It's Too Cold in the D

Apparently, residents of the D are taking justice into their own hands.

Jewboo alerted me to this news item with just the words "Jesus Christ" before the link. Unfortunately, I wasn't all that surprised--not even after reading about Detroit resident Julia Brown.

The last time Brown, 73, called the Detroit police, they didn’t show up until the next day. So she applied for a permit to carry a handgun and says she’s prepared to use it against the young thugs who have taken over her neighborhood, burglarizing entire blocks, opening fire at will and terrorizing the elderly with impunity.

“I don’t intend to be one of their victims,” said Brown, who has lived in Detroit since the late 1950s. “I’m planning on taking one out.”

Although Julia "Throw Down" Brown is obviously related to T-Baby in some way, she is no match for my G-Unit. At 95 years old, G-Unit has been keeping a gun in her house since the Regan administration (hence her lovable nickname). When my cousins and I would play hide-and-seek in her house, she always warned us to "go anywhere but in the front room. That's where I keep my gun."

Having seen Boyz N the Hood and knowing we were already living on borrowed time as black youth in Detroit, none of us were stupid enough to actually look for the firearm, but we were obsessed with the idea of my grandmother having it.

"What are you gonna do with a gun, grandma?" My cousin asked.

"I'll shoot an intruder," she said, with her voice starting to rise. "Some fool tryna come up in here and rob me. I may be old, but I ain't no weak person! I made it this far and I ain't letting some dumb son of a bitch take me."

Ever the logical one, I had only one follow-up "If you shot him, what would you do with the body?"

What my grandmother said next is still emblazoned on my brain 20 years later. So matter-of-fact that she was almost dismissive, she replied, "I'd let the dog eat it."

Y'all! Ethel will leave your body as puppy chow if you try to start some ish! She's gonna make sure black folks can have nice things!

(I think this level of hardness is what makes me such a difficult woman to love. I come from take-no-prisoners Southern sharecropping stock.)

At the time, I imagined a body on the hallway floor with Toby (her dog) biting off bits of it. Even at 7 years old, I assumed there'd be a stench and wondered how Grandma would get pass the corpse to get to the bathroom every two hours, as she was wont to do. I was able to have such a detailed vision because I had no doubt in my mind that G-Unit would do it!

I blame Clint Eastwood. Gran Torino was practically a documentary and then there was that Super Bowl commercial (see below). I guess this is what he meant by "Motor City fighting again."

By "the roar of our engines," did you mean the sounds of caps busting in asses?

Found MYSELF on Youtube!!

Thought I'd share one of my old sets with you, gang.....

This acts as a great reminder, whenever I get stressed out about Jewboo, that things could be worse. They could be WAY worse....



Part 2!

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.

How Much Do I Really Hate New York?

Dear Massa—I mean, Reader,

Let me be the first to apologize for my lack of bloggery as of late. I know it is my duty—nay, god-given right—to put my thoughts on the page as only a blacktress can. However, I’ve found that since the beginning of my 47th year I haven’t had the time to sit down and collect my thoughts. Things have been cray. In fact, one could even say I’m the captain of the S.S. Cray-Cray.

Firstly, I am suffering from serious black mama drama. It is time Sojourner faced her own TRUTH and find her own apt. I cannot let the co-op board (aka THE MAN) slow me down, and I must accept that my current situation is similar to the plantations from which I fled, shouting “Ain’t I a Woman?!” I cannot take steps back at this age. I must move onward and upward, and once again seek out the freedom I’ve longed for.

As for the quest for the winter spoon: it is over. Mission aborted. Like the US Pacific Fleet at Pearl Harbor, my heart has been bombed into bits by unpleasant “romantic situations”—the Imperial Japanese Navy of evil men (thought none of them were Japanese). All I have for comfort now is I Love New York. Watching this show reminds me that, even on my worse day, at least I have a functioning brain, the ability to tell right from wrong, and no STDs (I took my test—I passed!).

New York is down to the wire, with only two men to choose from: Tailor Made and Buddha. Now, I personally am glad to see Punk go, as he needed to stop slumming and living this lie and do something with his Harvard education (it’s his kind of behavior that stops Negroes from having nice things).
I mean, the moment Punk’s mother came into the house I knew that was the end of him. Look at her:

First of all, why is his mother 112 years old? And why is she hideous? I was shocked by this turn—TV doesn’t get any more real than this.

I believe my favorite response to Punk’s mom came from a viewer who wrote to Yahoo:
She looks really frail and her mannerisms remind me of my some of the stroke victims I worked with at the hospital. Her mouth is always open and her glasses are so thick. She also doesn't make eye contact.

This would have to be true. As New York screamed and tripped, and as Sister Patterson waved her weave about and stabbed out the Entertainer’s eyes with her fake nails, Punk’s mother sat stoically, possibly passing a stone, looking bewildered and mildly frightened…. Then again, her wide eyes could just look that way because of her large bifocals.

I know it's wrong to take pleasure from the misfortunes of others. But I can't help it. With Massa-Mama breathing down my neck, my va-jay-jay confused and lonely, and the housing market rougher than a back alley in Detroit, I seek solace wherever I can find it.

Judge not lest ye be judged.