Warning Controversy Ahead


 

 

Most of you who have been following me for some time know that I discuss race relations on my blog. I know this is a sensitive topic and for some strange reason white Americans love to pick fights with me. Fights that they will not win nor will they change my beliefs.  This is my truth and I’m not afraid to express it.  I do not attempt nor have I ever attempted to curry favor with white people.

This week I will be posting blogs on the subject of race relations in America. Of course I’m sure to offend many people. I don’t care.

From the time I was bused against my will to a white school, put next to a red headed white boy whose greeting to me was Nigger I was raised to stand up for myself.  The Talk. The one that Black parents give to their children is more than just how to handle yourself around the police it is how to deal with white folks in general.

Yes I am an extremely blunt, to the point, direct outspoken Black Woman. The kind most white people hate.  So this is your chance to UnSubscribe or UnFollow Now.  Numbers mean nothing to me. I don’t care how many Subscribers or Followers I have or Don’t Have as the case may be.  I’m not here to win popularity contests.

I see so many claims of supposed Light Workers. If you are a true Light Worker you bring the truth along with the Sword. You acknowledge the Darkness and not just Gloss over it with meaningless platitudes and affirmations. Then there are those fake Bible Belt Christians. The ones that voted for the asshole who now illegally occupies the Oval Office. When innocent Black Americans are shot, murdered and tortured they immediately pull their paleface Jesus out of a hat and start telling Blacks that we should forgive and allow ourselves to be Targets. Now they don’t have to modify their behavior or do anything that would upset the status quo and make accountable a system that has a set of rules and regulations for Black & Brown races and unlimited privileges for their race.  Crock of shit.  Wounds don’t heal unless you expose them to the light and air of truth.

I Close Comments not because I’m afraid of a fight or a battle because as a Black American every day is a battle for me but I refuse to answer or respond to the stupid idiotic insults and meaningless arguments from not only white racists but especially white Liberals.  Liberals who cloak their supposed support in carefully couched language but who in their frenzy to prove their biased tales expose themselves to the light of truth then crash and burn.

Like watching and selecting TV shows on the Boob Tube whatever you don’t like or don’t want to read, My advice to you.

Change the Fucking Channel because Shit is About to Get Real!

 

To My African Sisters and Brothers across the Diaspora. Keep telling your Stories and Never Forget!!

Being Black is Fascinating


Being Black is Where it’s at!! Proud of my Dark Skin, hair and everything about me! I Love Being a Black Woman!!

https://youtu.be/sASgz9iAia0

 

When I look in the mirror and I see my kinky kinappy coily hair I just rejoice.  My hair grows upwards towards God in the shape of a crown.  I Love my Dark Skin, Full Lips, hips, thighs and butt. I am God’s Melinated Queen!

 

gray suede

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Curlfest 2017 ~~ Prospect Park –Brooklyn NY


 

Curlfest 2017 ~~ Prospect Park –Brooklyn NY

 

A Celebration of Black Women. Black Culture and Black Hair in all its Glorious Forms and Textures!!

Black Girls Rock!

Sisters and Brothers, Welcome to Radio Station W.E.B.B.

We Enjoy Being Black!

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Ladies and some Gentlemen from across the Diaspora to Celebrate the Beauty and Intelligence of Black Women.  Representing Africa, America, and the Caribbean. A salute to All Shades of Black and All African textures! We gathered once again in Prospect Park located in Brooklyn, New York not only to dance and get our groove on but to support Black business and Black Entrepreneurs.

Here are some Highlights from today’s event!!  ❤

 

 

 

Spike Lee was in the House!!

 

Fun in the Sun!!

 

 

On the Way there!!

 

Arrival and Let the Fun Begin!!  Wobble Baby! Wobble Baby!! Wobble Baby!  Wobble!!

 

 

Fashionista Forward!!


Curlfest Prospect Park Brooklyn 2016

Kudos to my blogging buddy whose post on clothing inspired my post!!  She is a breath of fresh air!!  Way to go    Madelyn Griffith-Haynie!!!  Hands Clapping!! Two Thumbs Up!!

Check it out:  https://addandsomuchmore.com/2017/04/17/clothes-brain-change/

Ladies and Gents this is just the appetizer!!

More Sartorial Splendor to come!!

Introduction

Great minds think alike. When I was younger I was a real Fashionista as the saying goes. Of course when I was a little girl my Dad would take me shopping in Macy’s and basically he picked out all my clothes. Fortunately Daddy had good taste. I also picked up my sense of style from my mother and my paternal aunts. I idealized my late great Aunt Thelma a great deal. She would take me shopping to Syms and other downtown lower Manhattan stores back in the 70s. Aunt Thelma was a Fashion forward Lady. There was a running joke in our house that I had to get dressed up to take the garbage out!! LOL!!

Then in my 20s obviously I was picking out my own clothes and my favorite color was Black. In fact nearly everything in my wardrobe was Black and I had what looked like a million pairs of shoes!! My Dad asked me if I was practicing to be a Ninja and felt I was a follower of Imelda Marcos who was famous for all her pairs of shoes.

I also tended to be Matchy-matchy in my 20s & 30s perhaps a little into my 40s I suppose because at that time I was a manager at a Non-profit and I wanted to look professional. I did spice things up when I went out with my friends. Now as I make my way through my 50s getting dangerously close to 60 I’m all for the bright colors, patterns, loose fitting (my tummy is no longer flat), African, American-Indian jewelry, Clothing made in India. The clothing cannot be too loose or too big as I’m petite and I believe a Woman should wear her clothing. The clothes should not be wearing her. I’ve seen the now grown up Full House twins at museum special events and they are really small petite ladies and they looked like they were being swallowed up in their outfits.

I’m no longer afraid to mix what most people would call opposing patterns for an eclectic look. I’ve received many compliments from co-workers and friends on my outfits. Spring, summer and fall are my favorite seasons because I can really cut loose with outfits and I’m Thankful to the WWW/Web because I can get so many new and interesting ideas for what looks best on me.

I’m even doing a little more experimenting with make-up. I was never really big on make-up even when I was young, but adding a little color to my face to avoid looking washed out.  And of course there is the Manic Panic Red Hair!! Yes Always the RED HAIR!

 ♡ ☆ Fabulous Fifties


As you can see Purple is one of my favorite colors! ♡ ☆ 

 In these two photos taken at a friends birthday party I’m rocking the Royal Purple! ♡ ☆ 

I kinda look like on of those Bratz dolls. You know. A great big head and a little bitty body!!

 

Cannot forget or leave out my brother Stephen Palmer who is the most Amazing Awesome Autism Guy on the planet!!

Here you can see Stylin’ and Profiling!!  A mixture of Frank Sinatra, John Shaft, and Joe Cool!!  My brother Stephen is the Birth of the Cool!!

If They come for you in the Morning……


 

http://www.historyisaweapon.com/defcon1/itcitmbaldwin.html

An Open Letter to My Sister,
Angela Y. Davis

by James Baldwin

Dear Sister:

One might have hoped that, by this hour, the very sight of chains on Black flesh, or the very sight of chains, would be so intolerable a sight for the American people, and so unbearable a memory, that they would themselves spontaneously rise up and strike off the manacles. But, no, they appear to glory in their chains; now, more than ever, they appear to measure their safety in chains and corpses. And so, Newsweek, civilized defender of the indefensible, attempts to drown you in a sea of crocodile tears (“it remained to be seen what sort of personal liberation she had achieved”) and puts you on its cover, chained.
You look exceedingly alone—as alone, say, as the Jewish housewife in the boxcar headed for Dachau, or as any one of our ancestors, chained together in the name of Jesus, headed for a Christian land.
Well. Since we live in an age which silence is not only criminal but suicidal, I have been making as much noise as I can, here in Europe, on radio and television—in fact, have just returned from a land, Germany, which was made notorious by a silent majority not so very long ago. I was asked to speak on the case of Miss Angela Davis, and did so. Very probably an exerciser in futility, but one must let no opportunity slide.
I am something like twenty years older than you, of that generation, therefore, of which George Jackson ventures that “there are no healthy brothers—none at all.” I am in no way equipped to dispute this speculation (not, anyway, without descending into what, at the moment, would be irrelevant subtleties) for I know too well what he means. My own state of health is certainly precarious enough. In considering you, and Huey, and George and (especially) Jonathan Jackson, I began to apprehend what you may have had in mind when you spoke of the uses to which we could put the experience of the slave. What has happened, it seems to me, and to put it far too simply, is that a whole new generation of people have assessed and absorbed their history, and, in that tremendous action, have freed themselves of it and will never be victims again. This may seem an odd, indefensibly pertinent and insensitive thing to say to a sister in prison, battling for her life—for all our lives. Yet, I dare to say it, for I think you will perhaps not misunderstand me, and I do not say it, after all, from the position of spectator.
I am trying to suggest that you—for example—do not appear to be your father’s daughter in the same way that I am my father’s son. At bottom, my father’s expectations and mine were the same, the expectations of his generation and mine were the same; and neither the immense difference in our ages nor the move from the South to the North could alter these expectations or make our lives more viable. For, in fact, to use the brutal parlance of that hour, the interior language of despair, he was just a n—–—a n—– laborer preacher, and so was I. I jumped the track but that’s of no more importance here, in itself, than the fact that some poor Spaniards become rich bull fighters, or thatsome poor Black boys become rich—boxers, for example. That’s rarely, if ever, afforded the people more than a great emotional catharsis, though I don’t mean to be condescending about that, either. But when Cassius Clay became Muhammad Ali and refused to put on that uniform (and sacrificed all that money!) a very different impact was made on the people and a very different kind of instruction had begun.

The American triumph—in which the American tragedy has always been implicit—was to make Black people despise themselves. When I was little I despised myself; I did not know any better. And this meant, albeit unconsciously, or against my will, or in great pain, that I also despised my father. And my mother. And my brothers.And my sisters. Black people were killing each other every Saturday night out on Lenox Avenue, when I was growing up; and no one explained to them, or to me, that it was intended that they should; that they were penned where they were, like animals, in order that they should consider themselves no better than animals. Everything supported this sense of reality, nothing denied it: and so one was ready, when it came time to go to work, to be treated as a slave. So one was ready, when human terrors came, to bow before a white God and beg Jesus for salvation—this same white God who was unable to raise a finger to do so little as to help you pay your rent, unable to be awakened in time to help you save your child!
There is always, of course, more to any picture than can speedily be perceived and in all of this—groaning and moaning, watching, calculating, clowning, surviving, and outwitting, some tremendous strength was nevertheless being forged, which is part of our legacy today. But that particular aspect of our journey now begins to be behind us. The secret is out: we are men!
But the blunt, open articulation of this secret has frightened the nation to death. i wish I could say, “to life,” but that is much to demand of a disparate collection of displaced people still cowering in their wagon trains and singing “Onward Christian Soldiers.” The nation, if America is a nation, is not in the least prepared for this day. It is a day which the Americans never expected to see, however piously they may declare their belief in progress and democracy. Those words, now, on American lips, have become a kind of universal obscenity: for this most unhappy people, strong believers in arithmetic, never expected to be confronted with the algebra of their history.
One way of gauging a nation’s health, or of discerning what it really considers to be its interests—or to what extent it can be considered as a nation as distinguished from a coalition of special interests—is to examine those people it elects to represent or protect it. One glance at the American leaders (or figureheads) conveys that America is on the edge of absolute chaos, and also suggests the future to which American interests, if not the bulk of the American people, appear willing to consign the Blacks. (Indeed, one look at our past conveys that.) It is clear that for the bulk of our (nominal) countrymen, we are all expendable. And Messrs. Nixon, Agnew, Mitchell, and Hoover, to say nothing, of course, of the Kings’ Row basket case, the winning Ronnie Reagan, will not hesitate for an instant to carry out what they insist is the will of the people.

But what, in America, is the will of the people? And who, for the above-named, are the people? The people, whoever they may be, know as much about the forces which have placed the above-named gentlemen in power as they do about the forces responsible for the slaughter in Vietnam. The will of the people, in America, has always been at the mercy of an ignorance not merely phenomenal, but sacred, and sacredly cultivated: the better to be used by a carnivorous economy which democratically slaughters and victimizes whites and Blacks alike. But most white Americans do not dare admit this (though they suspect it) and this fact contains mortal danger for the Blacks and tragedy for the nation.
Or, to put it another way, as long as white Americans take refuge in their whiteness—for so long as they are unable to walk out of this most monstrous of traps—they will allow millions of people to be slaughtered in their name, and will be manipulated into and surrender themselves to what they will think of—and justify—as a racial war. They will never, so long as their whiteness puts so sinister a distance between themselves and their own experience and the experience of others, feel themselves sufficiently human, sufficiently worthwhile, to become responsible for themselves, their leaders, their country, their children, or their fate. They will perish (as we once put it in our black church) in their sins —that is, in their delusions. And this is happening, needless to say, already, all around us.
Only a handful of the millions of people in this vast place are aware that the fate intended for you, Sister Angela, and for George Jackson, and for the numberless prisoners in our concentration camps—for that is what they are—is a fate which is about to engulf them, too, White lives, for the forces which rule in this country, are no more sacred than Black ones, as many and many a student is discovering, as the white American corpses in Vietnam prove. If the American people are unable to contend with their elected leaders for the redemption of their own honor and the loves of their own children, we the Blacks, the most rejected of the Western children, can expect very little help at their hands; which, after all, is nothing new. What the Americans do not realize is that a war between brothers, in the same cities, on the same soil is not a racial war but a civil war. But the American delusion is not only that their brothers all are white but that the whites are all their brothers.
So be it. We cannot awaken this sleeper, and God knows we have tried. We must do what we can do, and fortify and save each other—we are not drowning in an apathetic self-contempt, we do feel ourselves sufficiently worthwhile to contend even with the inexorable forces in order to change our fate and the fate of our children and the condition of the world! We know that a man is not a thing and is not to be placed at the mercy of things. We know that air and water belong to all mankind and not merely to industrialists. We know that a baby does not come into the world merely to be the instrument of someone else’s profit. We know that a democracy does not mean the coercion of all into a deadly—and, finally, wicked— mediocrity but the liberty for all to aspire to the best that is in him, or that has ever been.
We know that we, the Blacks, and not only we, the blacks, have been, and are, the victims of a system whose only fuel is greed, whose only god is profit. We know that the fruits of this system have been ignorance, despair, and death, and we know that the system is doomed because the world can no longer afford it—if, indeed, it ever could have. And we know that, for the perpetuation of this system, we have all been mercilessly brutalized, and have been told nothing but lies, lies about ourselves and our kinsmen and our past, and about love, life, and death, so that both soul and body have been bound in hell.
The enormous revolution in black consciousness which has occurred in your generation, my dear sister, means the beginning or the end of America. Some of us, white and Black, know how great a price has already been paid to bring into existence a new consciousness, a new people, an unprecendented nation. If we know, and do nothing, we are worse than the murderers hired in our name.

If we know, then we must fight for your life as though it were our own—which it is—and render impassable with our bodies the corridor to the gas chamber. For, if they take you in the morning, they will be coming for us that night.

Therefore: peace.

Brother James

November 19, 1970