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.

 

So I Know It’s Real [ Part I ]

I always say that the only way I know it’s “real” is if you make me a Spotify (or your mode/medium of choice — it could be an old school “burned” mix CD for all I care) playlist. And I mean it.

When I say “it’s real”, it can mean any number of things. But if you purport to feel any kind of way (good, bad, ugly or otherwise) about me, the only way I’ll take it seriously is if there is a playlist attached to it.

Do you miss me? Do you want me? Are you sorry? Do you hate me? Do you love me? Make me a playlist.

That said, this playlist is for you. You’ll know who you are if you listen to it. This playlist is intentional (and carefully curated). I don’t know if you’ll stumble across this. I guess that’s for the universe to decide. Not you, but you. You know who you are.

But y’all should listen to it, too. There are some dope tracks.

He Did Me Dirty.

I directed a friend of mine to my blog (to TWO specific posts), to provide a glimpse into my reality, and what has framed my last few years.

After catching up on some of my messiness, he responded, “Whoa…Homeboy did you dirty.”

And all I could think was…yeah, he sure the fuck did.

And I got to thinking…and thinking. And thinking.

To lighten the heaviness (I suppose), he also mentioned that white girls aren’t his cup of tea.

That was such an appropriate response after he read my messy, spilled guts. I kind of loved it.

For the record, he was interested in the goings on that shifted my physical reality as it relates to health & wellness. I’m really not on any petty shit. But I have to be real and tell it like it is.

I also shared this. He responded aptly, “Ayooo…you let the homie smash?

I have to exercise some accountability, right?

“…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.