Fly Funky Diva

Stream of Conscious Holiday Manifesto… Reflections on A Quarter Century

2011-12-28T22:15:00.000-08:00

* A writing ritual I do at each year's end. Personal, cathartic-- and for some reason I feature it on my blog. Feel free to skip. Or better yet, try it yourself.

It is the final day of my twenty-fifth year and what a fleeting year this has been been. Twenty-Five passed in such a flurry, I want to do it again. So I will. Tomorrow, on my birthday, I will be celebrating 25. Again. After all, they always say you’re only 25 once... and I never do what they always say.

This year has felt like a turbulent flight and right now I’m idle on the runway trying to figure out where to take off to next. I tried new things like belly dancing and ballroom. I got serious about my book. I believe it is my big idea--- you know, the aha-moment of a lifetime. I moved on from heartbreak and began reaping the benefits of being a Siren (in the making). With a quater-century down, and a powerful loss in the recent path, I began to see how important it is to live like there's no tomorrow.

I began 2011 in Jacksonville, Florida where I was in the third year of a contract with a television news station. What can I say about my experience as a local news reporter except I learned a lot about TV, about myself, and you couldn’t pay me enough money to move down there and do it again. When the opportunity arose for me to re-sign a new contract for another three years as an over-worked, under-paid (and appreciated) TV journalist I said, “No, thank you.”. It’s funny how I was so certain about what I didn’t want even though I had no idea what I did want. The truth is I had no back-up plan and that was on purpose. I have wanted to be a media personality since I was 14 years old. It never dawned on me that I’d despise my first television gig.
But maybe that was paying dues…
It has been a month since I’ve moved back home and I can honestly say I have no regrets. I do not miss working in Florida one bit. I’ve been waiting for the morning when I’d rise and feel like heading to the studio at the butt-crack of dawn, but… that hasn’t happened yet. I’m proud of myself for going after my dream, landing an on-air position right out of school, and moving to a new state where I didn’t know a soul. That gave me some chops. But your twenties are about figuring out what you do want out of life just as much as they are about figuring out what you don’t want. What I didn’t want was to be far away from my family. What I didn’t want was to continue turning mindless stories whose sole purpose was to take up two minutes of air space.
I do want to matter.
I’ve always wanted to matter and in fact, now that I am back at home, getting reacquainted with New Jersey winter, I know that the next move I make has to put me some place where I am making a difference in someone’s life and using my brain. Perhaps I was making a difference as a Black woman on TV in Medium-City, South. My fans often referred to me as a positive role model, but after three years, that wasn’t enough. I'm using this time to re-evaluate.
In your twenties (and twenty-five just happens to be the ultimate metanym for "your twenties") the greatest obstacle isn’t figuring out what you want to do with your life, but overcoming your innate fear of being your best self. I've come to learn that the hardest part isn’t completing the journey. Sometimes it's taking the first step. As I see it, most humans have a deep-rooted fear of inadequacy. I realize that now as my big idea--- the book serves as a gross reminder of the thin line between the life of your dreams and what could have been.

It’s several days after Christmas but it really didn’t feel much like Christmas at all. Still, my soul is merry. I am at home, finally, surrounded by people I love. What my 25-year old person will know this time around is that it is okay to re-prioritize your life. Right now, I love how simple life is, even if this state is only temporary. I love being with my family, hugging my parents each day, and lying in my bed until the sun wakes me up. The daily glamour is gone. I am sans weave and a full face of make-up. In fact, I spend most days in jeans . And yet, in my natural state, I merely feel as if I am back stage, preparing, for the performance of my life.

TEN DAYS

2011-11-16T05:24:00.000-08:00

As my loyal readers may know, for the past three years I have been toiling away in Medium City, South as a television reporter. Well guess what? In ten days I am moving to Big City, North to pursue my dream as a writer. I hope to post more and in 2012 to be able to tell you where you can purchase my first book. It is a non fiction.

Flyness and Funk,

Life is like a Jigsaw Puzzle

2011-08-18T06:53:00.000-07:00

"Life is like a jigsaw puzzle without the picture on the box." -Anonymous

I’m vacationing in Martha’s Vineyard with mom and dad. At the same time I’m reflecting on a major turning point of my life. I have decided to not resign my current television contract which means I’ve got about 3 months to secure a second television job, preferably in Big City, North versus Medium City, South. That task alone comes with serious trepidation, but I’ve also been trying to make sense of where I am headed, and where I want to go. I wish I was published by now, but I am not. I’m questioning if television journalism is really the career for me. I don't want to punk out and duck out early. And then there’s the possibility of law school looming over my head as it is the logical finale many BAP educations. Anyway, suddenly I’m adult, and time is ticking, and I have these humungous dreams and the SHIT IS SCARY.
It started to rain on Monday. The cable is crap so I found this jig saw puzzle in the closet. It was Monet’s Summer broken up into 500 little pieces. If you are familiar with that painting you’re aware that it is like 95 percent blue and white, so putting it together was a mother. Speaking of moms, after the first day she saw that I didn’t have much finished so she lent a hand. It took the both of us four days but we did it and in the end… I realized completing the puzzle was a valuable lesson for me.
Life is a lot like a (difficult) jigsaw puzzle. It comes together piece by piece.
You have to start with the edges. These are the only pieces you know for sure. Your character, your values, your knowledge, and your passions in life. The edge pieces are the framework you need in order to complete the puzzle.
Sometimes you’ll find the next piece by searching for it by color or by shape.
But even then, you may over look it. So when you get stuck, you move on. Try something new. You start working on another section of the puzzle.
Sometimes you get lucky and you stumble upon pieces. That helps you out a lot. But luck only takes you so far.
Jig saw puzzles take patience. Sometimes you’ll feel as if you’ve reached a dead end but you can’t give up. You just keep trying different pieces until something works. Sometimes it helps to take a break, come back and look at the puzzle through fresh eyes.
In jigsaw puzzles you can’t connect one piece, without the other. So even though by luck or technique you may move quickly through a puzzle, there truly are no short cuts.
Jig saw puzzles are far easier when you have someone (like mom) or a group of people to help you. They’ll help you find the pieces you may have over looked on your own.
Jig saw puzzles are hard. But with patience, diligence, and determination they are possible.
And finally, you can’t enjoy the picture until you’ve completed it--- so you might as well have fun working on it along the way.

Black Girl Beautiful

2011-05-16T11:45:00.000-07:00

Satoshi Kanazawa is not the first person to disguise racism as science nor is he the first (or last) man to degrade African beauty. In spite of these givens, the Psychology Today article that asserts Black women are inherently less attractive than women of other races has lit the Black E-World on fire. So much so, several hours after it was published, Psychology Today removed the article from their site.

If you'd like to read this ~~mess~~ article click here.

Really Kanazawa's theory comes as no surprise. I don't know about you, but I live in a society that endorses a eurocentric beauty ideal. I live in a society where Marilyn Monroe is the ultimate male fantasy and Sarah Baartman is the ultimate fetish. Every day my senses are overloaded with images of 'beautiful' women whose features are the opposite of my own. If beauty is fair skinned, tall and lithe, with straightish hair and a keen nose, then beauty-- I am not. And that a so-called psychologist would take this observation one step further and attempt to back it up with a half-assed case study .... I'm just not surprised.

What I am shocked by is the subsequent outrage within the Black (on-line) community. Why does it take an Asian man articulating a Black woman's inherent ghastliness to make us react so passionately? Is this not the same euro-centric beauty propaganda that we spread throughout our own communities in subtle and not-so-subtle ways? Do Black women as a collective not have an inferiority complex? An outsider looking in would be justified in assuming so.

Madame CJ Walker, the first Black millionaire, made her fortune selling chemical hair straighteners and bleaching creams to Black women and today Black women still spend billions of dollars on creamy crack and other people's straight hair.

I'd like to think we are a generation beyond the brown paper bag test, but still, most of our leading ladies are women of color with Anglo features. As those in the model world like to call it, white women dipped in chocolate.

Even though it's okay to rock locks, and sista locks, twists and fros---we still praise our wavy headed sisters and brothers for having good-hair, and Black moms still slap "Just for Me" all over their toddler's virgin hair.

Guess what? African women throughout the diaspora bleach their skin. Some even bleach their children's skin. If no body was bleaching, you wouldn't be able to find Fair And White at just about every beauty supply store in the United States of America.

Statistics show that more and more Black women are reconciling their ethnic reality with their anglo aspirations by turning to rhinoplasty and other procedures that may tame exotic features.

Pretty Black girls are still told, "you're pretty, for a dark skinned girl". And no kidding, a male friend and fellow Ivy-Leaguer once told me that as a successful Black man, he can only date "light-skinned" women. He was dead serious.

Black is beautiful....
But is it?

Kanazawa seems to emphasize that Black men and Black women are not aesthetic equals. In fact, he writes that Black men are superior in looks to other men due to their "high levels of testosterone". So I'm thinking....

If Black men are the most attractive of all men, and Black women are the least attractive of all women, then perhaps Black women are not good enough for Black men after all. Kanazawa has finally supplied millions of Black women with an explanation for why they are single and why Black marriage rates are stark and why Kobe didn't marry a sista.

Are you upset yet?

It baffles me that we would decry an outsiders opinion of our beauty when as a culture, we have allowed others to define "our beauty" and politicize "our beauty" for centuries.

Beauty is an opinion. It's just that. It's fluid. It's changes over time and across cultures. That's something I learned during a recent trip to Dominican Republic. From the time I arrived at the airport I was swarmed with male attention. Fair-skinned, darker-skinned Dominican men, it didn't matter. I received marriage proposals, invitations to dinner, astounding service. "My, you are two beautiful Black woman" one man shouted as he watched my mom and I walk along beach.

It was an all-inclusive resort I stayed in, so after 5 days of big meals, daiquiris, and constant flattery--- I went home with a fatter booty, belly and ego.

"I'm moving to the Dominican Republic," I told Miles* at an outdoor concert.

"Why?"

"Because I've never had my beauty celebrated like that before. I want to feel like that every day."

"Please, men flirt with you all the time," he smiled. And they do. But not like that.

You see, standards of beauty shift depending on where you are in the globe. There are some aspects of a woman's beauty that are universal. Harmonious features, smooth skin, a nice waist-to hip ratio. But after that, beauty is pretty much socialized. Beauty ideals are a function of cultural hegemony. Conforming to a certain standard of beauty is an excercise in power or lack there of. It is the reason why a woman who decides to undergo the "big chop" and swap her perm for a fro is seen as making a "political" statement. Beauty is so much more than looks.

Some people think I'm self-absorbed. A narcissist.

I am.

I think I'm beautiful and I have my parents to thank for that. My mom looks like the bust of Nefertiti. I think she is the most gorgeous woman in the world. She has chocolate skin and beautiful cheek bones. Her hair is natural, coiled in sister locks. She is my beauty ideal and she raised me that way. Literally there were dozens of paintings of beautiful Black women all over my home growing up including a gorgeous one of mom right when you first walk in. My dolls looked like me. The characters in my story books and fairy tales looked like me. I realize now my parents went to incredible lengths to raise a Black child who didn't have a color complex. That's not easy.

In spite of their best efforts, I had some hiccups. I was the only brown skinned frizzy haired girl with a big butt dancing ballet with other young ladies who looked nothing like me. I questioned my beauty then. And of course I went through an awkward adolescent stage where I thought no boys liked me. I questioned my beauty then too.

But somehow, as an adult, I've come love what I see when I look in the mirror, pug nose and all. A woman can not be beautiful to anyone else unless she recognizes her own beauty. It is something that has to be embraced and celebrated.

It's sad because there is a generation out there waiting to be validated. A generation of Black women with broken self-esteem... who feel broken because of who they are. And it's not right.... because they are beautiful.

I'll leave you with this memory. It was the first time I covered a parade. It must have been the MLK parade because there were mostly Black people. Anyway, there was a group of two-dozen or little brown girls dancing down the street in this parade. I looked at them and smiled because they were so adorable. Then, I caught their eyes. Every little girl made a bee-line, ran off the parade route, and into my arms. Each one of them hugged me.

The memory makes me teary eyed.

I realized then, as a 23 year old budding tv- journalist, exactly what I was to those girls. I was them.

Finally they could turn on the tv and see themselves. A brown skin girl, with a pug nose, full lips, high cheek bones, and booty. And I was still on tv. And I was smiling. And I was ... beautiful. And I was them. There's a generation of girls out there who just want to be appreciated for who they are.

At then end of the day Kanazawa is doing what all scientists do--- they try to make sense out of everyday phenomena. If our society places the least value on Black beauty, why is that? Of course he can't see the foolishness in his attempt to apply biological reasoning to a sociological concept. Touche. But this entire ordeal begs the question of who we let define our beauty.

I hope that after the outrage over this silly man's article we hold a mirror up before ourselves. I hope we notice our own faults and propensity to judge each other based on Anglo ideals. And more importantly, I hope Black girls everywhere take a good look in that mirror and see that yes, they are too, beautiful.

Misty Copeland Blackberry Bold 9780 Commercial

2011-04-09T13:43:00.000-07:00

It's fantastic to see ballerina's in popular culture. Black Swan, though grossly an overstatement, was adored by fans that would have never stepped foot in the theater. And then I was blessed to see Prince at Madison Square Garden (first row!) and out comes Misty Copeland, African-American soloist with American Ballet Theater. Their performance was out of this world. I always knew ballet had the potential to cross cultural and socioeconomic lines. It is a beautiful art form and I was privileged to train as a ballerina for most of my life.

And now this Blackberry commercial which shadows Misty Copeland. I love that it spotlights ballet, but more importantly a Black ballerina. There is still a supreme dearth of African-American women in the ballet world. That's my few cents. Enjoy.

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

2011-03-09T04:19:00.001-08:00

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.

CHURCH, The Sims Sitcom on Youtube, Comedy!!

2010-09-29T05:28:00.000-07:00

I have to give the creator of "Church" serious props. The comedic writing, the voice over, the anime like Simcharacters.... it is all brilliant. Church is a a homemade sitcom just gaining steam on Youtube. It's a satire about the Black church starring "Black Preacher", his wife "First Lady", his daughter, the ever-ready key board player, and a flamboyant choir director. I've posted my faves in the series. But please enjoy, laugh your head off, and link to your pages. And please DO NOT get offended. It's just satire, and well done satire at that.

SPOTLIGHT: D'Angelo, When We Get By, 1995

2010-08-18T19:49:00.000-07:00

Fabulous and Unequally Yoked

2010-08-15T14:12:00.000-07:00

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,

Wedding Dress of the Week: Pnina Tornai 3180008

2010-08-14T07:39:00.000-07:00

Happy Saturday Divas!
It is with great pleasure that I feature this opulent mermaid sheath by Pnina Tornai. The satin gown is strapless with a flattering rouched bodice, and dropped waiste that extends into tiers of extravagant ruffles. The creation is richly adorned with bows made of swaroski crystal along the decotallage and the top of the skirt. That detail is this dress' wow factor!

Flyness and Funk(y Brides),

Thursday's Thought: On Bridges

2010-08-13T03:57:00.000-07:00

On Bridges: This past week I covered a couple that married on top of a bridge. They were childhood sweethearts who reunited, on Facebook, twenty-five years later. For me, their story gives new meaning to the phrase "bridge over troubled water". The bride said in her interview, "I was in love but he didn't know what love was back then." She of course during their time apart married, had children, and later divorced. The groom didn't do any of those things, but he matured, and came to realize the one that got away was in fact the love of his life. He moved across the country to be with her just ten days after they reconnected on Facebook. Indeed love can act as a bridge between; forging a bond that withstands struggle, distance, and most impressively time. On the contrary, we have to consider the consequences of burning a bridge, for what happens when you attempt to cross a burned bridge? You drown.

'Blondie' Meet 'Bourgie': Race on DC Housewives

2010-08-11T07:15:00.000-07:00

Last Thursday,The Real Housewives of DC debuted to an audience of 1.6 million, far ahead of any other show in that time slot. The show's initial success should come as little surprise. The latest edition of the popular reality franchise arrived on the tails of Party-Gate, a national scandal that, ethics aside, was one hell of a PR move. For Housewives fans, the district is a welcome change of scenery and a fresh set of socialites to rival only New York in their authenticity. And then there's the more subtle tease; Bravo's peculiar casting.

When news first broke of a DC edition in the making, many assumed it would be the second mocha cast. They don't call DC "Chocolate City" for nothing. The nation's capital is also the capital of Black elitism. If Atlanta is where Black money goes to luxuriate, then DC is where Black money goes to discriminate.

But instead Bravo only casted one sista, which surely raised some eyebrows. Stacie Scott Turner is a high-end real estate agent, wife, mother, and a credentialed somebody. Stacie can float seamlessly between white and black elite circles, which is pretty much the prerequisite to being Black and bourgeois. She is a Delta, a Jack and Jiller, and just so happens to have graduated from Harvard Business school. And for those of us who identify with First Lady Michelle more so than former First Lady Lisa Raye, Staci Scott is a welcome addition; a departure from the conspicuously flashy Housewives of the south.

Bravo billed their new show as sort of a 'sex meets power' in DC; hyper-fabulous fame-seeking doyennes demonstrating their place among the power elite. But the first episode quickly alluded to other intentions. Rather than 'Sex meets power' , it was clearly 'Black meets White', or better stated, 'preppy meets bourgie' in Washington D.C., the seat of national government and heart of America's current preoccupation with race.

"Welcome to the District" was the perfect blend of vanilla and chocolate, certainly titillating enough to keep viewers wanting more. We meet Lynda Erkiletian and her big Black stud-like boyfriend Ebong. Then we watch witty exchanges between two of the White housewives and their very Dwighterrific Black gay confidantes. A smashing birthday celebration is temporarily interrupted by cast mate Mary Schmidt Amons who gives her tipsy speech about how Black and White hair salons ought to integrated. "Yes we can!" she throws in for good measure. And then there's the highlight of the episode; an evenly mixed fette for four where cast mate Cat Ommanney, a recent transplant from London, has the nerve to dis Tyra Banks and President Obama in Sista Staci's house.

"I damn near choked on my food," Staci says in the interview after wards.

*If this isn't a side-eye glance, I don't know what is.

And that's not including the racially tinged events that lead up to the series debut. When Michaele Salahi and her husband infamously crashed at White House party, it prompted Desiree Roger's resignation from her position as the first Black White House social secretary. Following the security breach, her admirers were quick to become her detractors, hitting the cable-network circuit denigrating her as a self-absorbed outsider, in over her head. As if that wasn't enough, when Salahi appeared on the View just days before the premiere she managed to besmirch yet another public figure of color. She accused Whoopi Goldberg of 'hitting' her during a heated interview about whether or not she was really invited to the White House. No doubt, Salahi was border-line verbally attacked on The View, but definitely not physically. Watch the video. Her accusations are straight erroneous, but just enough to rock the race waters.

It almost looks like Michaele Salahi is doing a Black fist pump here. Almost.

I have to say "Brava" to Bravo for perfect timing. Many Americans are being exposed to the Black professional class for the first time by political characters on the national stage. Barack, Michelle, Desiree, and attorney general Eric Holder are all vast departure from the fictional Blacks inHollywood. My--- a Black woman having tea with the queen... who would have thunk it? Hence it is timely for Bravo to integrate an all-white cast with one Black woman, who happens to be a lot like Michelle. The show, much like America, is progressively mixed on the surface, but upon closer inspection, split with hair line cracks of racial tension.

I liken the fifth edition of the Housewives to the fourth season of Dynasty. Enter Diahann Carroll in a fierce creme suit, fur stole, and loads of expensive luggage. "I do not sleep in nor do I sleep with my clothes. I require a separate room for my wardrobe," she demands in her light minx voice. A striking Carroll was the "New Lady in Town", and while she's widely known as prime time's first Black Bitch, she was really prime time's introduction to Black affluence Of course there was the Jefferson's, but that was a Black sitcom for a mostly Black audience. And let's face it, Wheezy was no Dominique Devereaux. Just four months before The Cosby Show and the subsequent proliferation of positive Black sitcoms, Diahann Carroll's character tested America's readiness to watch the Black elite mingle with the White elite. It was a bold casting call that paid off in ratings... and television legend.

I'd say Bravo is taking the same gamble. With the new set of divas, Bravo is capitalizing on the nation's anxious racial climate. With every tea party rally and party-debate, America's race pathology comes further to a head. DC Housewives will surely explore the boundaries of political correctness in a "post-racial" post-Obama America. There will be the same cat fights and snobbery that compels millions of women to tune into the lives of formerly-obscure rich women every week. But the cherry on top will be the insertion of race, awkward moments that break out as randomly as teenage acne. People will laugh and people will talk, and I think this is the light-hearted "reality" check America could use right now.

Flyness and Funk(y housewives),

Timbuctoo: A Freed Slave Community in NJ

2010-08-09T11:55:00.001-07:00

Archaeologists have discovered the remains of a freed slave community in New Jersey, thought to have existed some 45 years prior to emancipation. What interests me most is that the community shares the same name of the ancient intellectual metropolis, Timbuktu in Mali. It's a demonstration that significant African ties survived even the blade of slavery. Check out the article in www.theroot.com.

Spotlight: John B, They Don't Know

2010-08-09T02:56:00.001-07:00

Before there was Robin Thick... there was John B! I heard this song on the radio the other day and it took me to a good place. So plug in your work ear phones (do you have those? I do) and enjoy!

Happy Monday!

-Ike

Becoming Jacqueline Broyer

2010-08-06T05:53:00.001-07:00

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?

THURSDAY THOUGHT: ON 'DESERTED ISLANDS'

2010-08-05T03:22:00.000-07:00

On 'Deserted Islands': Recently I broke bread with a very wealthy car-dealership owner with some very pointed views about the 'haves' and the 'have-nots'. He himself was a self-made millionaire. He said, " You will always have rich and poor. Give five rich people and five poor people a million dollars, and leave them on a deserted island. Within a year, the poor people will have given all their money to the rich." That stuck with me. Most of us spend our lives working to build wealth for a group of shareholders, our own worth determined by some arbitrary person. And then, we spend our money, once again, creating wealth for others. How many of us create wealth for ourselves? By saving, investing, or even becoming entrepreneurs? Perhaps if we all focused on ways we do that, we'd lead richer lives, both figuratively and literally.

-Ike

She Said What: Omarosa

2010-08-04T10:54:00.001-07:00

"I came in on a white horse, and rode out on a stallion!"
-Omarosa Manigault Stallworth on "The Ultimate Merger" after a kinky night in the desert

Vanity Fair's International Best Dressed List

2010-08-04T04:27:00.000-07:00

Secretly, now not so secretly, there are two things that will signify I've made it. They are being included in Vanity Fair's International Best Dressed List, and making the cover of Essence Magazine! Needless to stay, I'm still working on it. Vanity Fair just released their coveted 2010 list. Click here to see who made the cut.

Congrats to First Lady Michelle Obama for being featured on the list for the 4th consecutive year and for representing for stylish mocha ladies everywhere!

Flyness and international fashion,

Ike

Soft Feet and Skin with Goats Milk!

2010-07-13T05:55:00.000-07:00

Hey Divas,

I have a cheap, easy and effective home remedy for you if you want glowing, touchable skin and soft feet.You can purchase canned goats milk at your local grocer. It will likely be in the same aisle as the condensed milk.

First, for the foot soak.
Combine goats milk, sweet almond oil, and hot water in a basin (or sink as I like to do). You could also use coconut, avocado, jojoba, or olive oil. Try a Whole Foods if you're not sure where to find these. Soak feet for at least fifteen minutes. If you calluses or rough skin, you can rub your feet with a pumice stone or callus remover. However, never use a razor on your calluses because they'll come back with a vengeance.

After your feet are beautiful and soft, keep them moisturized. Curel makes a nice deep-penetrating foot cream.

Now, for the skin scrub.

Pour a generous amount of sea salt in a bowl. Saturate the sea salt with goats milk until the mixture is lightly slushy, not soupy. Does this make sense? The exfoliant should be thick. Then add sweet almond oil. And mix. You don't even need gloves for this. You can scoop the mixture into your hands and rub onto your limbs. I like to use it (in the tub) before showering, or on damp skin. It works best that way. The result is skin that is silky and glowing.

Happy scrubbing,

Ike

...And Alicia Keys On (top of) Piano

2010-06-28T07:30:00.000-07:00

What has gotten into Alicia?

More than a baby! When Alicia Keys topped of her performance of Prince's Adore at the 2010 BET Awards by climbing on top of the piano, I was thinking...

Love Jones! I got a Love Jones! I got a Love Jones, over you...

She's got that jonez. She is glowing, the way a woman does when she's high on romance. Swiss Beats is... putting it down.

Wait... can this actually be me when I'm pregnant? Except, in my home in front of an audience of one.

Alicia's performance at the awards, for me, was the high light of the show. The second best moment-- Prince's reaction.

And make sure you catch the gentleman seated behind him.

It was a great performance overall. Check out her Prince tribute here.

Is it something I said?

2010-06-23T10:47:00.001-07:00

Funny, and true, cartoon!

Fierce Files: Eartha Kitt, Dance Rehearsal

2010-06-23T03:44:00.000-07:00

Spotlight: Diana Ross, Work That Body, 1981

2010-06-23T03:41:00.000-07:00

This is Diana doing Beyonce--- before Beyonce. Enjoy the leotards!
-Ike

PS: This is a GREAT workout tune.

How To Care For Color Treated Hair

2010-06-22T12:10:00.000-07:00

Hey Divas,

I'm on tv. I do my hair, with heat, five days a week-- and I have color treated hair! Could be a recipe for disaster, and though I do have some breakage, it could be worse. I take preventative measures, like keeping my hair well conditioned, moist, and NEVER laying down without a silk scarf.

I found this Jones Mag interview with celebrity hairstylist Ursula Stephens, and she gives some excellent advice for color treated gals.

JONESMAG.COM: What are your top five tips for keeping color-treated hair healthy?

URSULA STEPHENS: First, Increase your conditioning treatments. Your hair need to stay hydrated. On top of a deep conditioner, I usually recommend a leave-in too. Try Motions Nourish Leave-In Conditioner. It’s enriched with natural ingredients like Vitamin E and silk proteins that moisturize strengthen and protect vulnerable hair.

Second, Try to avoid products that contain alcohol.

My third tip would be alternating your chemical processes – don’t relax and color at the same time to avoid breakage.

Fourth, take a break from your flatiron – unless you have a hot date!

And five, try letting you hair air dry – even if it’s only a few times a week, this will help maintain healthy hair.

To read the entire article click here.

Flyness and flat-irons,

Ike

Aaron McGruder Lampoons Tyler Perry on the Boondocks

2010-06-21T05:29:00.001-07:00

Aaron McGruder uses his satirical genius to put all of Black America on blast, excusing no one. Not even...

TYLER PERRY!!!

Madea cracks me up, especially when she does her Patti Labelle impression, but at the same time, my soul is weeping.

Tyler Perry is an impressive American success story, much like his friend Oprah Winfrey. But unlike Oprah, Perry's media empire is cancer for Black artistic production. Cancer spreads if unchecked right? Tyler Perry has managed to spread his predictable metastatic story line and stereotypes from stage, to movies, to television.

The typical Winston Jerome story starts with a beautiful educated professional Black woman trapped in a troubled marriage with a brown skinned Black dude.

In what I consider to be one of McGruder's finest moments, he does check the mogul. Chin checks him. "Pause", the eighth episode in season 3, is a diatribe against Tyler Perry smothered in classic McGruder humor, such is the inclusion of "Pause, no homo".

In the episode granddad lands a starring role in a stage play by 'Jerome Winston'. Jerome is a cross-dressing, White Jesus professing, sexually ambiguous director that looks, sounds and acts an awful lot like Tyler Perry. The episode is a not-so-subtle commentary on Perry's mega-presence in Black Hollywood. McGruder even goes so far as to point out the irony of Perry's Christian themes juxtaposed with the homo-erotic undertones of his cross-dressing Madea character, and his own sexually ambiguous reputation.

But Jesus wants us to be actors first, heterosexuals second.

And then McGruder takes more subtle jabs at elements of Perry's work that we may overlook while laughing our behinds off. His heavy handed used of negative stereotypes and the narrow perspective on African-American life he presents to the world. These are the artistic shortcomings for which Perry has already come under fire from critics like fellow-film maker, Spike Lee.

I personally can not name one stage play, movie, or sitcom that does not feature one or some combination of the mammy, the crack addicted Jezebel, tragic mullato, and/or coon. My biggest gripe with his work is that Perry has recycled and reused the single Black woman narrative ad nauseum, promoting the idea that if you are a virtuous Black woman you must either marry 'beneath you' or remain woefully single. I mean really, our indulgence in this tragic tale of the single Black female has become a self-fulfilling prophecy that we really need to abandon. But we won't, because Tyler Perry won't let us.

How could you do this to me?
Get out! I'm going to marry this white huzzy! You are too virtuous and strong. You might make me a better man.

You may disagree, but I believe that given the fragile nature of the Black community and the state of our Black children, people invested with the power of image ought to be responsible.

-Ike

Whether you agree or disagree with McGruder's commentary, this episode is indisputably hilarious.