“We are gathered here today to talk about some shit that has been pissing me off since day one.”, this tall chocolate sista said. She leaned deep into her hip, and waited for somebody to speak.
It was stone silent.
Grown men were staring at the floor scared to look up.
Nothing like a mad-assed black woman.
Meanwhile, I just wanted her phone number, you know. So I could learn how to wear an afro that fresh and foxy dead into the middle of 2008. Yeow! It was high too. A good five inches puffed up to the ceiling. Damn fly.
“Hello, people!” She was slapping a piece of the conference room table. Finally, she glides past the crew and takes her seat. Her bright yellow short shorts jumpsuit swirls around her body as she crosses her legs, smooths a bit of that fro, and folds her arms, disgusted with all of us. Nobody moved. It was sick!
I wanted to be her. Brush up on my tan and visit one of those downtown wig establishments that soooo many stars dip into with shades on, pretending like they ain’t scouring the shelves with some Chinese salesman, looking for good hair for their weave. I don’t care how expensive it is or if you are blond, ok, IT’S STILL A WEAVE!
I wish folks would quit calling things by fake names, it’s ridiculous. Like using “mentally challenged” instead of “retarded”! Retarded means slowed down, meaning the person’s mental acuity is not as fast as normal. Get over this! You should be able to use both. Hell, if they’re really retarded, they won’t get it anyway.
Two things for the record:
ONE, my grandmother used to ask us if we were retarded all the time if we did something outlandish. Like, “What is wrong with you? Is you retarded?”
(She was not PC. She was just one of the best people that ever walked the earth. Oh, and she even worked with the “mentally challenged”. She never would have insulted them by calling them some bogus name. She’d have called a retard a retard.)
TWO, if the subject is used in a movie or any type of media, especially in a comedy, at least it is being talked about. It’s not the lovely slow-assed retarded people that have a problem with the name, it’s the ego driven side of our populace who feel uncomfortable with how something sounds so much that they have to change it to a pretty sounding name before they can deal. Won’t lift a finger to help nobody, or give a dime, but they’ll protest or boycott a film or anything that picks on their given charity trend of the week.
Stop wasting time!
If you were about the business of helping these people, you would see that their depiction in a film is not the problem. If you want to protest something, TRY CONGRESS or the White House. Don’t go around promoting censorship in the name of a cause. Asking some director to alter a film because they call a character in it names. “What are you, retarded?!” DEMAND CHANGE!!! Go boycott big gas stations until they lower the price. Want some decent healthcare legislation, march idiots! Take your picket signs and protesting fat asses to Washington and use all of that energy to get our government to get up off stalling the alternative energy programs, or better yet, to quit tripping about stem cell research which could save millions of lives and possibly render retardation obsolete. Stop the nutty and do that. Please.
And if you have the pleasure of meeting someone who is “different,” why not just call them by their actual name. Try that. Leave the labels boxed up in your personal warehouse.
Lord, let us all get along!
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SIDE BAR CLEAR UP (Where I shut up the yuk yuks!)
Someone broached this subject: WHO THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, CARAMEL? I know all about you and all you used to do…(I don’t need to add the rest.)
So, to clarify…
HERE”S ME: Yes, I’m light and toasty, with a little sin-nammon, and alot of you think that makes things easy for me. Well, it doesn’t. Or that I am speaking inappropriately about other skins, politics, cultures etc. Well, I’m not.
I come from the South, you know, the bible belt, where the damned color caste system was practically invented. Native American, Negro, Hungarian, and Irish blood runs through my veins. Growing up mixed in North Carolina is no joke. Army B-T is a picnic compared to staying cool while people make Indian hooting sounds as you walk by, call you OREO, pull your hair, rig your locker shut, or write tacky things in your notebook. I could go on, but you get it now, don’t ya, Irene? So, shut up!
I have the right to talk about anything, anyway I choose. Just like you. “See, we’s all free now, Kizzie!” And massa can kiss my ass.
THE REVOLUTION will be bloggavized!
Peace ya’ll.
1 Comment
August 23, 2008 at 1:13 pm
Hey Caramel,
I feel your pain, let it out girl!
I feel better all ready!
xoxo
wendel