Lupita Nyong’o & What It Means to Be Black

When I posted a picture on my Instagram of newly minted Academy Award winner Lupita Nyong’o giving her acceptance speech at Sunday night’s awards ceremony, I didn’t know or even suspect that there was any question about whether she was black. The photo was of a beaming Nyong’o holding up her award in triumph. Her speech—especially the part where she said, “No matter where you’re from, your dreams are valid”—moved me.

I, like many, had been rooting for her to win an Oscar as soon as the credits rolled on 12 Years a Slave. To me, Nyong’o’s win—and she said as much in her speech—was a win for black girls, black women and women of all colors everywhere.

I like the actress so much, I started referring to her as “Our Lady Lupita.” And I said so in thatInstagram caption, which read, “Black Girl Magic! Get you some. Congrats to Our Lady @lupitanyongo on her Oscar win!” Innocent enough, right?

Promptly, a follower responded, “Actually, she’s Mexican.” It was said as if Nyong’o couldn’t be black and Mexican at the same time. For anyone who is confused by this, I point you toward two documentaries, The Forgotten Roots and African Blood, which show that the Diaspora extends to Mexico, too.

But back to Nyong’o. Her father was a Kenyan professor who was teaching in Mexico when she was born. She also returned to the country when she was a teenager. Calling her Mexican isn’t technically inaccurate. But it’s not the whole story. She’s also Kenyan because both her parents are and because she was raised in Kenya.

And she’s black because—and I can’t believe I have to explain this—look at her. The deep-brown complexion, the wonderfully kinky hair and the full lips all fit the phenotype of the people colloquially called “black.” For me, that makes Nyong’o unquestionably a black woman, even if she hasn’t always felt that way.

“Having come to the United States was the first time that I really had to consider myself as being black and to learn what my race meant,” Nyong’o told Vogue. “Because race is such an important part of understanding American society.”

Not everyone defines “black” the same way. For some, it’s a race that extends across nationalities—i.e., the African Diaspora. For others it’s a way to describe the unique experience of African Americans. The people who fall into the “Lupita’s not black” camp are usually thinking of culture.

Then there are those who place nationality above everything else, which make them consider her Mexican-ness or Kenya-ness only. Nyong’o claims both, saying on the red carpet, “I am Mexican and Kenyan at the same time. I have seen that they are fighting over my nationality, but I insist I am Mexican Kenyan, and I am fascinated by tacos with roasted meat.”

But perhaps there’s something else at the root of this drive to define what Nyong’o really is. It seems that whenever a black woman is recognized for her beauty in America, there’s often a clamor to make her “other” or “exotic,” as if being “just” black isn’t good enough. There always has to be something more that explains why she’s considered a “great beauty.”

Read more: here 

“It’s not stalking when you’re in love.”— “Baggage” contestant

 

I swore I wasn’t going to do recaps of “Baggage”. I swore. But you know what I do for a living, and I can’t not write about this episode. So I’ve taken to DVR-ing “Baggage”. That’s how serious is.

I promise to only write about the really good ones, like this one.

Okay. Really nice Black guy—tall, four degrees-- has to pick between three non-Black women. No problem, and as the show is taped in LA, no surprise.

His options are:

*a ditzy blond who shares popsicles with her dog (small) and demonstrated this on national TV. The look on the guy’s face was priceless. You know the look every Black person gives before they say “aww, hell no!” It was that. She was also a sugar mama to two younger men (medium). The guy called that “a fetish”.

He eliminated her after that one. And he was smart to do it. She looked to be under 30 and had been married 4x (big). She was on the show looking for Husband No. 5.

So now he’s left with:

*an uber cute and petite chick who looked to be Phillipino and likes to bite during sex (small), likes to eat her peeled skin (medium) and once moved to another state to stalk her ex. Explanation: “It’s not stalking when you’re in love.” Oh, and she lives with her best friend who is her ex-boyfriend and Chipotle is the food that puts her “in the mood”.

*a brolic white chick who aims to hit skunks when she drives because she likes the smell (small). She spends $1000—yes, one thousand—a month on lottery tickets (medium). And she chews and spits tobacco. She revealed she had some in her mouth while taping and showed the audience. Last but not least, pasta is her aphrodisiac and she likes to be spanked.

The producers have to be making this up.

So QT Black guy goes with the biter-stalker. But will she take him when she learns his baggage?

He reveals he  had sex with his therapist. Explanation: he has insomnia, sought professional help and she was hot, soo...

She did not accept his baggage.

Guys, who would you have chosen?  If you were a guy (or are a lady who dates ladies), who would you have picked?

Everyone Is Asking the Wrong Questions About the Ray Rice Video

“PSA of the day ... If you spit in a man’s face, you deserve to get knocked out. Man, woman or child. Period!”

This was a friend’s Facebook status on the day the news broke that Baltimore Ravens running back Ray Rice and his fiancee, Janay Palmer, had both been charged with simple assault after they were involved in a domestic dispute while visiting an Atlantic City casino over Valentine’s Day weekend. Rumor had it that Palmer had spit on Rice, and Rice had reacted. To what degree he reacted was anyone’s guess, at that time. Rice’s lawyer initially—and in hindsight, bafflingly—described the event as a “very minor physical altercation,” as if there were some way for a couple to lay hands on each other that wasn’t bad.

Good ole TMZ came through with footage of the aftermath to that dispute. “Very minor”? Hardly. Grainy video showed Rice dragging his unconscious fiancee from the elevator and discarding her facedown on a carpeted hallway. He seems not to want to be bothered, and even more so when he is approached by hotel security. As the woman comes to, he drags her around some more, seemingly annoyed. The first thing I wondered is, what happened to her?

Police supposedly are in possession of a video that shows Rice allegedly delivering the blow that knocked his fiancee out cold.

I’ve been following this story for days to find out what happened to Palmer and how she’s doing. No one seems to care much about her, despite us all being under the impression that her man—and father of her child—played Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out on her and then dragged her across a dirty elevator floor and into a hallway as if she were trash. I mean, the man is a professional athlete. He cared so little that he couldn’t even pick her up. The only update came from a Ravens spokesman, who said the couple “returned home together after being detained.”

Really? Is that the best place for a woman who allegedly just got knocked out by her man? A woman doesn’t just bounce back from that like nothing happened. Who is going to nurse her back to health and make sure she’s OK? Him?!

In the aftermath, all the talk in the news was about whether Rice will get to keep his job with the Ravens and how much it will cost the team to let him go. Oh, and there were some who were minimizing the issue. The Baltimore Ravens’ general manager called the allegations “concerning” and said it “doesn’t look good.” You think?

On social media, there were plenty of statements like those from my Facebook friend justifying why it’s OK for a man to hit a woman or wondering what he said to get spit on, which in turn made him punch. Everyone was talking about this couple as though they were avatars, and someone else was in control of them and they were not responsible for their own actions.

It doesn’t matter what he said. She shouldn’t have spit on him. And while it’s profoundly disrespectful, it’s not an excuse to knock your fiancee out cold and drag her across a floor. What is this an excuse for, though? For this couple to part ways.

Read more: here 

Baggage: The Greatest TV Show I Never Heard Of... Until Now

 

WE GOT BEEF, YA’LL!!!!

Why didn't anyone tell me about “Baggage” on GSN?!*

This is great TV!!!!!!!!

I vaguely remember a first season episode of “Girls” mentioning it, but I wasn’t that into that show, so I didn’t bother to look up this show. Or maybe I didn’t think it was real. That’s my bad. I’ve been missing out.

If you’ve been living in TV’s Dark Ages like me, here’s how it goes: Man/woman has a choice of three people to chose to go on a date with. Each of the people has baggage—literally, they show up on stage with roller luggage.

The figurative baggage comes in three sizes—small, medium and large. On a recent episode, a woman’s small baggage was that she never voted, medium was that she doesn’t shave her legs or use deodorant, and big was that she stood up her ex at the altar.

She was up against a woman who smokes $150 of weed PER WEEK (small)—which when I posted about this on FB, I was told it wasn’t actually a lot if you smoke good weed— and screams and kicks in her sleep (medium). Then there was the woman who ate baby food (small).

Of the selection, baby food was the first to go, but only after she admitted that she’s dated more women than men.

The non-shaving, non-voting lady was selected by the man looking for love. Admittedly she, a Black girl, was cute as all get out. And the guy was a looker. But you know it takes more than that. And he came with his own baggage.

After the man/woman makes his choice, he has to reveal his big baggage. On this episode, the guy’s baggage was that he believed a woman’s role in a relationship was to be “barefoot and pregnant.” Yes, in 2014, a man actually said that. His reasoning was that gender roles need to be strictly defined in a relationship because when the sexes start fulfilling non-traditional roles, things get all hazy.

Non-shaving, non-voter turned him down.

The episode after that was a guy, a former NFL player, whose small baggage was that he wore dentures. He was hit in practice when he wasn’t a wearing a mouth guard. Fair enough. But then he volunteered to pop out his dentures on national TV. The whole upper-left side was missing. (I couldn’t get the image out of my head for the rest of the show.) Another guy collected Happy Meal toys, but it his was his way of bonding with his 6 year old son. The last guy couldn’t dance. He demonstrated. It was worse than “Elaine” from Seinfeld. The non-dancing guy’s medium baggage was he thought humans descended from aliens. He got the boot.

They have to be making up some of these storylines. I hope they are.

On Thursday’s night episode, a former “Rock of Love” contestant was faced with three options a guy who wanted his girl to make cartoon noises during sex, another guy collected animal teeth and bones. Explanation: his grandfather’s Native American), and the last guy—Black— wears mascara. Explanation: he’s an aspiring model. He uses it to darken up his mustache and beard on photo shoots. He also had on a lime green 90s shirt and matching shoes. This was the small baggage.

The medium baggage was a guy who has phone sex with his ex (lime green guy), a guy who lives in the woods three months out of the year, and a guy who is a recovering drug addict (2.5 years sober.) His guilty pleasure was watching porn bloopers.

Lime green was eliminated after revealing his medium baggage. His  parting words were, “I gotta go. I got a phone call to make.” Ha! His big baggage was that he owned a sex toy company. Now I wonder what kind of “modeling” he did. Hmmm

The big baggage: Porn bloopers worked as a gigilo for awhile. The other guy cheated on his girlfriend with two different women in one night.

Porn bloopers got chose. Her baggage? She’s a Las Vegas stripper. He accepted her baggage.

Oh, and perhaps the best part of all of this: Jerry Springer is the host. You probably had to be a college student at the height of Springer-mania in the late 90s to know why this is so great.

Ya'll are cruel for keeping this from me.

What’s your baggage? Small, medium and large. Give it up.

*If you’re wondering why a woman under 50 is watching the Game Show Network, it’s relaxing, hilarious and keeps the mind sharp. I’m also addicted to Steve Harvey’s Family Feud and vintage episodes of “20 Thousand Dollar Pyramid” too.

"We had sex 360 days out of the year. It was more times than that."—Wife.

So here's the great -and odd and occasionally troubling- thing about being a dating and relationship coach: people you know and don't know love to pull you aside in unexpected settings and tell you their business. They think you've heard it all before so nothing should shock you OR they know you’ve heard a lot and they want to shock you.

I consider most of what they say in these conversations off-limits to write about because even if it's free advice and I'm not using names, I'm being solicited in the capacity of a coach. I draw a line at discussing private client business.

Anyway, the story I'm telling today isn't from a client, but from a cousin and his wife, so I guess it's cousins plural.

When I was a kid, I lived in Houston for a few years. A family-- who actually turned out to be blood-- sort of adopted me and my folks in their city. There was a daughter and three younger brothers. The two youngest sibs were around my age and I spent the most time with them. The two older sibs-- 8-10 years our senior--made sure we didn't kill ourselves. The daughter was my baby sitter.

So I go to Houston, which I haven't been to since I was 16-- as part of OraQuick + Essence's healthy relationships tour. I'm only in town for a day and ask my family to stop by my hotel to say "hi." We don't have much time together, so after we catch up and take a few pics, the eldest boy, my "Cousin-brother", offers to take me to the airport since he and his wife live out that way anyway. Perfect.

I'm thinking this will be a "normal" ride where people who have known me forever tease me about all the dumb ish I did as a kid. But nooooo! Cuzzo and his wife have other plans for this 45-minute trek.

It starts when we pull out of the parking lot and he says, "so who this n----a you fixxinta marry, D?" And then everything goes hilariously left from there.

Cousin-brother and his wife are in their 40s and have two children together. They've been together 22 years and married for 14. They are joyously happy in their relationship-- my assessment, not their boasting-- and they want to offer me some marriage advice. Great.

After the curveball, the conversation starts easy enough. Cousin-brother says you never stop dating your wife. They're married, but they make a point to act like boyfriend and girlfriend.

Okay. I've heard that before. I can get with that.

He says that's how couples keep the romance going. That, and having sex every day.

"I'm sorry, what?" I ask. I couldn’t have heard that right. Daily?!

He repeats himself like he doesn't think I heard him.

I flip around in the front seat-- his wife insisted I sit there-- to look at Wife. She nods and co-signs, sorta. "Well, not every day. Last year, I counted and we missed 5 days."

What?!

Me to Wife: "you had sex. 360 times. In ONE YEAR?"

"No, no, no," she clarifies. We had sex 360 days out of the year. It was more times than that."

She's looking at me like this is the most normal thing in the world. He's driving along like this conversation isn't a joke. I wait for someone to laugh. I'm clearly being "Punked."

But nope. They're forreal, forreal. This is their normal.

Cousin-brother fills the silence since I am at a loss for words. "Every night, some mornings. But at night she likes to dress up."

He says that every night, Wife fully does her hair and make-up and slips into lingerie. I turn back around for her to verify this. She nods.

"If we had time we could swing by the house and give you a bag full," he says. "We have drawers and drawers of it."

I'm not thinking about it being odd to wear another woman's undergarments even if they're clean. I look at his wife. I look at me. She's maybe a 4. I am a 10, tops.* There's no way.

She knows what I'm thinking. "I’ve lost 97 pounds. We have some in every size."

WHAT?

It took her a year and a half to take the weight off. You know how some folk lose weight and start to look bobble-heady. She looks like she's always been skinny.

I wonder if it's from all the sex. I can deal with the treadmill to work out, but I'd enjoy the sex more. Maybe there's something to this sex everyday theory...

She reads my mind. "We work out all the time."

Ohhhhh!

Cousin-brother pipes in. "All we do is work, work out, and have sex."

Obviously.

Wife says she knows this all sounds a little off. They're very open about their sex life-- they gave details I'm skipping over-- and their friends all have my "really?" reaction.

Cousin- Brother: “And I'm like "really? Ya'll don't have sex every day? It's good! Why not?"

When referring to them as a couple, their friends call them “The Humps”, which I find friggin hilarious.

I inform him that 15 percent of married couples have not had sex in six months, according to a story I read in the NY Times. And surveys say that the average married couple has sex once a week. Under 30 marrieds have it about twice a week.

He swerves. If she was wearing pearls she would clutch them. I laugh.

They know they're funny and believe their only "slightly" unusual. They think it would be fun to have a reality TV show of the "Family Hustle" and "Chrissy + Mr. Jones" variety.

"Do you think people would be interested in us?" Wife asks as we pull up to the airport.

Oh, she has no clue. They are made for TV.

I suggest they start a blog about their lives to gauge interest. I swear to her it will be an immediate hit.

Check it out: here

RHOA's Kandi & Mama Joyce Visit The View.... Nothing Gets Resolved

 

I finally watched The View segment from yesterday featuring Kandi, Mama Joyce, and Todd—note the order there. I tuned in because I find this whole conflict fascinating. Usually this story plays out with a guy whose mom thinks her son is her man. Never seen it play out -- at this level-- this way and for so long.

The segment accomplished absolutely nothing for the conflict —we need Iyanla to fix this one—  but I'm sure it brought in good ratings.

Two parts that stood out to me:

*Aunt Whoopi told Mama, “let [Kandi] make the mistake if she’s going to make the mistake… you can’t do this for her.” Mama didn’t have a chance to respond to that or it was edited it out. I would have checked the idea that my man is a" mistake". But Kandi, as expected, didn't speak up for herself or her relationship. Again.

*Mama Joyce has a man. Who knew?

Mama's latest round of complaints is Todd is lazy because as a freelance producer, he took two months off in between jobs and used his savings to support himself. She's also back to talking about her concern for Kandi's daughter because when Todd appeared on WWHL, he didn't mention Kandi's daughter when he was talking about people affected by the family drama. Host Andy asked Todd what he thought about the accusations that Mama made about him and Kandi's best friend, Carmon. Todd talked about how it affects Carmon’s son and didn’t mention Kandi’s daughter. I’m unclear on why Mama thought he should have brought up Kandi’s kiddo in this response.

If Todd was living on Kandi's money during his break, I would get why Mama was concerned, but not at the level that she is. But he had SAVINGS and that is an indication of a responsible adult who prepares for a rainy day, and makes enough money to stash some away. Mama Joyce—and many from her generation— doesn't get that one of the reasons you become a freelancer is so you can do things like not work sometimes, enjoy some life, and still be able to support yourself. Working as a producer, you move from show- to- show and HUSTLE for work. Sometimes there are gaps. This is the nature of his business.  Todd said on The View that he recently started his own production company and landed a show. That’s not a lazy man. And even if he was lazy, like Aunt Whoopi said, that's for Kandi to deal with. Not her Mom.

Let’s cut the crap.  This isn't about Todd's work ethic, just like it's not about the accusations of him cheating, just like it's not about him not having Kandi-level money, just like it’s not about concern for Kandi's child. Mama's issue is she feels threatened and insecure by Kandi having another priority in her life, one that, when/if Kandi and Todd marry, is supposed to trump Mama’s reign in Kandi’s life. Mama wanting to be forever and always number one is how we got to the mess she's been pulling.

From what's been shown on the show-- very important to note-- this all started when Kandi wouldn't let her mother move in the guest house. If it were Kandi and  daughter only, Mom would be in there chilling. Todd's also a priority in Kandi's life and among other things, Kandi considered how Mama moving in would affect Todd, so she said, “no.”  Mama is used to hearing “yes”.

Kandi has let this go on for far, far too long. She doesn't seem to get that her silence isn't respecting her mother, it's disrespecting herself and her happiness. It will be tough to unravel this issue that both women have without the help of a therapist.

What makes this situation even harder is the mom is playing up a very real issue in front of the media, and let’s be clear, for attention. I'd like to think that Mama  wouldn't have tried to fight a woman 30+ years her junior in a bridal shop or left that crazy message on Carmon’s voicemail if cameras weren't around. As someone who's subjected their life to reality TV cameras, the lines between what's real and what's done for TV can make people quite difficult to read and navigate. And maybe that's why Kandi's not stepping up like so many want her to.

I adore Kandi, but the way this is playing out in front of the camera-- important to note—it seems she's enabling her mother and participating in her own downfall with the continued silence and by not drawing a line with her Mom. Todd's already told Kandi that he isn't sticking around if this drama continues. And he said it again on The View that everyone has a breaking point. Both of Todd's statements should have been a wake-up call. *Rings Belle like Dap Dunlap*

Last thought about Kandi and her mama: what you won't do while I'm holding the purse strings is disrespect me and mines continually, and in public. Her mama got some huevos like I've never seen.

Based on what you’ve seen on TV, how would you handle this situation if you were Kandi?

Ask Demetria: Should I Give A 'Cheat Pass' for His Birthday?

“My boyfriend and I have been discussing marriage. He says he wants to marry me but doesn’t want to be limited to having sex with one woman forever. He asked me if I would consider parameters for him to mess around, like on his birthday or other special occasions. He doesn’t want me to do the same. I’m not totally against it.

“The exact terms—the frequency of the ‘passes,’ the consequences for additional violations—are something he and I are trying to work out. I see this often with celebs, but I’m curious about whether you’ve seen this work for everyday couples.

“Also, I would like to clarify, I’m not that pressed to get married, just simply thinking and discussing what my potential marriage would look like. Does this work for couples ever?”—Anonymous

I’m going to applaud you and your boyfriend for discussing what your expectations are for a marriage before you move forward. I’ve always been alarmed by the number of people who don’t talk about it, make assumptions about their partner’s outlook or think that marriage is a magical “happily ever after” that requires no work. It does explain the divorce rate, though, doesn’t it?

There’s no one way to make a marriage work, and you and your boyfriend are entitled to do your marriage however you like. But as you consider the terms he’s set forth, I’d also like you to consider some things you may not have thought about while caught up in your bubble of love.

The glaring issue with what he’s proposed is that it is grossly unfair, in that it benefits only him. I’m not so much a fan of open relationships, but people have them all the time, and they say they are happy. But in all the cases I’ve heard of, it wasn’t the one-way street your man suggested. Both partners were able to enjoy the benefits of an open relationship.

The expectation that you should be committed to him all the time, while he’s committed to you on nonspecial occasions, isn’t OK. If he get the “passes” you speak of, you should have a set of your own.

But maybe you don’t want any “passes”; you just want him. That’s cool, but I don’t think you’ve really considered the full repercussions of what you’re “not totally against.”

Whatever your stance is on “passes” or “cheating,” do understand that even if you are sexually monogamous, if your partner is not, you’re still at risk for sexually transmitted infections, including HIV.

Although everyone likes to focus on the joys of sex, the act can also come with some unintended consequences. You may give your could-be husband a pass to cheat, but how will you know if he uses condoms with his side boo? Are you OK with the possibility of catching a STD, even a curable one? What if it’s herpes? What if it’s HIV? Are you going to use condoms with your husband to protect yourself from whatever he’s exposed to on his “pass” days? How often do you plan to take HIV tests to make sure you’re healthy? Will your husband take them regularly, too?

Say that one of his flings gets pregnant. Will you and your husband pay for an abortion? What if she wants to keep the child? Are you going to help him raise the kid? Are you OK with money from your home going to the new child? Will you raise your children with your husband and any children from his mistresses together as one family?

On his birthday and other special days that you’re “not totally against” him spending with other women, is it OK if he has celebratory sex with you that day and then leaves to be with his mistress? You know it’s his pass day, so you know where he is. What will you do while he’s gone with her? Will you sleep comfortably? Iron his shirts? How long until you have sex with him after he’s back from his “pass”? Immediately? A week? Just curious.

If you’ve got answers to all these questions and you’re fine with these scenarios, I still can’t recommend that you take this offer.

Read more: here 

Ask.FM UPDATE: The Complete #SuperBowl Saga

 

AskFM questions are anonymous, so I never really know if they’re real. After years of answering questions (over 30k) on Formspring and now Ask FM, the odds are that I’ve been catfished a few times. I answer, even the more intense questions, because what if the stories are real and the person really needs help and doesn’t know where else to go? Even if it’s made up, there may be someone out there who has aspects of a pseudo-situation going on in her own life and needs to hear the advice to do better.

Two weeks ago, a woman wrote in to say her man had gone to a Super Bowl party the night before and was “acting strange” when he returned home. Shortly thereafter, a neighbor pulled her aside and asked to show her something. That something was a video of the woman’s man receiving oral sex from another man. 

Twitter followers began referring to the woman as Super Bowl. For those who aren’t addicted to Ask.FM/ abelleinbk yet, this is the complete story—edited for typos and clarity—  thru last night.

Some folk have asked if this story is real. The truth is, I don't know. I actually hope it isn't. Over the course of two weeks, the story went to some really dark places. If someone made it up? They are wasting a lucrative talent that could be put to better use as a screenwriter or a novelist. 

Oh, and we’re moving to abelleinbrooklyn.com/askbelle. I’ll still answer Ask.FM questions for awhile, but I will primarily be on the new page.

‪”BF was acting strange when he came home from his homie's Super Bowl party. I asked him, “what’s up?” He said, “nothing.”  The chick upstairs from us stops me at the mailbox today and told me she wants to show me something. I followed her upstairs to her apartment. She tells me she makes it a habit to stay out of‬ people's business, but I seem like a cool chick and I should know. Why did this chick show me a video on her phone [of my boyfriend] getting brain from a dude?

“Belle, I am hurt.  I confronted him he said he was drunk and it’s just a blow job. WTF? First, why tape yourself? Second, how did it get out? Third, now I feel less of a woman, like I wasn't doing my job if my man getting brain from a dude. I told him he's an undercover p--- and to get out MY apartment. We end up fighting cause he didn’t want to leave and what makes matters worst is I just found out I’m pregnant."

First, it's not your fault. Your man also likes men. That is not a reflection on you. There's nothing you could have done that would make him not like men. That's not about you.

Second, this isn't the first time he's received oral from a guy. Maybe the first time he taped it, but you don't record your first try. He was comfortable being taped and with the person who was pleasuring him. The person who recorded it leaked it. It's could be on the Internet, maybe World Star or XVideos, if your neighbor saw it.

It's not "just" a blow job. It's sex AND it's sex with a man. He might have let it be recorded because he was drunk, but you don't get drunk and suddenly become attracted to the same sex when you're straight (or on that side of the Kinsley scale). He's also attracted to men when he's sober too. He might use liquor to "let himself off the hook" for any guilt he feels about being attracted to men.

I do not recommend that unmarried women stay or try to work it out with men who cheat on them with women and I don’t think any woman should stay with a man who cheats with men. You've kicked him out. So you seem to share that outlook.

Re: your pregnancy. You have options. You can co-parent the child with your now ex or you can choose not to keep the child. What do you want to do here? There's no right or wrong answer.

Also, you do need to be tested for HIV. Your ex has been engaging in risky behavior and you two have not been having safe sex. That's a priority.

“I wasn't sure if you would be able to get back to me so soon, but thank you. I haven't told him bout the baby yet. I was going to surprise him on V-Day. I'm not going to keep it. I have a busted window, a busted lip and a hole in my heart. I’m not trying to raise a baby with that thang. I don’t even know what to call him. A friend of mine is gay and every time he comes around  [my ex]  is so quick to put him down. Now look at [my ex] living a lie. At least my friend is honest. I’m planning on going to the clinic on my lunch break tomorrow.”

I didn't realize when you said "fight" before that meant physical.

Do what you feel is best for you, but your lunch break isn't the time to get it done. It’s not botox. You can't go back to work after. You need a day (or more) to recover. Do your research.

“I have to figure something out. I keep looking at my lip in the mirror and the hood in me wants to call my brother and have him put a foot on him. But it ain’t even worth it. Don't need my family in chains, so the safest thing right now is for me to go to bed.”

You can call the police as you've been assaulted.

A few days later, Super Bowl was back with an update. She was still in the relationship, and her focus was tracking down the man who performed oral sex on her man.

“I know you said don't be doing all that snooping, but I couldn't sleep. I went back upstairs to ask old girl bout the video. She says another chick in our complex sent it to her because the dude (my man) looked familiar. We went to the chick’s apartment. She said her BFF texted it to her. Who is her BFF?‬

The other chick showed me the original text:  "celebrating the Super Bowl with my n---a breaking him off with this fiyah head. Girl ain’t he cute?" Her BFF is the dude in the video. l asked for his number. She said no, she isn’t trying to be messy. Like you already being messy…”

You're focused on details that don't matter. Is it, or is it not, your man... on video... getting dome from another guy?

Why does it matter how [your neighbor] got the video, or who the guy is? [Your neighbor] did you a solid by giving you a heads up. I know you're upset, but it is absolutely crazy to call him. What are you going to say, "Hey, James, why were you giving my man head?"

This is a big shock. I know. But let's be reasonable here.

Is your man still in the apartment? He's been cheating on you. Have you been tested for STIs and HIV? These are the things that matter right now.

“It matters to me because he promised he would change after the last time. Now he’s doing men too. I’m good to him. What am I not doing? Even after he gave me a STD, I took him back. And yes, I got checked out today and I am fine. I don't know what I’m going to do bout the baby‬. If I get this abortion it will be the third one with him and I don't really want to do it. But look at the f---ed up situation. If I keep it, I want it to have a real family, but I cant raise a baby and try to police his ass. He say he want me but he ain’t trying to do right."

Honey, you’re in love with a man who isn't doing you right. Who hasn't done you right many times over based on what you're saying. You love him. You got to love you too.

There's a video of your man receiving oral sex from another man floating around your city. And you want to work on this relationship. Is that correct? And he's not "trying to do right", but you're still considering it? Is that accurate?

Baby girl, he didn't change after he cheated before. We're on time 2, maybe 3, that you know about. And this time, it's with another man. How many chances are you going to give?

This stops only when YOU say "enough!" how much more are you going to endure? How many more STDs? How many more abortions? How much more pain?

This isn't love. It's pain and endurance. It's not one in the same.

You deserve better than this. You may not think it, but you do. And you can have someone who will treat you better and you don't have to police him, and your neighbors won't show you video of him with anyone else, especially not another man. You may not think it, but you can. Pinky swear, promise.

It's not about what you're not doing. It's not even about you. Stop making it that way. He doesn't get the power to define your worth. Stop giving that away to him.

Re: the abortion, only you can determine what the right answer there is.

“I’ve been with him off and on since I was 15. I just turned 20. He will be 40 soon. We have history and because of that it’s hard to shake him or my love for him. He pays for my school, my rent, everything. On the taking care of me thing, he is good. It’s the  loving [that’s a problem].

"I want to make my Grandma proud and be something. All of my brothers are thugs. I want better in life and he is helping me get there.  So I try to look at this as earning my stripes. When I finish school, we will move and start fresh in another state. Loving me is hard. He told me he loves me, but because of how his wife did him, he’s scared to let himself love all the way. I want better. I want to be loved better. If I can’t make this work my only choice is to go back home to my Grandma like a failure."

Babes, it's not failing to walk away from a man who isn't treating you right, and who sexually abused you when you were a teenager. It's winning to love you enough to put you first. I understand why that's hard for you to grasp. Essentially, you've been preyed on from when you were a kid and groomed for this position.

Do you have anyone at your school you can talk to? A counselor? Most schools have them.

You're 20, you've had 2 abortions for a man old enough to be your dad, and who sexually abused you too. No 35 year old man has any business with a 15 year old child he is not raising, coaching or related to.

You've also had an STI. He cheated before, he's still cheating on you and he's not going to stop. Why would he? There are no consequences. You don't leave.

If your goal is to make granny proud, this is not the way to go about it. Not at all. Not by a long shot. And walking away from THIS doesn't make you a thug, or worthless, or degenerate or anything negative.

Love isn't earning stripes. It's not an endurance test to see how much you can put up with and for how long. That's not how it works. The old man you're messing this may have told you otherwise, but he lied to you. And him picking up the tab on school or bills or anything else isn't a pass for him to cheat the first, or second, or third time, and not with another woman or another man. He doesn't love you. He says he does. He doesn't act like it. The love is in the ACTIONS.

How his wife did him is not your problem. If he's not ready to commit, he doesn't need to be in a relationship. If he can't love you in full then you need to find someone who can.

Moving to another state doesn't change anything. He will find another woman and another man and he will do the same thing there that he does where you are now. And you will be going through the exact same thing you are now, with another STI and another abortion. The location is not the problem. His disrespect is the problem. And you not knowing you deserve better is the problem.

He is who he is. That is not going to change for you. You need to leave. I know that's not what you want to hear, but you do. And you need to talk to a professional because you've been in a bad situation a really, really long time.

You can get a better situation and a better man when you let this situation go. Nothing gets better for you as long as you stay in this.

I didn’t hear back from her for several days after that. Last night, she returned to say they’re still together and she caught him cheating again— with a woman.

“Oh, my God! I caught him today with a new chick. I went to his brother’s  house because he’s been ducking me. I went looking for him, figured he would be over there. He was with another chick. I feel like my heart is being stabbed with a fork. He doesn’t want me or my baby!" 

This is the THIRD time you've caught him cheating on you. He's not going to stop. He wants to see other people- hence why he is seeing other people-- men and women.

Feeling like your heart is being stabbed is a totally normal reaction. But so you know, it's felt that way two times already, and it will continue to feel that way until you leave.

You need to do what is best for you and your baby. And it is NOT staying in this relationship. I thought you were going home to your grandmother's house. Why are you still with him? You're already putting your sanity at risk; don't CONTINUE to put your health and life at risk by staying with a man who cheats on you constantly with men and women.

“I’m stressing him and he can’t take it. He said he doesn’t have time for a dumb girl that can't take orders right. I messed up. I should have let the video ride. I’m so dumb. I knew he was having his hours cut at work and I keep bring up petty stuff to add to his stress. How do I make this right?”

Why are you "taking orders" from your BF? This relationship started out in an entirely dysfunctional way and it's continued. You were way underage and he was a grown man ILLEGALLY taking advantage of you being young and naive. You're 20. You are a woman. You don't take orders from your boyfriend.

Let the video ride? Your boyfriend was receiving oral sex from another man. He was cheating on you. You don't let that ride. You leave. And not just because it's another man. But also because it's the THIRD time you CAUGHT HIM cheating.

You're not dumb. You're in a bad situation and you're making bad choices. HE is creating the stress by cheating on you. HE is creating the stress by dealing with a woman 20 years his junior who was ILLEGAL when he met you. This is NOT ON YOU.

You cannot bring a child into this drama. Pack your things and go home. Please.

You make it right by going home-- and staying there. It's not going to get better, only worse, if you stay.

“He didn't even try to explain and the chick laughed like it’s f---ing funny when I screamed on him. I don't know what I did to make him not love me anymore. Maybe I gained weight, but I don’t look pregnant. I am only 11 weeks. I love him. He is it for me. I have to show him and not stress him.”

H‬oney, I feel for you, I do. A lot of women reading do.

This man is making it plain as day that he does not care about you. And until you leave, it's going to get worse and worse for you. If you want a better life than this, you have to take the first step and leave.

The screaming means nothing. He's done it 3-4x that you know of and you stay. So you yelled again. He's not changing. He has shown you who he is. What you're getting now is what you're going to always deal with from him.

He is not it for you. You've been with him since you were illegal for him. You don't know any different. But I promise you, there is more to the world than him. You can have someone who will treat you nice and won't cheat on you. Or you can just be alone and just as happy not have to deal with all this never-ending drama.

You can't make him love you. You CAN NOT DO IT. Please, for you, stop trying. Exert that effort into loving you and your baby.

“He’s the only man I love. How do I show him that? I want to keep the baby. How do I make him see the baby is a good thing? I can’t do another abortion. I don't want God to punish me for keep killing babies."

Loving him is nice. YOU HAVE TO LOVE YOU TOO, and you have to be with someone who actually loves you.

The guy who cheats on you rampantly, and then blames you for stressing him about it is not in love with you. He doesn't care about you. He has been using you and taking advantage of you since you were 15.

Did you check in with your school to see if there's a counselor you can talk to like I asked you too?

You're in a bad place, and have been for a very long time. But this does not get better until you get out of this relationship.

You don't want to have a third abortion, don't have one. You have a right to make that choice. You and your baby go back to grandma and you figure it out from there. You do not bring a child into this havoc.

“If I call my Grandma she is going to be so upset and hit me with a bunch of “stupid girls” and “I told you so.” That’s why I left. Who wants to hear everyday “you ain’t shit and you gonna end up strung out like your mama”?” 

Granny's got her own issues and that's horrible. It's also still better than this.

The End… for now.

"You Never Held It While He Pees?" — Her

"You've never held his dick while he pees?"

O_o  << that's the look they— straight woman, gay man— are giving me. It's also the same one I'm giving them. CBW would make that face too-- I just know it-- if he were still standing here.

This whole conversation started when she asked me, "Hey, do you pee with the door open when CBW's around?"

Yeah. Took some getting used to, but it's a one bedroom apartment and though we don't live together, he's often by me. He's gotta shave his head or shower or shave his face and there's no sense interrupting his activity for number 1. And if we're mid-convo and I have to go, I just go in the bathroom and carry on the conversation.

This is normal enough, I guess. An Esquire poll of men and women found 51% of respondents are fine with a partner urinating with the door open. The other 49 % are more or less horrified by the idea.

"I will add this," I say. That's when I disclose that I don't care if he keeps the door open when he pees. I just don't want to see the stream. "It's like a waterfall of urine," I explain.

They both go silent.

Her: hold up, you've never held a dick?

Me: I'm 34.

Her: no, I mean while he pees.

Me: O_o

He insists that men love this. "It's very sexy," he says.

She says she likes the idea of feeling like she has a penis. Her holding it while he pees makes her feel powerful. "It soothes my penis envy," she says with a laugh.

I'm practical. I ask her if it's hard to aim it for the bowl. Then think, why wouldn't it be? The bowl is pretty big. I've fallen in a couple of times in the middle of the night when someone didn't put the seat down.

He laughs. She admits it's not as easy as it looks. "You'd think it would be. The trick is to aim it like you're aiming for the floor."

He adds, again, "hmmm. It's very sexy." I don't know if he's remembering when it was done to him or when he did it to someone else."

Him: "you must try it."

I'm not gung-ho about the sexiness of it, but I think learning how to aim might be an amusing, albeit useless skill. Later that night, I recount this whole conversation to CBW, then ask if he wants to try this at "home" aka my place.

Him: O_o

He says he can handle his own bodily functions, thankyouverymuch. He's a Master of Aim as any grown ass man should be.

CBW: when did y'all talk about this? I was there the whole time ya'll were together.

Me: while you were in the bathroom.

Fin.

Gone Too Soon: Jordan Davis at 19

 

Jordan Davis would have been celebrating his 19th birthday today.

Instead, at 17, he was gunned down after a random white guy at a Florida gas station flipped his privileged lid when Davis and his friends refused to turn down their loud music.  Dunn claims Davis brandished a shotgun, so Dunn grabbed his pistol and fired 10 rounds into the car, killing Davis.

Police never found a shotgun, or any other weapon, in the boys’ car.

On Saturday night, Michael Dunn was found guilty of three counts of second-degree attempted murder, but not of first-degree premeditated murder, in the killing of Davis. Dunn faces more than 60 years in prison.

RIP Jordan Davis.

At 19 years old, I was a junior in college, studying for the GREs and begging my parents to either let me move off campus with my friends or study abroad in London. They said "no" to the move. "Yes" to London (which I wasn't expecting) so I was contemplating if that's what I actually wanted to do. All I really wanted was to get out of the dorms.

I'd decided I wanted to be "a writer" because at 19 I thought I could speak things into existence and that's all it really took. Poof! As a second semester junior, I took my first journalism class.

Everyone older kept telling me "these are the best days of your life" and I couldn't wait to graduate and get my life started. "Start" meant moving to NYC and attending NYU. I wanted to be grown. I had no idea how to make my dreams happen in the "real world" that loomed ahead.

I went to the club (a lot) on Thursday and Sunday nights (aka college night) and walked to the car sweaty-- and piled in with 5 other women-- because I was trying to keep up with the B-more girls dancing to house music. I had the moves, not the stamina. Then maybe I'd go home and write a 5 page essay with minimal typos.

I studied hard, I ki-ki'd with my roommates until the wee hours of the morning, nearly every night. I argued with my parents. I played my music loud, I drove my car too fast. I couldn't hold my liquor, which I was too young (and illegal) to be drinking anyway.

I didn't know it, but I was laying the foundation for everything I would accomplish professionally.

In my downtime, I daydreamed a lot-- about the next boy, the next party, the next exam/paper, the next Spring Break.... because I took it for granted there would always be a ... "next." The world was laid out as a canvas before me, I just had to figure out what I wanted to add to it.

Jordan Davis deserved to have afternoons of day dreams, nights of parties, an opportunity to leave his mark and a lifetime of "nexts" too.

It feels horrible to see RIP before a 19 year old's name. Geez. What did you do at 19?

V- Day: Where's the Love?

Somehow a day that's supposed to be about celebrating love tends to bring out the worst in so many on social media.

There are the great men who are stressed out trying to show and prove as if ONE day determines everything.

There are women who act like one day and an expensive gift determine everything. (If he wasn't ish before V-Day and isn't after, it doesn't count. So you know.)

There are the guys who duck women they've led to believed they cared about. And women with a lot of wake-up-call hurt feelings.

There are women who feel like crap because they're single. And stay posting updates that showcase misery.

There are the people who taunt those women-- never guys-- for being single, and make all sorts of uneducated guesses as to why they aren't lovable. (I guess this makes them feel better. Newsflash: your bitterness is showing too, boo.)

There are the folks who care more about bragging about a gift than the actual gift and/ or the person who gave it to them.

Oh, and the people who don't appreciate their gifts— and have the audacity to say so publicly.

I'll stop here.

Surely, there are lots of folks who are just drunk/crazy in love and want to share their blessings. You can usually tell the difference. I appreciate those posts. They make me smile.

I hope, against the odds, I know, that folks can be a little more loving this year. It would be nice to see.

That is all.

Ask Demetria: Last Minute V-Day Ideas for Your Man

“This is my first Valentine’s Day with my new boyfriend. I’ve waited until the last minute to get my guy a gift and I don’t want to ask him now what he wants. I am clueless about what to get him. Flowers? A massage? Cologne? A sex coupon book? What do I get him? Help!” —S.A.

You’re a procrastinator, like me. I bought my Christmas tree on Christmas Eve, finally got it decorated by 5 p.m. Christmas Day and it sat in a corner—lit—until February. We mean well, but you know how it goes.

Fortunately for us, we’re in luck when it comes to V-Day. In general, men don’t really expect much on this “holiday.” I put that in quotes because many guys think of it as a commercial holiday for which they’re expected to splurge just to meet expectations. They do it because they don’t want to disappoint the woman they care about. And for stand-out guys who make romantic gestures and spoil their women throughout the year—and not just on one particular day—V-Day can feel like an unfair obligation.

As my fiance put it, “Valentine’s Day is like wedding day. It’s all about the woman.” He and his friends, like most men I spoke to about this subject, are really only hoping for a good time spent with their lady and good sex, a reward of sorts for the stress above and beyond what they go through to make the day extra-special for the woman they care about.

If you’re thinking about sending him flowers, buying him something that smells nice or a day of professional pampering, skip that. That’s not what he is expecting. What he’s really looking forward to is spending time with you doing something romantic and then hopefully, more time in the bedroom (or wherever you prefer it) with you.

Instead of a gift, make V-Day special for your great guy another way. After his V-Day plans for you have wrapped, tell him you have a romantic surprise for him—a massage performed by you. This is when you put on your ‘90s slow jams, light a few scented candles, show off your sexy lingerie and break out the water-based massage “oil” since it won’t stain sheets or your outfit.

Your idea for sex coupons will go over well, too. Don’t buy the standard ones you see in sex shops—make the effort to create them yourself so you can add some basics and more importantly, tailor the selection to those fantasies he might have talked about that you two haven’t gotten around to fulfilling yet. Make sure one of them has an expiration for that night.

If you insist on getting him a gift—again, skip the things that we women would normally find romantic—choose something you know he would enjoy. If he collects something in particular, purchase something for him that adds to the collection. You can also rarely go wrong with electronics or an expensive bottle of his favorite drink. A woman on one of my social media pages wrote in to say she’d purchased a bottle of liquor and used a sexy pair of panties to tie a card with a sexy message to the bottle.

Most women would think, “too simple.”

Men responded in droves to say, “Win!”

Read more: here

BSH: The Horror in the Hamptons

Since Dec. 5 when the premier party of “Blood Sweat & Heels” took place, I’ve been on a never-ending press tour to promote the show.  I’ve adhered to the company line about “BSH” being different than “other”—insert shade here— reality shows. In so many multi-syllabic words, my castmates and I have set out in the press to distinguish ourselves in the reality landscape. But the obvious truth, as viewers witnessed, is that some of the cast’s behavior is completely lacking in common sense, couth and any conception of class. Saying, “Oh, we’re so different” just makes for better spin on press junkets.

Admittedly, BSH makes for great television.  (I’m biased.) I’d like to think I would watch, even if I was not on the show. But what happened in tonight’s episode in the Hamptons it is not what I signed on for.

The Hamptons incident was shameful. There was so much more promise for what could have been shown from that excursion. Brie’s parents home is located in an historical African-American enclave of Sag Harbor. Too often, when we see images of Black success, it’s of entertainers and athletes. The inhabitants of Sag Harbor are Black folk with wealth earned through education and entrepreneurship. That should have been acknowledged.

The Hamptons could have been a great girlfriends getaway, a trip of over-worked women escaping the bustle of the city to relax. But instead it descended into the “fuckery and foolishness” that I predicted (on camera) it would be on the drive out.

Months later, I’m still confused as to exactly why Mica came to the Hamptons—sans boyfriend--  to party with women she only met in the process of taping a TV show. What was so important in the Hamptons?

I'm also unclear— still— on what happened in that scene. When asked a basic question about Mica being late—which if you haven’t picked up on by now, is a Bravo staple for creating conflict; it’s happened once prior on BSH and on a recent episode of “Real Housewives of Atlanta”—  Mica goes from zero to 60  for absolutely no reason.

In Sag Harbor, I didn’t want to deal with her drunk behavior— the same behavior showcased on every episode thus far—  again. She was clearly looking for a fight. I wasn't up for it, especially since it’s not like reality stars get Emmys for great meltdowns or blowups. Acting out on camera may be her brand, but it isn’t mine. So I bounced to go powder my nose.

Mica says that made her feel dismissed by us. I felt set-up for another “L” by her.

Mica had an epic meltdown. After listening to her go on and on in the backyard of Brie’s home, loudly, for 20 minutes, Geneva said her piece; I also had enough and told Mica to leave.

Geneva and I went inside the house to get away from Mica. We were not bothering her. She already responded to us. We believed Mica was in the front yard getting into the cab Brie called for her earlier.

Then suddenly Mica’s at Brie’s parents' back door, trying to rip it off the rail.   There was no justifiable reason for that. And more important, I mean, really, REALLY, who does that anyway… at somebody’s mama house?!?!

Her father’s passing, which she declined to talk about when Geneva asked and did not share with the cast until after her meltdown, is unfortunate. But it is also  reprehensible to use it as an excuse for her obnoxious behavior.

I realized Mica was desperate, angry, unstable and unpredictable in that scene. I also realize there was no security on set. No one thought we’d need it on a show about professional women pursuing their dreams.

Mica’s fight with the door was a fight or flight moment for me. I might not have run off if I’d seen CBW there, pulling the door closed with one hand, shaking Milk Duds with the other, and telling Mica that she wasn’t getting in the house. I didn’t though, so I ran.

I didn’t want to be anywhere near her—still don’t.

Ask Demetria: How to Ask Your Man to Get an HIV Test

“I am ready to have sex with a guy I am dating, and I want to do the right thing and get tested [for HIV] first. I don’t know how to bring it up though. I tried to discuss getting tested with a man I dated before him. He was taking me to an appointment and there was a testing center nearby. I suggested on a whim that we get tested and he freaked out. He said he didn’t need to be tested and it was like I was telling him that I didn’t trust him. How can I avoid this happening again?” —Y.F.

I am proud of you for putting your health first. It’s because of women like you who have made getting tested and having safe sex a priority in their relationships that new HIV infections among black women declined 21 percent from 2008 to 2010, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. This is amazing news.

Now, about that ex of yours. I’ve spent the last few months touring the country for “Life. As We Know It,” a frank discussion series on dating, relationships and safe sex. I’ve heard from many women who fear that asking their partner to get tested will elicit the same reaction that your ex gave. But I’ve heard from more women who have asked their mate something like, “Hey, I think we should get tested for HIV,” and his response was, more or less, “OK.”

The guy who flipped out sounds like a statistical anomaly. He implied that he had never been tested for HIV, and actually the majority of black people have been. In fact, also according to the CDC, blacks are “more likely than other races and ethnicities to report that they have been tested for HIV at least once—65 percent versus 46 percent for Hispanics/Latinos and 41 percent for whites.”

There are a couple of reasons he could have had that reaction with you. One, he’s not comfortable with the idea of getting tested. Maybe he’s engaged in risky behaviors, and he could be afraid of what the test results would show. Despite what he said about not needing to get tested, if he’s been sexually active, he does. Two, saying you don’t trust him was a weak way of dodging the issue at hand. He sounds quite sketchy. I hope that you did not have sex with him, or if you did, that you have been tested since then.

One thing I’d like to suggest going forward. Getting tested obviously can be a touchy topic for some people. I know you were trying to take advantage of the moment, but the idea of getting tested may go over better if you talk about it in a more comfortable environment instead of springing it on your partner in a public place. That could be a third reason he reacted that way.

Next time there’s a conversation about sex with the new guy—because there’s always a conversation—casually suggest that the two of you “get tested together.” Together is the key word.

Read more: here 

Ask Demetria: The V-Day Survival Guide for Single Ladies

“Valentine’s Day is around the corner. What would you suggest two young, single girls do so they aren’t home pining over a tub of ice cream?”—K.W.

Valentine’s Day has got to be the worst holiday on earth. And I say that as a woman who hasn’t spent one alone in about six years. There’s so much pressure for single women not to be alone and for women in relationships to have a fairy-tale night and for men to make an absolutely perfect grand gesture that “proves” their love on one very specific, and very arbitrary, day. Most of us just end up anxious, then disappointed because real life doesn’t live up to Hollywood fantasy or budgets.

My advice to you is to think of Feb. 14 as just another day, which I know is next to impossible, with the roses and bears and chocolates and all-pink or -red everything and couples dominating practically every place you look.

I tried to psych myself out one year. I went to the gym after work, which was practically empty, and had the treadmill all to myself, which was great. A few trainers were flirting—and I flirted right back. I figured, if they were on call on that night of all nights, they were probably single. And let’s be real: My ego liked the boost.

I was doing all right until I took the subway home and saw all the women with roses and candy, and all booed up with who I hope was their man and not one borrowed from someone else. And I finally lost it when I was walking the block to my house and some street harasser called out, “You too pretty not to have a man.” I think he meant it as a compliment, but I just felt bad for being alone when everyone else seemed to be paired off. I went home and cried loud enough that my neighbor, also single, came across the hall to check on me. She told me I was being ridiculous, which logically I knew to be true, but still.

Don’t be me.

And you won’t be. You have your girl, and Valentine’s Day is still far enough off that you can devise a plan to avoid a pitiful fate. Try these tips instead:

1. Spoil Yourself

You don’t have a special someone to spoil you? That’s cool. You can always treat yourself to a day at the spa, a trip to the nail or hair salon or a fancy pair of shoes.

2. Date Your Bestie

One of my favorite scenes from Sex and the City is when the women declare that they may not have found husbands, but at least they found one another. You and your girlfriend can dote on each other for a day by sending each other flowers, taking each other to dinner or exchanging cards or gifts.

3. Play Hooky

Valentine’s Day falls on a Friday, which makes it perfect timing for a three-day weekend. There’s still time to book a last-minute Caribbean getaway, and you can get great discounts this time of year.

Read more: here

The Root: Black Beauty Standards Can Be Just as Unhealthy as White Ones

Last week, there were plenty of reactions to an XO Jane story in which a self-described “skinny white girl” in a yoga class assumed that a "heavyset" black woman, who never said a word to her, coveted her lithe form. Whatever.

That misguided essay launched hundreds of responses, including one of my own, which pointed out that no, white lady, black women in general aren't sitting around pining for "skinny white girl” bodies. Many reaction stories emphasized that we black women have our own beauty ideals—ones that emphasize curves in all the "right" places and/or a little more "meat on the bones," as the elders might say. I wondered, though, even as I emphasized the difference between the two ideals, if black women hadn't bought into a perspective that, while unique from the mainstream standard, was equally as problematic as absolute thinness.

To emphasize my defense of black women who are just minding their business and aren't thinking about random white women, I posted a picture of video model-turned-fitness advocate Tiara Harris. Harris has a figure that is held up as "ideal" for black women—narrow waist, ample bosom, thick thighs and prominent rear—and many women commented how they would love to look just like her.

“Is that sister in the photo a trainer?” the very first commenter asked. “She is the bomb.com.”

She is. I picked the picture for a reason. But as much as that very curvaceous shape is admired, is it any more realistic for most black women than say, Sarah Jessica Parker—the current cover model for the February issue of InStyle—is for white women? The truth is, it isn't. And that is one of the reasons that some black women go to extreme lengths, risking their health and their lives, to meet an unrealistic body ideal. It’s the other side of the same coin that plagues some white women.

Over the last few months, there have been several viral stories about black women who have sought illegal butt injections with disastrous results. As an unintentional kickoff to Black History Month, The Root ran a story about Natasha Stewart, who was convicted of culpable negligence manslaughter for her role in helping a woman get silicone butt injections that resulted in her death.

Weeks before that, social media was abuzz over a new documentary, Buttloads of Pain, which featured the disturbing images and stories of women who had used illegal butt injections. One woman described how her backside had ”turned purple” and “peeled like an onion” after she received the shots. Images from the documentary show women with eroding buttocks that sag from their bodies.

Read more: here 

Are We Being Too Hard on Pam Oliver + Her Hair?

Let me say first that I respect Pam Oliver. She's opened doors from women in sports and on TV and in journalism and that deserves to be acknowledged. But Ma'am... Fox’s veteran sports journalist  has been dragged across social media ever since she reported from the sidelines during the NFC Championship Game between the Seattle Seahawks and the San Francisco 49ers, looking like this:

Almost instantly, Instagram memes appeared, comparing Oliver to Chewbacca from Star Wars. (I won’t post the picture out of respect.) The state of her hair was also a trending topic on Twitter and a topic of conversation during the Super Bowl where she, to give credit where it is due, looked much better, but still received lots of criticism. I actually thought she looked presentable.

Oliver addressed all the hubbub in an interview with Philly.com.  She called the commotion over her hair “comical” and also admitted that after 20-plus years in the TV business, she still does her own hair and make-up.

"You're out there, trying a to catch players, get some last-minute stuff, get your reports turned around quickly, and I may or may not have time to put on lip gloss or powder my face," Oliver told Philly.com. "I know TV is a visual medium, but there are times when you kind of hope that people are listening to what you're saying as opposed to judging you if a strand of hair is not in place or if you have only got one eye lined or something.

"That's naive of me. I get it,” she added. “But there are times I get so tunnel-visioned and focused on what I'm doing to the point of maybe letting that other stuff fall by the wayside. It's not intentional. You want to look your best on TV."

I get it. Sorta. Hair and make-up get expensive. I'm a newbie in TV land and there are a lot of unexpected expenses that no one tells you about. Spending money on hair and make-up when there are so many other concerns – like lawyers to protect whatever you are trying to build—can seem like a frivolous expenditure or an unnecessary burden.

I’m fortunate in that I've known how to do my hair-- natural, permed, sew-in, glue-in, cut, bleach, dye, whatever-- from when I was a teenager. (My mother is from Detroit, if that's any explanation.) This has saved me a TON of money. I also willfully learned how to do my own face in decent enough shape to be seen on TV by reading Kevin Aucoin + Sam Fine make up books + watching YouTube videos. I frequent the MAC counter to get tips and I pay attention when I am fortunate enough to have MUAs beat me when someone else is paying. For big Moments, I splurge to bring in the best I can afford to do me right so I look presentable. I consider this a worthy sacrifice and investment for what I'm trying to do and where I'm trying to go.

TV is a visual medium and pulling a professional look together is part of the job, even as a sports journalist.  And when your hair looks unkempt to the point that it distracts viewers from your professional work, addressing your image is about more than just vanity. It’s a necessity.

Oliver is not a newbie. She’s 20 years in the game and it is clear that while she is an expert at journalism, she is not an expert at make-up or hair. She needs a consistent glam team of beauty professionals to do what they do best so Oliver can focus on what she does best—report. A professional team— even one that cannot be brought onto the field— would help her create looks that are more flattering and that would hold up better in bad weather or other conditions. And if the network won't provide a team... Hold up, who is Oliver’s agent? That's a basic ask.

Oliver is a naturally pretty woman. She doesn't require magic to look presentable. And that's all she needs to be. Nobody's asking for her to be Essence cover worthy on the sidelines. But at the point a Google search of your name brings up multiple pics of Chewbacca, it's time to admit you need help and make the financial sacrifice and investment to bring the experts aboard, even if it comes out of your own pocket.

This is all I'm saying.

From the Inside Looking Out (aka The Belated Birthday Post) Part 3 (of 4)

My producer works an insane schedule. My trip to L.A. was last minute- two weeks out—in the Hollywood sense of the world, so she had to squeeze me in. She invited me to a monthly networking house party in Venice Beach, a gathering of womenfolk in upper echelon Hollywood. They get together to build and hash out how to make things happen in their male dominated industry.

I walk up to the house and think “this is it?”

I’ve made a hobby out of house porn, and Venice Beach is a star. I make a point to drive through the neighborhoods and marvel at the properties each time I visit LA.  I’ve never been to this side of Venice though. I was expecting spectacular and massive. This is… not that.

Or so I thought. I open the front door and step into Wonderland. There’s an expensive manicured yard with tea lights twinkling everywhere. The “house” has no door. You just walk right up and into the living room. This is why “they” tell you not to judge books by their covers.

To call the dwelling a “house” is to be remiss. It’s more like those honeymoon bungalows you see in luxe vacation pics of resorts in Tahiti, except this place is surrounded by grass, not water. Most of the house is open-air. The Master bedroom doesn’t have doors, just curtains and it opens to the dining room which is covered by a patio, but has no walls. There’s a massive fire pit in the back yard and everyone who’s not in the kitchen is crowded around it.

I hang out here making small talk with very nice strangers until my producer arrives.

I’m uneasy. Not because I’m the only Black girl or don’t know anyone. I’ve been in these situations plenty of times. Pay a compliment, ask a question and you make a new friend. I’m… off because of a conversation I had with my manager earlier in the day. My worry about the hold up with the scripted contract has gone from a dull roar to loud scream inside my head like the one my upstairs neighbor makes when she argues with her husband. Something is wrong. And now, it’s not just me thinking it. My manager thinks something is up too. She wants to make some calls.

My producer arrives shortly and is introducing me around the room. I’m meeting people with jobs I never thought about, but should. The lady who owns the house offers her job description as, “I do research.” I’ve done research for a living. The hourly wage was good, but nothing that would amass the wealth for a house like this. She works on period films and she’s the one that gathers all the nuanced details so that when historians watch films they don’t complain about how the director got it all wrong. It turns out she was a researcher. She recently opened her own research firm.

I meet another guy, an energetic spirit, and former New Yorker who when hearing I’m from New York asks me, “do you know Russell?” He means Simmons. I can’t figure out why the *** he thinks I would know Russell Simmons. Is it because of the circle of people in this room are that well connected and I must be to if I’m here? Or he just wanted to name drop? (I don’t know Russell, but I’ve met him a few times because I worked for his magazine for awhile and have been to a few private parties at his homes because my wife worked for his foundation for years.) This guy was a graph artist who met Russell—just Russell— in the early Def Jam days. Russell liked his art, so he hired him to do all the album covers. Think of an iconic album cover from the early 90s. This guy designed it. He now makes films. I look at the glitter on his pinky ring and think I  should have paid more attention in art class.

As I'm introduced around the room, I notice that people are really really impressed that I’m an author/journalist/blogger. “Writer” in LA means scripts. Who actually writes for magazines and pens books? This girl does. I’m not "a writer" on the West Coast. Here I'm seen as a content creator aka "Talent." (I have to do a separate post on the distinction. It’s… weird, it loosely, everyone begins to talk to you like you've never read a book and treat you like a demi-god, and it's why so many celebrities get screwy about their place in the world.)

We talk… and  talk… and talk. Hollywood networking involves way more bullshitting that New York. In NY, we want to know what you do, we quickly evaluate how that resource can be utilized (short or long term) and we engage or curb conversation based on that evaluation. Unless a collaboration can be done immediately, we exchange business cards and move on. Only the ex-New Yorker has whipped out a business card thus far.

My producer and I are now talking to an Asian lady and a white lady, which are only significant because of what happens next. My producer has big hair. Mine is braided up. The Asian lady, a friend of my producer, says to her randomly, “I like your hair better when you wear it normal.” She means straight.

I nearly choke on my wine. The white lady looks appalled.

“Yeah, this is normal. I’m Black,” my producer says, then she deftly begins to talk about her latest work project.

We move on from them and start talking to another woman. If it seems like this is dragging on, it’s because it is. This is beyond not wanting to make others "uncomfortable" by being the only Black girls who sit and talk to each other. We’ve been here for over an hour, and the only one-on-one conversation we’ve had was in greeting each other.

Something’s up.  My head hurts. I attribute it to the wine—red—that I’ve been nursing all night. I sit at the outdoor dining room table, bored, and munching on olives, which are my favorite thing in life. After twenty minutes, I’m about to call it a night and excuse myself, but then my producer takes the seat across from me as the room begins to clear out.

“So how’s it going?” she asks.

I read people for a living.

“What’s wrong?” I ask directly. I’m out of small talk.

She sighs heavy, stalling. “I heard you talked to [your manager] today.”

I nod. "I did."

“You’re concerned about the project?”

I nod. “I am.”

“Welllll…”

Shit. I don’t know if I said it out loud or not.

“The network has decided to pass on our project.”

I freeze and stare at her. The worst has happened and my mind goes empty. I had the feeling. I’d tried to hope my way out of it. No, really, I lied to myself.

I start calculating all the time—not even the money— I’ve wasted. All the sacrifices, all the pissed off friends I haven’t called back. All the times I’ve skipped parties and events to sit on the phone with lawyers or talk to the ducks at the park for my sanity or stared at the ceiling listening to Alice Smith wail, “where are you going with your life? What kind of chances will you take?” All the nights of insomnia. All the plans I had for my show and the nuances I wanted to make for the world about coming of age living while Black and female. All the ego I invested in having a story deemed worthy to be re-told on TV.

I flew to close to the sun and I’ve been kicked back to earth.  I blew it. I fucking blew it.

“They said they just decided to change direction. You didn’t do anything wrong,” my producer says, reading my mind.

She’s been through this before. It’s business, not personal. But it’s not her life story—her— that just got unceremoniously rejected after a year of negotiations.

“Okay,” I say, if only because I’m not trying to be any more socially awkward than I am.

And if I don’t get out of my head I’m going to lose it right here in this fancy wine and cheese and olives party. And not like angry lose it like I did the time I yelled “fuck you” in a blind-rage loop at Mr. Ex on the steps of the Brooklyn museum*. I’m not even mad (yet). This is pure hurt. Deep down, past the white meat to the bone.

I had bronchitis once, and until the meds ran their course, every time I coughed, sharp pain would spread through my entire chest all the way out to my shoulders. I would double over, squeeze my eyes closed and count until it passed. I’d deep breathe myself back into stability, and panting through tears, I’d remind myself “you’re going to get better, D. It takes time. You just have to get through it now.”  And then I'd pant some more til all the pain was gone. That’s what this feels like and that's what I want to do. But I can’t do that here.

I don’t know what that “okay” sounded like or what the look on face is revealing, but my producer asks me if I’m all right.

“Yeah,” I say in my breezy Diana Ross on stage talking to The People voice. “I’m… fine.”  I'm fooling no one.

She looks at me with pity. “We will find another network,” she promises. “It’s a great book. We’ll get it on TV, D. It will happen.”

“Ok,” I say nonchalantly, reaching for my clutch.

"Do you still want to pursue getting a show?" she asks.

I don't mean to, but I shoot her a side-eye. I can't even process this shit right now.

“I gotta go. I'll call you.” It's so very LA of me, but it’s T- 10 before I spazz.

She nods. “Can I hug you first?”

I nod because to decline would be rude. It's not her fault my dream died.

We both stand and she gives me the mama hug she knows I need, even if she has no children and has less than ten years on me.  Her hair smells like Black girl nuts and berries.

I stifle a sob as I pull back and dash out the house, offering a hurried goodbye to her and to the hostess. I start crying before I get out the yard. By the time the door to Wonderland closes behind me, I’m in a full on wail in the middle of the sidewalk. I walk down the poorly lit street to my truck with tears and snot dripping down my face. I don't feel like wiping it, so I don't.

I get behind the steering wheel of the truck and try to pull myself together for the 40-minute drive back to my hotel in Hollywood. I lean over the steering wheel with my arms wrapped around myself trying to hold me together. I'm talking to myself, saying it's going to be okay. It's going to be okay.

I sit up, breathe in and out deeply like I tell my coaching clients to do. And sit still with my eyes closed. A feeling of failure comes over me again. I cry soft tears, and then I cry so hard my body jerks and then I bend over and sob. I feel like Carver from The Wire after he dropped Randy off at the group home. He tried so hard to do the right thing, and in the end all the effort didn’t matter. Life isn't fair, but I want it to be anyway.

I completely boil over  and fight the steering wheel.

[video width="420" height="315" id="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wGY9YDEMnkc" type="youtube"]

When I’ve finally exhausted myself,  I sit in the car biting the skin around the cut I’ve made to my right hand between my ring and pinky fingers to apply pressure and stop the bleeding. With my left hand, I fumble with the phone and call CBW.

He gives me the same speech the producer gave. It’s gonna be okay, blah, blah, blah. My manager calls on the other line. The producer called her to tell her she gave me the bad news. I think the producer  added that I freaked out because my manager sounds worried.

I insist I’m fine even though I'm not. There's nothing she, or anyone can do about it anyway.  My manager is giving me the "success is a marathon, not a sprint speech” again, and is promising me this isn’t the end. She assures me I'll make the money back and then some. She's got some life on me, she offers, and she's made bad decisions that are just like setting money on fire, and she's always made it back.

It's not about the money. It's about the dream.

I start the engine, say “okay” where socially appropriate so she’s not any more worried.

I drive back to the hotel thinking of where to get a drink or a drug, maybe both.

Part 4: Maybe Monday?

Dear Yoga Girl, You Know That Most Black Girls Don't Envy Your Shape, Right?

 

I debated  whether to weigh in on this XO Jane story , "It Happened to Me: There Are No Black People in My Yoga Classes and I'm Suddenly Feeling Uncomfortable With It."

In case you missed the hoopla, a self-described "skinny"white girl went to a yoga class in NYC, saw a Black girl in her class and wrote the most narcissistic, projecting essay I've read in a really long time. The only thing I can think of that tops it is that infamous (and fake? And equally delusional) essay from a white woman explaining why Black men prefer white women. #womp

Here's a selection from Yoga girl's essay. Try not to laugh:

"A few weeks ago, as I settled into an exceptionally crowded midday class, a young, fairly heavy black woman put her mat down directly behind mine. It appeared she had never set foot in a yoga studio...

"Because I was directly in front of her, I had no choice but to look straight at her every time my head was upside down (roughly once a minute)... At that moment, though, I found it impossible to stop thinking about this woman. Even when I wasn’t positioned to stare directly at her, I knew she was still staring directly at me.

"Over the course of the next hour, I watched as her despair turned into resentment and then contempt. I felt it all directed toward me and my body. I was completely unable to focus on my practice, instead feeling hyper-aware of my high-waisted bike shorts, my tastefully tacky sports bra, my well-versedness in these poses that I have been in hundreds of times. My skinny white girl body. Surely this woman was noticing all of these things and judging me for them, stereotyping me, resenting me—or so I imagined."

Are you laughing yet? It gets worse:

"I thought about how that must feel: to be a heavyset black woman entering for the first time a system that by all accounts seems unable to accommodate her body. What could I do to help her? If I were her, I thought, I would want as little attention to be drawn to my despair as possible—I would not want anyone to look at me or notice me. And so I tried to very deliberately avoid looking in her direction each time I was in downward dog, but I could feel her hostility just the same."

Really, lady?

Lawd, how I wish someone could track down the Black girl in the yoga class for the ultimate response piece. I really want to know what she was thinking. It was probably, "Can I live?"

White Yoga Girl is currently being dragged for entire life across the Internet. There are many great retorts, but the best response came from KazzleDazz.com where writer Kadia B. substituted yoga for twerking and read Yoga Girl from the complete Encyclopedia Britannica:

"A few weeks ago, as I settled into my crowded evening class, a young, fairly thin white woman took her position right behind me. She appeared to have never set foot in a twerk-out studio before..

"Because I was directly in front of her, I had no choice but to twerk in her face. I found it impossible to not think about this poor woman behind me. Even though I wasn’t positioned to stare directly at her, I knew she was still staring directly at my ass. Over the course of the next hour, I felt her despair turn into resentment and then contempt. I just knew for sure, it was directed toward me and my booty.

"By the time Juvenile’s “Back That Ass Up” came on, I was completely unable to focus on my twerking.  Instead, I was feeling hyper-aware of my spandex booty shorts, my sexy tight tank top, my well-versedness in dropping it like it’s hot. My heavy-set black woman body.  Surely this skinny white girl was noticing all of these things and judging me for them, stereotyping me, resenting me – or so I assumed. However, I’m pretty sure I was right. How could I be wrong?"

Like I said, there have been so many great satirical and intelligent responses (honorable mention), I feel like I would be re-inventing the wheel to do add one of my own.

There is, however, one point that I have not seen in the many great responses, a nuance that NEEDS addressing:

*ahem*

SOME white ladies need to know that really, it's only thicker American Black girls who were raised in or only operate in white environments who have any envy for the "ideal" skinny white girl shape. Skinny Black girls have the same shape, usually with some ass, and they're not trying to exchange it for long back or noassitall.

In general, Black girls don't get the size 0/ size 2 with absolutely no curves thing that SOME white women cottage cheese, lettuce and yoga their way through life for. We flip through "mainstream" magazines and look at the clothes on the skinny models that reflect the white ideal and think, "that might look like something if she had some shape, but her shoes are cute though."

Think I'm playing? Look on Twitter at the reaction to the  size 2 Beyonce' that showed up at the Grammys Sunday night.

This may cause some alarm for white folk who think they are the center of the universe, but those particular white folk do need to know that Black folk have their own standard of "ideal" beauty. It involves curves in the "right" places-- kinda like what Bey had pre-Blue or like the woman in the picture at the top of this page. And there are black girls aplenty trying to get that shape, narrow waist, wide hips, thick thighs and plump ass mandatory. When most Black women exercise, we're mostly trying to cardio off mid-sections and keep everything else curvaceous so we can "fill out" our clothes, ironically enough, just like Beyonce' sang about on "Jealous". Milkshakes bring boys, of all colors, to the yard.

Lastly, Black women really don't spend that much time thinking about white women. We go through life thinking about, you know, ish that matters-- when is Scandal coming back, how long it's going to take to pay back Sallie Mae loans, if the Rabbit has fresh batteries, etc. Random white women only pop on our radar when one of them does something wildly offensive or asinine... like write a masturbatory essay about how a Black woman minding her own damn business in a yoga studio must envy or hate her  for being thin and white.

And then? Well then, you get dragged.

Uptown: Demetria L. Lucas The Anti-Reality TV, Reality TV Star

I don’t like watching reality TV shows, especially the programs that have a penchant for making Black folks look corny as hell. It’s not that I think I’m better than anyone who does enjoy these shows (like my sister, who says these programs help her de-stress after long days of school as she attains her master’s degree), but I just find the bickering and bullshit annoying (hell, I can get that in my own life). So when I heard that Bravo was releasing a new show called “Blood, Sweat and Heels“, I instantly rolled my eyes and attempted to change the channel as fast as I could – until someone very familiar popped up on my screen: Demetria Lucas.

I know Demetria through her strong writing as an advocate for the empowerment of Black women and an opinionated critic of relationships and everything that comes along with them. The reason I couldn’t change the channel was because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that Demetria, a harsh critic of reality TV and its presentations of Black women, was doing on a show that, from the trailer, appeared to be everything she once denounced.

After watching the first episode, I realized something very significant about Demetria Lucas – of all the women on the show, she is not only the best at branding her business, but she is also (intentionally or unintentionally) positioning herself as an “anti-reality TV, reality TV star”. So getting the opportunity to sit down and talk with her was intriguing.

Lincoln Anthony Blades: The big question I have, as someone who writes and blogs, is how did this opportunity come up? And what did you think about it when it was first presented to you?

Demetria Lucas: Oh, my first thought was hell no. I’ve been approached to do reality shows several times, and someone reached out to my manager and said “we’d like for Demetria to consider it” and when she called me I was like “no, no, no this is not gonna happen. I’m not doing reality TV.” If you follow my work I’ve been very critical of the portrayal of Black women on television, and [my manager] was like “I think this is different, give it a shot” and I trust her, so I said ‘OK, let me see, I’ll hear them out.” So I met with the production team, I met some of the other ladies on  the show, and I liked that they all had good backgrounds and I thought maybe this would be different because the women here have something to lose. We’re not here to be famous, we’re not independently wealthy, we have to work for a living, so our reputations matter. So I think this might be something different and I think this might be a good opportunity. It took me a minute to sign on, but I eventually came around.

LAB: So, just to go off what you were saying before, there’s been a lot of campaigns like Michaela Angela Davis’ “Bury The Ratchet” campaign where she’s gone after everything from Love & Hip-Hop to Married to Medicine to the Real Housewives of Atlanta. If someone was to say that your show is like these other shows or asked you to prove your show is different, how would you explain that “Blood, Sweat & Heels” should not be considered ratchet?

DL: Well, I can say that there is no fighting, no bottle throwing, no over-the-top physical antics. I think you saw there is some psychological stuff, you know I got ambushed at a dinner table which I definitely didn’t appreciate. But you know what? Michaela has been a friend and mentor of mine for years. She is someone that I ran this by and she let me know very clearly what her expectations were of me. She’s known me for a while and she said “You know what I expect”. I hope, in that sense, that I gave it to her. But I do think the show tackles some deeper issues that working women deal with like, can a woman lead? How do you balance a career and a relationship? It gets tricky sometimes, but I think those conversations aren’t being had on Housewives. These women are married, most of them are in stable relationships and you don’t get the nitty gritty of that. We are all women who’ve sacrificed a lot of our personal lives in order to pursue our careers. And I think there’s always the question hanging over us of, was it worth it? Does it all balance out at the end? Do we get to have it all? So I think in that sense we are a little different than the other shows you see on television.

LAB: Recently, a lot of people have been saying that this is a great time for Black women in television because of Sasheer Zamata being hired on SNL with two other black writers, and shows like Being Mary Jane and Scandal, which have won awards. Do you think that your show contributes to what is a pretty good time for Black women in television?

DL: Absolutely. You know, for so long there’s been a conversation about Black women. There’ve been these studies and conversations on Nightline, The Washington Post and The New Yorkerand Psychology Today. Everyone was talking about Black women but this is the first time you’re really seeing Black women control their own narrative. In terms of Being Mary Jane, Mara Brock Akil is at the helm of that. Shonda Rhimes is at the helm of Scandal. For our show, we’re in control of what comes out of our mouths and  how we behave.

After the interview was over and I watched more of Blood, Sweat and Heels, its become even clearer that Demetria doesn’t fall into any typical Black reality TV caricature. She’s not a kept woman, or an anti-intellectual who thinks the underground railroad was an actual train. She’s not the backstreet brawler or the hood-chick playing bougie. It really seems like she’s essentially the voice of people with common sense who watch these shows shaking their head in disgust. In my opinion, Blood, Sweat and Heels (with this current cast) won’t do much to empower Black women or change the perception of professional African-American women in New York, but it may just be the platform to something bigger and better, kinda like the early ratchet Oprah years that preceded the far classier “Book Club” days.

Well, at least one can hope.

Read the complete article here