I Love My Family!

So, it is Black History Month. In the past, I have considered whether or not we still need 28 days (or 29 in the leap year) set aside to celebrate black history. If it were up to me, the answer would be 'nope,' but not for the reasons stated by the misguided and clueless actress, Stacey Dash. I believe our history, accomplishments and contributions to this world should be acknowledged, highlighted & celebrated throughout the year, not one measly month. But since I have not a nickel in that decision-making dime, I will embrace and honor the tradition. In celebration of Black History Month, and Buttafly Diaries' month of love, I'm going to talk about my black history. My lineage. My family.

They say you must know where you came from to know where you're going but does anyone REALLY know from whence they came? I don't know about you, but I have limited (and selective) knowledge about my family history. Some things, I learned through discussions with my elders, other things I learned from being nosy conversations I overheard and some tidbits I got from my friends/peers (who got it from their parents). Growing up, I knew I was connected to a lot of people, through family ties, but didn't always know how that connection came to be. It wasn't until I was an adult that I became aware of what was real and what was make-believe. I learned the truth. I heard the real story from behind the scenes. I was given facts that were previously hidden, lied about, changed. Facts that were refreshing in some cases, enlightening in others, disappointing at times and downright heartbreaking in a few. Some of what I learned helped me to understand family dynamics (various levels of love, respect, regard, consideration, inclusion and exclusion). Some of what I learned gave me answers I was seeking or, still left me full of questions (so that's why she never came around or now I know why he looks so different; but why didn't she tell somebody or what happened after that??). Some of what I learned had me wishing I could unlearn it (Nooooooo that didn't happen to her?! or Nooooooo my fave didn't doooooo that?!).

Of course, I'm not going to spread my family's ugly business. My Mama and Daddy taught me better than that. However, there are a couple situations that I'm sure a lot of you can relate to.

For instance, I learned some relatives weren't really related, just close family friends. It was just a coincidence that my grandmother and her best friend married guys with the same last name but were no relation to each other. I grew up calling my grandmother's best friend and her husband 'Auntie' and 'Uncle,' believing their offspring were my cousins. It wasn't until one of them passed away that I learned we weren't related after all. It was something like a heartbreak. I wanted to un-hear it, to make the untruth true. I wanted to keep my family the way it was. Good thing family isn't required to be blood related. So, after learning the truth of the matter, our attitude was/is, 'You still my cousin though!'

Or when I learned both of my grandmothers gave birth to children before they met, married and had children with my grandfathers. It made me look at my grandparents in different lights. Whereas, I once viewed my grandmothers as pure, angelic and fortunate for marrying, bearing children and remaining with one man their entire lives, this new information showed me a more flawed and beautiful side of them. They were not perfect, they were human, just like me. In that, I felt a closer connection to them. Finding out my grandfathers not only raised other men's children as their own, but raised them so well that, if one wasn't told, they would have never known the biological truth, made me have more respect for them. It made me see the love, compassion and understanding behind their strong, masculine personas. It made me love them more.

There are sad, bad and even sinister patches in the quilt of my family's history. Things I would have never thought, imagined or believed to be true. Things that nobody likes to talk about, hear about, listen to or share. Experiences that have changed the trajectory of some people's lives. Issues that could change the trajectory of some people's lives if they would face them. Situations that caused some people their livelihood, their freedom, their lives. History that cannot be relived, rewritten or undone. History that makes us who we are today.

In light of all I've learned, and have yet to learn, about my own black family history, I stand tall, strong and proud. I am strengthened by my family's ingrained support, encouraged by the examples I have been raised with, inspired by my family legacy and uplifted by the truth. I love my family and the strong roots from which our formidable tree sprouted.

Love is family and family is love.

BFly's Ode to Black Men

Since February is unoffficially/officially (depending on who you ask) the month to celebrate Black History and the mystery called Love, I'm gonna SET IT OFF with this...

BFly's Ode to Black Men

The mystery and history of thee Beautiful Black Man

is what keeps him hot as fire

he's the subject of many roundtables

the object of many desires

His walk is sexy & unique

individually perfected

specifically tweaked

the tone of his voice and the twinkle in his eye

is what captures my attention

keeps me attuned to my guy

I love the way he smirks when he's on top of his game

and the way his ears perk up when I call his name

his love for his kids is beautiful to see

what's more beautiful is when he's standing beside me

being inside me, loving all sides of me

knowing and believing without me there's no he

The mystery and history of my beautiful Black Man

is that NO ONE on earth can do it like he can

HIStory has shown that his strength is incredible

with spirit unleashed, determination is incomparable

possibilities are endless despite any obstacles

what he puts his mind to my man can attain

despite the color of his skin, the letters in his name

What I love, most of all, is the status he brings

for he's not just a black man

he is a King

I love, I admire and sometimes I can't stand 

but I'd rather live with 
than without

my Black Man

Sameialika Tarver 2012

The Darker The Berry.....

DISCLAIMER: I agree that the spirit of a person has an effect on their overall beauty, but for the purpose of this post, I am talking strictly about physical attractiveness.

Over the past few days, I've gone back and forth with myself over whether I wanted to blog about (my thoughts regarding) the documentary, 'DARK GIRLS.' I knew it would be covered by many bloggers and media outlets and, really, I didn't want to be 'just another blogger' talking about the latest hot topic. Yet, here I am; not as 'just another blogger' though, rehashing what was said and providing my opinion about the work itself. I'm writing about my feelings, as a dark-skinned black woman who is proud of my chocolate hue. A chocolate woman, who, in spite of being able to relate to many of the negative experiences described in the documentary, loves having this complexion and has no lingering insecurities due to it.

For me, being dark-skinned has been more of a positive thing than not. Sure, I was called 'blackie,' 'tar baby,' "black dog' and such, as a child, by other children; and yes, I did feel slighted by some boys in favor of my lighter-skinned counterparts. A man once told me I am one of the few (yeah, he said few y'all!) pretty dark-skinned women that he knows. Pretty don't usually come in dark skin, he said.....and, he challenged me with, 'If you don't agree, then go ahead, name some pretty dark-skinned women you know?!'.... and he was dead serious. He also remarked how "all his baby mammas' were hot because they are light-skinned with pretty long hair....and he was dead serious. Unfortunately, remarks such as his are nothing new to me. I can't count how many times I've heard backhanded compliments, such as, 'You are so pretty to be dark-skinned' or 'That's a fine dark-skinned man/woman.' To be fair, I don't think most people intend to be insulting. They really think they are being complimentary (ignorant asses) and, most times, they are not 'checked' on it so they continue to do it. Still, I don't feel 'scarred' by those experiences. My mind tends to reflect more on the positive things I've heard regarding my complexion (I love being referred to as 'chocolatey'), and as a result, I LOVE THE DARK BROWN SKIN I'M IN. I don't feel inferior to the light-skinned woman standing next to me nor do I believe her complexion alone will gain her any wins over me, when it comes to the attention of a man, appointment of a job, etc. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not blind to the fact that there are men who prefer light-skinned women over brown/darker skinned women and I'm well aware that there are (still!) those who believe light-skinned people inherently are/look/feel better than a brown/dark one. However, those people can't change the way I see or feel about my pretty brown skin.

Yes, beauty is subjective and, therefore, not everyone will agree with what I see. Sure, there may be some people who look at me and say, 'She's cute' or 'she's aight' or even, 'she's ugly.' Yet, that matters not because, in my (not so humble) opinion, my being beautiful is a fact that NOBODY can take away from me....chocolate skin and all.

Conversely, I've heard people say things like, 'Dammnnn, she/he's not even cute and they're light-skinned!' As if it's unbelievable or unheard of for a light-skinned person to be unattractive. Or, 'Ahhh, he/she thinks they're fine/all that/better than somebody!' just because they're light skinned. No No Nooooooooooo people!!! Reverse discrimination is not right, either. Take the saying, 'The darker the berry, the sweeter the juice' - it sounds good but really, what are we saying we sing that phrase? In essence, we're saying our lighter skinned counterparts are not (as) sweet....or good. And that is simply not true. Sweet berries, good things and beautiful people come in/from all shades & complexions. Some of the most beautiful people I know range from light bright to dark as night, as well as the ugliest. Y'all know it's true....so please, act like you know (and stop being so damn ignorant)!

BFly's Black Herstory Month: The Single Mother

In celebration of BFly’s Black Herstory Month, I would like to give honor & praise to the Single Mom. By definition, a single mother is a female parent who is head of her household, raising children on her own (with or without some degree of outside assistance from the male parent or other relatives). I know there are some single fathers out there, raising their children on a full-time basis but I don’t know any personally. I am also well aware that there are some single (and not single) mothers who don’t give their all and are not committed to raising happy, healthy, well-rounded citizens.  I’m not talking about them. Today, I want to celebrate the women I know who do this job and do it well…in some cases, exceptionally well. Whether or not a single mother receives financial, emotional or physical assistance from the other parent residing outside the household, her job is never easy. There is a huge difference between raising a child 24/7 and spending weekends, holidays and other planned time with them.  A single parent works full-time with rare breaks and no salary. She has to fill many roles along with being a parent: she is a maid, a cook, a chauffeur, personal assistant, stylist, nurse, teacher, referee, counselor, disciplinarian and the list goes on and on.  She is not allowed to quit when the going gets tough and she has no substitute to call on when she needs a day off.  Single moms everywhere work hard, sacrifice greatly and give more than they ever thought they possibly could.  So, today, I want to give them a shout out, some words of encouragement, formal acknowledgment and thanks for making such a wonderful contribution to society in the way of raising good human beings.  To all the great single mothers out there, I say:

Bravo to you, my sister

Your job is never done

Yet you continue to put that time in

Long after age twenty-one

Long after the kids mature

And are well off on their own

Their mother is always ‘Mommy’

And to her, they’re never grown

They remember all the nights you held them close to your heart

All the baths you gave, the meals you made, the love felt from the start

Being a good mother takes more than can be measured

And the memories created, for a lifetime, will be treasured

All the lessons that you taught and the battles that you fought

Will be honored when you see how strong and tall your children walk

When they take their first steps onto the path of independence

Accomplish goals, pursue their dreams and know their possibilities are endless

It’s because of you, dear Mom, that they have drive, that they can strive

That they know how to live, laugh and love, that they can smile with their eyes

And for them, I’ll say, THANK YOU Mom, for all that you’ve done

For raising an ambitious daughter, for raising a courageous son

a child who can now face the world on her own

a child who can give love because that’s what he was shown

The most important job of all is raising up a child

Shaping them into responsible adults, making their lives worthwhile

So while it seems the work you do is hardly ever done

If you’ve raised up a child in the way she should go then your race Is clearly won

CELEBRATE YOU, CELEBRATE LIFE, CELEBRATE LOVE!

Sameialika Tarver © February 24, 2012

This poem is dedicated to some very special single mothers I know who, in spite of their circumstances, are doing a helluva job raising their children in the way they should go: My sisters, Charliez Angelz: R. Tarver, K. Tarver, S. Tarver, N. Smith, N. Tarver, A. Tarver, C. Tarver, my dear cousins, E. Brace, S. Tarver & R. Monell and sista-friends, E. Manley, M. Moore, L. Harris, C. Hines, T. Johnson, K. Johnson, T. Mitchell, K. Thomas, S. Monk, S. Grady-Moses, and L. Phillips. These women are awesome mothers of awesome children.  Today, I salute you!

BFly's Black Herstory Month: 'Foundation of Friends'

When I was around 5 years old, my mother, father, sister and I moved out of my grandparents’ home into our own.  As I understand it, my Dad purchased a 2-family house on a one-way street full of (mostly) working parents and their children.  We lived towards the beginning of the block and on the top floor of our house. Up and down both sides of our street, there were many kids whose parents allowed them to play outside, under the supervision of a few neighborhood parents, older relatives or siblings.  I don’t remember how I first met the people who would become my playmates.  I just remember how much fun we used to have.

 

For the most part, all the kids on the block got along well with each other.  Of course, there were the occasional fights, name calling and bickering but nothing that was outside the norm of growing up. There were certain people who got along particularly well with other individuals and there were certain people who didn’t seem to get along well with anyone, for too long.  There was a diverse group of families who inhabited our street: there were church-going folk, club-going folk, straight people, gay people, fat people, skinny people….there was a family full of adopted kids and families with special needs kids, there were the I-think-I’m-better-than-you families and the I-wish-I-could-be-you families.  There were all different kinds of people who managed to live pretty harmoniously together on the block. This provided an atmosphere where healthy friendships, between the kids and adults, could develop and grow.

 

I lived on the block for 7 or 8 years and in that time, I saw some families go and new families arrive.  However, the mainstays of the block became families that I permanently connected with.  Sandra, Twiggy, Kim and Camille were four girls with whom my sister and I regularly played.  From morning til the street lights went off (which was basically the curfew for me and my sister), you could find all of us together, playing jump rope, hopscotch, Mother, May I?, jacks, pick-up sticks or a host of other games & activities.  We played together, stayed together, ate together, and yes, sometimes got into trouble together.  I don’t think we knew it back then but we were building a strong foundation upon which our friendships could….and would…..grow. We forged bonds with each other that would strengthen over time…..bonds that would extend into adulthood and, undoubtedly, for life.

 

Thirty plus years after first meeting, my sister and I are still friends with Sandra, Twiggy, Kim and Camille.  Some of us have had ‘ups and downs,’ our priorities have changed, we’ve built strong friendships with other people, our schedules are filled to the brim with obligations to family, work and personal endeavors. But, we still keep in touch with each other and we do manage to spend time together. Whenever I’m around these women, I feel like a kid again.  We update each other on what’s happening in our lives and we often reminisce on the experiences we had as children.  We laugh, we cry, we argue, we debate, we agree, we disagree, we encourage and inspire each other, we support and respect one another and most importantly we truly do love each other.  I feel blessed to have them in my life.  They are like ‘home’ to me and I can’t imagine how my life would be without them in it.  No matter how much time or distance comes between us, there’s an unspoken rule that we all follow: No matter what, you can always reach out to your childhood friend. Whether you need support, comfort, assistance, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen, a movie, dinner or happy hour date.  Whenever you need a friend, a real friend, a true friend, a no-holds-barred-til-the-end friend, come back to your foundation…..come back home.

 

 

 

 

 

BFly Presents: Way Back When's Days: 'Sweets & Sweethearts'

Remember, way back in elementary school, when you used to make a list and pass out Valentine’s Day cards and candy?  There was always one, two or a few classmates you didn’t want to give a card to but you had to give them one anyway?  Then there was that one…..that one special classmate for whom you wanted to make the little card extra special. You wanted to give them extra pieces…..or bigger pieces……of candy.  Sometimes you gave them 2 cards that had different Valentine’s Day messages on them.  Ahhhhhh, those were the days of innocence……..

This Valentine’s Day, I’m thinking about taking it back to the days of innocence, when every person you liked (as a friend or more than a friend) received a valentine from you.  I have to make a list so I don’t forget anyone and my extra special people will get a personalized message so I need to get started on those soon.  Oooohhhh, I’m getting excited just thinking about it!  It’s gonna be so much fun………..I love spreading love!

What are your special plans for Valentine’s Day??  Will you spend it with a sweetheart, your children, parents…??

BFly's Black Herstory Month: 'Black Hairstory'

Okay, so after yesterday’s post regarding Black History Month, I got to thinkin’.  While I don’t necessarily think we need to have black history month anymore, I won’t be a ‘party pooper’ and not join in the celebration.  After all, I am Black and I am Proud and I/we deserve to be celebrated.  However, I’m going to celebrate a little differently than most others.  On this blog, I will not (just) post about the accomplishments & contributions to society of famous (or not-so-famous) African Americans.  I am going to (mostly) talk about my history and experiences as an African American…..specifically, an African American woman. With this post, I will kick off BFly’s Black Herstory Month (‘BBHM’) by telling you a little about my ‘Black Hairstory.’

I was born to an African American father and an African American mother, with Native American roots.  I know, I know, that’s just about every black person’s story.  Mine is real (included are pics of my grandmother as the ‘show’ to my ‘tell’).  If asked, my grandmother will proudly tell you she is a black woman and makes no mention of her NA roots, unless asked about them.  Most people do ask, because she looks like she is of a race/nationality other than African American.  This is due to her NA grandfather (as the story goes), from which she inherited a reddish-brown complexion, smooth skin tone and a long, black silky mane.  Both of which were passed down (in various, diluted amounts) from generation to generation.

          

My Mom inherited more of her mother’s NA genes than she did her father’s AA genes, when it came to hair and complexion/skin tone; although she had enough ‘heft to the weft’ to pull off a big ole afro back in the day.  The length of her hair ran the length of her back and that, she passed on to me (and my two sisters).  That being said, when you see me, you don’t see nary a NA root; not in my complexion, facial features nor hair texture.  I am chocolate brown with a smooth skin tone and naturally long hair that is not coarse but it damn sure ain’t ‘fine.’  I call it ‘nappy-curl’ because I can wash ’n go, with conditioner, and have a nice curl texture but when it’s left un-coiffed and dry, it looks like a bunch of red cotton. In the pic below (I was 7 years old) you can see my big poof of hair that was pulled into a side ponytail:

As a youngster, I hated to get my hair done but, without fail, my mother washed, sometimes blow-dried and styled my hair every other week and our ‘dos were refreshed, in the meantime, as necessary.  As a preteen, after I grew out of wearing ponytails (like most other young black girls) I wanted a relaxer.  Why?  Because I wanted the already long length of my hair maximized (having long hair was a huge plus in the looks department) and I wanted my hair to blow in the wind.  As most other black mothers did, my Mom said ‘No’ the first few times I begged but, eventually, she gave in.  But not without warning me that I would regret it and mess my hair up for life.  She was right (almost).  Throughout the years, I’ve tried different things with my hair……..relaxers, braids, salt ‘n pepa haircut (done at a cosmetology school and looked a hot afroed mess……wasn’t a curl in damn sight!), ponytails, fingerwaves, pineapple waves……..the works.  The only thing I didn’t try was a jheri curl….and that was because I saw what it did to my sister’s tresses.  Nevertheless, my hair fell out, broke off and ended up looking so far gone from where it began. I finally learned to take care of my hair, while in college, and have maintained a healthy grade & decent length of hair since.  But, then, for the next 15+ years, I wore the same style almost always (like what you see in the pic below):

Fast forward to the point of maturity where I was finally able to see (what my Mama had been telling me all along) that the length of my hair did not make me (beautiful).   My Mom had been suggesting, for years, that I cut my hair into a very short hairstyle to ‘bring out my beauty.’  Years ago, she cut off all of her hair and hasn’t let it grow past her shoulders since.  A little more than 2 years ago, I finally decided to take my mother’s advice and figured my birthday would be the perfect time to do it.  I didn’t tell anyone about my plan. I just made the appointment, told my stylist what I had in mind and she gave me what I wanted, plus some. The result of that haircut was the style you see here (I absolutely LOVED it!):

 

 

For months, I rocked the Mohawk style in various ways and not since I was a teenager had I received so many compliments and ‘double-backs’ (when someone walks past then turns around for another/closer look).  I had to admit, with the short-short hair, my facial features were on full display….and I looked damn good. I was definitely feeling myself!  So much so that, a little over a year later, I looked in the mirror and said, ‘To heck with it……I’m taking it all off!’  Once again, I didn’t tell a soul.  I went to my barber, who had been maintaining my shape-ups, and told him to take it all off.  He said, ‘Whaaaaaaa?!?!  Are you serious?’  I said, ‘Yes I am…..dead serious.’ So, he commenced to cuttin’.  And when he was finished, I knew I made the right decision when I heard him whistle. ‘Whooooo weeeeeeeee!,’ he said.  Then, he (jokingly) asked me what I was doing later that day.  Yeah, I was looking good (as you can see in the pic below).

       

On the day I got my first brush-cut, I was also a host for my sista-friend’s baby shower.  So my sisters, Mom, daughter and some of my closest friends were in attendance.  I wish I could’ve recorded the looks on their faces and the comments they made when they saw me.  That’s when I KNEW I hit the jackpot. Between my fam’s reactions and the reactions of so many others, what I already knew was confirmed: long hair did not ‘make me.’  I looked gorgeous with almost no hair at all.  Then, when I decided to make it red-hot……..ooooohhh wee…..couldn’t tell me nothing (as is evident in the pic below)!

I figured I’d be a brush-cut, redhead for life. Then, I began to miss having hair and being able to wear different hairstyles.  So, I got my last cut in August and decided to keep my hair in its natural state.  Now, I am sporting a small, red afro that has grown out enough that tracks of some kind can be sewn in (which will actually be happening tonight).  I plan to give my hair a rest and let it grow, ‘under wraps,’ by keeping it weaved, braided & twisted up for a few months.  Come late Spring, early Summer, I‘ll be sporting a bigger, redder, badder afro!  I know it’s going to be a lot of work, keeping it healthy and pretty, but I’m looking forward to the versatility my natural tresses will bring.  While (the length of) my hair no longer defines how beautiful I believe I am at any given time, I’m glad to have experienced the long and short of it.

 

What’s your black hairstory?