Many dedicated blog and ‘net surfers have probably already dug up photos of Halle Berry’s little bundle, but can we ever get enough of a cutie? Naaaah. Here she is, Nahla Ariela Aubry.  She really is cute, and I can understand why her parents decided to keep her under wraps ever since she was born in March. If you lived a very public life, wouldn’t you want to have your hard-won child all to yourself for a few months before showing her off to the world?  

No need to auction of first photos of the baby, like the Jolie-Pitts have decided to do, even if the money is forked over to a children’s charity. I think the amount of attention paid to ‘celebrity news’ and ‘celebrity gossip’ is really excessive. Anyway, doesn’t it get awfully boring and predictable after a while? Someone is always breaking up, divorcing, having someone else’s baby, spiraling to the bottom of a whiskey glass, snorting heroine or something else equally tawdry. 

But I guess that’s human nature for you. Eventually, magazines engage in to silly practices like publicly auctioning off baby pictures, on the argument that demand from us, presumably sane people drive demand for it and they need to stay competitive.   

Anyway, that’s the world in which we live. We can either jump in and improve it, or stop pretending to be shocked (!) when magazines like ‘OK!’ depravedly pursue fallen pop stars like Britney Spears, in their lowest moments of mental illness. The editors of those magazines are depraved people and that series of photos and stories turned me off of celebrity magazines permanently.

Whew. That last post had me fired up. I won’t blame the pregnancy hormones, though. This sort of thing happens with me A LOT. Hence, the blog. 

I need to shift gears a bit and talk about baby genders, you know … am I having a boy or girl. Before I let the cat out of the bag, I’ll let you all in on a funny story line. When Hubby and I jumped the broom, it did not escape my notice that no women had been born into his family in three generations. I’ll stand corrected if there was a still birth or some other tragic occurrence that befell a female relative, but as far as he knew, no one — not his grandfather, father and certainly not he had any sisters. Coming from a family well represented by girls, I thought this was crazy stuff. What could these men possibly have been thinking? To this day (and the best of our knowledge, because there are a couple of cousins who fell out of contact) only one of Hubby’s brothers and cousins has had a girl. Still, that’s only one female in four generations. 

So you can imagine that I laid down some hearty threats on Hubby to give his wife a girl. But not to be a total nag about, I thought I’d sweeten the pot. I left all kinds of prompts around the house to encourage Hubby’s swimmers to move the girls in front and tell the boys to back off at least until their sister got first dibs for mommy’s cuddles. There were pink cotton outfits with frilly bloomers, pink Ralph Lauren dresses with matching undies and melt-you-down adorable accessories like mittens and hats and all. If we were ever out walking or whatever and I saw a cutie of a girl, I pulled Hubby aside and told him to ‘focus and concentrate’. 

Now, this is all very unscientific, but we had fun while it lasted. Plus, I tried to convince Hubby that a lot of interracial couples produce girls. I don’t know why it is, but of all my cousins who intermarried, they’ve all had mostly girls. Plus Halle & Gabriel had a girl, and we could go down a whole list of female biracial celebrities and debutantes, right?

Hubby wasn’t buying it. Not when I left cute outfits on his desk, his side of the bed, on his mirror in the bathroom or when I commandeered his computer and set his wallpaper to pictures of cute little girls I found in magazine ads for Gap or Polo Ralph Lauren.  He just chuckled or shook his head at me like I was Lucy and he was Ricky and went on reading The Wall Street Journal or some other brain food.  

Well it worked!  I’m having a girl and I couldn’t be more atwitter about it. She’s a mover, too. There are some days when I can’t concentrate at work, for all her hiccuping, fluttering and full on Judo demonstrations. I have to rub my belly down with a tennis ball or ice to get her to settle. You know those videos that show babies distorting their mommies tummies with kicks, punches and all sorts of rolling around? That’s my life most days of the week. This kid is an active baby. Watch out Janet Evans. This little swimmer is going for gold! 

Now, that I’ve got my girl, I’ll take whatever comes next. Hubby can even go back to his family family tradition of handing out all boys, if he likes. 

One last thing, and let me be clear on this: I got what I asked for, and I’m thrilled. No complaints. But I do need suggestions. How do I settle a developing baby that insists on waking me up at night to use the bathroom and then play for 30 minutes?

I’ve waited for what seems like a long while to talk about the latest circuses going on with the DNC and RNC. I want to first say that Michelle Obama’s speech almost had me in tears a couple of times. She really adored her dad, didn’t she? 

Obama, of course, was brilliant, and it wasn’t because he gave a great speech. Much of what he aims for is attainable, with the right blend of straightforward governance and bipartisan cooperation. Plus, he held ordinary Americans partially responsible for the housing market predicament that we are in right now.

But let me get to my main point in this blog: What is the difference between a ‘reformer’ and someone who is too inexperienced to govern in Washington? Apparently, it all depends on whether you’re a manipulating Republican spinmeister or whether you’re a gullible American voter willing to fall for that garbage.

It burns me up that the Republicans try to get away with taking jabs at Obama for being an inexperienced Congressional legislator. Yet they wave that obvious token, that gun-toting ‘hockey mom’ in front of American voters and call her a ‘reformer’, who is ready to take on the special interests and the self-serving elites of Washington.

Please, America, brush aside all the snarky remarks about Obama’s inexperience in Palin’s speech and ask yourself: if Beltway experience is SUCH A MAJOR ISSUE, then why is she on the Republican ticket? Oh, I forgot. Bitter bimbos like me, disappointed that Hillary didn’t get the Democratic nomination, are supposed to suspend logic, abandon our political philosophies and vote for whichever candidate put a girl on their ticket. 

Problem solved. 

Oh, wait. There is the small matter of Bristol Palin, who found herself in the same position as millions of other girls in this country — knocked up for no good reason. I suppose I admire Obama for taking that whole issue off the table. I however, don’t have as much class as he does, and I’ve got a few things to say about that, too. 

First of all, the Republicans are the BIGGEST HYPOCRITES in the world for asking Americans to simply move past this issue. I won’t. I remember all too clearly the way that black (and Latino, too, but to a lesser extent) women were relentlessly demonized for being single mothers. It was all our fault that the country’s ‘family values’ had gone down the toilet. Apparently, we were the ones, each with our litter of welfare-dependent children, that were degrading the sanctity of family in the good old U.S.A. I was in my young adolescent years when this trash was being peddled on the American public. Later on, it wasn’t fun realizing that as a black woman from New Jersey, it was very likely that more of my federal taxes were being diverted to white welfare mothers in Nebraska and a bunch of other GOP-loyal states than were coming back to my state for my purposes. 

And NOW the GOP waves this unmarried teenage mama, who happens to be white, Republican and very well connected, in my face and I’m supposed to just call a truce and move on?!?! Just because she and her barely-out-of-high-school boyfriend are holding hands for the camera and making shotgun wedding plans?

In my twenties, both in college and out, some white guys thought nothing of hitting on me RELENTLESSLY, like it was a game. Maybe it was just typical male buffoonish behavior.  But then there was one dude who kept asking me OUT LOUD to do all sorts of crazy, dirty things (like, a week after we met) and it’s probably partially due to the beating that black women’s reputations took in the 80s and 90s. And I’ve heard many stories from my black female peers too; white men of almost every stripe would hit on them, expecting them to be a sure thing. I’m sure this kind of stuff goes on with women of every other nationality and ethnicity, too, but you can’t tell me that this overtly trashy behavior wasn’t implicitly made OK — by BET and the GOP. 

And yes, I know I just recently complained about too many black girls having their dreams deferred my unplanned pregnancies. My overarching point is that during this election, a farce is going to be passed over on the American public, and when all is said and done, there will still be a double standard for moral rightness, for ‘family values’.

Ugh. Would EVERYONE please keep their houses in order, and after you’ve done so, shut the door and stop calling out your neighbors for what they’re doing?

The other day I realized that one of the reasons the blog is updated so infrequently is because I don’t like to talk about my private life that much. Quite the paradox isn’t it? Blogging for all the world to see, yet wanting to hold back all sorts of stories that would probably reel people in by the boatloads. 

Some of that will change with this post. I don’t want to get into the nitty gritty, mainly because the details are disheartening. On two separate occasions, Hubby and I ran into a young lady, barely 18 and just out of high school, whom we’ve both known for years. I’ve known her since she was in her mother’s belly, and I used to babysit this girl. Well, she’s pregnant. Pregnant without a solid alternate plan to finish college and for the most part, dependent on her grandmother and mother for financial and emotional support. This is such a disappointment to us, because this girl has such a bright spark in her. At least we think so, and you’d be hard-pressed to convince us otherwise, teenage mood swings notwithstanding.  

What is going to happen to her life? Graduating from Howard University and going on to dental school is now out of the picture, and although it is still possible for her to become a dentist, how long will that take? Do you know that all of the emotional and other responsibilities of an unplanned pregnancy takes a major toll on a person’s will to succeed? My worry is: how will she resolve to make her dreams come true? 

This evening, on the commute home, I couldn’t help but wallow in self pity for the black community, and for black women in particular. We can rhapsodize in song, poetry and around kitchen tables everywhere about the ‘strong black woman’ all we want, but all too often, we set ourselves back with silly little mistakes like unplanned pregnancies. Here is my greatest fear and the reason for writing this blog: once our gutsy Black leaders have thoroughly chastised black men for being negligent fathers, they’ll turn some of their firepower on us. And can you blame them, at the end of the day? Black women are not stupid, not on any level, so I’m at a loss as to why we collectively make the same stupid mistake. Why do we repeatedly, in numbers that outdistance our Latino, Asian and white counterparts, allow Tyrone and Rasheed and these other characters to knock us up and leave the scene? I don’t want to rehash statistics on the likelihood of single mother households to exist in or below poverty, or the likelihood that our households will need public assistance, that our sons will end up recruited or victimized by gang crime. Worse, it’s hard to think about the fact that unless our daughters display an incredible amount of resolve to carry out some basic or well-developed plans for a prosperous future, they will repeat our mistakes.

This is happening for two major reasons: our culture accepts, as a fact of life, out of wedlock births and early pregnancies to women who are too young, underemployed and undereducated to have children. You know I’m right. Why? Because in the case of my young friend and girls like her, they know for a fact that Mama and Grandma will take pity on them, marshall their resources and ‘help them.’ Now, that is messed up. First off, if he was man enough to get you in the family way, then he shouldn’t leave you to the mercies of your overworked mother and your aging grandmother. He’s a pathetic jerk if he allows women to step in to do his job. Worse, it makes people second guess our judgement, too when we fail to recognize these chumps for what they are and boot them out of our beds. 

I would be more sympathetic if we were dealing with scattered cases of women who got pregnant in med school, law school, or after they had completed their studies and just needed a bridge to finish getting from point A to point B. But I see too many black women languishing in their circumstances, then popping out another one, two, three or four kids.    

And I know full well that a lot of white women struggle with having a bunch of kids with multiple fathers and don’t become as educated or as gainfully employed as they could. But not to the extent that we do it, sorry. It’s just not as acceptable in white culture to have an early pregnancy and life in poverty. It’s downright shameful and they’re pretty vocal about it. It was only last year I ran into a white women in the office who recoiled at the idea of allowing her boyfriend to get her pregnant and bringing a ‘bastard’ into the world. Granted, she might have been expressing a more unique point of view, but I can count maybe one white woman, of whom I am aware, that has fallen into the trap that I’m talking about and continuing to lead a hard life. Unfortunately, I personally know twice that number of black women. 

I would revel in the opportunity to give my hard-earned money almost exclusively to black financial advisors, dentists, carpenters, masons, surgeons, obstetricians (actually, the ob/gyn I trust the most is affiliated with a nightmare of a hospital. Hence, Baby Silk will be delivered by an Italian dude in a Catholic hospital.) and any other black professional or top-notch blue collar service provider. But where are they all?On the women’s side, maybe one quarter of them are not ready to pick up the phone and answer my call for business, because they’ve been delayed by unplanned pregnancies. Do you know how many potential women nurse practitioners I know? Engineers? Entrepreneurs? Their numbers are not nearly as staggering as wasted black male talent, because for whatever reason, black women have been able to hold it together and complete their degrees, then get great jobs and take their places in society in greater numbers than black men. But I’ve spent too many years as the only black woman journalist writing for the newspapers, magazines and newsletters where I’ve worked. And although I cannot count on my two hands all of the black professional women I know, I shouldn’t be able to count them up at all. If I need a professional service in any area, I should be able to flip through a personal rolodex of dozens of black women to come up with three good names. 

This reality is becoming uncomfortably more noticeable, and it will only get worse as more of us integrate into the dominant culture, or white society. As white editors, managing directors and company presidents watch us ‘strong black women’ turn in great performances at work, you had better believe that they are asking themselves: where are the others? Why are there only four of you in the entire company? Of course, white folks wouldn’t dare call us out on this nonsense, because it would remind everyone of the way black welfare mothers came under harsh Republican attacks during the 1980s and subsequent welfare reform campaigns in the early 1990s. 

This is why I’m warning us now: our comeuppance is coming from within the black community. Maybe I’m being paranoid and unreasonable, but I think some counterpart to Bill Cosby or Barack Obama will hold us to account for allowing ourselves to fall from grace. 

Without descending into calling black women the M-word as I’ve seen on other IR blogs, let me ask us to be judicious about how we help our daughters, granddaughters and sisters in need. If black women really want to be strong, resilient and powerful, then more of us need to have the backbone to first resist the temptations of certain black men (I know they are vast, because let’s be honest, black men are a work of beauty), and hold our daughters accountable for the same. That means if your daughter/sister turns her massive pathetic pregnant eyes up at you for help, you calmly and without sentiment pull out a document that spells out exactly how and when you will be compensated, in money or deed, for rearranging your vacation and retirement plans to help her through her knuckle head phase.

OK, I had to let off a bit of steam concerning that knuckle head who calls himself mayor of Detroit. (You can read the last post to see why I’m miffed.) 

I’ve decided to cheer the place up a little, kind of like a nursery for a new baby. Nothing elaborate, just updates from time to time about how Baby Silk is developing what level of Heaven I’m on to be pregnant. 

First, I’ll say that Baby Silk likes lunchtime. For whatever reason, and there might not be a particular one, the baby gets excited and likes to move around, stretch and what have you between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m. These days, though, meaning my 29th week of pregnancy, Baby Silk likes to keep this sort of schedule: 

7 a.m.: Good morning, Mommy. Can you go to the bathroom, please? 

8 a.m.: Mommy, before you leave for the train, can you please go to the bathroom?

9:30 a.m.: Nice office, Mommy. Where’s the bathroom? 

10 a.m.: Mommy, can we have some orange juice? Mmmm, thanks. 

11 a.m.: Mommy, can I snuggle up under your belly? Ahhh, that’s great. 

1 p.m.: Mommy, what about lunch? Gourmet mac -n- cheese? Jambalaya? 

2 p.m.: Mommy, can I have a snack? Maybe one of the clementines from home. 

5 p.m.: Mommy, I want to move under your ribs now. OK, that’s fine. Carry on. 

7 p.m.: Mommy, we have to go, we have to go, we have to go!  Bathroom!  

10 p.m.: OK, mommy. How about a glass of water? 

2 a.m.: HI MOMMY!  I can roll around! Look!  

What can I say? I’m snookered.

A couple of weeks ago I rode the elevator down 27 floors to the lobby of my office building. Just as the doors opened, I was seized by a pang of guilt. I had forgotten—yet again—to ask Hubby if it would be alright to give the evening security guard the telephone number to our home office. So when I walked past ‘Dean’, who manned the desk in the evening, I grinned sheepishly, shamefacedly, while rushing toward the door.

My feeble nonverbal apology wouldn’t work. Not that day. ‘Dean’ the security guard in my office building, is a handsome, Caribbean gentleman of about 60. He has small eyes set in an expressive face that can switch from jovial to grave in a heartbeat. And that is what happened. Dean was visibly irritated that I hadn’t come through with what he deemed a simple request, and he let me have it. He wagged his finger at me, chastising me for letting him down yet again. Because I constantly forgot to retrieve that bit of personal information, Dean made me feel like I was being standoffish and unfriendly.

To own the truth, sometimes I am standoffish and unfriendly, but benign snobbery did not apply in this case.

He’s taken up the habit of referring to several of the black women who work in the building as his cousins. Okay, that’s fine, I appreciate a good joke. Hubby worked in the building years before I did, and a couple of years ago, the daily routine for us changed drastically when: a) my Little Sister came to live with us, throwing us into parental roles immediately and b) Hubby began to freelance from home full time. Add to that the fact that Baby Silk is on the way, and it changed everything. So, Dean wanted to keep up with Hubby and me, mainly Hubby and asked for the home/office number. Several times. But my new mommy/big sister/new mommy role had become so demanding that I simply kept on forgetting to ask Hubby if giving Dean the home number was OK. Only after I walked past the security desk on the way home every day would I remember, and I dreaded having to scurry past Dean, who became increasingly irritated that I hadn’t come through with that bit of personal information. He sulked, and that friendly demeanor became a bit colder toward me for at least a couple of weeks. He’s still not as friendly as he used to be. No more jokes for me to chuckle about on my commute home. No more inquiries about Hubby. Apparently, it’s all or nothing with Dean.

I started to wonder if I was being an uppity bitch about the whole thing until one day, during a lunch excursion, I mentioned this to one of the other black women in the company. She edits a weekly financial newsletter. She knew exactly what I was talking about, because Dean had hit up two other women in the building for their home numbers, too. In one case, the woman regretted it, because his periodic calls had become a nuisance. In the other, he kept asking, through that editor I mentioned, for the number of another black woman who had left the company about a year ago. He so exasperated both of them that our former coworker conveyed the message that she is pregnant with her second baby, hoping he would get the message that she really does not have time for frequent idle chit chat.

Well, this changed everything.

I can see the comments now, especially from any black men out there. :Why can’t you just give him the number? What’s the harm in a little chat every now and then with an old coworker? Too good to keep in touch with the security guard? It’s black women like you …”

Why should that be the case? These episodes make me wonder if black men universally have an attitude of ownership toward black women. They might believe that our common African ancestry confers a common way of thinking, meaning that regardless of our inherent gender differences, cultural upbringings, creeds, etc., their social customs are our social customs. Their expectations, priorities or what have you, are ours. Every now and then, I have a run in with an African-American, Caribbean or African guy that leaves me absolutely baffled about what makes them tick. DON”T GET ME WRONG!  I love black men. If Hubby and I have a son, he will be a black biracial man, after all. And fortunes could have just as easily landed me with a brother instead of a white guy. OK?

I see no real harm in Dean’s motives, but I still think he’s lacking some graciousness and basic maturity. Why be so persistent about shaking down so many black women in the building for personal contact information. And why make us feel bad about not wanting to share that personal information?

More importantly, we all lead busy lives. I think those other black women are single moms, and we all know what tremendous responsibilities that entails. After a harried day of being the sole breadwinner, planning family meals, managing extracurricular activities for the kids, planning the finances, maintaining a civil relationship with the ex-husband or ex-boyfriend, and playing the roles of being a sister, cousin, friend and neighbor, I think these women are entitled to some peace and quiet whenever they want it. That means their personal phone numbers are off limits to anyone who, frankly, they don’t want to talk to for whatever reason.

So why can’t certain men like Dean understand that?  Do you really need to create a bad vibe by being frosty and morose just because you don’t get to hang on to all the people who passed your security desk every day? Why not just let people come in and out of your life and keep it mellow without any awkward strings attached?

Admittedly, I have been out of the blogging loop for a couple of months, barely having the energy to keep up with my daily work schedule, much less blog here and read other blogs. But the other day, I was shocked to find that my blogroll link to ‘Angry Black Cat’ doesn’t work anymore.  

This rots!  

For a while, I was nearly addicted to that Web site, checking it everyday for new posts, videos and original podcasts. I looked at the site once in June, maybe and read a post that talked about taking the blog semi-private, or private altogether. Something about wanting to make the site a more peaceful and less contentious place for folks to enjoy. Well, that doesn’t seem so bad.  My question is: what kinds of things have been slung, spat or hurled at Ken and ABC to make them want to close the site off to the public? I know that people can become nasty and unruly while posting comments to blogs, but exactly how out of control had things gotten? I mean, goodness, blogs are supposed to be, in general, pleasant past times. But some people seem to take things a bit far and pour all their latent angst and hostility on the blog hosts and guests. Sheesh. 

Let me make on thing clear (to all 5 of you who read this blog) about Lattecafe. No time will be dedicated to any of that nonsense. This is an open blog, which means everyone’s ideas get a fair airing, but there won’t be any room for name-calling, bashing of any kind, or anything to basically foul up the clear air around here. And I’m going to be firm on that. People are allowed to disagree with each other and even with me — to a reasonable extent. I’m trying to keep a mellow, enjoyable atmosphere going here, and will make all efforts to keep it that way. 

Well, if anyone knows how to get a hold of ABC and Ken, send them this way. I need to get myself a new set of keys, passwords, secret knocks — or whatever — to get back onto that site!

So here I come to part two of the message that I began posting yesterday.  This time, I want to delve into one aspect of why black women might feel a little hostile, betrayed or let down or what have you, when they see a great black guy with a white woman.

            Maybe they’re tired of being savaged, blatantly and publicly, by men of all stripes, and having a black guy fail to put one of us on a pedestal rubs it in a little. Case in point: on the same day that I went snooping into Harold Ford, Jr.’s life, a black woman and an Asian man got into a bitter, hostile argument during my commute to work. I didn’t see what triggered the heated exchange in the first place, but based on how the black woman recounted the initial run-in while upbraiding this guy, he shoved her while making his way to one section of the train car.

            Now, pushing and shoving are a way of life on the New York area rail lines, as well as the buses and sidewalks. This guy, however, didn’t even have the decency to excuse himself politely or quietly. He proceeded to mouth off to her about how she should shut up and get over it. Well, she wasn’t going to do that, and round one began. She fruitlessly pointed out that he was too rough, too rude and that it wasn’t right. He didn’t defend his actions, simply told her to shut up and started throwing profanities at her. This exchange dragged on until he moved away from her, still mouthing off and he said in his heavy Cantonese or Mandarin (I haven’t fine-tuned my Chinese accents yet) that people like her was what was wrong with America. Several times he said this, emphatically, too, before he added ‘ni—-‘ to the end of that statement.  And then he spat on the floor in her direction. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, that pipsqueak parading as a man shoved a woman, and then picked a fight with her and spat racial epithets at her. On a train. Surrounded by other black people. In the New York area. In 2008! 

            Where do I begin? I want to first say that I took out my cell phone to call the police, because this guy needed to be confronted with someone bigger than him, in uniform. Someone else went over to the woman and tried to get her to calm down and forget about this ass. When the train reached its final stop, I looked around for a cop, but couldn’t find one. The woman was out of the train and on the platform, surrounded by other passengers, who told her she handled herself well despite the circumstances. Everyone scattered, and the woman seemed intent on just getting to work, not filing a complaint. Still, I decided to call the transit agency to ask what to do in a situation like that.

            Look, I understand that rush hour can be really stressful, and we’re in the first half of summer here, but I’m starting to develop some uncomfortable ideas about how men treat black women. Also, I find myself having to FIGHT the notion that immigrant Asian men, have a special talent for being racist, misogynistic idiots. I mean, where did this man get the idea that he could behave that way toward any human being, much less a woman?  Believe me, this is not a comfortable conclusion to reach, that in some parts of the world life is so brutal and tribal that when some of those immigrants come here, they look around at the rest of us with disdain in their eyes and venom at the tips of their tongue. But when you pull back and look at all the chaos in the world, I suppose you have to confront that nasty reality.

            About Asian guys. I’m STILL more than willing to give individual Asian men (which includes East Indian and the like) the full benefit of the doubt wherever and however I meet them. I share communion with Asian Christians at church. I meet them on the job and in social situations. I’ve met too many nice Asian men and women to give into any blanket racist attitudes about them all. I can’t help but try to talk to them as individuals and treat them the way they treat me. On an individual level, I’ve had very few problems.

            Yet the behavior I see on the trains is appalling. Asian men are THE LAST ones to yield their seat to a pregnant or old woman or to someone who is infirm. I’ve stood in front of rows of guys, sometimes of differing backgrounds on a packed train, and if I do get a seat, it’s usually a white man, followed by a brother, who stands up. Not the Asian dudes.  Somehow, they overlook my belly or the fact that I might be shifting from one leg to the other uncomfortably, and they go right on texting, scrolling through their iPods, reading or napping.

Yet I’ve seen attractive blondes get seats, when these guys do get up. Who knows why, but it’s amusing!

I think that on most occasions, men follow the traditional pecking order for respecting women in public: be nicest to the women you want to sleep with. In America, that means young blondes, followed by a host of other types of women. Unfortunately, black women are treated like they are invisible, for the purposes of public courtesy, or in the case of that idiot, singled out for savage treatment. I have NEVER seen a white, Hispanic or Asian woman treated like that black woman was.

With such a blatant lack of respect from men in other cultures, it’s kind of easy to see how black women might be hurt by one of the nice black guys having someone on his arm who is not one of us. Hopefully, this is just a bad year for commuting, and this kind of behavior will be over soon enough.

Meanwhile, maybe black women can take solace in the fact that often enough, guys will behave in a civil way in public and that plenty of successful black men have secured a wife who is more than a Bergdorf blonde and status symbol. As a matter of fact, here is a brief roll call: Forest Whitaker, New York Governor David Paterson and Washington, D.C. Mayor Adrian Fenty.

This post is going to be split into two parts, probably running over two days, depending on how late I feel like staying up.  These days, I feel myself gravitating toward a stricter daily regiment to accommodate some exercise, a full day’s work interrupted only by doctor appointments, chores at home and a full night’s sleep. Ah, motherhood: bring it!   

Two separate incidents, both of which happened on Wednesday, prompted me to think about why some black women get so upset about black men who intermarry. We don’t all do it, but let’s be honest: for some black women, the thought of a polished and accomplished black man loving, cherishing and bestowing all of his worldly goods on a white woman makes us see red.

Let me start with Part I. Somehow, during the course of my workday, I needed to check up on Harold Ford, Jr., the former congressman from Tennessee who made an unsuccessful run for a Senate seat two years ago. He comes from a prominent political family and until last April, was one of America’s most eligible bachelors – at least in the political circles.

            Well, his bride is Emily Threlkeld, an obvious cutie who caught his eye, kept his attention and if she hasn’t already done so, will most likely quit her job at Caroline Herrera to keep his house and provide more Ford heirs. Sorry to be cynical, but isn’t that the eventual outcome for women who marry guys like Ford? Even Michelle Obama and Silda Spitzer, the latter being the wife of disgraced former New York governor Eliot Spitzer, with their Ivy League law degrees and six-figure, influential careers stepped off of those tracks to support their husbands’ political careers. No offense to young Emily, but in the grand scheme of things, her job for a fashion brand is far less important than what Michelle or Silda did for a living. Their careers were high powered, whereas Emily’s is high gloss.

            At any rate, they got married last April and there was a round of griping from southern Blacks who were inevitably peeved at his choice. Not to mention the rumors about her being a beard and all. (It’s I good thing I was too tired to read all about that). I didn’t have to read far past headlines or lead paragraphs to get the gist of their arguments: Ford’s choice was a slight against black women, he’s not black enough, blah, blah.  I’m not here to talk about the latter, but I do want to ask readers about the former.

            I have noticed that successful black men on Ford’s level have a tendency to marry white women. That’s called choosing a trophy wife and it’s not unusual. All things being equal, meaning that his chosen bride is smart, industrious and is a nice person on some level, what else would you expect from a guy in a prominent political family with aspirations for national office? Although the preference for marrying only for love has been around for ages, we all have to admit that in elite circles, there is an element of convenience and propriety in a lot of marriages, and when you are a guy like Harold Ford, Jr., black or white, you are thrown together with women whose families might be well-connected in business, society or politics – or all three. If the woman lacks those connections, then at least she is well-to-do and has the looks to play the part. Knowing the history of this country, she will very likely be white or a very light-skinned black woman. Maybe that’s the source of black women’s angst. When an accomplished man does not choose a black woman as his wife, then maybe it’s a reminder of the ways in which mainstream American society has shut us out, or more importantly, how hard it would be for us to get an equal footing in American society and not always suffer as the underdog. I guess if I dwelt on things in that way, seeing a black man with a white woman would sting a little.

            Even so, I don’t see why anyone should get upset, feel slighted, pushed aside, dumped on, betrayed or what have you. Only if she were an outright ding-dong would I look at him with the face: ‘What in the blazes do you see in her?’ Any black woman who decides to take Harold Ford, Jr.’s marriage as a personal affront should ask herself: was he yours first? Did Emily conjure any hussy charms to work on him just as he was about to pick out your ring and your house? And are you willing to put up with the Tennessee heat and that boatload of Ford family drama? If the answer is no then settle down, already. And look at the bright side: if he gets back into mainstream politics as governor of Tennessee or Senator or whatever and makes a complete and public ass of himself, it will be her – not you – who has to stand there with a smile plastered on her overly made up face to conceal the previous sleepless, emotional nights. She, not you, will draw the looks of sympathy as she watches her husband make a semi-contrite canned speech about how he’s ashamed of his actions and now pleads for all to respect his family’s privacy.  She will be the subject of post-modern feminist essays on why, in this day and age, women keep falling back into the traditional role of the good wife, even when her husband has behaved like a scoundrel. And you won’t have to be the one who plays – for the whole country to gawk at – the role of the sassy black woman who backs her man into a corner for a tongue-lashing the whole neighborhood can hear!  And let’s not even talk about how you’d keep the news cameras from filming you as you turn all of his belongings into a raging inferno.