I’ve Got a Secret

I’m going to let y’all in on a little secret.  I’ve been keeping it for a long time. Now, when y’all hear my secret, the sistas will hiss and boo and think of me as a weak traitor, the brothas will say, “I told you so, I knew it all along.” I’ve wrestled with this secret for a long time, feeling guilt and shame for harboring these thoughts. Living my life in the closet, afraid to express myself, living a lie. In public, I deny my true feelings, crossing the line, extolling the sentiments exactly the opposite of how I feel. What is my secret? My badge of shame. Come close. Don’t tell a soul. I need a man. There I said it. It’s out in the open. I need a man.  

I grew up being told that a woman needed a man for survival, to be the provider and protector. The man was the breadwinner and the woman stood behind him. I was told that men could lie and cheat and treat you like shit and as long as they paid the bills and eventually came home, that’s all you could expect. Women were never supposed to argue or disagree with a man. “Oh, you are so funny.” “Stop, don’t say that,” in a coy and docile manner.  You had to have a man in your life. Even if that man was somebody else’s. A borrowed man was better than no man at all. I was raised to believe that all a woman could hope for was to play stupid, never have an opinion and to do whatever it takes to make a man happy. Which included spreading your legs, cooking, cleaning and being passive.  My momma never said outright, ”You have to have a man to make you complete,” but actions speak louder than words. There was never a day when she didn’t have someone’s husband calling her. She would fix them gourmet meals and offer them her dysfunctional mind and sexual body. And of course they took it and went home to their wives, bellies full and balls empty, egos enormous.   

I grew up knowing deep inside that there was something wrong with this ideal. I knew I didn’t need a man like that, in that way.  I’ll admit. I stumbled once or twice, forgot the truth as I like to put it. I’ve been known to put a man’s feelings above my own.  But then I got strong. I’ve been by myself for almost 14 years now. I wish I could say 14 long, hard years, but I don’t want to use those words to describe anything in my life over the last decade. I’ve decided I don’t want no lying, cheating, unemployed, good for nothing, game playing, self-centered, immature, passive aggressive, dick slinging man in my life (or any combination thereof). I have avoided relationships with men whose egos were grandiose and intellects miniscule. I chose not to get involved with men who have had other lovers or insincere motives. I’ve had sex more than a few times, maintenance dates, yes. But I’ve not had a man in my life.  I need a man.  I don’t need a man to pay my bills or rescue me. I don’t need a man to make me feel attractive or make me feel complete. I don’t need a man to fuck me because I’ve become quite proficient at that my damn self.

What I need is someone to be there for me when times are hard. I need a man to give me unconditional love and support. I need the comfort that comes from laying my head on that strong, secure shoulder when my head is weary. I need a man, a lover, a friend, and a partner. I need a relationship where I can me encouraged to grow as an individual and be a member of a team. I need a man to share my secrets with and my dreams. I need a man that will not make me feel bad about my fears and shortcomings.   Should I be able to fill up this void from within myself? Yes, and find the love that I so desperately need inside myself. But I can't. I should be able to find support from my family and friends, but it ain’t the same. I go to bed at night alone. There is emptiness, a void, a painful abyss. It is physical, it hurts. I don’t have human contact.

I hear sistas saying that they don’t need a man but I sure as hell do. And tell me this, if men were so damned unnecessary, why is it that successful sistas who have got a man are not trying to give them away. All these women out here talking about I don’t need a man. I tell you what I don’t need. I don’t need panty liners with wings.  I don’t need low fat chocolate ice cream. I don’t need 36 pairs of shoes. Seems like to me, if men were so damned unnecessary, there would be a lot more hairy-legged lesbians around.  

I need a man who has dealt with his issues and is ready for a mature adult relationship. I need man who has outgrown sticking his dick in anything without regard for pregnancy, disease and hurting someone’s feelings. I don’t need a man who is trying to get into my panties three minutes after meeting me. What I need is a strong, African-centered, evolved, emotionally mature man.  Whew, my secret is out. I feel better! It’s a tremendous burden off my shoulders. If there are others like me out there, stand up and be counted. I NEED A MAN!

 

I Desire

I desire a Black man that loves me so completely, that when another sister approaches him, he laughs at her advances because he knows he has it so good at home.

I desire honesty. Not leaving out parts of the truth, not vague or deceptive answers, not conveniently forgetting to tell me very important details, not blatant stories made up to impress me, not withholding facts, not lies. Honesty! I would rather have you tell me the truth and have my feelings get hurt than lie to me, have me find out later, and destroy our relationship.

I desire emotional intimacy. I desire a Black man to share his dreams, fears, disappointments, aspirations, feelings, and memories with me. I desire to be able to share my most intimate self with a man and know that he in not going to try to take advantage of me, manipulate me, use me, or disregard my feelings as inconsequential.

I desire common goals. I long to be able to share his vision for the future and make coffee and pass out flyers for the movement. I need to know that he will do the same for me. I want him to pay attention to our relationship. I have no desire to shoulder 100% of the responsibility for making the relationship work. I want to know that he is going to put thought into our anniversary, go out of his way to surprise me with a token of affection, and seduce me once in a while.

I desire a Black man that would never, ever even contemplate raising his hand to me. I desire my man who can kill the bugs, fix the thingy in the sink, change the oil in the car, cut the grass without me having beg, and do various other sundry things that is takes a penis to do. (Yes, I will do traditional feminine chores in exchange, it's only fair)

I desire a man whose spiritual vision is greater than his oppressors' I desire a man who is willing to take his time and learn exactly what it is I like in the bedroom, (or kitchen, bathroom, or very public place) and not assume I am going to like what his last woman liked.

I desire a man who can apologize when he has made a mistake, say I'm sorry, and can forgive me when I've done the same. I crave the knowledge that my man needs me in his life, and that I mean more than just convenient ass, or someone he can take advantage of.

I desire a brotha who loves me for all of me, my flaws, my weaknesses, my shortcomings and can compliment me and help lift me up without making me feel inferior or degrading me. I want him to be my biggest cheerleader, and I have it be sincere. I desire a man who thinks of me before he makes any decision that will affect our lives together. I desire a man who thinks I am beautiful and sexy and smart and intelligent and kind and compassionate. Not because I'm vain but because I think he is all those things and more.

I desire a man who has let go of the stereotypes that preclude women to roles of ho, babymama, golddigger, and maid. I desire a man to love me; mind, body and soul.

Handicapping our Sons

There are certain things one needs in life in order to grow up emotionally healthy.  Because our culture has this deep seated hatred for Black men and, at the same time, an irrational worship of Black masculinity, we, meaning Black society, raise our little boys in ways that dishonor their proper maturation process.  We set the stage for them to be horrible fathers and husbands in childhood with practices and patterns that are nothing more than diseased remnants of slave teachings.  Because, however, these practices are accepted as standard, and touted as healthy, we, in essence, manufacture, disabled Black men.  All of our patterns and behaviors begin in childhood.  We go through our entire lives mirroring the “truths” we learn before we are 10 years old.  So to get to the origins of some of the pervasive and debilitating issues surrounding Black men, which are many of the issued Black men possess in staggering numbers, let’s take an in depth look at the life of a typical Black little boy, let’s call him Damon. 

Damon is a beautiful, brown little boy with all the potential in the world.  He, like almost every black child, is being parented by his single mother.  He was the “byproduct” of a four month fling in which his mother, a very pretty, light-skinned women got pregnant and her “boyfriend” did a Maury Povich and said, “It ain’t mine.”  Turns out he was and the father has to pay court ordered child support and has scheduled visitation.  Damon’s grandparents are “high yellow” and they often criticize their daughter for getting pregnant by such a “Black” man, right in front of Damon.  His mother wasn’t emotionally prepared to have a child, because she, like most Black women, hadn’t dealt with her own issues.  Oh, she is excellent at repeating clichés like, “I’m a strong black woman, I don’t need a man, and, I can be the mother and the father.”  But those are just empty and irrational sayings that have no meaning because any mature adult knows that a child is best reared by two parents in a loving environment and it’s not even emotionally possible for a mother to teach her son how to be a man because she has no clue what it means to be a man.  She might be capable of raising him to be a good person, IF she had cleaned up the mess of her own emotional life first, but she didn’t and she beats the crap out of her son for every minor, perceived, or imagined infraction, every chance she can get, saying that she’s teaching him discipline when all she’s really doing is reinforcing violence and hatred. 

In order to be a trusting adult, you need to have reliable, dependable people in your life, you need stability.  Damon is 8 years old and he’s lived in four apartments already.  He and his mother move frequently to avoid getting evicted for failure to pay the rent.  His mom works a steady job but she spends her money carelessly, opting to buy clothes and shoes, and getting her hair done in order to be attractive to men rather than budget her money and provide a stable home for her child.  She thinks that Damon is the reason she can’t get a man, an although, to her credit, she doesn’t come out and say it, she shows it in her behavior, quick to leave him at various “auntie’s” houses any and every chance she can get to go out on a date.  Damon’s absentee father breaks promises all the time in order to get out of his parenting responsibilities so he can run the streets with all his women.  Poor Damon.  He learns very early that father’s are never present and that women put men first.  The only thing that is constant in his life, the only thing that he can truly trust, is that there is going to be change and disappointments.  He has to make new friends every time they move and he never really feels a sense of permanence or feels like he has a home because he knows at any moment, his mother could say, “Start packing, it’s time to go.”  Damon grows up and he doesn’t let people get close to him because believes relationships are temporary and he’s never had anyone provide stability, consistency, security, or even a sense of being loved in his life.

Little Damon learned early on that he wasn’t good enough, that there was something inherently wrong with him.  His mother would come home from work, frustrated and angry from the job and yell and scream at him.  It was usually her chance to get out all her frustration with the world.  “Damon, you stupid little nigga, you are just like your father, that no good son of a bitch.  I hate him.  You are an evil, hateful child.”  Sweet innocent Damon hears that and learns that he was born no good, that he isn’t good enough as is, so he has to become something else, someone else.  He wears the mask that grins and lies.  Adult Damon adapts his behavior to what he learns as a child by being untrustworthy, never really being his authentic self with anyone, shaping and morphing his personality to fit people’s needs, and ultimately, he can’t keep up the façade and lets them down when the game gets too demanding.  It becomes too tiresome to keep up the image of being something and someone he really isn’t, of pretending to be someone he’s not, so he doesn’t keep his promises, he doesn’t follow through, he doesn’t live up to his word.  But the real authentic Damon, the one inside is looking for validation.  He’s never gotten it, he’s not even sure it exists, so all he knows is to keep lying, keep pretending to be something he’s not to prove to the world that he is worthy.  When he let’s the people around him down, his subconscious mind validates his mother’s words, that he really is no good.

Little Damon learned to lie at an early age.  His mom would always make him responsible for her happiness.  She would call him “her little man” and tell him that he was the only man in her life.  He felt responsible for making his mommy happy.  He hated seeing his mommy mad at him, and she would fly off into a rage when he did something bad, so when she confronted him, he would lie to make his mommy proud of him, to make sure she loved him.  Damon would never get a spanking when he lied, but he would get a beating every time he told the truth.  Mommy, desperate to make Damon the man in her life, never held little Damon accountable when he lied to others.  She coddled him and defended him against anyone who would dare accuse him of anything wrong because she thought any implied imperfections of her son were a reflection on her poor mothering skills.  If his mom sanctioned his lying by telling her own lies then lying couldn’t be all that bad.  Lying got him out of trouble, made people happy, didn’t make people mad at him.  It became first nature for Big Damon to lie, to deny, to deceive, and to lie some more.  Adult Damon lies so much, he doesn’t even realize what the truth is.  He can look a person in the eye and lie without so much as blinking an eye and he has no concept that he’s wrong for it. 

“Little boys don’t cry.”  Little Damon heard it over and over again.  “Be a man, don’t be a sissy, real men don’t cry.”  Okay, so little Damon holds in his tears as best he can.  He wants to be a man, right?  All the men in his life are playboys.  All the men in his life use women for sex.  Every message he gets, from TV to friends to that same absentee dad who blows him off for his dates is that men fuck women to prove their manhood.  When he has sex for the first time, usually at an exceptionally young age, he “feels” this great sensation.  It’s more than physical, it’s a moment of release where he can be himself.  He loves that feeling.  He isn’t able to articulate it because  . . . well because he’s never ever been taught to express his feelings because that’s not something boys do.   He associates sex with feeling good but never with intimacy and connection because those are terms he doesn’t even understand.  Everything in society tells him that his big, black dick makes him a man.  Not once is he told that a being a man means having integrity, keeping your promises, being honest when it means you won’t get what you want.  Big Damon uses women for sex left and right, craving the sensation of closeness, craving the opportunity to let down his guard but completely unaware of how to go about it with a partner.  He knows pornos and women who yell and scream at him for being emotionally unavailable but he doesn’t have a clue as to what they are talking about so he moves on to the next woman to fuck and see if he can’t get that feeling again. 

Damon is every Black man.  His experience isn’t identical to every Black man but in far far too many instances it’s damn close.  Now, the triggers can be different.  I could tell the same story with Damon and he could have lived in the same home all his life, with a dad and a mom who were super rigid and super strict, he could have waited until he was a grown man until he had sex but the messages he learned were the same:  that people are untrustworthy, that there’s something inherently bad about him that needs to be suppressed and that lying makes life easier and that sex soothes his weary soul.  Damon has grown up to be an emotionally immature man who uses women for sex without remorse, who lies constantly, who feels justification for never trusting anyone and who changes his persona to fit every relationship in his life.  The saddest part is that Damon doesn’t see anything wrong with the way he is because it’s been his programming since before he had memories and it’s his natural state of existence.  I’m not saying that the reason black relationships are failing is because of Black men, but I’m saying that until men can break their patterns and as long as society tells them that they are justified in whatever they do, we are fucked as a race. 

If Black men can figure out that the messages they got as children, the bad programming, figure out what happened to give them the blueprint for their life were fucked up, they can start the healing process.  I pray that I can somehow get Black men to see that their blueprint wasn’t designed well but that doesn’t mean that they are bad people and it doesn’t mean that the foundation for their lives is right, we can start heal Black relationships. 

Copyright 2006 Scottie Lowe

Ms Bisexual 2013

Trust me when I say that sistas are more scheming, lying, and down low than brothas when it comes to being bisexual.  I’m bisexual and I wear my label proudly.  I can't tell you how many times I've heard women say to me, almost verbatim, "Well, yes, I am attracted to both men and women but am I really bisexual, who knows?"  Goddamn!  I know.  If you are attracted to both men and women, YOUR AZZ IS BISEXUAL.   The rejection of the term bisexual by women is annoying to me when CLEARLY so many women are-- they are just afraid to admit it.  This whole, "I'm not going to say I'm bisexual because it has a negative connotation," bullshit is a cop out.  There's nothing negative about saying you are bisexual except that people would rather continue to perpetuate homophobia than admit the truth.  

I don't drink a lot.  I might have a drink once in two or three months, maybe once or twice a month if I'm being particularly social.  Can I claim that I'm not a drinker?  No.  Frequency doesn't dictate my "label."  I feel no need to make up another term to describe my drinking habits because I drink so infrequently.  No, I'm not an alcoholic; yes, I am a drinker.  See?  No shame in that.  I am a non-smoker.  I don't smoke, have never smoked, and have no desire to smoke.  I can wear my non-smoker label proudly.  People who smoke socially, or who only smoke when they are stressed out can't claim that they are non-smokers.  They give up that right when they take a puff.  Women who have sex with other women can't claim that they aren't bisexual because they only let women go down on them, they don't go down on other women.  It just can't work that way.  That's delusional rationalization and unhealthy.  No, that's insanity. 

I’ve heard the ever-popular, “I don’t like labels,” but women NEVER seem to mind the label of heterosexual, they only have problems with that bisexual label.  I always hear, “I am not bisexual because I’m not attracted to women emotionally, just sexually.”  That would be great if we were defining the word bi-emotional.  This sista told me once that she wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was bisexual.  Read that again.  She wasn’t bisexual because she didn’t like the reaction people gave her when she told them she was.  How is that logical?  Okay, I’m not Black because I don’t like the way white people treat me.  There isn’t a planet in the universe where that shit makes sense.  You can’t define who you are by how other people treat you.  

The most popular excuse for why women don’t consider themselves bisexual, by far, is, “I PREFER sex with men.”  Well, of course, if you have sex with a woman and you don’t really enjoy it as much as you do when you are having sex with a man, that means you earned the right to be called a heterosexual.  RIGHT!  The definition of bisexual in the dictionary is of, relating to, or having a sexual orientation to persons of either sex.  Nowhere does it say, “only if you initiate sex with persons of the same sex.”

Men I can understand.  Black men are demonized for being bisexual.  Bisexual women are exalted in this society, men’s ultimate objectification fantasy.  We do ourselves a disservice by denying who we are.  It’s untruthful and damaging.