O.K. Maybe I am not as aware as I would like to think, but am I the only one that was not offended by the comments of Mexico's President Vicente Fox. He stated that Mexicans took jobs, "that even blacks would not do," but isn't that the truth? I lived in Atlanta for nearly two years and I saw Mexicans standing on corners in the cold looking for jobs. I saw them working construction, as janitorial staff, shoveling snow in the winter and cutting lawns in the summer. I am sure there are tons of other jobs that they did/do that I have no idea exist and I am sure that some of these jobs would be considered demeaning. But does that mean that "even blacks won't do them"? Well doesn't that statement say it all, because if its available to do then NOBODY'S doing them. Not just blacks. How come he didn't say whites aren't doing them (I know why and so do you but for argument sake I'll put that in there), Asian immigrants aren't doing them, middle-easterners fleeing for their lives aren't doing them. No he said Blacks, I read Blacks and you read blacks. But if you think about it, for him to mention that "even blacks would not do" should be seen as a reference to our contribution to this country.
In it's founding years Africans were brought to this country for purely economic reasons. Yes, the sole purpose of the Middle Passage was money. Later on Africans as well as natives from Caribbean countries were brought into this country as bodies for the front line. Through all of this they built this country. The built it with inventions, educators, scientists and with their own two hands and strong determination. All the while raising families and building communities. This work was not rewarded with the lucrative, prestigious job offers, but at times the most degrading and the most demeaning. Blacks have had to DO some of the most disgusting jobs in the name of feeding their children and keeping their eyes on the prize. That is OUR reputation and we are not ashamed of it. But let's be honest that is no longer the norm. I know, I know the children of Caribbean parents are about to riot after reading that but I have to take side with them. Caribbeans (especially in South Florida) are most often the ones to DO the jobs of the cleaning and janitorial staff. But let's keep them out of this argument for now. I know (and you know) a lot of "Black-Americans" that find that certain jobs are beneath them and will not do them regardless of how much they need the money. They feel they shouldn't have to. That is their right. It is also the right of Mexican immigrants to take those jobs if they are available. Does that make Blacks lazy? No, I don't think so. Does it make Mexicans superior? Not in the least. Those who are protesting and boycotting (a task that requires a lot of strong will and work invented by Blacks in America) are giving President's Fox's comment more validity than necessary.
It brings to mind another point. How are Americans going to dictate how the President of another country addresses his citizens? He said it, we heard it and he meant it. We told him some people found it offensive, he said that's not how he meant it and he's sorry. So now we want to vilify him? Do we have the right? Look at who our President is?
I am not diminishing anyone's feelings nor am I dismissing any opinions but I just think that we are losing focus on what's really important. Let's not get caught up in the Media Hype, because that's what this is. Public Schools do not have enough resources, teachers do not get paid enough and although the cost of living keeps going up my paycheck isn't. Shouldn't Al sorption and Jesse Jackson be mad at that. Shouldn't they be on television saying how disgusting it is that a two-income family with two kids can't afford to live in a house big enough to house them?
So if I get a free trip to Mexico I am going. If I am hungry and the nearest place is a Mexican restaurant, I'm eating. If a fine Mexican man smiles at me I am smiling right back. But if I turn on the television and see either Al sorption and/or Jesse Jackson talking about anything that is not in the least helpful to the state of Black America today then honey, I am popping Napoleon Dynamite into the DVD player!!
That's just what I'm sayin'.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Papa was a rolling stone
What is it about the relationship between a daughter and her father? Why is that single relationship the foundation for every other relationship a woman has with a man. My sperm donor (as I affectionally refer to him) and I don't speak, hell I have never even seen him in my entire life. I could have past him on the street and never knew it was him. He and my mother were married and had 3 children before I came along. When I was 2 months old in a drunken and drugged stupor he left me in a car in an alley next to a liquor store. He left for good when I was 6 months old. And as a child I used to think that the mere sight of me had driven him away. I must have been ugly, why else would he have left after 3 perfect boys and just six months of me?
As a child I hated to wear skirts (my how times have changed), mostly because I was born with a birth defect that didn't allow for my legs to be straight (think Kermit the Frog), the doctor's said something about the muscles and bones in my legs not developing properly. So I wore leg braces (think run, Forest, run) for most of my childhood. I use to think that he couldn't stand looking at his daughter's frog legs and had to run. You see the things that go through the mind of a child. Never did I think that this was his issue. Something he had to work out. I believed it was me. And for the better part of my life I thought that any man who left my life, I was to blame. My brothers were being raised by the sperm donor's sister in a lifestyle one could only trully have in Haiti. He called them on their birthdays and on holidays, he knew them. Every summer when we would get together (my brothers and I) they would talk about their father and all the things he had done for them. They spoke as if he was someone completely detached from my DNA. As if he and I didn't share the same smile or the same temper. As if the fact that we shared the same last name was purely done out of politeness.
All this pain didn't come into my life until I was around 7 years old. I had a step-father who I had no idea was my step-father until then. This man was great to me. He was an Americanized Haitian who taught me about Earth, Wind & Fire (the musical group as well as the elements), Teddy Pendergrass (he looked so much like him) the importance of never letting anyone know how much money really have and how this new type of music taking over (Rap) was something I needed to pay attention to. Anyway, one day when I was 7 and at my Evil Aunt Margaret's house and bragging about my Daddy, she yelled at me in the most melacious way she could that he wasn't my father. Couldn't I tell by the big nose that he could never be related to me she said. I was devastated. But I kept it in until I saw him, then I cried like I new born baby. I told him what she said and later that night I remember my aunt calling my mom to complain about my Daddy and how he had come over with a baseball bat and destroyed her house. That's when the questions started. And the pain crept in.
One day when I was 14 years old, my step-father came home with a newborn baby girl. He told me that she was his daughter. All I could think of was obviously I wasn't good enough. That he had finally seen in me what the sperm-donor had and decided he needed to get a daughter of his own. One that wasn't defective. Six months later we moved to Miami. It was suppose to be the three of us, my mom, my dad and I. He came to Miami two weeks after my mother and I got here and left two weeks later with a promise to be back in two weeks. It's been a long two weeks.
How is it that you all can make babies and not be fathers. Don't get me wrong I know alot of men who have done what they were suppose to do and been fathers to their children but unfortunately you all are a rare breed My life has been full of hurt, some you know about and some I think I'll take to the next life but in all honesty I blame him for them. If he were present in my life maybe the hurt wouldn't have been so bad, maybe I wouldn't have cried so much and maybe just maybe I wouldn't blame myself when it didn't work out.
My mother and I had an argument last week because I told her when the sperm donor dies I would go to his funeral in a red Christian Dior suit, red fish net stocking, red high heels and a red and black wide rim had with a black lace veil covering my face. My mother is worried about what people will say. I say screw them because none of them ever told him what he was doing was wrong so how dare they tell me I'm wrong. Did I mention that he lives in Miami and has for just as long as I have.
There's no specific reason for this particular entry maybe it's age, maybe it's death and maybe I just needed to let it out that this particular situation hurts me. Hurts me in a place that's no where near my heart. Somewhere that's bigger than my heart. I cried last night because for the first time in a very long time I needed a father to handle a problem and I realised I didn't have one. And I cried even more.
Can anyone tell me how to get over this?
As a child I hated to wear skirts (my how times have changed), mostly because I was born with a birth defect that didn't allow for my legs to be straight (think Kermit the Frog), the doctor's said something about the muscles and bones in my legs not developing properly. So I wore leg braces (think run, Forest, run) for most of my childhood. I use to think that he couldn't stand looking at his daughter's frog legs and had to run. You see the things that go through the mind of a child. Never did I think that this was his issue. Something he had to work out. I believed it was me. And for the better part of my life I thought that any man who left my life, I was to blame. My brothers were being raised by the sperm donor's sister in a lifestyle one could only trully have in Haiti. He called them on their birthdays and on holidays, he knew them. Every summer when we would get together (my brothers and I) they would talk about their father and all the things he had done for them. They spoke as if he was someone completely detached from my DNA. As if he and I didn't share the same smile or the same temper. As if the fact that we shared the same last name was purely done out of politeness.
All this pain didn't come into my life until I was around 7 years old. I had a step-father who I had no idea was my step-father until then. This man was great to me. He was an Americanized Haitian who taught me about Earth, Wind & Fire (the musical group as well as the elements), Teddy Pendergrass (he looked so much like him) the importance of never letting anyone know how much money really have and how this new type of music taking over (Rap) was something I needed to pay attention to. Anyway, one day when I was 7 and at my Evil Aunt Margaret's house and bragging about my Daddy, she yelled at me in the most melacious way she could that he wasn't my father. Couldn't I tell by the big nose that he could never be related to me she said. I was devastated. But I kept it in until I saw him, then I cried like I new born baby. I told him what she said and later that night I remember my aunt calling my mom to complain about my Daddy and how he had come over with a baseball bat and destroyed her house. That's when the questions started. And the pain crept in.
One day when I was 14 years old, my step-father came home with a newborn baby girl. He told me that she was his daughter. All I could think of was obviously I wasn't good enough. That he had finally seen in me what the sperm-donor had and decided he needed to get a daughter of his own. One that wasn't defective. Six months later we moved to Miami. It was suppose to be the three of us, my mom, my dad and I. He came to Miami two weeks after my mother and I got here and left two weeks later with a promise to be back in two weeks. It's been a long two weeks.
How is it that you all can make babies and not be fathers. Don't get me wrong I know alot of men who have done what they were suppose to do and been fathers to their children but unfortunately you all are a rare breed My life has been full of hurt, some you know about and some I think I'll take to the next life but in all honesty I blame him for them. If he were present in my life maybe the hurt wouldn't have been so bad, maybe I wouldn't have cried so much and maybe just maybe I wouldn't blame myself when it didn't work out.
My mother and I had an argument last week because I told her when the sperm donor dies I would go to his funeral in a red Christian Dior suit, red fish net stocking, red high heels and a red and black wide rim had with a black lace veil covering my face. My mother is worried about what people will say. I say screw them because none of them ever told him what he was doing was wrong so how dare they tell me I'm wrong. Did I mention that he lives in Miami and has for just as long as I have.
There's no specific reason for this particular entry maybe it's age, maybe it's death and maybe I just needed to let it out that this particular situation hurts me. Hurts me in a place that's no where near my heart. Somewhere that's bigger than my heart. I cried last night because for the first time in a very long time I needed a father to handle a problem and I realised I didn't have one. And I cried even more.
Can anyone tell me how to get over this?
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