Brenda's Got a Baby

It's Raining Men

It's been 15 months since the last of the Humvees, last of the Bradleys were driven off the Barracks. 15 months since the first wave of spouses said goodbye to their loved ones, fought back tears as they watched the bus pull away. 15 months since wives promised to lose weight, be better wives and parents, be sexier. And now, over 450 days after the group of mostly men left - over 3,000 of them - they're back. Well, about 20 percent of them anyway. And already, the difference is astounding. What might usually take 10 minutes - paying the phone bill, buying a plane ticket, buying a bottle of wine - can now take upwards to 30; especially the phone bill part, what with newly redeployed stocking up on phone minutes and all. But it doesn't annoy me. Now the spouses that left for 15 months are a different story. Not that I'm not glad to have them back, or think that I am any better than them for staying, I just think those who havve been here the whole time should get a badge or SoMETHING that lets us cut to the front of the line so that those of us who suffered through the crap with no husband AND no family members get a chance to buy the last turkeys the commissary has because they forgot to buy extras. Oh. Sorry. Got sidetracked.

Anyway. I wasn't sure how this day would feel when it came around. I'd braced myself. Got myself ready for the time when part of the men - sorry, the soldiers - would come back and mine would still be gone. I worked on maintaining a nondescript facial expression for when I saw wives canoodling with their newly returned husbands; made sure I kept my voice measured when other spouses told, how, "Oh my god, it's so great, he'll be here on (Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday ...), and oh my god, what am I going to wear and should I wear this with these shoes and this" and oh, you get the point.

But it's been two weeks, minus the guys and gals who got sent home for drinking/selling/doing drugs, and I actually feel happy for them. I smile, seeing my friends exit briefings with their husbands. Seeing their faces light up when discussing the aforementioned outfit, and the smiles of contentment when I actually see them with their spouse.

"Welcome back," I call out cheerily to the guys. "Have a good time," I say to their wives, my friends.

15 months is a long time to go without anything, especially a husband or wife. And despite what seems to be the overwhelming public opinion, I do have the ability to empathize with others. And to those who are welcoming their husbands back, I extend a warm and hearty welcome, and just as I have said to my other friends, enjoy yourselves.

And I mean that.

American Gangster

I know it's been a minute, and I still have to blog about my camping trip and my birthday, but I'm in the middle of watching Malcom X on no. 4 of the Denzel Washington Movie Collection and feel compelled to comment on the phenomenon that is Denzel. Now Woodstock, don't go getting all upset, let me explain myself. There is a definite separation between the new and old school as it relates to Denzel - old Denzel v. new Denzel, is he good looking, etc. etc. Malcom X sort of personifies what I think is the whole fascination behind Mr. Washington. It's what the new school calls "swagger" and what the old folks call attitude.

The movie's pivotal moment is when Bro Johnson is arrested and subsequently taken to the hospital on Malcom's orders. As he stands outside the hospital with the police officer (who happens to be Frank from "Everybody Loves Raymond") he dispurses the crowd with a simple hand gesture. Now think back to every movie you've seen. What black actor consistently evokes the type of attitude and persona that just makes people want to stand up and listen? Granted, it's a character, and Malcom X was that type of dude. But it's also the man behind the character - or more appropriately, the actor behind the character, because who's to say he's like this when it's just him, Pauletta and kids sitting at home eating dinner.
Don't get me wrong, he's had some rough moments. For every Devil in a Blue Dress, Man on Fire (yeah, this one is a stretch, but anyone who carries a gun while wearing a suit is alright with me) or Training Day, there's a Inside Man (what was UP with that haircut?), Antwone Fischer (weird mustache) and Bone Collector (I'm pretty sure I saw snot bubbles at one point). But regardless of how he looked, he always has the same commanding presence - even when confined to a bed that he moves by blowing through a tube (which I also find incredibly disgusting. It must fill up with spit, like a woodwind instrument ... sorry, I got off track).




Regardless, I know that when American Gangster makes it over here probably 2 months after its release, I won't be going to watch it to see if TI can really act (though my fondness for southern men, specifically Atlantans is no secret) but to see Denzel.

And I'm sure I won't be disappointed.

I am Not my Hair

I got hair issues ya'll.

Somehow down the line, as I think I've mentioned before, I've "gone natural." It's in quotations because it wasn't really a concious decision, but more a case of practicality=thriftiness. Let me explain.

As most of you know, I decided last year to accommodate Woodstock's request for me to grow my hair out. Now, I must say that I personally favor the short 'do. When my hair is longer, it tends to grow into this boring bob that goes from: wrap to curls to flips. The short spiky cut is like an automatic bit of excitement regardless of what I put on that day. But, I digress.

In order to better facilitate my hair growth, I've been getting weaves. When Woodstock left, I had a weave, and when I took it out to get my braids, I figured putting a relaxer in would be a waste of time and money. Five months later, I realized that my relaxer had almost completely grown out. Now, a year later, I have a full out 'fro. And therein lies the problem.

Among my friends and associates are two schools of thought on my hair. Half totally hate it, and the other have like it. There is no middle ground. On the "hate" side are Woodstock, Mom, and Lil sis. On the "like" side are Roadrunner 2, New Guy at work, White chick at work, and one of the Gulfport crew. Now, those on the "hate" side have pretty much erred on the side of straight hair. I know for a fact that mom and Lil Sis dismiss those "nappy" styles and I was actually surprised that mom liked the kinky twists I sported for two months (I thought she'd deem it too "ethnic"). I could go into a whole tirade about how it seems that those from the Dirty South are less likely than those slightly north of the Mason Dixon line to be accepting of natural hairstyles, but that's a whole different post.

The problem is that I actually like the fro. I put some gel in the front and rocked a psuedo afro puff while running errands on the economy last week. It was so easy, and it felt good to have my real hair out for the first time in a year. But when I told Woodstock, he gave me an on-the-verge-of-crying emoticon until I assured him that only Germans had seen the natural and I would resume my weave-wearing for work and all other places where I would have to interact with Americans.

Now, I must add that Woodstock isn't completely anti-natural, he just doesn't like the fro. He can get with the twists and the little curly 'dos, but sadly, my hair is waaaay more kinky than curly.

In any case, we both agreed that my best bet would be to wait until we get to the states until I make a decision about what to do with my hair. I will have more options, and I am hesitant to make a rash decision, though it's easy to do when I'm slathering my hair with conditioner, struggling to comb through my kinks.

So for now, I guess i will continue to hide my thick unruly main under straight layers of weaves and remember that it won't always be this way. Once I get to the states, I will make an appointment to see a natural haircare specialist to see my options. Maybe I will reconsider, put in a relaxer or a texturizeror my family will learn to embrace my naps. Either way, I can't wait until my locs can finally be free.

Back to Black

I have a confession to make.

I like Amy Winehouse. For months, I saw her name and picture splashed across the gossip blogs and rags. I hated her sickly frame and - as much as I like big hair - her natty boufant. And I didn't like that she was listed under the "Blackmusic" genre (in Germany, it's not hip hop/r&b/rap; it's Blackmusic). I'd never actually heard any of her songs, save for a snippet of "Tears Dry on Their Own" I found on Concrete Loop. Not having an American radio station listen to, I'm waaaay behind on the latest hits. But I refused to accept this lady as the hottest new thing before having listened to her.

That all changed when a friend, trying to convince another friend how great Amy Winehouse was, copied her first CD, "Frank." I skimmed through the CD before passing it along, and as usual, was unimpressed by my first listen. But then I got hooked on one of the songs - number 4: F$%k Me Pumps. Honestly, how could you not like a song that contains these lyrics?
"You don't like ballers/They don't do nothing for ya,/But you'd love a rich man six foot two or taller."

or my personal favorite:

"Don't be too upset/If they call you a skank/Cuz like the news everyday you get pressed."

What? You don't get it? I guess you had to be there. Anyway, although I only liked a couple of songs on "Frank" I broke down and bought her newest CD, "Back to Black" on iTunes. It was only $9.99, so I figured what the heck?

And I'm feeling it. These songs ... this lady is a mess. But maybe the reason I can get into it is because I'm a bit of a mess too. The lyrics make me laugh out loud sometimes. I mean, the beats are cool, but you can tell that she writes her lyrics the way she talks. Take this line from "Wake up along": "I stay up clean the house, so I'm not drinking." Or from Rehab (I'm embarrassed to admit this is my favorite): "The man said why you think you here/I said, I have no idea."

Spoken like a true drunk.

Anyway, you don't have to take my word for it, here's a video. But close your eyes: seriously, the emaciated body and hair mess up the whole atmosphere. Enjoy!

F#$k Me Pumps




Back to Black

Bored

I think I'm having a quarter-life crisis.

I can't help thinking that the types of things I want to do these days are better suited for a 21-year-old, but I can't help it. I'm used to change. I can't stand to always be a part of the ordinary, and there's nothing more prevalent in the Army than ordinary.

Case in point: I want to get my ears pierced. Not the regular way, but an industrial piercing, where a barbell goes into one part of the ear into another.


I think it may be because I'm entering the "third-year itch." Since high school, I've lived three places. College was four years, Tallahassee three, and now I'm feeling like it's about time to move on from Germany. Don't get me wrong, I love it here. But I'm starting to feel that urge to do something new. Something different. Like right now, I'm listening to Amy Winehouse. Not such a big deal since she's gone kinda mainstream now. But I have a little heartburn over it. It's different enough to make it OK, but mainstream enough to give me guilt over listening to her. Of course, I have the same guilt over our new vehicle, but that's another post for another day.

I'm scouring 80s-themed T-shirts (remember Jem and Holograms? The Fraggles?) on 80stees.com, deciding which Tee would best suit my sparkly black and red leggings. And as previously mentioned, contemplating alternative piercings and tattoos.

I just need to do something different, but I don't know what. So far, I have a trip to Poland and a trip to Dachau scheduled. Perhaps that will do the trick.

All I know is I'm getting a little antsy, and feel like I need to break out of my mold.

Hopefully, buying 200 euro worth of dutch ovens and serving dishes does the trick. Otherwise, I might have to break out the AMEX and get that "Ride or Die" tattoo. Just kidding Woodstock.

Unless you wanna do it.

Nappy Roots Day

I stumbled across this blog, written by a St. Petersburg staffer, on tampabay.com today. The entry is about a white teacher who was suspended - and will be required to attend diversity training - for calling a black child's hair "nappy." And while the reporter didn't editorialize the story, it made me wonder: Is it offensive for a white person to use the term "nappy' regardless of context?

The blog story reads, "According to an account by the district’s Office of Professional Standards, a student asked Call *the suspended teacher* why another teacher was combing the hair of an African American girl. Call responded, 'She is trying to do something to her nappy hair.' Another teacher reported the remark to an administrator.
Call, a veteran teacher with a good employment record, told investigators she did not know the term was offensive."

This is what the board members who handed out her one-day suspension had to say.

“I don’t know that the word is racially offensive,” Clark said. “I’m not black, so I can’t speak from personal experience. But it is an adjective, correct? It describes your hair.’’Mary Brown, the board’s only black member, said the term has been used in a negative way to describe black people. Another board member said she'd stumbled across a web site, "A Nappy Hair Affair," which seemed to celebrate the word nappy, but also said she didn't use the term.

Hm, I'm a little stumped here. As a black woman, I know who I should be offended, or am expected to be, but I don't know that I am. Is "nappy" the new N-word? One of those things that can be used and accepted in the black community, but is considered a racial slur when used by whites?

For me, it's more context than the actual words. Imus's infamous "nappy-headed hoes" was obviously meant to be deragatory, whereas this woman's words were, I don't know, merely ignorant? And what if a black teacher had said it? Would both black teachers have shared a knowing chuckle, and glance? A sort of "I've been there" moment?

I'm really torn about this, and how I feel about it. I don't think the teacher meant it as a hurtful statement, but then again, as a teacher, I don't think I would have made the comment.

I talked to a white colleague about this, and she thinks that though the comment probably wasn't racist, it was inappropriate. But while listening AND agreeing with her, that little voice in the back of my head said, "Well, what would you expect her to say?"

So, I want another opinion. Was this racist? Is "nappy" in and of itself off-limits to whites, despite having heard more than a few white people refer to their own hair as nappy?

I think I am pretty objective on most matters of race. And although I don't immediately associate every slight, real or perceived, with race, I understand that sometimes race IS a factor.

But still, I sometimes wonder if other blacks think my background and diversity of my friends, disqualifies me from matters of race anyway because I'm "not black enough."

But THAT is a completely different issue.

P.S. I considered putting picture on here, but didn't to avoid any potential racist overtones :)