Female Problems

Brother Man wrote to me: “I enjoyed your blog mostly from the perspective of not too many brothers behind me trying to hold onto their marriages, or their kids, lured by stank plus low or impossible expectations of what marriage is all about. Our biggest problem is our own self-imploding mindset. The Man could leave for Mars tomorrow, and black men would still be caught in the same ‘I'm a playa,’ dysfunctional, gravity well.”

Brother Man got skills, but that’s self-evident. Responded regarding my 10-year marriage. He’s been married 26 years.

I felt him, and wrote back: “Worst thing about so many of our brothers, young and old? Referring to women as ‘females’ (pronouncing it as though women are an offshoot of the Klingons). Every time I hear some dude say he doesn't know what's up with females I cringe at the clinical detachment. Hate it. Want to scream at the brothers, ‘You're what's wrong with 'females'!”

“A decade in,” in the same note from Brother Man to me, “you have discovered the key to marital accord: ‘Shut the hell up.’ Welcome Obi-Wan, you’re headed for silver and gold, the 25th and the 50th. And trust me, if you Shut The Hell Up you’ll make it.”

Let’s discuss shutting the hell up on the macro level. Let’s play God. Here’s a young man. He’s black but he doesn’t have to be. But he’s young and stupid, which tend to go hand in hand. Let’s make him 24. The rest of his socio-standings don’t matter, ‘cause stupid is a private thing, hood up to corporate down.

He might have had one or two “relationships” by now; let’s say he managed to get laid in one. But they’re the past, so cue Denzel Washington screaming, “King Kong ain’t got shit on me!” on a constant loop inside the boy’s brain. But we’ll take the pain down a notch and say he’s on the phone with one of his boys—because stupidity sometimes requires distance. He’s 24, so sex is 90 percent of the conversation. His boy is getting it from stupid girls and he’s not, so he thinks he can say something like this and get away with it, shaking his head as though the injustice is too heavy:

“Man, these females, man…I don’t know.”

But he’s forgotten we’re God, so no, you don’t get away with it, so shut the hell up. Females. God looks off to the side. God’s never heard girlfriends talking about “Males.” They’ll dog a trifling Negro in a heartbeat, but that’s a specific breed. Are young men especially stupid compared to the corollary sex? And God’s a black man (bring in Morgan Freeman if you want but I’d rather it be me) so he’s particularly concerned about this fool here who has cut himself off from all that is beautiful and exquisite with one deft word, an act that usually takes a lifetime’s accumulation for one man to achieve.

Understand, young brothers: every day of all our lives we’re theoreticians. In theory, women love men, men love women, women love women, men love men, and people are good at heart. That’s the theory. If we let go of that theory we’re doomed. The precise second love gets erased from the equation gets marked throughout personal history as the precise moment of your screaming, undeniable doom. No one loves a quote-unquote female, but a “woman” makes the mouth water, because that word implies so much more than simply anatomical constitution. A woman has been through things, has done things, has the wherewithal to know things and can set someone on fire with a soft kiss to the forehead. A woman knows love is worked toward, not given. A woman knows the price of diamonds and pearls has nothing to do with maintenance costs, for she is not a thing to be shined, upgraded or bought. A woman knows that a man is a wonderful, precious soul. A woman is soft and smells pleasant and her skin is magnetic to lips.

A female is made of wood. She has no soul, and when a man’s penis shrinks is how he determines she’s told a lie. A female is this terrible, necessary thing to him. A bother, really. If not for females a young brother’s life would be gold. The fact that there are so many of them is both his blessing and curse. It won’t be hard to find another when the time comes, and avoiding them is damn near not allowed. Females don’t get love. No inner life opens up in their presence. Females are ditch diggers and hole fillers. They be trippin’ too much.

…Shut the hell up.

Objectified to the point of putting breasts on Pinocchio, vilified for failing to raise your pitiful sense of self worth to decent levels while you sit back and watch her lift and groan, characterized in your paltry experience as other and therefore untrustworthy—to all the young dudes out there, buy some Jergens and shut the hell up.

Since we're grown, there's no reason not to be blunt. Female is to woman as bitch is to dog, clinically correct but unsavory. Stand up and defend that mindset if you want. See how fast your ignorant ass gets smote into the self-fulfilling prophecy of a miserable life. The Theory of Human Relativity states that if they are a thing, you are a thing. Wood will never stick to precious metals. There is no possible attraction.

There are ladies out there asking Gepetto what’s wrong with them. Some boy got mentally and physically inside them then left his stink to linger. Some ladies are made of wood, just like some men are. People can only help themselves. God knows the fairy dust hits more than it misses, and thank God for that. To all the ladies wondering if they’ll “ever be a real boy,” read a letter a man wrote specifically to you:

Ladies:
The situation with so-called men who have to deal with all these "females" in our society is absolutely nuts. I recently had to talk a friend off a cliff because a series of trifling men and no account, grown-ass kids caused her to question her own worth.

You question what you would see if your life flashed before your eyes. Would it be the bright light of accomplishment or the dim bulb of unfulfilled dreams? I can’t answer that for you. All I can tell you is what the world sees in you:

A woman who kept her strength when a weak man walked out.

A woman who raised three children, some of whom have issues, but those issues were not planted by her mothering and should not be watered with regret.

A woman who walks in faith and commands respect, a guiding light who can’t see her own beacon, for now.

A woman who has a job, not a career. A woman who for a lesser amount of money has more riches than any paycheck, in every page she turns, every play she enjoys, every work of art she appreciates, every tasty morsel she shares, and every grandchild she holds. All worth their weight in gold and taller than any corporate ladder.

A woman who approaches sixty with grace, ageless beauty, and the power to make a very lucky man very happy. There is no doubt in my mind, and you should have no doubt in your heart, that God will bring him to you. Not a man weighed down by life, but a man buoyed by love, a man who will brave any storm to be by your side.

A woman who should read the paragraph above, again.

So hang in there. No more tears. The best of life, and the best of you, is yet to come. And when it does, now that’ll be a story to tell!

Brother Man penned that and said I could share it with the three people reading this. If you don’t want to be a goddess it’s cool, but know that the gods are above on a certain level, and that’s where they’re looking for you. There are still lots of gods left to be seen. Sisters of all stripes need to know they are deeply loved, appreciated, cherished and respected. Ethnicity is irrelevant. Age is irrelevant. Sexual inclination is irrelevant. What matters are the intertwined thoughts, desires and vulnerabilities necessary in that beautiful construct that toward the end people finally realize is life. I love my wife even though she makes me question my own sanity by steadfastly enjoying ‘The Ghost Whisperer’ (a TV show about a woman, her boobs, and a bunch of bunch of dead people that just need a hug). We’re so intertwined that I often forget that I’m a man. That’s not emasculation, that’s emancipation. There’s no way I could achieve that highly-favorable state viewing her in any real sense as the other. Brothers need to listen to ‘I Would Die 4 U' off the Purple Rain album real real loud, because the amnesia toward the joined, perfect state is spreading.

Simply put, what's wrong with females is men calling them females.