On my FINAL episode of young, Black entrepreneurs I finally get a chance to talk the founders of Master of Original! We talk about all things creative and how to take an idea and transform it into a brand. I truly can’t wait to see what’s next for Charles and Kenny, I know their unwavering positivity will only continue to bring the best things to them.
Part 3 of what is now a 4 Part Series on young, Black entrepreneurs. Walked away from this one feeling motivated and ready to manifest whatever is next. Thank you to LaStar for sharing his experiences and wisdom.
This is Part 2 of a 3 Part series on young, Black entrepreneurs. On this episode, I have a chat with former Green Bay Packer, Michael Neal. Mike talks to us about his experience leading up to the NFL through his retirement from the Pack. Take a listen for an inside look of life in the league and beyond.
This is Part 1 of a 3 Part series of young, Black, entrepreneurs. On this episode, I talk with Asia Carter of Planting Seeds Childcare in Carmel, Indiana. Asia runs more than a daycare, she offers an immersive education to children from ages 2-5 and tells us why this type of education is so important to all children. Thank you to Asia for taking time out of your busy schedule to chat with me!
On this episode I talk to Jen Dean, Co-Deputy Director of Chicago Votes. For those of you non-WOC Jen, is an excellent example of how you use your privilege to actually be an ally for POC. We recorded this episode before the Illinois Primary LAST March but I think it’s just as timely TODAY, given the general election is weeks away. If you take anything away from this episode it’s that you MUST VOTE for your issues, even if you don’t love the candidates. It’s the ISSUES that matter and despite the outcome, the issues do not die. So get involved, stay involved and VOTE.
On today’s timely episode, we talk to a Black RN. We talked back in March where he walks us through his new nursing assignment to an ICU Covid floor. I’m happy to report that since recording and posting this episode, him and his entire family remain Covid Free. Thanks to our special guest, for joining us and giving us a first-person account of what’s it’s like to be an essential, healthcare worker during a pandemic. Stay Safe and remember Masks Work!
Charlie talks to us about her experiences being a Queer Black Woman in the health and wellness field, and the work she does, AND SHOULD BE DONE, to show appreciation rather than appropriation.
In the last week, there has been an uproar of people opining on what is acceptable for women to: wear, dance and tear up paper in public. This isn’t a new phenomenon but it’s definitely become more brazen in the current climate.
Last weekend there was a huge sporting event on TV. For many it was a historical event, seeing their team win a championship after 50 years. For many others, it was an excuse to eat and drink to their heart’s delight on a Sunday. If you’re anything like me, that game part was the opener for a show with two incredible performers I’ve grown up watching. The first representations in mainstream entertainment of women who looked like me, spoke like me and danced to music I heard pumping through my house growing up. One of which I’ve been compared to in what was supposed to be in an insult. Joke’s on him now I suppose, considering Jenny from the Block just headlined the Super Bowl.
The following Tuesday the State of the Union was on and a few Congresswomen decided to sit it out. At least one Congressman walked out during it, and one Speaker of the House in suffragette-white ripped up the transcript. All while the chamber clapped for the impeached president who twisted facts and lied straight to everyone’s face.
Now on Tuesday, the pubic was still reeling from the indecent, over-sexualized half time show. The countless comments I saw riddled with racism and sexism hidden in what can only be described as a “pearl clutch,” were not surprising. But, considering we saw two women in their 40’s and 50’s put on a 15 minute show which was intertwined with political statements and messages of embracing who you are and where you’re from, the issue people were stuck on was what they were wearing and the languages they were singing. The two women were dressed “scantily, ” “provocatively” dancing and singing in Spanish on national TV for what was supposed to be a family-friendly show. The Karens’ general responses were “how dare they!”
I’ll start by saying, I’m not sure why in 2020 we still think it’s OK to police what anyone wears and then proceed to judge them by it but it’s clear that this outrage doesn’t apply to everyone equally. This uproar didn’t exist when Adam Levine took his shirt off last year–and we saw BOTH his nipples–or when Lady Gaga dropped into the stadium in what was effectively her bra and underwear. I can’t recall seeing one instance on how either of those performances weren’t “wholesome.” There seems to be a few common denominators here though and you don’t have to be a genius to see them.
Now comes Nancy…she extends a hand to a man she’s lead a successful impeachment campaign against–more than most of us would do in her position–and is snubbed. She then sits and listens to him twist facts, like claiming that there are less people on government aid, which although true but only because his administration’s new regulations have kicked a historic amount of people off of them not because people have progressed enough to no longer need them. Sorry just to clarify here; yes, the poor, disabled and least capable of our society were kicked off of benefits which he touted as a win for his administration at the SOTU. So, she did what no Republican senator or congressperson has had the balls to do through this administration, she sent a message of resistance, reminding this country yet again that this is not normal.
Next we have AOC (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez) who immediately following the SOTU takes to Instagram live to explain her absence and answer any questions people (not just her constituents) may have had following the SOTU. Again, actively taking a step of resistance and repeating to whomever was tuning in that this administration is not normal. All while comments were flying in insulting her looks and intelligence.
But, what did people take from these things? Well if you take the time to watch any sort of media coverage or social media postings, you’ll see the criticism is centered around around how these women look or plain and simple, calling them dumb. I’m all for having an opinion but to criticize someone based on appearance and intellect (for which there is no foundation) does not an opinion make.
Personally, I see these comments come mostly from men, and of course the compliant women and it makes me wonder, who made you believe that you’re opinion matters or that anyone besides you needs to hear it? Frankly, I want to know why and honestly come back with that amount of blind confidence in my next life.
One thing is for sure, there is a group of embolden people who are loud and crass and finally feel like they can say and do what they want with no consequences. This is why we see men (and women) openly mocking Sunday’s performers and our representatives using only insults based on opinions that are irrelevant to the issues at hand and based purely on conjecture.
Whether someone’s looks tickle your fancy has no bearing on their ability to do their job competently and effectively, but we have lowered the bar so much as to what are acceptable, valid arguments that now insults pass as facts. So much so, that representatives themselves have taken to using insults as viable arguments too. Just watch a certain news source and every time the broadcaster states an opinion as fact, take a shot–kidding! Alcohol poisoning is real yall!! But yes, watch it–in no more than 10 minute increments or else you’ll actually be driven to drink–and pay attention to the facts, you’ll be baffled by the little amount you actually hear.
I for one no longer engage. I don’t warrant it with a response and if I am in a situation where I have to engage with someone who thinks insults can be used in an argument, I raise the bar. I call out opinions being used as facts and I press people for why they hold those opinions in the first place. Why do two Latina women dancing to the music of their culture in outfits of their choosing matter to you at all? Why do you think it’s bad? Is it because your afraid that your kids who were watching will want to grow up to have rhythm? I suppose THAT can be a scary concept…
Why does it bother you when representatives who were voted into their positions to represent their constituents do what is best for those people? Why does relying on facts instead of opinions seem like such an impossible task? Why do personal insults only get whirled against a person when it’s a women?
I’ve boiled it down to this. They like to SEE women. No, they LOVE to see women. They love it so much that they’ll sometimes pay them to be in their presence. They love when women fit the mold that we have in our heads as “good.” But the moment a woman steps out of that mold, there is a sudden sense of betrayal because the power structure they have grown so accustomed to is being threatened.
So the truth is, they love to SEE women and be with women as long as they have the upper hand, but the moment women step out of line they must immediately be reminded who’s in charge. And how do they do that? Well they criticize a woman’s appearance and intelligence because the truth of the matter is when someone feels threatened they take low blows, because frankly, there’s nothing of quality to criticize or argue with.
As a woman I know you’d rather we’d just be seen and not heard. But it’s impossible for me. See, I was once told I have a Jenny from the Block attitude that I needed to grow out of, which as you can see has only gotten worse–better? Then, I saw Jenny from the Block headline a show with Shakira at the Super Bowl last week. Then I saw Speaker Pelosi display a BIG MOOD on national TV. Later on I heard AOC continue to remind us this is not normal all while being called dumb and ugly on Instagram live. So, we can’t just be seen anymore, and it would behoove you to catch up before we move the bar so high that no amount of low blows could help you.
My dad is not a feminist. His sole use for a stove is to light his cigarettes. He only uses our microwave to warm his coffee. Other than that, unless it involves fixing them, he wants nothing to do with either. He recently learned how to use the coffeemaker but regularly forgets to change the grounds when making a new pot. He calls grown women “girl” in English but “señorita” in Spanish—it’s probably a translation thing, but the truth is my dad could care less about the difference because in his own words, he is not a feminist. He once told me I wasn’t ready to get married because I made a pasta dish that tasted awful. He ate it anyway, but see, he’s not a feminist. He won’t eat his meals unless it’s served for him, warm not hot, with a napkin, a drink, room for his toothpick and the necessary utensils. He won’t make himself a sandwich and doesn’t do laundry because, well, he is not a feminist. When my mom and I went to Europe for two weeks he went to my Grandma’s house every evening for dinner and had my uncle order him lunch every day at work—he did make his own coffee—but don’t be confused, he’s still not a feminist.
My first job was as his assistant mechanic, handing him tools and letting the air out of tires. My wage was 2 dollars a day and lunch. He taught me how to hold the flashlight at the perfect angle, the name of all the tools—in Spanish—and how to use them. He let me get dirty at the shop and pretended I was helping instead of getting in the way. All through my childhood he wouldn’t leave my brother and I home alone or with a baby sitter on Saturdays. He made us go to work with him and my mom so we could at the very least be together in the same place for a full day. But way back then even, he was never a feminist.
He pulled me out of ESL classes and made me bring my math book home on Fridays so he could teach me the lessons ahead of time. See according to him, math was important especially for a girl, but he wouldn’t say this kind of thinking was feminist. I hope he never sees me try to split a bill without a calculator though, he’d shake his head at all the house he spent with me at our kitchen table 😉 He never insisted I learned to clean the house with my mom and grandma’s attention to detail. He never made me stay in the kitchen and learn my mom’s secret to making the perfect rice and salsa. He never kicked me out of the living room when he was watching sports to help the ladies in the kitchen, but don’t be confused, this does not make him a feminist.
He pushed me to focus solely on school and to learn as much as possible from elementary through the bar exam. He never suggested I trade my books for pans and a broom. Although after some failed dinner attempts and a college and law school diet made up of 75% pepperoni pizzas, he probably wishes he had—however, he would never call his failure to domesticate me, feminism.
He taught me how to change a tire, check my air pressure and never miss an oil change. He showed me how to find a stud, use a drill, patch drywall, build furniture without directions and how to go back and fix it when I failed without them…He taught me calluses from work are a good thing and I always feel a little proud whenever I get one on my hand. But…I still wouldn’t say he’s a feminist.
He made me watch the news every night at 9 p.m. to discuss politics and societal issues. He could never understand how women–who make up half of this country’s population–couldn’t seem to unite and stop voting against their own interests since feminism exists. He always said and still says, “how come women don’t realize how powerful they really are?” but he’d never call that kind of ideology feminist.
In high school we had one of many serious conversations telling me he’d rather take me himself to get an abortion than see me give up on my future aspirations. He constantly reminded me how much bigger and better life could be compared to the life I was living then–which was pretty great on its own–and if I just gave myself an opportunity I could go anywhere. He told me how birth control was necessary and effective, but how pregnancy was the least scariest risk of having unprotected sex. He assured me that an abortion is not killing a baby or a sin against “God,” that my future and my life were the most important things to consider. He made it clear, if I ever had to make that decision but didn’t want to tell him that that was ok too, but that he’d always support my, and every woman’s right to choose. He never could quite understand how men thought they could have any say in legislation over a woman’s body. He finds it laughable when lawmakers insist sex is only for procreation and insists that type of thinking might be part of their problem. But even with all of that, I still don’t think he’d call himself a feminist.
He taught me to treat everyone the same from a janitor to a celebrity regardless of race, gender or orientation, that alone though, doesn’t make him a feminist. He explained to me that turning to crime may not always be right but there’s a disproportionate lack of opportunity that plagues black and brown communities, and how that was unfair. So, I should never judge or feel superior because I didn’t have to take that path, but he has never considered himself a feminist or even an activist.
He showed me how to always be aware of your surroundings and keep a car length distance from the car in front of you in case something pops off you always have enough room to make a move. He drilled into my brother and I to keep our hands on the steering wheel if you get pulled over and don’t move without permission. See he always understood we aren’t perceived the same as other people who get pulled over. But I think he would refer to this as survivalism as oppose to anything else.
When my long-term relationship began to fall apart he mostly kept silent. Then one dark night, he held my face and said “this is not love and ending it is not failure, it’s a small price to pay in the long run you’ll see.” And with those words I called off my engagement for good, and he never said a negative thing about it. He probably wouldn’t say he’s a feminist because of that though. He and my mom helped me and Chopper move and furnish the solo apartments that followed and assured me that my new life would be just as happy as the one I left behind, even when it didn’t always look that way. That was no surprise because my mom is indeed a feminist. But, he told me time and time again, that my value wasn’t dictated by a relationship or finding “the one,” but I bet he doesn’t consider that sort of thinking feminist.
He reminded me that anyone can get married but not everyone can finish college and law school and pass the bar and find a job…and raise a 75+ pound pitbull with a bad-itude. He repeated to me that my value is calculated by who I am not who I’m with. He never let me forget that my happiness was dependent on me alone. He never urged me to marry young (or at all), have children or become more domestic. He always encouraged me to take some time to enjoy my life. He always reminded me that time will pass no matter what we do, but enjoying it is what’s important. And see, here is the thing, he taught my brother all those same exact things too.
So yes, my old school, Mexican-accent, toothpick having, atheist believing, refusing to learn how to cook or wash clothes Dad is absolutely without a doubt, not a feminist, and truthfully, at times, he doesn’t even fully grasp racism or sexism. But somewhere in his upbringing he decided to not be a misogynist or a sexist either and because of that he and his wifey/my mom made ME A FEMINIST.
I guess that just goes to show, you don’t have to be a part of the movement to respect it and you certainly don’t have to commit to oppose it simply because you don’t understand it. You can fall sweetly in the middle and still support its cause and goals simply by committing to be a good person.
Note: I wrote letters to my mom and dad as a kid when I felt like I couldn’t express what I wanted to say in person, as I got older when my dad could tell I couldn’t get my words out, he’d ask me to write it to him. It’s been a while since I wrote to him, but I let him read this piece before I posted it–I’ve had some issues in the past in posting things (my thoughts or experiences) without getting the other person(s)’ involved permission–so, I asked if it was OK for me to share. His response was a simple string of texts from my mom’s phone, “of course you can post it, it’s your truth and you always write beautiful words to me, you don’t have to ask for my permission to write about what you feel, by the way this is ur dad.”
Every year I get the Birthday Blues. It never fails. I know some people get so hype and litty every year when their birthdays roll around, but me I get the birthday blues. It’s a combination of anxiety and nervousness of having everyone LOOKING at me and engaging with me that gives me a dread that I can only describe as such, the ol’ Birthday Blues.
Over the years I think I narrowed the reason why birthdays get me down: a new year for me always marks looking back on the year before and constantly comparing myself to, myself. What did I do? What did I accomplish? Am I where I wanted to be? Did I achieve the goals I set out for myself last year? Normally, the answer is no or not quite. And every year, like clock work, I have to re-set those goals, re-evaluate why I didn’t get to where I wanted to be and come face to face with some failures–eesh even writing that sentence gave me anxiety… Then, just like I always do, I set some new goals, re-set some old ones and try to remind myself I’m not a complete waste of space for having to re-set the old ones I didn’t accomplish. A constant comparison with myself and everyone else who has ever turned my age before me. So yeah, I guess it’s safe to say I get the Birthday Blues.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love birthdays, my best friends’, my family members’, my partner’s-I love to celebrate them. Even preparing for mine is fun it’s just THAT day, the day of reckoning or celebration (as some may call it), the day of the party, the actual day when all the attention is on me, is overwhelming. But, this year I didn’t quite get the same feelings of dread. Maybe because I was too busy doing 1 million other things, but I didn’t feel that same “oh god I have to sit down and look at all my failures again,” feeling and for once the only thing that gave me anxiety was that I was going to be 31 and how I hoped that no one would make the restaurant staff sing to me at dinner this week…
I realized that all these years I’ve been constantly competing with myself. Every year I set the bar higher, do more, do better, be more efficient, work, volunteer, write, research, find my passion, pay off my debts, let go of the weights in my past, love harder, be kinder but remain steadfast. It’s like me and my goals are flying around in space rotating around the perfect “BGT” trying to get sucked into her gravitational pull to find some kind of order… So, naturally every year, I let myself down when I don’t achieve all of these crazy benchmarks, and me and my crazy goals are spiraling out of control in space, but not this year.
See this year, I realized I’m the Sun. Me, this BGT is the Sun, and I’m not waiting to join anyone’s imaginary gravitational pull, because it turns out, I am the pull. This year I am praising myself for every single accomplishment and failure and I’m equally proud of them all. I am happy to be in love with someone who only expects love in return. I am lucky to have dog that’s 11 but is confused for 5. I am privileged to have a family that loves and supports me despite my flaws. This year, I am walking into 31 leaving behind a past that I thought would have it’s grasp on me forever. I feel lighter than any goal weight I’ve ever set for myself. I found my voice and wasn’t embarrassed to share it with anyone and everyone who was willing (or not) to listen or read it. I am working everyday to find my passion and enjoying some laughs along the way. I am using new found time at home to write and research more and I’ve never felt more invigorated to work towards change of all kinds. Every day, I’m trying really, really hard to be kinder while maintaining my passion and steadfastness and hey I have a little less debt than last year too… I guess that’s what happens when you turn 31 and realize you are the Sun. 🙂