BECAUSE I WATCH A LOT OF CNN
There is so much tragedy going on in the world that my middling personal bloviating extremely insignificant. The earthquake/tsunami in Japan is of a magnitude that it is hard to imagine what is being experienced there. Still, when it comes to putting things in perspective, I wonder how that is supposed to change how I view things in my small, microscopic, portion of the universe. Of course there are plenty of other things happening in the world more noteworthy than words that run like dysentery out of my fingers instead of something solid from another part of my body. Still, being reminded of how small I am doesn’t lessen the weights on my mind that I am trying to lift away. I have always been in awe of the occurrence that has brought me into existence and I think that I live in celebration and appreciation of my blink by continuing to strive in spite of myself.
Why does Libya look like Vietnam to me? The Arab League asking for a no-fly zone to be established over Libya is peculiar to say the least. I think that what is going on in the Middle East is a fancy ‘Gulf of Tonkin incident’ or ‘Lusitania sinking’ that is destined to have our over-extended military stretched even further. I wonder how long this is going to be a story, considering the shelf-life for the 2004 tsunami in the media cycle.
MEANWHILE, BACK AT THE RANCH
Going from one conspiracy to another… I thought about bailing on the whole line I had started to draw in my last entry but it would not let me go. So I thought about why I am spending so much time talking about women in a wider but personal perspective that comes across a little… vindictive, maybe? Especially since I seem to harp on the Black Matriarchal Complex and the Sisterhood of Bitter Black Women…
In asking about whether or not I am a ‘He-Man Women Hater’, I wondered about how it came to be that way and why I don’t think that I am a card carrying member of Spanky’s lodge. Part of what happens is that in my mind I hear both sides of a discussion. When I get here, to my journal, only one side comes out, primarily because I try to keep a word count on my entries and believe that letting my thoughts roll out is one thing but to really ramble on unconsciously is something I don’t believe is healthy for me and is NOT how a brother does things.
Remembering how one Aunt was responsible for going a long way to nurture my self-esteem, the Aunt that lived with us over in the 48219 was just as responsible for the division that broke me off from the bond that I had with my family. Though I have no idea of what her experience with men prior to her husband was like, what I do know is that like my Mother, after her marriage, she had no boyfriends or even dates, which I really thought was odd. She had two sons and they were in their twenties when she came to live with us and maybe why they weren’t always around would explain why she brought with her an attitude that would foster Jan’s self-loathing and spoil the relationship that I had with my Mom.
The fractures in the relationship that black men and women have with each other are many, some annoying and others nearly fatal to the ‘loveship’ (a word coined by LovBabz)between them as a couple. Norman Lear, whoever dreamt up the script for ‘Claudine’ and the entire urban music industry and corporate media, and the Prison Industrial Complex have exploited these cracks to great perpetual commercial success, not to mention the damage by the normalization of negative behaviors between sisters and brothers. Unlike what I had observed between my Mom and Pop, my Aunts marriage was like a Donald Goines novel. He was a very small time hustler and while she was a college grad from Marygrove, I would be hard pressed to see what she saw in him. What ever it was, they had two boys a year apart who would grow up to follow in his ‘street entrepreneur’ ways, moving merchandise, trying to sell marijuana and doing whatever they could to avoid legitimate work, just like their Dad. Not to mention taking the resources that could be found in a loveship that was healthy and to the benefit of both parties. Seems like that would be obvious but when it comes to anything regarding how men and women get along, no matter how well thought out a theory may be, the practice often varies in degrees of how it is applied that determines its function.
My Aunt’s marriage did not even have the pretenses of having any balance. But what happened to her was her experience and one that she willfully participated in. Just because was compelled to be in such a bastardization of her feelings did not mean that it would be the same for anyone other than her. My position is that the effect of what she went through in her marriage along with how it poisoned her would eventually seep into the relationship that I had with my Mother.
THE SINS OF THE FATHER… THE SINS OF THE SONS
Her sons had a lot of ‘woulda, coulda’ potential. Her oldest played a little basketball in high school and who knows if he had stuck to his script where his skill would have taken him. The youngest son was pretty smart but the both of them chose to follow in the Father’s footsteps into petty crime and two bit hustling… not to mention thinking that it was okay play women (yes, that is a hair that I split) without having any intention on behaving according to the script. I remember listening to their ‘advice’ and having to filter what made good sense and what kind of stuff that made sense after smoking some sh*t. Anywho, between her crap marriage and the crap traits that her boys seem to have inherited, her opinion of black men was warped.
Here is where her problems would become my problems. She had influence on my Mom and I feel that she would begin to see me through whatever prism my Aunt provided her. Things get even more intricate and I will forego readers the pleasure and myself the agonizing. I would enter high school and hedge things by enrolling in ROTC. Going to the service looked a lot more likely even as I showed promise as an amateur boxer. The coincidence of this and other remotely connected changes in the atmosphere at home went from subtle to obvious after I lost my virginity. It would be the last time I can remember coming to my Mom with a jam, particularly any relationship of mine that involved the transfer of fluids, that I felt I could speak to her as my friend and not ‘associates’ who happened to be related.