sagaciously is...

aside about that title:: I know that's a loaded title, but I'm feeling a creative plug rightch about now, so that's the closest title I could come up with to get this subject out of my system.

Warning: there's a little piece of this post that's Rated R for mature language.

So I've been dating again. No particular person, so it's nothing serious. Just a few guys, and a few giggles, with no strings attached. And no sex - but that's a whole other post.

The theme, and the twist:: Well, there seems to be a recurring theme on all my dates of late: the "Problem with the Independent Black Woman". Ya think the brethren are trying to tell a sister something? Anywho, the summary is the same story that the media (black outlets as well as national outlets) have been saying for a while: black women are just "too" {independent/strong-willed/aggressive/smart/financially secure/educated/__________ fill in the blank with whatever else comes to mind} and they're pushing black men away. Pushing Away. More on that in a sec.

The twist is: the brothers are using this as a reason {excuse} to opt out of the race. Call it fragginackle bull if you like (which I have), but the brothers are making it a valid one, by buying into it. In other words, instead of stepping up their game - they're searching for easier/more willing targets {prey/victims/partners/_____ - again fill in the blank with your choosing}.

Scenario A - the tired guy:: I'm on the phone with one of said brethren, discussing work/school or something along those lines and how I was competing with a classmate to answer one of my professor's question. "See, that's what's wrong with y'all..." were the beginning words of a 15-minute tirade on the subject of independent black women. Wait, that's a low-estimate - for those of you familiar with Atlanta, he ranted from the Grady Curve all the way to the intersection of 85S @ 285 - about 25 miles? He ranted on everything from the Color Purple to Waiting to Exhale to Oprah to Something New. He ranted so long, I lost interest in the conversation, and used my dying cellphone as an excuse to extricate myself from the call. I haven't heard from him since.

Now, this is a college-educated, professional brother, with a couple of degrees. I'd love to say he was intimidated, but - hell, I don't know that he was. He sounded fed up. Not validating his feelings at all, but objectively - he sounded more tired than pissed off.

Scenario B - puttin' away ya dick...and ya balls:: This other guy (entrepreneur, owns several of his own businesses, etc.) is talking to me about something related to one of his businesses. He's telling me a story, and states something IT-related, some minutiae that I can't even recall now. I do, however, remember that what he said was technically incorrect. So I interrupted him to correct the minutiae, and he stops, sighs and says: "ok, I'mma need you to do something for me." What's that? "I'mma need you to put away ya dick...and ya balls." Now, being that I have a gutter sense of humor and this guy and I have traded barbs for some time now, I knew he was joking, so I fell out laughing...for two days. I literally had the giggles about that line for 48 hours.

Hows-n-ever, DP reminded me (and I love him for this, despite the sting associated with it) that that line is telling...possibly indicating a pattern of behavior, where said brethren prolly has a problem with assertive women correcting him, and that this line (funny or not) could be the tip of an iceberg - an iceberg that I don't want to run across the Titanic that is my life. 'Cause I bee's real independent/assertive rightch about now, and I prolly won't take direction well when it comes to steering that particular ship. Point well taken, noted, and acted upon, DP. Even if that is still a funny line to me.

about ma dyck...and ma balls:: Mr. Entrepreneur & I proceeded later to have a loooong conversation about that statement, which is the whole point of this post. I won't quote verbatim for you, but there were a few salient points that I think I'd like to share:

• I have them for a reason - I don't think most "independent" woman collectively just suddenly choose (or chose) to "grow" them, but they sprouted up necessarily, to let us cope in a dyck & balled environment. So really, brethren - you can stop beating us up for having them. We ain't trying to be men. We're just trying to live/work/breathe like everyone else.


• They perform vital functions - allowing me to be independent/strong-willed/aggressive/smart/financially secure/educated when required without necessarily being labelled a attitudinal bytch. Or maybe just allowing us to be assetive - we may still get labeled an AB, regardless.


• I use them most of the time - at work, at school, while driving in rush-hour traffic as other dyck & ball wearing folks of both sexes try to run me slap off the road, when negotiating car prices, or bartering for services...ok, you get the drift.


• I like being a girl - don't let the strap-on fool you. I'm not a lesbian, or have lesbian fantasies (ok, maybe I do, but again - another post - I need you to focus), I don't want to be a man, or want to emasculate men of color by "putting their business on the street". If I had a choice, I'd spend my free time sewing, painting my nails and getting my hair did, in lieu of mowing the lawn, changing my tires, and taking the garbage out. I don't want my strap ons to take the place of a man or reduce the idea of what being a man really is. And I don't think I can live without men. I like being a girl, and I like men. Period.


• I can remove the strap on - given the aligning of certain planets. If I meet a man that is seemingly worthy of taking the helm. Worthy, meaning he has proven that he can steer, has some sense of direction and has the ability to hold the wheel. If I'm made to feel comfortable in relinquishing control to him. If he shows me he has our (collective) best interests at heart. If he promises to protect & support me when things go awry, as they inevitably always do (with the understanding that I'll do the same). I could go on, but here again - it's really like all the ducks showing up in a row, which rarely happens.


• don't be skurred of ma balls - and about that Pushing Away thing, if I ask you to prove that you're worthy, and yo hot a$$ balks and runs, that probably means that you aren't worthy. It doesn't mean I told you to "get-to-stepping", so stop using that phrase "black women are pushing their men away". That's not my intent - I just need you to show me that you "got this" - and that ain't no new shyt. Black women, hell all women have been asking that of their men since men were clubbing women and dragging them back to the cave. Blind faith isn't just overrated - it's foolish (when you know that the person you're investing this faith in - a Human - is flawed). Otherwise, I'm gonna assume that you're scared of ma balls, and if that's the case - you're not the man I need to steer anyway. Listen, these are the same balls that will have yo back when you get hemmed up, so you cannot have it both ways (strong when you want, but not strong when I want).

theEpiphany:: as I'm rambling on, I came to a realization, one that I wouldn't typically admit otherwise. Yeah, I'm a strong, intelligent, educated, financially stable, aggressive black woman. But I long to be vulnerable, and to show that vulnerability to the world. Yeah, I said it: long. I'd love to be perceived as soft, instead of rigid; sensitive, instead of impervious. I'd like to skip through the friggin' daisies, and arrange flowers, cook and decorate - and all that other crap that black men who seem to be obsessed with "traditional" western gender roles imagine comes along with being a woman/wife/significant other (despite the fact that for the greater part of the time that black people have existed in this country, black woman have never really been allowed to actually be that "typical" woman because of circumstances). Bottom line is, I'd love to be supportive and let a brother take the lead role. Love to lay down my reigns. But. I. dayum. can't.

So, if I'm running on type "A" gasoline 24X7, 365 and I come home tripping with my strap-on still strapped on, just try and understand. Stop expecting me to be able to make that transition - from balled Superwoman to June Cleaver - like putting the brakes on in a Ford Focus. We can't go from 60MPH to 0MPH in 0.03 seconds. We SBW's can't just stop on a friggin' dime, and frankly - I think the SBM's out there realize this.

The same way that the brethren want that feminine support (sounds like a Playtex jockstrap), we need the brethren to exercise control in kid gloves, not the iron fist. You want me to take the strap-on off? Fine - just whisper sweetly in my ear: "baby, I'mma need you to do something...I'mma need you to put away ya dyck, and ya balls". And I'll do it. Gladly.