On Men, Stupid Women, and Being a Lesbian

It would be easy for one to come to the conclusion that I probably hate ? or if the word appears too strong ? dislike men.  No.  Not true.  Some would even say because of my experiences in life, I am a lesbian.  Also wrong.  I neither hate men nor do I give a man, or any man, the power over my choices.  I chose to love women.  I always knew I was different.  I just did not possess the adequate vocabulary necessary to convey what that difference was.   I fell in love with Carolyn when I was 14 years old.  No, not because of the boy down the street, not because of my cousin, not because Chico always chased me to school.  No, it was because I found her so beautiful.  I loved her smile, the way she walked, her afro.  I just loved her.  So much so, I even pretended to be the boy who sang in Black Ivory ? my supposed cousin ? in order to talk to her, over the phone, late at night.  God, I loved her.  I used to call her, adjust my voice to sound like a girl trying to sound like a boy, and would talk to her.  She had to know it was me.  But, neither one of us said anything. 

Did I have any exposure to lesbians.  Yes, I did.  There were two women who lived across the street from me.  My mother called them the women in the pink framed house.  Sometimes, in consideration of the economy of time, we would just say ?pink framings?  when referencing either one of the two ladies.  One was white, though she said she was fair.  The other was Black never said anything.  I think I heard her voice once and what I remember of her voice was the same melodic voice of another woman I loved as a child, Mavis Staples.  I don?t remember what she said only that she said something.  Her voice was melodic.  Now she was a rather large woman who would always find life most enjoyable in a pair of blue overalls ? old, old, overalls, the ones that are turning white in the most worn places.  Having a vocabulary today, I know she was butch.  Now the butch ? or as we often referred to them as the Black one and the fair one ? I?m referring now to the Black one ? could play the piano.  Listening to her play the piano was like listening to God Himself.  She played as if there were no breaks from key to key.  The music just flowed as if it were one long note from one melodic key.  She also possessed a certain joy unlike anything I?ve ever seen before or since and it was majestically displayed when she smiled.  What a grand piano smile.  You knew, when she smiled, this woman possessed a secret joy.  And for all those who talked about THOSE TWO WOMEN, I knew when I heard them talk, when they jeered, and judged, they did not possess the joy this woman possessed in her heart.  To look at her smile, was to look into the face of love.  Though I never talked with her, or spent time with her, I often wished I had.  It is truly sad, that in a judgmental society as our own, the greatest treasures often go undiscovered because they may look or act different.   I often regret never spending any time with her.  Not because my mother would have prohibited any communication, no I did not speak with her because of fear from my peers.  That in some way I would be associated as LIKE THOSE TWO WOMEN by even talking with them.  So, yes, it is society?s judgments and the fear of those judgements that keep our society from claiming its wealth.  And that, my friends, sad as it is, makes up the majority population. 

So, being the studious and observant person I am, I realized I needed to forgive the men who hurt me.  I found this to be a liberating and revolutionary experience.  I will not be a slave to circumstance.  I have far better things to do in my life, even if that means doing it with one eye, one leg, one toe, or one arm ? I have far better things to do with my time.  I don?t hate men. 

To hate a man would be to hate myself because it took a man to bring me here.  To hate men would mean I hate my father.  Though I am not aware of him doing anything to harm me ? I say that because it has been suspected ? I don?t know it to be true, so it is not my issue ? and equally, since he did die when I was seven years old ? I love him.  He married my mother, he tried to make a way for his family, he was responsible, he spent money like it was water ? well, now that?s my mother?s issue ? did not pay the bills on time ? now that?s my issue, I got that from him ? he might have cheated on my mother ? again, not my issue.  You see, he was a man doing the best he knew how in a bad situation.  At least he tried to do a little something with the little something he knew.  Does it make him a bad person, because he spent money like water?  When he died, the only money we had to bury him with was the little money by mother had put away when he gave her money to shop and she shopped like a miser and put a little bit away for a rainy day.  No, it merely makes him human. 

Are the rapists bad people?  No, they?re only human.  Are the child molesters bad people?  No, they?re only human.  Are the drug addicts bad people?  No, they?re only human and they suffer from the same experience.  They are addicted to their condition.  I was an alcoholic.  Does that make me a bad person?  No, it makes me human.  I was a slave to my condition.  I felt unloved.  I never verbalized it, but it was felt.  I felt stupid, dumb, can?t do nothing right, don?t need to be on this earth kind of person.  And, I was addicted to this condition.  I blamed everything and attacked everyone on my condition.  My condition and I were the best of friends.  We rose together in the morning, we ate together, we fought together, we went to bed together and everyone who called themselves loving me had to love my condition too.  It went without saying.  I understand the child molesters, the rapists, the drug addicts, the alcoholics, I understand them. That which you don?t understand, you fear and what you fear, you attack. 

So, when you make your next sandwich and you pull out those two slices of bread, one called understanding the other called attack and you place the meat of fear upon the slices and you load it down with the vocabulary of mayonaise and you chomp down hard on your perfectly made sandwich, call me and tell me what fear tastes like.  Chew slowly on the meat.  Is it bitter?  Swallow the fear and feel the indigestion welling within you.  Then, spew the words of attack brought on my your ingestion of fear.  But don?t get too close to me for I will know you lack understanding.   I don?t have time to waste on that kind of energy.  That?s why I don?t hate men.  I understand them. 

Before anyone goes off on me about bad men.  I know.  I dated some of them.  But there are two parts to that equation.  There are some bad men out there and the best supporting role goes to stupid women.  The stupid women would include, mothers, sisters, aunts, nieces, and their girlfriends.  By the time the man gets to the girlfriend he usually has been tainted by mamma.  Well meaning mamma who let him get away with everything and then, as seen on TV, shout to the rafters ? ?he was a good boy.  My baby, oh, my baby.?   Stupid women! 

Sister in the grocery store asking the darker child why he can?t be more like his brother ? the lighter one.  Grows up to be an angry young man who attacks all the lighter complexioned women because he knows they neither like nor want him.

Sister at home, sitting wild on the couch talking about the daddy or daddies of her children and speaking as if she has acquired some mystical wisdom into the future of her child saying he will never amount to nothing because ?your daddy didn?t amount to nothing.?  Grows up an angry man hating women. 

I have actually heard these words.  I have experienced these words.  Stupid women.  My mother would have ripped out another ass hole if either one of us did anything contrary to her house rules.  I know this because I have several new ass holes myself.  They are all the work of my mother.  I was the more daring and precocious one.  I tested and challenged everything.  But, both she and I rank right up there as stupid women.  We have made our fair contribution to the ranks of bad men out there.  My brother is one of them.  He?s not as bad as he could be, but his badness is a direct result of two stupid women, my mother and I ?the girlfriends came later.  But, we were the first. 

My mother had a double standard ? one for boys and one for girls.  I stay out until 9:00 in the morning and I?m grounded, I can?t go out, I get no peace for weeks or months.  My brother stumbles in after noon and he gets nothing.  She said it was because girls are different than boys and there are all kinds of things that can happen to girls.  Hello?  Excuse me?  Emmitt Till was a boy.  You see, what I?ve seen and read has told me boys don?t come back home.  They die.  That is a finite position juxtaposed against the infinite possibilities you hold for your son.   Anything can be seen two ways.  He, knowing what awaits him in the street daily, will think you hold the safety of your daughter?s personage higher than you regard his.  Which will equate to nothing more than ?you don?t care about me as much as you care about your daughter.?  This is a statement I too have heard from the mouths of men.  That is why I do not hate men.  They are a victim of and addicted to their condition. 

When I read Soul on Ice.  I saw some very dangerous words expressed by Bobby Seale.  He started out raping black women first, before he began his quest for equality and before making his statement against racism by raping white women.  We, as sisters, were thought of as practice material.  After becoming quite good at his raping abilities, he turned his best efforts to white women.  If you want to dodge that hidden point, feel free.  I did not.  He didn?t think enough of me to not rape me.  He didn?t think enough of me to rape me only.  No, he thought of me as practice material in preparation for white women.  What kind of shit is that?  This same dude, years later, designed a pair of pants for Black men where they could hang their penis?.  Excuse me?  So, I thought, this is where man derives his power.  And rape is an act of power.  Now, I get it.  If a man, in his condition, feels powerless; then the addiction he has to his condition will incite him to use his perceived power to get power ? one individual at a time. 

Now a word about stupid men  -- for the fathers.  Man gives his son Playboy, Hustler, whatever and says ?look at the tits on that one.?  Boy is ready freddy to have and to hold this magazine.  He goes off to the sanctuary of his room, the centerfold and freddy ? and he wacks, and he wacks, and he wacks until he gives her his best shot ? probably in a sock.  He closes the magazine and he puts it away ? on a shelf or between the mattress. 

Father takes his son to a whorehouse and pays for his first hit and the lick of a tit ? or blowjob.  Daddy pays the money, they walk out the door and they both say wow.  She is never seen again.

Brother pops in the porno flick, listens to women say, fuck me baby, fuck me, ooooh yeah, with puffed up, bleached out hair or weaves, acting for the camera and he wacks, and he wacks til he blows his own house down, then he pops out the video, turns on the game and probably, goes to sleep.  The girls return only when he wants another romp. 

I cannot be mad at a man that was told it is okay to use a woman when you feel you want one and drop her when you?re done.  Does it make him a bad man?  No, it makes him human.  He?s just doing a little something with the little something he knows.  And when you don?t act like the women in the video, or the woman in the whorehouse, or the pro on the street, or the woman in the magazine that he made up words for her to say, when you don?t act like them ? you?re a bitch, you?re manipulative, you?re frigid.  ?A refrigerator has more warmth than you? one man told to his wife. 

Is he a bad man because I lack understanding of his reality?  No.  Am I a bad woman because I lack understanding of his reality?  No.  Is he a bad man because he lacks understanding of my reality?  No.  Am I a bad woman because he lacks understanding of my reality?  No.  We are both human and addicted to our own condition.  A house divided cannot stand.  We need to communicate.  We need understanding.  That is why I tell my straight friends, ask for what you want.  Because, if I were married (and I don?t plan on it -- I don?t even believe in the institution), I would tell my husband, before we even got the ball rolling, you will go down on me.  When I press myself into your mouth you will vow to not loose contact with the fruit you will then possess and you will suck until I explode.  We can do it on the ceiling, across the kitchen table, doggy style; we can get kinky, freaky, sneaky, I may talk dirty, and if by chance I should get froggy once more, you will lay upon me ? missionary.  In essence, you will have to spell it out for them.  Ask for what you want.  Don?t sit back and play the role of victim.  They are just doing a little something with the little something they know.  If they don?t know, they can?t do much. 

When I hear women refer to a man as a dog, I will be looking for the bitch.  And I mean that in the most literal sense of female dog.  Because if he is a male dog, then the bitch is close by.  I know this to be true because I created a many a dog.  I was a bitch.  Before I had understanding ? you hurt me, I hurt back.   I was the bitch come to get it all.  Welding a knife I took the dick and both balls.  And I did it with such a smile, charming I was.  Turned around, blew a kiss and all that was left of the man was fuzz.  I was a bitch.  For every woman that wanted a man I dated, and if she got him after I decided we were through, she got him and I laughed.  And they ? these women ? were dogged and yes, I was the bitch that was not far behind them.  I was addicted to my condition.  I lacked understanding of the men I involved myself with ? In fact, I didn?t even try to understand them because I felt if you cared anything about me, you wouldn?t hurt me.  And oh boy, if and when you hurt me, did I not come with all guns blasting. 

I never looked at ? again, lacking understanding ? my fear of them taking their love from me.  I mean, here I was, at this time, carrying the decomposing corpses of my father leaving me when I needed him most.  My cousin who molested me, the boys who raped me.  I had a whole crowd of people hanging off my back.  I had stinking, puss filled, maggot infestated, bodies on my back.  Did I gross you out enough?  So, you understand my baggage?  I didn?t like me.  These men had the same kind of baggage ? their condition ? on their backs.  If he is late to his own job, he?s not going to be on time for our date.   So, knowing the guy couldn?t get to his job on time, I still expected him to do more for me than he was doing for himself.  They guys knew too.  They knew if they said they?d be there at 7:00 and it was 7:10 ? they knew I was gone.  I was a drama queen that did not accept late.  I did not stick around, plain and simple.  I?d leave the house going somewhere and if and when he showed up, I would not be there. 

The sad part about that is, when you create enough drama to cause a man to do more for you than he is doing for himself, it sets up resentment and some of these men were very good men too.  They began, unknowingly, to do for me what they were not doing for themselves.  When this happened, their worst fears of rejection were realized and they began to attack me.  When they attacked me, my worst fears of rejection were realized too and I attacked back.  But my attacks were ruthless.   I would never let them know when they hurt me.  I would study their every move, feigning reconciliation until I knew their weaknesses.  Then, I would attack them in the precise area where I knew they would hurt, not just a little bit, but hurt bad.  I was crippling men right and left.  I was castrating men, right and left.   I am not proud of this fact.  I have dated some very attractive men ? meant nothing.  I have dated some very wealthy men ? meant nothing.  I have dated all types of men ? meant nothing.  I was not interested in men and that is why I had to step back, regroup and be honest with myself.  I am now and was then a lesbian.  I did not care about the men I dated.  I was never in love with any of them.  Never felt anything for them.  I was just doing what society said I should do and in the process, I was hurting people along the way. 

One man, after I thoroughly ripped his balls from his body, actually turned to me one day and said "you need to go ahead and put an ring in your nose and date women.  You, my dear, are a lesbian."  Enough said.

So, no, I do not hate men.  I do not dislike men.  I only felt it best to stop hurting them and myself.  They were not bad guys at all.  I was bad for them.  It was time for the nonsense to end.  I wish more women would do the same.