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Many Blogs…Only One Me!

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Tooooooo many blogs to choose from….I know!  And though you might have accidentally stumbled upon this one, I’m glad you’re here.  Hi!  My name is Sandra.  Those I like call me San…NOT SANDY! And of course, Sangoddess works too! I have worn many wigs in my nearly fifty years of living so I have plenty to say about personal, work, social and family relationships.  What else is there?  We are all here to discover our purpose and follow a life plan while respecting others who are attempting to do the same.

I appreciate all readers, but I blog for selfish reasons. I may not respond to you in a timely fashion.  I may not post regularly.  We may not agree.  I am definitely going to use some profanity.  Through it all, I promise to give my Honest-to-Goddess Truth!  I will speak on many subjects.  It will simply depend on my thought for the day.  I’m a Pisces so get ready to swim in shallow and deep waters.  I will try not to hold you under water too long.  I know how short of breath most of our attention spans are during these tag, tweet, text and snap days.  Meanwhile, shhh…and allow Sangoddess to speak with you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wipe That Frown Off Yo’ Face!

It initially started as a piece of sexy, chocolate guy candy someone recently shared with me on Instagram.  Aside from the brotha’s exquisite handsomeness and smile, I didn’t really pay much attention to the photo’s context or the source.  Later the same day, my feed showed more beautiful pictures of black men.  I soon discovered the pictures’ connection to the latest trending topic:  #BlackMenSmiling.  Still, I didn’t give it too much energy.  I thought it was a cool campaign idea, but not enough to make me look further than the hashtag.  I just figured, here’s one more Black thing that we have to do as Black people.  I mean, every day on social media, there is something we have to address, critique, fix, defend, fight, discuss or explain.  Yes! EVERY DAY!

For many of us, the constant reminder of our race starts and continues as early and as long as we can remember. It is our life’s prerequisite. Ignore it… you are considered a sell-out.  Affirm it…you are deemed a rebel.  No wonder we don’t know whether to smile or frown or use laughter to cover tears. We are constantly in a state of trying to be or not to be too something in order to make or not to make somebody feel some kind of way about something (just reread it slowly this time LOL!)   It’s crazy!  The pain and trauma are covered with passed down coping mechanisms and our facial expressions become one of our tools for protection: Smile to appear less threatening and frown to appear less fearful!  Whew!

So yeah, aside from gawking at beautiful black men smiling in pictures, I didn’t give much thought to the whole #BlackMenSmiling platform.  I assumed it was no different from black women being told to smile whenever we are apparently in Angry Black Woman face, which is said to be most of the time by those outside our gender and race.  However, when requesting smiles for a picture I prepared to take of two young men, one in the second grade and the other in the seventh, turned into an unexpected conversation about boys not smiling, I had to blog about it!  I could not believe the whole notion of #BlackMenSmiling had made its way to the table while on a play and pizza date night! Noooooo…not the babies too! DANG…DANG…DANG! You mean to tell me that our children can’t even smile for a photograph without having to confront connotations of their boyhood or maleness while enjoying the most comforting food…PIZZA!

And I mean, these two men-children were adamant about smiles not having a place in “cool” maleness! “Cool” was the operative word and the two of them, without saying one word to each other, knew they shared identical definitions. I sensed the word “cool” had a double meaning for them, but their gestures and smirks at each other suggested either they didn’t trust me enough to further explain or they lacked the words to explain it. Either way, I totally understood what they meant.  Yet, I was curious about how much they really understood about what I thought they meant. I audio-taped the latter part of our table talk and made a poor attempt to bait them back to a few thoughts they had previously shared.  I desperately wanted them to circle back, but I forced myself to accept and enjoy the unrecorded moment!

Regardless of age and sex, it is rather evident that many Black folks suffer from a Smiling Syndrome, as so eloquently expressed in Paul Laurence Dunbar’s, “We Wear the Mask” . No matter our specific or personal reasons, we are obviously disguising our smiles out of fear when it is LOVE that we most need.  So for this Black Love Day, I’m going to cheeeeeeeeeeeeeez extra hard no matter how angry somebody makes me by accusing me of looking angry just because I’m a Black woman with a lot of shit on my mind!  More important, from this day forward, I’m going to encourage any black boy I see to feel FREE and SAFE enough to smile back at me, especially if I’m taking his picture!

Happy Black Love Day!

Smile…our facial muscles could use a break.

America’s Love-Hate Triangle

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The White Man knows exactly who The Black Woman is and the threat she poses. He knows she’s The Black Goddess Power to Be!  The White Man with his agenda to control and rule  seeks to destroy her. His fathers before him passed down stories of The Black Woman’s wrath and warned The White Man about the dangers of her backlash.  As a result, The White Man strategizes to keep her close, where he can manipulate her powers and use them to his advantage.  Whether The Black Woman is in The White Man’s bed or business, he both desires and despises her.

 

He is mystified by her CREATION. Behind Vatican doors, he secretively worships at the feet of her cosmic, ancestral and magical Godliness but knowingly presents a falsified white image of himself as savior and God!  The Black Woman’s gum-popping, head rolling, finger-snapping DEFIANCE, DETERMINATION, LEADERSHIP, FEARLESSNESS, MATERNITY,  and BRAVERY (just to name a few) are historically UNMATCHED!  No other woman on the planet can provide the receipts to prove how they fought, mothered, loved, survived and created while being classified and treated as nothing more than CHATTEL!  It is this brazen, firey feminity that makes The Black Woman irresistable to The White Man.  Her unyielding strength matches his machismo.

Oprah is right!  “Their Time is Up!”  It’s time to regain a matriarchal position of power that destroys white supremacy and nurtures a balance of the sexes without becoming the evil that tried to destroy us. We also have to protect the missions, visions, names and narratives of our fight.  The recent shift from racism to sexism is another ploy to distract from the larger cause.  Sad to say, we were tricked into trading the racism card for a sexism one (once again)! Goddesses, we can’t bring pussy to a white supremacy fight! OUR MISSION IS MUCH BIGGER, BLACK WOMEN!  We have survived being legally raped and working for no pay! And anyway, the majority of us ain’t falling for white men’s  DICKtatorship unless we give our consent.

The “white women’s liberation is equal to racism” card is played whenever needle-moving strides and waves are made to unveil and dismantle white supremacy! Of course, sexism and racism share a similar strand, but it’s not at the core. White supremacy is the father of all “isms”.  Bob Marley told us, “Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.” Black women, white women can’t liberate us! They too, are pawns in the system. They may be sympathetic to our causes, but don’t let the marches, hashtags and poster boards fool you!  They don’t possess the DNA of Nzinga!  We’re once again involving ourselves in a fight that is not ours to own. We will be left outdoors if and when white women decide to return home and stand by their men. But can we judge them? We are in love with an oppressor that admits to hating us, so how can we fault white women for being complicit when that same oppressor claims to love them.

They say Goddess doesn’t give us anything we can’t handle.  We can handle being called undesirable and ugly.  We can handle being the Angry Black Woman.  We can handle being copied but not credited.  We can handle being abandoned and unprotected. We can handle being labeled too strong…too mouthy…too much to be loved. Most importantly, we survived slavery: therefore, we can handle crazy, narcissistic ass white men who plan to destroy Mother Planet before they’re annihilated.  So allow me to add what even OPRAH could not say: IT IS NOW THE BLACK WOMAN’S TIME!

 

 

Goddess Saves

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In the past, I have mainly selected men I could fix, flip and pass on to a willing buyer. It made me feel safe and in control. It padded me from getting hurt from emotional break-ups. After serving as a man’s helpmate, I would reject his committment to being the best man for me. Instead, after repairing him, I placed him in a friend zone until he found someone willing to pick up where I ran off.  This became my pattern…my signature piece. Go ahead! Feel free to add your explanation or judgement to the pile: “You must have low self-esteem” or “You just don’t feel you deserve a good man” or ” You must have trust issues” or “You just don’t know your worth” or “Somebody must have really hurt you”, or “You just ain’t met the right brotha yet!” or “You just a selfish, lonely, scary or crazy ass bitch” Perhaps, I’m a little guilty of all the above. But I’ll let you be the JUDGE.  You will anyway!

The way I see it, (or rationalize it…lol) I just prefer a spiritually grounded man with dreams and potential who appreciates the value and resources I bring to his life! I’m not interested in stroking or balancing the egos of men who have it all together and are looking to finish their Europeanized ensemble with a feminine mantle piece.  If he’s God’s gift to women, may the best woman win him. I’m a Goddess! Is Goddess not a Savior? It’s not too different from guys who prefer stuggling women over independent ones.  For some men, the needier, the better! What?!  This same concept can’t apply to a woman? Only men are born with the ability to transform and ressurect?

Truthfully speaking, I don’t want to play house. The lifestyle and self-sacrifice it takes to pull it off successfully does not suit me!  There are several reasons, but I’ll offer you three:  One, I’m not going to work my way to a man’s heart through his stomach, because I don’t enjoy cooking, Second, time and space are my oxygen. The moment I feel suffocated, I’m going out the door for air and I can’t promise I’ll return. I am transient and spontaneous by nature.  Third, it only takes my Goddess gut-feeling, to emotionally check out the second I suspect a deal breaker has been broken.

Unfortunately, society’s double-standards have boxed us into gender roles, where girls are expected to desire a house on the cul-de-sac with a picket fence and nuclear family, while boys are allowed to play, roam, roll and bounce from pillar to post until they get good and ready for a house on the cul-de-sac with a picket fence and nuclear family.  Yet, women are considered strange, masculine, difficult or confused when they desire to” Run with the Wolves”. Consequently, we are tamed, domesticated and dicked into submission.  We are subjected to biblical and religious scriptures meant to put us in our places.  We are pressured to imitate the “perfect” traditional roles our mothers and grandmothers played. We are made to feel easily replaceable by women willing to behave and live for men. Still, home for the Women Who Run With the Wolves is in the wilderness.  They refuse to be housed.

So unless a man is capable of removing his own patriarchal shackles, Women Who Run With the Wolves will consider him a fixer upper for someone who is looking for a home with a picket fence on a cul-de-sac. Don’t feel sorry for us. We are content with admiring our renovations and appreciating our sale as we ride “Off to Wonderland” with THE ONE who respects and honors our Divinity and takes no interest whatsoever in keeping us confined to a house walled with a fence at a dead-end street.

But I want to be free, free, free/And I just got to be me, yeah, me ~ Deniece Williams

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stop Finger Pointing!

IMG_3421.JPGYa’ll can @ me all you want but I’m going to need grown people who share children to stop finger-pointing and soliciting public opinions about their baby-daddy-mama drama situations on social platforms. Please…for children’s sake!  I’m sorry, but there’s only one side I’m standing on: THE CHILDREN’S! Adults, regardless of who did what, don’t get a sympathy card or pass from me.  Everybody has a story to tell and people usually only tell one side of it.

When you grow up in the hood with as many uncles, aunties and cousins as I have, there’s not much left to the imagination when it comes to drama! Although we didn’t use the term “trap house” during my childhood days, I’m pretty certain my grandmother’s house would have qualified as one!  LOL!  Yaaaaaaaas!! There was always some shit popping off and I was THERE for it, HUNTY!  That old, raggedy Northside St. Louis house with multiple levels of all sorts of crazy and wild activities is where I observed all kinds of male/female drama. YOU NAAAAAAAME IT!

Unlike my grandmother’s house, my mama didn’t entertain much company, so  I saw very little adult male/female interaction.  She didn’t have different men in and out of our house (as far as know…lol). Aside from the few male suitors who took us on mother-daughter dates, my dad was really our only male visitor. Due to my parents very brief marriage, I quickly became the child my dad would make hood visits to drop off “don’t put me on child support” money, or pick up to visit with his side of the family, along with his second wife and two children (they didn’t feel like my mother and sisters at the time).

Consequently, there weren’t many available opportunities to study my parents’ relationship. Their interaction was not so much dramatic as it was stoic. It was as though they both still had something they wanted to say to each other, but just had never made the time or put forth the effort to do so.  Instead, they each lived their separate lives and maintained a strained relationship with me as their buffer. Similar to being stuck in the middle seat of an aircraft between two people who appear not to really like or care for each other, but no one knows the reason.  Not a very comfortable or safe place to be, in the case of a flight emergency, is it?

And that leads me to repeat: STOP POINTING A FINGER! NO MATTER HOW YOU FEEL ABOUT EACH OTHER, YOUR CHILDREN NEED TO FEEL SAFE AND LOVED!!! Though as a child, I knew my parents loved me, I still for whatever reason, needed to know they had some sort of love, care or concern for each other. I don’t know.  I guess I felt their feelings about each other was somehow a reflection of how they felt about me.   How could they not feel some sort of way about me when I resembled the person who made them feel some sort of way? Unfortunately, their unresolved issues became my adult insecurities about how best to maintain a loving and trusting relationship.  See how the cycle repeats itself? Fortunately, children are resilient, but why take that risk?

Cameras Do Lie!

FC54335A-9E6E-44ED-9091-DF65D2599248.jpgWhoever said the camera doesn’t lie: LIED! LOL!  Or maybe the person had never used one of today’s computer-generated cameras with all of its fancy filters and gadgets. But wait! Before I go any further, let’s get one thing PICTURE perfect, this post is not intended to shame those who wear makeup or use filters.  I’m sure most of us prefer to post ourselves once we have taken our best shot (yes, I’m going to throw puns every-which-way)! So if you are already annoyed, you are free to go. Now. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to put our best photo forward.  However, we edit ourselves out the frame when we base our likeness off anything outside of who we really are!  Real beauty resides within the person taking the selfie…not the selfie!  Did you catch that?

I know it all sounds like corny clichés.  Maybe I can better translate it by making a side-by-side comparison to celebrities.  Big money is paid to photographers and paparazzi who capture the most natural shots of celebrities.  Just think about it.  The pictures of famous people doing the most mundane tasks, in the least glamorous setting, while looking their absolute worst get the most attention and highest dollar. Meanwhile,  magazine covers of beautiful models, wearing the most glamorous designs, in the best exotic destinations while showcasing their sexiest poses receive side eyes and snubs for being too Photoshopped.  We find something soothing and satisfying about famous people living normal lives.  Ironically though, many of us leading regular ol’ every day lives portray ourselves as the rich and famous on camera.

American culture’s obsession with reality has coined phrases like “keeping it real”, “for real, for real” and “fake news”.  Yet, we suck in jaws and angle cameras up high to look smaller.  We use babies and objects as props to camouflage unflattering body parts. We utilize the sun’s beautiful rays to enhance our skin, but any other time, dodge it like the Black Plague! LOL!  We tilt our heads to capture our best sides.  We suck in our stomachs to shrink our muffin tops. And yes, we even use filters that lighten and tone our skin complexions. But yet, crave, expect and demand to see the real-ness in everybody else, especially THE REAL RICH & FAMOUS!

We love to shout, “No one is perfect!” But we still pressure ourselves to be PICTURE PERFECT!  But you know what???  WOW! Now that I have blogged about it.  Maybe I should take a page from the photo albums of those with the confidence to stage their image and lifestyle even though they look or live differently.  We are told to, “Fake it until we make it!”  Maybe I envy the courage and confidence of those who glorify their existence without having to always prove how REAL they REALLY are. Hmph!  I am not lying to you!  I have spent all night, early morning and evening writing this damn blog only to abandon my own thesis! Regardless, I am still going to end this by giving props to those grounded in enough self-love and self-awareness to reveal their naked truths and allow the world to witness them.  I will explore my possible jealousy for those with the boldness to strut themselves as picturesque no matter who’s judging their pictures from the outside… in a different blog. This is probably already longer than my 2-minute reading goal.  TO BE CONTINUED!

“Paint a perfect picture/Bring to life a vision in one’s mind/The beautiful ones/Always smash the picture/Always every time” ~Prince

 

He’s an Ex for a Reason!

IMG_2273An ex is an old sweater that we keep in the back of our closets, but we forget that it’s damaged. Instead, we start to reminisce about the compliments it received, or how well the color accented our skin tone, or how comfortable the material felt.  Suddenly, we are back down memory lane with nothing but reasons to justify putting it on rather than reasons to explain why we stop wearing it in the first place. Yep! It’s all fun and fashion until somebody gets hurt…AGAIN!  This is not meant to burn bread on anyone’s Peaches and Herb “Reunited” moment, but it never “feels so good” for me.

Only Goddess knows what makes me even consider taking another slingshot at the more than once failed romance.  I can only offer another comparison, which involves a pair of expensive boots I bought several years ago, but no longer wear.  I actually wouldn’t mind someone else rocking them, but I’ve paid too much to reap the return of my investment if I sell them, and they are too expensive to just give away. So I only keep them around in case I decide to wear them…AGAIN!

In addition to my boots and sweater, I have a number of old t-shirts that I can’t seem to trash or recycle either.  A few of them are pretty special.  They help to archive fond memories of vacations, concerts or gift givers.  Most of them don’t even fit, but I tell myself one day they will.  Sadly, my closet, like the relationship with my ex, has been some sort of love-hate purgatory.

Whatever reasons I have given myself for keeping a closet full of shit I don’t need, I’m sooooooo over it! No…REALLY!  The stains and holes in the relationship are not worth repairing.  The memories are only in my head.  The time and energy spent can’t be recovered.  I have outgrown the bullshit. And if somebody wants to treasure my trash, I will gladly leave it in the alley for them to collect. I don’t plan to go shopping any time soon, but I am making room to purchase a brand new wardrobe from anywhere except: resale and vintage shops.