Serenity Now! Choosing Peace in the Midst of Chaos

Yesterday, I woke up and I tweeted this: " Don't ALLOW today to be a bad day. Choose peace. Choose happiness." Of course, as is always the case when I decide to tackle some means of self-improvement, the universe decided my resolve needed to be tested. So, while I got off to a great start, dancing in my kitchen as I scrambled my eggs and glorying in the sunny afternoon on my way out the door, my day started to take an unpleasant turn. The Caribbean restaurant near my house where I intended to get lunch was closed. So was the Chinese take out place. The bus was late, as per usual, and I was a few minutes late to work. I kept reminding myself of my tweet, repeating in my head, "choose peace, choose happiness" like a mantra.

I managed to approach my eight hour shift with a positive attitude, despite my earlier rough patch. But as I worked and chatted with my co-workers , something unpleasant was happening outside my office window. The sky was taking on a nasty dark hue and the trees outside the window were swaying wildly in the high breeze. And then, the sky opened up. At worst, I figured, the rain would make it hard for me to get home from work. That, I soon discovered, was the least of my worries.

It's Not For Them: Why Your White Friend Shouldn't be Saying Nigga

I honestly expected the most ignorant thing to come out of Instagram’s new video feature to be twerk videos and 15 second sex tapes. Silly me. I give this generation too much credit. Yesterday, as I was scrolling down my timeline, I came across a video captioned, “Give em permission to use nigga” with a screen shot of a white dude. Oh? Again, because I like to hope for the best, I clicked on the video with my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t hear this white guy casually drop the “n-word” for the amusement of his black friends. I’m such a silly optimist. Of course the white dude said nigga, and of course his black friend laughed uproariously. I sat there trying to figure out why the hell it was so amusing. I’m still at a loss. What I’m not confused about, are my feelings toward the word: I don’t like it.

Get your Hands Off my Fro! Why you Absolutely, Positively Cannot Touch my Hair

ecently, I read an article on Twitter about a group of black women who organized an event in which they stood on the street and allowed strangers to touch their hair. Their purpose was to educate people about the diversity, texture and care of black hair. While I’m all for education, especially on topics where ignorance is prevalent, my immediate reaction was, “Oh, hell no! You can’t touch my fro.”

Now before you start making all those jokes about stereotypical black women and their hair issues, let me make them for you. I am the girl who spends hours dealing with her hair; I’m the girl who has far more products than she uses; and I’m the girl who will give you a piece of her mind if you put your hand in her hair uninvited. When it comes to my hair, I am the epitome of stereotypical black chick, and I’m not sorry. Here’s why.