Bible Study

To quote one of Sarah Palin's favorite passages from her Bible...”When the Lord shuts a door....he opens a window somewhere else..” She used that phrase as part of her justification for abandoning her governorship.

It is an apt description of Obama's week as well...

Just a few days ago, the rabid right was celebrating Chicago's loss of the 2016 Olympic games despite the best efforts of America's holy trinity of BO, MO and O....

The Big 3 got what was coming to them...put back in their place, where uppity folks belong...they crowed...

But then comes Friday and Obama is awarded the Nobel Prize for Peace...to everyone's surprise..

Lord may have slammed the door shut on Saturday...but threw open the window on Friday and yelled...”let's get some air in here...it stinks!”

Crazies went apoplectic with anger. No matter what happens, it seems the man always manages to come up smelling like rose...

they griped and ranted and fumed and fussed....

But Karma is, what it is.... and the rule is simple.....you get what you give....

If you give out hate and anger and dishonesty and hypocrisy....you will receive hate, and anger and dishonesty and hypocrisy in return....

It's not climate change....it's Karma...a universal law...In Sarah's Bible the phrase is....”What goes around....comes around.”

Maybe these alleged christian conservative patriots in name only...should do more Bible study..they might come to understand what is happening in the world...

I can think of another phrase in their Bible.....something about....

the meek shall inherit the earth..

But will that come before, or after he throws the heretics out of the temple....

You Want to Do What?

(originally posted 7/30/06.....as I contemplate leaving the world of baldness and regrowing my hair)

What makes white women think that because we are both women, that they can put their hands on me or ask me questions like a sister as in sibling, not sistah?

I had this peroxided, limp, shoulder length hair, roots showing white girl come up to me and reach toward my head. She wanted to rub my head, because as she said, it looks so soft.

She didn't ask, she just reached. I nearly broke her arm. I slapped away her hand. I didn't know where her hands had been. I barely knew her. We were acquaintances, meaning we had exchanged useless chit chat in the recent past. But I've never tried or even wanted to reach out and touch for any reason. She didn't apologize for the intrusion, only melted away perplexed at my reaction.

I know in my cooler, more rational moments that it's a cultural thing, Whites have no concept of personal space. Whereas Blacks have an invisible area around us that you don't step into unless you intend to fight. Pointing your finger into someone's face or at them is another cultural no-no that whites don't understand.

And touching a Black woman's hair.... well that will get you killed..period.

My own hair is basically non existent these days. I'm almost bald by choice....my head is covered with fuzz that I get trimmed every few weeks at the barbershop. I don't go to a beauty parlor cause women stylists aren't trained in hair cutting. I go to a female barber who knows her business..

My head is totally liberated from the need to flip my locks like white girls and some black women with weaves are wont to do. As Indie Airie says, I am not my hair.

I love getting caught in a rain storm with no hat, rain beating on my scalp, pouring down my face. Talk about orgasmic. Whoo! Makes me want to take all my clothes off and just stand there in God's shower with my arms reaching up and out, with a stupid grin on my face like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption when he escaped prison.

And when I sweat, it beads on my head. I can feel the moisture on my skin rather then watch my hair go limp or frizzy from humidity.

This recent incident brought back another time when a white woman got touch crazy. I was working behind the service desk at Zayre. My hair was Angela Davis long...afro'd and picked and well taken care of and still soft. No hair spray no dandruff, just fierce and proud as we used to say..

White people didn't know what to think back in the day. They kept asking how do you get your hair to stand out like that? The bolder ones, usually women, would ask can I touch it?

Since I was at work at the time and still shedding my good Negro-ness (another story, another time), I let her touch me, but vowed inwardly never to let it happen again. She satisfied her curiosity about the black girl. I felt humiliated and slightly dirty.

So let me tell ya...if you see me and want to rub my head, you better ask somebody first..

Ya feel me?

Hostage

One of the many reasons that I loved living in Chicago was that a car was truly a luxury rather than a necessity. I could get anywhere I wanted without having to jump into a vehicle, unless it was public transportation. The buses and trains ran 24/7, 365. I could walk out my door, step to the curb and throw my hand up to signal any of the several taxis passing by. Three large grocery stores were within three blocks, and they delivered. I would walk to the store, choose my food, pay for it, and then tell the cashier where I lived. My groceries arrived within the hour with the eggs not broken.

There were breakfast places for brunch, lunch places, dinner places, bars to drink and watch sports, dance clubs, work out clubs, all within walking distance. And I mean walking distance without breaking sweat or getting leg cramps from over exertion. Since I lived on Lakeshore Drive, I had 22 miles of park, including a golf course right across the street. Wrigley Field was four blocks west. I could open my windows and hear the late Harry Carey sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” during the seventh inning stretch. The only reason I drove was to visit my sister who lived in the burbs. When I needed to fly, which was weekly, I took the train to O’HARE.

All of these memories came flooding back with the news that a gallon of gasoline is $3.49 at my neighborhood gas station today. I no longer live in Chicago. I now live in Cincinnati Ohio, and I'm old enough to remember a gasoline price war between stations in Mt Healthy, where a gallon cost 28-cents. Cincinnati is a city where a car is a must have, even at today's prices.

Urban sprawl is a nice term for it. Usually good restaurants, good theaters and marvelous clubs inhabit the heart of the city. Now, the best places to eat are right across the river, in Kentucky or out in the burbs of West Chester. The purple people bridge is pedestrian friendly, for those wanting to cross the river, but you need a car to get to the bridge. Here, going clubbing usually means driving to Columbus or Indianapolis. As for getting your groceries delivered intact, well good luck. I consider myself lucky if there is a bagger at the checkout.

Since I grew up in Cincinnati, I was well aware of its cultural limitations for the over 25 set of young adults, both gay and straight. If I want to shop, eat or go to the park, I drive. Everyone has a car. Many people have two or three in case one breaks down. Boycotting rising gas prices will not happen here because Cincinnati, like many other former industrial cities of the Midwest, is not people or user friendly. The Midwest is held hostage by the whims of OPEC.

If you don’t have a car, you better have a friend who has one. The wait between buses is about an hour. Getting a bus late at night is pretty impossible. Looking for a taxi? Don’t go to the curb. Dig out your cell phone and call, it’ll be there in about 20 minutes. Elevated trains? Forget about it!

I’ve been looking at Vespas lately as a means of going green. There is a dealership right around the corner. I like the little European scooters. I wouldn’t think twice about buying one, if I still lived in Europe. But here in Cincinnati, I hesitate because I figure the first time I try to ride it, I’ll be run over by somebody in a big ass SUV hurrying to a radio sponsored gasoline sale.

You Want to Do What?

What makes white women think that because we are both women, that they can put their hands on me or ask me questions like a sister as in sibling, not sistah?

I had this peroxided, limp, shoulder length hair, roots showing white girl come up to me and reach toward my head. She wanted to rub my head, because as she said, it looks so soft.

She didn't ask, she just reached. I nearly broke her arm. I slapped away her hand. I didn't know where her hands had been. I barely knew her. We were acquaintances, meaning we had exchanged useless chit chat in the recent past. But I've never tried or even wanted to reach out and touch for any reason. She didn't apologize for the intrusion, only melted away perplexed at my reaction.

I know in my cooler, more rational moments that it's a cultural thing, Whites have no concept of personal space. Whereas Blacks have an invisible area around us that you don't step into unless you intend to fight. Pointing your finger into someone's face or at them is another cultural no-no that whites don't understand.

And touching a Black woman's hair.... well that will get you killed..period.

My own hair is basically non existent these days. I'm almost bald by choice....my head is covered with fuzz that I get trimmed every few weeks at the barbershop. I don't go to a beauty parlor cause women stylists aren't trained in hair cutting. I go to a female barber who knows her business..

My head is totally liberated from the need to flip my locks like white girls and some black women with weaves are wont to do. As Indie Airie says, I am not my hair.

I love getting caught in a rain storm with no hat, rain beating on my scalp, pouring down my face. Talk about orgasmic. Whoo! Makes me want to take all my clothes off and just stand there in God's shower with my arms reaching up and out, with a stupid grin on my face like Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption when he escaped prison.

And when I sweat, it beads on my head. I can feel the moisture on my skin rather then watch my hair go limp or frizzy from humidity.

This recent incident brought back another time when a white woman got touch crazy. I was working behind the service desk at Zayre. My hair was Angela Davis long...afro'd and picked and well taken care of and still soft. No hair spray no dandruff, just fierce and proud as we used to say..

White people didn't know what to think back in the day. They kept asking how do you get your hair to stand out like that? The bolder ones, usually women, would ask can I touch it?

Since I was at work at the time and still shedding my good Negro-ness (another story, another time), I let her touch me, but vowed inwardly never to let it happen again. She satisfied her curiosity about the black girl. I felt humiliated and slightly dirty.

So let me tell ya...if you see me and want to rub my head, you better ask somebody first..

Ya feel me?