Here's the Good News - Black Love Lasts FOREVER

Sorry, gang, I totally got sidetracked at work and forgot to give you the good news. This heartwarming tidbit was brought to my attention yesterday by Scribe.

Drumroll please.....

The World's Longest Marriage is between a black man and woman!!!

After watching the episode of "Being Bobby Brown" in which Bobby talks about how he stuck his finger up Whitney's bum to help her poop and cites it as an example of "black love," I told myself I wanted no part of it. This, however, is the kind of black love I can get behind. Look at them:



Their names are Herbert and Zelmyra Fisher of New Bern, N.C. He's 104, and she's 101. They've been married 85 years!!!

Look how cute they are!!! They're over a century, but don't look a day over 8 decades. (I told y'all black don't crack). And even at 101, Zelmyra isn't afraid to wear some spring brights--no stretchy sweatpants for her--she knows how to keep her man at home (accentuate the hips--but not the one that got replaced.)

I want nothing more than to interview them. I bet Zelmyra was in the audience when I first gave my "Ain't I a Woman?" speech (j/k - she's not that old, guys!). Maybe we could sit down over some tea and soft foods and talk about what it takes to make a marriage last. Or maybe I could bring my 93-year-old G-Unit with me and they can shoot the shit about colored-only fountains and The Great Depression. I bet Zelmyra wouldn't want a younger woman around her man, though. I don't want a geriatric catfight on my hands!

So, I hope this tender tale of never-ending black love helps quell the rage-fires that burn in your heart after reading about black women's median income. It gives me just enough boost to keep on truckin'.

xoxo,
blacktress

Black Love

One time, I was watching an episode of Being Bobby Brown (who is right up there with Flava Flav on my list of “why black people can’t have nice things”) and Bobby and Whitney were talking as someone was applying Whitney’s makeup. Clearly, unclear of the rule no. 1 of reality-television acting (do NOT play for the camera), Bobby started talking about how Whitney was unable to…um…relieve herself earlier in the day, and how he had to…um…stick his finger up her butt to “loosen things up.”

I kid you not.

Whitney, of course, was yelling at him to stop talking, but she was too cracked out to be coherent—and I’m sure being Whitney’s husband teaches you to tune out 90% of the things that are said to you. Anyway, Bobby concluded this riveting story by saying, “That’s black love.”-- and Whitney agreed.

I remember thinking to myself, “Really? Is it?”
If that’s black love, I want no part of it.
I would sooner eat a ducolax pie with flaxseed sprinkles than have someone I love stick their finger up my butt—that’s just not how I roll.

For some reason, two-plus years later, I still remember that portion of the show, and sometimes think of it when I see two possible drug addicts in love. But I also found myself thinking of it this morning, when I saw this photo on the cover of one of the free papes:


HOW GREAT IS THAT?!!!?!?!?!?!?
That is what I call black love!!!

I haven’t really been blogging about the election, because I’m certainly not the smartest political person, and there are millions doing it already, but I must say, this picture brightened my spirits—and my faith in black love. For months now, I’ve blogged about the search for winter spoons and love, and really, when it comes down to it, all I really want is to be the Michelle to someone’s Barack. I know Barack himself is taken and hard to come by, so when I say this, I mean a tall, handsome, driven man, with the smarts and the cool to make big things happen—and who can handle a strong black woman!!!

At 5’11”, the statuesque and brilliant Michelle Obama first came into Barack’s life as his boss--how gangsta is that?! Homegirl handed him his timesheets and told him to put in some OT with her! She’s been poised and confident on the campaign trail, but hasn’t been a boring fly on the wall. She dresses to thrill—this purple number with the black belt is fiercer than an America’s Next Top Model marathon—and she is my she-ro (you know, my female hero).

I can’t wait for us to have a black first lady. I just really can’t. It’s a blacktresses dream come true.

Oh yeah, and a black president. I love Barack’s international perspective and multi-racial identity. If he’s president, we won’t bomb a damn body—can you imagine?! Barack will be like, “No, we can’t drop bombs there, my cousin lives over there!”
And that’s how you stop war.

From now on, I will only pound up to those I really love—or give, as the paper called it, “the fist bump of hope.”