Wintry storms are a mixed blessing. Normally, they provide the perfect setting for some hot chocolate drinking, DVD watching and if you are favorably paired with another, canoodling! Last night, however, the winter storm that hit North Jersey knocked out half of the channels that I normally watch, so I settled for programming on NBC. I saw the premiere episode of ‘Momma’s Boys’, a dating show similar to The Bachelor, but with an odd gimmick: three bachelors and self-described momma’s boys have brought along their mothers to help them decide on a suitable woman for a long-term relationship. All of the bachelors are white, and several of the 30-odd women are black. One of the mothers, Mrs. Bojanowski or Mrs. B, appropriately enough, is outrightly opposed to her son dating or marrying a black woman! She is very particular about whom her son would choose as a wife, and the list of untouchables includes Asians, Jews, Muslims and women who are outspoken. Only a woman who is white, Catholic, thoroughly domesticated and pliant enough to do what she says will do for her — and her son Jojo. I guess mama can’t stand the competition from any self-assured, or in her mind, uppity, women any more than she can handle the thought of a mixed-race or interfaith union in her family. So maybe she should steer clear of a black daughter in law!  

Too bad for Mrs. B this show is stocked with no less than five — count ’em — black women hoping to make a fleeting love connection on this show and suffer a very public breakup. Not to mention the two Asians, the Jews and one woman who describes herself as so forthright that, well, you have to her her description of her boldness. Dear readers, listen to Jojo express herself on this issue, and then take a look at this clip of the women confronting the offending mama. As reprehensile as Mrs. B was in this premiere episode, I was a tad more disappointed in the sisters. Why did these eligible women feel the need to, first, appear on this show, but then list their accomplishments to Mrs. B, apparently to show her that black women like them are good enough for her son? If an ignorant meat head like Mrs. B writes you off, why respond by trying to impress her? It’s pointless. 

Do not let her disdain for us get you down, though. Judging by the preview reel, which shows her son making out in a hot tub with one of the sisters, he doesn’t agree with mama’s preferences on that point! Thank goodness the poisonous thinking stops with her!

Pay little heed to the show ‘Momma’s Boys’ and the offensive mother to whom it has chosen to give so much air time. Shows like this are broadcast purely for our idle entertainment, a form of guilty pleasure that no self-respecting ‘strong black woman’ should take seriously, even for a second. Beyond that, we all know the outcomes of these reality TV dating shows. The couples part ways in a couple of months, usually. That’s not what we really want for our fellow sisters, is it? Especially not some of the educated, accomplished and strikingly beautiful sisters who were picked as contestants for this show — and who really should have known better than to waste their time, talents and beauty this way.

One of my treasured Thanksgiving traditions made a huge comeback this year. We had dinner at my ‘aunt’ Mary’s house. Mary is actually my second cousin, but because she is older than my mother, her first cousin, I’ve taken to calling her ‘aunt’. It’s a ‘black thing’. What’s the fun of being of Jamaican or Southern American heritage (heck, almost anyone who is not a WASP) if you can’t indulge in these little customs?

In any case, Mary and her late husband Larry have always been pillars in our lives, and their house has been a locus of familial togetherness for as long as I can remember. Their generosity extended far beyond family, leading them to take in wayward young people who needed a stable home environment as they regained their bearings in their lives.

Despite the fact that Mary and her late husband Larry moved further south years ago, they cannot escape the ties that have kept their family unit together!  Thanksgiving was just like old times: we gathered at my second cousin Mary’s house for a potluck dinner. Everyone’s contributions were tasty, from the jerked pork, a Caribbean favorite, to the sweet potato pie, cherry pie, lasagna and the beer-marinated ham.  There were modern updates on standard hits too: instead of cranberry sauce, I brought homemade cranberry bread. My other cousin Madeline did a nice update on mac & cheese, topped with Italian bread crumbs. These days, several whipper snappers have taken to calling Mary ‘grandma’, expressing their endearment and kinship with a woman who provided emotional needs that are either lacking in their own families. So throughout Thanksgiving dinner, it was ‘grandma’ this or ‘grandma’ that.

I’d like to sweeten my daughter’s life with as many cultural customs as possible, and because my Jamaican friends and family have all sorts of fluid connections with each other, she will likely take to calling Mary ‘grandma’ one day. It’s not far fetched at all. Aside from the long history and strong ties that Mary and I have, she was in the delivery room soon after Baby was born and she stayed at our house for a week to help take care of all of us. Ah, but WASPs, and their ilk don’t typically carry on such customs and that’s where Hubby and I differ. He doesn’t think Baby should take to calling Mary ‘grandma’, because she might be confused as to who her actual grandmother is.

Now, here is where I need to set Hubby straight on a few things. Doesn’t he know that children are whip-smart creatures, perfectly aware of whom their grandmothers are? Baby is no exception. Like other children, she will have a big, colorful imagination and be able to slip between fantasy and reality quite easily. One moment she will be navigating Everest (the stairs in our house), and another, the stairs will be objects to be scrambled over if she’ll escape hard time in the corner for attempting to pull off the Great Cookie Caper. 

Calling Mary ‘grandma’ will not confuse Baby as to who her real grandmothers are, even if Grandma Huntzberger (Hubby’s side) and Grandma Morrill (my side) each live in different Southern states and she doesn’t see them regularly. It’s really quite simple: she’ll observe other kids calling Mary ‘grandma’ and pick up the habit. I’ll explain to her that her real grandmothers live in South Carolina and Georgia, but she can let Mary borrow the grandma title whenever they are not around. Et voila!

I anticipate just one potential problem with her calling Mary grandma. My mother is the jealous type, and if she isn’t in South Carolina brooding about our family felicity here without her, then the thought of her only grandchild calling someone else ‘grandma’ is sure to bring the fire-breathing creature out of her.  

I grew up in the same two-family house as Mary’s family, and I referred to Mary’s mother, as ‘grandma’, because I was always around my cousins and she didn’t mind that I called her that, right along with her own grandchildren. No one corrected me and it would have been unnecessary, anyway. I knew full well the story behind my own grandparents: my maternal grandmother was far off in Jamaica, my grandfather died when my mother was little. My father was not in my life, and I would never meet my paternal grandparents, so I put them out of my mind.

Maybe I’m imposing expectations on Baby based on my own experiences, but I don’t think we’ll slight the Huntzbergers or Morrills, or confuse the poor kid by allowing her to carry on a harmless custom. So rather than saddle Baby with unnecessary angst stemming from not wanting to offend overly sensitive people, I’d rather allow her to have fun with her heritage and make her life a little sweeter.

Have I mentioned that mine is one of several interracial marriages in my family — all of which involve black women and white men? Let’s see now: three older female cousins (on my mother’s side) have intermarried. Two of them are sisters and are from the part of the family that settled in England. We’ll call them Loretta and Paula. Of those sisters, Paula has two daughters, with one from a relationship before her marriage. Her sister Loretta did things in a traditional way. She got married and then had her two daughters. 

My American cousin, Marlinda, got married at around 42 — past the traditional age for marriage. Marlinda is such an accomplished and resilient person, so strong-willed and independent that she shocked us twice with the news that she planned to marry her husband Jeff: first, that she would consent to be any man’s wifey and second, that her husband was NOT BLACK!  Understand the gravity of what I just said. Marlinda was one of those black women who simply preferred to date black men, and, as far a we knew (because she is very discreet about how she lived her life and did not kiss & tell) did so exclusively. Imagine our shock, then, as she introduced us to Jeff, with his Caucasian self. Where was Marlinda’s determination to find her Ideal Black Man (IBM)? For her to settle down with a white dude seemed so unreal! We were positively befuddled, but all that disappeared after we watched them interact. Jeff is hilarious and irreverent and he complements Marlinda’s madcap personality perfectly! Plus, Marlinda floors him with her dark-skinned beauty and fun-loving personality and he is openly affectionate with her. Three years ago they welcomed a beautiful baby boy into their family. 

Marlinda is representative of women who marry and have children later in life, especially those black women who take their time to get it right before settling down. No ‘baby daddy’ situations, with all of the series of debilitating dramas that those can entail. She waited until Mr. Right came along and did not settle any sooner for anyone inferior. Women like Marlinda should be applauded for sticking to their guns. Why should they settle in their 20s or 30s for some lame dude who won’t make them happy? Men would never entertain such a thought, probably because Mother Nature gave them the perverse ability to sire children well into their latter years of life. Despite recent research that has linked certain birth defects to older fathers, don’t believe the hype:  biological clocks do not haunt and taunt men the way that they do women. 

    Marlinda’s experience should be familiar to everyone: plenty of celebrity women are either remarrying or waiting to marry in their 40s, and some are having children in their 40s. Some call it mature motherhood. Idiots out there, uncharitably, call it stupid. Whatever the case, mature motherhood probably confers a calmer, more sensible approach to child rearing than the frenzied way of people in their 20s and 30s. Halle Berry is one example of a woman who tried and tried until she found happiness. And just ask Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon, who had twin sons at 41 and recently did an interview with Tasty Baby.

3.    How has having twins at 41 differed from the first time you had a baby in your 20s?

I feel like I am more woman now. I also have more patience & I don’t sweat the small stuff as much. In my 20’s I felt a need to have a big career.

4.    Your twins were born 6 weeks early because you had signs of “pre-eclampsia.”  Was this scary for you?  Do you have any advice for Tastybaby readers who may be coping with similar worries?

It was definitely a scary time for me, even though my doctor was more worried about me than the babies. I prayed & prayed that we would all be ok. My advice would be to listen to your doctor & try not to read everything online, because sometimes theres’ too much information out there to scare you & with modern medicine now there’s so much they can do to help.

Good for Garcelle for starting over and finding happiness. And good for all of my intermarried cousins for maintaining strong marriages with solid husbands. They are, by all appearances, wonderful guys who honor them and who are always there when my cousins need them. These guys are in it for the long haul and they have made very comfortable lives for my cousins. They have lots of adventures together, be it traveling or living overseas, cooking, entertaining and raising children. I have to say that these couples are great advertisements for marriage. And for those women who are waiting decades for their Mr. IBM, face it: he might never show up, for whatever reason. Just relax your rules a bit and learn to heed the resonant buzz that kicks up whenever you and Mr. Not Black are around each other.

Thanksgiving is one of my favorite times of the year. It calls for decorating your house in warm harvest-inspired earth tones, volunteering or being recruited to make a side dish for the family dinner and finally and cashing in your Christmas Club account (do people have those anymore?) so you can tear up the mall on Black Friday. Don’t forget the most important part of Thanksgiving: starting incendiary conversations at the table. 

For mainstream (i.e. ‘white’) culture, that could mean dropping a load of shocking news at the dinner table (I’m using my Christmas Club money to help fund a gender reassignment surgery, Mom) or starting an argument with your family about your differing political and religious beliefs. (Why shouldn’t I convert to the Jedi faith?) For black families, major holiday dinners are often madcap gatherings, punctuated with liberal helpings of ‘libation’ and raucous rounds of ‘Yo Mama …’ jokes. Not to mention confronting cousin Rolanda about the $200 she owes you after you paid her way in Atlantic city for your other cousin Sheila’s bachelorette party. 

Well, it’s high time that we modernize things. Take a gander at this hilarious clip from the old Ricky Lake Show. On this episode, Ricky discusses interracial dating, from the standpoint of people who are rebelling against family taboos, so that they can date interracially for the first time. Her guest Kai, dares the disapproval of her cousin Kobi, who represents a family that forbids it! Imagine if instead of publicizing her plans on a daytime talk show, Kai dropped the news at Thanksgiving dinner. 

Now readers, if you’ve decided to take the plunge and date interracially and you announce your plans at Thanksgiving dinner — or for bigger fireworks bring the guy home — at least show up with a little something to make the news go down easier.

I found this recipe, tweaked to my liking, in a book titled “Real Taste of Jamaica” by Enid Donaldson.  

CORN PUDDING

3 eggs lightly beaten

2 cups drained and cooked (or caned) whole kernel corn

2 cups milk, scalded

1 tbsp. butter, melted

1/4 cup sugar

1/4 cup flour

1 tsp. salt

1 tsp. nutmeg or cinnamon

Heat oven to 350 F. Combine the eggs, milk, butter and sugar and mix well. Stir in the flour a little at a time, then add the corn. Pour into a 1 1/2 quart casserole dish. Sprinkle on the nutmeg or cinnamon. Bake for 40 to 45 minutes. Test for readiness by inserting a clean knife in the center of the pudding. If it comes out clean, you’re done. Let it bake for another 5 to 10 minutes if it needs more cooking. Let stand for 10 minutes, while the center firms up.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Let the onslaught begin!

‘Tis the season to be givin’!  Just in time for the main gift-giving season of the year, model mom Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon has launched a new jewelry line for children, appropriately called Petit Bijou. For us English speakers, that’s French for “little jewel”. You can check out the baby baubles at the Web site http://www.petitbijouonline.com/.

Just as each child has their own unique personality, so do the necklaces of Petit Bijou. The debut line features charms on organic cotton cords in colors such as pink, purple, blue, red, green and black or on silver or 14 karat gold-fill chains. Among the twenty plus charms available are teddy bears, ballerinas, butterfly’s, horses, dinosaurs, guitars, cars, stars, peace signs, hearts, crowns, and the Eiffel Tower.

Petit Bijou’s fine jewelry collection, Petit Bijou Couture, includes paved diamond Ladybug’s, Teddy Bears and Hearts on 14k white, yellow or rose gold chain.

Stop by to shop for your little ones, your nieces, nephews and friends of children — or just to take another gander at her adorable twin sons, Jax Joseph and Jaid Thomas. I think Jax, on the left, is my favorite. Of course that could be because when I first saw pictures of them, he was wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt.  Cute and cool — how can you resist!

My last post about Michele Obama and the long-overdue respect which black women are now enjoying, sparked a stream of memories about unpleasant run ins I’ve had with certain black men. I’ll put my disclaimer at the end of this post about the good black men who win a lot of admiration from me, but upfront, I’d like to make something clear. Too many black men, unfortunately, have fallen into the habit of abandoning and profoundly disappointing black women, in one way or another.

I’ve got one long-running situation and an anecdote that bear this out. 

I didn’t grow up with my father. Truth be told, we had contact once when I was seven years old, and then 29 years later after I had already gotten married, settled with Hubby in the Garden State, and shortly before I realized I was pregnant. I never even memorized his name until I was required to get it to apply for a marriage certificate in Jamaica, where Hubby and I tied the knot. There is plenty of responsibility to go around for this estrangement. My parents were only together for a very short time, and I have reason to believe that my mother decided to carry on with her life without him because of an untenable circumstance in his life. Also, apparently, he and my eldest half brother (there are 6 of them, plus one half sister) knew all about me, and my brother’s family tried to establish contact with mine, but the offers were rebuffed. Who really knows what happened. My philosophy is that the responsibility for this rests on my parents’ shoulders, it’s their history and I shouldn’t complicate my life by trying to get to the bottom of their mistake. My whole life, mother refused to talk about my father, except to frame it in the context of being angry with me about something or another and suggesting that we would both be better off if I lived with him. At the end of the day, the man who by all rights is the primary male figure in my life … just wasn’t. He hasn’t influenced me one way or another at all, and knowing my mother’s aversion to talking about him, I never thought about him for fear of aggravating her. So it’s like he never existed. That made me, as far as my paternal lineage goes, and in the words of a Southern saying about people disconnected from their past, a cut flower. 

And the anecdote: 

When I was a freshman in college, I lived at home and had a part-time job in a neighboring town. One evening, a co-worker, a black man, offered me a ride home. Now folks, fear not. He didn’t try to take advantage of me and I didn’t feel apprehensive about riding in his car. Maybe that’s because I noticed that he stuck precisely to the route I gave him. Anyway, he lost my respect after the police pulled him over, ran his plates, realized that he was driving with a suspended license, and arrested him. I looked straight into his face through the rearview mirror as the police pushed his chest down on the trunk of his car and handcuffed him, and I’ll never forget the look.  More so, I’ll never forget the fact that the police never helped me to get home. That’s right, gentle readers. I was stranded on a commercial road that connected several towns and two counties in north Jersey. At that time of night, all of the businesses were closed, except for a pizza shop. I stopped in there, called my cousin and asked her to give me a ride home, which she did. 

The only major consideration that those situations had in common is that both men had handled their lives a bit carelessly at one point, setting them up to essentially drop the ball at a critical moment. I don’t know why black men often find themselves in situations wherein they desert black women. Maybe a lot of guys create too many children than they can reasonably tend to, start over with a new woman, find themselves overwhelmed and ashamed of their actions, and end up estranged from their children. Maybe they are heartless, and simply don’t care about the lives that they change, often for the worse, when they leave.

I don’t resent my father for the past. It would be a waste of valuable time and energy, and at that stage in my pregnancy, it would have put too much stress on me. I visited him this past summer. When he picked me up at the train station, he recognized me right away, without me having sent him any pictures of myself beforehand. He practically walked on other people to get to me at the train platform, grab my bags and give me a huge hug. Over those few days, he struck me as a guy who really regretted what happened all those years ago, even if he was completely lost as to how to make amends. He did his best to explain the past, answering all of my questions with more completeness and openness than I ever got from my mother. He gave me a gold necklace and bracelet one afternoon, and while I adjusted the bracelet around my wrist, I glimpsed him walking away and looking back, sort of smiling. Maybe he was relieved that I didn’t hate him (and still don’t) and that I was willing to visit him and keep an open mind after all those years. 

In the case of that co-worker, maybe he represents men who are are struggling to overcome mistakes in their past. Yet at any moment, a minor mistake can lead to a major headache, as past mistakes come to the fore. Whatever the reasons, abandonment is not acceptable, and black women shouldn’t tolerate it. 

How, you might ask, should black women avoid being disappointed, even if the guy’s present-day intentions are good? Well, I don’t think it’s that hard to recognize a decent, dependable man when he comes along. He dresses neatly. He holds gainful employment. He is connected to a community of people who depend on him, like a church, community organization, a sports team, an extended family — heck, even an investment club would do! As long as he is surrounded by solid people who can speak well of him, you know you’ve got a potential keeper. Notice I didn’t tick off the usual list of trappings in an Ideal Black Man: Plum job, nice car, huge net worth, real estate holdings, college degree, etc. All those things are icing on the cake, and if you find a guy with all of those things going for him, then bravo! At the end of the day, he has to be a reliable and considerate man with a steady moral compass. A guy like that won’t let you down, but if his character is lacking in those things, then you should agree to remain casual friends (without benefits!) and wish him well in life. 

Obviously, if a solid guy comes into your life who does not happen to be black, don’t overlook him. Even if you don’t have the right rapport, or enough buzz to sustain a long-term relationship, at least get to know him and come away from the experience with a good friend, a better idea as to what you want in a guy and some good memories. At the very least, it wouldn’t be the wisest thing you ever did to bypass a guy like that, especially if you want to place a high value on marriage, kids and a guy who can be the rock of the family.

She’s here! She’s here!  

My raison d’etre, the apple of my eye, love of my life and the very best thing that has ever happened to me is finally in my arms. I’m a mommy! My daughter was born on Oct. 17, after two grueling hours of induced labor. I don’t care what Hubby says: when I saw them lift that baby girl out of me, the room went totally silent. Perhaps it took just minutes for the the swarm of medical professionals to clean her up and check her out, but time must have stopped until I heard her first few cries. She didn’t belt out one scream after another, but she cried just enough to let me know that she had arrived. It was an incredible feeling to hear the baby’s voice and know that she had finally, finally arrived.  

As to what Hubby and I did when we brought our precious cargo home — we fell into the arms of my aunt, who volunteered to be in the delivery room, which she was. She stayed a week after the baby’s birth to cook, babysit, advise and encourage us during our first week as parents. It was great! She is an amazing cook and possesses all sorts of practical knowledge that one accumulates giving birth to and raising six children. 

Hubby’s mother also signed up for one week of time with the new baby. If you add her experience as a mom, you get women who have raised 10 kids. So I spent a lot of time listening to their stories and picking up little hints from them on burping, fussiness and dressing the baby for colder weather.

This assistance put me at ease. And it got me to thinking: how do modern people manage with new babies when they are far away from experienced relatives? At some point during my pregnancy, I looked into doula services. Doulas, in theory, are great. They are there to help you out in whatever way you need, whether it means coaching and comforting you in the delivery room or adjust to the new home life with baby. They can coach you on breast feeding or help you manage the baby’s fussy times. They can be an extra help as you recover from either a C-section or natural delivery, as was the case with me. 

By ‘natural’ I mean a regular birth, not labor without pain killers. C’mon now, there was no need to be a hero!

I think doulas are one of the trappings of modern yuppie life, which ironically, involves doing a lot of things the old fashioned way, before everyday life involved eating foods and wearing clothes shipped in from mass-produced facilities around the world. Employing a doula seems to go right along with shopping at an organic foods market, driving hybrid cars and trying very hard to live a life of which a conservationist or environmentalist would approve. It’s ironic that we’ve adopted old fashioned and traditional practices in order to live a more enlightened, progressive life. 

Thank goodness for older, experienced aunts and mothers in law. If Hubby and I were typical yuppies, we might have to consider a doula. As it stands now, however, we’ve done just fine with the elder women folk in our families. 

It’s interesting that in mid-September, when I left the office for my extended maternity leave, the financial markets collapsed. After having seen one high fallutin’ CEO after another disgraced in all of this, I think some of these people ought to be forced into doula training schools and assigned to working mothers who are on leave from their full-time jobs and demanding careers. And they should be required to advocate for a minimum of six months paid maternity leave for their charges. I’ve got dibs on Henry Paulson. He looks like he could pick up on managing a baby without too many problems. Plus, he looks like a brawler, so if anyone tried to get too close to us without washing their hands he could double as my bodyguard!

I often poke fun at Hubby for his closely held — and I’ll admit, often well thought out — populist and sometimes leftist points of view. After looking at his driver’s license picture, I took to calling him Lenin’s love child. He used to call me his little Archie Bunker, for my slightly socially conservative (although non-judgmental, honest!) points of view. It’s a game. A courtship dance. We’re both Democrats. Anyway, after repeatedly witnessing the way that conservative Republicans indulge in low-down, dirty, despicable and racially pandering tactics to capture and consolidate power, after enduring a blundering, secretive, vindictive, and nearly totalitarian government for eight years and watching John McCain dismiss my man as ‘that one’, I could not imagine allowing an unswerving Republican to wed and bed me. 

This brings me to a post on the political blog ‘Counterpunch’, by Chris Floyd. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead lurking in a liberal hangout like this, but I must admit that this essay aptly exposes the hypocrisy and folly of free-market capitalism. I mean unrestrained, greed-driven, plunder the under classes and give to the elite type of capitalism. The class structure that keeps middle- and lower-class citizens in their place by doping us up with the fantasy that we all have the potential to be millionaires has always existed in our country. Why else would former presidents seek to counteract the march toward a rigid class structure and consolidation of wealth among the elite with social platforms like The New Deal and The Great Society?

Anyway, my favorite part of Mr. Floyd’s essay is his damning list of ways in which the governments of the world and the U.S., could have used their enormous monetary resources to make life optimally livable for all of us. It reads like an indictment of the failings of England’s King George III in the Declaration of Independence. (Minus the reference to ‘merciless Indian savages’, of course.)

Let’s say it again: The money was there all along.

Money to build and generously equip thousands and thousands of new schools, with well-paid, exquisitely trained teachers, small teacher-pupil ratios, a full range of enriching and inspiring programs.

Money to revitalize the nation’s crumbling inner cities, making them safe and vibrant places for businesses and families and communities to grow.

Money to provide decent, affordable and accessible health care to every citizen, to provide dignity and comfort to the elderly, and protection and humane treatment for the mentally ill.

Money to provide affordable higher education to everyone who wanted it and could qualify for it. Money to help establish and sustain local businesses and family farms, centered in and on the local community, driven by the needs and knowledge of the people in the area, and not by the dictates of distant corporations.

Money to strengthen crumbling infrastructure, to repair bridges, shore up levies, maintain roads and electric grids and sewage systems.

Money for affordable, workable public transport systems, for the pursuit of alternative sources of energy, for sustainable, sensible development, for environmental restoration.

Money to support free inquiry in science, technology, health and other areas — research unfettered from the war machine and the drive for corporate profit, and instead devoted to the betterment of human life.

Money to support culture, learning, continuing education, libraries, theater, music and the endless manifestations of the human quest to gain more meaning, more understanding, more enlightenment, a deeper, spiritually richer life.

The money for all of this — and much, much more — was there, all along. When they said we couldn’t have these things, they were lying — or else allowing themselves to be profitably duped by the high priests of the market cult. When they wanted a trillion dollars — or three trillion dollars — to wage a war of aggression in Iraq, they found it. Now, when they want trillions of dollars to save the speculators, fraudsters and profiteers of greed in the global market, they suddenly have it.

The part that burns me up the most is that the U.S. refuses to finance higher education for all who deserve it, yet it turns around and gives massive subsidies to corporations that ‘outsource’ blue- and white-collar jobs overseas — and they have the nerve to cite well-educated populations abroad as more incentive to entrust them with jobs that belong here. Oh yeah!? And where do you think half those foreigners were educated — in U.S. universities!!!  Ugh. Let me leave the ranting and raving to people who do it with eloquence and composure. At present, I’m getting ready to spoil a little biracial baby rotten!  

My point is that minor realizations like this are what happens when a white liberal who has lived in Wisconsin, Italy and New York and who fled the American South marries a black female urban creature who was influenced by a conservative and religious immigrant family. We influence each other in major and minor ways, hopefully promoting a society that tempers extremist passions and thinks rationally. And let me say that we should never underestimate the influence of conservative Republicans on immigrants, who often flee shaky and corrupt governments and come to the U.S. wary of heavy-handed government oversight of their pursuit of monetary happiness. Don’t let the heavy representation of immigrants in urban centers fool you: once those ‘huddled masses’ become affluent enough and move to gated communities or leafy suburbs, you’ll find that human nature takes over. Some sell out. They begin to vote Republican, even if it means voting against the best interests of the society that was liberal and generous enough to allow them to pursue their dreams. 

Anyway, hats off to people to people who see the world like Hubby, and even Floyd. They’re not all a bunch of angst-addled commie reds, after all.

People often remark on how remarkably small I am for a woman who is almost 37 weeks pregnant. I don’t know what my girth measurement is, but I know I’ve gained about 17 pounds since I got pregnant. It’s not what it seems, folks. I’m not one of those vain women who diet and exercise during pregnancy just to quickly regain their figures afterward!  I’m actually classified as ‘high risk’, because I have sickle cell disease. I have to guard against slipping and becoming anemic, then hurtling into a bout of horrific pain called a crisis. One patient in my doctor’s care had a crisis in her 26th week, went into pre-term labor and delivered a two-pound baby. The doctor told me this while lecturing me on choosing the right hematologist to supplement his advice during my pregnancy. (He wasn’t trying to bully or scare me. He just adamantly believes in doing things the best way.) 

This pregnancy has really illustrated just how determined developing babies are to survive — they take whatever it is they need from their mothers, be it iron or calcium, leaving the mom to replenish those nutrients for herself. The reality is even more pronounced for me. 

Well, during one of my sonograms at the doctor’s office, the technician mentioned how easy it was to get certain shots of the baby because I was, well, not overweight like a lot of the other patients cared for at that practice. She mentioned that when women are severely overweight or obese, not only does it make the sonograms more difficult to do, but the excess weight complicates the pregnancy.

I don’t want to harshly judge any woman who is overweight. That’s not the point of this post. But I couldn’t help notice how many of us were under the care of this high-risk doctor. Excess weight and obesity can lead to hypertension, diabetes and other chronic conditions that make pregnancy much more (and probably unnecessarily) difficult for women.

There is also the matter of delivery by C-sections. I wish I had saved an article that I read on this subject, but the number of C-sections in the U.S. has gone through the roof in the last 20 years or so. The implications are numerous, including the fact that a previous C-section increases complications of a regular delivery afterward. And what about this: if you have a lot of scar tissue from a previous C-section and cannot deliver the regular way, then don’t you eventually restrict the number of pregnancies that you should have, for fear of adding more scar tissue to your body? 

My point is this: we all need to maintain a healthy weight, and for reasons that have nothing to do with vanity. You feel better, your risk of developing certain chronic or acute and catastrophic diseases is lessened, and if you’re a woman, your pregnancy goes a lot smoother.

So grab a copy of Heart & Soul magazine or something and put some of those health and fitness tips into action!  

As for those women who diet and exercise during pregnancy — I don’t know what they are thinking! This is the time to indulge food cravings and get backrubs and whatnot.

That’s not a typo in the headline, folks. After pouring my heart out about the final choice between a life with my mother and a life of sanity, I’m here to talk about hair. Specifically to talk about the new perm that I put (or inflicted, depending on your point of view) on my hair last weekend. 

I’ve had a natural look for most of my life. The reasons were partly religious. I’ve mentioned my staunchly religious upbringing before. For whatever reason all our church elders made it a point of doctrine to discourage women from chemically treating their hair. They would preach, and some women would listen. But honestly — telling 200 or so black women not to perm their hair is like cat wrangling, don’t you think? Any way, there was always a preference for natural hair among some strains of Christian men in my upbringing, so wearing my hair natural, braided or texturized was never a big deal. I’m also somewhat of a minimalist when it comes to cosmetics, so I always felt more comfortable with my look. 

But I also like to try new things.  I have a walk-in closet packed with clothes that I love to play in, and more handbags than should be decently allotted to one woman. Naturally (no pun intended), I wanted to try something different with my hair. Years ago I had a perm and a fierce short haircut done by a stylist whom I’ve since lost contact with. I walked into a semi-trendy salon in my city’s downtown, where for some time now, my regular stylist has been dying to do something far far different than my standard wash/cut/texturize. I held back from putting on, say, a hairpiece on the top so I could rock a Rihanna-style bob.  

No sooner had I walked out of that place with my newly bone-straight, short style, I felt a little crestfallen. No more natural hair. Sure, sure, I used a brand of a relaxer that had ‘soothing botanicals’ and which did no harm to my scalp. But I had just saved an issue of Essence magazine that listed salons that specialize in braids and natural hair and gave great tips on maintaining braids. Even though one of the listings was for Hair by Nedjetti (a big name in the tri-state area for natural hair styling) in a neighboring town, did I follow through?

Obviously not. So, although I give a LOT of credit to you women out there who can maintain a perm and get your hair to always look great, I think I miss the stylist (Ferrari) who put that amazing cut on my hair years ago and I might have to take this whole chemically subdued look one day at a time before I say I’m thrilled and my life is sooo much better.  

Hubby likes the new look, although he is partial to my low-maintenance look and might huff and puff if I get all high-maintenance and over protective of my permed hair in misty weather. Or if I shy away from a dunk in the pool because I don’t want the chlorine to ruin my hair. Or if I take so long to style my hair that it cuts into morning chats about this or that. 

As a backup, I’m going to keep tabs on Nedjetti’s Web site, and follow the goings on of other stylists who specialize in natural hair, like Diane da Costa. 

Interesting side story: I met and interviewed Nedjetti Harvey for a magazine launch several years ago. Although the magazine did not ‘blow up’, Nedjetti has gone on to be successful, I would say. She runs a salon and has been featured time and again in several fashion and hair styling magazines. If you remember the Internet miniseries “30 Dates in 30 Days”, you might remember seeing her in the credits as the stylist. That miniseries was fun — it set up five black women on six dates, allowing viewers to choose the guys, theme of the date and their clothes. I hope they do it again — and maybe show a more “diverse” pool of bachelors. Hint, hint.