Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 27, 2006
Paul Mooney Takes High Road
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Poor Michael Richards
He must have thought he was a rapper…
Or a Black comedian…
Or one of my children...
The word nigga as used in hip hop culture is different from the word nigger recently used by Michael Richards in his infamous tirade. This position is supported by both my kids, one twenty-two and the other twenty-nine. Oh, woe is me!
Nigga, niggaz, niggah—doesn’t matter how you trick it out, spell it any way you want to—it’s still the same word. It has the same grandpappy—the word nigger.
Nigger is a hateful word. Bloodied and hateful.
It probably was the last thing heard by those thousands of Black folk, men, women, and children, who were lynched in this country over the past centuries.
I’ve heard it argued that we can reclaim the word, desensitize it. Why bother? Give self hate a rest. Aren’t there more worthy things to reclaim. Why not reclaim a whole language? Yoruba, for starters, then move on to Bambara.
As for the furor Richards has unleashed, the only thing I can say is—Ninja please!
Monday, November 20, 2006
Terris at Six Years
Happy Birthday, Baby!
I was born December 5, 1948. I have decided it was a Sunday at three in the afternoon. My father said, “Oh, joy! A beautiful baby girl. She is just what I wanted.” My mother said, “Ump, my tummy hurts.”
I have many skills
I can bless holy water. I learned to do this a few years ago to protect myself from Dracula, the Mummy, and little men in my closet who just wouldn’t go away. This is how you do it: Get three jars. Wash out all of the mayonaise. Say three Hail Marys, three Apsotle's Creeds, and three Our Fathers. The water is now holy. Put them under your bed and sleep with a glow-in-the-dark crucifix under your pillow. If monsters are messing with you they will stop.
I look really good in a coonskin cap. Coonskin and taffeta are my best look.
I am partially telepathic. I can pick up thoughts from people, but not complete sentences that are grammatically correct. I am working on getting better at this.
I can see the air, even when it is clean and not foggy. I bet my vision is 20/100000000000.
Dixie Peach Hair Grease and Me
My best friend is Daisy Turner. She is light with green eyes and long pretty hair. I wish I had long hair. When M’Dear washes my hair, combs it out wet, greases it with Dixie Peach, braids it, lets it dry over night, and presses it with a sizzling hot iron—I wish I was bald.
I saw two dogs doing it, but I turned my head.
Sperm on Roids
Labels: Sperm on Steroids
Friday, November 17, 2006
I Repeat...My Son is Not A Baby Boy
I grew up a daddy’s girl, so it is only fitting that I should have three daddies.
Artie McMahan was the one who raised me, the one who struggled to keep me clothed and fed, bought me pretty dresses with tiers of ruffles, showed me off to his friends, and listened without yawning or allowing his eyes to glaze over, as I read out loud, for what must have seemed like hours, from my very first school book featuring those alien creatures, Dick and Jane, and their spotted familiar, Spot.
Look. Look. It is Dick and Jane.
Dick looks like a fool.
Jane’s socks are all run down in her shoes.
My mother's pissed-off in-laws floated the notion, which soon became community folklore in Tucker, Arkansas, that my actual father was one, Cal McPherson, a married man ten to fifteen years my mother’s senior with a house full of kids of his own. But, as my mother once quipped, “I was present at the time. I ought to know who impregnated me.” This is a paraphrase, of course. My mother cursed like the creative, free spirited person she was, who grew up in the rural, agrarian community and therefore was thoroughly familiar with animal husbandry.
Later, when she was in a rest home, mostly blind, no kidneys, and somewhat delusional on alternate days, she acknowledge McPherson was my—Godfather.
“You know,” she said, “His wife decided she didn’t want to be married no more and she just upped and left him and took the children with her.”
“Did she beat you up before she left?” I asked. But my mother didn’t answer. It was one of the days she got to be delusional, so she just batted her eyes behind her lop-sided glasses and looked confused.
My third daddy was a superstar, which is only fitting because by the time I was twelve, I knew those two rubes who raised me couldn’t possibly have been my real parents. My real daddy was some rich, handsome, and famous person like Langston Hughes, and my real mother was glamorous, witty, and equally famous, say like—Zora Neal Hurston.
Terris the Great
Terris “The Great” McDuffie, Negro League Baseball pitching ace and all around lady’s man was handsome, charismatic, famous, and rich. And he was my daddy too! That’s what his son, Terris, told me four years ago when he stumbled across my website. By the way, Terris the son, or T2 as I sometimes call him when I’m not lavishing him with “sweeties,” “darlings,” “sugars” and “honeys,” is also handsome and charismatic although he is yet to become rich and famous, and his lady’s man days are long since over.
A Gathering of Terris'
T2 has a son named Terris and the chain remains unbroken. We have a sister out there somewhere. Her name is Terricyn or Terricine. She was born in 1940 in Los Angeles, California. I’m waiting to stumble across her website.