Just wanted to share a great clip from one of my favorite comics, Hari Kondabolu. No better way to celebrate BHM with a man who always speaks truth to power.
Showing posts with label the children are our future.. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the children are our future.. Show all posts
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Monday, October 17, 2011
Ain't She a Woman?! / I am the 34.3 percent.
Hey y'all!
Jewboo showed me this video yesterday and I just had to share. This little girl is my (S)hero of the Week. In addition to her hard-hitting questions to financial district massas, I'm loving her Just for Me perm and CIA-agent-style trench. Her ability to stand up to the major power players in Caucasia is inspiring. Give it a look-see. What do you think?
In other news:
[Jewboo, stop reading!]
I found out today that I'm 34.3% body fat.
Ew.
I had a nutrition consultation this morning, which involved testing my resting metabolic rate. To prep for this test, buff trainer Curtis had to take my vitals. Although my weight has slightly decreased (thanks, Weight Watchers!), apparently my body fat percentage qualifies me for The Biggest Loser.
As I sat down, contemplating my inner obesity (I think my blood type is cookies 'n' cream), I flipped through a magazine. Steve, the other trainer, came in and started chatting with Curtis. Surrounded by all the gym equipment with two attractive men talking as though I wasn't there, I started to have a flashback to 11th grade phys ed.
"Should I go in the waiting room while you set up?" I asked.
"If you want to," said Curtis, "but it doesn't really matter."
"Well, I don't want to interrupt y'all, bro'in out and all."
"You can bro out with us if you want," said Steve.
"No, I can't. I have 34.3% body fat."
Clearly, I'm typing this post while doing squats.
What makes the RMR test even more depressing is that, in order to accurately assess your target, you have to breathe through a tube for 10 minutes (that's not the problem). The demoralization comes when they attach a Hannibal Lecter-like piece of headgear to make sure that no air escapes the tube. Your nasal cavity is effectively closed off, and any attempt at a decent hair day is ruined. As I sat there, wondering how one could even go about making a suit of someone else's skin, I realized that it's probably time to stop eating my feelings. But I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with friends now that I don't "grab a drink" after work. I guess we can just.... drink herbal tea? Guh.
Target body fat percentage is 18-24%.
I asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind contacting some of my favorite bakeries to let them know I'm no longer welcome. If he doesn't, I can't promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain.
How are you?!
Jewboo showed me this video yesterday and I just had to share. This little girl is my (S)hero of the Week. In addition to her hard-hitting questions to financial district massas, I'm loving her Just for Me perm and CIA-agent-style trench. Her ability to stand up to the major power players in Caucasia is inspiring. Give it a look-see. What do you think?
In other news:
[Jewboo, stop reading!]
I found out today that I'm 34.3% body fat.
Ew.
I had a nutrition consultation this morning, which involved testing my resting metabolic rate. To prep for this test, buff trainer Curtis had to take my vitals. Although my weight has slightly decreased (thanks, Weight Watchers!), apparently my body fat percentage qualifies me for The Biggest Loser.
As I sat down, contemplating my inner obesity (I think my blood type is cookies 'n' cream), I flipped through a magazine. Steve, the other trainer, came in and started chatting with Curtis. Surrounded by all the gym equipment with two attractive men talking as though I wasn't there, I started to have a flashback to 11th grade phys ed.
"Should I go in the waiting room while you set up?" I asked.
"If you want to," said Curtis, "but it doesn't really matter."
"Well, I don't want to interrupt y'all, bro'in out and all."
"You can bro out with us if you want," said Steve.
"No, I can't. I have 34.3% body fat."
Clearly, I'm typing this post while doing squats.
What makes the RMR test even more depressing is that, in order to accurately assess your target, you have to breathe through a tube for 10 minutes (that's not the problem). The demoralization comes when they attach a Hannibal Lecter-like piece of headgear to make sure that no air escapes the tube. Your nasal cavity is effectively closed off, and any attempt at a decent hair day is ruined. As I sat there, wondering how one could even go about making a suit of someone else's skin, I realized that it's probably time to stop eating my feelings. But I'm not quite sure what I'm supposed to do with friends now that I don't "grab a drink" after work. I guess we can just.... drink herbal tea? Guh.
Target body fat percentage is 18-24%.
I asked the doctor if he wouldn't mind contacting some of my favorite bakeries to let them know I'm no longer welcome. If he doesn't, I can't promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain.
How are you?!
Friday, June 24, 2011
Greatest News Ever
Praise Black Jesus--There's a new black genius!
I am very excited about this genius teen--and she was homeschooled by a single father, no less. I hope she enjoys her education and opportunities before Tyler Perry tries to buy the rights to her life. She speaks Swahili, Arabic, and Spanish. Y'all--this girl is the future of our country.
I really want to be her big sister. I could teach her what to look out for in Connecticut and discuss June Jordan while we make s'mores on the stovetop.
I think my favorite part is the dad's comment on raising a genius, which the reporter uses as her closer (good work, Tanyanika):
"She tries to outthink me all the time," he laughed. "She's quick with it. You have to be sharp. She has me drinking ginkgo on the regular."
I'm about to get over to GNC right now!
Happy Friday!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
The Children Are Our Future
Hey Gang, What do you think of the redesign? I was getting sick and tired of the blah background, so I decided to change it up--thoughts?
Monday night I met with a publicist to discuss ways to take the blacktress to the next level. She was a very Earth Mother, actualize-your-potential Jewess, and I kinda have a friend crush (and not just because she met with me free of charge). She said a lot of things that were good, but mostly it was about experimenting and tracking changes. She advised that I try different things, but don't just disregard the results--really look at them and write them down. Like, if I do a show in BK, how many referrals do I get? What's kind of response do I get when I host versus doing a short set? How does blogging drive traffic to www.YouTube.com/BlacktressComedy? Only by looking at the results will I get a game plan, be able to set realistic goals, and measure success.
It may sound obvious, but when it takes all my strength to make myself wash the damn dishes, there's no suggestion that's too small. So, in the spirit of experimenting and tracking changes, I'm setting up a blogging schedule--even when I don't feel funny, or feel too busy, or don't want to risk losing my job because I'm being inappropriate, I am going to put up a post every other day. So it begins...
Luckily, I've got something to work with. Yesterday I went to my old high school to meet with an admin about becoming a tutor (blacktress needs to get a well-paying side hustle, and nothing says 'cash-in-hand' like Upper East Side private school tutoring). I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but my private schooling on the UES began when I was a mere 10 years old, and began what would become a lifetime of studies INSIDE CAUCASIA. It wasn't just hard being bigger and blacker than everyone else, but I didn't have a nanny or a kate spade bag AND I wore a size medium (which made me an object of ridicule--I kid you not). Within the first semester I quickly learned that I had to get really funny really fast, and I wouldn't be dating anyone until college, if ever.
I think it could have been when a girl said to me on the first day of music class, "if you don't stop being the little bitch you are, you're never going to make friends here."
If by "bitch" she meant "painfully shy," then I guess she was right.
Needless to say, as I made my way up Park Avenue yesterday, I felt a bit awkward (and really old). By the time I got to the administrator's office, I had an eating disorder. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Lady Gaga playing--ah, the freedom of private schooling. I saw a poster on the wall advertising the UJIMA* club, which spearheaded the Kenya Project.
Where was UJIMA when I was a lass?! I could have used some inspiration and outreach!
My memories are quieted by a sudden stampede of children flooded into the stairwell, and I started to making my scared noise (which sounds a lot like this:
They were just so full of energy and life--I couldn't take it.
Our meeting was brief, but I'm hopeful that something will come of it--even though it might not happen until the fall.
I went upstairs to visit a teacher (the one whose son has been deeply influenced by a blacktress), and the next thing I know, she's playing my YouTube for everyone in the history department. Students desperately trying to learn couldn't help but listen in.
"Does this have profanity in it?" one boy asked.
"Dude, I'm dropping F-bombs like Hiroshima and Nagasaki!"
I think it was the term "wintercourse" that made him leave the room.
It was kind of surreal to sit in a room where I used to have nervous breakdowns about Robespierre and have people watching my stand-up. It was even more surreal when one of the teaching fellows (a young black woman who went to Dartmouth and can handle Sojourner's Truths) asked me if I'd be interested in being a mentor to a current student.
There is nothing I want more to help another young, gifted, and black mind traverse the treacherous land of CAUCASIA. I told her to give me someone who was really cool, and who needed to be empowered. I'm already getting together a reading list, which so far includes Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and June Jordan.
Just think of it, guys--we'll sit around, braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. I'll rent The Women of Brewster Place and show her our history. It'll be, like, the ultimate safe space!
In other news: Anybody got a job for me that'll pay real money AND give me the flexibility to live my dreams?
*Every time I type "Ujima", both Microsoft Word and Blogger suggest I change it to JEMIMA. Is the Microsoft Office Suite racist???
Monday night I met with a publicist to discuss ways to take the blacktress to the next level. She was a very Earth Mother, actualize-your-potential Jewess, and I kinda have a friend crush (and not just because she met with me free of charge). She said a lot of things that were good, but mostly it was about experimenting and tracking changes. She advised that I try different things, but don't just disregard the results--really look at them and write them down. Like, if I do a show in BK, how many referrals do I get? What's kind of response do I get when I host versus doing a short set? How does blogging drive traffic to www.YouTube.com/BlacktressComedy? Only by looking at the results will I get a game plan, be able to set realistic goals, and measure success.
It may sound obvious, but when it takes all my strength to make myself wash the damn dishes, there's no suggestion that's too small. So, in the spirit of experimenting and tracking changes, I'm setting up a blogging schedule--even when I don't feel funny, or feel too busy, or don't want to risk losing my job because I'm being inappropriate, I am going to put up a post every other day. So it begins...
Luckily, I've got something to work with. Yesterday I went to my old high school to meet with an admin about becoming a tutor (blacktress needs to get a well-paying side hustle, and nothing says 'cash-in-hand' like Upper East Side private school tutoring). I don't know if I've already mentioned it, but my private schooling on the UES began when I was a mere 10 years old, and began what would become a lifetime of studies INSIDE CAUCASIA. It wasn't just hard being bigger and blacker than everyone else, but I didn't have a nanny or a kate spade bag AND I wore a size medium (which made me an object of ridicule--I kid you not). Within the first semester I quickly learned that I had to get really funny really fast, and I wouldn't be dating anyone until college, if ever.
I think it could have been when a girl said to me on the first day of music class, "if you don't stop being the little bitch you are, you're never going to make friends here."
If by "bitch" she meant "painfully shy," then I guess she was right.
Needless to say, as I made my way up Park Avenue yesterday, I felt a bit awkward (and really old). By the time I got to the administrator's office, I had an eating disorder. As I walked up the stairs, I could hear Lady Gaga playing--ah, the freedom of private schooling. I saw a poster on the wall advertising the UJIMA* club, which spearheaded the Kenya Project.
Where was UJIMA when I was a lass?! I could have used some inspiration and outreach!
My memories are quieted by a sudden stampede of children flooded into the stairwell, and I started to making my scared noise (which sounds a lot like this:
They were just so full of energy and life--I couldn't take it.
Our meeting was brief, but I'm hopeful that something will come of it--even though it might not happen until the fall.
I went upstairs to visit a teacher (the one whose son has been deeply influenced by a blacktress), and the next thing I know, she's playing my YouTube for everyone in the history department. Students desperately trying to learn couldn't help but listen in.
"Does this have profanity in it?" one boy asked.
"Dude, I'm dropping F-bombs like Hiroshima and Nagasaki!"
I think it was the term "wintercourse" that made him leave the room.
It was kind of surreal to sit in a room where I used to have nervous breakdowns about Robespierre and have people watching my stand-up. It was even more surreal when one of the teaching fellows (a young black woman who went to Dartmouth and can handle Sojourner's Truths) asked me if I'd be interested in being a mentor to a current student.
There is nothing I want more to help another young, gifted, and black mind traverse the treacherous land of CAUCASIA. I told her to give me someone who was really cool, and who needed to be empowered. I'm already getting together a reading list, which so far includes Audre Lorde, bell hooks, and June Jordan.
Just think of it, guys--we'll sit around, braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. I'll rent The Women of Brewster Place and show her our history. It'll be, like, the ultimate safe space!
In other news: Anybody got a job for me that'll pay real money AND give me the flexibility to live my dreams?
*Every time I type "Ujima", both Microsoft Word and Blogger suggest I change it to JEMIMA. Is the Microsoft Office Suite racist???
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I Want to Be a 5-Year-Old White Girl When I Grow Up
I know I'm a week behind, but I gotta share this YouTube:
This chick knows what's up! Did mom play Ani Difranco next to her belly when this precocious gem was in the womb?
I remember being this bold and brash. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I stabbed a boy with a spork in pre-K because he tried to kiss me?
Well, yeah. That's basically it.
And I was the one who got sent to time out! I still remember it like it was yesterday.
The year was 1988. We'd just woken up from nap time and were getting our snacks--a fruit cup, I believe (hence the spork). This boy--whose name I can't remember, but I think it was something lame--came and sat right next to me, and I immediately got annoyed. He then leaned in and tried to kiss me, and I used the only weapon at my disposal--the plastic genetically modified utensil hybrid found in cafeterias and KFCs everywhere (is it still given out at KFC? I stopped going there once I decided I didn't want to die young). I weakly stabbed at him through his shirt, and didn't even leave a mark, but he yelled for one of the nuns and told them what I did. I tried to explain that I was being assaulted, but at the age of 4, I didn't have such a vocabulary. My teacher instantly put me in the time-out corner. I was 4 years old, and I was trying to Take Back the Afternoon and I was denied!
So, basically, if I had this girl in my class back then, I might have had some support--you know, a Susan B. Anthony to my Sojourner.
This chick knows what's up! Did mom play Ani Difranco next to her belly when this precocious gem was in the womb?
I remember being this bold and brash. Did I ever tell you guys about the time I stabbed a boy with a spork in pre-K because he tried to kiss me?
Well, yeah. That's basically it.
And I was the one who got sent to time out! I still remember it like it was yesterday.
The year was 1988. We'd just woken up from nap time and were getting our snacks--a fruit cup, I believe (hence the spork). This boy--whose name I can't remember, but I think it was something lame--came and sat right next to me, and I immediately got annoyed. He then leaned in and tried to kiss me, and I used the only weapon at my disposal--the plastic genetically modified utensil hybrid found in cafeterias and KFCs everywhere (is it still given out at KFC? I stopped going there once I decided I didn't want to die young). I weakly stabbed at him through his shirt, and didn't even leave a mark, but he yelled for one of the nuns and told them what I did. I tried to explain that I was being assaulted, but at the age of 4, I didn't have such a vocabulary. My teacher instantly put me in the time-out corner. I was 4 years old, and I was trying to Take Back the Afternoon and I was denied!
So, basically, if I had this girl in my class back then, I might have had some support--you know, a Susan B. Anthony to my Sojourner.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Happy Birthday to My Favorite Boo Who I Don't Know!!
As you know, I'm from the future, and today is January 8th. Yesterday, BCB came over with some gossip magazines to help keep me busy while I try to avoid becoming an amputee, and I flipped through one just to see what's happening in the celebrity world. I was checking out celebrity birthdays, and was surprised to see ZAHARA JOLIE-PITT listed.
YES, SHE HAS MADE IT!!!
I am obsessed with Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and the fact that she is Brad's favorite. The first time I saw Benjamin Button holding that black baby, my ovaries jumped, and I knew my world would never be the same again.
Although I do get worried about Zahara's hair (Angie, I know you can afford a braider), and hope she doesn't grow up with any self-loathing or inferiority complexes, I have high hopes for ZJP. I see a collabo with Oprah, perhaps a few excellent black power books-- maybe even a tell-all in the vein of Mommy Dearest.
Look at that cute face! I bet Angie thought she got off easy when Zahara was all bald and whatnot--No, Angie, get homegirl some Just for Me or get a pocket African to handle her scandal!
What I love most about her is the alter-ego Sallie Sellasie, as outed by SCAN--The Secret Council of American Negroes.
"Sojourner, what is this 'Secret Council of American Negroes', and why haven't you told me about it sooner?" You may be wondering.
Listen, Caucasia (you know you are), I can't give away everything. Although the blacklash is still here, I want to try to keep some things incognegro, in hopes that they will one day accept me as one of their own. But the truth of Zahara and her power cannot be denied. F Oprah, Tyra, and Halle--it's Zahara who is making things happen--and homegirl is still rocking Pull-Ups!
Check out my favorite quote from her work in the field as secret agent Sally Selassie:
Sally: We're OK to talk. I hotwired my Play Skool phone for Wi Fi. The Man suspects nothing. As always. The Woman, she is suspicious, but has no proof. She almost found last month's communique so I had to cram it down the toilet to cover my tracks. Things got messy, but I was able to blame it all on Pax. The woman totally gave me a look that said she knew I was lying, yet she punished Pax anyway. As if that would break me. I'm from Ethiopia. You've got to come with harder shit than taking away the "Dora the Explorer" tape from my fake brother.
OH MY GOD, SO GOOD. For more on the Sally Selassie Files, holla at this.
YES, SHE HAS MADE IT!!!
I am obsessed with Zahara Jolie-Pitt, and the fact that she is Brad's favorite. The first time I saw Benjamin Button holding that black baby, my ovaries jumped, and I knew my world would never be the same again.
SWOON!!!!!
Although I do get worried about Zahara's hair (Angie, I know you can afford a braider), and hope she doesn't grow up with any self-loathing or inferiority complexes, I have high hopes for ZJP. I see a collabo with Oprah, perhaps a few excellent black power books-- maybe even a tell-all in the vein of Mommy Dearest.
Look at that cute face! I bet Angie thought she got off easy when Zahara was all bald and whatnot--No, Angie, get homegirl some Just for Me or get a pocket African to handle her scandal!What I love most about her is the alter-ego Sallie Sellasie, as outed by SCAN--The Secret Council of American Negroes.
"Sojourner, what is this 'Secret Council of American Negroes', and why haven't you told me about it sooner?" You may be wondering.
Listen, Caucasia (you know you are), I can't give away everything. Although the blacklash is still here, I want to try to keep some things incognegro, in hopes that they will one day accept me as one of their own. But the truth of Zahara and her power cannot be denied. F Oprah, Tyra, and Halle--it's Zahara who is making things happen--and homegirl is still rocking Pull-Ups!
Check out my favorite quote from her work in the field as secret agent Sally Selassie:
Sally: We're OK to talk. I hotwired my Play Skool phone for Wi Fi. The Man suspects nothing. As always. The Woman, she is suspicious, but has no proof. She almost found last month's communique so I had to cram it down the toilet to cover my tracks. Things got messy, but I was able to blame it all on Pax. The woman totally gave me a look that said she knew I was lying, yet she punished Pax anyway. As if that would break me. I'm from Ethiopia. You've got to come with harder shit than taking away the "Dora the Explorer" tape from my fake brother.
OH MY GOD, SO GOOD. For more on the Sally Selassie Files, holla at this.
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