on a day that i am surely “between a hawk and a buzzard….”

T: “Pussies abound. And they are out here not giving a fuck of shame about their pussiness. It’s devastating. But it’s the world we live in. There are girly girls all over this planet. Some of them are disguised as men, even.”

Me: “I can’t do this, anymore. I can’t babysit everyone’s emotions.”

T: “She’s having a moment. She’ll get over it.”

Me: “No. She’s ridiculous. I am at my ridiculous person limit. I am at my bitchmade limit.”

T: “I hit it like……..last year. They’ll try and take your soul out in these streets, these ridiculous people. Blood sucking, soul snatching…all out here looking for their next victim. I had to inoculate myself.”

Me and my linesister over Blackberry Messenger.  January 13, 2011.

The Universe has but one steadfast truism: There are no certainties.

All of us—each and every one of us—has developed an intricate series of coping mechanisms within ourselves, that we might reconcile, in our own minds, the weight of this reality.

There are no certainties.

Some of us take refuge in religion; some of us, science.

Some combine the two, while others cynically cleave to apathy, purporting to not give a damn either way.

But at the end of the day, in the quiet of our own spaces, we are left with this lone, elemental truth: There are no certainties.

This is, perhaps, my greatest heartbreak, as I really.really.like.certainty. To be so aware of its elusiveness at such a relatively young and inconsequential age is just sooooo…..so much.

I love certainty. The black and whiteness of it all; the exactitude of its definition as distinct and pronounced as the staccato in its syllables.

But it doesn’t exist.

So I seldom struggle with it.

Instead, I elect the road less travelled, making full use of a spectrum of colors, scribbling unintelligently beyond the margins, ever diligent in my quest to fit one square peg precisely into one round hole.

And I’ve made marked strides in this department, taking life as it comes, being (as L. Wilson once eloquently put it whilst describing the temperament of honey badgers) “stingy with fucks.”

But even I, despite my manifold efforts, must confess my own ever-present setback in this department—


I struggle with gender.

I want, so desperately, for there to be a uniform code of behaviors ascribed to men, and another set, entirely, ascribed to women.
And I know…believe me I know that such an assertion cuts brutally into the progress so many different movements have fashioned precisely for overly-analytical, free-thinking black girls like me.

But I need for the Universe to whisper something, anything in my ear that offers some definitive, concrete standard of conduct, rules of engagement type this or that, enabling me to sleep through the night, and face my own reflection in the morning without Sojourner Truth-alizing* myself.

If I had such a guidepost, such a boy v. girl totem, maybe then I’d see the shame in lifting the hem of my Leifsdottir skirt for premarital, and, fuck it, sometimes entirely noncommittal sex. Maybe then I’d trade Woodford Reserve for Moscato, or something frothy and pink with an umbrella. Maybe then I could finally address what has become the cause celebre of my life, and justifiably silence the plain manner of speaking that – from my lipsticked mouth—seems “mean,” or unduly harsh.

If girls behaved like girls, and boys behaved like boys, then I’d know who to look to for example. Maybe then I wouldn’t be such a standout. Maybe then I wouldn’t seem so hard in all the places where girls are supposed to be so soft.

Alas, I am fighting a battle with gender. And I am losing.

And do you know who’s winning?

The bitches.

What my friend, “Tre,” would call “bitch.made.motherfuckers.”

And while they possess an arsenal of tools at the ready for their free and immediate disposal, their favorite, their weapon of mass destruction– is passive aggression.

It is this, and this alone, that has emerged as the catalyst for my conflict with gender, and set into motion my own social androgyny that shows little sign of ceasefire.

It is painfully clear to me that no one really has any interest in saying at all what the fuck they actually mean.

We’re still communicating, mind you.

Just, in bitchisms.


There are no certainties.

Not even in gender.

Especially in the instance of gender.

Boys are not boys and girls are not girls. The pox that is bitchery is present on the houses of both sexes. So here’s something for all of you out there, eternally suspended in your bitchly robes, in your bitchly kingdoms, thinking your bitchly thoughts—


I no longer forgive you your silent desperation. I resent any implication that I assemble context clues to deal with you. I hold forever against you any “I shouldn’t have to tell you/I shouldn’t have to ask you—You should just know/You should just do it” that escapes your lips.

That shit is dumb.

And presumptuous.

And arrogant.

And a self-fulfilling failure.

And you know what? Maybe you shouldn’t have to.



I can no longer accommodate your unwillingness to speak, truthfully, about that which bothers you. I can no longer falsely label “stoic” a silence motivated by fear of sounding-like-a-bitch.

I have called many men “bitches” in my day.

Most, in fact.

But I have never, once, called a man “bitch” for telling me his feelings.

Having feelings, and saying them aloud doesn’t make you a bitch.

That’s just ridiculous.

Having bitch feelings is what makes you a bitch.

In which case, the solution is not to hold them inside.

The solution to having bitch feelings is to not have bitch feelings; to grow up; to quit bein’ a lil’ bitch.


There are an awful lot of people out there putting an awful lot of stock in my ability to register all of the emotions, anger, insecurities they’re not saying.

And I get it.

I’m a hard woman. If boys were boys and girls were girls I’d perhaps be silk in the places I am woolen.

And it seems so easy to take refuge in the unspoken; I can’t counter an argument not said, can’t debate a point not made.

But you know what—

I can’t concede one either.

And of that, you can be certain.

I’d bet the Universe.


*see Ain’t I a Woman?


7 Responses to “on a day that i am surely “between a hawk and a buzzard….””

  1. January 14, 2011 at 4:21 am

    Such an eloquent reminder of my thankfulness that bitchassedness does not exist in my cipher. Hawllaylooyer, praise White Jesus.

  2. 2 Anonymous
    January 14, 2011 at 4:56 am

    I love your blog.

  3. 3 Donn
    January 14, 2011 at 7:10 pm

    Ladies –


    Men –


    They break up with “the strong silent type” because “we never talk.” Or they never talk, and wonder why they don’t have what they want in front of them every time they turn around.

    FIGURE IT OUT. Or get your shrink to help. NO’ MY YOB.

    TELL me.

    But of course that’s what I always TELL them.

  4. January 14, 2011 at 7:47 pm

    great post. i also see a lot of bitchness running rampant. i don’t even deal with it anymore. also there is nothing wrong with being hard when you should be soft. you are who you are and you shouldn’t have to feel any type of way about it.

  5. 5 gannsberg
    January 17, 2011 at 11:43 pm

    Um this post was a little esoteric for me, but I do feel ya on the “bitchassedness” (as sean combs would term it) that pervades contemporary society. Appreciated your surreptitious “couture” dropping (had no clue as to Leifsdottir until now)… So understated–yet ostentatious! By the way–“NOTHING MATTERS IN LIFE EXCEPT MY FLY ASS AVATAR!!!!” In fact the only certainty in life is that Rudes will stay with a fly ass avatar!! (You know you wish you would appropriated sho nuff’s image before I did you churlish wench lol)!!! You may as well go ahead and friend me since we muse over multiple social networks….

    Anyway, keep swinging because if shitmydadsays can get a tv deal, I see no reason why you shouldn’t….

  6. January 18, 2011 at 5:28 pm

    See how my mans just put you on some esoteric status? I get it: you hate both sexes, and everybody, equally. You’re too cold or too hot for everybody and we should all read and take notes on your unparalleled awesomeness?

    Anyway, I’m reminded of a Bob Marley quote: “you can’t tell the woman from the men / because they’re dressed in the same pollution.” (Midnight Ravers) The apocalypse must almost be upon us.

  7. 7 Anonymous
    March 6, 2011 at 7:20 am


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a history of my meanderings….


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