Always a Girlfriend, a Baby Momma, a “Fiancée” and Never a Wife

Sometimes I’ll be reading a story, watching a television program, listening to a talk show on satellite radio or even hearing real-life people talk, and I have to catch myself, pause, and think: “Did I hear that right?”

The scenario usually involves the chronology of a relationship being detailed incisively. Persistent relationship woes may be presented. Prevalent and unresolved dilemmas may dovetail. The minutiae of financial, sexual, behavioral, religious and other problems may be transparently laid out like an opening argument, then the woman says something like this:

“We’ve been engaged for seven years.”

Or . . .

“We’ve been living together for four years.”

Or . . .

“I’ve been his fiancé since I was about 23 – and I’m 27 now.”

Okay then. Alrighty now. Just wow!

When I hear stories punctuated by the inanity of a woman being in such a position, I experience a sort of figurative whiplash. That tidbit makes me jolt mentally, my eyes enlarge, my brows furrow and I might say something like, “I know I did not just hear that!”

Ladies, if you have been some guy’s fiancée, housemate or girlfriend for umpteen years and there is no wedding date confirmed, no nuptials being planned and/or no ring on your finger (or other materially demonstrative sign of commitment, if you are averse to rings), the odds are quite high that you are wasting away your youth, vibrancy and beauty on a promise that will never be fulfilled. You will never get this time back.

If a man has not mentioned marrying you within three years of being in a committed relationship with you (and, frankly, this is too long), get it moving. If a man has claimed he will marry you, but still has not after two or three years pass, he probably won’t. This is especially true if he keeps pushing back dates and making excuses.

What’s worse is not only when women find themselves in these situations, but when they assume all of the accoutrements of marriage in the process, with none of the protections and benefits. By this, I mean bringing children into the world as single women (and don’t get it twisted, if you are not married, you are a single woman/single mother). I also mean relying on a man who is not your husband to support you financially and materially. I mean putting off your ambitions, hopes, dreams and potential on hold to satisfy the ego, desires, needs and beck and call of a man who doesn’t think enough of you to make your status official.

A man who is willing to keep a woman on the hook perpetually – who is willing to be the accomplice in her becoming and living the life of a statistic – is, in my estimation, not really a man. At a minimum, he is not one who’s worth the investment of a woman’s best and most productive years. At best, he is simply clueless and knows not what he does. At worst – and perhaps most accurately – he is selfish and somewhat narcissistic and becomes pimpish by default, breaking his woman off with empty promises, bygone deadlines and material frivolity in exchange for an extension on this unholy arrangement.

Let’s face it: Most women do not grow up dreaming to be unmarried mothers of multiple children by one or more men. They don’t dream of being the statistics cited in works like the seminal Moynihan Report, nor do they like being right-wing fodder for talking heads and talk radio diatribes. Women become so because of bad decisions, a lack of critical thinking, poor guidance, familial/generational choices, few real-life role models, low self-esteem, poor finances and/or the ignorance, invincibility and willfulness of youth itself.

Let’s also face this: Most men know if they want to marry a woman relatively quickly. It is not a process that takes a decade to figure out. As a woman with a long history of having many male friends, I have had the benefit of being privy to the inner reaches of many a heterosexual male’s mind. Just like women know pretty readily whether or not they’d ever sleep with or be sexually attracted to a certain man, men, too, don’t take forever to know if a woman is a marital contender or a meal ticket just until the five-course dinner arrives.

I know it sounds harsh, but it’s true.

Frankly, I am tired of seeing single sisters pushing strollers and walking about with babies on their hips with no man in sight. I am sick of our women being mothers before becoming wives (of course, this reversal of course makes the latter less of a realistic possibility for such women). I am tired of walking statistics playing house and pretending to be married, while badmouthing the very institution they try to emulate. I am sick of the nuclear family being a myth to countless children who look like mine.

Ladies, if you are shacking up with a man for any significant period of time and he has not talked marriage and made a formal proposal, your investment may be as valuable as a $2 bill.

Sisters, if you are having children by a man who has no shame in his own game, well, damn, you are equally to blame.

Men thrive off of the challenge, pursuit and attainment of a goal. Cohabitating and having children without marriage takes all incentive away. As much as we modern humans think we are removed from the God-given impulses and instincts He endowed us with, largely according to our sex, those triggers and sensors still lie within us - and not as deeply as some of us would like to think.

So, that’s my message today. The cycle of single, baby momma sisters and their careless, clueless, self-interested baby daddies/fake fiancés/lifelong boyfriends pisses me off.

It has gotten old – and it’s been old. There is nothing cute, sexy, progressive or righteous about it.

Is It Better to Get Divorced Now – or Wait until the Kids Are Grown?

Many couples in peril – once they’ve decided that the long-term prognosis for their marriage seems unsustainable, emotionally bankrupt, sexually depleted, financially treacherous or otherwise – face a difficult question: When should we divorce?

For those without children, perhaps the issue is not so complex. After all, when my husband and I got divorced the first time we were married to one another, we had no obligations – no property, no joint ventures and no children. Logistically and procedurally, divorcing was a straightforward process with such minimal entanglements. We hadn’t been married long enough to acquire much, if anything, together. And we were still so young that we were in the embryonic stages of getting established ourselves in prototypical post-college fashion.

However, if we were to divorce consider divorcing now, it could be deep. Our financial lives are joined; we are mutually obligated and invested in our 401 (k)s, IRAs, savings and home equity. Moreover – and most importantly – we have children now. If our relationship disintegrated to the point that divorce was a consideration, I have to ask myself if we would divorce now, when our Little Ladies are quite young, or if we’d be apt to wait, continuing to live together and remaining married, in order to keep up the veneer until the Little Ladies were more mature, say, in high school or college, and then part ways, thinking we’d spared them the worst.

Divorce at any point is inconvenient, at best, and an emotional, life-changing quagmire, usually. It causes wives and husbands to rethink who they are, what they’re doing, what they’ve done, and where they wish to be. Even though women file for two-thirds of all divorces, they face a range of unknowns as a result, including a precarious financial status, as they are thrust into the world of work (if they’ve been stay-at-home mothers or unemployed) or if they have to substantially lower their standard of living (estimated to be 40 percent lower after divorce) to adjust to new economic realities. This is in addition to the emotional assault divorce can bring, from doubts and disillusionment to bitterness and depression.

Husbands experience no shortage of life changes post-divorce. Even though research shows they tend to re-marry sooner, men are said to have greater difficulty in adjusting emotionally to the lack of in-home intimacy, living alone, social isolation and reduced contact with their children. While many men pay child support, it’s less common than many may think – 25 percent of divorced mothers receive no court-ordered child support.

The most innocent victims of divorce are the children. Children of divorce witness the sanctuary of their lives – their home and parents – falling apart. As a result, they may develop a sense of unhealthy cynicism when it pertains to relationships, commitment and respect for authority figures. They may also face many of the same risks that are related to outcomes of children born out of wedlock, from educational interruptions, economic uncertainty and behavioral challenges. Relationships also face the prospect of withering profoundly. Children of divorce, especially as they get older, face an increasing emotional gulf between themselves and their (usually non-custodial) fathers, since “fathers typically have less communication and contact with children after divorce than mothers, as mothers are usually awarded custody.”

Many couples who divorce when their children are young may think they’re doing them a favor – sparing them years of lies and deceit and pain on the front end. Perhaps they feel they will adjust better to new arrangements, like joint custody and navigating the rules of two different households simultaneously. Parents may even later feel those children derive benefit from having three future family contexts – the original one which consisted of mom, dad and their siblings, and two others, filled with step-parents, new, forced siblings and other step-relatives.

Couples who wait until their children are older – in high school or just grown, for example – may feel they’ve done the honorable and unselfish thing. Perhaps they feel their of-age children can weather the disruptions more seamlessly. Maybe they think they’ll be less affected by the fractures of divorce. After all, they’re not kids anymore. They’re developing their own lives and refining their own identities. Couples who’ve lived in relative misery for years may feel like martyrs for delaying their gratification and happiness in the interest of raising their offspring in a two-parent household.

However, divorce is disastrous for children, no matter how old or young they are. I’ve sensed this for quite some time, especially after seeing older children of divorce “wild out” unexpectedly. Girls have “gone bad” and boys have started acting “off the chain” when their parents split. In seeing how legally grown children act out when their parents call it quits, I’m even more convinced that divorce represents a nail in the coffin for how those children view their home lives and their own prospects, which jades their outlooks and leads to lifestyles and decisions that seemingly come out of nowhere.

“An Exploration of the Ramifications of Divorce on Children and Adolescents” segments the following age-related reactions to Splitsville:

· Preschool (ages 3-5): These children are likely to exhibit a regression of the most recent developmental milestone achieved. Additionally, sleep disturbances and an exacerbated fear of separation from the custodial parent are common. There is usually a great deal of yearning for the non-custodial parent.

· Early latency (ages 6½-8): These children will often openly grieve for the departed parent. There is a noted preoccupation with fantasies that distinguishes the reactions of this age group. Children have replacement fantasies, or fantasies that their parents will happily reunite in the not-so-distant future. Children in this developmental stage have an especially difficult time with the concept of the permanence of the divorce.

· Late latency (ages 8-11): Anger and a feeling of powerlessness are the predominate emotional response in this age group. Like the other developmental stages, these children experience a grief reaction to the loss of their previously intact family. There is a greater tendency to label a ‘good’ parent and a ‘bad’ parent and these children are very susceptible to attempting to take care of a parent at the expense of their own needs.

· Adolescence (ages 12-18): Adolescents are prone to responding to their parent’s divorce with acute depression, suicidal ideation, and sometimes violent acting out episodes. These children tend to focus on the moral issues surrounding divorce and will often judge their parents’ decisions and actions. Many adolescents become anxious and fearful about their own future love and marital relationships. However, this age group has the capability to perceive integrity in the post-divorce relationship of their parents and to show compassion for their parents without neglecting their own needs.

Certain studies have shown that children of divorce – no matter how old they were when the divorce occurred – are more likely to become single parents, have children outside of marriage and get divorced themselves. In fact, the outcomes for such children are on par for those who are children of never-married Baby Mommas and Baby Daddies, from an economic, educational, behavioral and relational perspective. Just like girls raised by never-married women are more likely to be on welfare and have children by non-committal men, when they’re grown, children of divorce, too, are likely to repeat patterns established by their parents – or reflective of their new statistical status.

Therefore, as much as parents who postpone their divorce may think they’re doing their children a favor, research shows they’re really not. That’s why children of divorce – who have grown up exposed to a mother and a father, though not under the same roof – are becoming statistics themselves.

Like Nas said, “It ain’t hard to tell.”

'Tis the Season - NOT to Put Up a Christmas Tree

‘Tis the season.

Actually, the mayhem of the Christmas holiday begins right after Halloween, as product purveyors advertise their wares with red and green branding, shops display wrapping paper and ornaments front and center, sales flyers promote seasonal steals and deals, and Americans are each day psychically subject to the expectation that they must engage in the commercial euphoria of this time of year.

We see morning talk shows dish up the best in Christmas cuisine, with options for the glutton and epicurean alike. We see commercials on rotation that program our children to beg and plead for toys, games and other goods. We are inundated with iconography of Santa Claus, ruddy-faced angels, mistletoe, reindeer and nativity scenes whose players, in most cases, don’t resemble what the actual people looked like, based on historical, genealogical, geographical and other clues.

And then, of course, we face the practice of putting up a Christmas tree. For us, however, this year our family faces the pesky problem of my husband and I being more aware of – and better read – in the Word than most people who claim to be Christians but have never cracked open the Bible on their own. In fact, I would wager that most who claim to be God-fearing Christians haven’t read one complete book of the Bible, have never heard of the Lost Books of the Bible, and know nothing of the Apocrypha.

Then you have those who engage in Christmas practices and say they believe in God, but dismiss the Bible as symbolic narratives, representational myths, or figurative phantasms that have no historical basis or import in our modern lives. Of course, many of these very same people haven’t read many words of The Word themselves. But they make time to read trashy urban “literature,” the latest news from all sorts of worldly magazines and whatever else strikes their fancy.

For the first time, I am in the process of reading the Bible straight-through, from cover to cover. I have previously endeavored to do this. I would start out strong, but somehow get bottlenecked around Leviticus, and then scan around and pick and choose which books to read based on the themes I selfishly wanted to explore. How vain and presumptuous I was to think I could formulate my own spiritual agenda! The idea of self-selecting books, chapters and passages based primarily on what I thought I wanted to know at the time seems so haughty and wayward to me now.

I began this Bible-reading enterprise sometime in the late summer, just as I was in the throes of writing my master’s thesis. It certainly was not a convenient time to begin such a quest, but something inward and deep and ceaseless told me that there was no time to wait. And so I began. I am reading The Original African Heritage Study Bible, which contains all sorts of useful footnotes, maps, reenacted photographs and historical essays that detail the realities you’d be challenged to uncover in most versions, which promote false European images and involvement. In reality, much of Bible is the story of black people in an area now called the Middle East but formerly called Northeast Africa. The original Shemites (Semites) and Hamites are people who look like you, me, our mommas, daddies, sisters, brothers and cousins – if you’re black. The original Israelites, too, look like what we today call “black.”

If the prophets, players and people of the Bible were not black, I would still read it. But as someone who is really big on truth and history and accurate representation, I find it all the more affirming knowing the realities of the people of the Book. It makes you question who made certain decisions, when and why. It makes you wonder if people’s faith would be shook if they knew – or admitted – this fact. If so, what is the strength and integrity of their faith anyway?
And so, I am now more than 500 pages into this Bible. I have about 1,300 pages to go. This places me in The Second Book of Solomon, and I am now at the point where David commits adultery and conceives Solomon, knocks off Bathsheba’s husband and invites her into his home as one of his wives. However, I also know enough guideposts and hallmarks of the laws, commandments and judgments that I am aware of other, future points in the Bible that describe what we should and should not do.

And this is where the Christmas tree conversation continues. You see, there is this little inconvenient book called Jeremiah. And in Chapter 10, verses 1-10, we see this:

This is what the LORD says: "Do not learn the ways of the nations or be terrified by signs in the sky, though the nations are terrified by them. 3 For the customs of the peoples are worthless; they cut a tree out of the forest, and a craftsman shapes it with his chisel. 4 They adorn it with silver and gold; they fasten it with hammer and nails so it will not totter. 5 Like a scarecrow in a melon patch, their idols cannot speak; they must be carried because they cannot walk. Do not fear them; they can do no harm nor can they do any good." 6 No one is like you, O LORD; you are great, and your name is mighty in power. 7 Who should not revere you, O King of the nations? This is your due. Among all the wise men of the nations and in all their kingdoms, there is no one like you. 8 They are all senseless and foolish; they are taught by worthless wooden idols. 9 Hammered silver is brought from Tarshish and gold from Uphaz. What the craftsman and goldsmith have made is then dressed in blue and purple-- all made by skilled workers. 10 But the LORD is the true God; he is the living God, the eternal King. When he is angry, the earth trembles; the nations cannot endure his wrath.

Here’s a very good article about why it’s important to think critically about putting up a Christmas tree. Many people will say, “It’s a part of our culture. It’s all about the season.” Or “It’s just a symbol, it’s harmless.” Or “We’ve been doing it ever since I was a child. This is about tradition.” Or “It’s for the kids.” Or even “I know it’s wrong, but the God of the New Testament who operates under grace will forgive me.”

Does anyone besides me see the inanity of such excuses and justifications?

Little Lady #1 and Little Lady #2 are now clamoring to put up our Christmas tree. They see other households displaying theirs in windows. They see strings of lights adorning bushes, shrubs and trees. They see ostentatiously decked-out trees in stores. They are conditioned to believe this is normal, desirable and acceptable, according to the standards of this world.
My husband and I are certainly not on the fence about this issue, but I am wondering if my children will one day appreciate the reasoning behind it. I even think about giving it a pass this year and doing away with it when my children are old enough to really process and understand why. We’ve already told them there is no Santa Claus, God’s name is Yahweh and his son’s real name isn’t Jesus, but rather Yeshua or Yahushua. We’re clear that Christmas is not about getting new toys. Already many of the lies have been dismissed, and Little Lady #1 doesn’t seem harmed or injured because of it.

Trying to live in these times as we were ordered to is not easy. It wasn’t simple then and, these thousands of years later, it isn’t now. It’s not supposed to be. But when you know better, you’re supposed to do better, even if it’s inconvenient or inopportune – even if we perceive such known transgressions as innocuous.

If we go ahead and set up a Christmas tree, knowing what we know, how can we justify it, when and if we’re called to account for it?

Believe It: Being Black Can Cancel Out Having a Bachelor's

This makes me wanna holla. But it's so familiar, I'm just nodding.


In this all-too-real New York Times story, "In Job Hunt, College Degree Can't Close Racial Gap," we see several African-American, college-eduated professionals profiled. They detail the doldrums of job-hunting while black - and, in many cases, over-qualified and intimidatingly educated.


Many of the scenarios they describe remind me of some of the snafus I, too, have encountered in my 15 years of working, among them:

• The look of shock and the expression of awe when you - a black person - show up for an interview

• The palpable discontent and discomfort of having been "tricked" into interviewing a black person who sounded all too white on the phone

• The flighty excuses of positions being filled or claims of finding the right "fit" when it comes to making good on a position you've been all but formally offered

• The pressure to change or repackage our names, just in case our quirky African-American nomenclature and African names that, in some cases, hearken back to times of the Old Testament are too multi-syllabic, exotic and proud for palatability. Some of us are so submissive that we name our children inoffensive, European-sounding names that mean absolutely nothing to us personally - but at least they may score an interview in 18 years!

Of course, if you take the time to scan the comments section of the article, you will find all sorts of presumably white posters hemming and hawing about affirmative action, quotas, entitlements and undeserved opportunities. Holders of such perspectives seemingly always assume that whites are automatically the best educated and best prepared for any position or opportunity, so much so that it keeps powerbrokers hiring high school graduates for jobs that require undergraduate degrees . . . So much so that it gets people's relatives placed in jobs that were never posted or advertised . . . So much so that most are ignorant about the reality of white privilege in a nation that has never made the descendants - to whom America owes its bounty - whole.


I am sure that some people in my workplaces - former and current - think I'm an affirmative action baby. Surely I went to college on a full scholarship, graduated with a 3.712 GPA, had six internships, several professional jobs before graduating and am wrapping up grad school with a 3.9-plus GPA because the government gave me an entitlement? Perhaps I have more years of industry experience than most but have never been afforded a real managerial opportunity because the small mindedness that is my genetic inheritance (a la Charles Murray)?

So, how have you weathered the wages of working while black? How about job hunting? Has anything really changed, or is the game just packaged in more layers of superficial PCness?

I would be remiss if I didn't give a nod to my sister friend who blogs at The Black Factor.

December 1 – Always a Day Like No Other

Today I am thinking of black male lives exterminated and terminated too soon. I am thinking of potential snuffed out to violence. I am considering illnesses that disproportionately affect men who look like my father, uncles, cousins . . .

And on this special day, World AIDS Day, which takes place each year on December 1, I am sobered, saddened and somber, as I think of the genius, beauty, wisdom, innovation and love of black men whose lives have been abbreviated by the bug, which is our modern global plague.

I am thinking of . . .

Marlon Riggs, scholar and filmmaker, who gave us Ethnic Notions and Tongues Untied.

Essex Hemphill, who collaborated with Riggs, and whose poetic voice should be enfolded in the contemporary canon of black literature.

Promising fashion designer Patrick Kelly, whose style was just taking off when he succumbed.

Joseph Beam, author, activist and force behind the In the Life anthology.

Sylvester, disco and soul singer, and fearless drag performer. (pictured first)

The cast of Paris Is Burning, the groundbreaking documentary on black ball culture in New York City in the 1980s, most of whom have since died, including choreographer Willi Ninja and cult figures Octavia St. Laurent, Anji Xtravaganza, Dorian Corey and others.

Prolific and critically acclaimed choreographer Alvin Ailey, whose name lives on through his New York City-based dance studio and company.

. . . and many others, among them the less famous and, to many of us, faceless. I think of author and public advocate Marvelyn Brown, who was about to be my intern at a local magazine, but was hospitalized just before coming on board. (This, I believe, was when she was diagnosed.).

They are the bodies behind the morbid statistics that say U.S. black AIDS rates rival those of some African nations. Today, blacks constitute at least half of all new HIV diagnoses and nearly as many new AIDS diagnoses. Between 2003 and 2007, more than 425,000 African-Americans were diagnosed with HIV.

Male-to-male sexual contact and injection drug use are the primary modes of transmission to and among black men, followed by high-risk heterosexual contact and other means. For black females, it’s high-risk heterosexual contact and injection drug use. Of course, this knowledge brings to mind a variety of elephants in the room our people are loathe to openly acknowledge and much less discuss candidly.

It makes me think of the penal system and the activities our men are engaged in while there. It makes me consider what their HIV statuses are upon release and how their behavior segues as they re-engage with the greater community and the women in their lives. It brings to mind topics still treated as taboos among us. Clearly, too few of us are having real conversations before inviting men and women into our beds. We aren’t making collective trips to the clinic to get tested, and many of us are lying down without having been tested at all or coming clean about the results of those tests.

It makes me think of black women who trusted too much. It makes me think of how low self-esteem must go to entrust the word of others – even deny one’s intuition – over one’s own life.

Today, I am hoping that our people will begin having some real conversations. We need to talk openly about homosexuality, black self-esteem and the demons and realities that drive people to addiction. We have to talk about prison – what happens when our men get there, what newly acquired behaviors they may take with them when they leave, and what supports, safeguards and accountability our families and communities create and maintain in dealing with their return to society.

Most of all, today I will be thinking of my best friend – my brother from another mother – who died of AIDS-related complications two years ago. I always said my heart and soul and psyche wouldn’t be able to take it when the time came and, in many ways, I was right. I, like many others, have been forever changed by AIDS.

Anthony Cunningham – November 23, 1974-September 5, 2007.

Food Stamps, Pink Slips – Are You Equipped?

Back when I was in middle school and junior high, kids who were spotted with food stamps – or whose families were suspected of needing them or using them – were, plainly, “clowned.” They were the butts of jokes, subject to unabated, unabashed ridicule and raucous laughter (properly accentuated with finger-pointed and belly clutching).

As someone who was subjected to poking and prodding and being made fun of for a litany of reasons and faulty rationales, I didn’t join in on the verbal gang bang against students who came from underprivileged backgrounds. In fact, perhaps precisely because many black kids believed I was rich (or, rather, had rich parents) and I knew the real truth, I felt that the finger-pointers were acting on hearsay or circumstances too grown for their puerile minds to grasp.

As we are now a decade into the 21st century, Generations X, Y and the Millennials are facing an economic environment and financial climate that makes the promises we’ve siphoned and sipped on for most of our lives seem like a lie. There is no getting a good company job, settling in and staying pleasurably put for 40 years. There is seldom working for an entity with a business plan in place. And there certainly is no surety in going to college, graduating and, by default, being considered employable by the decisionmakers who wield the power in corporate or institutional personnel. Well – and small businesses? Those slots are being filled by those with family connections, community ties and others palatable to the good ole boys club for whatever often wayward and nepotistic reasons.

Those of us who are in our 30s and 40s have probably at some point been downsized or laid off. We may have seen our employers fold, or sell or be bought out. We may have experienced bouts of being unable to find careers in the fields for which we were trained and educated. We may have had periods when we haven’t been able to secure a job at all. Those of us with families may have looked despondently at barren cabinets and cupboards, wondering how we would feed our kids and procure the cereal they know and love. We may have opened gas and electricity bills with terror in our hearts, especially as the season changes, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason for the exponential increases from month to month, from season to season, from year to year – paid with wages that have not kept pace with the cost of living.

Many of us who constantly live in a tenuous state, as well as those of us who have experienced phases of uncertainty, are apparently turning in greater numbers to government aid in the form of food stamps. According to this New York Times article, titled Food Stamp Use Soars, and Stigma Fades, one in eight Americans is fed via food stamps and one in four children acquires their sustenance through these means. Of course, as in most things negative and fashioned by generational inequities and disproportionate risks predicated on race, economics and education, black folks are faring the worst.

According to the story, “In more than 750 counties, the program helps feed one in three blacks. . . . Across the 10 core counties of the Mississippi Delta, 45 percent of black residents receive aid. In a city as big as St. Louis, the share is 60 percent.”

Where I live, in a city that is 27 percent African-American, more than 30 percent of blacks are receiving food stamps. Areas hit hard by manufacturing losses (jobs once seen as a welcome province for industrial-minded blacks), too, are experiencing an uptick in the food stamp rate. (To see who – and how many – are using food stamps in your city, go here.)

To the surprise of few of my likely readers, the trend is comparably disturbing on the jobs front for black people. Current rates of black male joblessness are being compared to the Great Depression.

According to the November 20 article:

Almost one in five Black men 20-years-old or older are without a job, according to figures released by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics earlier this month.

The seasonally-adjusted October unemployment rate for Black males is above 17 percent whereas the jobless rate for White adult males and females is under double digits at 9.5 percent and 7.4 percent, respectively.

At 12.4 percent, joblessness for Black women also skews above the national rate, which is currently at 10.2 percent, approaching the December 1982 level of 10.8 percent.

This spells all kinds of considerations and repercussions in my mind. Black women in relationships, especially marriages, have acted according to an egalitarian view – one that made their labor and compensation just as respected and requisite as that of her mate’s. However, as black women presumably begin pulling even more weight, will black marriages fracture under the pressures and stresses? Will more black fathers opt out because they feel useless and like burdens? What solutions are we devising, as individuals, families, households and communities, to mire through this mess?

How are you feeling the brunt of the recession, if at all? How has your behavior changed? And, more importantly, how has your mind?

“Precious” Isn’t.

I saw the critically acclaimed movie “Precious” four days ago. I usually have an immediate and visceral reaction to any film I watch. I either love it or hate it or am lukewarm and can clearly articulate why I am boiling over with passion, cool with antipathy or tepid like leftovers warmed up in a half-assed way.

I rarely go to the movies. For one, I am pretty frugal and find it hard to justify spending $10 or $12 dollars on a movie, especially when I have a Netflix subscription and since it now takes only about three or four months before a film is available on DVD. But amid all the hoopla – and all-out hateration – I had to see “Precious.” In fact, I recall reading about this grisly and grimy tale seemingly more than a year ago. My curiosity piqued at that point and had been unabated ever since.

I haven’t read any books by Sapphire, let alone Push, on which the screenplay for “Precious” is based. In fact, I’ve just begun doing any research and reading on the pseudonymous author behind the work. Beyond skimming through some early reviews and catching a bit of endearing break-out actress Gabourey Sidibe on the Oprah Show recently, I wasn’t privy to too much about “Precious.” I had heard that Mariah Carey played a bit role. And I had learned that Monique (who I had the pleasure of interviewing about six years ago) totally turned it out in the movie.

I was immediately struck by the gritty cinematography of the movie. Director Lee Daniels certainly embraces realism to the nth degree in a way that highlights the haunting scenery of the place where Precious and her mother live, as well as the unglamorous countenances of all the characters, the neglected environs of the hood, even the off-putting oiliness of the greasy chicken Precious finishes off in a way that in no way appears finger-licking good. As someone who finds beautiful the clever angles and colorful prism through which favorites like "Amelie" were shot, I felt a bit like I was looking at dingy, yellowed newspapers the entire time I watched "Precious."

I will spare you the offense of regurgitating the story line, as many of you probably know it well. It is a terrible tale of abuse on the psychological, verbal, sexual and physical levels. Precious is assaulted with words, skillets, her father’s penis and her mother’s vagina (albeit by suggestion and inference). She is a victim of neglect and role reversal as well. To show for it, she has two babies by her absent father, is obscenely obese, can barely read and is the object of ruthless and ceaseless ridicule by a mother who crazily competes with her like a mistress to a legitimate wife. She also prizes whiteness and approximations of it, at times wanting to envision herself as a white woman with blonde hair and repeatedly yearning for a boyfriend with “light skin and nice (we know what this is code for) hair.” The rationale or subtext for these desires is not explored or referred to in any way in the film. The only beneficent white person shown is Precious’s math teacher, who, by all accounts, does nothing but the job for which he was hired – and by no indication incredibly well or passionately.

As much as Monique did in fact show off acting chops I never knew she had and as much as Sibide played a part that incredibly contrasts the genuine public persona she has now made plain, I am having issues with vaunting “Precious” a game-changer, a revelation or even, really, that great of a movie.

I am struggling with the played-out premise that we as black people are only creatively and critically recognized when we’re promoted at our worst. And, in “Precious,” most of the black folks have some serious issues. Even the protagonist, who is admittedly the flicker of light amid such darkness, is like an exaggerated parody. As a mix of the quintessential mammy figure and minstrel visage, she is at once a sympathetic and sickening figure – for whites and blacks alike, although for different reasons.

Halle Berry and Denzel Washington didn’t win Oscars until they played a disloyal black bitch inexplicably strung out on a very unappealing man who happened to possess a white dick and a shady, duplicitous, casual drug-taking cop, respectively. When we are not depicted at our worst from a social, moral or behavioral lens, we are shown at our worst from a comedic, superficial and myopic lens. One that makes us jokesters, pranksters, gangsters and relief that reminds white audiences that we are what they say we’ve always been and cues to (impressionable) black audiences that those images are all we should strive to embody and become.

Just when you think “Precious” cannot get any worse, it does. She is faced with chronic conditions and a pitifully bleak prognosis. Her recalcitrant virago of a mother, whose face strangely appears four or five shades lighter as she attempts to have a moment of redemption, is as much a wolf in sheep’s clothing as ever. As Precious sluggishly trudges away, legs rubbing all the way to the knees, products of incest with her, the audience is no better than before being subjected to 110 minutes of voyeuristic, stereotyped-on-steroids shock and awe.

“Precious” isn’t.