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I’m Taking My Ball and I’m Going Home!!

GalleryxoxoChrissy

I’ve been toying with this piece for well over a year now.  It seems that every time I tuck it away and decide not to finish it someone brings the topic back to the forefront.  Sometimes it’s brought up by an acquaintance, sometimes it’s a friend-of-a-friend and sometimes it’s some random person whose conversation I over hear on the street.  No matter how it comes up, I have the same reaction: DISGUST! 

Every time I hear about women knowingly sleeping with married men I become disgusted.  I’m disgusted by the arrogant S.O.B.s who think they deserve more than one woman. I’m even more disgusted by the women who allow themselves to be degraded in such a way.  Women who knowingly sleep with married men are giving the men permission to disrespect them and treat them as second rate.  Why would any woman subject herself to such treatment?  Low self-esteem?  Bad experiences?  Yeah, whatever. 

Ladies:

If a man will lie to and cheat on the woman he stood before God, his family and friends and pledged to love and honor for all of eternity, what makes you think he’d be decent to you, the other woman?

Fellas:

What kind of self-esteem must you have to even think you deserve to have the affection and attention of more than one woman?

Married men have approached me on more than one occasion.  I’m always offended when it happens.  One of the most disrespectful things a man can do to a woman is to ask her to be his “side piece” his “jump off,” his “Ho.”  He may not use any of these labels but in reality it is what he’s implying.  Obviously there are women out there who don’t mind being a sidepiece.  These women don’t mind playing second fiddle.  They don’t mind getting whatever scraps of time and attention a man can steal away from his wife (and children).  I’ve heard all the excuses why women become involved with married men:

  1. “It just happened.  I never meant to become involved with him.”  Stop lying to yourself.  Affairs don’t just happen.  You chose to take part in the affair.
  2. “I dated him first.”  So!  You lost.  He married the other chick.  Move on!
  3. “He’s not happy with her.”  Then make him man the f*ck up and properly remedy the situation before you become involved with him.  He’s lying to you.  He’s as happy as a pig in sh!+ because he’s doing her AND you too!  Dummy!
  4. “He’s gonna leave her when the time is right.”  Stupid, he is not going to leave her!  Your best bet is that SHE will leave him and you’ll get him by default.  That is if one of his other sidepieces doesn’t snatch him up first.
  5. “He is only with her because of the kids.”  No, he just told you that because he thinks you’re stupid enough to believe it.  But I guess you are because you repeated it to me.  Idiot!
  6. “He doesn’t love her.”  And he doesn’t respect you.  That’s not a problem though because you obviously don’t respect yourself.

Maybe I am overly confident but I am not a woman who will accept being relegated to second-string status.  I don’t carry myself like a sidechick, I don’t look like a sidechick and I refuse to be treated like a sidechick.  I am worthy of being the #1 chick . . . the ONLY chick!  If I can’t be the only chick, then I don’t want to play.  I’m taking my ball and I’m going home!!

That brings me to the alleged #1 chicks who acknowledge and accept that other chicks exist but refuse to address the matter with their mates.  You’re just as bad as the sidepieces.  He doesn’t respect you any more than he respects the sidepiece.  He lies to you and he cheats on you.  The only “advantage” you have is that he introduces you to his family and friends (who all laugh behind your back because they know he lies to you all the time).  Please, somebody tell me what’s the benefit here?  And please don’t say that you take it for the kids.  Kids aren’t stupid.  They know how he treats you.  Your daughters know that their mother has no self-respect.  And guess what?  They won’t have any either because you’re teaching them that it’s ok to not respect yourself.  You’re teaching your sons that it’s ok to treat women this way.  Hey, if that kind of treatment is ok for mama, then its ok for every other chick, right?

To the alleged #1 Chicks:  Make him man up.  Make him respect you.  There is nothing he can buy you that is worth your dignity.

To the sidepieces:  Please don’t confuse “Side Piece” with “Dime Piece.”  Remember, you’re the one he keeps hidden.  You’re the one who gets the leftovers (i.e., stolen moments at odd times, a few hours every other holiday, dinners at out of the way places, the cell number that he only answers when his wife isn’t around).  Know your worth.

Whether you’re a woman cheating with someone else’s man or a man cheating on your woman, you need to know that karma is a bitch in pointy-toed boots.  And when she comes for you, WATCH OUT!!

Coming From Where I’m From . . .

GalleryxoxoChrissy 3 Comments

I was born in Detroit but moved to small “suburb” of the city two months before my fourth birthday.  That city was Inkster, Michigan.  Population 35,000.  The city is approximately 65% Black.  Inkster is a working class community with many residents earning a living in the factories of one of the Big Three (Ford, Chrysler and GM).  The residents of Inkster are down-home folks yet “fabulous” in so many ways.  For the most part people work hard, want the best for their children and seek nothing more than to make a good life for their families.

Inkster has received its fair share of bad press.  Crime levels are at or above national averages in many categories.  We’ve made the national news on, at least, two occasions.  Once was following the 1987 hostage stand-off and murders of three Inkster police officers at the Bungalow Motel.  We made national news on another occasion when we were the subject of a segment on ABC’s Nightly News.  The subject was the Demby Housing Project in Inkster commonly referred to as “Little Saigon.”  That segment was wildly popular.  Statistics cited during that segment intimated that Inkster had more crime, and criminals, per capita, than Detroit (the nation’s very first “Murder Capital” of the United States).  The ABC news segment, and the murders at the Bungalow Motel left an indelible impression in the minds of Michiganders, Midwesterners and Americans.  To outsiders Inkster Michigan was one of the worst places in the country to live.

It wasn’t until I left Inkster that I realized that it was such a “horrible” place.  While I haven’t always felt that I fit in in the place nicknamed “Ink-town” and “Crooked-I” I always thought highly of the people around me.  My block was a normal American block.  Parents worked hard to provide for their children.  The girls jumped rope and played with baby dolls on sidewalks and porches.  The boys played football in the middle of the street or in backyards. People looked out for one another.  The Smiths, the Walkers, the Jeffersons, the Robinsons, the Johnsons, the Hendricks, the Eatons and the Gilkeys all looked out for one another.  Back when I was in second or third grade and we had 12 inches of snow fall on the first day of spring, all the families on my block banned together to shovel each other’s driveways and walkways.  Somebody’s mother made hot chocolate for the kids while the men coordinated the effort.  In the summer the retired Mrs. Hall (R.I.P.) kept a watchful eye on all the kids on the block and told our parents when we did something wrong.  My friends and I freely rode our bikes around the six square miles of Inkster without fear of becoming victims of crime.  And with the exception of the summer that a serial killer terrorized much of the Midwest, I generally felt safe in my environment.

That’s why it came as such a shock to me to find out that Inkster wasn’t the safe, nurturing haven I’d made it out to be.  When I arrived at college I began to notice that one of the main icebreakers was “Where are you from?”  I’d reply, “I’m from Michigan . . . Inkster.”  That’s when I’d get the looks.  Even people from outside of the state (I went to school in Michigan) gave me the “Oh, really?” look.  I didn’t really understand what it meant until later.  It was later that I learned that what I perceived as the “Oh, really” look was really the “Oh, you must be the Affirmative Action kid because everyone knows that Inkster schools are isht so you can’t possibly have earned your place here” look.  At first I was offended.  But when I found myself earning grades comparable to, or better than, many of the prep school kids who looked down on me I snickered just a bit.  I figured, If I’m the stupid Affirmative Action kid and I’m kicking your @$$, what does that make you?  Eventually I went on to graduate (in four years) and begin my career and left a number of them behind, still struggling to finish their degrees.  Some of them took an additional year, or two, or three, to finish.  When they’d finally phone or email to announce their graduations I snickered again.

Even after college I continued to encounter people who would give me a curious glance when I told them where I was from. When asked, most times I simply respond that I’m from Detroit.  It’s easier than trying to explain to people who are unfamiliar with the state where I’m actually from (17 miles Southwest of downtown Detroit or four miles due north of the main airport).  Having lived outside the Midwest for most of my adult life I’ve been able to get away with the “I’m from Detroit” statement without much inquiry.  But even that has its drawbacks.  I’ve had colleagues ask, “Are you from Detroit, Detroit?  Like, the actual city of Detroit?”  Sometimes I say yes just for shock value.  Because Detroit’s reputation isn’t much better, if at all, than Inkster’s, they have a difficult time believing that I’m actually from Detroit.  Because I have an education and speak well, most non-black and uppity black people assume I’m from some Northern, Oakland County, suburb of Detroit as though it’s impossible from people from Detroit to speak anything other than Ebonics, have careers and live respectable lives . . . lives like their own.  When I encounter people who are familiar with Michigan and the Detroit-area I tell them that I’m from Inkster.  Some react as though they think I’m joking.  Others seemed shocked that I’m from Inkster. “You don’t seem like you’re from Inkster,” “You must not have lived there long?”  “You just don’t seem like the type.”  I have actually had one colleague, repeatedly, tell others that I’m from Ann Arbor.  While it’s true that I lived in Ann Arbor for four years while attending college, I am not from Ann Arbor.  For him Ann Arbor, the upper-middle class suburb that’s home to the University of Michigan, is a more acceptable place to be from.  Ann Arbor is also more reflective of the person he believes me to be (mild mannered, smart, well-spoken, composed, etc).  While these are all characteristics that I possess, they are not the whole of who I am.  Who I am at work, where I make the money necessary to support my lifestyle, isn’t completely reflective of who I am at home when I’m surrounded by the people I love.

It is sad that when people think of Inkster, my hometown, they think we are a monolith.  That couldn’t be further from the truth.  From Inkster has come world-renowned athletes (Olympic and NFL), Legendary Motown Recording artists, educators, scholars, musicians, artists, lawyers, doctors, judges, engineers, scientists and insurance professionals (me).  So this piece is a “shout out” to all my friends and family from Inkster who continue to defy the stereotypes.  This piece is a tribute to those who hold their heads high and represent their hometowns with pride.  Here’s to us!