Prose in the Key of Self - Foreword

Everyone has a story. Every story is compelling. The mousy guy that you hardly notice has a heartrending tale that explains his demeanor. No story should be take for granted. As a writer, I feel obligated to share my story. Maybe there's someone else who is a maverick, or audacious, or unrequitedly in love with a mighty Chupacabra hunter and needs to know that things will be okay. That's my responsibility.

But despite that, I don't think I could ever go the autobiographical (or even semi-autobiographical) route - for profit. Because, when I speak, I will speak the truth, and people don't always want to hear the truth about themselves. So, if I give it away, here, then maybe it won't be so bad. So, when I feel stuck, or lacking a topic, I will talk what I know: me.

Fear Stupiditiy!

From an early age, I developed passion words. I read fluently at age four, and upon entering kindergarten, I was reading at a second grade level. Shortly after learning to read, my parents, through our church, introduced me to public speaking. That gave me a desire to read more, because if people were going to listen to me, I wanted to make sure I had something interesting to say. I read the encyclopedia ("Funky Wagnalls"), cereal boxes (which irritated me because no one could explain the use of riboflavin, or agree on which vowels had short or long sounds), the newspaper, and every book that came through the house. I read Great Expectations at eight, began devouring Shakespeare at eleven, and had a full fledged seven-book-a-week habit at twelve.

At ten, I began composing my own works - poems, songs, short stories - for my own private entertainment. I shared my work for the first time in sixth grade. When my teacher pulled me on the side and asked who helped me to write my assignment, I knew I was on to something. I can converse with the urbane, the uncultured, and everyone in-between. I am life's student. I am a writer. I am a mother who passes these same values on to her children. I am the parent of a future Johns Hopkins alum. I am a black woman. I am a product of the public school system. I am not an island. There are many like me.

Therefore, white people who just don't get it, THIS is why "speaks so well" pisses us off. (Thanks ACT.) This is why "he's so articulate" makes us liken you to the worst of bigots. Because we KNOW what you mean. We KNOW what you are expecting. Hell, YOU, most often, have had a hand in creating the system that was meant to crank out this ignorant subculture. And yet, it still didn't work. So, your back-handed slights WILL be checked. YES, every time.

So this has you "afraid" to speak your mind? Good. Be afraid. Be mortified. Let it make you think, "Exactly how long has unchecked stupidity been pouring from my piehole?" Don't let the La Shawn Barbers *cough symbolic house negroes* gas you into believing your actions are acceptable ("Massa ain't mean dat de way you sed"). Did he not know he would be speaking to a national audience? It wasn't "awkward," it was ignorant. (Thanks Mr. Clemens.) Racism is ignorance at it's finest.

So you're damn right, we're sensitive. And we will remain so as long as overt racism is seen as nothing more than a big misunderstanding.

The Douche Bag Zone

So, I went to my first meeting of the Pink People (think Purple People sans veils and lots more lipstick), and the shorties were so well behaved, I promised them I'd take them out to dinner last Friday. Mr. Finge, never one to forget a promise, reminded me, so we made the sojourn to Red Lobster. After I got my electronic cattle prod (a/k/a pager), I stood outside with the kiddies. I figured, that was a safe spot, in the event they wanted to run around or be loud, outside is as good a place as any. There I stood, minding my own business, when I heard what I thought was a compliment toward my hair. I turned to confirm that I was the subject of the compliment, and prepared to offer thanks if I was. Unfortunately, I was stopped in my tracks by her goat-mouthed companion ("The Douche Bag") who said, smirking, "That's a wig." My mouth lay frozen. She then gave me a look that said, "Yeah, bitch, I said it."

I was taken aback, not so much by the fact that she said my hair was a wig; I could care less, I know I grew it. The vehemence is what threw me. She said it like I went in her douche bag palace, blew her man, and left my wig on her night stand. Now, I know with virtual certainty that her issue had absolutely nothing to do with my hair, and everything to do with the fact that her over-relaxed hair was thinning at the top of her Oompah Loompah mushroom. I'm just not sure how that became my fault.

Despite the fact that I wanted to thank the woman who complimented me, I didn't trust my lips to stop there. Douchie was old enough to be my mother, however, that only takes one so far. She passed me two more times with that same look on her face, without any idea of how close she came to this story ending, ". . . then I hit that cow in the mouth."

There is something in the DNA of women that almost forces us to detract from any compliment sent to anyONE who is not us. "She probably got booty implants." "She got acne though." "Her right titty is bigger than her left titty." Fortunately, I had a mother who instilled in me that blocking the shine of others, only makes you look that much more dull. It can also bring you dangerously close to being on the business end of one of the illest rabbit punches in the Mid-Atlantic.

Verbal Vomit

I promise, I'm working on a cohesive post, but it's taking longer than I anticipated. Hopefully, it will not disappoint. But it has been long since I've thrown words up here, so I'm going to give you some thoughts of mine to discuss amongst yourselves - or in the comments section - whichever.

I have janky cable, and as such, no cable guide. So I have to flip through the channels to see what's going on. I passed some channel or another and saw Ann Coulter talking to somebody about something [because I just don't really listen to her], but I saw her throat. This bitch has a BODACIOUS Adam's apple. Can someone consult the rule book on this? I mean, she doesn't look like she used to be a man, but there's something has gone horribly awry. I think I looked at the show for five minutes, mesmerized by the Adam's apple bobbing up and down. It give's me the willies.

I need help in understanding why Harvey Keitel introduced Snoop Dogg at the VH1 Hip Hop Honors.

Yesterday my bus driver almost hit two pedestrians, a car stopped at a red light and a parked car. I see why they want to raise fares.

Show of hands: Do we care that within life is forming within the diseased husk also referred to as Jennifer Lopez's womb? Why do people care about this shit? I mean, a baby is a joyous occasion, but are we really celebrating children being born to crazy ass women who change relationships like they change shoes? Give it a rest.

The Boondocks premier was HILARIOUS! Who knew Ruckus was ill with the nunchucks? It won't necessarily go down in the books as my all time favorite episode, but the, "...or die tryin'" hook was nothing short of genius. (For all Adult Swim/Family Guy fans, do yourself a favor and tune in this Sunday, October 14, for the Family Guy & Robot Chicken Star Wars episodes. You WILL thank me.)

So last night, while dialoguing with my Harlem Ambassador (who is truly slackin' on his blog mackin') we discussed the conundrum of having too many good shows to watch this season. I am truly impressed. I've become so accustomed to the influx of sub par reality TV shows, I find myself speechless in light of my delimma. It seems I will have to get my DVR game on and popping once more, as Wednesday nights are hellacious. Though I don't think K-ville is the best the season has to offer, and it may well be one of the first cancellations of the season, I will represent and watch it. (No, I don't have a Neilson box, but I've still got that old team spirit.)

I think everyone should incorporate a little Ghostface in their life at least once a week. No, I'm not exactly sure that he's always speaking English, but still. . .

My morning commute is interesting. A couple of weeks ago, I decided that to pass the time, by giving the regulars names from Martin characters. So far, I've discovered Jerome, Roscoe, Mama Payne, Rickey Fontaine, Shenehneh and KeyLoLo, and would you believe KING BEEF. Monday and Tuesday, I created storylines for them. DANCE PUPPETS!

I'm not sure if you are familiar with Tim Gunn (who leaves no stone untunred in the fashion world, considering he unearthed Veronica Webb), but he makes my list of one of my favorite celebs. Here is a designer on "Project Runway" doing a spot-on imitation of him:



What makes this even better, is that when he discovered Santino's homage, this was his reaction (forgive the quality):



I love people who don't take themselves too seriously.

I am seriously slacking on my gym game.

The current state of my job has me humming the tune "9 to 5" just a bit too much. My end of the year gift and raise will be critically scrutinzed this year.

Yesterday, I did a free write that yielding some VERY promising fruit. Stay tuned.

Interlude

As I am still working through my latest post, I figured I'd leave you with some, "whatchu know 'bout dat" shit to start out your week.