It's All About Where You're Sitting

Life is about vantage points.

Where you sit, where you stand, how you can see things affects what this world means to you. I was reminded of that simple fact this weekend.

A homeboy of mine came by the crib and we chopped it up about basketball, women, video games and life. This cat is a couple years younger than me, and while we share some of the same interests, our lives have been very different. He never attended college, still lives with his folks, and has not seen or learned much about the world.

He's an intelligent cat, very intelligent, but he never developed that intelligence in an academic sense. More importantly, his world is just small.

For example, when we talked this weekend he'd just watched some roundtable discussion on BET and discovered something shocking about the world. He'd learned that sexism is a real problem and that women face discrimination similar to what black people face. Apparently, he had no idea this was going on.

I told y'all his world was small.

It was his comment, along with another comment he made about never having read a single novel that influenced his worldview like music, that inspired me to write about vantage points. See, he and I can agree on many issues, particularly basketball, but on other things we're worlds apart. And the weird thing is that distance is due to our vantage points.

I wrote a while back that I wanted to control the impulse to be bitter and angry in perpetuity. It's little reminders like this that can both encourage me on that path, and convince me that my attempts are ultimately pointless.

Accepting viewpoints that seem offensive or insensitive can be a little easier if I'm convinced that folks just don't see things my way because they've never walked in my shoes or had a chance to experience my life. Yet, because there is no way I can ever really put them in my shoes the possibility that meaningful change can ever occur is bleak. That depresses me because I am worried that my son will have to fight the same battles I've fought instead of breaking new ground.

I think I want to devote myself to activities that expand people's vantage points, that force them to consider things outside of their typical sphere of influence. Blogging does some of that, but most of y'all agree with me on issues of race, which is the largest area where change needs to occur. Consequently, I've decided that I have to be more friendly and more patient with people if I want to create lasting change. Anybody with some more suggestions is welcome to comment on the blog.

I've got to get up out of my regular seat.

Bitch Please

Read this.


Finished?


Now you understand the title of this post. How the hell can you claim that you had your daughter wear an inflammatory shirt to elementary school to spark racial dialogue when you're afraid to talk to her about what the effing shirt means?

Do you think we're stupid, do you?

See, I like kids, but in order to teach her mother a lesson it would have only been fitting if this little white girl got beat the eff up for that shirt. Then the mother would have been all sad and crying, but she would have learned. Anyway, I just needed to share that and get it off my chest.

I'm cool now.

The Golden Vagina

Some of y'all are going to be pissed at this post, but eff it, sometimes you gotta let your nuts hang. (Shout out to old school CMR.)

I'm cruising through a celebrity website the other day indulging my guilty pleasure of watching the rich dress badly, when I stumbled across something that just wasn't right. No, it wasn't that pic of Reverend Run in a swimsuit with Bigfoot's armpit hair, it was the item on the proposed child support payments the Reverend's brother may have to pay to his estranged wife.

Uncle Russy is looking at spending nearly $1 million annually for the two bundles of joy he produced with Ms. Kimora. If you think I'm playing read this. I'm just going to get it out the way before I continue:

What the fuck?

Now, I know many of y'all ladies and even some fellas are cracking your knuckles and preparing to write me a scathing message about how Kimora deserves everything she's getting for popping out Russell's big-headed babies. That's pretty much the standard response any time a man expresses surprise at a child support or alimony settlement.

But, I don't care what y'all write, none of y'all are going to convince me that the CEO of Baby Phat, cause that's what Kimora is, needs an extra $1 million just to take care of her kids. Unless she wipes their asses with Monets, there is no way she needs that kind of money to raise two children.

See, we hear a lot about deadbeat dads, and I really don't mind because those losers need to be exposed. But, what we don't discuss are these crazy ass settlements women get when they convince a rich cat to settle down with them and then divorce him. I'm not saying these cats don't deserve to get dropped, most of them are serial philanders, but the cash these women are drawing is just off the chain.

Right now I'm raising a child, and it does not take $20,000 a month to take care of him. If it did his little ass would already be working in a sweatshop. I know Russell is paid, but does that mean he needs to be ponying up a cool mil for the care of his children? Even though his wife is a frickin' CEO?

See, for a long time I've thought there is a serious problem with a court system that determines child support payments solely by salary. I think we need to come up with the specific amounts that it costs raise children in certain income brackets and then charge fathers based on that.

There would be a low income child-rearing rate, a wealthy child-rearing rate and several others in-between. It would be a flat-fee based on the calculations of experts taking into account the income of the non-custodial parent. That way there is a sliding scale that considers income, and is not some outrageous figure pulled out of somebody's ass.

I've found that people who make similar amounts of money often lead simliar lives. They eat at the same places, shop at the same stores, take the same vacations. Consequently, their children also have somewhat similar lives. Therefore, if we can establish the average cost of raising a child within a certain income bracket, we could establish a fair rate for these men to pay. Now, if that rate is still $20,000 a month I will shut up and deal with it, but I think we need to at least try to establish a baseline.

It's not healthy to have these ridiculous child support payments. I'm not even going to discuss the idea of having to pay alimony to someone when they decide they no longer want to live with you because y'all just don't get along. I would be here all day.

The current system encourages irresponsible behavior and creates unnecessary tension between men and women. Do y'all remember the nationwide debate that the Michael Jordan settlement sparked in the black community? Brothers and sisters were at each others throats debating whether Juanita deserved to get paid when she never hit a game winner, but had popped out two kids while dealing with Mike's infidelity. What about all the women who angle to get impregnated by a rich man, and are only left with lower self-esteem and a groupie t-shirt?

Anyway, I have no idea why Kimora and Russell couldn't make things work. And I'm pleased that they have managed to remain fairly cordial. But, if this new settlement goes through it will just be one more example of irresponsible behavior by America's judicial system. The Golden Vagina will have triumphed over good sense once again.

(Addendum: Russell Simmons does not agree with me. I don't care.)

It Ain't Tricking If You Got It

Scene: Darkened hotel room, small desk lamp on the nightstand that gives off a faint light. An older white woman sits on the edge of the bed near a window with shades drawn. A slim African American man, reclines on a chair near the door in the shadows. The woman wears a gray pantsuit with a yellow shirt. (The man wears a midnight black suit, with a crisp white shirt adorned with a purple tie and a purple pocket square in the suit jacket.)


Big Homie Outstanding: "Sweetie, I heard you got some money problems that only Big Daddy can help with. It's ok, come tell Daddy all about it."

Her Royal Coldness: Don't "Daddy" me buster, you know what I need, don't play these games.

BHO, smiling slightly: No, baby, I don't know what you need, you're going to have to speak up if you want Daddy's help.

HRC: What you want me to beg nigger, do I got to get on my knees? You motherfucking men are all the same. How many times do you need a woman to stroke your dick and your ego before you're happy?

BHO, stubbing out a cigarette and beginning to rise from his chair: Look, I don't need this shit, heifer. I've put up with enough from you and your ignorant ass man. If you got a problem with dicks getting stroked you need to speak to him. I'm here because you need me, not because I need you. I've proven that already.

HRC: Wait...Sit down, (sigh) I'm sorry ok, I'm sorry. Do you know how hard this whole thing is, do you know what I had to put up with to get here? Now, I've got to deal with this bullshit. You think I want to be asking your ass for money, you think I want anything from you?

BHO: I could give a fuck what you want to do. Don't talk to me about what you want to do. You called me hear to ask me something now ask me, Dammit. I need to get home to my girls.

HRC: How are the girls and your lady? You know I always liked her, no matter what I said or what other people said. She was always so--

BHO: I don't want to hear that revisionist shit. If you like her, tell her you like her, don't come to me with that. Look, we need to move on with this. You of all people know I've got things to do.

HRC, her face crumpling: Fine... I need the money...I need about 23.

BHO: Did you just say 23?

HRC: Yeah, that's what it's going to take for me to get right.

BHO, completely out of his chair, heading towards the hotel room's door: I'll see you around, I thought you wanted to be serious for a minute. (places hand on door handle)

HRC: Wait! What's the problem?... You know how much I spent, you know I need to break even.

BHO: I don't care about you breaking even. I didn't come here for you to break even. I came to help, I didn't come to be no trick.

HRC, rising from the bed, moving towards the door: Are you calling me a hoe? Motherfucker did you just call me a hoe! Yeah, leave then... I'm going to let everybody know your uppity ass came to my room and called me a hoe because I asked you to come together in the name of unity. We'll see what happens to your black ass then!

BHO, still holding the door handle: You finished?...Are you finished?... Good, if you're finished, we can talk. Otherwise, get all that out your system first...Now you know I wasn't calling you a hoe, stop playing games. Don't try to chump me, that shit ain't gonna fly. Don't let the suit and accent fool you.

BHO returns to his original chair, crosses his legs. HRC walks over to the window, slightly cracks the blinds.

HRC: Look at those lights...Those were my lights, this is my city. I owned this damn city for eight years. I should have owned it for eight more. Instead, they took it from me, they couldn't stand the thought of someone without a dick running things...Look, I need at least 18...Eighteen puts me close to the finish line, it's not that far from there.

BHO: 9

HRC: Nine?... Are you fucking serious?... Nine ain't shit. Give me 15 at least, if I got 15 from you I could find the other 10..

BHO, leaning forward slightly in his chair: I'll give you 10, and I'll only give you that 10 if you shut the fuck up about these conspiracies. I need you to nod your head, show your teeth and play your position... I'm not giving you 10 to have your pet crackers making snide remarks behind my back. I'm not giving you 10 so Billy Boy can pout and complain because I didn't kiss his damn ring...I ain't kissing no FUCKING RING! Shit, y'all are lucky I ain't spit in your water like Kizzy...

The offer is 10.

HRC, shoulders slumping, facing away from BHO: I'll take it...You're a cold motherfucker, you know that? This whole thing was cold.

BHO, door open, light from the hall illuminating cigarette butts on the table where he sat: It was business. Nothing else. I got it, you need it. That's business.


BHO closes the door behind him. HRC continues to stare at the closed window...



Link.