See, I recently lost my job. I’d like to say my dismissal was through no fault of my own, but I’m a realist and I believe in taking ownership of me. What I can say is that the situation that was the catalyst of my current state of unemployment was petty and the actions of a coward.

I try not to talk about the situation. It causes my blood pressure to rise, and I have no health insurance so I can’t afford to stroke out. However, chatting with a former co-worker, she happened to mention to me the rumors surrounding my disappearance. Oh, I’m sorry; I didn’t mention they didn’t have the decency to tell the office I no longer worked there. No, they said nothing and left an office filled with busy bodies to make up their own version of my exit.

I had heard one rumor from a former colleague. She said she thought I just walked off the job. Yes, I couldn’t stand the security of my nice paycheck and health benefits so, on a whim, I gave it all up to enter an uncertain job market. I am truly a pretty face. Or maybe my trust fund kicked in and I no longer needed to get up every morning and catch the MARC train to DC.

At any rate, I just laughed it off and just figured the cowards were too afraid to deal with the consequences of their actions. So chatting with my former co-worker and having her tell me the rumor she heard, only left a chuckle in my heart. See, what she was told was that I had gotten all Florence Johnston on my former boss but he wasn’t gonna play George Jefferson to my Florence, and he had me removed from the contract.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I would have loved to have done that. See, I was working for an asshole. I mean a self-proclaimed asshole. He wasn’t happy unless he was making someone else’s life miserable. He is a truly sad and insufferable person. And I know I shouldn’t judge, but if you met him, you would feel the same.

But I digress. For those who want to know what happened, he raised his voice at me and I was not happy with it. However, during the conversation, I realized he was right, accepted that I made a mistake, but did not appreciate his approach. He felt that he should be able to talk to me anyway he wanted and that I should be happy that he spoke to me. Yeah, no.

So to hear that there are people who really believe that I gave him the what for, I feel sad. I feel sad because I would have loved to have told him how I truly feel, but I know that my words would have fallen upon deaf ears and a cold hardened heart. I feel sad because I feel I failed them. I failed the plethora of people in that office who would like to tell him about himself but are afraid.

And I see my dismissal as a stone etched message to those employees who feel disrespected by a superior and feels no recourse is available and if she attempts to stand up for herself then she will be fired.

Yet my friend felt the rumor was racist. She felt that it reinforced the stereotype of the Angry Black Woman, a stereotype that has been the albatross of many professional black women and the scarlet letter to many young black women.

As a black woman in the world, I find it hard to exist. I’ve always had a Becky or two who felt the way I responded to them wasn’t humble enough or a boss who didn’t appreciate my self-confidence in doing my job. It’s a double-edge sword and a balancing act that I have yet to master.

I do know that I have worked hard to not be that ABW that white people see when they first meet you. I smile even when I want to choke them for making me invisible. With my former company, I made myself available to their asinine suggestions and degrading tasks. I worked hard to not complain about how I was under-utilized as a resource and insured that I did a good job always.

But I still got labeled angry and sassy and confrontational and combative. I’ve learned that angry, sassy, confrontational, and combative really means I question authority and I don’t accept the status quo. I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter if I am my own boss or someone’s whipping boy that I will always be perceived as an ABW.

I’ll never be good enough for them, and I refuse to continue to attempt to live to their standard of what a black woman should be. I can honestly say, they don’t know me; and by me, I mean the black woman.

And maybe I am angry, I mean I’ve lived too much of my life by someone else’s standard. And who says that anger is a bad thing? I am sure if they were less repressed and showed some anger, they wouldn’t have a need to shoot up schools and office buildings and their families.

So, this Bitter Black Woman is now an Angry Black Woman… I can’t imagine that that’s a good combination for the rest of the world to contend with. Not my problem.

Ok, so when I last blogged I was waxing philosophical about how I’m no longer bitter and I’ve found love… deep inner love, etc. Well, I am still basking in the glow of the love of my friends, family, and people I interact with, but lately I’ve been feeling like something is missing.

The other day I was reading an excerpt from angryblackbitch titled “On the FOX Baby Mama fucktuptitude…” She writes about how black women work to not be saddled with the “angry black woman” title and how much flack she gets from black women regarding her blog moniker. She went on to say that black women are rightfully angry and that we shouldn’t deny or suppress our anger, we should embrace it.

It moved me. My reason for discontinuing the BBWC was because I wasn’t feeling bitter, but the reality is that I will always feel some sense of anger or bitterness, regardless how positive my outlook. So I got to thinking about the BBWC and how since I’ve stopped writing I feel I have no creative outlet. I didn’t realize at the time how important my blog was to me. I really enjoyed the feedback and thinking up new topics.

For whatever reason, I tend to seek approval outside of myself; and in doing that I open myself up for criticisms from well-intentioned persons. One well-intentioned person thought it necessary that they let me know they perceive me as negative.

Now while I tend to take everything everyone says to me with a grain of salt, this particular person’s observation made me stop and think, “Am I negative?”

I’ve had friends who have said I am hyper-critical and I worked to correct it. It is not my intention to hurt anyone’s feelings but if you ask me and it’s the truth you seek, then I will give it to you. But negative, that was new to me. I pride myself on exuding positive-energy. I believe in karma and how what you put into the universe comes back to you. I work to be positive and to surround myself with positive-minded people. So finding out that I am not so much a positive person, well, it threw me.

So I worked towards a more positive-minded path and I blamed the BBWC for my negativity. It became a burden for me to write on a blog which once represented my struggle and contention with dating. I felt I was turning into a stereotypical angry black woman. So I stopped. But I wasn’t prepared for the angst to turn into creativity.

And the other day, having someone else express something I have dealt with in my own internal struggles, made me realize negative ain’t so bad. Therefore, I am returning to my creative center, if you will, to continue my exploration, be it melancholy or jolly.

So, as I sit at my new lap top, chair dancing to Madonna’s “Erotica,” a sense of happiness engulfs me. I am excited and eager to post this blog. I have so many fun things planned for the BBWC. I’m not changing the name and I’m not apologizing to anyone for what I say and how I say it.

The last two months have actually been a bit much for me emotionally and mentally. With no real creative outlet to release my neuroses, I’ve been forced to share them with people who probably didn’t need to know about them. I’ve had to listen to the voices in my head and they have been telling me I need to stop allowing myself to keep me down. I need to believe in me.

Its funny, I drive through Baltimore more than three times a week and I see the cars with the “Believe” bumper stickers and I chuckle. I always thought it funny that the city decided to do a one-word PR campaign to help build morale. Believe. That was the best they could come up with. And as I sit here, I realize believing is a lot harder than one can imagine.

I’ve always wrestled with insecurities. Some I’ve created and some were gifts from past relationships, family and well-intentioned friends. I’ve always tried to identify the insecurity and worked to repair it. Yet the hardest insecurity I’ve had to conquer is believing in Toinetta. I need to believe that I can accomplish any thing and every thing I set my mind to. I need to believe that I can write. I need to believe that I am worthy of a healthy loving relationship.

So, I am believing that my blog is not negative and that it doesn’t put me in a negative place because it allows me a creative way to express my anger and to deal with the things heavy on my mind. I am believing that my blog will be more than a place for me to rant but will become a community where opinions are welcomed and respected and frequent. I am believing that my writing will be a conduit to a bigger picture of my future.

And with that, I am falling deeper and deeper in joy with being back. I hope you are ready for the road I am about to create…

The past few days, I have been trying to formulate the words to express how I feel. In my own drama filled way, I wanted something poetic and profound. But what I’ve come up with nothing…

And that’s where I am.

I am no longer bitter. I don’t know what happened. I wish I could say love came into my life and all the bitterness I had been harboring is gone. Actually, I can say love has come into my life. Not the love of a man. No, I have a new found love for myself. I have a new found love for my friends and family. And I have a new found love for relationships.

The BBWC has provided a journey for me. A journey I eagerly traveled. And on this journey, I’ve found some good and some bad things out about myself; and I’ve found some good and bad things out about the people I know.

I have appreciated the support and criticisms from each and every one of you who took this journey with me. There are no words to describe how your reading my blog alone meant to me. And this has been a wonderful journey and I hope my rantings have helped someone along the way. I am sure my experience from writing this blog will propel me to bigger and better things with my writing and thoughts.

Please know that while I will no longer contribute to this blog, I am willing to give it over to someone else. If there is someone out there who is interested in taking the BBWC to another place filled with insightful and fun musings, please let me know.

I wish you all the best that life holds for you…

Peace & Blessings,

tnj

When I was growing up, there was this girl Tawanda who lived next door to my aunt. Tawanda and my cousin Annie quickly became best friends. For whatever reasons, other than the obvious, Tawanda and I took a strong dislike to each other. I didn’t like her because I saw her as a threat to my relationship with my cousin. And I’m sure if I ever took the time to find her and ask her, she would say the same about me.

Nonetheless, the animosity was thick between us. I always viewed Tawanda as a harsh “tom-boy” who wasn’t very nice. I was a smart ass who had no time for the likes of her. My cousin was our only commonality. So, when we were around each other, I was short and dissmisive and Tawanda was just rude. We never had a kind word for the other. She would call me “big lip Nicki” and I would call her a “dyke.” 

Now, at eleven years old, I had no idea what a dyke was nor what a dyke did. I did know that Tawanda had an aunt who was a lesbian and she was cool. She was very butch and I never thought anything about it, after all, I was a child and her sexuality was a grown up thing. What I did gather from the grown ups was that being a dyke wasn’t a good thing. It was unnatural and not right. So, my calling Tawanda one was surely more insulting than me having big lips.

Lesbians at the time were few and far between. They were so few that the two who lived in our lower middle class neighborhood despised each other like cocks fighting over a hen house. However, now I see more and more African American women are lesbians.

I don’t know when the trend began. I do recall about four years ago, I began to notice an increase in young aged girls claiming to be lesbians.  And not just homosexual girls, but butch androgynous lesbians. There were times I would have to look at a girl three or four times before I realized she was a girl. It was all so weird to me.

I remember going to Atlanta one summer and I went to the Lennox Mall. I was in wonderment because the girl’s were with girls. It put the consequences of male homosexuality in perspective. It dawned on me, if all the men are gay, then the women have to do something. And that something is another woman.

My girlfriend and I were talking at lunch about her sister and what her plans are since she and her long time boyfriend broke up. She said her sister was abstaining from relationships and sex. And then she said she asked her sister if she ever thought about being with a woman.

It dawned on me, do we only have two choices when faced with next steps after a break up: abstain or date women?

WTF!

Whatever happened to dusting ourselves off and trying again? And what makes anyone think that a homosexual relationship, whether male or female, is any different or better than a heterosexual relationship? You have the same shit, just different sex.

I think we have gotten so used to quick fixes in our fast food society that we forget anything worth having takes time and effort. Nothing, I repeat nothing, in life is free.

And while I don’t know what the solution is to a broken heart, I do know that it’s not the end of the world and with the right epoxy, it can be fixed. And while I am not dissuading anyone from a homosexual relationship, I am saying that it isn’t a choice that should be made because you can’t find a man to please you. 

If you don’t have a desire or want for a same sex partner, then why would you demean or mock their lifestyle by “testing it out?” Respect their choice and clean up your own house. Don’t believe the issues or problems you have in a heterosexual relationship won’t follow you into your homosexual relationship.

Once she stepped off the bus and started towards her apartment, she felt a sudden sadness begin to engulf her. The fifty feet to her door seemed to be a mile long. And her usual long strides were short and dragging. The unseasonable warm weather didn’t help her sulken mood. She didn’t want to face what was ahead of her but she knew she had no choice.

As she ascended the five steps to the front door of her apartment building, she let out a hearty sigh. She felt she’d prolong her descent into the abyss by checking her mail. Nothing but bills and advertisements. The only people who knew her in the outside world were the electric company, Sprint and Geico – you could save up to 20%.

She turned and looked at the seven stairs that lead to her loneliness. She turned to the door, contemplating running, but she realized she had no where to go. This was her only refuge and it was beginning to feel like a prison. Or worse yet, purgatory where she was left to feel the weight and pain of her loneliness. She didn’t want to think about the sudden decision she made that lead her to this place and this emptiness.

So she let her purse drop from her shoulder to her hand and she walked towards the steps and reached for the rail. She ascended the stairs and walked towards her apartment door. With her keys in her hand, she moved to put the key in the deadbolt lock. The key, understanding her frustration, didn’t want to go into the lock. This only added to her angst. She hastily unlocked the deadbolt and then the handle lock and quickly entered her apartment.

With the door shut and locked behind her, the loneliness she felt coming down her hit her like a ton of bricks. She went through the kitchen and threw down her purse and bag on the dining room floor. She ripped her coat off and exhaled, that’s when the tears began to pour from her eyes. Here was a woman who on the outside appeared so together and yet she was falling apart, alone.

The gown was rough. I didn’t expect a 600-thread count Ralph Lauren hospital gown. The reality is that it didn’t matter what I had on, I just needed a distraction from what I was about to do.

I had been feeling “weird” the last few days. I began to cry for no apparent reason. I began to nap in the ladies’ room at work because I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I was moody and downright mean for the least infraction. I just knew something was wrong with me. So when my doctor suggested he do a pregnancy test, I just laughed and remarked I didn’t understand why and didn’t worry about being pregnant because I knew I wasn’t.

That weekend, I went about my business as usual. I shared with my boyfriend that my doctor did a pregnancy test but I wasn’t worried about the result. We went about our weekend as if nothing was different but both of us thinking about the potential change to our life and relationship.

When I returned from my weekend vacation, I quietly pondered what would I do if I were pregnant. I joked about how barren I am and never even believed I could get pregnant. But I had started taking the pill again and I wasn’t taking it responsibly. And on top of that, I was having “risky” sex with two partners. I was in denial about the possibility of being pregnant. What would I do? It was just too much.

First thing that Monday morning, I called my doctor’s office to find out the results. I said a little prayer as I held on the phone waiting for the nurse to get my chart. And when she came back on the phone and congratulated me on my pregnancy, I thought I would die. I didn’t know what to do. I hung up the phone, and I sat on the sofa, and I stared into space. I needed to make a decision. The right decision for me.

Later that day, I told my partner the results of my test, and he was delighted. He loved me and wanted nothing more than to start a family with me. But I was fresh out of college and I recently quit my job. I couldn’t see the future he was talking about, and when I broke the news to him that the baby may be someone else’s, I heard his heart break.

So now I was faced with a choice. I could have the baby and raise it with its father, or I could have an abortion and maybe plan a family later down the line.

It was a long wait before the doctor came and all I could remember is how quiet the waiting room was. The unnerving silence was the hazing of our initiation into a sisterhood of choice. And we all anxiously awaited the moment we would cross the burning sands and no longer carry the burden of an unwanted pregnancy.

As I sat there, I watched each woman go behind the door to have their procedure done and I knew that when they exited the building they would be forever changed. I bare no shame for my decision. I have no problem with sharing with others the choice I made and why. I also bare no regret of my decision. I know I did the best thing for all involved.

And after waiting all morning for the doctor to show up, I am lying on the cold metal table with a rough hospital gown covering my body.

“Can you please bring your body to the edge of the table and place your feet in the stirrups.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect. Now relax. How are you today?”

“Fine.”

Then I heard a whir. And then I felt my body go numb. I don’t remember much after that other than the nurse holding my hand to comfort me. My mind was numb. I had no thoughts. And then it was done. I was no longer pregnant.

The nurse led me into a waiting room that was filled with cots and the women who were once in the waiting room were now recuperating. We had crossed our burning sands. We were sisters. Yet none of us leaped for joy.

“You will have to stay here until you bleed. I will come back and check your pad in a minute.”

So I laid there waiting for my body to respond to the abortion. It took me a while but my body responded, and I began to bleed.

My girlfriend and I drove home. She was careful with me. We talked, but not about what happened. We just talked about what I would do for the rest of the day. She went to the store after taking me home and bought me lunch, sanitary napkins and balloons – it was my birthday.

I recount this story because today is the 35^th anniversary of Roe v Wade, and it was this important judicial decision that made the choice for me a choice.

I am not ashamed by my choice. I do regret the pain it may have brought upon others involved. However, I learned many a lessons from this situation and I am an advocate for a person’s choice.

I’ve never considered myself a hero or an advocate for an issue. I enjoy reading others opinions on policy. But there a few issues that move me. Inspire me even. However, when it is an issue of a woman’s right to decide what she wants to do with her body then I am front and center and locked arm and arm.

When I decided to abort my fetus, it was a private decision. I didn’t allow anyone to weigh in on my decision. What could they tell me? Have a child with someone I didn’t see a future with and be tied to them forever? Or raise a child with no father? That’s not the life I wanted to give my child. I always wanted to be married and happy when I brought a child in to the world. I wanted to give my child all the advantages to life that I didn’t have. And this was not one of those times.

I take for granted the freedoms of my life. I live in a country where, as a woman, I am afforded a lot of luxuries that others suffered for me to have. I can run for president, I can vote and I can wear whatever I damn well please. So why shouldn’t I be able to decide what to do with my body. Ever since I realized what Roe v Wade was and what women went through prior to this decision, I knew that if and when I was ever faced with that decision that I would be even more grateful to the courage and forethought it took for the justices to give a woman her choice.

And when I see teenage girls and boys marching to the Supreme Court on this monumental anniversary to protest for life, I laugh at the irony of how my choice for my life is negated by a group of individuals I hope will never have to face the choice.

Whenever I hear people debate the pro-life stance, I am always reminded of the babies who were brought into this world and were drowned, starved, microwaved and tossed into dumpsters and I wonder, did their mothers have a choice? Were they the young ladies who walked Constitution Avenueto the Supreme Court carrying signs, “Give Life, Don’t Take It.”

On a day that symbolizes a milestone for women’s rights, I take a moment to reflect on the importance of a woman being able to decide what is best for her. History has shown women have always been treated as a commodity, something that is traded on the open market. And the fact a woman had to go to the highest court in our land to secure her basic right of privacy and freedom to do what she damn well pleases with her body, is a sad moment in our history. 
  

So while you may not agree with the theory in practice, at least respect the symbolism of the court decision and rejoice in a woman being able to decide for herself the hardest decision a woman could ever make.

It’s always interesting to me the reaction and responses I get from my blogs. I believe there are several people who consistently tell me I need to seek the counsel of a therapist. I find the comment to be presumptuous and rude, but because they always sign “Anonymous,” I can’t have the dialogue I feel is necessary.

I’m even more intrigued with the people who take the time to email me directly to share their observation or to lend some critical advice. I wonder when people write from a passionate point, do they reread what they write?

Case in point, a male associate, after reading “No More…,” felt it necessary to say the following:

Well sweety, I’m 38 years old 6′8″ 260lb. good looking, outgoing, smart, disease free, divorced with three boys and I make over $100,000 with a gov. job, highly desired by pretty women, my self esteem and confidence are off the chart but I was not good enough for you. You told me the only reason you even spoke to me in the first place was because you felt sorry for me. Sorry for me??? That hurt my feelings only because I thought we had a good friendship over the years and I felt deceived. Maybe your standards you set for yourself are unrealistic.

My first reaction was to respond with a scathing email explaining myself to him. But after talking it over with a friend, who suggested the best way to deal with it would be to ignore it all together. And while I agree it is best to not respond to him privately, I do feel a discussion is necessary.

Over the weekend, the words in his email reverberated in my head. After getting over his gall, I started questioning the logic – or lack their of – of his content. Let me break it down for you.

He begins by expressing to me, “I’m 38 years old 6’8” 260lb. good looking, outgoing, smart, disease free, divorced with three boys and I make over $100,000 with a gov. job…”

Here’s what I hear – and I’ll try to keep the factual stuff I know about him out of it – he’s divorced with three kids – two by his ex wife and one I assume by a female he dated after his wife, he pays child support (maybe alimony) to an ex and child support to the other mother which makes the over $100,000 a lot smaller cause he has other obligations.

Now please understand, I am not judging and I’ve dated, married and dated again, many men who are divorced and with kids. I understand the dynamic. The only reason it is an issue is because when a man attempts to use his salary as a selling point, then he opens himself up to financial scrutiny.

Ok, now with that part out of the way, let’s continue our journey down Simpleton Lane. He continues to say, “…highly desired by pretty women, my self esteem and confidence are off the chart but I was not good enough for you.”

Let’s start with “my self esteem and confidence are off the chart.” Really? Let’s see, you have to give me a run down of your personal and financial situation in hopes it will peak my interest. A man with confidence and self esteem off the chart, don’t have to explain themselves to anyone – especially a woman who felt “I was not good enough for you.” What man with confidence and self esteem off the chart would care about a woman who doesn’t want them? They would just go to the next pretty woman who desires him. That’s my thought… hmmm?

And then to have that same woman tell you she only talked to you because she “felt sorry for you,” what a slap in the face to a man with confidence and self esteem off the chart. Again, why would you even care about someone who has such a low opinion of you? I don’t see how continuing to chase a woman who has repeatedly shot down every offer and advance you made toward her in sync with confidence and self esteem off the chart.

That’s just my humble. 

And the caveat of the email is the next to the last line, “Maybe your standards you set for yourself are unrealistic.”

Wow! Every time someone says that sentence or a sentence similar in theme to it, my skin crawls and I cringe. The standards I set for the qualities I want in a partner are not unrealistic. I believe statements such as that makes my standards unrealistic because no one works towards anything more than the bare minimum.

See, for a person to think because they make a high salary, they are tall and desired by pretty women, that I should want to be with them, is a clear example of how far off the mark this person is. A person who dates someone because of aesthetic and status, is usually a person with extra curricular activities.

I still believe in substance. I believe in character, morals and personality. So, if those are unrealistic standards, then I am ok with being with myself. I won’t settle for less because I don’t give less than what I ask for.

My advice to my friend is to ask yourself, if I have all these popular and redeeming qualities, then why is it that she really didn’t want to be with me?

Oh, and I didn’t take up your offer to call you to discuss the email because I felt there was nothing to discuss.

Peace and Blessings