Blast From the Past.

Talk about a blast from the past (not sure why I’m using that phrase). Remember my FWB? The guy who I dated (I use that term in the loosest way possible — I was really only interested in the benefits, to be honest) briefly, who ended up eye rollknocking up my friend, and other assorted shenanigans. Yeah, him.

His crazy ass resurfaced last night. He sent me a friend request on Facebook (from some unknown, shady looking page). He doesn’t use his name or picture to identify himself on this page (it’s a nickname, accompanied by a picture of…wait for it… money). I had to search through his friends list to realize it was him (because of course, his request wasn’t sent with a message).

The message FWB sent me on Facebook. Note: I teach college..nothing creepy going on here.

Digressing a bit. He sent me a pathetic message on Facebook a couple of months ago (to which I didn’t reply).

I’ve long since moved on from that mess. If I’m being completely honest, though, I was very tempted to reply with some sarcastic digs about him having two (discovered one night while searching court records, and seeing two very recent child support cases) new babies with two different broads (this is in addition to the baby he had with my ex friend).

But, I was able to restrain my petty, and ignored him.

Fast forward to the friend request last night. Of course I didn’t accept it. Once again, it took a lot to restrain myself from being petty and verbally assaulting him.

I had to keep that door closed. I deleted the request. I should’ve blocked him, but I’ll admit that it does make me feel good to know that for whatever reason, I still cross his mind.

Sidenote: He misspelled suave on his Facebook page. He spelled it “sauve”. If he wasn’t completely dead to me, that was certainly the nail in his coffin.

There’s No Expiration Date.

Last night, I had a conversation with my ex who felt some kind of way that I still choose to tell his chapter of my story — almost 5 years later. I thought I was doing something admirable by holding myself accountable and not painting a total victim portrait.

He asked if it was “my new identity”. That kind of threw me for a loop, because it never occurred to me that there was an expiration date on its relevance.

He proceeded to “remind me” about the other more “relevant” things I have going on in my life. It was an effort, I think, to dismiss the gravity of his participation in an awful time in my life (that has had dire consequences on my physical health — lingering to this day).

Oh, he also claimed that he was “worried about me”, because I still choose to speak on it. GTFOH.

It reminded me of white folks’ favorite rebuttal when Black folks bring up slavery: That happened a long time ago. Get over it.

His effort to gaslight me, and the significance of my story really got me thinking.

I own my story and my feelings. And I can’t dismiss that the events that transpired nearly five years ago have had a lasting impact on my physical health. I have a chronic illness that is exacerbated by stress. I think it goes without saying that caused me immeasurable stress — any my body let me know.

And that’s relevant.

So, I have to tell my story sometimes. It provides a frame of reference. And I own it.

As a Black woman, for example, slavery isn’t my identity. It happened, it was awful, and its truth needs to be spoken.

The same goes for my story. Apologies if your chapter makes you feel some kind of way.

 

“…But All Beckies are White Women.”

This article popped up in my Facebook news feed this morning. And for obvious reasons (to those of you who follow this blog), it spoke to me. Like, on a visceral level.

The 5 Types of ‘Becky’

Becky: (noun); a white woman who uses her privilege as a weapon, a ladder or an excuse. Ex: “A random Becky hit me up on Twitter to explain why not all white women are racist.” What started as a controversial term for fellatio has blossomed into an all-encompassing term for a specific class of white women.

Especially problematic to me (for personal reasons), is the “Beckeisha.” According to author Michael Harriot, “For this subset of Beckies, culture, history and black Bitch, please.penis are all disposable commodities for them to use and discard at their whim. In their belief system, you can’t be offended when they appropriate a culture or call something ‘ghetto,’ because they don’t have a racist bone in their body.”

I, personally, add the caveat that they often refer to their biracial (products of the fetishization of disposable Black penis alluded to in the article) children as the offensive, problematic and racist term mulatto (trying to be cute), and name them uber Black names (for which they have no cultural reference), that they’ve co-opted in an effort to be hip, quirky and pseudo-down (while also giving them dumb ass nicknames — variations on the Black culturally significant — and appropriated birth names).

Yes, I’m being petty tonight. And mad passive aggressive with the subliminal shots. This struck a nerve.

In any case, please read the article. Harriot gives us some gems.

*Also notable are “Rebas”, whose identifying call is: “not all white women…” (which I’m sure some are muttering now). It’s very telling how the five types of Beckies tend to overlap a bit.

But hey, white privilege.

White women think they can do what the fuck they want, apparently.

Reclaiming My Time: On Why I’m Not Attending My Class Reunion.

So, my 20 year high school class reunion is coming up next year. All the hoopla is starting already vis-à-vis Facebook groups, people I haven’t talked to (or thought about) in 20 years coming out of the woodwork, etc.

I’m pretty proud of where I am 20 years later. And, I think I still look pretty good. That said, I will not be attending. And I am unapologetic about it. In the words of Auntie Maxine Waters, I’m “reclaiming my time.”

So, why am I not attending? It’s really not that complicated.

My (long time ex) boyfriend (of ten years) married a woman in my graduating class (we weren’t friends, but acquaintances).

“Well, that’s not that bad, you’re trippin'”, you might be thinking.

The thing is, they hooked up while he and I were still together — living together, in fact. She knew it, and didn’t give a fuck (I mean, she really didn’t need to give a fuck about me; I don’t expect her to — but y’all know what they say about how a relationship begins — it typically ends the same way; plus it’s mad thirsty and snaky).

Nonetheless, I found out he was cheating, moved out (of his condo), and to make a long story short, they ended up getting married.

In any case, I’ve long since moved on from that situation. I harbor no hard feelings (a tinge of petty anger, yes — but, bitterness, no; there is a difference). Hell, he and I even keep in touch, sporadically (Well, we did — I’m sure that will cease now that I’ve spoken my truth, and asserted my right to control the narrative).

Having said that, why in hell would I voluntarily subject myself to being in the same spaces as the happy couple. Especially around people who know both wifey and I — some of them knowing what went down. Why would I participate in that? There’s no doubt that there are folks who would take pleasure absorbing the negative energy emanating from that elephant in the room. I just want no part of it.

So, there you have it. I am not going to my reunion because I will not subject myself to the side eyes and discomfort of watching a woman I graduated with prance around with my (then attached) ex-boyfriend that she managed to marry.

Plus, fuck high school reunions and all they represent. Meanwhile, I’ll just be sippin’ my tea, and reclaiming MY TIME. In other words, my time and comfort are much too valuable to participate in a charade society deems somehow meaningful. Why open up an old wound that I will be forced to nurse back closed? No. Just no.

** Also, please refrain from tagging me/contacting me on social media about anything related to this charade. And, feel free to continually reference this post, if you remain confused.

Relishing A Sister’s Misfortune.

JAY-Z, 4:44Like most of you, I have been caught up in JAY-Z’s latest album, 4:44, all weekend. The album is dope, as are many of the think-pieces I’ve been reading, dissecting its dopeness. The album spoke to me and my reality on many levels (a separate post forthcoming), but interestingly, a think-piece about the album, highlighting a somewhat separate (at least on the surface) issue, has me feeling some kind of way.

Sis, We Gotta Stop Letting Black Men Ruin Us – Crystal deGregory Ph.D. – Medium

An open letter to black women who’ve listened to Jay-Z’s 4:44 and are waiting on an apology from the men who did you wrong. This could easily be a conversation about how Beyoncé lost her mind, her career, or her literal life behind Jay-Z. But, thankfully, it is not.

Honestly, the entire article speaks to me, but this quote is particularly poignant:

“That’s right. We gotta stop celebrating ruinous men ruining any woman —even a woman who has betrayed our Sisterhood’s” sacred trust. We made him and his situation look so good that Sister really thought she was getting herself a prize — a poison that looked like it tasted so good, she was willing to steal it because of her own desperate thirst.”

Okay. Those of you who read this blog know that I have had my share of experiences with no good, “ruinous”, ain’t shit men. Most particularly, my ex-FWB. I knew he wasn’t shit when I hooked up with him, but as you may recall, my ex-friend highlighted just how ain’t shit he was, and set into motion a set of sneaky, snaky events that ultimately ended our friendship.

To sum it up, she slept with him, lied about it, started a fraud ass relationship with him, got knocked up, and the rest is history. You may also recall that she ended up reaching out to me a bit after the baby was born, humbling herself to “apologize” and tell me just how ain’t shit she found out he was (a “you told me so” moment from which I took copious amounts of pleasure) — denying their baby, “cheating on her”, knocking up another woman. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Ex-FWB & some chick he knocked up.

Digressing a bit, you know when you’re bored, on social media, and you go down that rabbit hole, searching and scouring looking for shit? Well, last week, I went down that rabbit hole, and found this photo of ex-FWB from January, with some other broad he knocked up (likely, the woman my ex-friend mentioned). The petty in me wanted to anonymously e-mail it to my ex-friend. But, truth be told, she’s probably seen it. Point being, I took pleasure in imagining my ex-friend’s pain. Like a lot.

It was beautiful — glorious, really — being able to experience karma (and its justice being rightly served). However, reading the words in the aforementioned article really made me pause. I’m sitting with it for a while.