They actually might be onto something...maybe

I like plans.  Plans are good.  I like high expectations.  Those are good too.

When I came across this article about a plan to make high expectations the norm for all students by  creating common school standards, I thought, "Hey, this is a good idea."  And not as soon as I got to the last period, I asked, "How are they going to equalize everything else that creates disparities in education?"

And then I asked, "How are they really going to do this?"  And I thought...

How wonderful would it be if, beyond standard common school standards for all students, regardless of ethnic background and money and geographical location, there were common standards for resources so all students, regardless of whatever, had simple things like an educational environment where there were adequate resources to teach these universal standards?  If all high schools, say, had a functioning science lab so that students could learn through experimentation, like they are supposed to?  Or if classrooms had books so that student learning could take place beyond the school day?  Why can't we distribute the resources equally if we're really trying to stabilize the ground and have grounded and solid education for Americans?

Oh wait, that would be socialism though.  Was a good thought and made sense.  If only we could make what made sense a reality.

Fighting battles when this is war.

Black people abort too much. We also murder too much. Not good.

See the image above? These billboards were plastered around Black Atlanta as a deterrent to the astronomically high abortion rates amongst Black women. I saw a documentary a few years ago that showed the abortion numbers for Black fetuses. Though I never verified its claim, it claimed that abortion killed more Black people than heart disease, guns, AIDS and cancer combined. The numbers are indeed alarming.

William Saletan suggests that instead of focusing on the alarming abortion rates in the Black community, the toomanyaborted.com folks should instead focus on guns because "they are killing the present, not just the future." My question is, would gun control affect the high murder rates amongst Blacks? I don't have the facts nor figures, but I speculate that most guns that make it to the streets and subsequently have bodies on them have not been obtained legally. How does gun control control the dispersing of illegal guns?

I get the hypocrisy between the leftist anti-abortion folk who are anti-aborting Black babies but love their guns. But perhaps I am partly Leftist too--because I don't believe that guns kill people, but instead that people do. And I believe that if you increase gun control, you don't decrease gun presence in the poor Black community. Skeptical? "In 2003, the ten cities with the highest violent crime rates for 2003 include three cities in the very strict [gun control] state of New Jersey and one in the fairly restrictive [gun control] state of Massachusetts." Go figure.

I don't think either side of the abortion v. guns debate is sound. The common denominator in the disproportionately high murder and abortion rates amongst Black people is, well, Black people. So, instead of exploring the means of death (we can throw in the disgustingly high rates of obesity and diabetes and heart disease--all of which are perfectly preventable too) and begin to look at our bottom line--which is that we are dying because of, amongst many other things, our own self-hatred.

So, I ask, a la Malcolm, "Who taught you how to hate yourself?" Fighting abortions or guns or diet or exercise isn't the issue. The issue is we hate ourselves. And if we should start anywhere, we should start there. Let's roll out those billboards, people.

Why pay when you can get it for free?

Admittedly, I am too attached to celebrities.  It's certainly a guilty pleasure.  I was on twitter this morning asking if anyone has heard from D'Angelo and Lauryn Hill, and received a barrage of responses.

Do I have a right to be disappointed that D'Angelo is soliciting head from a prostitute for forty dollars?

I know some women (myself included) who would've been willing to do it for free.

I'm just saying...

Memories of Yesterday

Many yesterdays ago  I had unpacked all of my belongings and settled into what would be college life.  I like to be a step ahead of my game, so I was there before my roommate, before most of the folks that would be housed in the Browner section of the building.

I headed down for a bite to eat when I received an alert from my pager--followed by 911.  I ignored the first one, but couldn't ignore the others that would come in rapid succession.  I called my girlfriend who then notified me that our friend from elementary school died.

In a dumb-founded moment (I literally was numb) I asked, "Patrice who?  Are you serious?"  Clearly she was.  All the markers were there.  She was crying.  She was angry.  The longer I stayed on the phone, the more I wish I hadn't.  She had been shot in the head.  She was dead.  Her mom was on a flight to go identify her body.

And that's how I started Freshman year.

I spent the next few days like a zombie, avoiding the story that graced newspaper headlines and the local news.  I overhead strangers talking about that awful shooting in Atlanta that killed those "two pretty girls." And I hid in my room when I received news that there was a shootout between the police and the killer streets from my dorm.

I'm writing today because my dear friend's blog brought our dead friend to life.  And I've spent the rest of my day on the last page, stuck on her death.

There's little I can still remember about Patrice.  My closest memory is of her in a scantily clad outfit at Boston's West Indian Carnival, with red lipstick on.  And of course, she had on her trademark glasses.  Then bullets went off--and almost like magic, I took off after her, while she ducked for cover.  I remember telling myself, "Follow the boobs."  Who would know that only a few months later, she would die from the same bullets she escaped months prior.

And that might have been the last time that we spoke.

And now when I think of her, I can only see a winning smile with dimples, glasses, and a chubby brown-skinned girl with big boobs.  But I can't hear her voice.  I am haunted--more than I ever care to share--by the image of her opening the door after her first day of class, only to be greeted by the barrel of a gun held by a visitor she knew all too well.  And I can only imagine the screams that I cannot shake from my memory, the loud thump that must've accompanied the firing of the bullets, and the few convulsions that occurred shortly thereafter.

And then, her life would end.

And every June 14th I think of Patrice.  I think of what she would have done at 21, what outfit she would have worn, how she would've smiled and radiated the room.  The day I graduated, I wondered what her graduation would have been, what she would have done after college.  The day I gave birth, I wondered if she would've had a child at the tender age of 25, what she'd be doing for a living and if she'd be married

I remember the last dream I had of her, when she was sitting in the back of a car that I was driving, in an all-white Hanes sweatsuit, with her trademark glasses and smile, saying nothing while saying so much.

And I keep thinking about how she shows up in my life--in fond memory, in tragic image, and most importantly, in inspiration and appreciation and a loud reminder that life is all too short.

Though my friendship with Patrice began to fade long before she did, I feel like she is amongst the most influential people in my life.

This is more disappointing than it should be.

With all the issues going on this world, it's a wonder that I am concerned about this.  But I am. 

I always flinch when I see anything remotely public with a gross spelling or grammar error.  I once met a sign-maker who told me that his job was to please the customer by making signs and posters in the exact manner that his customer requested.

You mean to tell me that no one from the poster designer, to the printer, to the purchaser of the poster so adoringly given to my son on his third birthday noticed that the GREAT Michael Jackson's name was spelled improperly?

Please tell me y'all noticed.

The bassackwards business of education.

Last year, when the district attempted to close both my school and the school underneath it, they had a formula that consisted of, amongst other things: school choice, whether or not the school met adequate yearly progress (AYP), student retainment and retention and promotion and graduation rates.

When I fought to save the school, I fought because I thought the formula to be inherently flawed.  The student retainment rate was computed by examining the number of students who enter in the ninth grade and graduate by the twelfth (within four years).  This formula is intrinsically unfair seeing that we are rarely chosen and thus, have a population of kids who just "show up" into the system, many of them as over-aged ninth/tenth/eleventh/twelfth graders.  Because these students have started school elsewhere, they are not factored into this data. 

I came across a document moments ago, showing student choice numbers (excluding the exam schools.)  It appears that my school was the least chosen high school with only five (yes, five) students electing to come here.  I'm sad because as I hear my teacher-friends' stories about their schools and look at the data, despite being the least chosen school, on academic performance levels, my school is performing much better than our more chosen counterparts.  

In this business model, appearance is more valuable than reality.  It matters not how much progress that we make, how much we improve students'  reading, writing and analytical skills, but instead, how much students intially choose to be here.

The hypocrisy of it all is that in business, the dollar is the mighty Allah.  And here, student choice equals dollars.  Even if the dollars don't produce a bit of short term sense and long term cents.

Wrong for so many reasons...

One of my louder (Brown) female students came running into my classroom telling me a story that went a lil' somethin' like this...

"Miss!  Oh My God!  I just went into Mr. Middle-Aged-White-Teacher-Across-The-Hall's room and said, "Hi Mr. Middle-Aged-White-Teacher-Across-The-Hall, you faggot.  Then he said, "Hi Loud-Talking-Black student, you bitch."

I looked down. 

I said nothing.

This disturbs me for several reasons.  The child's age does not justify her calling the teacher a slur.  Neither does her relationship with the said teacher, even if they have a relationship that extends beyond the typical teacher-student boundaries (as her approach and his subsequent response indiate.)

But seriously, did that man really call that little girl a bitch?  Even in jest?  Something is horribly wrong.  It feels like a gross abuse of power--feels sexist, racist, ageist.

I don't even know how to proceed.

Nibblin' on that half-pipe

Am I the only one who thinks that the Scotty Lago story is funny?

A man who wins a bronze medal for the "halfpipe snowboarding" event voluntarily goes home after images surface of a woman biting the said medal while it is hung around his waist.  Perhaps if she just bit his pipe (or half-pipe) Mr. Lago could've hung out in Canada a little longer.

Geesh.

Jogging while Black

My brother told me that was jogging in the street when he got pulled over by the police.  He was issued a ticket for $158.00 for jogging in the street (apparently it's a law that few people know of.)  The police officers called for backup and he grew concerned because he really thought that he was going to get locked up for jogging.  He appealed the ticket.  He has a court date in the middle of March.  When he went to City Hall to inquire about the legality of the ticket, the clerk was so shocked that she laughed.

When I initially heard the story I laughed.  Part of me was shocked, and the other part of me was outraged.  

I wondered if anyone would have "pulled him over" and radioed for backup if he were anything other than Black.

What harm does a nigger jogging in the street pose to an armed officer with a car, a taser, mace, a handgun and a billy club?

Car or no car, a nigger is still a nigger.

Why This Black Girl Likes John Mayer

On my day off, I had the pleasure of sitting on twitter for hours on end, communicating with the "educated Black folks" that I follow (and some of whom follow me) about John Mayer's Playboy interview.

I like John Mayer. I do.  I like his music. I like his "say what's on my mind" style.  John Mayer is a musician, not a politician.  I like the truth.  Sometimes it's ugly, sometimes it hurts.  But I very much enjoy it.

So, when John Mayer spoke, without thinking about what he said (or how others might misconstrue it), he sounded like a sincere man freely expressing his thoughts on a magnitude of topics.

There was nothing in the interview that bothered me as a Black woman.  I was more concerned about how his former loves Jessica Simpson and Jennifer Aniston would feel about being mentioned in the same space, but one could not read the entire article and not notice how much that man adored both women. 

How many women would be upset if they were likened to "crack cocaine"?  Sheeeyit, I wish that were me.  And how upset can you be that a man says that a relationship didn't work out because he was "just 32" and wasn't ready to be anything more than that?  That's pretty respectful.

So let's talk about what had much of Brown America in an uproar Wednesday morning.  

On John Mayer's Hood Pass...

“What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, “I can’t really have a hood pass. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, ‘We’re full.’"

If he meant what I think he meant, he was questioning the validity of a Black pass when he can't use the word nigger nor experience, wholly, the black experience (i.e. being told a restaurant is full when it is not.)   Moments earlier, he explained the Black experience as...

"...making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that’s seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you’ll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude’s."

Now, perhaps it's a bit much to liken his experience to any one Black man.  But, I could see where he was going given his definition.  Particularly since he elaborates, at length, about how he was indeed making the most of his life and taking his struggle and turning it into something beautiful.

On not dating Black women (aka the David Duke cock)...

"I don’t think I open myself to it. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick."

First, why do we care?  Do we know how many white men don't date us?  Shouldn't we be more concerned with the brothers that we do want (that don't want us) then the others that we don't want that don't want us?  Truly, I thought he was trying to link the distance between his "Benetton heart" and "David Duke" cock by stating that he would expand his bed to welcome the Black women that he has long since adored, but never entertained (he said it further down in the same article.)  And after seeking clarity, I get why the parallel to David Duke, even if in jest, isn't funny.

I get the interview was racy.  It was a man speaking with no filter, defending his character and life choices.  Perhaps he was too honest, and we don't want nor need honesty.  Perhaps he shouldn't have spoken of Jessica Simpson as a sex goddess because I'm certain she was far more than that.   But seriously, we missed some salient points.  And more so, we missed a genuine man sharing genuine feelings.  He is an artist, not a politician.  He said what he wanted to.  Very little of what he said was disrespectful to a class of people (Blacks, women, etc.)  I saw a man with a "chip on [his] shoulder" defending himself, explaining his decisions, opening his heart and head.  Without a filter.  He didn't use the word "nigger" with ill intent.  He used it to make a point and to affirm us.  Why are we so mad?

Why did he apologize when he didn't have ill will?  Because he hurt people?  The truth hurts and sometimes, we have to learn to swallow it.  Or...do we prefer doctored up, jazzed up versions of things? If he said "the N word" would people have been ok?  Why did he apologize when he spent the entire article talking about how regardless of what you say, it will be misconstrued and people will be unhappy.  Didn't he say that he had relegated to making himself happy instead of making the world happy?

What I've learned from this...
There are many Brown folks, with many official letters after their names, whose reading comprehension is piss poor.  And that's more disappointing than anything John Mayer said.  You know why?  Cause John Mayer will still make records and make money, and have risky thoughts (even if he doesn't share them) and many educated Brown folks still won't be able to understand what they're reading.

(Sigh.)