Author’s Note: I am not single, nor am I a sister…but I am damn sure finna speak out. Take off the kid gloves….I am a big boy and I can defend myself.
Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired signifies, in the final sense, a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and not clothed.
Humans are predisposed to conflict. It is part of the sin nature Adam and Eve and their inability to follow simple instructions brought upon us. It is the wise individual who learns when to draw the bow and when to draw the bouquet.
Black men and women are at war because the Hell in which we live has distorted our surival instincts to the point that we don’t know who the enemy is.
I had a crappy day. Mrs. Ink had a crappier day, by far. As long as my day’s crappiness wasn’t at the forefront of my mind, I could successfully address her wounds from the day’s excrement. THE VERY SECOND that I started focusing on my OWN crap, which admittedly was far less significant than HER crap, but smelled worse because it eminated from my personal space, I put my bouquets down and drew my bow when she got too close with some errant bullets. Of course, I didn’t do this right away. I waited until she put her guard down, and then rained hails of logical and loaded observation arrows accusing her of indifference to my plight and to my situation.
No Bueno. I cannot do that. I am a chauvinist in that I believe, as the man, I need to have my finger on the pulse of the overall relationship and not allow the discourse to get toxic. Such is the nature of being the head of the household.
Her, being the diva she is, is pretty indifferent to any mood but hers.
I, knowing that I am in love with a diva, has to perpetually walk the thin line between protecting my overall psyche and accepting that if, in fact you DO love her, (and I do) you love her as she IS, not as you would like her to be. Doing that means losing arguments even though you have more points than she does. Doing that means She and I will live happily ever after, because even though she is a diva, she is also astute enough to know what I am doing and once she basks in another victory, she can come to me and thank me for letting her win.
which means I really win. Yaaay ME.
Make love not War, people.
They wrote in the old days that it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. But in modern war, there is nothing sweet nor fitting in your dying. You will die like a dog for no good reason.
I am not sure exactly what I am doing, other than rambling aimlessly about the overall toxicity in the relations between Black Men and Black Women. The war analogy seems apt because people are dying literally(seen the AIDS rate lately?) and figuratively(seen the rate on Black children born out of wedlock? Black children in two parent housholds?). As a Twice married, once divorced Black man who lives a time zone away from two of his sons and has a third at home, I am at the crossroads of the battlefield. I can see the path to peace as clearly as I can see the carnage of the front lines.
I see the war in everything, from Breezy v. Rhi-Rhi, to Chris Rock v. the Natural hair Mafia, to Tyler Perry v. Spike Lee, to The fight for health care reform.
The dispatches begin Next Thursday.