What's your price? On Sex, Economics, and Market Crash

A woman's most valuable asset is her vagina.

Oh... you think I'm tripping? You don't think your vagina has a price? My mom looked at me pretty funny too until I explained to her my logic.

Let's look at some the basic differences between male and female sexuality.

-In all cultures men are expected to give resources in exchange for access to female sex. These resources may be in the form of dinners, money, gifts, time, attention, compliments, exclusivity or even marriage. But something of value is given in exchange for the possibility of sex. With few rare exceptions, women do not give anything in exchange for sex.

-Sex is costlier for women. Intercourse could result in pregnancy, child birth, and the responsibility of motherhood. Men only lose semen, and they practically have an endless supply of that.

-In all cultures, female virginity, or brand new vagina, is a prized possession. Male virginity, however, is stigmatized.

-Women may enjoy sex, but men need it. When push comes to shove, men are far more inclined to relax their standards or even resort to using porn and/or prostitutes for sexual gratification.

-In all cultures female infidelity carries greater weight than male infidelity. When a man cheats, it is viewed as a broken promise. When a woman cheats, it is as if she gave something of the man's away. In most cases, her infidelity is unforgiveable.

-And finally, when a man boasts about a successful seduction he might say he "scored" , "hit it", or "got the panties". The woman on the other hand "put out" or "gave it up".

Sex between a man and a woman is not an equal exchange. When men and women have sex, physically they are doing similar things. Socially they are doing very different things. A man is receiving something of value that the woman is giving. Her vagina.

Since the beginning of time women have used their sexuality as a powerful negotiating tool for resources and protection. Let's not forget that it wasn't until very recently, less than 100 years, that women were allowed to really work and take care of themselves. For the greater part of human history a woman's sexuality and ability to bear children was her most significant asset. Her survival and her childrens survival depended on how well she leveraged her sexuality. Hence our foremothers had to be incredibly selective about whom they granted access to their vaginas.

When we consider sex as an exchange of resources, our perception of romance is bound to change. In economic terms, the world is a market place. Courtship is a negotiation to determine what a man is willing to give in exchange for access to a particular vagina. And marriage is a contract. But perhaps this less-than-romantic concept of romance could do womankind some good.

It goes without saying that all vagina is not created equal.

There are certain qualities that may increase the value of an individual vagina, and they of course pertain to the woman attached to it. Beauty, youth, class, intelligence, virtue, and a lack of prior sexual partners all raise value.

And then of course some qualities lower it. A used vagina is worth less than new vagina that's still in its original packaging. A widely-distributed vagina is worth less than an exclusive vagina. As with any commodity.

Then there are factors that influence the overall market, largely supply and demand. Think of it as the US Vagina Exchange. The price of American vagina has been plummeting since the early sixties, around the time the birth control pill was introduced. When women stopped having to worry about getting pregnant, they were free to enjoy sex just like men.

In actuality, women's liberation merely freed women to frolic in a man's sexual paradise. As women indulged in pleasures of the flesh, the market became flooded with cheap vagina. As time passed, premarital sex became the norm. More babies were born out of wedlock. Sex without strings and cohabitation without commitment became the norm. Vaginas could be had for less than ever before. One dinner. Maybe two. A week of phone calls. A drink. A compliment. The slightest sign of interest.

By the eighties it was considerably more difficult for women with high quality vagina to command the same high prices as women decades prior. Men weren't as willing to lavish them dinners, gifts, attention, and commitment. It was too easy to find cheaper vagina elsewhere.

And in the year 2000, in a market inundated with cheap vagina and internet porn, the price of american vagina hit rock bottom.

The vagina market crashed.

So where do women go from here? There are two options. Usually when supply exceeds demands, companies work together to reduce the amount of product on the market and raise the market value. So, theoretically modern women en mass could stop giving of the vagina so freely.

Then of course there are steps individual women can take to command a high price. And that's pretty simple. Make your vagina exclusive. Why be a KIA when you can be a Porsche? Why be a double-wide when you can be a mansion? I believe that a woman's vagina is her greatest asset. It is sacred. It is her crown jewel. But it is only worth as much as the woman it is attached to.

The best thing that we can do to survive this sexonomic recession is to be the best women we can, and to make peace with extended periods of abstinence. We have to put our vaginas away and save it for men (or the man) who truly deserve it. We must be wonderfully aware of our worth and only willing to share ourselves with men who demonstrate that they are as well.

While many men will settle for what comes easy, the best men will work for does not. A man may cross the street for a cheap thrill, but he'll jump through flames for a woman that only few have had.

And you know what?

I don't think he'll mind the challenge, the adventure, or the possibility of being with the best this world has to offer.

Cheers,

PS: Never did like economics in college.

Fabulous and Unequally Yoked

I can still remember pacing back and forth across my white living room carpet. It was a Sunday morning and he'd just sent a friendly "What are you up to?" text.


My response. "Just getting in from a lovely walk." And with that, he was off to address his massive workload, satisfied with having paid me the obligatory minim of attention that day.



"Oh dear!" I exasperated to my best friend, The Chocolate Diva, whom I'd dialed in an emergency. "I should have said church. He would expect me to be at church. He doesn't know."


"Just calm down," The Diva insisted.

"I mean, could this be a deal breaker?"


"Honestly, with some men, but not if it's meant to be and he really likes you for you."


"I have to tell him." I decided then.



I was slowly falling for Miles* and I could tell he'd placed me in his high estimation as well. As busy as he was and although we lived a couple hours apart, he was making an effort to demonstrate his affection and to learn more about me. But what he didn't know was that we were unequally yoked.












He was born and raised in the Christian South, and while I knew he didn't go to Church every Sunday, he was raised in a family that did. More importantly, he'd probably want a wife that was too.

I am Muslim. Have been from birth .My faith is as much a part of me as my skin tone and heritage. I grew up in the progressive North, next to a big city where both mosques and churches thrived. I grew up in a place where no one questioned my arabic name or flinched when I mentioned my faith. What's even more interesting is that while my dad is Muslim, started off in the sixties with the Nation and then converted to the more widely-practiced Sunni Islam, my mother is a Penecostal Christian. Hence, while the world still argues and fights over religious difference, I grew up watching two religions love one another, madly. I was blessed to have two parents who were devout in their own right, and who would expose me to both faiths (which aren't so different) and allow me to ultimatley choose how I'd like to get to know God.


Perhaps because of my odd religious upbringing I always made light of the concept of being equally yoked. Sure, there were some difficult times growing up. When I was ten I remember mom having a spontaneous melt-down over the fact that I'd chosen Islam. She felt it was my way of saying I loved my dad more, but that wasn't the case at all. I just felt as if Islam was a perfect fit. And with time, my family made it over that hurdle. I remember learning that Skittles and Starbursts actually contained gelatin, or pork, and having to give up my favorite candies. And as a teen, I can recall my dad expressing his desire to see me marry a Muslim man, and my disgust at his double standard.


We've worked through that hurdle as well.


I was comftorable in my faith. God was always in my heart. With maturity I grew to be more active in my practice, making the salaat, while never five times a day, at least once. And then at 22, I fasted for my first complete Ramadan, meaning that for thirty days, I abstained from food from sunrise to sunset. The more active a believer I became, the more I saw God as a critical part of my ability to survive and thrive in a crazy world. As a baby Islam was chosen for me, at ten I chose it for myself, and in my early twenties I had my own spiritual awakening.









It was faith that launched my career and my subsequent move to Medium-City, South. I was in the masjid on a Friday afternoon when my phone buzzed. I quickly turned it off and waited until the end of juma, or the Friday prayer service, to respond. It was a news director in Medium-City, South offering me my first on-air job right out of college.

Ironically that move would also test my faith more than anything. In Medium-City, Muslim names weren't that common. Neither were masjids. It was town flanked by mega-churches with congregations over five-thousand. Young people went to church. Young people talked openly about God. Young people said grace before dinner. Jesus Christ was a super star.

It was also a place where Islam was a foreign and scary concept to Blacks and Whites alike. So much so, with each news story and interview my station aired that subtly villifed my faith, I found myself for the first time hiding who I was. I was in a military town where most folks believed America was fighting the Muslims, not the terrorists. They felt that the Koran prescribed hate, which it does not, and that people like me, are social pariahs. I feared for my safety if certain extremists should find out I worshipped Allah. And so I continud to make prayer two-three times a day in the confines of my home, and I continued to hide this critical part of me.

After close to a year I revealed my faith to my inner circle and even my boss ( who I believe is still in shock) but I still would shamefully remain quiet when colleauges, even in the morning meeting, made disparaging remarks about Muslims in reaction to a news story they didn't even fully understand.

When I met Miles, I was in that place; a devout Muslim girl, living in the spotlight, afraid to come out about who she was. He would be the one to change that.


On our first date he bowed his head to say grace and it completely caught me off guard. I let him bless the food and we moved on. As things progressed nicely, I became nervous. This was too good to be true. The man of my dreams had suddenly come along to sweep me off my feet and there was no sign of danger on the horizon. So of course, I started coming up with possibilities of things that could go wrong, and the only thing I could think of was faith. Miles wanted a picture perfect life, and in that world, husband, wife, and baby went to church together every Sunday.



My fears were deepned by a handsome Nigerian man I had once dated. An entrepreneur, he was a great man, but we broke up when I realized he could never marry a woman who was not Nigerian. He was the oldest of four and his mother simply would never accept it. I moved to the South about a month later and he, for the most part, was forgot. Perhaps, my heart wasn't in it after all because when that brief relationship ended, the only thing crushed was my naivete.

It was different with Miles. I really liked him. Miles and I met up a week after my Sunday morning melt-down. It was an awkward date. His plane had just landed in town, and he had just an hour to spare before he was off to meet with a political candidate. It had taken 48 hours of text messaging (during his meetings) to make arrangements at a sushi restaurant conveniently located close to his next appointment. I was having a fat day, a bad hair day, and I couldn't find anything I really wanted to wear. A recipe for disaster. And it was during this date that I decided to drop the bomb. Subtly, during conversation, like "Yea, actually my dad's Muslim".

"Oh, and are you?"

"I am."

I noticed that his eyes lingered on me with vague suprise, and then I watched as he suppressed whatever reaction he was truly having. Instead the conversation carried on to, of all things, church. His mom and my mom were both Penecostal and we reflected on the exuberant services of our childhood.

After that date, I didn't hear from Miles much. It was the ending of our fairy tale courtship as I knew it. I assumed that he was done, completely uninterested in the real me. Perhaps now he saw me in a new light and of course I was devastated. And then a month passed, we ran into each other, and he begged for my forgiveness. He told me he'd made a huge mistake. I was still unlike anyone he'd ever met. And while we tried to assemble the pieces, we really never did get back on track.

I never asked Miles "Why?". Truly, I don't know if he'd ever tell me. I knew that for the perfection seeking over-achiever, I shattered some element of his impression of me as the perfect woman, but I'll never know what. Perhaps it was my faith, and in my absence, he came to realize that he and I could work through that. Perhaps it was something, or someone, else. Miles and I are still friends till this day, though we tread through choppy waters of uncertainty and awkardness. I have accepted that neither he nor I want to completley extricate the other out of our lives, but that at the moment, being apart has been better for me, than being in love could ever have been.

The event allowed me to come to terms with some things that "I know for sure", to borrow Oprah's term. You see, I never once regretted telling Miles who I was, even though my mother said, in retrospect, perhaps I should have waited a few more dates. Being Muslim is who I am and at the end of the day I want a man who can love me in totality. I want a man who can embrace me and my faith, the way mom and dad embraced, and respected one another. I could never abandon God, or the way I practice, for love.

Even as a single Black woman.




CNN (tried it) published another controversial article on the plight of the lonely Black Woman. This one is caled "Does the Black Church Keep Black Women Single?" It profiles a couple of devout Christian Black women who attend church every Sunday, bible study on Wednesday, and even Sunday school... and although they may pray for love, they are conspicuously alone. The article reasons that Black women who will only date Black men who worship on the same level they do are bound to end up sanctified and single. In other words, lots of Black Christian women are dating Jesus Christ.

"Awww man!" she wants to date Jesus Christ this guy laughed, after his
companion asked if I had high standards. "Of course" I had replied.

Does the Black church keep Black women single? Absolutely not. No faith does. But as many of my single and very-Christian friends have learned, 'the one' might not be in Church on Sunday. Most churches are about 75% women anyway, with the bulk of the men in leadership positions (we'll address that another day). Instead he may be the brother who goes to church every once in a while, or the guy who grew up in church, but strayed during adulthood, the spirtual man who needs a little help getting closer to God, or he may even be Muslim. People have different interpretations of what it means to be equally yoked and it's difficult to change someone's 'non-negotiables'. For some, equally yoked means two people of the same religion, maybe even denomination. For others, it is of the same level of religious commitment, and for others, it means two people who are simply God-fearing. Depending on interpretation, a woman certainly either expands or contracts the size of her dating pool.


Regardless, a Black woman would have a difficult time finding her way through the dating maze without the guiding hand of God. I know I would. God gives us dignity, the faith to know he's there, and the patience to wait, and grow personally, until he arrives.

My very Christian friends, and perhaps women who can relate to the CNN story, are learning at thirty what I learned just a couple of weeks before my 24th birthday, with Miles. For a woman to become half of any succesful relationship, she must know who she is as a believer, for sure, and she has to be confident enough to walk as the woman of God she is. There is no compromising faith for romance, but romance often does require accepting and respecting the faith practices of your partner.

I have reflected on my last real date with Miles ad infinitum and I have stored a mental list of all the things I would change, including canceling the hurried date altogether. What I would never change is divulging my faith. For me, I am Muslim, and to love me is to love that part of me. It's funny, but I think I'd feel more comftorable with most men I've dated seeing me naked, than watching me bow down in prayer. My faith is deeply personal and deeply me. In the aftermath, I know that while I could date a Christian or Muslim man of God, just as long as he is of God, the ultimate stipulation is that he respects the way I serve. I would do the same, including going to church on Sunday, and celebrating both holidays on my end. With maturity has also come to the understanding that not everyone will be able to embrace me and my faith. For some, I will be a fabulous Muslim girl and woman of God. For some, I will be a fabulous girl, but a Muslim.

They say the family that prays together stays together. They also say love conquers all. I believe both these to be true. When a relationship is God-ordained, filled with respect, love and admiration, He makes a way for believers to be believers. Perhaps two become one in their faith, or they remain seperate in faith but closer in understanding. It's not always easy, but it is possible.



Flyness and faith,

Becoming Jacqueline Broyer

Next to my impeccable mother, the woman who has had the second most influence on my life is a fictional character. While many girls were groomed to idolize Jackie O, I grew up idolizing Jacqui B. Jacqueline Broyer; the fierce femme fatale played to the hilt by actress Robin Givens in the 1992 movie Boomerang.

I was just a little girl. Skinny legs, a press and curl. My mother always
thought I'd be a star. -Lauryn Hill

I was just a little girl, still at Marie Wildey's dancing school in cornrows and pink tights, when I was first laid eyes on Jacqueline Broyer. This was long before all the ballet performances, pageants and maternal influence transformed me into the prima-donna I (sort of) am today. I was too young to fully comprehend the story-line, yet utterly fascinated every time Jacquelyn appeared on screen. She mesmerized me, regaled in all the gold, glitz, and glamour that epitomized 1992. Here was this intelligent, successful Black woman who was also every bit of a raging siren. It's an archetype that Hollywood has since abandoned but fortunately, no amount of Nicki Minaj's could ever undo the effect of a single Jacqueline Broyer on a girl like me.


In childhood, I would watch the movie Boomerang dozens of times, paying attention to every fine detail of her captivating presence. I studied her power dress. I noticed the bespoke-like tailoring of her suits and how she never appeared unadorned, without an ensemble of bold jewelry. Jacquelyn wore hair extensions and so do I. It became important to wear a lush, flowing hairstyle, reminiscent of Jacqueline when she walks away from Marcus, her mane billowing behind her. I studied the meticulous aspects of her beauty; the fierce grooming of her brows, and the way her nails and lips were oft the same tempting shade of red. And whether it was by chance or subconscious-repetition, over time I did learn to channel her, at times, quite well.

*on-air, bringing a bit of Jacqui B...

More importantly, as a woman I would date my own Marcus Grahams. Handsome and debonair men, like Miles*, whose entrance would be as swift and spellbinding as their departure. I came to understand more about men and their ability to smash hearts like old cigarette butts. And even though I had figured out how to channel Jacqui B's style, I'd soon realize that physical appeal was just a part of it. It was Jacquelyn's whip appeal that made her phenomenal.

In the movie Boomerang, marketing exec Marcus Graham is the poster child of what every Black woman is waiting for. Hence for him, dating is target practice and variety is very much the spice of his life. All is well in his love-em-and-leave-em universe until he meets his match, Jacqueline Broyer, the 'executress' who becomes his boss after a company take over.

"She's smart. She's beautiful. She's bad. She could be Misses Graham. I'm telling you. She's that bad."

Jacqueline is the first woman Marcus encounters who is seemingly immune to his magic. By the movie’s climax, Marcus finds himself in the same vulnerable position to which he's reduced countless women, and like a classic Samson and Delilah tale, the ensuing chase leads Marcus to his (temporary) ruin.

The movie leaves most of Jacqueline's life to the imagination. You know next to nothing about her past, where she lives or even why she's fluent in French. You don't know if she's a divorcee or if maybe she'd spent years of her early twenties getting over her own Marcus Graham or two, much like I and other fly girls have. You don't know from where her extraordinary presence comes, but you are aware that at some point Ms. Broyer must have conquered her own hiccups, hang-ups, maybe even break ups and still she managed to become one hell of a self-fulfilled woman.

When I seduce you, if I decide to seduce you, don't worry... You'll know.

Seductive women like Jacqui B aren't born. They are made. The seductress has an uncanny will to exude control over herself and those around her through appearance and force of personality. As such, she also has the patience and discipline it takes to get there. Behind the glamour, Jacqueline ultimate seductive trait is indeed her wholeness. Even a man with the most well-rehearsed game will fumble when confronted by a Jacqueline Broyer. She is a male fantasy come to life; supremely confident, brilliant and wonderfully sexual. No easy prize, there is a torch lit path to her affections and during the course of the journey; a man just might be made better. My...You'd have to fathom that Jacqui B even spent ample time becoming Jacqui B.

In spite of her fascinating joi de vivre, in the movie Jacqueline Broyer is vilified, much like Robin Givens was at the time. Her fabulously complex character is relegated to being a flat antagonist; merely a device around which Marcus' redemption revolves. Still, while most female viewers identify with a sweet-and-vulnerable Angela, who does ultimately win 'the prize', they'd also love to wield Jacquelyn's seductive power.... But let's remember, Boomerang is a love story told by a man. Director Reggie Hudlin already broke the rules of the playbook by revealing the type of woman that could render a man weak. Hence, the movie ending is a shameless cover-up, written to throw women off.

Too bad.

Adulthood for me has largely been a process of fulfilling my childhood fantasy of becoming Jacqueline Broyer. I've always felt that if I were more like her I'd be immune to the kind of heartbreak that has riddled my life since freshman year undergrad. When Miles *exited stage left, my Jacqui ambitions went into over drive. I lost the ten pounds I picked up in college, I lightened my hair two shades, changed my nail polish color, and indulged in so much retail therapy I had to juggle a bill... or several. And while I may turn a few more heads now (including his), I am no Jacquelyn Broyer. I am still in that crucial process of becoming the woman of my dreams. Reaching that supreme level of confidence in which perhaps I am not immune, but hopefully impenetrable to unrequited love.

I told a male confidant today that I was pulling myself out of the game for an undetermined period of time. He said it was the pain talking.

"Despite how tired you may be of what some of us are offering," he said, "you're not as cynical as you may portray to some in the coming weeks, months or however long. Tired, likely. But still wanting and willing."

Yes, man-friend has a point. But really, I need to take a minute to be wrapped up in myself. Every woman needs different things. The truth is, I take rejection very personally. Rather than rationalize heartbreak with inauspicious timing or the classic 'he's not the one', I'd rather tell myself, I am not fly enough. For me, fabulous is and has always been a form of control.

My idolization of Jacqui B began as fascination with all that glitters, but over the years it has morphed into a desire to rise above romantic vulnerability. You don't know what Jacquelyn did after the scene where Marcus finally chooses Angela over her, but you can't picture her somewhere wasting Kleenex on tears. If we are to get real about Hudlin's machismo romantic comedy, Jacquelyn doesn't end up with Marcus, but she absolutely wins the game. Don't get it twisted, she conquered and reformed a true player, and if she really wanted Marcus, she could have had him.

How wonderful would it be to have power in the boardroom and in the bedroom?

It's a feeling most women will never know, but for me, a worthwhile pursuit. Sure there will still be suitors that come and go, but when it comes to the high stakes romances, I'd prefer the romance on my terms. I'd like to initiate the chase; compel a man to sacrifice, put his heart on the line, endure pleasure and pain, anxiety and ease, break down and ultimately build himself back up-- a better man, all in order to win my heart. And truth be told, I wouldn't mind bringing a skilled, debonair player to his knees all in the pursuit of love. It could after all end in love, or at the very least, give him a taste of his own medicine. As they say.... Karma is a bitch. A fierce bitch.

Flyness and funk,
Ike

PS: Jacqueline vs. Angela? Who do you favor?

Love Changes

My doctor friend is fabulous, juggling everything. Her position as an OB-GYN at a hospital here in Medium City, South. Her MBA classes. Her foundation. Her friends including myself, a little-sister-like companion. And on top of all of that-- her new man.

"You're so good about balance," I told her on our last phone conversation. We were rehashing the events of the ladies-night dinner we attended the evening prior. She was taking a break from studying for an exam.

"I used to be," she admitted. "It's getting harder. Men are needy."

Aren't they? Actually relationships are needy. They deplete time you would be spending on yourself, but some things are worth that time. My doctor friend is in her mid-thirties, and after a series of failed relationships and men she was simply too good for, it seems like she has (finally) found the one. But you know what? Perhaps if she found 'the one' when she was my age-- she wouldn't be so accomplished.

It is the compromise of love. Love changes things.

Sometimes in the absence of love, there is plenty of room for personal growth. When Miles cleared the picture (partially, as I ironically heard from him the other day) I seemed to have a lot more time on my hands. Really I didn't, but the young energy that I was pouring into my love life, hoping to build a future with this handsome man was suddenly.... mine.

And then of course it took quite a bit of energy to get over it.

But once that time passed, I asked myself a question. How can I make me happy?

Have you ever woke up singing? Like, I'm feeling fabulous! No specific reason, just you're high on life? Well, that is my life right now.

In answering this question, I realized there were some things on the grand to-do list that I wanted to accomplish. I wanted to shed a couple pounds. I wanted to jump start my literary career. I wanted to give back to the community and essentially renew my life. And then one day I glanced in a mirror, and realized, I had. Totally.

That heart break sparked the greatest phase of transformation in my life in ten years. (My transformation between middle school and high school was something serious.)

That's the positive aspect of being young and single, especially if you have big dreams for yourself. You date and commiserate and then you spend a lot of time working on you. You become more fabulous with each passing year, and really, with each passing liason, because even if it doesn't work out (hopefully) you learn something new about men, or something new about yourself. Maybe both.

And then when the man of your dreams does come along, like my doctor friend, you are ready. In fact-- maybe that's why he comes along.

Flyness and Funk,

Ike

Is He or Isn't He?

Picture it. An urbane night spot packed with BUPPY's in polo shirts and skinny dresses. Outside, the shapeless crowd is contained by wrought iron. The lights are dim. The night air moist. BUPPY's are moving hip to hip, cheek to cheek in one choppy, highly uncoordinated social dance. Above all there is music. Sweet voices harmonize with deep ones. Glasses clink. Heels tap. White bahia couches hover low glass tables and BUPPY's hover those.

I'm sitting with my legs crossed on the edge of a couch. I have just ordered cranberry juice and vodka. Mr. Right Now is to my right, covertly stroking my shiny leg, sneaking glimpses into my soul. We're surrounded by our mutual friends, none of whom have any idea we are dating and have been dating since the beginning of the year. I prefer it that way.

The attorney and his girlfriend are on the adjacent couch celebrating her birthday. She and I have exchanged air kisses and I've complimented her dress. I first met the attorney and Mr. Right Now together at Negro Night aka First Fridays. I remember I went to the bar to get a second cranberry and vodka, go figure, and he struck up a flirtatious conversation. He called me a few times afterward but nothing ever came of it.

The next time I saw him it was months later, at an event. He reintroduced himself and his girlfriend of three years. I smiled and pretended to have never met him.


This is the new "it" spot and there are Black people, though not many, that I don't recognize. My eyes are busy dissecting the crowd. That's when I spot a striking profile making his way toward the restaurant entrance. He is tall, athletic, with cappuccino skin. He has the cock sure gait of a man who wears Ferragamos and carries a money clip. He is an executive. Off the clock.

Mr. Right Now pulls me back into the conversation. My seabreeze arrives and I take several sips one after the other. I let the cold liquor go to my head content to, for a few quiet moments, hold my glass to my lips and people watch.

Alas, I've mellowed out, caught the groove of the libidinous atmosphere. Mr. Right Now has just discovered that he may be related to another gentleman. They both have kin-folk in some southern town too small to have a dot on a map. I'm getting ready to do the electric slide in honor of the impromptu family reunion when I see him again.

He's entering the terrace with two other men. I take a slow, unhurried sip of my drink that allows me to lower my eyes at the precise moment he enters my sight. I throw my gaze. He catches. After a few seconds, he leads his crew to an empty railing beside me.

Time passes.

Mr. Right Now is on the phone with his aunt confirming that he has indeed found a second cousin, once removed, on his father's side. Somebody call Tyler Perry. Mr. Right Now and his second-cousin-once-removed are exchanging stories about their little town of origin. It gives me a chance to study this stranger, who all the other ladies around me have also noticed, at the same precise moment.

One of our friends knows him. They strike up conversation and a trail of other women follow her lead. It is Prince Charming at the ball being greeted by debutant after debutant. Curtsy and smile then step back and cross your fingers. I hesitate. Instead I return my attention to Mr. Right Now.

Time passes.

I can sense the conversation beside me has fallen flat. Smiles have dropped like curls on this humid night. They have taken position in his court, not sure what to do next, but still too enchanted to leave. His body is elegantly poised on the railing, one leg crossed over another. He's dressed in expensive jeans, brown leather shoes with a sharp toe box, and a stiff blue button down. His skin is bronzed. He is handsome.

I make my way over. I'm wearing a billowy knee-length black dress that alludes to the shape of my body every time the wind blows past me. My dancers walk is enhanced by sexy Michael Kors heels. "Hello!". I shake hands with his two friends first and then I face him. His eyes are translucent, and smiling.

"Hello-- Gabrielle*, but you can call me Gabe*." And he has a quiet storm radio voice, the kind that'll have you dialing up the radio station in your car late at night trying to speak to the host.

"Well hello, Ike*" I said, grinning. "I like the way you say that".

"I can say it again."

"Please do."

We laugh. That's when Gabe's friends begin a game of Negro Geography. They are from Atlanta and I am uninterested. Gabe is in and out of the conversation, filling in the cracks with coy comments. I'm beaming. I glance at his left hand, but it is hidden behind him.

We continue playing Negro Geography. We all have friends in common. Gabe tells me he's from Boston. I frown.

"Oh, why the look?"

"Oh I'm not a big fan of Boston. But I do have lots of friends who migrated there after school and don't plan on leaving."

"Where are you from?"

He's eased into the conversation. I can tell he's intrigued. "New Jersey myself."

The two musketeers launched a barrage of questions but I was distracted. The two musketeers were from Atlanta, but the catch lived in Medium-City. Yes!

I was trying hard not to project my Betty fantasies on him. But it's too late.

In swift and unforeseen sequence of events, his friend drops the H-Bomb on his behalf.

I wasn't the paying the second musketeer any attention until I heard "... when Gabe was at Harvard."

Suddenly couch stuffing and shards of glass are flying through the air and in the midst of the smoke and debris storm, Betty is doing one hell of a victory dance.

kick bolchange, kick bolchange, potaburre, kick!

Black Cupid was in the house. Hey! "Oh, you went to Harvard?"

"Actually Harvard Law."

Do not make any sudden reaction. "Oh, I'm a Yalie!"

"Oh so that's why you don't like Boston. New Haven," he smiled, acknowledging that pretentiousness Black Ivy connection that quickly unites Black folks, especially when far away from the preppy northeast.

"Partially," I smiled.

"Well what brings you down here?"

"My job." And then he went on to tell me about his fabulous job in an exclusive historic section of Medium-City, South.

"Oh I know where that is. Wonderful!"

We had bonded. I wanted him. Betty wanted him. The H-Bomb only sealed our destiny. I admit, I temporarily forgot Mr. Right Now was not only feet away, but that he existed.

Then he stretched his hand out and I caught a glimpse of a silver ring. It was kind of eclectic though. So maybe not. Couldn't be. Please God, tell me this man wasn't feeding me vibes for the past 20 minutes and he's married.

I let another girl cut into the conversation. I guarded post on the railing. The subject moved to dating and like a true journalist I butt in with my question. "So how long have you been married?"

"Two years."

Too bad.

That's the one aspect of post-collegiate dating I'm to which I'm still growing accustomed. Always check the ring. And for real, some wives need not let their fine, Black educated men go out too often, unattached. I'm just saying. Not every woman shares my dignity.



-Flyness and funk(y ring fingers),
Ike

I'm a WEAK Black Woman

"I am a weak Black Woman!" I joked in the parking lot. I had just performed my dramatic interpretation of the Tyler Perry tragic heroine; scorned, mad and consequently strong. Actually, I'll be glad when someone breaks the monopoly that Tyler Perry has on Black culture. Spike Lee? John Singleton? Can another director please stand up.

Mr. Right Now laughed at me.

"No really" I said positioning myself to slide into his car. "I'm going to start telling people I'm weak before they assume that I'm strong and therefore a bitch."

Mr. Right Now smiled at my sarcasm before closing the door. We were wrapping an enjoyable evening at a popular new restaurant on the Southside of Medium-City, South. He and I have been innocently dating for several months now and I'm rather enjoying the ambiguity of our romantic aims.

On this night, we fell on the subject of how men date. My ears perked up.

"Basically there are three types of men in your dating pool. There's that cool guy with like a professional job and he's most likely dating multiple girls at once."

I nod, chewing my salmon.

"Then there's like the awkward guy, and he probably doesn't mess with Black women because they never paid him any attention. He's the type of guy you'd find in a place like this," he said referring to our waspy environment, "at the bar trying to pick up girl."

Another nod.

"And then there are gay guys."

I drink my 'diva martini', creating a noticeable pause in our dinner conversation. I am letting the shock settle.

"What?!" he says laughing.

I set my drink down and look him in the eyes. "So there's men who don't want anything serious, geeks and gays."

"Basically."

"So no eligible Black men want to date for real?"

"No."

I giggled realizing his analysis probably wasn't that far off at face value. It certainly suited his situation. "I got you." My 'diva martini' tasted so good.

That was the pleasure of Mr. Right Now. I enjoy having him around, but he is pretty much free to leave. Mr. Right Now meets all of my Betty qualifications. He has learned how to court me and over the past few months my feelings for him have grown. But at the end of the day, my socks (and panties) are still on. I believe his greatest asset is his timing. He came around a few weeks after Miles.

"So what about the woman you do consider getting serious about? You know, if there's multiple women in your life, how do you determine where they stand?"

I know that men, just like many women, have levels of endearment.

"You talking about the type of girl I'd make my old lady?"

"Something like that."

And he had a laundry list, including nice teeth and a woman that "wouldn't embarrass him in front of his co-workers".

Then he added this. "And a woman has to let a man be a man."

It wasn't the first time I'd heard a successful Black man way this. Ironically, Miles had made the same observation... on our last date.

I designed a pyramid so tough that a star
that only glows every one hundred years falls
into the center giving divine perfect light
I am bad....*

Now I'm as feminine as they come. I cross my legs when I sit. I cook dinner on Sundays. And I never leave the house without perfume. But even I, in my two years of post-collegiate dating, have had to learn how be a lady-- all over again.

I have learned to let the man signal the waiter for me and lead us in grace. I've learned to give him a chance to talk about him self and to pepper conversations with questions that require his expertise. I've learned to compliment him on the restaurant choice (if it is indeed a good choice). I've realized that every polemical statement does not require a rebuttal and that sometimes it is wiser to speak with my eyes rather than my lips.

I've discovered the old saying is true. You catch more flies with honey.

And unfortunately I did not learn these things from my mother.

My son noah built new/ark and I stood proudly at the helm as we sailed on a soft summer day
I turned myself into myself and was
jesus.
Men intone my loving name
All praises
All praises
I am the one who would save*

My mother is a wonderfully supportive wife. In fact I believe my parents are very much soul mates, still happy after 25 years. But mommy is an alpha female. She runs a huge medical practice and she pretty much runs the household as well. Growing up, it was dad who chauffeured me to dance class and to the beauty parlor for my Saturday morning press-and-curls. He made sure I'd eaten dinner and helped me with my homework. He took me to school in the morning and picked me up if it was raining. His law office was conveniently a mile away from home. Mommy worked. A lot.

Dad provided and kept us safe by any means necessary, but in many ways my mother was the de facto leader. That situation works for my parents but I have feeling it would not work for most of the accomplished men I date. While they admire my intelligence and independence, they are looking for a queen, not a co-ruler.

I caught a cold and blew
My nose giving oil to the arab world
I am so hip even my errors are correct*

A lot of Black women grew up surrounded by 'strong' matriarchs . Our culture celebrates them. She is the woman who if need be, could do it all on her own. She is provider, chef, lover, accountant, therapist, counsel, handy-(wo)man--- willing to play any role at any given time. Her instinct is not to defer to a man, though she may appreciate and respect the one that is there. She is strong.

My mother was an excellent mother and she raised me in the image of her. She raised me to be God-fearing, independent, and emotionally resilient. She wanted me to treat my body like a temple and to be a lady-- and yet, I feel her lessons were incomplete.

In truth, I am not a weak woman. I am quite strong. Really, there is no way I could not be strong. I live thousands of miles away from my family. I work in an industry where my Ivy-League degree does not protect me from racism. And every time my heart is broken, I have to present a stiff upper lip to the world. For me, and women like me, being vulnerable is really not an option. It's just a selective tool.



The modern woman on the quest for the pervasive 'all' faces a mighty dilemma. In our post-liberation world we have earned the right to eat, drink, and work like any man. We fight wars with men. Many of us even date like men. But we want to have our careers and marry well too. Herein lies the problem. Some men find us too independent, too fast, and too liberated for our own good.

And what about Black women? Let's face it, from slavery onward, many of foremothers were placed in situations where they had to be 'strong'. They didn't have the luxury of succumbing to emotion. They had to keep it together for the family. Us modern women, even if we did grow up as princesses, are descendants of that legacy. And how do we survive dating the rounds of men who will break our hearts, and not develop a thick skin in the process?

And then what about our culture which has made the term 'strong' synonymous with a slew of negative words--- mad, angry, bitter, un-nurturing, loud, quarrelsome, un-supportive, combative, picky, feisty, scorned.... bitch.

I don't know. Clair Huxtable made having it all look so easy.

I am so perfect so divine so ethereal so surreal
I cannot be comprehended except by my permission

In this day and age, a man appreciates a woman who does her own thing and has her own interests. Accordingly a fly woman should want to be appreciated, and respected, for who she is. I sure do. But as I grow up, I am also learning to straddle that murky line between old-fashioned and liberated. Vulnerable and strong.

Perhaps like all things in love, it really comes down to compromise. I've come to realize men don't only need sex. They need attention, loyalty and subtle strokes to the ego too. And while our needs as women have evolved since liberation, for the most part, there's have not.

We moved our discussion from Tyler Perry to locating my car as Mr. Right Now drove around the crowded parking lot. I had a good idea where it was, but I thanked him for finding it. How could I have forgotten? I smiled sweetly and bid him good night.

Tyler Perry, what do you say to that?

Flyness and funk,

Ike




*Nicki Giovanni's 'Ego Tripping'. A poem written in honor of the strong Black woman.

A Fly Girl's Tale Of Unrequited Love

This weekend I found myself reunited with my old home, an old acquaintance and old fears.

I was in the Garden State discretely auditioning for 15 minutes of fame. I had been waiting my turn, camped on a beach chair in the parking lot of a low-end department store in my fabulous silk dress that I so desperately wanted to avoid ruining with under-arm sweat. That's when mom, then playing the role of personal assistant, brought up a sore subject. She asked about the last man I'd dated. Let's call him Miles, because he reminds me so much of a character first introduced in Benilde Little's novel, Good Hair.

When I met Miles right after Mount Holyoke, I was one of those people. I had been living in Manhattan for five years, hanging out with a bunch of women who, in addition to sharing an alma mater, shared a "1950-ish" goal of marrying well.

Miles, the fictional character, has all the the swag and circumstance deserving of a wildly successful, handsome, and charming Black man. He is a workaholic. Success is his wife, but he takes many concubines. And while Miles initially surrounds his paramour in magnificent romantic splendor, his attention span is painfully short. Painfully.



I had a Miles. He moved on. I'm still trying to.

"He's not the one," mom said. At least I think that's what she said. At that point I was reading her lips. The chatter of reality tv hopefuls and this conversation was bleeding into one another. I was in a wind tunnel, wondering how the hell we landed on this subject anyway. Mom was angry with me. I'd confessed to her that I wanted to know what it was I did. How did I manage to lose the man with whom most women didn't stand a chance? The man I felt I deserved. The man of my Betty Dreams.

"You really need to see someone about this. You don't know how to lose. You've never been able to accept failure. It's because we spoiled you. We gave you everything you wanted."

How mom was comparing my love life to my childhood wants was beyond me. This was not a car or a Dooney and Burke bag or a Tiffany's bracelet. This was a potential husband. Grown woman business.

I had been channeling positive energy prior to the audition, but I felt myself deflating. Mom's words were so final. "He's not the one. You're barking up the wrong tree."

At that moment I was quietly reliving every past romantic failure. From high school. To college. To adulthood. They had all merged into a single sorrowful composite experience that somehow rendered all of my victories up to that point insignificant.

I was remembering how Scorpio loved me and hurt me. How Prince Charming disappointed me. How Mr. X vanished. I was building yet another emotional monument to yet another man.

The angst clenched my throat and tears filled my eyes until finally I began to sob in the middle of that low-budget parking lot, in my a fabulous silk dress, while a lady dressed up as Tinkerbell looked on.

I was convinced that I was in love with Miles, and I made a deal with myself at that moment to do whatever I had to do, which turned out to be pretending to be someone else, to close the deal. I'd anointed him the perfect man: Ward doing the levels-- eatin' ribs with the brothers who work for transit and drinking Vueve Clicquot with CEO's.

At the open of Benilde Little's book, Alice, the main character, is still quietly suffering in Miles' absence after two years. She's a newspaper reporter, living the Manhattan life: climbing social ladders in the appropriate pair of pumps. For Alice, love is the conclusion of a long and dizzying fairytale.

"You want a fairytale," my mother said.

Alice and I aren't completely different. Of course, in the end she stumbles upon a blue- blooded doctor of Boston stock. They live happily ever after with one minor hiccup-- an illegitimate child. And then two books later, Miles, at the age of 40, finally marries a flighty and fabulous twenty-five year old, of my namesake. Aisha. Go figure.

This is not heart break. This is a dream deferred.

I confess that I am in love with the idea that I can have it all. Fabulous degree. Fabulous career. Fabulous wardrobe. Fabulous man. When I met my Miles, I was reeling with the excitement. Praise God, literally I thanked God, that I would not have to be another successful 'strong' Black women without a husband or a date. Amen! I was flyer than that. Above being a victim. Alas, I had done it. I was on my way to being one of the impeccable women in the society pages of Uptown Magazine.

And when our romance dismantled I blamed myself. I wasn't on-point enough. I wasn't accommodating enough. I didn't say the right things. Maybe I said too much. In fact, I'm still haunted by the possibility that when I meet another him, I'll let him get away as well. I still feel that because I am fly and I am a Black woman , I do not have the luxury of making mistakes.

A few hours after my unsuccessful reality-show audition, my grandad called with good news. Pop-Pop was diagnosed with liver cancer a couple of years ago but today it's completely in remission. He said the doctors had told him he was in excellent health for his age. He said, "People who get old stay in the house and they dwell on things they have no control over."

Pop-Pop may not have realized it, but at that moment he taught me one of the most powerful lessons I've learned to date. You have to move on. Living things adapt or they die.

I had to move on.

I ended my phone call with Pop-Pop chewing on that nugget of wisdom. I pulled up Facebook on my blackberry and read a post written by an old friend. Actually, he was my first crush, but we don't need to assign him an alias. I adored this guy in middle school and high school but I was too shy to make any good on it. On his end, what started out as mutual interest turned into repulsion. To him, I wasn't the goody-two-shoe Black girl with stars in her eyes. I was just awkward. Yehp. In my first concupiscent experience, I fell flat on my face.

This old crush had just posted about a basketball tournament in memory of a mutual classmate who'd passed away. It was already in progress at the local middle school. I though, how convenient? I could maybe see some old friends. I didn't think twice about seeing my former interest.

So I went over there, dressed casually in snug denim, a silk blouse, and peep toe heels. I ducked my head in and quickly realized I didn't recognize anyone, except for him. I stepped back outside. Suddenly my heart was beating through my chest. I could easily turn around and go back home. He'd never even know I was there if I just quietly slipped out.

"Hey!" I greeted him with my mega-watt smile.

He returned it with a hug. "Aren't you like a star now! " He smiled back. I relaxed. As he peppered me with questions about my new life in Medium-City, South I couldn't help but realize how much tastes change, and so do circumstances.

Over a decade had passed since I was infatuated by his puerile good looks. I had since moved on, found new men to become infatuated with, to seduce, and new men to mourn.

As I turned to leave, he asked to exchange information. Cool.

That night, during a casual text conversation, he invited me to his place.

I mean... really?

As I politely declined his invitation, I accepted that time changes things. This weekend was supposed to be nothing more than a quick trip home for an audition. It turned out to be an abrupt confrontation with the past; The old neighborhood, the childhood crush, and the not so distant feelings of hurt and regret. And while I realized I was completely over my teenage crush, I had to face the fact that I was still completely devastated by losing Miles. Hell, by losing. And thoughts of Miles still unleash all of my insecurities. Will I find success? Will I meet 'the one'?

Am I good enough for the life of my dreams?

I had met Miles Browning at a party. He smelled my hollowness and zoned in on me like a coyote at a camp fire.

The truth: I am probably part to blame for Mile's abrupt loss of interest. And so is he. In retrospect, there were a lot of external factors that made our relationship unfavorable at the moment. But I am a lot like Alice was at the beginning of that book--- heart broken, hungry for the inexplicable, and looking for fulfillment. Whatever it is I'm wanting, I saw in him.

It's not all that easy dating as a fly Black woman. You have these standards... they complicate things. But it's even harder when you want the world and you lack the patience it takes to wait for it.


Time in and of itself takes care of a lot of things. If we work toward being our best selves, life only gets better, even if there is a misstep, or several, along the way. The best thing we can do is learn, quickly, from experience and take some wisdom for the road.


As Pop-Pop might say, no use dwelling on things you can't change.

Flyness and funk,

Ike

She Said What??? Black Women Quotes

"I don't think the relationship will work. I am 'sniff, swirl, sip'. He's more ' puff, puff, pass'."

- every once in a while these quotes are taken from personal accounts

Your First Resolution: Get Over, Get On

"Before the clock strikes 12, or at least before you get started on your new resolutions, first resolve to get over those who you feel have gotten over on you."

As we look toward 2009 we are inevitably setting new goals. This will be the year to find true love, drop ten pounds, finish that novel, and move forward in your career. I'm sure of it. But amidst your anticipation of a brand new year, have you closed the book on 2008?

The film Waiting To Exhale chronicles the journey of four single women through bouts of twisted romantic relationships, toward self-love and peace of mind. If you recall, it begins and ends with a New Years celebration. In the final scene they sip champagne and rejoice over a bond fire. (They also sing Roberta Flack's 'It Might Be You'... gotta love that song) But, that fire symbolizes the destruction of their anguish over failed relationships. It is their choosing to move on from slights made against them and past dreams unfilfilled. It symbolizes them taking back the pieces of their dignity that those men once took from them. And in the midst of those ashes is a fresh start.

Do note, I am not suggesting that you light a fire or that you light your ex's car on fire with his things in it. Think theoretically.

We tend to convince ourselves that we are ready for change when we really are not. Before we can venture closer to our ideal selves we have to overcome the pain that we have caused others and those that others have caused us. Before you can welcome sweet love into your life you have to accept those past heart breaks and grow from them. Before you can progress in your career you have to evaluate your past failures, recover, and then strategize for the future. And before you can move on with your physical goals, you'll need to amend any negative thinking and understand that the outer you is ultimately a reflection of what's going on inside. It'd be wise to love both.

You can not move into this next year still feeling like a victim of the past. 'Now' is a precious opportunity.

Before the clock strikes 12, or at least before you get started on your new resolutions, first resolve to get over those who you feel have gotten over on you.You don't have to like them, but don't allow these people, or their memory, to keep you down. I departed 2007 still sulking over a heart break, and you know what... I carried that entire burden through out 2008. Thoughts of him and what could have been clouded my decision making certainly put a damper on my love life... Until recently, I compared every man that I dated to him, fatefully, deciding to be miserable. I choose to leave those thoughts in 2008.

So as Erykah Badu once sang "Bag lady, you gon' hurt your back, carryin' all those bags like that..." step into 2009 knowing that "all you must hold onto is you". Learn from the past, realize that life is an eb and flow. Our lows guide us to our peaks. As the seconds tick toward midnight, live in the moment. See the blessings that are bountiful in your life right now! Leave all your sadness, drama, and baggage in 2008.


May your new year be filled with health, love, blessings, sass, soul, and all that your heart desires.

Love,

IKE

What '27 Dresses' reminds me about love

Morning divas,

Basically, some Hollywood writer took the old adage "always a bridesmaid and never a bride" and ran with it. One generic script later, we have the movie 27 Dresses. Now honestly, this movie was such a chic flick that even I, a chick who likes a good romantic flick, was a bit repulsed. But it was charming. Watching it at times was like drinking sweet tea, that had too much sugar in it though; flavor ruined by predictability and sappiness.

I'm really not in the business of movie reviews, particularly not lack luster productions like this.... but there really was something I liked about it. I won't give too much away, but basically the movie centers around Jane Nichols(Katherine Heigl), a young woman who has such an agreeable personalty and is so giving of herself that she makes the perfect bridesmaid. In fact, she's been a bridesmaid 27 times! Meanwhile she's waiting on a Prince Charming groom of her own, and Jane is secretly in love with her boss. Even though she dotes on him and he appreciates her giving nature, he doesn't view her romantically. Well folks, chaos ensues when her little sister Tess (Malin Akerman) returns to town and her boss falls for her. A short while after, Jane finds herself preparing to be the bridesmaid yet again, this time as Tess marries the man of her dreams.

Now what really got me was the commentary this movie offered about the difference between falling in love with an idea and a person. Ultimately (and predictably, blah) she discovers that the man she felt was perfect for her all this time, her boss, was in fact not someone with whom she had any chemistry. Accordinlgy, the one quirky journalist who appears out of the blue determined to forge a path into her life becomes her sould mate. Go figure.

Many of us are walking around, searching for the love under the pretense that we know who our ideal is but truthfully, love is illogical. So many things don't make sense. We fall for the hype about compatibility, but nothing creates passion like two people who are inherently different characters. As women, we worry about saying the right things, and controlling our emotions, and appearing completely normal. But again, so often a man will fall in love with us because of that one uncontrolable idiosyncracy.

To know love is to know that it can never be fully known. Like God, it works in mysterious ways. Perhaps it's not accurate to think that we can fall in love, because then so many of us purposefully walk, shoes untied, hoping to trip ourselves into it. Nope. We don't fall in love. Love falls on us.

Flyness and Funk,

Ike

And, the last song played in the movie was "Love has Fallen on Me" by Chaka Khan and it is one of my favorite songs. I was so happy to see this oldie but goodie resurrected on the silver screen. I decided to post it. Listen to the lyrics and you'll know why I love it! (In this medley she starts with 'Clouds'. 'Love' begins at 3:10)

Should a Woman Settle for the Sake of Marriage?

Afternoon Divas,

So what about Mr. Good-Enough?I stumbled across a fantastic article in the Atlantic monthly written by guest-author, Lori Gottlieb,a thirty-something career woman and mother by anonymous sperm donor. All her life she'd been waiting for a man with whom she'd share an intense passion with and someone that fit all of her fantasized ideals of her perfect suitor. Needless to say, she escorted endless men who could have been "the one" out of her life and Mr. Perfect never came.

In hindsight, she writes that she regrets not being married, despite having total self-sufficiency, the child, and the career. In hindsight, she suggests, that it may have been better to not have been so picky and stubborn in her romantic ideals that she passed over quality men with whom a long term commitment may have worked. Here's an excerpt:

I don’t mean to say that settling is ideal. I’m simply saying that it might have gotten an undeservedly bad rap. As the only single woman in my son’s mommy-and-me group, I used to listen each week to a litany of unrelenting complaints about people’s husbands and feel pretty good about my decision to hold out for the right guy, only to realize that these women wouldn’t trade places with me for a second, no matter how dull their marriages might be or how desperately they might long for a different husband. They, like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

Click here to enjoy the rest of the article. Not only is it worth the read but it's worth being circulated amongst your female friends, single and non-single, and discussed.

Now I've been thinking about this whole issue since I posted the Oprah Clip last week about 70% of Black women being single. First of all, I don't know where that statistic comes from, so I do question it's validity, but even if it is correct I would ignore it. . I believe that the moment we as Black women begin to think that because we are Black women we are doomed to be single forever, have relationship issues, or have to date sub-par men... the moment we embrace this defeatism is the moment we really will endure these issues. If marriage is what you truly want (and it doesn't have to be), then marriage is what you shall get. Seek and you shall find.


However, with an obvious disparity between available Black men and Black women you either need to be open to dating outside of your race or dating Black men who are not necessarily from America, and if not (and it's okay if you don't want to) be willing to not make the dating pit falls that many women do. With odds stacked against you my sisters, you can not afford to make costly, time-consuming mistakes. This of course, is my opinion.

What are these mistakes? Okay, well first of all, women approach every aspect of their life, career, networking, buying a car... with pragmatism. We strategize. We network. We have a game plan to success. We don't make major decisions without first weighing the pros and the cons. We believe that things are possible and we pursue them. When we are in pursuit of something worth while, we are practical creatures.But... for some reason, when many of us are in pursuit of a man with the ultimate intension of finding a husband, we lose all sense of practicality. We become short sided, emotional, and in some cases defeated.

Now some of us will meet "the one" in high school or bump into him by chance while walking our dog in Central Park. For the rest of us, we need practicality. The author of the article, Lori, calls it "settling". No! A fly woman should never settle, she should just be realistic. If marriage is in your heart, God will grant you that blessing. You will attract what you desire by the nature of karma, but you must be able to recognize that blessing when it comes.

I think that the major problem women suffer from is setting fickle ideals about the man they want to be with. We are all, to some extent, waiting for Prince Charming to ride in his Benz CL 500 and give us the life of our dreams. We dream up Mr. Right from a place of superficiality and often from a place of shallowness. Not in the negative sense of the term, but in the fact that we have personal voids (like beautiful paper with wholes punched in it) and we form our desires for a mate out of the need to feel complete. But we have to do the completing. Our joy must come from within. We need for him to be a certain height, a certain biuld, work in a certain industry, come from a certain upbringing, like the same music we like, like the same food we like, and etc. Now while attraction is important, a woman shouldn't be quick to exclude a man because he isn't 'her type' that's a superficial desire.

Furthermore, don't be blinded by the smoke screen of compatibility. I once dated a man with whom I was compatible down to the 't'... but he was a dog!!! Surface level compatibility is not all that serious, it's your inner-most ideals about life that need to match up.

How I see it, what really matters is that you are compatible in terms of your ideas on family values, marriage, relationship, and life. Of course there needs to be an amazing physical and emotional connection and to many women it's important that her partner have a similar educational background and socio-economic status. Nothing wrong with that. But when women discount potential suitors on account for superficial reasons it saddens me. If the odds are stacked against women of color, then she can't afford to be close minded.

In fact, no woman can.Neither can she afford to waist time in dead end relationships with men who disrespect their mind, spirit, or body. Don't get so caught up by what he does, or how good the sex is, that you are oblivious to bright red flags. Everyone has different standards, but me personally, I need to know that my sig-o is honest, has a sense of ethics, believes in God, respects my body, mind and spirituality, has strong family values, and is willing to make sacrifices (small or large) for the sake of our relationship. And if these items are not in order, I move on! My best friend, the Chocolate Diva has a great saying. "Wait... I actually don't have the time. Next!" But really, I could care less if he likes hip hop and I like jazz. Variety is the spice of life.

A final concern of mine is women who 'seek'. While I do believe that we should form networks that help us to meet potential suitors, I don't believe in women who chase. If you catch something, you'll ultimately probably want to throw it back. First of all it's so important that a woman is in touch with herself, loves herself flaws and all. You need to be a complete person to even know what you want in a man.

Furthermore, there's such a thing as a seductive personality. When you're fly, you're doing your thing, and meeting different people, he's going to come to you. And you want that. You want that genuine admiration. You don't want that guy approaching 30, thinking about getting married soon, dating 3 women at once, and trying to make a decision (it happens like that sometimes). You want that man who's smitten. Who tells you that you are beautiful and that you smell nice and he really notices when are wearing a different scent. That man that is trying to know more about you, rather than more about your body. That man who is understanding. That man that can handle you (because some of yall, including me, are crazy). That man who looks into your eyes and gives you the chills because you feel that he is really searching for your soul. You shouldn' t feel like you have to keep up a facade or that dating someone is like a show, where you need to be 'on' in order to keep him impressed. When it's right it feels natural.

So while I agree with Lori about opening our eyes and not passing up on a potential blessing, I disagree that this is settling. I think it's being smart, rational, realistic and honest. I think it's getting to know and love yourself so that you can truly know and love someone else. Hmmm, tell me what you think. I know my ideas will strike a chord with some of you.

Flyness and funk,

Ike

A Love Poem for Spring

Spring... Earth's renaissance, a season for growth and renewal, a season for love, for perfumes that sing high pitched notes of jasmine, bergamot, and rose, for being woken by bird songs and the sun beating at your window pain, for taking time to smell the flowers as they stretch open and yawn, and a time to thank God for the beauty in nature and the glory that is life.



And because spring, for me, is the season of romance, here is a poem by Nazir Qabbani, an incredible Arab poet noted for his love poems. It captures the spirit of things.

On Entering the Sea

Love happened at last,
And we entered God's paradise,
SlidingUnder the skin of the water
Like fish.
We saw the precious pearls of the sea
And were amazed.
Love happened at last
Without intimidation…with symmetry of wish.
So I gave…and you gave
And we were fair.
It happened with marvelous ease
Like writing with jasmine water,
Like a spring flowing from the ground.

-Nizar Qabbani, translated by B. Frangieh

The Turner Complex: Can a man honor his people and not his woman?

The Turner Complex- group of symptoms associated with a Black male who simultaneously identifies with the revolutionary behavior of Nat Turner and the abusive behavior of Ike Turner. He is passionate about the advancement of his people and spends his time reading Michael Eric Dyson and listening to John Coltrane. He can quote from the Auto Biography of Malcolm X and there is a picture of the Black Panther’s on his wall, however he can’t help but disrespect woman after woman as he concerns himself chiefly with his own satisfaction. If he doesn’t leave her with physical scars he leaves her with emotional wounds. The problem with a man suffering from the Turner Complex is that he is so self-convinced and often receives such affirmation from his peers that he is never forced to confront his faults.

CAVEAT: This is not at all a generalization en masse about Black men. This is an observation I have made about a FEW Black men I've encountered that lead me to ponder a more general point about human nature that has no race and has no color boundary. I use life experience frequently as a lead in to my blogs, but they almost all have a greater point that many people can take from. This is not meant to be "sexist". It is an observation made based off a few encounters, romantic/non-romantic and while there are few men for whom my ficticious complex applies, there are MANY more men for whom it doesn't. And for that, I thank God. Enjoy.

*** *** ***
While I coined this term comically about a year ago amongst my friends, it came to mind earlier today while browsing Myspace. I came across the page of the very man for whom I’d coined the term. Let’s call him Prince Charming because he was charming as all hell, and at one time I believed that he was the man who would make my fairytale come true. (Well, for about two weeks) Now our relationship didn’t progress very far. I quickly realized that I was dealing with a wolf in sheep’s clothing, but I feel as if the experience is worth discussing.

Prince Charming’s Myspace profile is filled with quotes by the likes of Malcolm X and Frantz Fanon, quotes about the liberation of the Black race and the context of freedom. One that particularly stands out is taken from one of Malcolm X’s most notable speeches:
“If it is wrong to be violent defending black women and black children and black babies and black men, then it is wrong for America to draft us, and make us violent abroad in defense of her.”
Now let’s make it clear that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a man that is passionate about freedom and the advancement of people of color. It is a trait that I need in a man. In fact, his ‘consciousness’ is what attracted me to him in the first place. I thought, finally, a good looking, educated, older man who believes in God, likes jazz and loves his people. Jackpot! Boy was I disillusioned. Sure, he could speak at length about the state of Black America and perhaps he’d even read some Amiri Baraka, but this man treated Black women with up most disrespect, so.. .he wasn’t all that elevated in his consciousness.

It is absolute hypocrisy when a Black man proclaims his commitment to elevating peoples of African descent, and ritually disrespects Black women, physically, sexually, or emotionally… and emotionally does count. The black woman is the bearer of the Black Race. No, this doesn't mean she carries it on her shoulders single handedly. It means, quite literally, she gives birth. She is the mother, the grand mother... the matriarch. How can a man belittle a Black woman, her mind, her spirit and her body, when it was through a Black womb that he came into existence, or that his parents came into being? How can he express his love for the Black race and denigrate the female in the process? Is it feasible fora man to be committed to honoring his people and dishonoring a Black woman when in many cases, a Black woman raised him? How can one circumvent the Black woman when she is such an integral part of the Black race? It doesn’t make sense. In the same way, it doesn't make sense for a woman that proclaims her commitment to elevating people of color routinely disparaging Black men. In both cases these are contradictions of major proportions. I dont know, it's like being crazy about pizza, but hating the bread. Then you don't like pizza. It's like being a jazz fein but abhoring the bass and the drums... Then you don't like jazz.

If a Black man, no matter how militant he is, lacks the integrity it takes to honor the Black woman (and that doesn't mean he has to love or like all black women) then he can not possibly honor his race or really, love his self. And Prince Charming isn’t the only man I’ve encountered suffering from the Turner Complex.

Now, I won't go to deep in this but I wonder if the Turner Complex to some extent manifests itself on a national scale. Like every ethnic or national group of people (we’re getting into gender studies here, but remember I’m still a senior in college) the woman ultimately signifies the ‘people' and the nation. Politics and ethnic discourse are often played out on her body and she is considered to be the keeper of tradition. Hence you have terms like the “motherland” and the “mother tongue”. In the Arab world where Islamic Law and custom are constantly being put under attack by the West, many Arab female scholars will argue that this phenomena makes it more difficult for Arab women to attain equal status in civic society because the act of defending Islamic tradition manifests itself in the suppresion of women. Literally, she becomes the keeper of tradition, and the counter to intrusive Western Thought. This is an example of how women signify the nation or the group on a larger cultural stage.

To return to my point, I find it interesting that as a collective, Blacks are interested in social ,political and economic advancement, yet we condone (and silence is a form of condoning) the sexualization and objectification the Black woman on a national stage. Is this not a ghastly contradiction? And to think of it sociologically, if the 'woman' indeed does signify 'the group' then how are we to interpret our predilection for denigrating Black women for viewing and entertainment purposes. It was on the slave block that a woman was told to strip naked and bend over so her hind parts could be examined by potential purchasers, but when I look at some videos and magazine's today... not that much different. I don't have the answer, I can just ask decent questions. (Below: Frame from Nelly's 'Tip Drill' video as he swipes a credit card down... well you know)

Now there is nothing at all wrong with a conscious Black man and many of them are respectful and admirable Black men, heroes in fact. My dad is a wonderful example of this. We're talking about men who wear their consciousness on their sleeeves... but not in their hearts. The issue is that life is about balance. When a man defines his self by his convictions, be his convictions about race or even his piety, we have to wonder for what character flaw he could be over-compensating. This statement may step on some toes, but we all know that there are men of all races in positions of political, social and religious leadership who have philandering ways and no respect for women with whom they are romantically involved. In most of these cases, however, we are willing to look past his character flaws because of his distinguished public role. Every time you watch a male politician publicly apologize for adultery and his wife is there stoically by his side, this is what’s happening.

Men who seem motivated by some deeply rooted goal to inspire change are very attractive. They seem determined. They seem whole. Their very charisma and sense of purpose is the source of their magnetism… and in most cases they know this. There is nothing wrong with an inspired man (it’s great) but a woman must be strong enough to see beyond the mask. We all wear masks. Are his convictions apart of his character or his well constructed façade? Is he fooling even himself? The song says “order my steps in your word dear Lord”. Is he merely capable of articulating his beliefs in a profound way, or does he “order his steps” by them? We can always find people whose words contradict their actions, men and women, but it is dangerous to form relationships with such people.

We have to be careful about being infatuated by the “idea” of a man, or what he represents. We can’t fall in love with an archetypal figure, we need to fall in love with the reality if love is to have a chance at all.

I’d love to know what you all think about this.

Flyness and Funk,

Ike