It’s not that I’m going for a record, but I’m certain my train brain is on a journey headed straight for hell. Or the nearest Dairy Queen where tweens are flicking sprinkles at one another and stealing the salt and pepper shakers to be found in their backpacks later.

I can only start with the obvious Imus Assholus statement that is apparently confusing everyone. They seem to think that linking his comment to every black person’s racist comment made since the beginning of time is necessary. Or perhaps they’re just trying to flummox us with the filthy thoughts of hos and equate them to college educated female athletes.

It’s a strategem as old as the hills: first, make a comment or wave a flag or dress in blackface with 40 ounce malt liquor bottles in your hand, feign ignorance or innocence or both, and then force blacks to defend why the action was hurtful. Leave it up to blacks to explain to you that what you said, how you acted, or what you did was painful.

Nappy headed hos. I was just kidding! It was a joke! Can’t you take a joke?

This is my flag and my heritage and I’ll put it on the bumper of my car and on my t-shirt and wave it at my state’s capital building if I want to! You can’t tell me what to do! You must not know your history if you want me to get rid of the Confederate flag!

Oh, stop your complaining! It was a party. Don’t you enjoy dressing up like a white person from time to time on a white person’s holiday and taking pictures of it? You just don’t know how to have a good time!

Behave, then accuse. That’s the ruse. It’s also the rub. It rubs the wrong way.

One of the op-ed pieces that ran in my paper was from a Washington Post Writers Group member, Kathleen Parker. She postulates that we aren’t forgiving Imus fast enough, that “Piling on is awfully fashionable at the moment” when, in fact, we’re merely asking for people to accept responsibility for their actions. I’ve said it before here, referring to myself: there is no freedom of speech. There is always a price.

She also goes on to mention that “It was also racist”, but she fails to mention that it was also misogynistic. Do I have to spend time explaining that to this priveleged, white woman? It seems as if I’ve done this before too many times to count. It gets weary.

I don’t ever pretend to speak for “all” people whether they’re black or white or teachers or mothers or wives. But I feel safe in saying that black people are TIRED of always explaining to whites WHY what they did or said was wrong. Would it be enough if we simply said, “Hey. You know what? Being called a nappy headed ho was very painful. Especially since I’m a college student trying to work toward a career while playing a sport. It’s really hard to study and get good grades and be an athlete, so can you stop calling me names? Thanks. That would be great.”

“Hey. You know what? That confederate flag is a part of my heritage, too. It’s a painful reminder of the past when my family were slaves. When my people were ravaged and raped and my culture was denigrated. I’m not too fond of it. Can you stop waving it in my face on your t-shirts and trucks and state capitols that make up MY legislative assembly? Thanks. That would sure be nice.”

“Hey. You know what? Dressing up in black face and putting stuffing in your pants and taping malt liquor to your hands on the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday was very insensitive and rude. It hurt my feelings. I didn’t like it. Can you stop making me uncomfortable with that? Thanks. I know my family who loves me and knows me intimately is wounded by it.”

In her article she goes on to say:

Black hip-hop artists have been denigrating the women of their families and neighborhoods for years with terminology that reduces all women to receptacles for men’s pleasure. Sharpton and Jackson would do well to direct some of their outrage to that neck of the woods.

Instead of a comment for her, I actually have a question. Are you, too, responsible for directing your outrage at those artists? Is it only for blacks to address other blacks behaving badly in the rap world? So you’re saying that black people are responsible for other black people?

I didn’t make a mistake there. I meant “rap”. It is the “rap” world. Not the “hip hop” world. The fact that a Washington Post writer doesn’t even know the difference between the two makes my point for me. What “hip hop” is she listening to anyway? Does she know about the verbal skills and social consciousness promoted by the hip hop underground? Would she know how to find the music of Talib Kweli and Blackalicious and Mos Def? What does she know about De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest? I’m not even naming the truly underground hip hop artists, but ones that are mainstream. (Dear iTunes, Please do a better job of distinguishing the two genres. Hip Hop needs it’s own category. When you linked it with “rap” you really only featured rap. I notice you didn’t do that with “dance” and “electronic” so you have the capability. Get someone who knows music on that, would you? Thanks.)

Yes, it’s a little clubby at times, mutually admiring and self-absorbed, but those characteristics also create a sense of relaxed intimacy that is part of the show’s attraction.

If relaxed intimacy was attractive for his little “club”, then perhaps Imus just gave blacks a taste of what whites truly feel for them. His slip of the tongue on the radio just gave everyone an idea of what they say behind closed doors. Do I have that right or do you secretly portray blacks in favorable circumstances when you’re by yourselves?

It doesn’t take much to discredit Pat Robertson, but I must say that the people who blindly and ignorantly listen to him won’t even question this remark seen on You Tube:

“Yes, what he says is pretty gross… but, the main problem we’re dealing with here is not this remark, it’s the treatment of black women by black men.”

We’re confusing a lot of issues here. Hip hop and rap are NOT the same. The treatment of black women PERIOD, not by black men, is something we don’t talk about but to discuss it in relation to the Imus statement is absurd. Don’t confuse the issue by bringing up the Duke case, either. Do you think it’s a coincidence that the Duke story broke last week in the midst of this? If so, this calls for a lesson in Media 101.

People coming to his defense have tried, unsuccessfully, to express what he really meant. That he wasn’t a racist, but he made a racist comment. That he was joking. That his humanitarian efforts far outweigh the fact that he called black players “nappy headed hos” and the white players “cute”. Humanitarians, last time I checked, are concerned with or seek to promote human welfare. His comments did not do that.

To have truly learned a lesson here I really would like to have seen him keep his job, but to see a noticable change in his efforts. The real trick with being a “genius” (far too loosely thrown around a term) is to continue his political commentary, retain his sponsors and advertisers, and find a way to help change the racism in this country. Imus can’t do it alone, but I would have genuinely stuck around to watch that happen.

I’m here to watch other things happen. Things that may seem small and insignificant, but that affect me greatly. In writing about them, I chance alienation, but how much worse could that be?

When I started to seriously write last year I also had to seriously read. Most of the people I was interested in reading were popular bloggers who were getting opportunities that seemed incredible to me. They were being invited on a trip to Amsterdam to discuss the world of blogging. I jumped from blog to blog on the links they provided to see who else was going and was intensely disappointed to find that only Liza Sabater of Culture Kitchen was respresenting bloggers of color (and if I’m wrong about this, please correct me - because I checked the list again and didn’t see any) Where was that fair represenation? I wondered. Where are the black SAHM who write for a living?

Again, this year I recently read about bloggers being invited to view a taping and live interview session for the television show The New Adventures of Old Christine. Sure, I noticed a little diversity there. But again, where were the black bloggers? Were they certain that no black people watched the show and decided to forgo an opportunity for them? Still, when I read AlphaMom I’m not at all surprised that they feature Dooce, Melissa, and Amalah….three white women.

One of the last things I did before “quitting” this blog (don’t even go there right now) was leaving a comment for the Soccer Moms asking where the moms of color were. They responded in the most positive way - they invited me to join. The problem for me was an issue of time - one of my worst qualities besides drinking out of the milk container and scratching myself in public is that I overextend myself on projects. I had to say no to them, but I did promise to lead an all-call for black bloggers to respond to their plea of creating diverse political opinions. They still want you. Where are you? Are you out there reading this? You need to let them know.

It’s the being absent and invisible that is the worst. Imus can say what he wants. He has that freedom of speech, but let’s not confuse that issue either - you may say what you want and not be thrown in jail so long as you don’t overtly threaten the lives of others. Make no mistake, there is still a price to be paid for your words. Once again, the problem is not that people are being held accountable for their words, it’s that it’s taken so long for that to occur.

A friend of mine from class last week wondered, “Why is this happening now? What about when Jimmy the Greek made those comments over 20 years ago? Nothing happened to him. Why not?”

Black people have been wondering that for a long time.

The perpetuation of sterotypes is what is killing us. Let me offer a few examples. First, I think about the ridiculousness of VH1’s “Flavor of Love” and how, incredulously, they continued by giving New York her own show after that. There are a few colleagues of mine who were discussing it one day and saying how much enjoyment they get out of that show. Besides the intellectual decline it provides, it also gives an excuse for them to attribute those qualities to all blacks. The same thing happened with the first season of “The Apprentice” when everyone only discussed Omarosa. Even at the very beginning, I could see how they were going to get their ratings and it was an old trick: create a scary, angry black bitch character and watch your audience increase. How tiring. But it was the end that bothered me the most. The benign tasks given to Bill and Kwame seemed so bland that there was no clear winner. During the commercial break I commented to my husband that I would no longer watch this show or any other reality show if the white guy won.

Why not?

Because of the lesson in racism.

What lesson?

The lesson that we’ll all learn if the white guy wins again. The lesson for all little black boys watching this show. The lesson we won’t talk about in the media but in small circles when it’s safe: you can be a black man with an MBA from Harvard, but you still won’t beat the white guy with a 4-year state university degree.

It’s the “club” that is still the hurtful part of our society, our world. There is a “club”, but we rarely talk about their responsibility in race relations. When others form their own “clubs” to combat racism that seems to be taken to task more than the original “club”. It comes in the form of accusatory questioning.

Why do we need Affirmative Action?

Why are women’s rights so important?

Again, we defend. We try to explain. Even this very post is because of the numerous emails from friends and readers who wanted to know how I felt and what I really risk here is another example of defense: they will want to correct me and have me defend my words instead of listening to the plea behind them and taking them to heart. Issues will cloud and confuse, but the heart of it is a rift long-standing in this country so I know I won’t change anybody’s feelings with my small contribution.

“The black-white rift stands at the very center of American history. It is the great challenge to which all our deepest aspirations to freedom must rise. If we forget that - if we forget the great stain of slavery that stands at the heart of our country, our history, our experiement - we forget who we are, and we make the great rift deeper and wider.” - Ken Burns

• Attending Tupperware parties and bringing home leftover deviled eggs.
• Driving a station wagon. The original beacon for Yes, I Have Stretch Marks.
• Having a martini at 5pm every day. Damn. Not doing that one yet. Whyyyyyy?
• Baking cookies for the PTA parties where we really discuss the best ways to cook a pot roast and not so much how the children are doing in school.
• Worrying about my thighs.
• Listening to Carole King on the car radio where I belt out tunes when no one else is in the car.
• Trying to make anything that Julia Child was baking on television, but noooooo I have to look at that skinny Giada when I watch a cooking show. Bring back the voluptuous Nigella, please.
• Perfecting my skill at using spray starch when ironing. Sadly, I have not a clue.
• Using my electric standing mixer bowl to create delicious treats. I wouldn’t even know where to begin with that sucker.
• Clipping coupons on a regular basis, organizing them into lovely little piles, and being able to find them when it’s time to go to the grocery store. That is so not happening in my lifetime.
• Being able to discuss which cereal has the most vitamins and minerals for my family. (13? Is that enough? Oh, I don’t think so. Look for something with at least 42 so I don’t have to take a Flintstones vitamin, ok?)
• Slowing down in the drug store aisle to casually and nonchalantly find out the age I should be to begin taking Geritol.
• Worrying about fiber. Wait. I do that now.

Obviously, I read too much Erma Bombeck as a kid since I based my grown up life on her. Still, I have yet to attend a Tupperware party. Instead, I spent my 36th Birthday last week in South Beach learning how to salsa and merengue and no, I did NOT come home with a new tattoo, but Erma would probably be proud even if I did. I wanted to be either Erma, Sophia Loren, or Charo when I was a little girl. Somehow, I think I accomplished it. Cuchi-cuchi, y’all.

There is a thin line that separates laughter and pain, comedy and tragedy, humor and hurt - Erma Bombeck

You know how I am with useless information, so here’s more: whether you have one haiku or seventy of them, the word does not have an S at the end. You don’t have haikus. You always have haiku. I’m not sure why the word can’t be pluralized, but there you have it. So, I offer several haiku.

So, did you notice?

All my flickr pics are gone

Except for the shoes

Resume building

Plus interview readiness

Could mean a new job

Important new job

Doesn’t jar with the blog life

What’s a gal to do?

Some heartfelt gestures

Have been taken the wrong way

To which I say crap

The last comment here?

Some of it was on target

The rest of it? Ouch.

You’ve been watching me

Hey! All you district people

You and your big mouths

Difficult to say

This blog has come to an end

Difficult to say

You have to know that I have read every word recently of things that you write in the comments and that it’s really weird for me to directly address readers because that’s not how this whole thing started out. It is no mistake, this Web 2.0, this relationship building we do online, this oddly-formed bond we have. The comments from my Valentine’s Post were unexpected because mostly I thought you would simply say, “Well, I like your hair. You have nice hair.” Us girls who have Black Girl Hair tend to need to hear such things.

Then, I wrote about these favorable times for me when anything seems possible and, once again, you come through with encouraging words. They’re not lost on me even though I can no longer respond to every comment. I read them all and sometimes laugh aloud or tear up.

But my share of less-than-orange days reared up again after feeling fine. Suffice to say that everyone at my work isn’t happy with my recent accolades about conference speaking. Jealousy is an ugly utensil for the purpose of heaping our own bullshit on one another and I am not immune to the sting of it.

I am not unsusceptible to having a co-worker tell me that a really good friend of mine said ‘hello’ through her because she never sees me anymore. I don’t go over for coffee or spend my Sundays in her living room and she had to speak to me through someone else.

I am not secure against the other friend who sent me the most hurtful e-mail I’ve ever gotten accusing me of being selfish because my time spent studying has taken the number one spot in my life for the past two years. Oh, I’ve also spent time blogging and she seems to hate that, too. I don’t care how strong people say I am, “You suck in the friendship category” is painful to hear. Maybe I will stop joking that “it is all about me” because I suppose she took that seriously.

I am not impervious to working harder on work and school than my marriage and watching it crumble around me. What other words could be said about that even fail me now, but since I’m still addressing you, just know that you aren’t required to comment on that one. Nothing makes me sadder than to think that you’d say something like “Hang in there” or “It’ll all work out” just to be able to say SOMEthing.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful anyone thinks I’m humorous or that they like to see me do stupid things in photographs. I also know that most readers spend less than 3 minutes reading my site so I’m bound to lose people today. But the facts are that when I’m feeling shitty and unsupportive, I tend to get really pissy and want to defend myself. There is a strong urge for me to even use the words I heard people said about me last week against them. I’m fighting it, but what I really, really, REALLY want to say to teachers today is:

Hey. Last week? When I was in Chicago? When I was RESUME-BUILDING? (At this point I will stop and look around for the guilty party who slung around that term so I can raise an eyebrow, purse my lips, and mutter “Mmm Hmm” to signify that YES, I KNOW IT WAS YOU) .Yeah, well I spent my own time and my own energies creating a power point from which I had to research an awful lot about our school. You know what else? I shared data from our school that you probably don’t even know about so here… let me do my spiel for you that I did for them during the conference. Sit back and shut up and WATCH MY POWER POINT.

But people have encouraged me to “take the high road”. Blah freaking blah icky blah. It’s no fun always doing that! I want to shove it in their faces that they should have been proud of me and happy that one of their teachers isn’t just GOING to conferences, but SPEAKING at them.

Sometimes I’m so naive it’s ridiculous.

Maybe I don’t have a lot to say on it right now, but the orangelessness is obviously apparent. I’ll sort it out.

Right.

Whatever it was that I had in mind when I started this is a faint memory now. It began as a challenge to myself and there was the added bonus of being held accountable to a community of people. I am a wealthy woman, indeed.

It ended up being something entirely altered with the outpouring of support. Each time today became unbearable at work I thought about this again. No one could take this feeling from me. Not the arguing students in the hallway or the work that piled up as I perused work e-mails that needed answering or the bitchy person who has been trying to engage me in a confrontation. Not that I’m not concerned about her because I am fairly certain, in light of recent events, that she sleeps upside down.

Even she couldn’t take this away from me.

There are a few movies I watch that get me every. single. time. You know the ones. It doesn’t matter how many times you see a scene, you feel the powerful emotions associated with it each time afterward when you view it again.

When the crowd cheers for Rudy as he goes onto the football field.

When Ray calls out, “Hey… Dad? Wanna have a catch?” in Field of Dreams.

When Harry toasts his brother in It’s A Wonderful Life.

Thinking on these things, I wonder if everyone does this. Yet, it quickens my brain to wonder about all the people who continue to want to help. Yesterday I had to stay on top of my e-mail or else I would have been swamped with returning messages. Each time I wonder, “Who are these generous souls? Why have they willingly and effortlessly raised their hands to shout ‘I WANT TO HELP’ so easily? What did I say that struck a nerve?”

No matter what I’m doing when those movies are on, I will stop it to watch those scenes and it will break me up each time. It’s not as if I don’t know what’s going to happen. On the contrary, I do. I wait for it to take me over and make me feel like I felt the first time I experienced the movie.

It is that letting the feeling take me over bit that I can see coming. Each time I opened a message from someone yesterday I knew it was happening and could see into the future when their letters will come and there is a sense that I will turn into a watery puddle as envelopes are gingerly held in my hands knowing that selflessness and love both contributed to it traveling to me. Getting it to the kids who need will be the very thing that smothers me in that good stuff, continuing to make me wealthy.

May you be smothered, too.