigger discussion to be had about the expectation of slews of black women for their men to be hyper-masculine protectors. I am one of them. Because of my concept of manhood my early 20s consisted of dating—with few exceptions—tall, big, hood dudes and D-boys. If something pops off I need to feel you can handle “it” whatever it is. If I think you’re “soft” it will never work. This is something I’m constantly working on because I believe black men deserve to live wholly without being considered gay if they’re not hyper-masculine.

At what cost does a man defend his woman? Always, no matter what? Would those questioning Bridget’s hubby’s actions feel the same way if he’d caught a serious case? Should a man be willing to go to prison to protect his wife? I don’t know. I’m not in Bridget’s shoes. I do think my husband would’ve caught a fade when we got home if I was being choked out and he did nothing.

It’s worth addressing the hyper-masculinity forced upon black men over the last three decades because of the appeal of hip-hop. Black men should be allowed to not be “hard” and not considered gay. Black men have to be allowed to dress like Kanye or A$AP without their sexualities being questioned. Black men who come from a good home who aren’t tough because they’ve never had to be are not necessarily punks or gay.

I’m long past the foolish age of 17. We’re grown adults who will face real consequences for violence even in the case of self-defense. I don’t think I could’ve done anything differently to keep T from getting jumped other than not going to the club with him in the first place. I hate that he was jumped, but I don’t know I’d tell my future son or young cousins not to defend a woman they care about who is being blatantly disrespected. And with that advice I’d have to be ok if my son was arrested for defending a chick. I’m not so sure if I’d be ok with that either.

*A year or two later there were rumors Jarvis slapped Bradley at a basketball game. Bradley did nothing.
**Jarvis later devoted his life to God and apologized to T and I. We ended up having an English class together. We were forced to read each other’s work. I hated him and all the dudes involved, but at some point had to forgive.
***Jumping people is so weak. If you can’t win one-on-one, don’t fight. 

9
Copyright Bené Viera 2018. All Rights Reserved
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