These are in no particular order, but things on my mind.
I was chatting with my lovely lady about labels. I don’t know if I’ve said it on here before but I’m not much for labels. I think they make things confusing, or that people use them as a way to sound PC when, in fact, they’re not being “correct” at all-politically or not.
For instance, when I first moved to New York I was struck by how aware most New Yorkers are of their ethnicity, well, rather the ethnicity of others. I was asked by an associate of mine where I was from. When I told her I was from Ohio, she asked where my parents were from. I told her they were both from New Jersey, by way of North Carolina for my mother. She pressed me further until I realized that she was looking for my ethnicity. She was Jamaican. I’m black. I have no clue where my great great great grand parents are from. As far as I know my ancestors were taken from some place in Africa and brought over to the US just like the majority of blacks in the US. This next statement may make me some upset but, I have neither the desire or the time to dig deep into my roots to figure out who or where I came from. I am who I am.
But people are so quick to be PC. Rather than call a person “black” they use the term “African American” thinking that they’re correct. When, in a city such as New York, you could be offending someone of Jamaican, Haitian, Dominican, Cuban decent. It’s a slippery slope full of grey areas and nothing is black or white, or just black in this case.
So then comes the label of sexual orientation. Before I was comfortable in my sexuality, which I will admit was a very short time ago, I told everyone that I was attracted to the person, not their sex. That, of course, is a big lie. I’m attracted to girls. I like the way girls feel, the way they look, the way they smell. That makes me a lesbian. A gay, a homo, and I’m wicked proud. The issue is that when I walk down the street, dressed the way I love to dress, I get whistled at, cat called, and blessed. (The other day some guy in Bushwich said, and I quote, God bless you, Mamie)
Really? I mean, I don’t really feel the need to wear the gay label around on my sleeve but it’s who I am. When I voiced this frustration to Miriam and told her I would take to wearing a coat or a sweatshirt that said “I’m Gay” or ” I Heart my girlfriend” that I would most likely get a greater reaction to it on the streets. On the other hand, shaving my head and dressing “like a lesbian” isn’t my thing either.
A woman, gay or straight, doesn’t dress for cat calls, hoots, hollers, or whistling on the street. We dress because we feel good about the way we look and the outfits we’ve picked out. We feel amazing and look amazing, until we step foot out of our apartments to the disgusting, insulting, and degrading abuse on the streets. It’s frustrating. I’m not sure where, exactly, I’m going with this really, mostly venting. I had a point. ( Miriam just took off all of her clothes and is trying to seduce me with her naked form and ridiculously hard, perfect nipples) I think, mainly, I’m just frustrated with the fact that I can’t fucking walk down the street without dick for brains men making ridiculously sexual comments.
I had more points but a sweet sexy lady who is the love of my life in my bed distracted me from work that needs to be done and points I was trying to make. I will figure out the words and my head and put them into thoughts that will emerge in a blog. But, for now…