Trying to understand Naomi’s bitterness toward chocolate

I’m always flattered when someone compliments me on my “chocolate” skin. Therefore, I don’t understand supermodel Naomi Campbell being upset at the Cadbury ad that refers to her complexion.

I would understand if the supermodel wanted to sue because the company didn’t pay her to use her first name, though I haven’t consulted an attorney to determine whether she would have a legit claim. But I don’t know when being called “chocolate” became a negative. Who doesn’t love chocolate?

For years my skin tone has been referred to as “chocolate” by Blacks and whites, even as recently as Memorial Day, and I can’t remember ever taking offense. I grew up in the “Say it loud! I’m black and I’m proud!” era.  I remember back in the 90s, one summer I wanted to see just how dark I could become. I spent seven days in Hawaii and never left the pool during daylight hours. When I returned home and looked at myself naked in the mirror, I looked like a zebra. My skin that had been exposed was about 20 times darker than the skin that my bikini covered. I loved it! (Yeah, I know I should do nude bathing not to have so-called “tan” lines.)

I know that being  this dark isn’t cool for some, including some Blacks who have told me I shouldn’t spend so much time in the sun. And trust me, they were not concerned about me getting skin cancer. Plenty of countries, especially those in Asia, still associate being dark with being a field hand. That’s why yachts purchased by wealthy Chinese might as well come with a cover-up deck rather than a sun deck.

High-profile people such as Isaac Hayes, Richard Roundtree, Cicely Tyson, Sidney Poitier, Iman and even Michael Jordan helped those who couldn’t have passed the paper bag test back when that insulting way to discriminate amongst our own was in effect appreciate their coffee-bean complexion. Later, women like Alek Wek and Foxy Brown, and even more recently First Lady Michelle Obama and Viola Davis, have helped people see beauty in our darkness. I’m thankful my parents didn’t hold back their love for me and my brother just because we came out so dark. I have Black friends who unfortunately have experienced rejection from their family because of their dark skin tone.

That’s about as ridiculous to me as Naomi’s complaint.

Or am I missing something regarding Miss Naomi? Is she overreacting?

For Colored Girls is good enuf for me

I’m glad I never saw For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf on stage. If I did, I’d be tempted to compare it to Tyler Perry’s commendable attempt at turning Ntozake Shange’s series of poems into the film For Colored Girls.

I never cared for the title of the poems when they were all the rage in the 1970s. I thought it was a book about weak women who offed themselves because they couldn’t cope with life. Silly me. I was young and didn’t know that this collection, first presented in December 1974 at Bacchanal, a women’s bar outside of Berkeley, was considered perhaps  the most important work about black female identity ever. (Don’t tell me you thought it was Waiting to Exhale.)

So when I went to a screening the other night, I had no idea what to expect. I purposely avoided reading the early reviews, including the one by The Hollywood Reporter that garnered so much attention in the blogosphere, and went in with an open mind. I left with a clouded mind of disturbing scenes I may never forget — but more importantly with a smile knowing the eight women above were on the right path. I thoroughly enjoyed this movie, which at times was difficult to watch. I only would have changed one major thing and that is, with all of the free clinic options today, why would someone go to a drunk, back-alley abortionist in 2010? Other than that, no complaints from me.

There will be those who pick on Tyler for showing black men as being on the DL, physical abusers, rapists and cheaters. But as the director said, he decided to insert one positive image of a black men to offset the negative characters. A few more would have balanced the scales but I personally don’t see the need. I didn’t leave the theater thinking any less of black men and hope others won’t either. I may never smile at Michael Ealy again after he played his role so superbly just like I haven’t smiled at Laurence Fishburne since he  owned the role of Ike Turner in What’s Love Got to Do with It.

Had I not gone to the screening, I’m pretty sure I would have paid to see this movie because of the fine collection of actresses. It would have been the first time I gave Tyler my money. I’ve seen a few of his films but only on cable: Why Did I Get Married, Daddy’s Little Girls and Diary of Mad Black Woman. And I enjoyed all three. It’s not that I boycott his movies. I just haven’t been drawn to them enough to pull out my wallet nor have I ever been tempted to watch one of his television shows. (For the record, I haven’t seen The Social Network yet though want to and will before award season starts. And I think I was one of the last to see Avatar.) Personally, I like Tyler. When his mother died, I was moved enough to post a note expressing my condolences on his website because I knew how close they were. Also,I appreciate all the good Tyler is doing for black actors and give him props for creating his own studio.  His power cannot be diminished. And I’m glad to see that he’s used it for such a worthwhile project like For Colored Girls.

I do hope you’ll see For Colored Girls. Let me know your thoughts if you do.

Next time I’ll ignore the little man

I’m minding my business, wearing a pink Betty Boop tank top, Levis jean mini-skirt and Target flip-flops, waiting for my take-out lunch at Viva Fresh, anxious for my first Mexican food and Bud Light Lime in several weeks due to my travels to Italy, France and Monaco. A short white man, 60ish I suppose, approaches me and says, “You’re so tall and I’m so short. How tall are you, 6-foot-2?”

“No, 6-foot-1.”

I stare down on his pink scalp and make the mistake of asking him how tall he is as I try to pass the time while waiting for my food and the U.S. World Cup team to score against Ghana.

“5-foot-4,” he says, obviously pleased that I didn’t tell him to go f&^* himself.  “I used to be 5-foot-7 but you shrink as you get older.”

“So I guess I’ll end up 5-foot-10 at some point,” I say with a laugh.

Then he tells me that he dates a sister and that she’s out of town. I remind him of her, he says.

“Oh, is she 6-foot-1?” I ask.

“No, but she’s a sista,” he says.

As if I hadn’t heard him the first time. Now it was time to ignore him and turn away, as I should have done in the first place.

I’m sure the Black girlfriend does not exist. It was the little man’s way of letting me know he’s available and open to Black women should I decide to step down to his level.  Or am I just jumping to conclusions?

How I (Never) Met Your Mother

I know some of you envy me for being able to enjoy a six-week holiday in Europe but at times it was torture. It’s like finding the ideal mate and knowing you only have a limited amount of time together. When I told friends I was going to Italy for a month, they wondered if I’d return. Well, sadly I did. I’m back in L.A., though more determined than ever to find a way to become an ex-pat once again.

Walking down cobblestone streets in Rome’s Trastevere section or through Tropea’s narrow streets and gazing at the bluish/green sea while lounging on the beach in Tropea stirred my desire to once again become a resident of the boot-shaped country. Not that the yearning ever left me after returning in 2005. I’m so fond of Italy’s small towns that I envision myself teaching English in a medieval village while continuing to write. I even brought up the topic with a couple of residents of Tropea, where I was welcomed like a local but don’t think is the place for me, and was encouraged by their responses. I realize money is tight in small southern towns like Tropea so while parents may wish for their children speak English, being able to hire someone to teach them is another matter.

Spending my last night in Italy with five ex-pats and one hopeful at a charming enoteca near the Colosseo, or Colosseum, was the ideal way to end my sojourn. Perhaps through osmosis, the will, courage and spirit of these fantastic women (as well as my other ex-pats friends like Layne and Elizabeth, who couldn’t make the girls’ night out, ex-pat gathering) will inspire me to get my butt in gear. The euro is a bit kinder to the dollar than in 2005 when I was forced to pack my bags after 26 months in Italy. However, one still takes quite a beating earning in U.S. dollars and spending in euro, which is why I need to focus on making euros. A report released by Manpower Inc. the other day listed Italy among four countries with a negative employment outlook. (Greece, Ireland and Spain are the others.) But I can’t let depressing statistics, or reality, deter me. Layne, whom I met when we both lived in Florence in 2003, recently landed a job as an international attorney at Fendi. So there!

Plus, the women I hung out with Tuesday night, some new acquaintances and others old friends, are positive examples of how ex-pats can make it work even if they don’t have a major fashion house signing their paycheck. I had invited the other ex-pat hopeful Lynne, whom I had met the previous night through Layne. Over bottles of Nero d’Avola, the ex-pats told me they would help me in any way they could should I decide to return. As the group dispersed (not me because I was staying for more vino and a real meal since I hadn’t eaten yet), we met a woman from Chicago and her Italian husband. This couple was a hoot and what fun I had chatting with the two of them. But it wasn’t just the laughs we shared but the seriousness of our conversation as well.

The husband told me and Lynne, who had stayed on to keep me company, how he encouraged his Caucasian wife to introduce herself to us when he saw our group, which consisted of six women of color and one Caucasian, because he had never laid eyes on a collection of beautiful, sophisticated black women in Italy.

Sadly, too often the image of women of color in Italy is of us as a puntana, or prostitute, in Naples. We offer nothing except sex. And it’s constantly reinforced. On Layne’s seven-hour bus ride from Tropea to Rome, she was appalled by a movie about a Senegalese family that moves to Italy. The African wife/mother begins an affair with a married Italian man. She’s shown nude, moaning and screaming during their multiple sexcapades. And this was shown on an early morning bus ride with about 15 senior citizens, who were riveted. When the Italian wife learns of the affair, her family tells that for African women, “sex is like water. They need it to live.”

It’s these kinds of stereotypes that the women I hung with last night are able to break down. And it’s not just in Italy. Four years ago I traveled solo through Croatia and met a local on the island of Hvar who told me how much my presence in his country was doing to educate Croatians about Black people for I showed that we can be intelligent, classy and professional. That country has such a bad reputation when it comes to racism that an editor of a black travel magazine wouldn’t give me an assignment about Croatia because he was reluctant to promote such a place. It turned out to be one of my best vacations.

But back to Italy and my oh-so-fab group of ex-pats that I want to join. There’s Bunmi, who is from the UK, married to a New Zealander and is the mother of two. Courtney, who is married to an Italian and approaching her second anniversary. Charmaine was divorced from an Italian when I met her several years ago but she wed another Italian about a year ago. I didn’t have a chance to ask Arlene, who moved to Italy in 2008, about her relationship status. Nancy, the lone Caucasian, dates John, an American sportswriter in Denver whom I have known since my days covering sports. Nancy and John had moved to Italy together and left due to finances shortly before I arrived in April 2003. Now she’s back and hoping John returns as planned. When living abroad is in your blood, it doesn’t leave. And there’s Lynne, who like me would like to live in Italy and is traveling solo on holiday. I wanted her to meet these women so invited her. Lynne, also like me, never can get a date and can’t figure out why.

That brings me to Paolo. Some of you have wondered what became of the Italian who fell madly in love with me on first sight and on our first date invited me to his house to meet his mother and called her on the mobile so I could speak to her. No, I didn’t meet mama but she did call me on my final night in Tropea to tell me what a pity it was that we didn’t get together and that she hopes that the next time I come to Italy that we meet. I told her that I was sorry that it didn’t happen either, even though I wanted very much to meet her.

Layne and I scream with laughter trying to figure out what happened with what looked like a promising start to something, although I wasn’t quite sure what. But something more than what I ever have going on in the States. Maybe it was my lead pencils, my vacation hair, my strong deodorant or writing “ciao amore” that put the brakes on Paolo’s fast-moving train.

Let me explain in detail:

CIAO AMORE
As you may recall Paolo, a single attorney with no kids and who I found out is 46, lives 120 kilometers from Tropea and came for a weekend to hang out with his brother and another friend, both of whom live in Rome. That’s when we met. Thanks to a mid-week holiday in Italy, Paolo returned to visit me a couple of days later.

Before he left his city he asked if he could stay overnight with me since it was a long drive back. I told him of course, but he had to sleep in the extra bedroom. He scoffed at this so I relented and told him he can sleep with me in my room but we are NOT having sex.  Once he arrived, my self-control didn’t stop me from wearing a revealing baby-doll nightie with a thong to bed because hey, a girl’s gotta feel sexy even if she has no plans to give it up on the second date. Being that he’s a man, and Italian at that, of course he brought up sex when we were in bed. (We always spoke in Italian but I’ll write in English.)

“I don’t know you well enough,” I said as to my reason why he wasn’t getting any.

“How long do I have to wait?” he replied.

“How long do you usually wait?” I asked, knowing that he had dumped his girlfriend of 10 years just three weeks prior.

No answer.

Anyway, the sex, or lack thereof, didn’t turn into an issue during his two-night stay. At least not then. Interestingly enough he brought it up after returning to his city. At his request, I emailed him photos of us and began the email “Ciao amore,” or “hello love.” He wrote me back and asked “how could I write ciao amore when nothing happened.”  For Christ’s sake! I say “ciao amore” to cute Italian babies on the street who I don’t know. Was it really that big of a deal?

And we had gotten along swimmingly during the two days together. I was thrilled to discover how health conscious he is: he works out at a gym three times a week and jogs — and I’ve taken up running because of him; we both drink soy milk and abhor cigarettes. And he’s clean. When he returned from our morning run, he washed his workout clothes in the sink and hung them out to dry. This was huge because I consider him a mammone, an Italian mama’s boy who lives at home and relies on his mother to do everything for him. He does live at home but he explained that it’s in a palazzo with five apartments on the bottom.  I can overlook this as it is not completely atypical in Italy. Plus he’s affectionate and thoughtful. We cuddled on the beach and when my iPod froze, he offered me half of his earphones so we could listen to his music while soaking up the rays.

We took in sunset from my terrace while drinking Martini Bianco, my favorite apertivo, he cooked dinner for me both nights, and when we walked Lucia at night we stopped for after dinner drinks.

In just two days my Italian improved exponentially because I took my dictionary and notepad everywhere, looked up words he used and jotted them down so I could remember them. I also looked up the word “rebound” and showed it to him as I figured he was on the rebound, which he denied since he was the one who called off the 10-year romance. During his visit, he called home to check in with his family and tell them how he cooked dinner for me. They were shocked because he NEVER cooks.

I talked to Paolo’s brother Dino (for the second time) as well as Dino’s girlfriend Gabriella. Everyone had seen my photos on my website and agreed that I was bella. Lucia was a little cautious of Paolo at first but she became his little buddy, curling up at his feet when he watched TV and staring at him as he shaved. We don’t get many men spending the night so this was an unusual activity for her.

LEAD PENCILS
When Paolo returned home, he told me his mother continued to ask when to expect me for dinner. I never received a formal invite and couldn’t take the train three hours and show up on my own. After he returned home, Paolo also repeatedly complained about the stress he was under at work and home but provided no details. While Skyping one day, he asked if I noticed how he didn’t sleep during his two-night stay with me. Sure I had, but I figured it was because of me.

My bed, which I had slept like a baby in until his arrival, squeaked with him in it. Every time he moved, it creaked. And he moved constantly because he hasn’t slept in a while. He periodically dozed off and when he did, he snored something fierce, which awakened me and pissed me off. So for two days I barely slept at night. (Earplugs don’t stay in my ears so are not an option.) Thankfully I slept fine on the beach and my ability to fall asleep anywhere on a moment’s notice became a running joke between us.

Because my bed, like most in Italy, was only a double, we slept VERY close. Okay, he wrapped his arms around me and our legs intertwined, if you need details. By the second night, he told me my legs were heavy. I pulled them away but stayed in his arms because when I rolled out of his grasp before, he asked if it was uncomfortable being in his arms. No, I like being in a headlock. No problem. Deal with my legs. Heavy, I thought to myself. My tooth pick legs? How can they be heavy? Now Layne and I jokingly call my legs the lead pencils.

STRONG DEODORANT
During another point in the middle of the night Paolo told me my perfume was strong. I was 99% asleep and therefore very proud of myself when, without thinking I need to speak in Italian, I replied, “Non ho usato perfuma.” (I didn’t use perfume.) He then made a comment about my deodorant being strong. Yeah, I wear Secret, which is strong enough for a man but made for a woman. But it’s powder-fresh scented. Strong as it may be, my underarms still smell fresh. Dude, be glad I don’t come to bed smelling like a goat.

VACATION HAIR
When Paolo initially called his mother to tell her about me, he told her that I am as tall as him and have curly hair. When he later checked out my website, he saw photos of me with longer, straight hair. He commented about the different hairstyle and said “piu bella,” telling me that I am more beautiful with long, straight hair. I replied that I agree but it’s shorter and curly now because this is my “vacation hair.” And I left it at that. I didn’t feel like explaining/couldn’t explain in Italian that I’m wearing a weave during this trip because I can’t deal with my natural hair while traveling for six weeks. I’d have to explain what happens to my natural hair when it gets wet, how I didn’t want to wear it in its natural state for six weeks because maintaining the spiral curls requires lugging around a lot of products,  define a hot comb and pressing, tell him about my aversion to creamy crack relaxers, convince him that I really do have thick, shoulder-length hair like my website shows but it is braided for now and I have some Indian chick’s hair attached to the braids. This is complicated enough to explain to a non-Black person in English, let alone an Italian in Italian.

Paolo sometimes caressed my hair and I’m sure he had to feel the tracks. But he never said anything so I adhered to the military’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. Most black women who wear weaves impersonate a boxer by ducking and dodging when a man reaches for their hair. But not me. Go ahead, cowboy. Touch my weave. It’s not coming out and your hands aren’t going to get caught in the tracks. I am most positive Paolo never felt tracks before so he had no idea what he was feeling. Maybe he thought I had growths on my scalp and couldn’t bear to fall deeper in love with me and then lose me to some outlandish skin condition.

So it could have been the vacation hair, strong deodorant, lead pencils or “ciao amore” that kept me from meeting mama and prevented him from returning to visit me on the weekends, when I know he was free because we talked all the time. Maybe Paolo, whose is not without faults but is workable as no one is perfect, didn’t see the point of getting wrapped up in somebody who would soon depart (especially after breaking up with someone after 10 years) and doesn’t live in the moment enough like me to enjoy hanging out only for a few weeks. Although we stayed in contact daily through Skype and SMS while I was in Tropea, I was thrown for a loop when his mother got on Skype my final day.

So although I didn’t meet the mama, I return with fantastic memories of new experiences and having fallen in love – all over again with Italy. Baci!

Did Publishers Weekly lose its cotton pickin’ mind?

My mouth dropped open when I saw this image on the Dec. 14 cover of Publishers Weekly. While I love the creativity of the Lauren Kelley image itself, it has no place on the cover of a trade magazine touting what’s new in African-American books.

In an article titled PW’s African-American Cover Image: Black Beauty or Big Mistake, Calvin Reid, a senior editor, explained his reasoning for selecting this image, the back story on the image and writing the questionable cover line.

The image was reminiscent of the 1970s and appealed to me, someone who grew up in the middle of the 1970s-era wave of black pride, black power and big afros with big afro picks stuck right in the back. To me it is a sweet, tongue-in-cheek funny and striking image of quirky black hair power. And while it never occurred to me that anyone would be offended by these images, I was very wrong and I have to acknowledge that. Quite a few people were offended by it and outraged by what some perceive as a disparaging or degrading image of a black woman. I certainly regret offending anyone and while I still love that image, I intend to think long and hard about whatever  image is chosen for next year’s cover.

I’d be curious to know how PW illustrated its annual African-American issue in previous years. This image, called Pickin’ and taken by Lauren Kelley in 1999, is included in Posing Beauty: African American Images from the 1890s to the Present, a photography book compiled by Deborah Willis. It is clever as a work of art. While Calvin notes that, for him, the Afro is symbolic of black hair power, I think for many others it is deemed as being rebellious and militant. The whole hair thing is a separate subject unto itself and one I’ve shared my thoughts on previously.

It’s hard enough to get other races to read our books, see our movies, watch our television shows, visit our art galleries, all ways to help us understand one another in today’s multi-cultural society. Therefore I don’t think using this image on the cover is a way to draw even the readers of PW into Felicia Pride’s article, which is more about what sells and today’s economy.  Slap the words “Afro Picks” above the picture and it demeans what I think is indeed a thought-provoking and beautiful image and does a disservice to the article. Would NBC, for example, use “Afro Pick” when weatherman  Al Roker announces his pick city of the day as he does daily on Today? Would ESPN super impose an image of an Afro pick behind Michael Irvin’s head before me makes a prediction for Monday Night Football? No. That’s why I cry foul for Calvin’s choice.

And this is why it’s important to have diversity throughout the workplace. Granted, you’ll never  please every member of any race all of the time but a reasonably intelligent person should be able to discern whether a particular race would be offended by something like this by asking around.  I have no idea how many minorities PW has on its staff but numbers can be misleading anyway. I remember when I first walked through the headquarters at People in the late ’90s when I started working out of the magazine’s Los Angeles bureau. There were so many chocolate faces looking back at me. Little did I realize they were the support staff. I can’t recall a Black being in a decision-making position and attending key meetings. And that’s the way it is throughout mainstream publishing. This is how come offensive images, or in this case an inappropriate image and words, continue to pop up every so often.

When I worked at the now-defunct Pittsburgh Press back in the late 80s, there were a few unnecessary instances where the paper ran less-than-flattering photos of blacks. I finally said something to an editor and it was as if no one had ever noticed. I also had to speak up in defense of then University of Pitt basketball star Charles Smith. If I remember correctly, there were some rumblings about whether Pitt had violated NCAA rules by providing him certain things, like a car. I explained to my editor, perhaps rather naively, that it is possible for black parents to buy their college child a car. Heck, I had a car in the 11th grade and so did many of the Black teenagers from my neighborhood.  The idea seemed so foreign to my editor. Really??  It was as if it had honestly never occurred to him that a Black family would be in such a financial position. And as I recall, Charles came from a middle-class background. BTW, no violations were ever found to have occurred with Charles and the university.

As for PW, well, that was a major violation.

Did the lone black couple have to be so stereotypical?

I’ve become a huge Vince Vaughn fan over the years so when the opportunity came to check out his new flick Couples Retreat last night, I jumped at it. I liked what I saw in the trailer and once I was at the theater I screamed with laughter. The script was a little disjointed but what do you expect?

The only thing that really bothered me is how the lone black couple was portrayed.  The man (Faizon Love) was grossly overweight, broke and had bad credit. His PYT was ghet-toe, 20 years old, worked at Foot Locker, was the only woman shown cursing and let it be known that she gets around with older men. I know it’s progress that a black couple was even cast in this movie for race was not relevant and I did not see a minority face during the 15 minutes worth of trailers of upcoming movies shown before Couples Retreat. And I’m not saying that every on-screen black couple has to be as idyllic as Cliff and Clair Huxtable or Barack and Michelle Obama, but it seems like there should be an in between, especially when the lone minority couple is featured so prominently and none of the three white couples shared the negative profile of Faizon and his lady (Kali Hawk). The only other black person with a speaking role was Faizon’s estranged on-screen wife (Tasha Smith), who has a small part near the end.

I have close friends of all races, in all shapes and sizes and whose credit ratings range from poor to outstanding with ethnicity not being a factor. I only wish that my diverse world was reflected more on the big screen. Or am I being too sensitive to this lack of balance? Did you see the movie? What did you think?

Do you need to free your mind?

While I’m on the subject of dating and race: I couldn’t wait to meet up with my neighbor Angela on Tuesday morning. We walk to and from the gym together three times a week. It wasn’t so much that I was anxious to work out on this particular day but I couldn’t wait to get the scoop from her on the “Free Your Mind: The Black Girl’s Guide to Interracial Dating” seminar she attended on Sunday.

I wasn’t interested in attending the seminar because as someone who has never restricted myself to only Black men when it comes to dating, I didn’t feel there was any knowledge I could gain. Plus, I needed to hole up in my writing cave on Sunday. The seminar was more geared toward Black women who were considering dating outside of their race but had yet to do it. Or maybe they were already doing it but dealing with being rejected by their family and friends for doing so.

Angela deemed the event a success and I thought it was interesting that she said the afternoon reinforced to Black women how much we are desired. With some Black men opting for any race BUT Black, it’s easy to forget. Men of various races attended the event and indicated they didn’t care what size, shape, hue we are or how we wear our hair. That’s not what it is about. It’s about finding a partner with whom they connect.

A stat was given that said, based on African-American estimated population results from the U.S. Census, even if all Black men only dated and married within their race, 1,779,570 Black women will NOT find Black mates. The message was: Black women who want a partner or to get married better free their minds and quit sitting around waiting on a brotha to sweep you off your feet because the odds are not in your favor.

The event was hosted by Fleacé Weaver, founder of BlackWeekly.com, BlackGirlTravel.com and Bella Italia. I met Fleacé two weeks ago and she told me that Black women need to learn how to recognize when a white man is interested in them because how he presents himself may be different than how a Black man does. She probably didn’t see me roll my eyes because I had on my sunglasses. But I thought to myself, are we really that clueless about the opposite sex of another race that we cannot figure out when that person is interested in us? Gawd, I hope not and I hope we don’t need a seminar to school us on the basics. But it did bring to mind a post on Asylum.com in April 2008. Written by two African American women in hopes of bridging the divide between the races in light of the upcoming presidential election, it was a list of the 10 worst things to say to a Black woman you are interested in getting to know or dating. Drum roll please….

10. “I was raised by black people.” (If your nanny or butler was black when you were growing up, you do not pass as an honorary black person.)

9. “Black women are so sexy.” (You may think this is a compliment, but it’s just another form of stereotyping or fetishizing African-Americans.)

8. “Can I touch your hair?” (Don’t ask anything about the hair, or whether you can touch it. Such an exchange will never end well.)

7. “I only date black women.” (You think you’re going to impress her because you’re down, but saying that just makes it seem like black women are a “type.”)

6. “You’re the black Audrey Hepburn.” (Don’t tell a women she’s the black version of a particular white woman. Men do not say to a white woman, “You’re the white Condoleezza Rice.”)

5. “I don’t see any difference between the races.” (You may think you’re Ghandi, you’re not.)

4. “It’s not like you’re the first black woman I’ve dated.” (Yeah, that comes off as creepy fetishizing, too.)

3. “You look like En Vogue.” (It’s never a smart idea to compare one woman to a group of women who all look very different, no matter their color.)

2. “Black women are so much cooler with sex than white women.” (If you think implying black women are looser than white women is gonna get you some, you’re wrong.)

1. “I’m voting for Obama.” (Millions of people are voting for Obama. It doesn’t make you that cool.)

I doubt this list was distributed to the men at the seminar, which may be coming to a city near you. Fleacé plans to take the show on the road to New York, Chicago and Atlanta. What do you think about it? Would you attend?

Looking inside the mind of a killer

It’s not like I didn’t have enough to do this week but when I saw a link to “Full Text of Gym Killer’s Blog” blog on nypost.com, I couldn’t resist clicking on to get inside George Sodini’s head. Anyone who really knows me knows how fascinated I am with crime, especially murder. Here was the chance to peek inside the sick mind of a mass murderer.

Sure,  I had heard bits and pieces about his blog on television but knew I wasn’t being told enough. I didn’t want the sanitized version. Give it all to me. And boy did I get it. From reading the blog, it’s a wonder that George Sodini didn’t go postal on a group of black men. He took the punk way out and opened fire on females in an exercise class at an L.A. Fitness gym in Pittsburgh.

In case you’ve been too busy to read George’s blog, here’s how it begins:

George Sodini

Age 48.

DOB 9/30/1960

DOD 8/4/2009

5-10, 155 lbs.

Never married.

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania USA

Me

Why do this?? To young girls? Just read below. I kept a running log that includes my thoughts and actions, after I saw this project was going to drag on.

November 5, 2008:

Planned to do this in the summer but figure to stick around to see the election outcome. This particular one got so much attention and I was just curious. Not like I give a flying fcuk who won, since this exit plan was already planned. Good luck to Obama! He will be successful. The liberal media LOVES him. Amerika has chosen The Black Man. Good! In light of this I got ideas outside of Obama’s plans for the economy and such. Here it is: Every black man should get a young white girl hoe to hone up on. Kinda a reverse indentured servitude thing. Long ago, many a older white male landowner had a young Negro wench girl for his desires. Bout’ time tables are turned on that shit. Besides, dem young white hoez dig da bruthrs! LOL. More so than they dig the white dudes! Every daddy know when he sends his little girl to college, she be bangin a bruthr real good. I saw it. “Not my little girl”, daddy says! (Yeah right!!) Black dudes have thier choice of best white hoez. You do the math, there are enough young white so all the brothers can each have one for 3 or 6 months or so.

It made me think back to a conversation I had with a 40ish- or 50ish-year-old white man while we sat next to each other in the first class cabin of an American Airlines flight about 15 or 18 years ago. Our conversation turned to race and racism. He opened up and told me that his greatest fear was that his daughter (presumably white) would bring a black man home with her one day. He had nothing against black people, of course. As long as they didn’t date his daughter. None of that Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner stuff at his house .

Well from what George wrote: there’s a whole lot of knockin’ boots going on between Black men and Daddy’s little girls than Daddy knows — or at least wants to believe.

As we now know, George couldn’t get a date and that’s why he was mad at women. I’m not sure if he blamed Black men in part for that or commended them for getting theirs from white women since he wasn’t. According to his blog, he hadn’t had sex since July 1990. He wrote that a woman named Lee Ann Valdiserri had his baby in 1991 but he hasn’t seen the woman since four months into it (the pregnancy,  I presume). He had plenty of other issues too with his mother, brother and others.

It made for interesting reading, although I’m sure Lee Ann doesn’t think so. I do wonder if anyone read George’s blog and if so did anyone try to get help for him or let authorities know about the nut case that was about to explode. He obviously had been thinking about doing this for a  year. Obama might have saved the lives of some women by running for President. Crazy George (as one of his websites was called) might have taken his duffel bag full of guns to a gym last August instead. Maybe one of the three women killed by him wouldn’t have been there a year ago.

I usually work out at the gym 5 or 6 days a week but haven’t stepped foot inside my gym since hearing about this tragedy on Tuesday. Am I scared, knowing that my fitness center doesn’t enforce its “no gym bags on the equipment floor” policy? No. Just lazy. And I can’t blame crazy George for that.

Luxury looks more like me, finally

In three days the United States’ first African-American president takes the Oath of Office. This month a dark-skinned beauty graces the cover of Elite Traveler for the first time. What a country.

It’s not often, OK, let’s just be real: I have never seen a woman with coffee bean skin on the cover of an American luxury travel magazine. I’m sure somewhere supermodel Alek Wek covered one but I never saw it. So imagine my surprise (and glee) when I received my January/February issue of Elite Traveler, a lifestyle magazine for the private jet set crowd. I am a Contributing Editor at the magazine but I have no say-so in its editorial decisions nor am I privy to who is covering any issue. LisaRaye McCoy-Misick graced the cover a few years back but that’s because she’s the First Lady of Turks & Caicos, which shells out plenty of advertising dollars to the magazine. The actress was also featured in many of T&C’s ads in various magazines. Seeing the Prime Minister’s wife on the cover seemed only natural since rarely is there a separation between church and state when it comes to publishing, regardless of what is said. Plus, LisaRaye is as far from coffee bean as the incoming president is from the outgoing president. Her skin tone has been more “acceptable” to the powerful media over the years. Mine has not.

I applaud Elite Traveler for stepping outside the oh-so-white luxury box and selecting a Black woman who looks like me, like Michelle Obama,  like so many others of us, on its cover. Would this have happened were it not for the incoming First Lady having graced the covers of so many magazines before the election? I doubt it and I write this without having spoken to anyone at the magazine. Having a woman who truly resembles us on the cover of this magazine sends a strong message of how black beauty is being redefined. The publication is in commercial and charter airport lounges, on private jets, first-class cabins, yachts, the finest hotel suites, in professional sports’ locker rooms and wherever else the filthy rich tend to flock. The cover is a vivid reminder that we’re in the luxury game.

Yes we are.

Welcome to Kelly’s Korner

Welcome to my blog.

I feel like I’ve finally stepped into the 21st century. For someone who has disdained the word “blog” for so long, it’s still a little hard to believe that I now blog. Just like I shake my head every time I realize that Barack Obama really was elected President of the United States.

But this isn’t about politics. It’s about me, my favorite subject, and Lucy, who well, can’t get away from me. She’ll have her own blog in time but for now it’s just me. I’ll keep you up to date with what’s going on in my world. And feel free to do the same by commenting.