A Portent?

Y'all, this BHM is starting off WRONG.

I have been on the plantation less than hour and have already received two pieces of news that have shaken my young, gifted, and BLACK world. I can't be alone in this.

1. Don Cornelius, creator of Soul Train, was found dead in his home this morning, of an apparent suicide.

NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!! Don, you created the longest-running show in the history of television! You showed white people how to dance! You provided the basis for countless episodes of sitcoms!

He is, in short, an AfAm Icon. Today of all days, this hurts. And what hurts even more is that it's been buried at the bottom of news and pop-culture websites.

2. While sitting at my desk, my coworker two cubes behind me exclaims. "Holy shit." I need to know the cause, natch. Apparently, "Pfizer just recalled 1 million packets of birth control pills in the US because they may not actually prevent pregnancy." Of the three generic brands, one of them is used by the blacktress!

Y'ALL! THIS IS NOT OKAY. I can't be ringing in BHM Juno style!

Can you imagine a bunch of mini blacktresses and Jewboos running around?! They'd be all kinds of neurotic (cause they're the Jewish spawn of two aspiring comics) and neglected (cause they were accidents). I don't have enough money for dreams, let alone prenatal vitamins! Not to mention the fact that I get weary just watching a Law & Order marathon, so you know late-night feedings would be out. AAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I have no one to share this with, as my coworkers find it a bit "inappropriate" that I told them I used one of the brands that have been recalled. Of course, I turn to you, gentle readers. We need each other now more than ever.

In hopes of turning this day--nay, this month--around, I'm going to share what I planned to write about this morning, before all of this earth-shattering news hit my brainhole.

Thank god for JJSiii. Whenever a blacktress is down, he knows exactly what to send from the interwebs to remind me that life's worth living. On Monday, it was an invitation to join his RuPaul Fantasy Drag Race team.

Today, he sent along a music video so amazing, I don't even think I have the words for it. I will let it speak for itself. Please, enjoy. You're welcome.



After writing what I thought were the lyrics, I ran them against JJSiii and found we were on the same page. Clearly, English isn't Andrew Doriane's first language, but bless him for putting his feelings out there. For those who may be having trouble deciphering, here's the breakdown:

“Breath of the ocean / Tranquil emotions / I’m feeling so safe in her arms / One thing is clear / Heaven is here / With her, I can reach for the stars / Looking at us...

CHORUS: Somehow she’s like gay / I’ve always had this feeling / even deep inside / She has been playing gay so real that I believe it / Am I losing my mind?

“No one except her / Keeps me protected / From different storms on my way / Her guessing my wishes / Makes me suspicious / She knows me for (??) what I think / God, she’s like gay

(repeat chorus)

Somehow she’s like gay, because she seems to know men as well as gays do / She must be playing gay with me so I can only be like lesbian too

(repeat chorus)

Gay (echo, echo, echo)”

On the Last Day of BHM, My True Love Gave to Me….

The chance to finally be FREE!!!

Hello internet friends!!!

I write to you now with a feeling of levity and freedom that can only come from working for one’s rights. After being bombarded with black mama drama Friday and Saturday, I had to end the pain. Her e-mails were legen—wait for it—dary*, and although this may incite drama, I can’t help but mine the molten earth of mom-induced guilt to reveal the comedy gold that is the following piece of advice she offered in an email.:
It's about an image, a brand. If you're doing voice over about baby stuff they don't want your name and vagina being associated with that.
MY NAME AND VAGINA!!!!!!

I swear, Mama Bear is hilarious.

“Sojourner, how could you just put your mom on blast after the drama of which you speak?” you may be wondering.

Well, gentle readers, not only did Mama Bear say I could blog about her (tender quote: … you can talk about me all that you want. That was the funniest. LOVE MOM ), but just minutes ago I created a new email account for this site, changed my username, AND instructed robots not to crawl to the site—resulting in a full-name search that comes up with NOTHING INCRIMINATING!!! (Well, until Google caches out)

Guys, do you know what this means???

It means I can blog with confidence, knowing that anything I say can’t and won’t be used against me in a court of law!
Well, unless some potential employer decides to start googling “Blacktress”—in which case, they got what’s comin’ to them.

What I do on my own time under my alias is, to quote the great rappers Salt ‘n’ Pepa, none of their business!



If I want to write a blog / about some dirty dog—it’s none of your business!
If I wanna spend my work day / talkin' 'bout what's cray cray -- it's none of your business!
A boss shouldn't even get into / who I'm givin' skins to -- it's none of your business!
etc.

With the monkey off my back, I can now fill you in on the other anxiety-inducer of the last few days: Jewboo’s birthday!!

I planned a surprise party for him that was unlike anything I’d ever undertaken. I reached out to 3 friends of his from out of town and arranged for them to come in to the city. The plan was this:

6pm – Arrive at Jewboo’s house.
6:30pm – long-time childhood best friend arrives. Jewboo is shocked and moved. They proceed to bro-out until it’s time to go to dinner.
7:30 – We go to dinner with friend, roommate, and another improviser—a nice Thai place in the neighborhood.
7:45 – We arrive at restaurant and find TWO OF JEWBOO’S GRAD SCHOOL FRIENDS!!!
7:46 – Jewboo weeps with joy. They proceed to catch up and hold each other close. I become best friends with the black lesbian with the locks from the ATL.
9:00pm – Other friend leaves dinner to “stop by a coworker’s party”—which is really going to the bowling alley to put our names down for a lane.
10pm – we arrive at bowling alley, where other friends are waiting!! SURPRISES!
Jewboo can no longer contain it. In front of everyone in the bar, he announces his plans to marry me. Just then, a writer from Comedy Central offers him a job—writing for the TV show they’re going to offer me. “Any woman who can plan a party like this is someone I want to get behind!” the hipster-y producer says, holding his monocle (ironically, of course).

Everyone rejoices and we stumble home at 2am, drunk on love and accomplishment.

Okay, I might have planned a little too much. But it really went well. He had no idea anyone was coming (although his emotional repression prevented the weeping I’d hoped for), and even though bowling was a bust (a 4-hour wait for a lane—wtf?!), we went to a random divey bar and dominated the jukebox. His out-of-town friends stayed til the end, and when his parents visited the next day, I received many accolades. I think my favorites were:
“You have the best girlfriend ever.”
“You put up with our son; the least we can do is give you a ride to the subway.”
[Bless these chosen people for getting me out of Greenpoint in 15 minutes flat.]

Considering this was the first time I ever had a boyfriend with a birthday**, I think I did pretty damn good.

Blacktress out!


*(h/t Barney Stinson/NPH—aka, Heterosexuality’s Greatest Loss)
**they’ve all been genetically engineered.

B(l)ack by Popular Demand

Happy BHM, y'all!!!

Yes, today is the first of what will be 28 days of celebrating the young, gifted, and the black! Last night I was all in a tizzy because of today's agent meeting. I then realized that there was no better day for a blacktress to meet with potential representation than the first day of Black History Month.

Perhaps fate created last week’s storm just so that my meeting could take place on a day when no member of Caucasia could say no to a negress. Either way, I’m rocking a form-fitting bright top and slimming denim, and just used my anti-puff eye roller to help handle my baggy-eyed scandal (I got more bags than a Whole Foods right now, y’all. I look wearier than a woman of Brewster Place).

As I got dressed this morning, the snow and icy rain (aka “wintry mix”) had me stressed. We all know rain is the black woman’s kryptonite, and today is no time for a hairdon't. As I wrapped my hair up and hid it under my hat, I thought about how silly the whole process is. Coming off of last week’s viewing of “Good Hair,” where I saw the disintegrating effects of a chemical relaxer on an aluminum can I realized just how enslaved (and possibly brain-cancer-ridden) I still am--by norms of beauty, my own laziness, and my own tenderheaded-ness.

But of course, I’m not alone in this. Black women have been struggling with handling a hair scandal since the dawn of time (when neander-negros were heating up smooth rocks and using them as a flat iron--you didn’t see that NatGeo special?).
So today I just want to kick-off BHM with brilliant black mind who worked to make looking fine just a bit easier--without chemicals.

Name: Marjorie Joyner

Quick Facts: Marjorie, the granddaughter of a slave and a slave-owner (yes, y’all!), was born in 1896, and in 1912 she moved to Chicago to attend cosmetology school. Upon graduation she worked under Madame C. J. “Thanks for the Relaxer” Walker.

A page from her biography reads:

A dilemma existed for Black women in the 1920's.
[You mean Jim Crow laws? The inability to vote until damn-near the end of the decade? The need to provide for their families with little options besides serving members of Caucasia?]

In order to straighten tightly-curled hair, they could so so only by using a stove-heated curling iron. This was very time-consuming and frustrating as only one iron could be used at a time.
[Ah, yes, the real dilemma.]

Joyner… imagined that if a number of curling irons could be arranged above a women's head, they could work at the same time to straighten her hair all at once. “It all came to me in the kitchen when I was making a pot roast one day, looking at these long, thin rods that held the pot roast together and heated it up from the inside. I figured you could use them like hair rollers, then heat them up to cook a permanent curl into the hair.”

WHAT?! Y’all, for reals! Although black hair care doesn’t seem like a major innovation, let’s look at the genius: Marjorie was just in the kitchen making a roast for her man, and was like, “wait a second…” That’s some straight-up MacGuyver-type ingenuity. When I’m cooking in the kitchen, all I’m thinking about is whether I really have to pre-heat the oven. In 1926, Marjorie turned dinnertime into into breadwinner-time!

Joyner developed her concept by connecting 16 rods to a single electric cord inside of a standard drying hood. A woman would wear the hood for the prescribed period of time and her hair would be straightened or curled. After two years Joyner completed her invention and patented it in 1928, calling it the "Permanent Waving Machine."

Look at Marjorie with that man! She was 98 when this pic was taken, and it looks like she's telling him about himself. She is my (s)hero.

So, as you make tonight's pot roast or soy chicken nuggets, look inside that oven. Think of Marjorie--and think of the possibilities.

A Man With a True Benetton Heart...

We all know that BHM is about celebrating African-American achievements. However, what would a discussion of black culture be without a look at the White man? We derive oppositional meaning from the majority, and it’s vital that we delve deeper into the oppressor to really learn what we’re up against. And, as it turns out, the oppressor is thinking the same thing. I recently sat down with Adam Jacobson—improviser, activist, and proud member of Caucasia. Much like the biblical first man, Adam charted territories unknown when he spent three weeks in Kenya tending to orphan children. He got back a few weeks ago, and I had to know what it was like for him. Did he, like Angelina Jolie, fall in love with the spirit that grows out of poverty (and decide to bring a few babies home for fun)? Did he, like James McAvoy’s character in “Last King of Scotland,” bed multiple native women?? Is he, like John Mayer, a cocky racist??? Find out more below.

Me: First off, let me thank you for taking the time to sit down with me, Massa – I mean, Adam. Sorry, I get a bit confused sometimes, a little of the PTSD flares up.
Can you handle my truth, Mr. Jacobson?
Adam: Oh, jeez. i'll try
Me: Don't be afraid. if i can persevere through slavery, you can handle a few hard-hitting, questions. so, tell me: where exactly were you for the three weeks surrounding Christmas, Kwanzaa, and new year's?
Adam: I was actually in New York for Christmas (and possibly Kwanzaa -- I shamefully don't know when it is)
Me: It's all right--at least you feel the appropriate amount of shame (I’ll break it down for you off the record). When were you gone, exactly?
Adam: I was in Kenya from December 31st to January 22nd, volunteering at an orphanage in Nairobi
Me: so, my first question is obvious—what prompted you to go deep into the heart of Nubia and help brown youth?
Adam: I’ve volunteered abroad before for an organization called students helping Honduras, and I’ve wanted to go to Africa for a while, so volunteering there seemed like a great way/excuse to travel there.
Me: so, you've "wanted to go to Africa for a while”—what is it that first drew you to the Dark Continent?
Adam: well, this will sound kind of morbid, but i studied the history of genocide a lot in college, with a real focus on Rwanda and Darfur. that was kind of my first exposure to African issues. i really wanted to go to Rwanda for a while, and then this opportunity came up
Me: ok, so you were like, "wow, they keep killing all these brown people. i have to get in there and see what that's about"
Adam: Um….
Me: most people would say to themselves, "whoa, genocide. That’s fucked up and scary. Let me just feel bad and donate via a double-click of my mouse from the comfort of my own home."
But not you, Adam Jacobson
You’re a member of Caucasia who actually gives a damn
Me: what were your accommodations like in Kenya?
Adam: our homestay in thika road was amazing. one of the other volunteers i met who was staying elsewhere called it the Hilton of homestays. it was a guesthouse run by a woman named lydia, who lives there with her college-age daughter and adult son
Me: Interesting, the “Hilton of homestays.” I find it interesting that even when you go deep into third-world Nubia, you still manage to find the most first-world accommodations. What's this Lydia woman like?
Adam: Lydia (or mama Lydia, as the volunteers all call her) is an incredibly warm and friendly woman. While i was there, she definitely made me feel like one of the family. i have no idea how old she is though -- a very young looking 50 maybe?
Me: well, you know, black don't crack. She’s probably 78.
Me: Okay, Adam, enough pussy-footin' around. What was it like to be Caucasian in the heart of nubia??????
Adam: there's a word 'muzungu' that kenyans have for white folks. Apparently, in colonial times it was super insulting, but now it's more benign and almost affectionate. Everywhere you go, people will call you 'muzungu'. Children on the side of the road will yell out to you, "muzungu! How are you?"
So that gives you some idea. More simply, you stand out
Me: Yes, I’m familiar. I had a similar experience when i was inside caucasia. Except, instead of children yelling for me, it would be white men, asking me if I was Sudanese.
So, would you characterize yourself as having a Benetton heart and a David Duke dick?
Adam: i just had to Google Benetton, and the picture on their homepage is hilarious
Look how scared that girl in the middle looks!
Me: Well, she is surrounded by various minorities.
Adam: Sorry, I was sidetracked. No, my penis doesn't discriminate based on ethnicity
Me: That’s good.
Adam: John Mayer’s a moron.
Me: That’s an understatement.
Me: So, talk me through a typical day in the heart of nubia
Adam: Wake up at 7:30 or so (usually earlier because of the really loud rooster), get dressed/pack candy for the kids/refill water bottle, make some toast, walk down to the shops, take the matatu (no public transportation, so they have this network of privately owned vans called 'matatu' that go along certain routes) to the police station, walk to the orphanage, help the kids with their lessons, play with them, make sure they eat their lunch, take them on a walk, back for more lessons/playing, then home for relaxing and dinner and hanging out, then bed
Me: ok, back it up - why did you go to the police station before going to the orphanage? Were you fearful of the brown children, so you packed heat provided by the local cops?
Adam: No, that's just where the matatu let us off. it was the closest place on the main road to walk to the orphanage
Me: what advice do you have for members of caucasia interested in spending time on the dark continent in a non-tourist/somewhat useful capacity?
Adam: try to be up for anything. don't act like an idiot tourist, for your own sake, but at the same time, don't be too uptight about seeming out of place, because you will no matter what. and don't be afraid, but be aware
Me: Aware of the fact that you're surrounded by black people, and anything could happen?
Adam: No, Sojo-- aware that you're surrounded by people in general and that most likely bad things won't happen. But being smart and conscientious about your surroundings (not flashing money around, not taking pictures without peoples' permission, etc). We’re talking about a city whose nickname is 'nai-robbery' after all
Me: Well, you should never take pictures of the native peoples for your own photo album
As for “Nai-robbery,” I believe that nickname was created by members of Caucasia, to further alienate the Dark Continent.
Me: how old were the kids you were taking care of?
Adam: they were 2-9. The ones i was working closer with were 4-9
Me: did the children take to you?
Adam: yeah, after the first day they definitely liked us. that first day was rough
Me: Do elaborate on the roughness.
Adam: The first day a few of them were acting out a lot and it was exhausting. but even the second day, they were so much better -- like the first day was just them testing us
Me: did you feel like Michelle Pfeiffer, surrounded by...DANGEROUS MINDS?
Adam: Yes, that’s exactly how I felt.
Me: Tell me a bit about yourself.
Adam: i grew up in baltimore, then went to college in Virginia-- university of mary washington
Me: Mary Washington - wife of George? George who...OWNED SLAVES???
Adam: his mother, actually.
Me: Well, that’s a whole ‘nother Oprah we’ll get into next time. Thanks for talking with me, Mr. Jacobson. Unfortunately, I have to cut our interview off now-- "16 and Pregnant" is coming on in 10 minutes
Adam: Not a problem. Thanks so much, Sojourner. Not only does this make me feel less guilty, but it’s very helpful to be able to count you as “among my blackest friends.”
Me: Thank you. I count you among my whitest.


For more insights into Adam's mind, check out his bloggery:
Indie Music I Know Nothing About
His Improv Comedy Crew

The Final Days....

This is the final week of BHM, guys -- sadface!
Last night I raised awareness among members of Caucasia as I hosted improv team Froduce's weekly show at The Creek, in Queens.

Yes, gentle readers, I'm willing to go the ends of the earth (aka Long Island City, when none of the trains are running properly) just to spread the word. As I made my way down the aisle singing "Wade in the Water," I could feel my ancestors watching over me.
Langston Hughes was a bit uncomfortable.

On today, the 21st day of the shortest, coldest, and BLACKEST month of the year, I'd like to give a shout out to some Af-Am intellectuals who have changed the way the world works.

Let me start off with a fellow Harlem homegirl:


Name: Patricia Bath.
Who dat be?: She's an ophthalmologist, and the first black female doctor to receive a patent for a medical invention. Patricia Bath's patent, a method for removing cataract lenses, transformed eye surgery!
Why do you care, Sojo?: I enjoy eye-fucking without consent, and eyesight is crucial to the success of such an endeavor. Thanks, Patricia, for making sure I can continue eye-fucking without consent and living life unnecessarily in fourth gear well into my 80s (you know, like grandma!)

[NO PHOTO AVAILABLE - THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!]

Name: Henry Blair
Who dat be?: Henry received a patent on October 14, 1834 for a seed planter and a patent in 1836 for a cotton planter.
Why do you care, Sojo?: Henry basically did his part to end slavery. Done with cotton, he decided he'd make a machine do the plantin'! Holla at a can-do man!

[NO PHOTO AVAILABLE - THEY CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!]

Name: W. B. Purvis
Who dat be?: Homeboy invented the fountain pen!!! He was basically like, "I can't keep carrying this damn ink around, let's streamline this shizzle."
Why do you care, Sojo?: Without the fountain pen, all of my best 5th grade assignments (the emo poetry, especially) would have been covered in puddles of ink. Plus, we'd never have a gift for older men we barely know. (Merry Christmas, boss man - would you like this pretty fountain pen???)



Name: George Crum
Who dat be?: The son of an African-American father and a Native American mother, Crum was working as a chef in the summer of 1853 when he incidentally invented the chip. It all began when a patron who ordered a plate of French-fried potatoes sent them back to Crum's kitchen because he felt they were too thick and soft. To teach the picky patron a lesson, Crum sliced a new batch of potatoes as thin as he possibly could, and then fried them until they were hard and crunchy.
Why do you care, Sojo?: Um, hello -- potato chips!! Without them, sammies would be so boring.
(Crum's invention also shows that black rage can be a force for good.)


I urge you to spend the last days of BHM taking a look around you. See those 3-D glasses you got from the 3pm showing of "Avatar"? What about that SuperSoaker you had as a kid? Perhaps they were created by a black person!!

I know, I know. Your mind is BLOWN.

You're welcome.

Black History MOTHERS!

This BHM just keeps getting better and better, guys. Tonight after work I’m heading uptown to an awards ceremony. The recipient – MY MOTHER!!

Holla at madukes making it happen!

As you all know, I still live with madukes and her latin lover (ok, they’ve been married for 4 years, so I guess I should stop describing him as though he’s some scantily clad pool boy, but I can’t help myself).

I’m sure many of my blog posts have touched on the topic of Black mama drama in all its ferocity. You see, my mother’s a lawyer:

Yes, like Claire Huxtable.

She argues for a living -- so, growing up, you know a young Sojo could never be right! Madukes could catch me in a lie before I even knew I was telling it.

Mom: “Sojo, did you finish your homework?”
Young Sojo: “Yes, ma.”
[She looks at me square in the eye as I speak.]
Mom: “Go back up to your room.”
Me: “What?! Why?!”
Mom: “You didn’t finish your homework, your eyes shifted to the left, you’re lying.”

As I stomped upstairs, wondering how on earth she knew I’d already decided mathematics wasn’t worth my time, I vowed never to be caught in a lie again.

This, of course, wasn’t so hard seeing as I was the most boring teen ever. When you’re a chubby little brown child at a high school that’s fresh out of an episode of Gossip Girl, you’re not popular enough to get into any actual trouble. As I got older, I combated her ability to see through me by omitting information altogether—I can’t get caught in a lie if I’m not actually telling one, see?

To really make childhood matters worse, my mother is a lawyer for abused and neglected children. She deals with foster homes, custody battles, and has tales that are straight up out of an episode of “Law and Order: SVU.” (Seriously, I’ve got some spec scripts in the works.) This means that growing up, none of that only-child bratty whining was gonna fly. When mom turned off the TV and said it was time for bed, there was no fucking around. If we had to leave the birthday party, a standard, “Ma, you’re so mean, this is not fair,” was usually met with: “I’m so mean?! Mean?! At least I didn’t trade you for 50 grams of crack like my client last month! You just be glad you’re enrolled in school and can expect three meals a day!”

Srsly, madukes helped a young blacktress keep it in perspective.

This is to be expected from a woman who, after giving birth to a child mere months before the end of law school, sent said child (me) to Africa to live with my grandmother. Mom ain't letting a baby stop her from living her dreams (take note, all you 16-and-pregnant chicks)!


Ever since I’ve been gainfully employed and her New Jersey house is finally at the end of renovations, mama bear and I have been getting along smashingly—I even got her to watch Drag Race! I can’t tell you how much it warmed my heart to wake up Sunday morning and see her watching a rerun while tucked in bed…under an electric blanket!!!

Tonight’s award is from the office of the borough president for her work on a child abuse/neglect case. I’m smartly dressed, cause you know I can’t rock up looking casual on madukes’ big night. I’m definitely more of a Denise, but tonight I’ll be embodying put-together Vanessa Huxtable.

Remember the look? I would have compared myself to Sondra, with her put-together looks and secretly-gay husband, but she never got enough screen time.

Blaxploitation

I am so not feeling the plantation today. I think I’m still holding bitterness from yesterday, when I had to come in during a snowstorm even though both the massa and the overseer were out. In silent protest, I spent much of the day quietly grading film papers as part of my side hustle. For some reason, my coworker’s nit-picking and anal nature has been getting on my last nerve. He’s all “focused,” with an “attention to detail,” and “the desire to do his job.”
Ew.
I woke up yesterday and shoveled snow before coming to work. This is BHM, y’all—I should NOT be so oppressed. This is blaxploitation at its best (or worst, depending on your point of view). After reading a paper on “Point of View Shots in Aladdin” (Yes, Disney’s Aladdin.I swear, these kids never cease to amaze me), I thought I was seriously being punk’d.
I ended up leaving work early, as the pretense of productivity became too much to maintain. I at least gave my email a look-see from my home computer, just in case massa was watching me electronically.

I am so being blaxploited.
Speaking, of blaxploitation, why not celebrate BHM today with a trailer from one of my favorite blaxplotation films—BLACULA.

I own this film on VHS.
Yep, I said it.
And no, it wasn’t purchased ironically in 2008. I had to beg my mother to give me her copy back in, like, 1998, and she made a big deal out of how hard it was to find and how I better not lose it.
My family is very serious about black cinema.
You should be, too:



I think my favorite line of the trailer is “Blacula….Dracula’s soul brother”


I’d like to make a third one (oh, yes, there’s already a sequel, Scream Blacula, Scream), starring myself as Blacula’s love interest. It’ll be called:
Blacula Meets Blacktress: Black Love 4-Eva
Maybe we can get a crossover with the Twilight kids, maybe get sparkly Pattinson to have a crush on me and fight Blacula to the death for my love?

Let’s get this into production, people!

Black History Month Takes a Huge Blow

It was brought to my attention this morning by a fellow blacktress and pop culture-ologist that rapper/hot mess Lil’ Wayne is going to prison. He was sentenced this morning to a year in jail after being arrested for possession of a handgun after a concert in NYC. Here’s the full story, for those of you who care about Lil’ Wayne.

This man is a damn shame. He is always being arrested for some foolery, and is still one of the most famous rappers out there. Although this is nothing new, what really gets my goat is what this knucklehead said to Rolling Stone magazine:

“This is Lil Wayne going to jail. Nobody I can talk to can tell me what that’s like,” he told the mag. “I just say I’m looking forward to it. “I’ll have an iPod, and I’ll make sure they keep sending me beats,” he said.

What?! You’re going to Rikers Island and you’re looking forward to it????
This is not the message Lil’ Wayne should be sending ever, let alone during BHM.

And I’m sorry if this ends up causing a BLACKlash, from somebody who thinks Lil’ Wayne’s some sort of hero or martyr for having such an optimistic attitude about his jail time. There’s no upside to incarceration. Ever. I done decreed it.

That kind of cracked out thinking is why black people can’t have nice things.

In an attempt to make lemonade out of these lemons, let’s turn to a black man we can be proud of: Chris Rock. He has much TRUTH to say about getting cred for going to prison:




I guess Lil’ Wayne knows this, which is why he’s psyched to just spend a year blasting his pecs, listening to his iPod, and getting teardrop tattoos.

(I’m also gonna embed this other Chris Rock clip, cause it’s too good. Guess which one Lil’ Wayne is):

The Truth Never Gets Old

You know, this time last year, I was smack dab in the middle of Caucasia, where no one even knew was Black History Month was. And now, to be home, able to tell my TRUTH…well, it just warms my heart. I’ve been thinking of important black folks I wanted to share with you today, and I think I’ve come up with one.

She’s not famous.
She’s not on reality TV.
And no, she’s not 16 or pregnant.

She’s…MY GRANDMA.

Yes, my grandmother—or, as I like to call her, G-Unit.

My grandmother is 93 ½ years old, y’all—holla!! And yes, I said 93 ½ (her birthday is in June). I figure when you make it to as old as 93, you get to revert back to kid referral to your age – every second counts! Dudes, 93?! For reals? I think she has an autographed copy of the Bible – for reals.

Ethel Mae was born in Waynesboro, Mississippi in 1916. She currently lives in Detroit, Michigan—also known as “The City That God Forgot.” I used to spend every summer with Ethel until I was 14 years old. Ethel raised 7 kids and worked full time and was not exactly a sugar-and-spice grandmother. I didn’t get baked cookies – I got grits in the morning. There was no knitting and needlepoint, there was tilling the backyard fields. When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she’d always leave us with a warning:

“Be careful, and don’t go in that front room – that’s where I keep my gun.”

Yes, y’all! G-Unit will bust a cap in yo’ ass.

She’s never actually used the alleged gun, which I’ve never actually seen, but she says she had it for protection, because she’s “a lonely old woman living alone and people will prey on me.”

Um, nobody’s preyed on this old broad a day in her life.

“Okay, Sojourner, your grandma’s old--what’s your point?” you’re probably saying to yourself.
Well, gentle reader, this month, we’re honoring those that came before us and re-learning their lessons. As you can imagine, a woman who survived the Great Depression, WW2, and had a 68-year-old bf when she was 86 has pearls of wisdom to impart. Here are some nuggets for you to add to your TRUTH collection:

On preparing for disaster:

“In times of distress, you must be able to wipe yo’ ass.”
--Grandma to me, re: why she had a whole closet full of toilet paper before the year 2000. You know, she was worried about “the Y2K.”

On homosexuality:

“You know how I know she a lezbun? 1: She got that short haircut; B: We was watching a joe boxer commercial and the man was dancing in his underwear and she changed the channel? Why would she do that? I’m an old woman and I want to see it! You know why she changed it? Cause she a lezbun”
--Grandma, re: my cousin’s recent breakup from his gf.

On Michelle Obama:

“She lookin’ like a smiley Grinch. Don’t you just love that smiley Grinch?”
-Grandma, re: Michelle’s Vogue magazine article.

On interracial marriage:

“It’s okay for you, baby, cause you’ll be able to do your daughter’s hair. That Laura [my uncle’s white wife’] leaves her girl looking a mess, and it just breaks my heart.”
--As long as the children’s hair is tight, black-and-white is all right!

“Sojo, I think you should meet Bob, he’s a nice man, got a job. Why don’t y’all go on a date?”
--Bob is my white aunt’s brother. He is a 40-something divorcee who works at the Chrysler plant. My grandmother thinks he’s my type solely because he’s Caucasian.

On aging:

“I’m doing pretty fair for an ol’ lady. You know, I’m just waitin’ to die.”
-Grandma, in response to the always innocuous question, How are you doing?

I include this because this shows that grandma is never afraid to tell you the TRUTH, even it will make you uncomfortable and/or depressed.

So, as you go about your day—nay, your LIFE—try to live the Ethel Mae philosophy. Tell the TRUTH, the whole TRUTH, and nothing but the (Sojourner) TRUTH, so help you God! Who knows? You may even live to be 93.

Pulling the IncogNEGRO Out of the Shadows....

Hey guys,

I had a grande coffee this morning, so I'm feeling productive without a sense of impending doom or heart palpitations, which is pretty awesome.

So, I was thinking about what to write for today's post. We all know Black History Month is a time to honor the achievements of black folks in the US. I mean, okay, we've got two BLACKTRESS nominated for the Oscars this year, and PRECIOUS is nominated for best film. However, Sojourner would like to aid in the bringing of TRUTH this BHM by profiling less-known Af-Ams who have brought so much to the world, but who don’t get much coverage nowadays.


I call this segment…. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Negroes

In my search, I came across the following man, who works within my theme in many ways.


Master Lloyd Irvin is a world-renowned martial arts coach, competitor and martial arts Expert.

“Um, okay Sojo,” you may be saying to yourself. “What makes that so special???”

Well, gentle reader, Master Lloyd was the first African American in the World to receive a Black Belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

HOLY GUACAMOLE!!!! Look at Master Lloyd, locking it down for black folks everywhere.

Speaking, of “locking it down,” Master Lloyd is one of only a handful of instructors on the entire east coast that can proficiently perform leg locks. Three-time Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu World Champion Fabio Gurgel calls Master Lloyd "THE KING OF LEGLOCKS.”

THE KING OF LEGLOCKS, GUYS!!!!

I’m not even sure what a leglock is, but it sounds difficult and deadly, and I’m totes impressed (and kind of turned on… )

I love this shot of Lloyd, chillin' on the beach with a tucked in t-shirt and a coconut.
Jui-jitsu masters--they're just like us!!!

So, ladies, next time you’re doing your Kegel exercises, think of Lloyd. You have him to thank.

Black HERStory Month!

Happy Black History Month, guys!!!!

It’s a great time to be black, gang!! Last night started off strong, with a viewing of “BORN WITHOUT A FACE” (aaahhh!!! I couldn’t look away!), followed by a “Criminal Minds” mini-marathon (I’m just that cool). Although I slept rather fretfully, once I remembered what today was, I jumped out of bed with great glee.* I got to work and was pleased to begin my first week sitting at my new desk, which is NOT directly across from the bathroom. Holla at a blacktress movin’ on up!! I no longer have to hear my coworkers urinate as I pretend to do work.

We have a new girl in our office today, and she took my old desk. I already don’t like her—no, not just because she’s not black! It’s because she’s overly familiar and asks for a lot of things. Plus, she's wearing, like, leggings and grey cowboy boots and a tight green cardi - this is an OFFICE. It’s your FIRST DAY. And you make way more than I do, and I have to go Banana Republic biz-cas. Please have the decency to at least pretend to care, like the rest of us—at least in the beginning.

Anyway, I digress. I should be pleased that I now live in a world where Sojourner can be cold to a Caucasian newbie without fear of retribution. This is growth, people! Add to this the fact that tonight’s the season 2 premiere of RuPaul’s Drag Race, and this month is gonna be off the chain! Y’all know how much I love a DQ, and Ru is the queen of them all. I was in Australia during the first season of this show, and upon returning, it was more important to see Drag Race than call up my 93-year-old grandmother. (Does that make me a bad person?)

I think my favorite part had to be the finale, when their challenge was to write a rap for Ru’s song. Bebe Zahara Benet’s rap involves her saying the word ‘face,’ like, 10 times.
And she won the challenge.
I love this show so hard.

Add to this the fact that RuPaul is BLACK, and I think the BHM tie-ins are beyond obvious.

Okay, guys, it’s damn near noon, and I haven’t done an ounce of work. Apparently my boss doesn’t “understand” that Black History Month is a national holiday and I can’t be “expected” to “actually do my work” at any point.




Um, can we talk about the fact that I’m at work wearing my headphones and listening to ‘Covergirl (Put the Bass in Your Walk)’?

(Check out minute 1:22 for the start of the ‘face’ goodness)



I think what I love most about this show is the fact that, at the end of the episode, the bottom 2 contestants stand side-by-side and are told to “Lip synch…. FOR YOUR LIFE.”

I hope to one day be able to say the very same to two dueling male suitors. Whichever one is more fierce will get to be with me forever.


*god I miss that show.

Sidebar: Those who are in NYC and want to see the blacktress LIVE can check out the following stand-up shows this month:

Thursday, February 11, 9pm
Comedy Party USA
@ The Grizzly Pear
107 Macdougal St.
(Trains to West 4th)

Friday, February 12, 9pm
The Back Room
Ochi's Lounge
downstairs in Comix, 14th btwn 8th and 9th Avenue
(A/C/E to 14th street)

Both shows are FREE!

WACK History Month

What the hell is going on here, people?! First Beyonce - Etta James duel to the death, New York scheduled to appear in the Vag Mons, and now Chris Brown is charged with assaulting Rihanna.

I am in Disturbia.

What's prompted me to blog is the recent New York Times Article on the whole thing. Check it here. Here's the excerpt that really pisses me off:

“He was very professional and didn’t appear to have injuries,” said Sgt. Bridget Pickett, [about Chris Brown] adding, “He’s a good looking young man.”

What the hell?! I don't care if he's cute. I don't care if, after running scared, calling his manager, handlers, and 12 high-priced lawyers, he turned himself in--he assaulted his girlfriend, assholes!

And what's really making me sad is Ri-Ri. She has been in an abusive relationship with this fool for a long time. How long would it have gone on if not for this incident? As much as I respect a need for her privacy, I wish we were addressing what she's dealing with instead of hearing from rappers and cops who say Chris is "good looking." It's as though she's completely devalued. While they are the "king and queen of pop" right now, it just seems that the biggest concern is getting Chris off so we can go back to watching him dance and pretend this never happened. The willingness to sweep it under the rug is sickening. If Rihanna can't even get justice, what hope is there for the thousands of abused women who live in fear every day?

I'm sorry y'all, this just has me trippin'. What do you think?

Ri-ri, I got your back. I will be breaking dishes and using them to cut Chris Brown!

Bad, Bad Blacktress!

I am a terrible abolitionist.

I know it's 4 days into Black History Month and I haven't posted a damn thing. You've probably been sitting at your computers, waiting on my hard-hitting thesis on black culture in our new Obama age. Or maybe you were hoping for an interview with Eli Whitney, inventor of the cotton gin, asking him why the hell he had to go f shit up and make slavery fun for people.
Unfortunately, Eli wouldn't return my calls.

Even more unfortunately, not a soul in good ol' Sydney town knows what Black History Month is, so it's not like there are any TV specials or kids with school assignments asking me what it means to be black, like me. Or, for that matter, anyone sitting around reading the book "Black Like Me" (educate yourself to this reality). This, coupled with the 80-degree February weather has me all confused and forgetful. The most black-related things I've gotten is a series of puns from a music producer friend of mine. They include:

blacklash (we all know i've been there)
blaccent
blackground check
blaccident--"for when daddy forgot to strap up." I'm not sure what that's supposed to mean.

Clearly I'm lacking and slacking. However, I do enjoy using the phrase, "You can't blackmail this black male!" when faced with opposition.

Luckily, the Persian Excursion is on the case, repping a different unsung black hero every day of BHM. Check it out here.

To be fair, I've been partially behind cause I was wrapped up in my redheaded lover, who landed in New York City mere hours ago (Nothing like some white folks to make you forget all about your month of empowerment ;). Since his departure there has been crying on my part--for more info, see the next post.


Oh, and this is random, but I thought I should share:

The resemblance is too uncanny. Homegirl is part cray cray AND part muppet!

Black History Month All Year Round

Hey Guys,

For your viewing pleasure, here's a live version of Sojourner's stand-up show during Black History Month. Topics include:
Slavery
Gentrification
Ps in Vs Without Cs


I hope you enjoy.
Oh, and remember: it's comedy. Let's not get our panties in a twist.


Part 2:

Flavor of Love: Season 3

8 days left in this Black History Month, guys. We’ve gotta make it count. So far, Barack’s doing his part as a halfie to make sure our 40 acres didn’t go to waste, but other than that, it’s a poor Negro showing this month. I blame this primarily on the premiere of Season 3 of Flavor of Love—aka, Season 3 of “Why Negroes Can’t Have Nice Things—and Why Sojourner Can’t Find a Can-Do Black Husband."

Now, I think you all know my thoughts of Flava Flav—he’s a human cockroach with a gold retainer.

Yeah, I said it.

And, just like a cockroach, he never stops spawning. And he will never become extinct.
Now, like rapper T-Pain, I believe that Flav served his purpose back in his rap days. With Public Enemy, the young Flav gave ugly men hope, and proved that money CAN buy love—a theory which a young Patrick Dempsey tested shortly after the first Public Enemy album was released in 1987. See for yourself:

You never thought Demspey and Flav had a connection, did you?

Flavor of Love: Season 3, debuted on February 11, 2008—smack dab in the middle of the month of negrosity. Now, Flav—or his handlers who sign his checks and make sure the baby-mammas get a cut—must have known people would pick up on this. At the very least, he should have anticipated the blacktress’ wrath.

I’ve been trying to avoid this show since it began, not only due to Flav’s blinding hideousness, but because nothing makes me sadder than unintelligent black women yelling, arguing, and pulling out weaves over nothing. I mean, I didn’t fight for freedom so these chicks could act a damn fool!

While eating China Place at Litsa’s last night, we had no choice by to stare at the giant image of Flav on her flat screen. Luckily, it was episode 1, where the sluts get their nicknames for the duration of the show.

Sidebar: Historically in African cultures, babies are named by a powerful figure in the community or family shortly after birth. The name is often meaningful, determined not before the child’s birth, but after. It involves a communication with a higher power, where the child’s destiny and identity are determined. The name is meant to act, in a way, as a prophecy.

On Flavor of Love and I Love New York, a slut appears in a mansion—primarily for free food, drink, and the chance to go from appearing in pornography on public access television to pay-cable—and is given a name that is easy to remember, touches on some trivial aspect of his/her/hir’s personality, and is often misspelled.

As the woman stood in line and waited to be named, Flav announced that this season he would do something different: The women would name themselves!!!
Who said pimps up, hos down? Not this time around! The women approached flav one by one, and explained why they should be named. One girl called herself “Bunz”—yes, with a ‘z’—because of her large posterior. Two identical twins (in bad need of pilates and orthodontia, if you really want to know) said they were “Sugar” and “Spice,” because that’s all a man could need.

As trite as this was, Flav was not satisfied with these monikers. In this instance, he decided to name them himself, giving them titles that were meaningful to him.
“My favorite book when I was little was Cat in the Hat,” he explained to the scary-looking ladies. “And my favorite characters were those little bad monsters—Thing 1 and Thing 2. So I’m call y’all Thing 1 and Thing 2.”

I kid you not.






We’ve come a long way, Negroes!!!

The women laughed, which is all one could really do in such a situation. Unless you’re me, and you stare at the TV with your mouth open and a lone tear in your eye.

As everyone gets acclimated and the women take their turns trying to woo flav, one woman shows herself as the next New York—her name is SHY, precisely because she is not shy at all. Two at a time bond with Flav, and the rest of the women are left to drink and intimidate each other, and Shy wastes no time.

One large white woman, nicknamed Peeches (yes, PEEches), is immediately attacked. Shy asks her why she’s here, and Peeches says she “wants to be his queen.” (um, really? Ew.)
Shy then gets louder and louder, screaming, “Are you ready to do what you gotta do? Do you want 10 babies? ARE YOU READY TO HAVE HIS 10 BABIES?!” She then begins pointing to her nether regions as she says each syllable, just in case Peeches doesn’t know where babies come from.

She's not shy at all. And she wants to be the new New York.

Once she makes herself clear, she begins to say, “See, me, 24-healthy, fit”—she flexes her bicep at this moment—“I’m all ready. Are YOU ready?!”

Okay, now, the last thing anyone should be trying to do is procreate with Flav. He is clearly genetically inferior, from his oral hygiene to his stature to his balding (though he tries to wear real jacked up cornrows). There is no reason why having his babies would be a good idea—we’re trying to LIFT UP the black race!! Listen, I’m only having kids if I know they’ll be in The Talented Tenth. I’m not popping out babies just keep some steady income. I mean, how do you think I’ve lived so long since the abolition of slavery? Cause I ain’t givin’ it away!!!

These women should also keep in mind that Flav already has about 8 children (like I said, cockroaches reproduce rapidly), and, like, 7 baby-mammas. And this is the THIRD SEASON of the show—his track record ain’t so great.

I honestly don’t get why these women don’t have higher aspirations than mating with an unattractive man. I mean, the only one who is showing her true colors is the white girl—who wanted to be called “Vanilla,” but instead he calls her ICE. Ice admits that she’s a budding radio personality, and is most likely on the show to earn some sort of “Street Cred.”

It’s a sad world when the only person clever enough on Flavor of Love is the white girl.

Okay, readers, I could go on, but I would probably end up crying, or nauseous.

Happy February 21st!!!!!!!!!

Happy Lovers Day-- Negro Lovers, That Is!!!

Yeah, that's how I feel about this "holiday."Sorry to get all “angry black woman” on y’all, but I just don’t think there’s any point in Valentine’s Day. If you’re with someone, you should be good to them all the time, and all V-day does is allow everyday establishments to raise prices on goods and services as well as decorate their areas a hideous pink-and-red combination—which is flattering on no one.

Today is a day for celebrating one’s significant other, right? Well, I’ve decided I will celebrate myself, for I am quite the significant… other--get it?! Oh, my pseudo-intellectual race jokes are the best!!

Anyway, let’s get back to why black people are so great, shall we? Here’s a quick list.

Reasons I Love Black People

- We use wash cloths
- We have created a hip hop culture which has given suburban white males a means of channeling their misplaced anger at their parents for such atrocities as Little League, SAT Prep, and music lessons.
- The women of the race give white men something to fetishize.
- Without black people, Duane Reade would have no employees.
- Drag queens would have never learned to be so sassy!
- Gay men would have never had anyone to come out to, if not for the SBW—strong black woman.
- We may not have built this city on rock and roll, but we built this country on…slavery. I think we all know who won in that chapter of history.

So, on this day of both lovers and Negroes, and I’ve decided that my true love is none other than Sojo herself. And, unlike a man, I won’t oppress myself, I won’t hook up with myself and not call, and I will make sense in all my speech and only speak TRUTH.

God, it’s good to be me.

On Hiatus--don't hate us!

Readers,

I apologize for my lack of posting. I am not living up to my word of a new post a day. I, Sojourner, am not being TRUTHful. Please forgive this failure as I rebuild in the wake of the Photographer (more on that later).

For now, I leave you this e-card. It's something I've been saying all along.
And it reminds me of my estranged father.

The Hook Brings You Back/HeavyVee

I’m sorry for this late posting on the 7th day of BHM. Perhaps moving on CP time* is fitting, given the month.

Today, I would like to bring an up and coming rap sensation to your attention. It was brought to me by JJSiii. I find urban rhythms are often brought to my attention by those of the Caucasian persuasion, and I’ve come to accept it. When I first viewed this video, I was put off. Why would I write about a young woman who was cooning it up during the month of pride? However, upon a closer look and a good listen, I began to see her worth. See the magic for yourself.

She goes by the name of HeavyVee. I think this clever moniker comes from the fact that she is thick and her name is Vanessa. Her song “I don’t need a hook” is a clever meta discourse on the tropes of hip hop culture and rap music. She repeats the refrain—the hook, if you will—repeatedly, which is: I don’t need a hook.

Does she or doesn’t she? I’m not really sure.

But, what I do know is that HeavyVee is large and, like Charles, she is in charge!!! She’s not afraid to rock white suspenders, and she gestures with the bravado and confidence of a rapper twice her age (she’s only 17).

I would also like to show you an excerpt from the “about me” section of her woozyfly page:

When Vanessa turned 15, she gained the confidence to share her own songs with others and booked her first ever live performance at a local steak house in Jersey. From these humble beginnings, Heavy Vee was born!

Steak house? Did she get a shank or slab of meat as payment? Perhaps this is what I’ve been missing.Should I go to Bennigan’s and start spreading truth? Can I become internet famous after a string of performances at Ihop? I think I’m going to have to talk to HeavyVee’s people.

What I want you to learn from HeavyVee on the seventh day is this:

DO YOU.

HeavyVee proudly shuns “hooks” in favor of a….hook-shunning hook. She is a walking contradiction, and there’s just no stopping her. She’s a juggernaut of hip hop flavor, 17 years young, and she has a confidence that only a large black woman can possess. Having grown up around melanin-deficient individuals, I have been brainwashed with ideals of beauty. Luckily, I had my Detroit crew and strong black Massa-mama to give me truth. My classmates longed to be skinny, and proudly wore size 0 jeans on their petite frames. At the age of 17, some girls had the hips of a 12-year-old Korean gymnast—and guys actually thought they were hot.
But HeavyVee don’t go for that. As she says in the song, "She ain’t not snitch or trick. And if you cross her, she can be a real bitch"—just like Sojo.

While I’m slightly put off by the hairdo (or, in this case, hair-don’t), I think that HeavyVee deserves a day in the blacktress sunshine. What do YOU think?



*this is an abbreviation of the popular phrase, “colored people time,” which is based on the stereotype of black people being late all the time. I guess it’s cause they’re too busy eating fried chicken and getting pregnant.

Mama Didn't Raise No Fool!

And so we thank her, on this day, the 6th day of BHM.

I thought it behoovy of me to praise Mama Dukes because we went to Bank of America this morning to apply for my mortgage, so I can get off her plantation. Thanks to her hard work and good credit, I have been pre-approved! Clearly, this is not something I could have done on my own. When I asked Big Mama Thornton* if she really wanted to do this, if she was really ready to be my blackup in case of nonpayment, she said to me, in all seriousness:
“I see this as an investment in you. I believe that in a few years you will be a financial stable and responsible adult, and I want to help you get on your own two feet—and off my couch.”

It was touching moment. Massa-Mama is enabling me to break free from the shackles of oppression and get my own 40 acres and a mule—or, in this case, several hundred square feet and a doorman.

MaDukes should be thanked for several reasons:

1. She taught me to read.
2. She didn’t give me up for adoption, when she most certainly could have.
3. After I was born, she sent me to Africa for 6 months and I lived with my grandma while mom studied for the bar exam. If that’s not being a strong black woman, I don’t know what is.
3a. If she hadn’t passed that bar exam, she wouldn’t be the lawyer she is today.
4. She taught me that when a White person tells me I’m “well-spoken,” they are being “condescending” and “racist.”
5. She fed me until I was old enough to cook for my damn self.
6. She’s shown me that a woman is never too old to get a Latin lover.
7. She taught me all about TRUTH.
As a young girl, I looked to my mother for validation, guidance, and support. If I was wearing a hideous outfit, she would tell me; if I complained about gaining weight, she’d stop buying sweets, “cause the Buddha-belly was bulging.” When tears would well up in my nubian eyes, she’d calmly explain, “I’m your mother. If you can’t count on me to tell you the truth, who can you count on?” It was rough, it was harsh, but it was always the Sojourner Truth.



I hope you, too, go to the strong black women in your lives and show them some love this month.

This is what you find when you google search "Slave Mother." This is a still from the movie Beloved, starring Oprah Winfrey. Neither of these women were actual slaves at any point.


*not her real name

Who Likes to (Ba)rack the Party?!

Okay, so I know the plan was to discuss a Negro a day for the entire month, but I must first spread some truth.

I, Sojourner, am angry.

I woke up this morning to change the world—aka VOTE—and headed to my polling site with a purpose.

I arrived at the school where I’ve been voting for years to find the entry gates locked. I walked the perimeter until I found an entrance. A kindly master of the custodial arts (aka janitor) informed me that the school was no longer a polling site, and I had to go 6 blocks north to PS 194.

Oh hell to the no!! How did I not get a memo? Why wasn’t there at least a sign on the school gates and/or entryway to inform all of us rabid voters that there had been a change?

As I walked to the next site trying to calm my nerves and focus on rocking the vote, I was accosted by independents, urging me vote as one of them. I think my favorite was a White woman wearing a shirt that read: “WHO SAYS HILLARY’S BEST FOR THE BLACK COMMUNITY????”

If that’s not gentrification, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, I appear at the second voting site only to be told that I’m yet again in the wrong place—apparently, I have to cross the street and go to another school.
W. T. F?!

I’m sorry, y’all, but I have a conspiracy theory. They don’t want Negroes voting today. Why else would they make it a mystery maze to get to a voting site and in no way place visual cues? Why was my voting site 10 blocks from my home when I am near 3 schools and 4 churches?

Because they don’t want me SPEAKING MY TRUTH!

Yep, I said it. They are making it as complicated and confusing as possible for me to pull my lever to the left, to the left (much like Beyoncé says).

Is it because they don’t want my black behind voting for…BARACK????

Which brings me to today’s Negro: Barack Obama.

Now, Sojo hasn’t gotten too political this year, and I’ve done this on purpose. Everybody and their mama wants to put two cents into this debate. And, while that’s all well and good, I’m gonna keep my pennies for my damn self.

I must admit, I never thought I’d see the day we were torn between a black man and a woman (even if that woman is a cyborg). I’ve been on this earth over 200 years (I’m still looking good cause black don’t crack!), and I have seen some changes. I mean, when I saw Brad Pitt holding that black baby girl for the first time, I almost lost my mind. I thought it was the end of days…but now I see the days are just beginning.

Barack.
Hillary.

Black everyman.

White woman.

I’m mad at both of ‘em.

They’re forcing me to decide how liberal I am and which minority I care more about. As a black woman, I’m doubly torn. As a bleeding-heart liberal, well I’m just racked with guilt either way.

I’m worried that if Barack is president, he’ll get shot before Michelle can put new drapes in the oval office. If Hillary is president, I will get Bill back, which would make me happy because I miss him very much. I sometimes put on my favorite blue dress and reminisce on our good times….

I digress.

We all know everyone loves a mixie. And we all love a worldly man. Barack is both. And he has used his fine brownness and brought young, attractive people out of the woodwork. Look at this music video:

politics gets rhythmic!

Scarlett Johannson sings and Tatyana Ali comes out of hiding—all for Barack!!!
(um…why’s the lead actor from “Prime” and that random pussycat doll in there, though?)

YES. WE. CAN.

I know he’s young and delicate. I know he’s not as experienced as H-320-2008 is (that’s her robot name). What’s working for him the friendly charisma that allows me to make him anything I want him to be. He’s like the cool black kid in private school—the white boys totally want to hang out with him and ask him the lyrics to popular rap songs. Who didn’t want to be friends with that guy?!

Um, here’s a question, though: Where’s the white mum and his Asian sis? Is he keeping her quiet and in hiding, like some sort of geisha?!

Let’s think about that.