My Polar Opposite

I’m Rockin’ the Red Pump for AIDS Awareness. And fashion fierceness.

mypolaropposite — Wed, 10 Mar 2010 16:35:30 +0000

Ok, so it's not a pump, but these Birkenstocks are the only red shoes I have. You get the idea...

Today, March 10, is National Women and Girls’ HIV/AIDS Awareness Day (NWGHAAD) and while it’s not my usual cause, I’m gonna talk about it. Here are the facts, directly from the CDC:

In 2007, more than a quarter of diagnoses of HIV infection in the United States were among women and girls aged 13 years and older.

More than 278,000 women and adolescent girls in this country are living with HIV; and almost 94,000 American women and girls with AIDS have died since the epidemic began.

In 2007, for female adults and adolescents, the rate of HIV/AIDS diagnoses for black females was nearly 20 times as high as the rate for white females and nearly 4 times as high as the rate for Hispanic/Latino females.

Then I read this idiocy with Antonio Cromartie of the NY Jets having 7 kids with 6 women in 5 different states. Of course it’s absurd that the Jets are paying him $500M to clear up his lingering paternity issues, and that will be the subject of another blog post. But the fact that these 6 women were willing to have unprotected sex with some dude just points out how sexually transmitted diseases are being spread within our community. The CDC also released this week the alarming spread of herpes in the US, with the rate of infection among black women at 48%.

Don’t sleep on herpes: its a viral infection, treated with the same kinds of drugs (antiretrovirals) that treat AIDS and HIV. As such, individuals with genital herpes are “two to three times more likely to acquire HIV and they are also more likely to transmit HIV infection to others”, according to Dr. John M. Douglas, Jr. of the CDC. So just because its “only herpes” doesn’t mean that it will remain as such through the course of your life.

I’ve never been so happy to be celibate in my life, or to have been born at a time when sex without a condom wasn’t really an option. Generation X was raised with sex education and birth control in schools, and fear of AIDS coinciding with our sexual awareness. Younger generations are not so lucky, and they’re paying for it with their lives.

What can you do? EDUCATE yourself and those you love about the spread of HIV/AIDS among girls as young as 13, and on the ways you can prevent the spread of all sexually-transmitted disease. For the love of God, use a condom. Or choose to abstain from sex, or at least limit your sexual contact to one partner. Do something.

For more information, check out my Twitter Girl @luvvieIG and “The Red Pump Project”, as they raise awareness about the impact of HIV/AIDS on women and girls. If you’re in Chi-Town, the organization’s inaugural fashion show, “Rock the RED: Bold. Fashion. Awareness.” will take place on March 25.

Things I just have to say about The #Oscars

mypolaropposite — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 03:39:04 +0000

I'm in Twitter jail, which is just wrong, but I still have many things to say about the last 5 minutes. Here they are:

why was John Travolta wearing jeans? If he wasn't wearing jeans, his pants need to put on a suit
commercial about Jamie Oliver's food revolution makes me want to put town my bowl of Oscar snacks. Well, not really, it's pretzels and Crystal Light lemonade, nut I really want a 6-pack of beer, a pepperoni pizza, and some Cheetos. We all make sacrifices.
Because I love small, newborn puppies, I don't want Avatar to win any more awards. A win for Avatar is support for fake filmmaking, and the murder of innocent puppies. And James Cameron's wife looks like she needs to eat.
Every time Hurt Locker wins a category over Avatar, an angel gets its wings. (RT @baratunde for that, but it's true)
I think that more Black people get to come to the Oscars when we're nominated for more stuff. So CCH Pounder, live it up this year 'cuz our last good year happened 8 years ago.

That's all until TweetDeck resets its API and I can share my sarcasm #140characters at a time…

Posted via email from mypolaropposite’s posterous

You’re nobody til somebody hates on you

mypolaropposite — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 12:33:46 +0000

Congratulate me; I’ve MADE IT!!!! I am officially a member of the Blogosphere, the Twitterati, the Social Media Movers and Shakers. And to what, you may ask, can I attribute my rise to fame? Twilight fans and hateration.

A few months ago, I wrote an innocuous post about how Black folks don’t like the Twilight movies. In case you don’t click on the link, I will describe my post as brimming with my trademark sarcastic wit. The blog entry in question was also based on my reading of all 4 books in the Twilight series, watching the first movie, and trolling the legions of gay men, middle-aged housewives, and screaming teenagers pledging their internet love to Edward and Jacob. First, I just couldn’t see why throngs of grown-ass women were all twisted over it, other than the sexual frustration and lack of romance in their lives. Second, I didn’t see a lot of color in my research, unless you count the Native American werewolves. Third, even with my lifelong geekdom and overall interest in the vampire genre, even I couldn’t get with all the vanilla in Stephenie Meyer’s work. And if I, the nerdiest of all Black girls, couldn’t see the draw, I looked for a cultural angle to my distaste and wrote about it.

Enter “Black Chicks Love Twilight.“ This month, I’m their biggest hater target (even though I got most of my site traffic from them this month, but no comments on my post about how hateful I am…thanks girls!) because of my “stupidity”. I love it! The beauty of user-generated content is that average people are free to say what they want, when they want, about whomever they want. Unlike a lot of people, I’m happy to be an internet target, mostly because I understand that idle insults are par for the course; if thousands and millions of people come across a small part of you every day, someone is bound to misunderstand you. You can either take issue or let it roll.

This is not the first time I’ve been maligned electronically. Last year I wrote one of those “Complaint Box” pieces for the New York Times where you complain about inane things and they’ll print it. I was glad the editors like my writing and kept it moving. Also, my biggest pet peeve is seeing guys’ underwear because their pants are below the equator. Anyway, hundreds of people commented on my little essay, which means I struck a chord with Times readers. Journalistic success! A bunch of the comments were overwhelmingly negative and lashed out at me personally. The “me” they had in mind was a snobby (sometimes), old (not yet), White (uh, NOT) woman from the suburbs (yo, I’m from Queens – ya heard?) who didn’t understand “urban” culture. Again, I thought it was fantastic because the readers parsed my identity from a few words with no photo, and no context for who I really am other than the fact that I read the New York Times. I can’t really find fault with that because my haters don’t really know me, just an image based on what I say. That I can perpetrate as a stodgy member of the majority makes me feel pretty good about my literary skills.

I’m glad the girl from Black Chicks Love Twilight went after me. She clearly understands what this social media business is all about: namely, that she can express her feelings any way she chooses. I’m also glad she points out to her readers that it’s OK for Black girls to like certain things without being accused of “acting White”. She probably doesn’t realize that I heard that phrase for longer than she’s been alive, otherwise she’d be asking my advice instead of criticizing. And speaking of advice, if she’s reading this I do want her to check spelling and grammar before publishing her pages: if Black Chicks are doing anything in public, we need to come correct!

*picks Angela Davis Afro and throws up Black Power fist*

Taking the lid off Pandora’s Box: #WetJamesFranco and celibacy

mypolaropposite — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 13:00:46 +0000

Blame it on #WetJamesFranco, an entity that I created solely to deal with my reaction to photographs from the actor James Franco’s new Gucci campaign. One of my friends posted a link to Facebook or Twitter or something like that and I haven’t been able to stop drooling since. Or thinking about sex.

Photo courtesy of http://hollywooddame.com. And God. Thank you both.

Ordinarily I ogle photos of near-naked celebrities for sport. Just because I’m celibate doesn’t mean I’m dead and/or blind. And everyone needs eye candy, particularly during the winter months when all you see are people’s bulky outwear and the tips of their noses. Except for the young fellows in my neighborhood who still insist on showing their thermal underwear under extremely low-slung trousers. Looking at them isn’t appealing; it just makes me feel cold and sad. Enter #WetJamesFranco at exactly the right time, all cheekbones, pouty lips, sinewy muscles and clingy t-shirt. To be perfectly honest, writing this blog with the photo on the left visible is raising my blood pressure. I’ve always thought the actor James Franco was pretty, and he was very funny on SNL making fun of himself in the very ad campaign currently getting my knickers in a twist. But there’s nothing like a wet shirt clinging to a man’s perfectly formed pecs to move him from “aw, that’s pretty” to sex on a stick. #WetJamesFranco has become, to me, an entity completely separate from the actor from whom I’ve never gotten such a strong reaction. Ok, so his skin looks a little too airbrushed, but the contrast in the black & white film, the textures of the dripping clothes and, well, the wetness have made me a little obsessed with #WetJamesFranco. Since seeing the photo shown on the left, I have rediscovered a host of feminine stirrings, yearnings, and urges. I am horny!!! Gulp…

I haven’t seen a naked man in a while, and it really didn’t bother me much. Until now. I should probably let #WetJamesFranco off the hook a little bit because my brain has been focused on sex, or at least on the connection between sex and dating and relationships. I’ve got to contend with my attraction to Friend Boy, who I haven’t even kissed let alone seen naked. Ok, I have seen pictures of Friend Boy in cycling gear – which doesn’t leave much to the imagination – but I don’t think that really counts for much. My interest in his spandex was much more to rule out unseemly physical defects than to acquire positive visual stimuli, if you know what I mean. Nevertheless, I’d completely rejected the idea of coming on to Friend Boy, as that behavior has

The full Gucci Sport ad. Let's take a moment to thank James Franco's parents. And God.

always been the point at which my relationships go all pear-shaped. I’d convinced my conscious mind to conjure nothing more than a hand-holding situation with Friend Boy. Then I see #WetJamesFranco’s photos and all of a sudden I’m dreaming about Friend Boy and I rolling around on a couch, unable to keep out hands off each other. If I had cigarettes when I woke up from that dream, I would’ve smoked them. Yeah, more than one!

You see, here’s what I think is going on: my brain and my body are actually working together. I’ve opened up my rational mind to the possibility of relating to someone romantically. More amazingly, my rational mind doesn’t associate positive emotions with fear and rejection, as has happened in the past. I can acknowledge that while I may hope for a romantic outcome in my relationship with Friend Boy, I don’t expect it to happen so I can focus on the enjoyment of actually getting to know him without getting all hemmed up in subterfuge. And because my brain is enjoying itself, and my heart is a little more open than it usually is, my libido is getting ready to follow along. Thankfully, the libido is not leading the discussion these days, so I can relegate my x-rated activities to REM sleep while maintaining my actual celibacy. At least for a while.

It has come to my attention that if Friend Boy actually reads this blog, and our relationship takes an undesirable turn, I may no longer feel so positive about myself. Perhaps, but a therapeutic breakthrough is a breakthrough. And I’ll always have #WetJamesFranco.

Honesty is NOT written all over my face

mypolaropposite — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 13:30:03 +0000

Sometimes I meet my blog fans and Twitter followers in person, and they remark that my social media personality is exactly the same as my real personality. I’m a firm believer that “what you see is what you get” should apply to people as well as to computer programming and The Flip Wilson Show. I’m the most honest and upfront person you’ll ever meet. I am incapable of faking an emotion because my every thought comes across on my face and, eventually, out of my mouth. You always know where you stand with me. My proverbial balls are always to the wall, no holds barred. Except for the fact that I’m such a liar and I’m full of crap.

Before I lose all credibility, I should clarify what I mean by that last statement. Anyone who knows me has been privy to the beauty of my trademark honesty. Ask me for an honest opinion, I’ll give it. Even when nobody asks, I’m still compelled to give it. “Yes, those jeans make you look fat, that lipstick makes you look dead, and if you don’t take off those shoes I’m going to take them off you and burn them.” A friend from college used to brush her hair when I came to her room because I told her one day that her hair looked like a haystack or something. Happily, we remain friends and she still makes a point of brushing her hair before she sees me. My seeming disregard for other people’s feelings extends into my professional life as well. “That layout is crap even though you spent the better part of the week working on it: are you lazy or just incompetent?” “These concepts make it look like you’ve done a lot of work, they’re all off-strategy and only half of them mention the brand name above the fold. Did you even READ the brief? Start over.” An advertising agency creative once told me that while my words were harsh, my voice was so pleasant that nobody realized I’d chewed them out until, like, 30 minutes later. Call it a gift. But my verbal gift does not apply to dating. There I usually clam up like…well, you get what I’m trying to say.

Mind you, I’m not actually dating Friend Boy, but I like him. As previously stated, my feelings, and the thoughts and feelings regarding experiencing said feelings, give me agita. Then I obsess slightly because I’m still figuring out how to live in the present without letting my old patterns ruin the moment. The good news is that I have clarity on the behaviors that made me unhappy in male relationships. The bad news is that because I spent so many years trying to orchestrate other peoples’ reactions, I never learned how to interpret them them. To put a fine point on it, I feel like I’m 13 years old again and I don’t understand boys except to get nervous when they talk to me.

Here’s what I mean: Friend Boy and I talk and email and communicate on Facebook pretty regularly. He told me the other day that he’s spent much time looking at my pictures on Facebook. And then he said something about seeing me smile and knowing me, something like that. What exactly is that supposed to mean? Was he: (A) just making conversation; (B) interested in me romantically and, as such, fond of looking at my smiling face when he can’t see me in person; or (C) currently amassing a shrine to me that covers one entire wall of his apartment. Sometimes there’s a fine line between “adorable” and “a door ’bout to get slammed in your face, restraining order to come”. I ruled out the psycho option because Friend Boy and I have a mutual friend, whom I trust. But when he made his confession, I was torn between two reactions. Half of me wanted to say, in my best sarcastic tone, “Stalker much?” The other half of me searched for some combination coy phrase/flirty gesture as perfected by various female protagonists in 1950’s romantic films. What did I do? Nothing. When I think of it, I’m pretty sure my face was absolutely blank for the first time in my life. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t say anything either. That never happens. Help!!!!

Perhaps its best that I’m caught off guard with Friend Boy. If I’m just cruising along without a relationship map, then I won’t be able to concoct any self-defeating reactions (good), or use my defense mechanisms to diffuse my insecurities (better). This is probably what they call a breakthrough and, if it is, then I’m probably on my way to my best reactions ever: the kind of emotional honesty and sincerity that lead to a healthy relationship with myself, and with whatever “Boy” comes around.

Waiting in the foxhole of love

mypolaropposite — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 02:55:34 +0000

I’ve lost the use of my heart, but I’m still alive

Y’all know Sade ain’t never lied about a broken heart, and she really nailed it with “Soldier of Love”. All the sisters and some brothers too, understand what she’s talking about. Love rolled over your ass like like a wooden pin over Granny’s biscuit dough and you feel just as squishy and shapeless. Or you’ve been used and tossed aside repeatedly like an empty crack vial, thinking you’re just as dirty and useless. Yep, I’ve been there a few times. Sometimes it really hurt, sometimes it didn’t even register, and every time I wondered why I didn’t just let the errant hairs grow out of my chin and adopt a houseful of cats. I must confess that I have gone a fair amount of time without using tweezers. And, I have stared longingly at the “Crazy Cat Lady” action figure on my bookcase. Eventually though, I give in, commence to plucking, put the Cat Lady face down on the shelf…and get hit by another grenade in the war of romance.

And now? Well I’m suited up, Lieutenant, put me on the front line. Okay, I’m not so much ready for battle as sitting in the barracks inspecting my weapon and praying for safety. I kinda met someone (!) and I could possibly be interested in maybe going on a date with him (!!). Potentially. I’ve hung out with this guy – who shall henceforth be known as “Friend Boy” - exactly twice, and my rational mind has wisely declined to set expectations and engage in unrealistic fantasies. But somewhere in the hazy recesses of the brain, my emotional mind is telling me to “make a move” on Friend Boy and and go for mine. When I can’t equivocate her into shutting up, she concocts a scenario in which I tell Friend Boy that I like him, grab him by the ears, and plant one on him. This dream won’t, will not, come to fruition, which freaks me out a little.

I’ve been torn up inside, I’ve been left behind…I have the will to survive

Since I started dating at 17, I’ve been trying to manipulate men into doing what I want them to do. I blame my subterfuge on being a late bloomer who was never on the receiving end of the numerous crushes I had on male friends. I lobbied my first boyfriend into initiating physical contact; I made the first gestures toward holding hands, kissing, making out and he followed willingly. Those awkward teenage moves got me into relationships through my late 20’s, all of which ended at my bidding. The boyfriends that pursued me willingly also broke up with me, and broke my heart in the process. Not to be defeated, I set my sights on the “adult” sections of Craigslist for the kinds of relationships (read: sex only) I thought I could control. It turns out that no matter how I tried to intellectualize my foray into commitment-free nookie, I couldn’t get into it and I decided to be celibate. Following said decision came a few weeks in the psych hospital where I learned that the last 16 years of this love warfare have been against myself. Doing battle with my heart to feel good at any cost. Entering periodic skirmishes with my mind to escape the sadness, the uneasiness, because I didn’t want to pay attention. I’ve been out for over a year, and through so much therapy that I catch my negative self-talk in process. Dialectical behavior therapy is my friend, and I am doing my work to diffuse negative patterns and form alternatives. Marsha Linehan would be proud. But I’m still shell-shocked, suffering from mild relationship PTSD, and looking for my new love playbook without sex and manipulation.

I’m at the hinterland of my devotion, I’m in the frontline of this battle of mine but I’m still alive

So back to Friend Boy. When I met him we engaged in some mild flirting as might transpire between two people who are digging each other. The last time we saw each other was at a party, and I felt comfortable thinking, “Hey, I like this guy.” I believe there is some level of interest on his part, though I don’t know for sure. And when I don’t know something for sure, I get antsy and forget everything I know about being a normal human being. So I waged an internal war with myself, and there was no clear winner. I spent 1/3 of the time playfully ignoring Friend Boy and another 30% of the time touching him too much and looking at him (I believe) like I had stars in my eyes. I spent the remainder of the evening mentally mounting a familiar offensive to corner him in the kitchen; then I’d catch myself and literally sit on my hands and/or turn away. Crazy much? Why yes I am, thank you for asking. I’m kinda hoping that Friend Boy was so enamored with me that I didn’t seem that erratic, or that he was thinking about something else and didn’t notice.

I will see Friend Boy again in a few days, and I will behave in a manner befitting a celibate, late 30’s woman who has a handle on her own sanity regardless of the silly things she sometimes does. For all I know, Friend Boy is a sane, late 30’s man trying desperately to step over the casualties in his own relationship past. I’m pretty sure I could love with that.

My Polar Opposite presents a social media relationship primer

mypolaropposite — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 21:22:10 +0000

Apparently y’all are a bunch of punk-ass bitches. Yeah, I said it. According to a study released this week MoCoSpace and published by TechCrunch, 48% of you idiots have actually broken up with someone via text message. Shame on you! And shame on the set of doofises (is that even a word?) that went out with you in the first place. They had to see it coming with your social detachment and reliance on communication via technology. Lord knows I did.

Don't look like a dork in social media, it's not a good look. http://www.flickr.com/photos/dullhunk/ / CC BY 2.0

Many people know that I’m a fan of Geeky Boys because they’re smart and I think that smart is sexy. And you know that I’ve dated my share of geeks because sometimes you can hardly tell them from the regular men. A few years ago I dated the King of the Geeks, as he will henceforth be known. KOTG is brilliant. He left U Penn early to found an internet start-up in 1986, made good money in the business for about 20 years, sold a few patents to start another company and is probably writing code in his home office as we speak. If I’d taken his advice while we were dating, I’d be a successful entrepreneur now instead of an unemployed wanna-be writer. I’m beating a dead horse but I want you to realize how heavy this guy is. He is also very tall, pretty funny and pretty good in bed – someone taught him well, really well.

But over the course of our relationship I noticed KOTG’s not-so-social tendencies: he wasn’t good at socializing with my friends & family; he rarely spoke to people unless it was business-related; he’d spend days in front of the computer without human contact. I’m not really sure he has any friends in the emotional sense of the word, just associates. My tip off should’ve been when I cried in front of him (that was the best friend suicide moment) and he kind of shuffled away looking like a deer in the headlights. I would’ve taken a “there, there” or a pat on the shoulder over his awkward escape. And speaking of awkward and escaping, he also had the gall to break up with me over email.

You know when you decide a relationship is over and you’re just looking for the right moment to break it off? KOTG and I were there for over a month. I could never be with someone who rejected my company to commune with code. Programming is fun, but Imma still need to get with the humans from time to time. And his asocial behavior brought out my worst passive-aggressive, so I don’t blame his not wanting to date that chick. We kept trying to get together, played phone tag, then I went on vacation with my girls fully committed to having the break-up meeting when I got back. Instead, I return home to an email talking about how it was somehow easier to break up via email. No kidding its easier, you jackass! I believe my response went something like, “I was gonna break up with you too but I was waiting to do it in person like a grown up, now send me my shit that’s in your apartment.” I should also mention that we’d dated for over a year. Yeah, I know.

Some of you are probably thinking that there’s a time period in which it is acceptable to end a relationship via electronic communication. If you haven’t had sex, its okay. If you’ve been out on less than 5 dates, sure. A text is certainly better than ignoring someone you’d rather not see. But then again, if you’re an adult you should be able to pick up the phone and tell someone who it’s really not working for you. What did people do before texting and email? The acted like human beings, that’s what. In case you don’t remember what that’s like, let me give you a few tips for social-networking relationship etiquette:

DO NOT have any kind of relationship conversation via Twitter. It’s public. You can Google it. ‘Nuff said.
DO NOT break up with anyone via Twitter or Facebook. People have done it, and it looks like girls fighting with each other on the playground: there’s pushing and shoving, punches that don’t quite land, nobody wins, everyone is embarrassed. Besides, your friggin’ boss is on Facebook so if you wouldn’t cuss out your man in the middle of the office, don’t do it in the middle of your social network.
For casual “social” relationships, DO NOT wink at anyone on Twitter if you just met them. Getting a DM that says “thanks for following me ” is like having someone wink at you when you shake their hand: it makes you feel creepy, like some stranger licking the back of your neck. Please respect in-person relationship rules on Twitter, because there are real people behind those accounts and one of them could be your momma!
DO send cute love notes via email and text because its gross to have sexy-talk when the person in the adjoining cube can hear you.
DO NOT access text, email, Twitter for romantic communication while in a public bathroom. Your reactions will make someone call the cops on you.
DO NOT access any of the above technologies while on a date unless you are a doctor, police officer, the Lamaze coach of a woman who is 9-months-pregnant (hopefully not your wife), or a parent is on their death-bed. If you feel the need to grab your smartphone of choice during a date, you’re just not into him/her and you should probably go home. Good thing there’s internet porn.

This is all I can do to help you folks learn to be regular people, the kind that talk to other people, instead of turning into pods. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go post this on Twitter.

Sometimes a suicide needs a tribute

mypolaropposite — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 21:34:31 +0000

This may be one of the hardest things I’ve ever written in my life, aside from all those cover letters. No, I’m not going to let the sarcasm block me from saying something that I think is very, very important. Today is my mother’s birthday and I’m in mourning. Not for Mommy, though she did pass over 15 years ago and I still miss her every single day. No, I’m missing another very cool woman who taught me a lot, and taught other people as well. That woman is Valerie Burgher, one of my best friends who committed suicide in June 2006. She would have been 38 years old last Tuesday and she was funny and smart and talented and beautiful. To be perfectly honest, I was a little bit jealous of her when we were young and I’ll bet she was a little bit jealous of me in that pre-teen girl way. But we became best friends when we met in 7th Grade in Queens, NY. We were the only 2 Black girls in our class, and empirically the 2 smartest, so of course we bonded. It turns out that we had a lot more in common than that, things I wouldn’t realize until much later. Anyway, in school Valerie was always #1 and I was the perennial #2, but I didn’t mind. Her self-deprecating joke was that I was naturally smarter, but she worked harder. At the time I believed it a little, since I never studied a lick. But that’s not important; what’s important is that she was my bestest friend, like the kind of friend that you talk on the phone with for hours and hours and don’t say anything at all. We used to tape ourselves talking – the first podcasts! We used to watch movies together over the phone. My parents got me a separate phone number because they could never get a call, as Valerie and I NEVER got off the phone with each other unless we were at each other’s houses or at school. Good times. Somewhere in 9th Grade, Val started acting a little strange. We were still girls but something was different. One morning she came to school for math team (I mentioned before that I was a nerd) and I noticed some scars on the side of her wrist. I asked about them, we fought, and Valerie stormed off. In retrospect, she was cutting – not trying to kill herself – and it freaked me the hell out. I thought I was going to die or my heart was going to explode. Our group of friends had a quorum and I learned that Valerie’s mom had been hospitalized years ago after a suicide attempt, and a second time after going off her medication. So young were we, and so without the internet for research that we didn’t know a lot about mental illness or family history or anything like that. I never told my parents about it because I didn’t want them to say I couldn’t see Valerie any more, or that I wasn’t allowed to go to her house. My parents are Black, we’re like that sometimes. It’s not monumentally important, but Valerie was biracial. Maybe that added to her pain, but I’ll never know. After the cutting incident, things went back to normal. Valerie and I decided, as a unit, that we wouldn’t be attending private school at Fieldston or Hotchkiss (we’d been recruited simultaneously by the Prep for Prep program) and went to public school instead. Time went on, we broadened our circle of friends and she began dating a guy that a few of our other friends crushed on. Our other friends hated on Valerie a little bit after that. It was high school and girls get catty no matter how close they are. I’d made my peace with the fact that she was always the pretty one AND the smart one, but I never held that against her. She was my best friend, after all. Besides, there was just something so attractive about her, not just her looks, that it either sucked you in or made you jealous. You know that girl who all your guy friends are kind of in love with, even the gay ones, and you can’t fault them because you totally get it? Some people are just like that, I guess. She never knew it, though. It was like not ever thinking she was smarter than me or better than anyone at anything. She wasn’t modest exactly just, I don’t know, afraid of standing out, more so than the average teenager. Anyway, around the time of the boys and the hating Valerie started to change a little. She was a little more broody, maybe a little bit erratic. We blamed it on the boyfriend. She spent 3 months in the Philippines with the Peace Corps our junior year after which we went to work at the same summer job and proceeded to apply to – and attend – the same college. Just like high school, I think it was a joint decision. My parents drove us up to New Haven for tours, then to Middletown for interviews, and on the ride back we decided that we’d be going to Yale, never mind that we hadn’t applied yet. We were going! Make it so! And we did, same major and everything. It’s amazing how much easier life was in high school, even when it was really hard. But college leads to adulthood and real issues. Somewhere in freshman year, Valerie and her boyfriend broke up. It was him, not her, which I’ll always believe was motivated by jealousy. And as happens with these things, my best friend was pretty broken up by the break up. I only know that because she looked terrible, not because we talked about it like we would’ve in high school. Somewhere in there she disappeared into her dorm and I into mine. We did hang out occasionally, but I stopped understanding her. Rumors in small colleges spread like brush fires and I’d been told about her public drunkenness, rampant promiscuity and generally crazy behavior. At the time I was very confused and very embarrassed about hearing bad things about My Valerie, the innocent virgin (yeah, that’s right, ask around) in me shook her head and figured that this was where we parted ways. She went on to hang with the artsy coffee-house musician crowd and I hung with the gay feminist dance-party crowd. Then graduation. You can’t shake some people, and I met up with Valerie in Los Angeles in 1996, where she had a journalism fellowship with the LA Times. We chatted, I met some of her co-workers and felt vastly overmatched in intellect. I also felt like a child, like Valerie and her friends had become adults with real jobs while I was playing at it in advertising in NY. She still had that edge, that sad something I saw in college but she never talked to me about it. In lots of ways, I was a child then, and I wouldn’t have been able to handle her real truths. We met again at our 5th college reunion where I was struggling with depression (and didn’t know it) and she was manic (and perhaps knew it). When you don’t understand mania it just looks scary, especially if its wearing the face of the childhood best friend who always got you more than you got yourself. Anyway, we caught up with me nearly unable to follow her rambling conversation or pacing around the dorm room that was our hotel for the weekend. She revealed her plan to hook up with one of our classmates, as one often does at reunions. I know now that one often mounts a sexual offensive in the midst of a manic episode, but that’s from personal experience. In 1999, I knew enough not to criticize Valerie’s actions because I didn’t want to hurt her, but I’m sure my disapproval registered in some way. By that point we’d traded geographies with me leaving for California just as she was settling into Brooklyn and writing for New York Newsday. And that was that. Years later I returned to New York and I might have seen Valerie in the Columbus Circle subway station. From behind I sized up a woman who could have been her but probably wasn’t. The age was right, but this girl was pretty chubby and had short hair, not like My Valerie at all. For a moment I thought, “people change” since at the time I was skinny and running 5K races, not at all the person I was even a few years before. But I didn’t approach the woman I saw underground because if it was her, I just wasn’t in the mood since I’d just come from therapy and didn’t feel like being drained by someone else. Probably wasn’t her anyway. I put that day out of my mind until months later, when I opened an innocent-looking e-mail offering me condolences at Valerie’s passing. I believe I said, out loud, “What the hell are you talking about?” as I responded to the note. By the time I pulled up Google I’d already been sent Valerie’s obituary from The Village Voice, for which she had written later in her life. She jumped in front of a train and died in the hospital the next day, ruled a suicide, not an accident. Valerie Burgher was 34 and suffered openly from bipolar disorder; her one-time best friend was 33, utterly shocked and bawling uncontrollably while she donated to NAMI. In those moments, years of memories came careening back to me, the good ones and the bad ones alike. I put everything together right then, sitting on the couch in my boyfriend’s living room, spilling tears onto his laptop. The erratic behavior, the mood swings, EVERYTHING. Even the guilt that I’d possibly seen her and was too selfish at the time to talk to her. In the next few hours I Googled everything I could to fill in the missing years and found that Valerie was still the same girl who I fell in love with in junior high. Funny, silly, creative, dedicated, smarter than me no matter what she’d say. She sang, played guitar, could bake a mean apple pie and grow plants. Bad dancer, brilliant writer and talented photographer, never really smiled in pictures because she thought she was ugly. Yeah, we never know what’s really going on inside someone’s head. Today I have my own bipolar diagnosis and I can’t stop thinking about Valerie. First, I don’t know how she felt every day, but I get it all. Sitting in a psych ward I could see her volatile college years in my own Craigslist-bolstered promiscuity. I know why she sometimes drank too much and acted like an asshole, or why some of my other college friends didn’t like her or why she completely obliterated her ex-boyfriends, or why going to the Philippines and Cambodia with the Peace Corps could be interesting, but would never be far enough away for her to outrun her demons. I may not have done EXACTLY what she did, but trust that I’ve had my moments. And that they’ll be in the book. Anyway, after I got out of the hospital I decided that Valerie’s voice had been silenced but mine didn’t have to be. She was open about her disease, and her struggles became more powerful in light of her talents and success. I never got a chance to talk to my friend about living with a diagnosis, or taking medications, or any number of things that I’m sure we both have done every day to make through until morning. Sure, I feel a little bit guilty for ignoring her on the subway that day, and my emotional mind says that I could have helped her if we’d been able to talk so she didn’t have to take her own life. But my rational mind, as they call it in DBT therapy, knows that I can’t beat myself up about something over which I had absolutely no control. I do, however, have control over what I do now, whom I can help now, and what I can say now. And right now is about eliminating the stigma of mental illness so that we’ll know what it looks like when we see it, know how to tell people to get help. Go to the National Alliance on Mental Illness website now and do some reading on depression, bipolar and suicide prevention. Then do some talking and some donating.

What John Mayer taught me about race and sex

mypolaropposite — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 20:53:13 +0000

OK, so I used to be a huge John Mayer fan. I was all over the first album, the second one, even his short-lived show on MTV. For the record, I’m one of those Black girls that likes guitar players. And Guns N’ Roses. Don’t ask me why, but I grew up in the suburbs. That was a reference to a hilarious skit from Chappelle’s Show where Dave and Mayer dispelled the myth that White people can’t dance. It KILLED, and perhaps gave a bunch of Black people a new impression of Mayer, the races united through music and comedy, and the world was a beautiful place. It was also beautiful because we started listening to Mayer’s lyrics, which were very good in that “why can’t I meet a guy this sweet” kinda way. Like “Come Back to Bed” and “Wonderland” weren’t on those mix CDs you made while you fantasized about some guy (maybe John Mayer himself) singing those words to you. Never let your head hit the bed/Without my hand behind it….damn, that’s a good one.

Somewhere along the way, John Mayer became a douche, but mostly to White women. He started dating famous Blonde chicks, like Jessica Simpson, and talking about it like he was King of the World. Last time I checked, Simpson was dumb as a post and screwing her would be no big feat. (White) Women lost respect for Mayer behind that relationship, because how could you write so sensitively and just pork some dumb chick just because she’s hot (allegedly) and famous (for being hot and stupid)? Nerdy, plain-looking girls everywhere refused to listen to John Mayer’s music realizing he was too shallow to ever want to be with someone like them. Black girls laughed, decided he wasn’t that cute anyway, and moved along. Men of all races didn’t care because they’d wanted to fuck Jessica Simpson since seeing her in Dukes of Hazzard. Me, I lost a little respect and stopped listening to the first CD, but it wasn’t a big deal.

The Aniston incident put John in some interesting company, and he cleaned up rather well on the Red Carpet. Team Aniston (i.e. White women and the men who love them) thought they’d give Mayer another chance; since Jen is so great, John must be great to be with her, so they bought some music and started waiting for the world to change. Team Jolie (i.e. Black women and the men who love them) thought John Mayer was just making his rounds through Hollywood tabloid pussy; Jen is bland and annoying, not as hot as all that, and no kind of MAN would want her anyway which is why Brad Pitt left her for Angie. Wait, John Mayer? Huh. Then came Twitter, complete with public douchebaggery from @johncmayer, and some CDs went back into the trash. Or out of the iTunes library. Whatever. But “Johnifer” ended eventually, Mayer stopped talking so damn much, and people started talking about his music and not him. One of my coworkers started playing Continuum in her cubicle and I was back, getting someone to burn me the John Mayer catalog. The man really is a great guitarist, if you like that sort of thing, which I do. And he has a nice mouth, in that “White guy that Black girls want to kiss” kinda way. You know what I’m talking about.

But today I’m mad at John Mayer, and I told him so on Twitter where everyone could see it. In case you were shoveling snow or doing something productive with your day until this point, let me fill you in on Mayer’s interview in the March issue of Playboy. Young John’s mistake was talking about Black people like he was one:

MAYER: Someone asked me the other day, “What does it feel like now to have a hood pass?” And by the way, it’s sort of a contradiction in terms, because if you really had a hood pass, you could call it a nigger pass. Why are you pulling a punch and calling it a hood pass if you really have a hood pass? But I said, “I can’t really have a hood pass. I’ve never walked into a restaurant, asked for a table and been told, ‘We’re full.’”

What? Um, I mean…? Really? *blinks repeatedly* Dave Chappelle is not your friend any more, so don’t think you’re getting any invitations to the “Fuck You Hollywood” farm out in Yellow Springs. Here’s “Whitey with a Nigger Pass, Part 2″:

MAYER: What is being black? It’s making the most of your life, not taking a single moment for granted. Taking something that’s seen as a struggle and making it work for you, or you’ll die inside. Not to say that my struggle is like the collective struggle of black America. But maybe my struggle is similar to one black dude’s.

Wow, exactly what I needed was some famous White guy to so clearly articulate in 2 sentences what it means to be Black. Apparently in the midst of my struggle for equality and dealing with racists incidents every day, I’m just a useful darky puttin’ pig feet in a pot of greens, but singing a song because I’m so damn happy. Its called survival, you dumbass. But wait, there’s more:

MAYER: I don’t think I open myself to [dating Black women]. My dick is sort of like a white supremacist. I’ve got a Benetton heart and a fuckin’ David Duke cock. I’m going to start dating separately from my dick.

People think Black women are pissed off about John Mayer not wanting to date us, though he does go on to say that White men dig women like Holly Robinson Peete, Karyn Parsons, or Kerry Washington (actually not her, but the crazy-ass characters she plays…its called acting, butt hole). Honestly, Black women get riled when Black men say they won’t date us, and even then only if we think they’re cool; if it’s some piece-of-Black man (like Tiger Woods or Clarence Thomas) we say “y’all can have him” and keep it moving. Now if Michael Weatherly, the guy who plays DiNozzo on NCIS, said he wouldn’t date Black women, I’d be pretty crushed as it would mean the end of my fantasy that involves licking his dimples and the cleft in his chin…sorry, what were we talking about? Right, racism. Its okay, almost encouraged, to date exclusively within your own race. But when you try to make a KKK joke with it? The Klan is not a joke, nor is white supremacy, using the “N” word or belittling the Black experience, especially at the hands of a wealthy, White male.

Guess John Mayer should have read the back of his “hood pass“.

Wednesday Poll: Jail, Rehab or Psych Ward?

mypolaropposite — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 16:59:48 +0000

This poll was inspired by some Twitter conversations, some reality TV (Let’s Talk About Pep; Celebrity Rehab), and some thoughts about my personal dateability. Also, it’s inspired by the PollDaddy plug-in and my dorky desire to test it out. Honestly, though, I really want to know what y’all think and there could be another blog about it, I’m just letting you know up front.

For the sake of this poll, assume that the individual in question is now a productive member of society and you’d never know their history just by looking at them (i.e. no prison tats, no methy tooth loss, no bizzare nervous tics).

Yeah, I know that each choice may be “undesirable” in its on right. But life being what it is, people being who they are, and nobody is getting any younger. We all have a past, issues, baggage. So the question is, how much Samsonite are you willing to lug around?

Don’t forget to comment!