I lost my voice. December came and I found I had nothing to say. This might sound a little rude, but I really should have just cussed some folks out. I became stifled by my inability to filter out people’s accusations, perceptions, and my own defeatist thoughts about my writing and community efforts: I do not write hip enough. I do not write white enough. My stuff is too black. I am not black enough. I do not write for the black community. I am the token Negro of the white paper. I am not a tweed-jacket journalistic scholar. My words should ignite a revolution. My words will not change the world. I need to use my activist energy in the hood, not cozy Riverwest. How can I take a stance on African-American issues when I am married to a white man?
Tanya Cromartie-Twaddle
Street Journal
A few months ago I witnessed a woman give a beggar a twenty dollar bill in the parking lot of a local check cashing spot. It blew my mind. I tried to understand. What? Was she afraid? Does she feel guilty about something and is using this chance to show her God that she is a good person? What the hell is she thinking?
Little Women
It could be selective memory. I don’t know. But I’m not that old…I’m not that prudish. I’m just fed up with school girls wearing outfits that I’d have to think twice about wearing to the nightclub. Makes me wanna pull out the sewing machine and send my own girl to school in some momma-made clothes. This situation is getting on my last nerve. It’s a crisis to mothers everywhere…at least it ought to be.
The Power of Guilt
I have always been fascinated by the nature of guilt. Guilt works in mysterious ways. It is a powerful force. Guilt makes us commit all kinds of craziness and at the same time, it can keep us in check and force us to do good. Kobe Bryant. Rich. Unfaithful. Basketball Superstar. Human.
Bling Bling…Hot Sex, Cool Violence, and Radio
I can’t listen to local mainstream radio stations around my 9-year-old. I have tried to tell myself, “it’s just music!” She’s only listening to the catchy beats. They’re just words. And that dance that looks like humping, well…that’s Mother Africa at work in her blood. But I know better. Mother Africa wasn’t a raunchy showgirl.
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