If you know me remotely well, you know I have hang-ups about my mother. For a long time, even still really, I feel out of sorts. I'm the black kid who doesn't have that undying love for his mama. I wasn't the black kid who was ready to throw hands if you made a mama joke. Don't get me wrong though, for a long time, I was fiercely loyal to my mother. If school administrators asked questions, I'd deny or lie. If my grandmother or father asked questions, I'd deny or lie. No matter how severe or how minute, I would not let up. But since the day I moved out of my mother's house in Princeton to move with my father in DC, I knew my life for about a five-year stretch was shit. Pure shit. And yes, I blame her. I don't hold it against her, but I do blame her for a lot of it.
My mom, as I am told at least, was a woman of insecurity. It's hard to believe though. She was highly intelligent, well-read, bilingual (and she's not Latin, so that's saying something), and really good looking. I can remember moments throughout my childhood, conversations with my mom about anything from what it meant to be black to why I thought Peg Bundy was hot. For most of my life, she was a warm woman. She was pretty fun to be around, but I can't really say I remember doing much with her. My dad was that parent, the one who said let's go to the park and all. Nonetheless, she had no reason to be insecure at all. She probably sold herself well short. I suppose I have a bit of that myself. Anyway, I can honestly say I don't remember much about my mom prior to my parents' separation. But I can definitely say now, that's when everything changes.
If my mom did have insecurities, confidence issues, low self-esteem, whatever you want to call it, then I can only imagine how it must feel for her to find out her husband and college sweetheart was gay. When I was in third grade, I couldn't understand that. In fact, my dad and maternal grandmother will tell you I didn't know my dad was gay until well into eighth or ninth grade. And even more odd, my dad says he told me shortly after the separation. I suppose I repressed it. But back to the point. Low self-esteem and a gay husband, that can't be easy to handle for a black woman's psyche. I'm not excusing, but I am understanding.
We can continue to extrapolate this too. Most people will say I look like whichever of my parents they meet first. Although I do see where I got some of my mother's DNA, when I look in the mirror, all I see is my dad's family. So now let's go back to our equation. Low self-esteem. Gay husband. Child who looks just like your gay husband, the husband that ultimately deceived you and made you completely vulnerable. When I add all of that in my head, I see why it was such a perfect storm of bad parenting from my mom.
None of this is to say I had the worst childhood ever. I didn't. I had a home. I sometimes had food. I had clothes one way or another. I usually had lunch money. My mom even found a way to put me in summer camp twice. I cannot say she locked me in a closet and fed me bread crumbs while telling me God hates me or whatever insane people do to their kids. While it wasn't the worst childhood, it certainly wasn't the best or even good. Hell, even average. I'd have to say it was below average. My personality will forever be scarred by some of the things that happened while in my mother's care.
Take for instance, in my last days in Baltimore, where I was raised, my mom was near her worst. She may have had a job, or she may not have. Can't say for sure. She had a couple of sugar daddies, two max, for whom she could do something strange for some change and keep the rent paid. I guess by this point both of them were gone and mom was completely tapped financially. I can remember going to our refrigerator and seeing nothing but Arm and Hammer on the shelves, and then a door full of condiments. It was during this time where I went two whole days without eating anything. Mind you, I'm in sixth grade. Deep in puberty, growing boy. I should be eating a whole buffet. Nothing. I think I got so bad that I had low energy and displayed a slight shaking motion all over. What's a woman to do? I guess she called her dear friend because she came over with a chicken quarter just for me. Small white plate, covered in foil. She gave me a hug, helped me eat and let me know my mom loved me and was just going through hard times right now but everything will be fine. Back then, I thought what the hell is going on that we have nothing? Not a single morsel of food? Thinking about it now, I can only imagine how much pride she had to swallow to call a friend and tell her that her only child is shaking and needs something, anything to eat.
The bulk of my bad memories though come from the four years we lived in Princeton. It's funny. My time in Princeton is so dear to my heart because I believe it was the most fun I've ever had in life, but I also believe it's why I'm so cynical and distant.
Food was always a huge issue. Another time where we didn't have much in the kitchen, I can remember a man my mother was seeing came by to bring me a dinner plate. He did well for himself. He owned a corner store in town, had a home, had food, good enough for me. I wanted my mother to get serious about him desperately. Not for herself but for me. I liked eating. No dice though. But I can remember that dinner too: white oval plate, some decent cut of steak, roasted potatoes, broccoli. That was eating.
Most times we had no food, I'd go out to my best friend's house. He was a good kid. We were both geeks, nerdy as hell, but because it was Princeton, we could kinda feel like bad asses. We did all kinds of stupid shit like stealing his girlfriend's mother's car and driving around town or going on the highway in search of the Jersey Devil. How dumb were we? A 13 year old and a 12 year old in a car at 2 AM, getting on the interstate to find a mythical creature in the Pine Barrens. I don't know how well you know New Jersey, but Mercer County is nowhere near the Pine Barrens. But he was my homeboy for real. When my mother would beat my ass over... shit I still really don't know, I'd run away, hop on a bike and ride to his house and just stay. He never asked questions, he never made fun. He'd open his home to me, and that was that.
I can even remember one night his mother made us dinner. Now I'm sure she had a clue that my home life left much to be desired, but she never let on to it. She was really a good person. Anyway, she made us dinner, and I demolished it. I had never had it before, but I loved it. I ate like a king. Probably the next day or maybe later in the week, my dad called and I'd always give him a rundown of shit in my life. Enough to say hey, something's wrong, but not too much to say hey, mom sucks. I told him I had dinner at my friend's house and how great it was. Curious, he asked what I ate. I told him. Chicken backs. I guess those two words were huge red flags. If I'm eating chicken backs at a friend's house and raving about how great it was, then I must seriously not be getting fed at home.
Along this very same line, I can remember one time I got fed up. No food as always, but now she had this super deadbeat boyfriend whom she "loved". He was such a dick. No job, no car, nothing going for him. He was just big and bald and could make my mom come. Oh and he had the in on cocaine. My mom definitely had an affinity for coke. And in New Jersey, it just grew to be a bigger addiction. But anyway, I had left to visit my Dad in DC for the weekend as I often did. I came back home on Amtrak. My grandmother picked me up and drove me to Princeton from Trenton and then took herself back to Trenton. I guess my mother's car was on the fritz. I walked in, put my bag down, said hi to the douchebag, and gave moms a hug. That's when it happened. She asked me to do the dishes. I hadn't been home since Friday. We had no food. What dishes?! I go to the kitchen and it was all in my face. They had cake, they had steaks, they had sodas, they had chips, popcorn, all kinds of shit. And left it for me to clean. I'd been there all week and we had nothing. What's going on? I told her it wasn't fair. She yanked the extension cord out the wall, beat my ass from one side of the house to the other. After I was done crying, I licked my wounds and did the dishes.
I did get my revenge though. One night, my mother made chicken wings for all of us and they had a few and took a nap. There were probably 12-15 wings still. While they were sleeping, I ate every single fucking wing on that plate. And drank all the juice. Then they woke up. He snitched on me. Out came the extension cord and again, from one end of the house to the other.
If it wasn't food, it was something else. Back when the northeast had that bad blizzard in the early-mid 90s, I was the only kid who had to get the few groceries we ever had. Feet of snow outside, my mother decides she just wants to lay on the couch in her robe. Fuck the fact that she had a car, she didn't care. Nigga, go get your Huffy and try to traverse feet of snow and ice and don't forget a fucking thing at the store or you're going back. Oh but before you go back, do expect the extension cord, and do expect to go from wall to wall.
I couldn't understand it. All of my friends' mothers, they may discipline their sons with force, but none of them were getting demolished like I did. I would go to school with welts on my hands and arms from trying to catch the cord or block it. I had teachers, guidance counselors, other people's parents ask if there was any trouble at home. I'd always say no, I got this bruise from whatever lame excuse or I got that welt from whatever other lame excuse. I know they didn't believe it but state law handcuffed them. They did however stick me in a programme for what I now guess was disadvantaged youth. Every Tuesday during lunch, I'd go to Gents. A few boys my age, a male role model, all of us were black I think, and we'd get a hoagie from Hoagie Haven, the best hoagie spot in New Jersey. For a kid who often didn't have lunch nor lunch money, that hoagie was like fucking ambrosia. I would have went to hear a dissertation on mating rituals of African cockroaches back then just for that hoagie. But after Gents, the guy would always inquire about whatever bruises or welts I had and if things were fine at home. I never told. I wish I had.
Four years is a long time to go without eating regularly but regularly getting your ass kicked from one end of the house to the other. And I wish I was exaggerating. And boy, she always would work me into a corner. I can still see me in my room, moving furniture around to prevent me from being backed into a corner where she could unleash her anger, her hatred, her hurt. Thinking about all of it now, she wasn't beating me. She was beating my dad. I just looked and acted like him. The ferocity and viciousness though, to me, that suggests her beatings were a coping mechanism. Plus she was always hopped up on cocaine. I stood no chance.
Hell one time she even waited for me to come out of the shower just to beat me. I can remember opening the bathroom door with my towel on, her yanking me out of there and the extension cord just crashing across my chest and back. And of course, I got pinned in a corner. And in all the commotion, my towel came off. And right there, a tremendous strike across the groin. My charge? I didn't take the trash out. That was my crime. I would scream and scream endlessly. No neighbour ever helped. No one called any hotline. All I wanted was for one of us to die. And that's very true. I'd often think of numerous ways I could kill her and maybe get away with it.
Thank god for that friend. I could run the streets with him all day and get away when I really needed him or anyone. There was this one instance where I left my textbook in my locker. I couldn't do my homework and though normally she didn't care about my schooling, that night she chose to care. It was after 7:30 no doubt, so the school was definitely locked. She told me to get the fuck out of the house now and go get that book and when I came home, expect to get my ass whooped. I hopped on my Huffy, rode down the street to Princeton High, and every single door was locked. I got back on my bike, face streaming with tears, fearing punishment. I rode home and before I got off the bike, I rode over to my friend's house and stayed the night and the next. It was the weekend, thank god. I didn't actually have to go home. Divine intervention, I guess.
When I finally moved with my dad, I talked to my mom less and less. The way I moved is kinda shady, but that's for a later episode. I guess my absence made her heart grow fonder. Shame. It only made mine grow colder. I can only remember seeing her twice after leaving New Jersey and I left in 1997. The last time I saw her was the summer of 2005 and it was my last year in college. On the drive from Tallahassee to DC, my dad and I stopped by to see her in South Carolina. It was great seeing her. I have a picture hanging on my wall from that day. I look at it and think, "Wow, I have one moment where I look really happy to be with my mom." Granted it only took eight years to cool everything down, but that moment existed and it's documented.
Three years later, I vowed to never speak to her again. In November of 2006, I was dating a girl who reminded me a lot of my mom. I eventually decided to say let's be adults and fix this. I called her on Thanksgiving day from my then-girlfriend's parents' home. I had written her a letter too. I only said, look, you're the adult and it's a shame that I have to come to you to get you to fix this. Just say you're sorry. We don't need to recount the stories, the incidents, none of it. Just let me know you are legitimately sorry and we can fix this. She did, and finally I felt like we were going to be okay.
By the end of December 2006, she was coming up to suburban Baltimore and being relatively close, she wanted to see me. Now, we had just be come friends again. Seeing her though, eh, I don't know. I had told her that my weekends I have a routine and plans set but let me know by Thursday and I'll make something happen. Thursday came, Friday came, and by Saturday, she's calling me. Now my girlfriend was in town visiting me, and we're getting ready to go out. My mom calls my dad, tells him that I'm being an asshole and whatever else. I get on the phone and she says, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" I must have lost it because I cursed her out for the next ten minutes and then hung up the phone. I couldn't stop. It was word vomit. It was raw emotion, stored anger. My dad came in and told me he was worried about me and if I'm becoming jaded or cold because I just wasn't the same about my family as I used to be. I didn't care about that shit. It's New Years and my girlfriend is waiting. I never felt better than that day.
By Thanksgiving 2009, she died. I didn't go to her funeral. I really didn't have a way, but if I did, I still wouldn't have. I don't regret that either. I don't regret not talking to her. Some things just have to be done. My vulnerabilities, my emotional scarring, a lot of them come from her. My family would always tell me to talk to my mom, I only get one mother, one day she won't be there. I told them basically to fuck themselves because they don't know the extent of my pain. Looks like I won that one.
Weirdly though, in her death, I found appreciation for her. Not that I think she was a good mom suddenly, or that I even miss her. But now that she's dead, I can balance her evilness with the few nuggets of mother's love I remember. Like when I was in fifth grade and somehow she got me brand new shoes for Christmas. I had come to never expect anything from her during Christmas. We had no food. Why would I have a gift? But I remember coming home from my dad's and she went to the tree and came up with a present. Brand new white Pumas. Kids back then weren't wearing Pumas, so I knew I'd be laughed at and become the butt of jokes, but I didn't care. My mother, my fucking mother, got me shoes. They could have been the ugliest shoes ever and I still would have been elated. I wore the fuck out of those Pumas.
The woman also paid for my pledge fees. I wouldn't be a Sigma right now if she didn't come through with the money. I can remember when we first moved to Princeton from New Orleans, and all we had was two plastic lawn chairs and a TV. She went out on a run, came back with a tub of Breyer's Vanilla, and we sat in those chairs and watched reruns of Evening Shade and Major Dad. I can remember one time where we had no food but I found a bag of rice and a tomato and an onion. I don't know what I cooked or how, but somehow I made it taste good. I placed it on a plate, poured some juice, took it into my mom's bedroom and presented it to her. The smile on her face, the genuine joy that her son, also starving, took time to try and do something about it and make her feel loved too. I see it like it just happened.
My mother wasn't an evil woman. She was a scorned woman. I just happened to be the one who suffered from her fury. My relationships with women have been and will always be fucked up and twisted because of the nature of our own, but I can't rest on that. One thing my mother never did was work on herself. She wallowed in her misery. Thankfully, I'm too heady and try to analyze and pick out the things that make me tick and adjust them. Like take for instance, my dad always asks why I'm not closer to my family. I always say to me, my friends are more like family than family. But if you think about it, when my mother was going ape shit, I turned to my friend for solace and a place to hide. Over time, I learned to turn to a friend and push away family.
I do sometimes wish I had talked to her one last time though. Not for me though, no. For her. I feel sorry for her to have to die knowing that her only child refused to talk to her. But hey, shit happens.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
2.12 -- SEASON FINALE: Four Personal Events That Have Changed Me (For the Better?)
Thank god. Finally, 12 episodes of pointless lists. Finally, the shit is over. Well, actually not quite seeing how I still have this whole entry to finish. I gave you a lot of bullshit about sports, music, political figures, and other drivel. I'm using this one, the season two finale, to be more personal. It should read as a prelude into season three. Season three will only be four episodes but will be entirely personal and introspective, centred on the four people in my life who've shaped me the most in one way or another.
Either way, let's get on with this miserable show. I did some thinking about four of the most pivotal moments in my life that have made me the cantankerous asshole I am today. Some of it may have made me cold and distant, some of it idealistic and intellectual. Whatever the case, they've definitely changed me enough to the point where I can pinpoint it. Here we go.
4. Reading the Communist Manifesto for the first time. I discovered the Marx and Engels book somewhere in the seventh grade. I was living in Princeton and maybe heard my grandmother mention it or perhaps even a teacher. I can definitely remember going to the public library and checking it out. My initial thought was how can something so tiny be so immense to the world of political and economic thought? If you've never seen it, it's more like a pamphlet than an epic tome. Regardless, I read the book in maybe three days. In so few pages, it packs a lot of ideology. Obviously I didn't understand all of it, and I've read it maybe ten to twelve times since and still don't totally understand all of it. It's one of the most complex works I've ever read. One thing it did do though was make me Marxist. It's hard not to really be Marxist though, I feel. Most of us aren't rich, and most of us think that the richest people made their wealth on the backs of us workers. How come by the end of life, we've worked 20-40 years and have so little to show for it? How come by the end of life, the rich have so much and can just pass it off to their shit kids who've done nothing? I think we're all a bit inherently communistic. I think also though, because of dictators and totalitarians, we've painted communism a political evil, even though it's an economic theory. The opposite of Communist isn't Liberal or Conservative or Libertarian or anything, it's Capitalist. But in the USA, we only want our sports to be Marxist, never our economic policy. I knew as a young teen, my outlook on the world would always be shown through a red prism. (Sure, I spent about seven, eight years in hardline conservative wilderness, but I broke free and quickly reverted.) Finding your political voice takes a long time for many people. Oftentimes, we never even find our own, we just regurgitate our parents who regurgitate their parents. Or if we're black, Jewish, or some kind of minority, we just say fuck it, I'm Democrat. We take the easy way out. Tell me what you think I should believe, and dammit I will. I can't do that, and apparently 11, 12 year old me knew that even then. To this day, I believe in Marxist ideology, and probably would be considered revolutionary Marxist. I'm fine with that. Communism, people. It's not a dirty word.
3. Finding Christianity and then rejecting Christianity. I have a Christian grandmother. My mom grew up in church. My dad grew up in church. I was baptised. Then it kinda stopped. I went to church anytime I visited my grandmother. I always hated it. Two hours of mind-numbing chatter, but I liked going with her because it made her happy. But outside of that, no Christmas, Palm Sundays, Good Fridays, Easters, none of that. I knew God, I understood that Jesus died on a cross, I knew there was a heaven, I knew the Bible existed, and that sums up much of what I knew until high school.
When I left Princeton and moved to DC, my dad wanted me to avoid the pitfalls of public education in the District and enrolled me in a school near his job at the time. It was a Seventh-day Adventist school. I had never even heard of such a thing. I thought there were Baptists, Methodists, and then snake charmers who spoke in tongues. Seventh-day Adventist?! What?! So I go to this school as the king of heathens, foul-mouthed, ignorant to salvation (be it by faith or even by works), and couldn't understand why they went to church on Saturday. I was at this school for my sophomore through senior years, and it literally took until my senior year to find Christianity. It was a perfect storm of bullshit, none that I really need to get into, but they got me. I did all that accepting of the Christ in my heart, I studied the Bible daily, I watched Christian television, I warred with myself numerous times over some of my friends and some of the music I would listen to, I must have been a ball. Jesus was my dog. I fucked with Jesus. I even converted to Catholicism. Why Catholic though and not Seventh-day Adventist? I loved the veneration of Mary and the mysticism and ritual of the faith. (Notice, nothing about Jesus there.) I even acquired Catholic guilt and excelled at it. Every confession and reconciliation I've gone to began with bursting into tears and ending with rose coloured glasses and feeling great and new. I'll give it to you, Christians, the mind-altering effects are pretty great. Then, I woke up.
Logically, Christianity makes no fucking sense. It's riddled with bad writing, incoherence, plagiarism, misogyny, hatred, and impossibilities. And one thing I always thought was curious is Christians can't believe that people during the time of Jesus couldn't believe he was the Christ. Really? So what if I came up to you and said, "Hey, I'm king of Jews. I'm the son of God. Follow me. Throw all your shit away, roll witcha boy and bask in eternal life and all kinds of splendid shit." Who'd ever believe that? Exactly. Plus, coming from the African perspective, our people have too much faith in a religion that was beaten into them to keep them subdued and teach them not to examine nor question. That alone is detrimental to everything a person should be, especially us minorities. And ladies, try telling your man you're pregnant but you didn't have sex and see how far that gets you.
Look, if you're into that stuff, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, whatever, fine. Whatever works for you. But seriously, keep it to yourself. I'm not gonna come to you talking about all the positive benefits of Obatala, so kindly, keep your messianic stuff to thyself. A thinking person, an intellectual, a truly intelligent person cannot be deep into organised religion, especially of the Western variety. It's just too watery for their oily brain.
Oh and you won't believe how great you'll feel when you strip yourself of another's impositions. The guilt disappears, the hypocrisy evapourates, and you'll feel like a new person. Probably like what baptism is supposed to feel like.
2. Marriage. I had quite a few relatives who thought once I had a wife, a kid, a family life, I'd mellow out, be less cold, less bitter, more endearing. PROVED YOU MOTHERFUCKERS WRONG AS HELL! Oh yeah! Okay, sure, most people wouldn't celebrate that, but I embrace my asshole nature. Part of my charm is my facade of bitterness. Have I mellowed out at all? Nah, not really, but when you have a wife and a kid, other people's shit just piss you off less. Or maybe I just tell my wife how pissed off the world makes me. Either way, I'm not mellow or mild-mannered. I'm the kind of parent who attacks things logically with the kid but also gives her space to foster her own independence. I'm the kind of husband who nags about putting things in the dishwasher correctly, but also would do just about anything for her. Sure, I'm still trying to get a little farther out of that only-child-so-naturally-I'm-inherently-selfish shell, so that that's one thing marriage is slowly teaching me. Making decisions that affect other people? Yep, I have to do a lot of that now. You can't do things at a whim any more. Just everything changes. I remember when we got married, we both said nothing's different. That's bullshit. Everything's different. No one can just give up, throw in the towel, say this shit is for the birds and bounce. You have to have discussions about schooling or discipline. Your life becomes incredibly routine and you're always trying to just throw in a touch of paprika or any spice that would perk the senses. Don't get me wrong, it's not bad. I love it. But it's definitely life-altering. Oh, and your single friends? They all become inside jokes with their, "Why can't I just find a mate?" or "I love my bf/gf" and then once it's over, "I'm independent! I don't need anyone in my life!", and then two months later it's gone full circle back to "Why can't I just find a mate?" So I guess marriage changed me by making me at least somewhat normal. I live my life and create my worldview to be so polar, to be such an extremity, my married life is one of the few normal things I have. It's so normal that I even sound like a television sitcom husband with the, "Ugh, why did we get married?" or complaining to my male friends, "Ugh, the damn wife, I tell ya..." but really, that's a lot of what I love about it. I get to be just a guy for a change. No crusade to fight, no stance to take, just a guy, who's married, who publicly dislikes his wife but publicly loves the shit out of her. Ah, and the kid too, I guess. Those bastards. Hate em. (See, I just did it again!)
1. Going to FAMU. Without a doubt, bar none, FAMU changed me. I mean, it gave me the friends I have now, my ideology, it's why I'm still in Florida, it's got its tentacles on a lot of things.
Prior to college, I've always been an outsider. Sure, I had friends, and often they were some of the more popular or most popular people in school. How I managed that? No clue. I was skinny, lanky, and a geek. I knew too much about history, too much about geography, I loved to read, and was a hockey fiend. Although doing simple math, my racial makeup is overwhelmingly black, I was never quite black enough for my black friends a lot of the time, and yet I was way too black for my white friends. This is the case especially in New Jersey. I had the notion of being black through the self-destructive black prism; Southpole, Timberland boots, and First Down jackets made you black. Smoking Black-and-Mild made you black. Knowing where Nepal was and what their flag looked like? That shit definitely wasn't black. Being able to name every state capital and knowing the only unicameral state legislature in the USA was as far from being black as Engelbert Humperdink.
Add all of this to the unspoken notion of dark skin isn't a good thing. I spent many a summer as any child would before video games took over the earth. I played outside. It became normal to come in the house though and hear, "Damn boy, you're black!" Now, no, that's not saying hey, don't get dark out there, but it's also saying, hey don't get dark out there. It got to the point where eventually, I wore my blackness like Hester Prynne wore her A. See, that analogy there, that was totally not what I thought was black. But seriously, I eventually got to the point, and I'm still there, of where I need the sun to go down or I need sleeves or I'll plot my outings based on shade to avoid the melanin bursting capabilities of the sun.
As far as black history went, I only knew the names textbooks always tell you. I was so bad, I didn't want to be black. I would wonder why my race had to define me. Why do I have to be African-American too? I'm not from Africa, I was born in Pittsburgh. How the hell do you think I got into NASCAR and hockey to begin with? Racial and cultural hatred is the worst feeling you can impose upon yourself mentally. You will always feel greatly inferior. I had absolutely no sense of appreciation for what it means to be black. I even thought if you were French or Brasilian, you weren't black, you were just dark. A lot of our people still think that though, so. I even had the dream of being the black conservative who could ascend any ladder politically. So when you want to know how I spent seven years in the Republican Party, there it is. I wanted to be a token nigger. I was going to marry a white girl too. A black man of some position couldn't have a sista. Plus, I'm light, if I married white and had kids, my kids would be even lighter! Self-hatred dude. Shit's real.
FAMU, and by extension but much greater importance, my circle of friends, helped me decolonise. People like to quote Redemption Song, "Emancipate yourself from mental slavery/None but ourselves can free our minds." Robert was right, but he got it from Marcus, and Marcus was definitely right.
I had no intentions on going to an HBCU, but due to some intervening and other things, I wound up at FAMU, and had applied to other HBCUs including Fayetteville State, NCCU, and Winston-Salem. If there's anyone who believes that black colleges have no purpose today, I'm living proof otherwise.
Today, I'm proud to say I'm black, that I'm African, I'm a child of the diaspora, that I know where I come from and what my people have done and continue to do. This is not to say I'm uber-Afrocentric or reject all things non-African. It's not that at all, in fact, a lot of it makes me more accepting. Mix together being pan-African and revolutionary Marxist, you suddenly get a person who wants to tackle western ideology for the benefit of all oppressed peoples. Look at the Panthers. Their ten point programme also included Latinos regardless of race and nationality as well as Asians.
So thanks FAMU. And thanks to the good people I've met through being a Rattler. I learned a lot in the classroom, but I learned even more outside of it.
Either way, let's get on with this miserable show. I did some thinking about four of the most pivotal moments in my life that have made me the cantankerous asshole I am today. Some of it may have made me cold and distant, some of it idealistic and intellectual. Whatever the case, they've definitely changed me enough to the point where I can pinpoint it. Here we go.
4. Reading the Communist Manifesto for the first time. I discovered the Marx and Engels book somewhere in the seventh grade. I was living in Princeton and maybe heard my grandmother mention it or perhaps even a teacher. I can definitely remember going to the public library and checking it out. My initial thought was how can something so tiny be so immense to the world of political and economic thought? If you've never seen it, it's more like a pamphlet than an epic tome. Regardless, I read the book in maybe three days. In so few pages, it packs a lot of ideology. Obviously I didn't understand all of it, and I've read it maybe ten to twelve times since and still don't totally understand all of it. It's one of the most complex works I've ever read. One thing it did do though was make me Marxist. It's hard not to really be Marxist though, I feel. Most of us aren't rich, and most of us think that the richest people made their wealth on the backs of us workers. How come by the end of life, we've worked 20-40 years and have so little to show for it? How come by the end of life, the rich have so much and can just pass it off to their shit kids who've done nothing? I think we're all a bit inherently communistic. I think also though, because of dictators and totalitarians, we've painted communism a political evil, even though it's an economic theory. The opposite of Communist isn't Liberal or Conservative or Libertarian or anything, it's Capitalist. But in the USA, we only want our sports to be Marxist, never our economic policy. I knew as a young teen, my outlook on the world would always be shown through a red prism. (Sure, I spent about seven, eight years in hardline conservative wilderness, but I broke free and quickly reverted.) Finding your political voice takes a long time for many people. Oftentimes, we never even find our own, we just regurgitate our parents who regurgitate their parents. Or if we're black, Jewish, or some kind of minority, we just say fuck it, I'm Democrat. We take the easy way out. Tell me what you think I should believe, and dammit I will. I can't do that, and apparently 11, 12 year old me knew that even then. To this day, I believe in Marxist ideology, and probably would be considered revolutionary Marxist. I'm fine with that. Communism, people. It's not a dirty word.
3. Finding Christianity and then rejecting Christianity. I have a Christian grandmother. My mom grew up in church. My dad grew up in church. I was baptised. Then it kinda stopped. I went to church anytime I visited my grandmother. I always hated it. Two hours of mind-numbing chatter, but I liked going with her because it made her happy. But outside of that, no Christmas, Palm Sundays, Good Fridays, Easters, none of that. I knew God, I understood that Jesus died on a cross, I knew there was a heaven, I knew the Bible existed, and that sums up much of what I knew until high school.
When I left Princeton and moved to DC, my dad wanted me to avoid the pitfalls of public education in the District and enrolled me in a school near his job at the time. It was a Seventh-day Adventist school. I had never even heard of such a thing. I thought there were Baptists, Methodists, and then snake charmers who spoke in tongues. Seventh-day Adventist?! What?! So I go to this school as the king of heathens, foul-mouthed, ignorant to salvation (be it by faith or even by works), and couldn't understand why they went to church on Saturday. I was at this school for my sophomore through senior years, and it literally took until my senior year to find Christianity. It was a perfect storm of bullshit, none that I really need to get into, but they got me. I did all that accepting of the Christ in my heart, I studied the Bible daily, I watched Christian television, I warred with myself numerous times over some of my friends and some of the music I would listen to, I must have been a ball. Jesus was my dog. I fucked with Jesus. I even converted to Catholicism. Why Catholic though and not Seventh-day Adventist? I loved the veneration of Mary and the mysticism and ritual of the faith. (Notice, nothing about Jesus there.) I even acquired Catholic guilt and excelled at it. Every confession and reconciliation I've gone to began with bursting into tears and ending with rose coloured glasses and feeling great and new. I'll give it to you, Christians, the mind-altering effects are pretty great. Then, I woke up.
Logically, Christianity makes no fucking sense. It's riddled with bad writing, incoherence, plagiarism, misogyny, hatred, and impossibilities. And one thing I always thought was curious is Christians can't believe that people during the time of Jesus couldn't believe he was the Christ. Really? So what if I came up to you and said, "Hey, I'm king of Jews. I'm the son of God. Follow me. Throw all your shit away, roll witcha boy and bask in eternal life and all kinds of splendid shit." Who'd ever believe that? Exactly. Plus, coming from the African perspective, our people have too much faith in a religion that was beaten into them to keep them subdued and teach them not to examine nor question. That alone is detrimental to everything a person should be, especially us minorities. And ladies, try telling your man you're pregnant but you didn't have sex and see how far that gets you.
Look, if you're into that stuff, Christianity, Islam, Judaism, whatever, fine. Whatever works for you. But seriously, keep it to yourself. I'm not gonna come to you talking about all the positive benefits of Obatala, so kindly, keep your messianic stuff to thyself. A thinking person, an intellectual, a truly intelligent person cannot be deep into organised religion, especially of the Western variety. It's just too watery for their oily brain.
Oh and you won't believe how great you'll feel when you strip yourself of another's impositions. The guilt disappears, the hypocrisy evapourates, and you'll feel like a new person. Probably like what baptism is supposed to feel like.
2. Marriage. I had quite a few relatives who thought once I had a wife, a kid, a family life, I'd mellow out, be less cold, less bitter, more endearing. PROVED YOU MOTHERFUCKERS WRONG AS HELL! Oh yeah! Okay, sure, most people wouldn't celebrate that, but I embrace my asshole nature. Part of my charm is my facade of bitterness. Have I mellowed out at all? Nah, not really, but when you have a wife and a kid, other people's shit just piss you off less. Or maybe I just tell my wife how pissed off the world makes me. Either way, I'm not mellow or mild-mannered. I'm the kind of parent who attacks things logically with the kid but also gives her space to foster her own independence. I'm the kind of husband who nags about putting things in the dishwasher correctly, but also would do just about anything for her. Sure, I'm still trying to get a little farther out of that only-child-so-naturally-I'm-inherently-selfish shell, so that that's one thing marriage is slowly teaching me. Making decisions that affect other people? Yep, I have to do a lot of that now. You can't do things at a whim any more. Just everything changes. I remember when we got married, we both said nothing's different. That's bullshit. Everything's different. No one can just give up, throw in the towel, say this shit is for the birds and bounce. You have to have discussions about schooling or discipline. Your life becomes incredibly routine and you're always trying to just throw in a touch of paprika or any spice that would perk the senses. Don't get me wrong, it's not bad. I love it. But it's definitely life-altering. Oh, and your single friends? They all become inside jokes with their, "Why can't I just find a mate?" or "I love my bf/gf" and then once it's over, "I'm independent! I don't need anyone in my life!", and then two months later it's gone full circle back to "Why can't I just find a mate?" So I guess marriage changed me by making me at least somewhat normal. I live my life and create my worldview to be so polar, to be such an extremity, my married life is one of the few normal things I have. It's so normal that I even sound like a television sitcom husband with the, "Ugh, why did we get married?" or complaining to my male friends, "Ugh, the damn wife, I tell ya..." but really, that's a lot of what I love about it. I get to be just a guy for a change. No crusade to fight, no stance to take, just a guy, who's married, who publicly dislikes his wife but publicly loves the shit out of her. Ah, and the kid too, I guess. Those bastards. Hate em. (See, I just did it again!)
1. Going to FAMU. Without a doubt, bar none, FAMU changed me. I mean, it gave me the friends I have now, my ideology, it's why I'm still in Florida, it's got its tentacles on a lot of things.
Prior to college, I've always been an outsider. Sure, I had friends, and often they were some of the more popular or most popular people in school. How I managed that? No clue. I was skinny, lanky, and a geek. I knew too much about history, too much about geography, I loved to read, and was a hockey fiend. Although doing simple math, my racial makeup is overwhelmingly black, I was never quite black enough for my black friends a lot of the time, and yet I was way too black for my white friends. This is the case especially in New Jersey. I had the notion of being black through the self-destructive black prism; Southpole, Timberland boots, and First Down jackets made you black. Smoking Black-and-Mild made you black. Knowing where Nepal was and what their flag looked like? That shit definitely wasn't black. Being able to name every state capital and knowing the only unicameral state legislature in the USA was as far from being black as Engelbert Humperdink.
Add all of this to the unspoken notion of dark skin isn't a good thing. I spent many a summer as any child would before video games took over the earth. I played outside. It became normal to come in the house though and hear, "Damn boy, you're black!" Now, no, that's not saying hey, don't get dark out there, but it's also saying, hey don't get dark out there. It got to the point where eventually, I wore my blackness like Hester Prynne wore her A. See, that analogy there, that was totally not what I thought was black. But seriously, I eventually got to the point, and I'm still there, of where I need the sun to go down or I need sleeves or I'll plot my outings based on shade to avoid the melanin bursting capabilities of the sun.
As far as black history went, I only knew the names textbooks always tell you. I was so bad, I didn't want to be black. I would wonder why my race had to define me. Why do I have to be African-American too? I'm not from Africa, I was born in Pittsburgh. How the hell do you think I got into NASCAR and hockey to begin with? Racial and cultural hatred is the worst feeling you can impose upon yourself mentally. You will always feel greatly inferior. I had absolutely no sense of appreciation for what it means to be black. I even thought if you were French or Brasilian, you weren't black, you were just dark. A lot of our people still think that though, so. I even had the dream of being the black conservative who could ascend any ladder politically. So when you want to know how I spent seven years in the Republican Party, there it is. I wanted to be a token nigger. I was going to marry a white girl too. A black man of some position couldn't have a sista. Plus, I'm light, if I married white and had kids, my kids would be even lighter! Self-hatred dude. Shit's real.
FAMU, and by extension but much greater importance, my circle of friends, helped me decolonise. People like to quote Redemption Song, "Emancipate yourself from mental slavery/None but ourselves can free our minds." Robert was right, but he got it from Marcus, and Marcus was definitely right.
I had no intentions on going to an HBCU, but due to some intervening and other things, I wound up at FAMU, and had applied to other HBCUs including Fayetteville State, NCCU, and Winston-Salem. If there's anyone who believes that black colleges have no purpose today, I'm living proof otherwise.
Today, I'm proud to say I'm black, that I'm African, I'm a child of the diaspora, that I know where I come from and what my people have done and continue to do. This is not to say I'm uber-Afrocentric or reject all things non-African. It's not that at all, in fact, a lot of it makes me more accepting. Mix together being pan-African and revolutionary Marxist, you suddenly get a person who wants to tackle western ideology for the benefit of all oppressed peoples. Look at the Panthers. Their ten point programme also included Latinos regardless of race and nationality as well as Asians.
So thanks FAMU. And thanks to the good people I've met through being a Rattler. I learned a lot in the classroom, but I learned even more outside of it.
Friday, March 2, 2012
2.11 -- Women Who Rock
Thankfully, season two is coming to a close. After this, only one more fucking list and we can call it a wrap! But until then, we've got work to do.
The genesis to this list came while I was on the treadmill and rather than listening to podcasts, like I usually do, I put on a playlist. Somewhere near the end of my time, a song came on and I thought to myself, "This woman doesn't get the credit she deserves." Then I started thinking out further and extrapolating it to women in all of music. Music as a whole is a male-dominated arena. It takes a lot for a girl to break out if she's not either singing beautifully or super hot and can be sexualised. There's a reason why there's way more Taylor Swifts and Rihannas rather than women like Martha Wash.
I challenge you to look at any list from Rolling Stone, Spin, the Source, whomever, and when it cites their top artists and bands, you can probably count the number of women in the top 50 on two hands, top 20 on one hand, top ten on no hands. Now, I haven't checked this, but I'm going on simply gut. When we talk about favourite MCs, no one ever says MC Lyte or Queen Latifah. When we think of top bands in rock, no one ever says Hole or Bratmobile. Even when talking jazz, we go through a lot of folks before we get to Ella Fitzgerald and her peers.
So with all of this swirling in my mind, and with it being the second day of women's history month, I offer you my top ten women who just kick ass, have musical chops that can rival any man, and deserve to be mentioned in every conversation.
Honourable mentions: Pat Benetar (Love is a battlefield, but so is this list and she couldn't make it); Nina Simone; Nitty Scott, MC (She's too young to the scene, but with time, I feel she could be the next MC Lyte and beyond); Millie Jackson (Not a fan of her music so much, but from older folks I know, she could put on a fucking show); and Deborah Harry (I love Blondie, I think they made good music, but this was the one who juuuuust missed my cut.)
Ten-- Queen Ifrica. Who?! Yeah, you've probably never heard of her, especially if you're not into roots reggae, but the Queen is heavy. Her debut album, Fyah Muma, is outstanding. Outstanding. Her songs, like most roots artists, comment on the social issues plaguing people of the Diaspora like self-hatred, physical and sexual abuse, but always makes you feel like with just an ounce of love for all of us, we can make it. Being a Rastafari and making roots, it has to be hard for woman. The names we know internationally are never women. Add on top of that how misogynistic (and I don't really want to use that word, but...) Rastafari can be sometimes, of no faults of its own but of faults of individual interpretations, it has to be even harder. Queen Ifrica, though, just keeps bringing quality music. If you're looking to hear some of her stuff, go youtube "Boxers and Stocking", "Black People", "Natty Fi Grow". Those are three of my favourites there. Oh, and "Below the Waist".
Nine-- La Lupe. This blog has given another Cubana a ton of credit for excelling in the world of salsa and Cuban music, but often forgotten, ignored, or just unknown, is La Lupe. With over 20 albums, numerous compilations, and tonnes of work with salsa legend, Tito Puente, La Lupe cannot be denied. She did salsa, she did bolero, she did Latin soul, she did guarachas. That's what we call well-versed, people. And true to her Afro-Cuban self, she was a follower of Santeria for most of her life until being "saved" later on and converting to Christianity. No, she doesn't have the hits that we know like we know for Sister Celia, but she's still got her own catalogue. "Con el Diablo en el Cuerpo", "Lo que Paso, Paso", and "La Virgen LLoraba" would be three of my favourites. Do yourself a favour and investigate into La Lupe's music.
Eight-- Wendy O. Williams. She should be higher, and if this were the purest definition of women who rock, she'd be number one. Wendy O. Williams, now that's one bad ass woman. Former lead singer of the Plasmatics, did her own thing as a solo artist too, but during the whole time, she did what she wanted. She's destroyed cars on stage, wielded a chain saw, been arrested for simulating sex on stage, made an appearance in an adult movie in a role where she shot ping-pong balls out of her vagina, like what's not to like? She even accused, and I'm just finding this out, Mrs. Fields of being on par with heroin pushers for all the white, processed sugar she sells to the public. "The Damned", "Sex Junkie", and "Squirm" are my suggestions for you to look up.
Seven-- Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill (tie). Riot Grrrl at its finest. I had to tie these two. I know, Sleater-Kinney cite Bikini Kill as a heavy influence, but to me, these two (along with Heavens to Betsy) made Riot Grrrl a viable subgenre in the post-punk world. Bikini Kill makes this list for their debut album, "Pussy Whipped" and it features "Rebel Girl", which I'd have to think is their most-known record (although "Blood One" is my favourite track on the album). They went on to make a few more albums before disbanding, and sure they were good to pretty good, but "Pussy Whipped" is like the textbook to making a Riot Grrrl album.
Sleater-Kinney. Wow, picking my favourite SK album isn't easy. I could go with Dig Me Out or All Hands on the Bad One. Either one is fantastic, but probably Dig Me Out is their best work, featuring songs like "Heart Factory", "Buy Her Candy", and title track "Dig Me Out". Just 35 minutes of good music done right. I'm not sure what's happened to Riot Grrrl, but the 90s was generous to these all-female bands, and the music still holds up. Luckily, we can catch former SK guitarist, Carrie Brownstein, on Portlandia.
Six-- Lady Saw. To me, there is no other woman worth mentioning in dancehall. Don't even give me Patra. I don't want to hear it. Lady Saw is the end-all, be-all for women in dancehall. And really, she's better than 85 percent of the men in the genre too. She's the queen of slackness. Lady Saw makes her pussy sound like it's ambrosia, straight nectar of the gods kinda shit. What's not to love about that? Go listen to "If Him Lef" and tell me you're not thinking, "Damn..." when it gets to the guy complaining that she's so tight, she can't be 22, she has to be 13. If you think Lil' Kim is explicit and raunchy, then you, my friend, have never heard a Lady Saw record in your life. The only thing Saw rides better than dick has to be riddims. Speaking of her and dick, "Life Without Dick", quality. You've not lived until you've heard a woman croon over her appreciation for the male member. It's not all dick, pussy, and intercourse though. Lady Saw can make a song for her mother, for women as a whole, can be positive... but dancehall is competitive and slackness sells. So I stick more to songs like "No Long Talking".
Five-- Ivy Queen. When it comes to reggaeton, there's two artists I'll listen to anytime: Tego Calderon and Ivy Queen. My wife, she gets a little jealous when I stop the radio on an Ivy Queen song. It's her voice. She's got that husky voice, like Kathleen Turner, just without the rasp. Or maybe more like Penelope Menchaca. Either way, it's her voice. She could call me a punk ass bitch who likes to let donkeys fuck me in my ass, but in her voice, it's gonna be complimentary. When I bought her compilation, "Flashback", it stayed in rotation for months. When I bought "Sentimientos", "Real", and "Diva", stayed in heavy rotation. "Drama Queen" too, heavy rotation. Of course she often gets the best producers who give her the best beats, but she takes them and roasts them. And where most men are just going around talking about their penises, how they're slaying hoes left and right, how they'll blast their enemy, Ivy Queen comes off multifaceted. Love, culture, family, and yes, catfights too, she shows much more dexterity with topics. Plus, the most phenomenal thing about Ivy Queen to me is how she could take Selena's "Si Una Vez" and turn it into a viable reggaeton track, turn into a song that you can call both Selena's and her own as well. That's hard to do. And her style, well, it's not one you see every day anymore. And sure, many will say she looks like a man, and maybe she does, but I tell you what, she's better than any reggaetonero you can name.
Four-- Madonna. Stage presence, trendsetter, multiple time reinventor of self, actress (eh, kinda), published author (eh, kinda), documentarian (eh, kinda), and without a doubt, one of my most favourite music acts ever. I loved her as a kid, I love her today, although this new single is dreadful. Madonna is timeless. She should be higher, but the competition is steep. Though her legacy will never be equaled nor forgotten, I couldn't get her to crack my top three. And a lot of it has to do with albums like Bedtime Stories and Hard Candy. I just could never get into either much. Madonna. If I could masturbate as an eight year old, I would have to her many times. Every video she did would get my blood flowing. Sure, she's not a fantastic singer, in fact singing is her only weak point. However, her music library is tops. When you have three or four official greatest hits albums, you know you've got a lot of hits. Call her a slut, call her a whore, call her old, call her manly, call her stubborn, call her whatever, she couldn't give a shit. She just keeps coming with more projects and more shows, and people churn out in droves. Her career is spanning four decades now while still releasing new music. There's not many people you can say that about, not man nor woman. For all the kiddies who think Lady Gaga is special, too bad you missed the 80s. And even in her fifties, I'd still fuck the shit out of her. While listening to "True Blue". Oh yeah. Madonna, every little thing that you say or do, I'm hung up, I'm hung up on you.
Three-- M.I.A. All you Johnny-Come-Lately folks who only learned of Maya after "Paper Planes" or awful "Swagger Like Us", fall to the side. If you were there when "Arular" came out, then join me. When I first saw "Galang" on whatever MTV was doing with its special college network, I was sold. Bought the album a few weeks after and was hooked. Between "Bucky Done Gun" and "URAQT", which features goddamned Sanford and Son theme, I was bouncing off the walls. In the midst of blowing up all over the place with the success of second album, "Kala", I think people forget or never knew how good "Arular" is. It's definitely the most revolutionary of her albums, and that's probably what gets my attention. "Kala" is not to be shitted on though. I mean, it put me on African Boy, for god's sake! Plus, "20 Dollar", how fucking great is that song?! "MAYA" is good, I want to make it great, but I can't, I can only make it good. But through it all, she's remained true to herself. She's always made music that you can dance to, that you can feel, but always keep a conscious message throughout. She's no pushover, people. She's not a flash in the pan like Kesha or whoever the hell Eva Simons is. Those people have no talent and cannot write a song if their lives were on the line. M.I.A., please don't overexpose yourself though, baby girl. I mean, after all, you are on that god awful Madonna single.
Two-- Sheila E. The glamourous Sheila E. When your dad is Pete Escovedo and your godfather is Tito Puente, not only are you gonna rock, you're gonna be one BAD ASS percussionist. Sheila E. is indeed a bad ass percussionist. Quickly, name the female percussionists you know... Done? Yeah, exactly. If any instrument was an extension of the penis, you'd feel it's the drum. You want the big conga, you want the big bass drum, you want to have the 10 minute solo at a concert, you are the backbone, blah, blah, blah. Well, if I'm right on that feeling, then Sheila E has the biggest dick in music. Fuck all the shit about dating Prince or band leader on the Magic Hour, this woman rocks and her albums speak for themselves. She's more than just "The Glamorous Life". Unfortunately, that's like the only Sheila E track most people know or ever heard. The woman her first four albums chart! That's more than just one song. But the sexiest thing about her is not her looks, or the songs, it's her live shows. She can literally play the fuck out of any piece of percussion you put in front of her, and can do it for jazz, Latin jazz, hip-hop, R&B, whatever. And she'll move from instrument to instrument and just keep it flowing. That's showmanship, that's what being a bad ass rocker is all about. I can guarantee your favourite drummer can't do that, even if he had 20 years to prepare. Sheila E., true legendary shit.
ONE-- Missy Elliott. I surprised myself with this one. She was the fourth woman I thought about, and when it came time to numbering them, she was the only one in my mind I felt was definitely top two. She's even better than that though. She's THE woman who knows how to rock. She can rap, she can sing a little bit, she can dance her ass off, she can produce. Yes. That's the clinching argument there. Production. I only know of one other female producer in all of rap and hip-hop and she's in a little known group that most people probably could care less about. Jay-Z lied. Missy invented swag. And most importantly, she did as a fat, black woman. When she hit the scene nationwide, she would have been better for the role of "Mammy" than hip-hop superstardom. And not only was she fat, she was in a big ass, outdoor Hefty bag! And through all of that, she was still bad ass. She drops a ton of weight and still keeps it rocking by not losing the curves and essence of a full figure. Seriously people, the woman is fresh. Like, really, I don't know what to say about Missy because I know most of my 10 readers know her and are well-versed in her stuff probably. But if you don't think she's the pinnacle of women in hip-hop and rap, then you're an idiot. And if you do think she is, well then, isn't that alone enough to be number one on the list?
The genesis to this list came while I was on the treadmill and rather than listening to podcasts, like I usually do, I put on a playlist. Somewhere near the end of my time, a song came on and I thought to myself, "This woman doesn't get the credit she deserves." Then I started thinking out further and extrapolating it to women in all of music. Music as a whole is a male-dominated arena. It takes a lot for a girl to break out if she's not either singing beautifully or super hot and can be sexualised. There's a reason why there's way more Taylor Swifts and Rihannas rather than women like Martha Wash.
I challenge you to look at any list from Rolling Stone, Spin, the Source, whomever, and when it cites their top artists and bands, you can probably count the number of women in the top 50 on two hands, top 20 on one hand, top ten on no hands. Now, I haven't checked this, but I'm going on simply gut. When we talk about favourite MCs, no one ever says MC Lyte or Queen Latifah. When we think of top bands in rock, no one ever says Hole or Bratmobile. Even when talking jazz, we go through a lot of folks before we get to Ella Fitzgerald and her peers.
So with all of this swirling in my mind, and with it being the second day of women's history month, I offer you my top ten women who just kick ass, have musical chops that can rival any man, and deserve to be mentioned in every conversation.
Honourable mentions: Pat Benetar (Love is a battlefield, but so is this list and she couldn't make it); Nina Simone; Nitty Scott, MC (She's too young to the scene, but with time, I feel she could be the next MC Lyte and beyond); Millie Jackson (Not a fan of her music so much, but from older folks I know, she could put on a fucking show); and Deborah Harry (I love Blondie, I think they made good music, but this was the one who juuuuust missed my cut.)
Ten-- Queen Ifrica. Who?! Yeah, you've probably never heard of her, especially if you're not into roots reggae, but the Queen is heavy. Her debut album, Fyah Muma, is outstanding. Outstanding. Her songs, like most roots artists, comment on the social issues plaguing people of the Diaspora like self-hatred, physical and sexual abuse, but always makes you feel like with just an ounce of love for all of us, we can make it. Being a Rastafari and making roots, it has to be hard for woman. The names we know internationally are never women. Add on top of that how misogynistic (and I don't really want to use that word, but...) Rastafari can be sometimes, of no faults of its own but of faults of individual interpretations, it has to be even harder. Queen Ifrica, though, just keeps bringing quality music. If you're looking to hear some of her stuff, go youtube "Boxers and Stocking", "Black People", "Natty Fi Grow". Those are three of my favourites there. Oh, and "Below the Waist".
Nine-- La Lupe. This blog has given another Cubana a ton of credit for excelling in the world of salsa and Cuban music, but often forgotten, ignored, or just unknown, is La Lupe. With over 20 albums, numerous compilations, and tonnes of work with salsa legend, Tito Puente, La Lupe cannot be denied. She did salsa, she did bolero, she did Latin soul, she did guarachas. That's what we call well-versed, people. And true to her Afro-Cuban self, she was a follower of Santeria for most of her life until being "saved" later on and converting to Christianity. No, she doesn't have the hits that we know like we know for Sister Celia, but she's still got her own catalogue. "Con el Diablo en el Cuerpo", "Lo que Paso, Paso", and "La Virgen LLoraba" would be three of my favourites. Do yourself a favour and investigate into La Lupe's music.
Eight-- Wendy O. Williams. She should be higher, and if this were the purest definition of women who rock, she'd be number one. Wendy O. Williams, now that's one bad ass woman. Former lead singer of the Plasmatics, did her own thing as a solo artist too, but during the whole time, she did what she wanted. She's destroyed cars on stage, wielded a chain saw, been arrested for simulating sex on stage, made an appearance in an adult movie in a role where she shot ping-pong balls out of her vagina, like what's not to like? She even accused, and I'm just finding this out, Mrs. Fields of being on par with heroin pushers for all the white, processed sugar she sells to the public. "The Damned", "Sex Junkie", and "Squirm" are my suggestions for you to look up.
Seven-- Sleater-Kinney and Bikini Kill (tie). Riot Grrrl at its finest. I had to tie these two. I know, Sleater-Kinney cite Bikini Kill as a heavy influence, but to me, these two (along with Heavens to Betsy) made Riot Grrrl a viable subgenre in the post-punk world. Bikini Kill makes this list for their debut album, "Pussy Whipped" and it features "Rebel Girl", which I'd have to think is their most-known record (although "Blood One" is my favourite track on the album). They went on to make a few more albums before disbanding, and sure they were good to pretty good, but "Pussy Whipped" is like the textbook to making a Riot Grrrl album.
Sleater-Kinney. Wow, picking my favourite SK album isn't easy. I could go with Dig Me Out or All Hands on the Bad One. Either one is fantastic, but probably Dig Me Out is their best work, featuring songs like "Heart Factory", "Buy Her Candy", and title track "Dig Me Out". Just 35 minutes of good music done right. I'm not sure what's happened to Riot Grrrl, but the 90s was generous to these all-female bands, and the music still holds up. Luckily, we can catch former SK guitarist, Carrie Brownstein, on Portlandia.
Six-- Lady Saw. To me, there is no other woman worth mentioning in dancehall. Don't even give me Patra. I don't want to hear it. Lady Saw is the end-all, be-all for women in dancehall. And really, she's better than 85 percent of the men in the genre too. She's the queen of slackness. Lady Saw makes her pussy sound like it's ambrosia, straight nectar of the gods kinda shit. What's not to love about that? Go listen to "If Him Lef" and tell me you're not thinking, "Damn..." when it gets to the guy complaining that she's so tight, she can't be 22, she has to be 13. If you think Lil' Kim is explicit and raunchy, then you, my friend, have never heard a Lady Saw record in your life. The only thing Saw rides better than dick has to be riddims. Speaking of her and dick, "Life Without Dick", quality. You've not lived until you've heard a woman croon over her appreciation for the male member. It's not all dick, pussy, and intercourse though. Lady Saw can make a song for her mother, for women as a whole, can be positive... but dancehall is competitive and slackness sells. So I stick more to songs like "No Long Talking".
Five-- Ivy Queen. When it comes to reggaeton, there's two artists I'll listen to anytime: Tego Calderon and Ivy Queen. My wife, she gets a little jealous when I stop the radio on an Ivy Queen song. It's her voice. She's got that husky voice, like Kathleen Turner, just without the rasp. Or maybe more like Penelope Menchaca. Either way, it's her voice. She could call me a punk ass bitch who likes to let donkeys fuck me in my ass, but in her voice, it's gonna be complimentary. When I bought her compilation, "Flashback", it stayed in rotation for months. When I bought "Sentimientos", "Real", and "Diva", stayed in heavy rotation. "Drama Queen" too, heavy rotation. Of course she often gets the best producers who give her the best beats, but she takes them and roasts them. And where most men are just going around talking about their penises, how they're slaying hoes left and right, how they'll blast their enemy, Ivy Queen comes off multifaceted. Love, culture, family, and yes, catfights too, she shows much more dexterity with topics. Plus, the most phenomenal thing about Ivy Queen to me is how she could take Selena's "Si Una Vez" and turn it into a viable reggaeton track, turn into a song that you can call both Selena's and her own as well. That's hard to do. And her style, well, it's not one you see every day anymore. And sure, many will say she looks like a man, and maybe she does, but I tell you what, she's better than any reggaetonero you can name.
Four-- Madonna. Stage presence, trendsetter, multiple time reinventor of self, actress (eh, kinda), published author (eh, kinda), documentarian (eh, kinda), and without a doubt, one of my most favourite music acts ever. I loved her as a kid, I love her today, although this new single is dreadful. Madonna is timeless. She should be higher, but the competition is steep. Though her legacy will never be equaled nor forgotten, I couldn't get her to crack my top three. And a lot of it has to do with albums like Bedtime Stories and Hard Candy. I just could never get into either much. Madonna. If I could masturbate as an eight year old, I would have to her many times. Every video she did would get my blood flowing. Sure, she's not a fantastic singer, in fact singing is her only weak point. However, her music library is tops. When you have three or four official greatest hits albums, you know you've got a lot of hits. Call her a slut, call her a whore, call her old, call her manly, call her stubborn, call her whatever, she couldn't give a shit. She just keeps coming with more projects and more shows, and people churn out in droves. Her career is spanning four decades now while still releasing new music. There's not many people you can say that about, not man nor woman. For all the kiddies who think Lady Gaga is special, too bad you missed the 80s. And even in her fifties, I'd still fuck the shit out of her. While listening to "True Blue". Oh yeah. Madonna, every little thing that you say or do, I'm hung up, I'm hung up on you.
Three-- M.I.A. All you Johnny-Come-Lately folks who only learned of Maya after "Paper Planes" or awful "Swagger Like Us", fall to the side. If you were there when "Arular" came out, then join me. When I first saw "Galang" on whatever MTV was doing with its special college network, I was sold. Bought the album a few weeks after and was hooked. Between "Bucky Done Gun" and "URAQT", which features goddamned Sanford and Son theme, I was bouncing off the walls. In the midst of blowing up all over the place with the success of second album, "Kala", I think people forget or never knew how good "Arular" is. It's definitely the most revolutionary of her albums, and that's probably what gets my attention. "Kala" is not to be shitted on though. I mean, it put me on African Boy, for god's sake! Plus, "20 Dollar", how fucking great is that song?! "MAYA" is good, I want to make it great, but I can't, I can only make it good. But through it all, she's remained true to herself. She's always made music that you can dance to, that you can feel, but always keep a conscious message throughout. She's no pushover, people. She's not a flash in the pan like Kesha or whoever the hell Eva Simons is. Those people have no talent and cannot write a song if their lives were on the line. M.I.A., please don't overexpose yourself though, baby girl. I mean, after all, you are on that god awful Madonna single.
Two-- Sheila E. The glamourous Sheila E. When your dad is Pete Escovedo and your godfather is Tito Puente, not only are you gonna rock, you're gonna be one BAD ASS percussionist. Sheila E. is indeed a bad ass percussionist. Quickly, name the female percussionists you know... Done? Yeah, exactly. If any instrument was an extension of the penis, you'd feel it's the drum. You want the big conga, you want the big bass drum, you want to have the 10 minute solo at a concert, you are the backbone, blah, blah, blah. Well, if I'm right on that feeling, then Sheila E has the biggest dick in music. Fuck all the shit about dating Prince or band leader on the Magic Hour, this woman rocks and her albums speak for themselves. She's more than just "The Glamorous Life". Unfortunately, that's like the only Sheila E track most people know or ever heard. The woman her first four albums chart! That's more than just one song. But the sexiest thing about her is not her looks, or the songs, it's her live shows. She can literally play the fuck out of any piece of percussion you put in front of her, and can do it for jazz, Latin jazz, hip-hop, R&B, whatever. And she'll move from instrument to instrument and just keep it flowing. That's showmanship, that's what being a bad ass rocker is all about. I can guarantee your favourite drummer can't do that, even if he had 20 years to prepare. Sheila E., true legendary shit.
ONE-- Missy Elliott. I surprised myself with this one. She was the fourth woman I thought about, and when it came time to numbering them, she was the only one in my mind I felt was definitely top two. She's even better than that though. She's THE woman who knows how to rock. She can rap, she can sing a little bit, she can dance her ass off, she can produce. Yes. That's the clinching argument there. Production. I only know of one other female producer in all of rap and hip-hop and she's in a little known group that most people probably could care less about. Jay-Z lied. Missy invented swag. And most importantly, she did as a fat, black woman. When she hit the scene nationwide, she would have been better for the role of "Mammy" than hip-hop superstardom. And not only was she fat, she was in a big ass, outdoor Hefty bag! And through all of that, she was still bad ass. She drops a ton of weight and still keeps it rocking by not losing the curves and essence of a full figure. Seriously people, the woman is fresh. Like, really, I don't know what to say about Missy because I know most of my 10 readers know her and are well-versed in her stuff probably. But if you don't think she's the pinnacle of women in hip-hop and rap, then you're an idiot. And if you do think she is, well then, isn't that alone enough to be number one on the list?
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