My Partner, His Privilege

Happy November. The month of thanks. The month where it is truly supposed to feel like fall around these parts, and the month of my anniversary with my partner. We have almost been together for seven years. Seven years of friendship, of partnership, and disgustingly romantic, saccharine moments that would make even the writers of Disney Princess movies of old barf up their breakfast. There is a beautiful bubble in which we live in harmony and in domestic pre-martial bliss. In this beautiful bubble, we watch Disney movies while eating pizza on the couch, we cuddle for three hours on Saturday morning, and we slow dance with each other as breaks between our respective evening studying. But outside of this bubble is where our problems surface. Outside of this bubble, we have to deal with the realities of our relationship dynamic. The realities that are rooted in but not limited to, his white cis hetero male class privilege, my daily anxiety that comes from the standing at the intersection of Black and Woman, and our vastly different family background dynamics that go way beyond race. I have lived with the burden of my partner's privilege for a very long time. It is not his fault or his choosing that he doesn't have to worry about getting stopped by the police, walking to his car at night, or worrying that he has to change his dress and speech to give himself a fighting chance for a job opportunity that he is extremely over qualified for. People assume that he is intelligent, competent, and valuable just for being white. I am a brown skinned Black Woman and although I have some privileges due to my class, education level and perceived attractiveness, I can not afford to not be on my best behavior. I have to work three times as hard in the hopes that I will earn 1/3 of what I deserve. Preparing to meet my partner's family for the first time was such a traumatic anxiety inducing time for me. I agonized over the state of my hair, my outfit choice for weeks. When one meets one's partner's family, there are expectations on both sides. But when you add race to the model things get far more complicated. I know that my partner's parents did not anticipate him ever bringing home a non-white woman, let alone BlackWoman. From what my partner told me, they had very few experiences with people of color and oh "they were kind of racist". And so in February of 2010, when we were driving down 95 N, I could not understand why my partner dismissed my complaints and heart palpitations. How could he be so nonchalant? But now, I know better. It was his privilege. He was completely blind to what I was going through and it hurt me to my core. Fortunately, the first few meetings with his family went well and many years later through work, communication and understanding, I include them as chosen family until they officially my family through my marriage. Did my partner help me? Absolutely not. The reason his mother and I have a great relationship filled with respect and understanding is because I did the fucking work. I reached out to her, I called her, I spent time talking to her for hours. And you know why? Because that is what my family taught me. When you are serious about someone, when you begin to entertain the slightest possibility of marrying them, you get to know their family, you get to know their close friends. Because when you love someone you learn to love the people who loved them before you. My partner and my father despise one another and this deeply hurts me. To be fair, my own previous complications with my father in the context our separate relationship did not help the situation, but my partner could have always chosen to put in the work. Just like I did with his mother, his father, his sister, his childhood best friend, etc. But again, my partner's privilege. He does not have to do anything that he does not want to do. He does not have to see anyone he doesn't want to see and he carries no guilt about it. When my partner goes with me to see my family, it is a whole different ball game. My family is not casual about our reunions. We show up with pressed clothes, we speak cordially and respectfully. We like to take pictures. When we invite someone into our space, we come correct. This what we have been taught. This is what is expected. Speaking of appearances. Let's talk about our physical dynamics. And, forgive me, but I am going to be very frank. This is a following of paraphrased opinions that have given to me to my face and behind my back. My partner is short, hairy, and about average weight (Hollywood would say he is pudgy) pale skinned with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes. I am above average height, symmetrical in the face, slender with brown skin and dark brown eyes. Outside of my father's polarizing opinions, many people have said that I am out of his attractiveness league. Black men especially older black men often give me looks ranging from shock to extreme disappointment. Their frowns and eye brow raises seem to say: How on earth can a woman of such good stock settle for so much less?  And yes I am well aware of the hypocrisy and misognoir that belie their stares. I do not inherently belong to anyone but myself, but the stares and disapproval still hurt sometimes. My partner's uniform is a geeky relaxed fit graphic tee, and distressed jeans. Doesn't matter if its June or January. Unless I ask him to put on a nice shirt, or we are attending a wedding, this is him. As for me, my style can be described as quirky, whimsy feminine, like a Black Jessica Day. But back when we first started dating, I did not wear a full face of makeup, pencil skirts and fit and flare color blocked dresses. I dressed like him: graphic tees, and distressed jeans, sometimes even with holes in them. But my sense of style evolved as I got to know myself and discover how multifaceted I truly was. And you know what, I damn well like being dolled up! But I would be lying if I neglected to say that for me, wearing makeup, and looking chic was not a weapon of social survival because it is. Imagine if my white partner dressed like a J Crew model and I wore oversize graphic tees, old jeans and worn tennis shoes. People would perceive our dynamic a lot differently. I could imagine white women saying, wow. What a disappointment. He leaves our race with all of our inherent goodness with our women being the pinnacle of beauty and femininity for that piece of trash. Look, at that sad limp ponytail! Now imagine if this reversed dress dynamic happened at my partner's childhood best friend's rehearsal dinner party. In this scenario, my partner would have mortified because in reality I am still extremely mortified that he showed up dressed so casually. Every other man present was in a shirt and tie (some had blazers) all of the women were in pencil dresses or cocktail dresses. I was the only black person in the room who was not the waitstaff. There was extreme pressure on me to show up and show out. There was an unspoken understanding that our wedding is likely the next wedding that these people will attend. I am likely the next Bride that they will see walking down the aisle. So again, there was immense pressure on me to perform. I felt that by dressing nice I was showing respect and support to my partner, his best friends getting married and their respective families. Which now brings me to current state of our popped bubble. Yesterday I attended a very eye opening forum on police brutality with my fellow black graduate students. It was a conversation that was long overdue. The event started late (because isn't that what happens when black people plan events) and it went over due to the polarizing nature of the discussions. So, yes I am at fault for coming home later than expected and maybe I could have done a better job of communicating the change in schedule earlier. But, I did communicate, I did apologize for not being more expedient in communicating. However what I will NOT apologize for is seizing the opportunity to have engage in fellowship with my black colleagues and black mentors. It was a shame that more white people did not come to this event. But it all goes back to privilege. White people decide some event, some movie, or some place is too black and decide it was better for them to stay away. You know why that is? Because they have lived a life of privilege, of relative comfort (even the poorest whites have more privileges than their POC counterparts) and most importantly they have lived life as the majority. They live in a bubble just like my white partner. The bubble that says "things will get better eventually" "not everyone is like that" "I don't understand what race differences and gender experiences have to do with anything" "No one has a problem with me and I do not have a problem with anyone". And guess what, white people you are extremely fortunate. But what you do not know is that through systematic oppression through government and societal structure, is that POC have been forced to keep your bubble from being burst for hundreds, nay may even thousands of years. And so, to conclude, my partner can be upset about me being late to come home and shoddiness of my communication, but I have a right to be upset about his lack of empathy, his crippling privilege, and increasing indifference. I wish for once, he would protect my feelings. I wish for once he would open his eyes to my increasingly vocalized pain. The pain that comes from being raised in a broken home, the pain that comes from my crippling student debt, the pain that comes from being worried about my siblings as this country is continuing to look more like 1956 than 2016, the pain that comes from being reduced to a piece of ass by men who would not dare to bring me home to their mothers, the pain that comes from the misogyny and benevolent sexism inflicted upon me by my father, my grandfather, my cousins and uncles. the pain of having nightmares about my precious children being rejected and or exotified by antiquated societal expectations, and finally the pain that comes from always having to prove myself to be worthy of love, recognition and acceptance.

Freestyle Post 100 Percent About My Feels

Well, it is Sunday Morning and I am not even half done with my homework. And my research? Ha! I have not even touched that and I am supposed to give my PI and Post Doc Mentor a report on Monday Night. I just half-assed my statistics homework because I am so tired of being burned out from that class. Actually, I am tired and burned out already. And yes, I know what you are thinking, the imposter syndrome is bullshit. But you don't understand. I feel tremendous pressure. I feel intense pressure to get really good grades this semester (because they will build my case for seeking teaching certification). I feel immense pressure to help my undergraduate mentees out of the research study from hell that is partially caused by folly of being too damn trusting of other people. I love each and every one of the undergraduate research assistants and I hope that their road to graduate school and professional school is a lot more traveled than mine. I feel immense pressure to show my PI that he was not on drugs when he decided to groom me to become his doctoral student. I feel immense pressure to give 2000 percent to my organizations that I am affiliated with because I want to give back, I want to network, and I want to remind myself how to get a long in a world without academia. Quiet as is kept, as my father likes to say, I may not be successful in obtaining a tenure track position when I graduate in 3-4 years (please god, let it be closer to 3.5). So, I have to network for other opportunities in health care, non-profit and government sector. It sucks but I have to be real. One day I have to go back to paying those student loans on the reg. Just saying. I feel immense pressure to be pretty and perfect and always smiling. I find that my "coming-out" as an unapologetically black woman has distressed by melanin-challenged fiance. What do I mean by that? I mean that I no longer put up with bullshit, I no longer put up with racism, sexism, homophobia, or transphobia. I am a goddamn carebear, ladies and germs. I have finally absolved myself of years and years of self-hatred and finally in my late twenties I am coming to find out who I really am, what I am willing to tolerate, what I am willing to fight for, and who I would gladly take a bullet for. Turns out, my meek, introverted limp ponytail wearing shell of a person was the disguise I invented until I was sure of my own true potential. That meek shell helped me get a long with everyone. I was always about pleasing the people around, never trying to challenge or make waves. And, life is funny because that meek shell was who I had to be in order to survive my transient period working in retail and entry level corporate hell. Fast forward today, I proudly post crazy cosplay pictures of myself on the internet, I drag friends of friends for their ignorance while I sip my cup of green tea, I sometimes cosplay in the middle of the week simply because it is Tuesday. I give the middle finger to disgusting perverts who dare to fuck me with their eyes. My parents who are very bitterly divorced agree on something for the first time: "What the hell has gotten into our daughter? ". And to that, I laugh and I laugh. My father may not realize but his compliment on radical writing while on the phone with me touched me to my core in the very best way. He very well may have started the process of us not only being cordial but maybe even allowing us to get to know one another for who we really are. My father like most parents is concerned that my social media presence will get me in trouble. But guess what Daddy, there was always an angry Black Woman living inside of me. She was like a sleeping dragon and 2016 was the final poke in her eye that stirred her to go on a rampage. She is out for blood. Period. And dear Mother, who likely worries too much about appearances and what others think of her. I censor myself heavily on social media. You do not even know. If I posted every single time someone pissed me off due to their ignorance or treatment of me, it would make your head spin. I held myself back from complaining that someone in a very high position at the university I attend decided it was okay to touch my hair and pat my back. I wanted to slap her and say "Get your fucking hands off of me. I am not your exotic negress baby doll. I am a grown ass woman with the right to decide who gets to touch me and how. This ain't 1849 or even 1959. But you see? I did not say anything. I let it go. But believe me, if I had the power to, I would have told her off so fast that she would be stunned into silence.  Having little power sucks monkey balls, but I promise myself that one day I will have the power to make a difference. One day I will have the power to help influence matters to promote and sustain a better human condition. I hope to goddess I do not fail out of this semester. But to be perfectly honest I procrastinate because my mind is everywhere. I am saddened by this world we live in. I am saddened that it continues to resemble a police state more and more. I am upset that my middle sister has been terribly unlucky in the romance and dating department. I am upset that my youngest sister gets treated like Cinderella and when she is not working around the house, she is lonely and neglected. I fear for my brothers as young black men, they are already being targeted. I keep having nightmares about receiving that phone call that something bad happened. And then I would have to seriously consider how I could survive in prison. Because they may as well make my bunk. If something happens to my siblings, if something happens to my blood, I am going be on the 11 o clock news with my nasty mugshot splashed all over twitter, huffington post etc and then I am going to prison. As the kids say, I have no chill. My parents though they mean well... I had this shit in me all along. I only pretended to be the meek and docile one. I shut up about a great many things because i was so concerned with others turning away from me. Now that this concern is eroding away fast (thanks to cosplay and having a leadership/mentoring role) I am no longer a doormat. Oh what the fuck am I even talking about right now. oh right, this world is such bullshit. I am still going back and forth in my head about getting my tubes tied. There are some days I wish that I will never have the opportunity to bring children into this world. The city I live in, though smack dab in the middle of the south is actually quite liberal, blue, and welcoming of diversity. However, there are small remaining factions of bigots (like my pissant shitstain cretin of a neighbor) who keeps citing "our excessive noise "read: I fucking don't like niggers and nigger-lovers living above me as grounds for his own neighborhood watch style retaliation. And sure, they are mostly laughable until they decide to really try you, then they get annoying, then they try to threaten you, then you have panic attacks, nightmares, sleepless nights and shaking hands. All great stuff, let me tell you. I honestly think that my voice is not powerful. I can't really be reaching that many people, but then I post shit and people I haven't talked to since the 3rd grade feel they have to make commentary about my life and decide how I should feel about the shit I post. Piss the fuck off. Have sympathy for me sure, but do not fucking tell me how I should feel or what should offend me. I have my own fucking brain, and most days my logical faculties are highly in tact. But simply put, the one or two people who may read this, I am so tired from playing all of the games, for having to do so much more to settle for so much less. I hate that I have to watch my appearance, I hate that I have to be accountable for how men feel about how I choose to dress myself. I hate when people do not know what boxes to put me in. I don't really fit into any box. I am just me. I just try to do the best that I can do and hope that people don't think I a m stupid, a disappointment or a waste of space. The end. I think I can finally go to sleep now.

Detangling The Roots of Black Hair: From Self-Hatred to Self-Acceptance

Fun fact: I have kept diaries/journals since I was seven years old. Although most of my entries from age 7 -9 would say things like " I had a good day. Or, "Today was a bad day",  I do remember writing a short story about hair woes and my overwhelming lust for this magical potion called "The Relaxer". I believed that having a relaxer would turn me from ugly to pretty. I believed that having a relaxer would make me pretty like my Christie (friend of Barbie) and Teen Nikki ( friend of Barbie's sister Skipper).  Or, at the very least would make me pretty like my mom and my older cousins Jill and Jessica with their pin straight hair. I hated being teased and taunted by my classmates who called me Tri-Horns (My mother and father would style my extremely thick hair in these three thick braids with neon bright hair balls and brightly colored poodle barrettes). Some classmates also made me fun of me for spending recess by myself reading books. Although reading was my favorite pastime, it was more than that. When I read, I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could do anything I wanted to do including have super straight long black hair like the late great Aalyiah. My mother finally consented to get my hair relaxed about a week before my First Communion.  I was raised Catholic but for now, I consider myself agnostic. I remember the hair appointment took quite literally, from morning to evening. The process was long, painful, and actually, disgusting. The relaxer itself smelled of old eggs and my father's dirty yard cleaning socks. But before I could gag, I would have to scream because once the chemicals worked their way through my roots I felt an intense sharp pain. I felt as though someone dumped my hair into a boiling pot of water. "Beauty is pain" my mother quipped from over the old copy of Essence her stylist had given her to read. And do not even get me started about the 2-3 hours I was made to sit perfectly still under the hair dryer..... Fast forward to my first look at myself in the mirror after the torture had finally ended. I stood in the salon restroom for a few good minutes. At long last, I had beautiful hair. At long last I was beautiful. Gone were the ugly thick braids, in their place were long luxurious locks that cascaded all the way down my back. All of sudden, my eyes were pretty, my smile was pretty. Everything about me was pretty! It was intoxicating. "Honey, please get your hands out of your hair, you'll muss it up." my mother gently scolded. But I was not listening. I was the most beautiful girl in the whole universe and on Monday, my entire class would see this. "Wow, your hair! Your hair is so pretty.  I didn't know you were so pretty." I drank all of those stupid boy classmates' starstruck compliments like a someone who found an oasis after wandering the desert for weeks. I found myself excelling more in classes. I found myself reaching out to make more friends. It would be a couple more years before I learned about the scientific method, but I already concluded that "beauty=power".  But unfortunately, "All Magic Comes With A Price".  Having beautiful "White-Girl" straight hair meant that every Sunday before the First Day of School was spent locked in the hair salon from morning to night. It also meant having to sit out when my cousins and friends spent all afternoon swimming. It meant resisting the urge to scratch the hell out of my hair when the residual relaxer material made really annoying scabs in my head.  But hey,  these were small prices to pay for being beautiful, for having older Black Women smile at you and say "Oh, you have good hair, Miss Thing. You blessed!" When I was young, I thought that relaxed hair was supposed to take away all of my self-esteem problems, all of my worries about being accepted by peers were supposed to be alleviated. Oh how naive I was....in actuality, kids just found different ways to make fun of me. No longer was I called Trihorns, instead I was called Oreo or later on in high school "That Really White Black Girl"... "If I close my eyes, I could actually pretend you are not Black. How funny would that be?" And, you better believe my sibling rivalry with my younger sister intensified once her own hair received the magic potion. Not only was she already perfect and the better kid from my perspective, but now she too had beautiful straight hair..... Oh fun. Twenty years later, I thank the universe for my hair being resilient, because I put it through the ninth circle of hell by the time I became responsible for it in college. I had my ex-best friend cut my hair into bangs, I went for weeks without washing it because I just didn't want to deal. Most days, I just stuck it in a sad pony-tail and went about my business. It was only when I had my new fresh relaxer, every 6- 8 weeks that I felt renewed and beautiful. I used to purposely plan my relaxers close to my birthday, dating anniversaries and holidays. That was often a great source of emotional and financial stress. Relaxers on average cost me 70-90 bucks. Nevertheless, I went above and beyond to get my fix from that "creamy crack". I would do anything to feel beautiful again. We now to turn to my hair and state of mind in the present day. It is time to start over. I have put my hair through hell and every abuse imaginable. I know that having natural hair will come with its own set of woes, but I feel that going back to having natural hair may restore that smile of a happy 6 1/2 year old little girl who was just happy for life and who she was in that tiny moment. Hair care takes lots of love, lots of time and lots of patience. But beyond starting over with my hair, having "The Big Chop" will mean the culmination of owning my identity as a Black Woman. It will be saying fuck you to all of the Eurocentric beauty ideals that I desperately coveted for much of my life, It will be saying fuck you to previously saying fuck you to my original form and all of my essence. It will be saying "fuck you" to all of the expectations  placed on black women's appearance from the hair on their head to the curves of their bodies. And let me make something clear to Black ladies who want to keep rocking their relaxers. I do not disparage your choices one bit. I got chemical relaxers for all of the wrong reasons.  I believe that Black Women can wear their hair however they want, so long as they love themselves and treasure what is underneath their hair. :) I feel fortunate to have forged friendships and made experiences with other Black Women (my former Belly Dance Instructor turned older sister-figure/mentor, my cosplay sisters and more recently, my research mentor). And, my choice to join the braid train,  #Team Natural (laughs), has been met with so much enthusiasm, especially,  from my younger sisters. In truth it has been an extra special way to bond with them. I haven't set the  date for The Big Chop officially, but best believe it will happen by Thanksgiving. And yes, for cosplay and everyday, I may still wear wigs. But the difference is that wigs will now act as accessories, same as a studded belt or a bright baby blue hair bow. I can rock a 20s bob on Monday, Anime Pigtails, on Tuesday and shit, how about Mermaid Green hair on Wednesday. It will not matter because when I am home, writing research papers, drafting grant proposals or curling up to watch Netflix with my better-half, it will be just me, my own hair and the undeniable truth that I am enough and I was always enough. I always was brilliant, I was always beautiful, and I was always deserving of love just the way I am. The way this crazy thing called the Universe made me.

The Celebration of the Unapologetic Feminist Blerd Pt. 2: How The "Very White" Hobby of Cosplay Made Me Unapologetically Black.. For Good.

When I was young and in middle school, my father sent me to a six week summer program at Blanche Ely High School for writing and creativity. Although the program was beneficial to strengthening my writing skills and love of literature, there was an underlying purpose: To expose me to Black culture, to remind myself that I was in fact, Black, and to do so before it was too late. At the beginning of the program I was afraid. I was afraid of these teenagers who were not much older than me. Although our skin was the same, I assumed we were vastly different. Interestingly enough, until I got to know these fellow campers of mine, I was tokenized by these Black adolescents just as much as I had been by my white friends. The key difference was, their assertions were blatant and often times, mocking. "You sure you're from Fort Lauderdale? I thought you were from way up north? "Is your Daddy rich? You're way too smart. You're going to be valedictorian. Ha! You don't know anything about_______(insert aspect of Black Culture here). Of course you don't. It figures. Oh my god! Listen to the way that this girl speaks...." At the end of summer writing camp, we were all in tears. No one wanted to separate. No wanted to return to their side of the property line. We were all so much happier existing in this neutral loving space. I had pages and pages of spoken word, free verse , song lyrics. I had learned to speak ebonics and "proper English vernacular" simultaneously. I had learned to code switch. Me! Who always made sure to never use contractions in her school writing assignments. I learned that what really separated me from those kids was 95N, gerrymandering and the stark difference between an A school and a C+ school. When we were forced to spend time focusing on what we had in common instead of what divided us, we found, I had some "hood" in me and they had whole lot of "nerd" buried deep inside of them. I give you this little vignette so you understand the full context of my overwhelming joy as I now describe my account at my first ever Black Geeks Shoot and the POC MeetUp just a mere three weeks ago at DragonCon....

Sunday September 4th was a gorgeous day. The sun made my dark brown skin radiate with light and love. I could see the city skyline behind me while standing adjacent to the Hilton Hotel steps. The world around me just seemed so filled with promise. I was pinching myself repeatedly because I just met and befriended two Black female cosplayers who I had been following for months. I could not believe the ease with which we introduced ourselves and how within minutes we were all laughing and giggling like we had grown up together since kindergarten. I had been asked to help advertise the meetup to populate the photoshoot and it was a task I took seriously. For every Black Cosplayer who arrived, I grinned from ear to ear, reached out to shake their hand and said "Good Morning! How are you? You look wonderful! Although many people were late (This was a Black People run and attended photoshoot...come on..it was bound to happen) everyone was greeted by directors organizers and fellow attendees like old extended family. My stomach would have loved it if this family reunion had literally be followed by a feast, but I can tell you my soul was more than satiated with this heaping helping of solidarity,  with a side of community and a side of positivity. The shoot was beautiful. We were silly at times, we were serious at other times. We used our characters and cosplays to speak to a much larger issue than "Black Heroes Matter" Our presence demonstrated that we were called to gather in fellowship and we heeded that call like the Cape Crusader himself heeded the bright light of The Bat Signal. Our presence demonstrated that our numbers are growing and we deserve a place in the greater fandom. We deserve a place as fans, as writers, as creators and as ambassadors of "Blerdom". I remember re-posting a blog from the very cosfamous Maki Roll's Chop Shop who vocally embraced being a Blerd and how while she respected her fellow black nerds for choosing not to utilize the term, she loves identifying as a Blerd. I do not lament when people call me a blerd or a bleek or a blerdette, even. I take it as a compliment. Moreover, I take it as an affirmation of my complex identity. For you see, I am Black and then everything else (a woman, a scholar, a friend, a partner... ) For too long I was foolish. I believed that you had to dissociate from being Black in order to do well, in order to be liked and respected. I once reluctantly held onto to the term "Oreo" and tried to reclaim it because at least it was proof that I somewhat..fit in? Today in 2016, I am Black. I am Black before everything else. If I am in a situation where I am stopped by cops, I will be Black. They will not see a woman who had the fortune/misfortune to be raised and assimilated into lily white suburbia. They will not see a woman engaged to a white partner and poised to marry into a very lily white family. They will not see that I wear ridiculous childish knee high school socks better fit for a 4th grader in 1998. They will so not see I am clutching onto my laptop which contains collected data for research that in summation is supposed to advocate for equality and a better human condition. Nay, they will see that I am Black. They will see that I am a threat. So, forgive me and allow me to relieve running around in masks and tights with my newly formed extended family over and over and over again. I would like to say we will all be reunited in 2017, but who is to say? We are not even safe behind this literal mask that we wear. And that is fact. Black Heroes Matter. Black Lives Matter. Stop treating us like red shirts or the first black person to appear in a horror movie. Allow us a chance to live and love authentically. Let us do this and you will finally see, we were never a threat. Do this and you can finally say that we are all human. Until then, do not tell us how to feel, do not tell us how to think. We live in multiple realities but we are trying our very best to survive this one.

The Celebration of the Unapologetic Feminist Blerd Pt.1

Hi everyone. Here at last are my thoughts on my first time attending DragonCon. After many years of trolling for any and all pictures I could get a hold of, I finally decided that enough is enough. If I only attend this one year, at least I can say I experienced this unforgettable and incredibly unique event for myself. So, let me make something perfectly clear, DragonCon 2016 was the year of the Black Feminist Nerd and I would have kicked myself if I decided to hold out for 2017. I have been attending fan conventions (anime, comics, furry, gaming, etc) since MegaCon in 2009. Back then, for every 25 white or Asian cosplayers, there was probably 2-3 Black convention attendees. Please note, I am including black convention attendees who may have cosplayed as well as attended. With each passing year, I saw an extra handful of fellow blerds passing through. Importantly, like me, they were mostly the token, the one lone nerdy chocolate chip cookie. Fast forward to last week's DragonCon: BLACK NERDS EVERYWHERE. And even more specifically, BLACK FEMALE NERDS EVERYWHERE! Some were in cosplay, some were in funny graphic tees while rocking their natural hair, others wore funky cute cat ears atop their head, but all were smiling and laughing and fangirling just like everyone else. This year was already a special year for DragonCon, they were celebrating 30years of programming. 30 years! And as such, an unprecedented amount of newbies were enticed to attend. However, what really made me feel special and get downright damn near emotional was every time I looked down at the little piece of plastic hanging from my rainbow lanyard. This year, for the first time in the convention's history, art work depicting a beautiful badass Black woman adorned the convention badge. I looked down as my dark brown eyes filling up with tears and I smiled. I do not consider myself to be a religious person, but I feel that the universe had some kind of influence on making my first year at DCon the same year DCon decides to feature a Black female character on their badge. And, she was not "acceptable black" to borrow a phrase from my beloved snarky sister. This character had strong African features, rocked a teeny tiny fro, wore dark lipstick, a leather vest,  and rocked a pair of dragons on the side of each of her ears. She had this smirk that seemed to say "Welcome home,  little sister. It's about damn time we had our day!" I knew in that instant that my first DCon experience would be very special. I came to DragonCon for escape, for curiosity and also to reunite with friends I had not spent real time in person with for many years. But, I left DragonCon feeling more proud and more honored to reside at the intersection of Black and Woman than ever before and here's why: 1) The constant display of female solidarity, especially among the female cosplayers. 2) The widespread visibility of female leadership (whether that be from the DragonCon volunteers, the female photoshoot directors or the female panelists (especially the panelists who are prominent in the mainstream media industry) 3) The large groups of Black Attendees and or Black Cosplayers around the convention space and throughout Downtown Atlanta 4) The various events expertly organized by and for Black Cosplayers to encourage a sense of community and pride for their membership within a sub-culture of a subculture.  5) (And your results may vary, but go with me on this) The number of White Allies attending the con and vocally supporting and enthusiastically welcoming the works of POC geeks and nerds. Thinking about these experiences have me anxiously waiting for my next pay check so I can purchase 2017 membership *taps foot impatiently* As a female cosplayer, there is a stereotype of cattiness and competition in the community. If you're cosplaying Sailor Moon, there is a always a gal who slayed harder than you did. And at DragonCon, some of the biggest names in the cosplay community come out and show off. It is understandable that one might be prone to upward social comparison. However, not at DragonCon. I literally did not hear one female cosplayer say something mean about another female cosplayer. More often than not, I would hear a lot of "YASS QUEEN, SLAY MAMA, AND GURL, WERK! Other times, I would see complete strangers run to eachother to take selfies and trade compliments. I had the honor of meeting some of my favorite cosplay queens and much to my surprise (even as I type this) a good number of them became my friends. Some of them said things like "I have been seeing your work on the cosplay forums. You're really making a name for yourself...." And what is even more curious is how many female cosplayers were praising one another across the color line. One of my new friends and fellow cosplayer had people falling all over her Sailor Mercury cosplay. Although she was wearing Ami's original scout uniform, she was working a giant powder blue fro. It was such a positive and powerful statement and makes me call BS about public schools trying to police black hairstyles...Speaking of natural hair, remember that DragonCon badge mascot? On Sunday, my friend and I wandered to Artist Alley in hopes of providing me an opportunity to thank the artist for creating that character and making sure she will be remembered for years to come. There were two women sitting down with their art proudly displayed behind them. I immediately went over to the Black female comic book artist. Her's name Afua Richardson. Perhaps you've heard of her? *smirks. Who else but her could have created this character?  "Thank you so much for creating this character. I love her, she looks so much like you.... I "Oh, I am not the artist but I am flattered on her behalf that you loved her work. That is my friend Babs. She is sitting right next to me. Come, I'll take you to her!" On the outside, I was smiling excitedly, but on the inside I felt like the hugest idiot. "How could I be so silly to assume that the black female artist drew this character?  I thought to myself. Take a look at her work, the art work is not even the same style. You simply assumed that only Black artists would care about and want to celebrate Black women." That afternoon, I learned that a White artist creating a positive black character for everyone of every race to embrace and enjoy was a much bolder statement than one's White friend resharing a buzzfeed article post about "Understanding White Privilege".  I later did thank the true artist of the badge character in between my pathetic sobs. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me, to Black Girls like me....Thank you so much for being a friend to Black Women *I smiled at the Black Female Artist I originally met* I am not sure if Babs truly grasped what I meant but I truly hope some of what I said to her stuck. Artwork has the ability to be an effective vehicle for changing hearts and changing minds. And female con-goers really need to stick together as sisters. There may be more women in science, tech, and other traditionally male-dominated fields, but there is still an undercurrent of sexism and misogyny facing women in and out of the nerd world that is long overdue for being addressed. Women attending fan conventions just want to enjoy all that there is to offer with the wonderful people they have chosen to accompany them. They do not owe other con-goers their time, their space or their bodies. Some female con-goers choose to cosplay or wear outfits they may not wear at work or at church. As such, they do not owe anyone pictures or hugs and if they do consent to pictures or hugs, it is imperative that they are thanked for doing so. On Saturday morning, I was walking around in a Bulbasaur crop top and high waisted shorts, when a man stopped me for a picture. When I denied his request, he was very disappointed. "I am sorry but I would rather not be photographed unless I am in cosplay" "Oh. Okay. I am really, really, sorry. he replied and walked away looking like someone would not let him drink from the water fountain. I was then annoyed at myself for feeling sorry for him when I had no reason to feel sorry. I made rules for myself to ensure my comfort and sense of safety. The next morning when I was in cosplay I enthusiastically consented to letting another male con-goer take my picture. "Thank you very much for asking, I said brightly. "What? Why are you thanking me? Isn't that what everyone is supposed to do?" "You would be surprised how few times people actually stop and ask" Suddenly, the guy became extremely irate and defensive. "Look, I didn't want this to be a whole long conversation..I just wanted a picture. I liked your cosplay". "And that's fine, I said, I just wanted to thank you for being decent and asking my consent. The guy then threw up his hands in exasperation and I shook my head as I stomped back in my six inch heels towards my hotel room. The reason why I believe that we as cosplayers should thank people/fans for asking us for pictures or hugs is to praise people for being decent, respectful human beings. Often times, (and I will admit I have to work on this myself) people assume that cosplayers are living dolls and action figures, but they are people attending the con just like you. They want to hang out with their friends, they want enjoy delicious food at Yami Yami Sushi etc. Cosplay is Not Consent is an active movement to advocate for cosplayers rights to their own space, their time and their bodies. Sometimes cosplayers are so grateful to have someone recognize their work that they will get pulled into potentially uncomfortable situations all for the sake of showing gratitude. And believe me, it also sucks when you are strutting around proud of your cosplay and some idiot outside reduces you to a piece of a in a matter of seconds. Or, some idiot tries to take advantage of you in a crowded elevator, or some idiot tries to take an upskirt photo of you while you're speeding down the hallway trying to make it to your next phootshoot. Once again, thank goddess for female solidarity. Female cosplayers are standing up for one another and even going so far as to literally block the offensive person or call them out on their behavior to their face. And, it is a beautiful thing. It is something I hope can be replicated in the actual streets as women go about their daily life. Well, that is it for Part. 1. Part 2 should be out sometime next week I hope... Until next time, Keep Calm and Convention On, WWFBG

My Spidey-Sense Is Tingling: Why We Need Better Representation of Existing POC Superheroes More Than Established White Superheroes "Remixed" as POC

Happy Thorsday Friends,

In exactly one week from today I shall be in Atlanta at DragonCon. It will be my first time attending this convention. And let me tell you, I am as giddy as Cinderella in the 1997 remake of Rogers and Hammerstein's Cinderella. This remake was notable for its unapologetically diverse cast and themes about female agency and empowerment. Plus, it starred 90s Pop and R&B star (and gorgeous black woman) Brandy in the eponymous role. How's that for #Blackgirlmagic? Today, I am here to talk to you about the increasing trend of Marvel Comics reimagining long established superheroes such as Spider-man, The Incredible Hulk, Ms. Marvel and more recently, Iron Man as people of color.  At first I was excited. Heck yes (I promise not to swear in this post, Mom) ! Superhero mantles can taken up by anyone. Why can't Ms. Marvel be a smart, geeky, Muslim young woman from Jersey? Why can't Spiderman be an Afro-Latino teenage boy who, like Peter before him, has dealt with loss early on in life? And then, I started to wonder something. Aside from Black Panther and Luke Cage getting their long overdue time in the MCU/Netflix spotlight, what about the existing POC superheroes? Does anyone care about them? Does anyone know about them? Does anyone how many there are? (A quick search tells me the number for Marvel is 114 that includes characters who may not even possess superhuman ability. There so many more POC superheroes in the Marvel and DC universes than Static Shock, Storm,  Blue Marvel, Vixen, and Bumblebee. The sad, generalizable fact is POC characters are not celebrated with the same fervor as white superheroes. To break it down even further, female superheroes are not celebrated with the same fervor as white male superheroes. And female POC superheroes...? *crickets chirping*. And friends, this grinds my gears because tthe comicbook fandom is not exclusively comprised of middle class straight white guys. In fact, every year when I attend Free Comic Book Day (My favorite Saturday of the whole year), I see more little girls and or more kids of color attending the event. *gets on top of soapbox* I believe that superheroes are so important for kids. Superheroes teach kids about kindness, about integrity, and believing in themselves during the worst times of adversity. Some superheroes teach children about celebrating differences, building friendships and teamwork (e.g.:Xmen, The Justice League, Avengers, Defenders...etc). We need to get those already established POC superheroes into the spotlight. I won't be satisfied until they are as ubiquitous as Superman and Wonder-Woman. We need to do it for the little ones coming behind us. When I was a little black girl, I had a very negative self image of myself. And sure, I had low self-esteem and a crippling inferiority complex, but I think the other part of that was not believing there were positive Black role-models to look up to. Other than maybe Oprah. In actuality, they were always there, both real and fictionalized figures. The problem was,  they were not as easy to find. Other than Storm,  The Black Power Ranger, and Static Shock, I didn't see black superheroes in cartoons and on television. Heck, most of the YA I read did not feature the a black protagonist. At best, they were the wise-cracking/sassy sidekick. At worst, they were a background character with one line in one chapter never to seen again (Looking at you,  writers of Once Upon A Time..) Well, as the cosplay subculture has grown into a mainstream marketable industry, everyone and their mother can put on crazy tights and a mask. As a result, you have more people of color embracing cosplay even if only for a chance to pretend to take over the mantle of the superheroes they have known and loved since they were children. Some of the heroes they have chosen to cosplay look like them but most of them do not. Again, I think it is an issue of visibility. But most importantly, POC cosplayers are slaying the game.  I suspect their increased presence may driving be the comic-film industry to continue "remixing" originally white characters as POC. The most recent case being the multi-ethnic but black-identified actress  Zendaya Coleman possibly being cast as Spidey's main squeeze Mary Jane Watson in next year's Spiderman Homecoming film. And of course, controversy and butthurt ensued. Some white fanboys contend that casting an actress of color to portray Mary Jane is the same as casting a white man to portray The Blank Panther... Some people of color scoff at white people's indignation while shaking their heads saying "She's ambiguous and they will dye her hair. Only light skin black women get cast in these films. Talk to me when she's medium brown or darker in pigment". So, who is right? The answer is no one. People of color exist across a color spectrum and it is not up to white people or fellow people of color to tell a black woman how she should classify herself. Unlike Black Panther whose African heritage is the key to his mantle and his experience, there is nothing about Mary Jane Watson that makes her original whiteness integral to her character. Let's review, she's a pretty, popular girl from a dysfunctional family who lives in a poor Queens suburb who dreams of being a model and an actress. She also does not put up with her man's BS....In my estimation, Mary Jane can be played by any young actress. Dye her hair red, add some attitude and presto: "Go get em, Tiger"! However, it is unfortunate that light skinned black actresses get the most screen time and have the best chance at portray the hero's girl (after the white actresses of course..) . It would be swell if black actresses on the darker side of the spectrum get to be the "princess" for a change. Imagine what that could mean to little brown skin girls and dark skinned girls self-esteem? Alternatively, Marvel Studios could have created a whole new original awesome character for Zendaya to play. Sadly, I don't think the world is ready for that. After all, most of us don't know about and don't celebrate the people of color characters that already exist. So, there's that. No, I think remixing an originally beloved and white character as a POC does two things: 1) The new version of the character can rest on the long established popularity and adoration given to the original white character. 2) Comic book writers can claim they are celebrating diversity and giving their character nuance while not having to worry that a character of color will automatically flop in their comic sales. It is marketing genius, if you ask me. And remember, as the saying goes: "Progress is Slow" *winks*. Have a Great Weekend. From Your Friendly Neighborhood Weird White Friendly Black Girl

Through the Looking Glass: The Urgent Need for POC Perspective to be Reflected in Mainstream Disney Media

Salutations Fellow Earthlings. WWFBG here to take a moment to talk about being Black and the unfortunate dissonance we experience as POC consumers of Mainstream Media (particularly Disney and Marvel/DC products). I am a child of the 90s. I was raised on Saturday Morning Cartoons, PBS Kids, Tamogotchi Toys, Barbie Dolls and Disney Princess Films. My childhood bedroom was painted bright pink with a wall paper depicting majestic white unicorns and castles. To this day, my father calls me "Princess".  Years later, Disney is making more money than they know what to do with as they profit off of my generation's crippling nostalgia. Well, it is not just Disney. Nickelodeon, Cartoon Network and hell even Lisa Frank has made quite a comeback with adult apparel and adult coloring books. My generation was taught "You are special, you are wonderful, and you can do anything you want when you grow up! You are the best! Be a Princess! Be an Astronaut! Be a Dinosaur!" So, why are people surprised when so many of my generation are visiting theme parks sans children, dressing up in costumes even when Halloween is months away and catching pocket monsters to and from their 9 to 5...?  Hmm... Let's put a pin in that for another post. What I am really here to discuss is POC representation in Childrens' popular media with a focus on Disney Enterprises. I also have a little bit to say on LGBTQAI representation, but as a heterosexual cisgendered woman,  my opinions are only based on observation and may be somewhat uninformed. Please take those with a grain of salt. My favorite Disney Princess of all time is Belle from Beauty and the Beast. I relate to Belle more than Princess Tiana, and Princess Kida and that is fact. I relate to Belle because like me, she is socially awkward, a bibliophile and a champion for embracing (not just tolerating) what is different in this world. Like Belle, I too have a french name, dark brown hair, and am mostly dressed in the color blue. Don't get me wrong, I admire Tiana's independence and ambition, and I admire Princess Kida's badassness and bluntness. However, even as a woman of color, I still do not relate to them. I relate more to a bookish white Frenchwoman and a mischievous red-headed pale-skinned mermaid who like all teenagers, loved to piss off their parents for the lulz. And did Disney really even give me a chance to love Tiana and Kida? The answer is, kind of, but not really. Tiana was only in princess garb for a grand total time of 5 mins. She was only seen in her human form for maybe 10 minutes. In short, she was really a lovable sassy talking animal character. Disney's marketing team are geniuses. They lead us to believe that we were finally getting a Black Princess (not an ambiguously ethnic warrior princess: Still love you, Kida!). A Black Disney Princess who was going to be beautiful and beloved by her prince and everyone in the land. In reality, we did get that for a mere ten percent out of the movie. The movie should have really been called "Two Adorable Talking Frogs Fall in Love and Have Adventures". Ehh, that would have probably cost them too much to print.. This is also the same reason why more currently I am already cynical toward "Elena of Avalor". I have but one beef with Elena. Disney chose to introduce Elena via a Disney Channel Series instead of via a Walt Disney Pictures Feature Film. And my question is why? From the couple of episodes I have watched with my little brothers, Elena is sharp, brilliant, strong, loves her family, and is more concerned with the well being of her kingdom than catching the eye of some prince. She is the first Latinx Princess who is visibly of color and the typical Disney Princess age! WHERE IS HER MOVIE, DISNEY? Oh, here it comes. But we're getting Moana....Geez can't you people ever be satisfied?  Friends, I am absolutely here for Moana and happy as hell that there is a strong Pacific Islander cast in front of and behind the camera. However, Elena got the shaft. Technically, though not a princess story. Disney has already featured Pacific Islander characters with Lilo and Sitch. I just feel like that it should have been Elena of Avalor and then Moana. And, my husband Lin Manuel Miranda  (heh, heh) could have collaborated with Alan Menken on both films and all would have been swell. The fact is, fellow Disney dorks, children of all races and ethnicities need to see positive reflections of themselves. I would even go out on a limb and say that seeing people who look like them doing positive things for themselves and  other could have a tremendous impact on the foundation of their self-esteem. Kids of all shapes and sizes need to see themselves as leaders and superheroes. Good on you Marvel, for finally starting to get your shit together when it comes to the representation of Black Women, but we're not even close to being done. This is why I thank the cosmos for a little cartoon called Steven Universe. This cartoon is quite possibly the most socially progressive, culturally sensitive and racially inclusive television program I have ever seen in my almost 30 revolutions around the sun. A tip of my hat to how the writers are choosing to depict characters who are coded as  LGBTQAI identified while never making them an afterthought, the butt of the joke or only featured in a "special episode" after school special. Although far from perfect, this cartoon really strives to be a positive influence for young children as well as their parents who are assumed to be watching with them. I hypothesize that exposure to different types of people, different family and relationship structures will condition children to develop open hearts and open minds. And considering how fucked up the adult world continues to get as I type this, we could really do with some more love and understanding. We have now come to the part of our program where we talk about the phenomenon of reimagining classic (read: white) Disney princesses as POC. Think Snow White as a beautiful Desi or Rapunzel as dark-skinned Latinx or Elsa herself as a gorgeous Black woman with a midnight skin tone rocking natural hair. Half of the internet reacted with "YASS QUEENS" and the other half reacted with "OMFG YOU HAVE TIANA, MULAN, JASMINE LEAVE OUR LILY WHITE PRINCESSES ALONE!" But has anyone ever questioned what motivated this trend besides instigate "a flood of white tears"? The answer is quite simple really. There are not enough characters of color let alone princesses of color to relate to. And until artists and creators at Disney and related properties produce more POC characters (No, I am not sorry. They are still not doing this fast enough) we can and will decide to reimagine the princesses we know and love to look like ourselves. Remember that little girl from "Hey Girl, Nice S.T.E.M. (S) post? Well, yesterday I attended her fifth birthday pool party. She is a huge fan of Ariel and Elsa. At the encouragement of my better half, I decided to show up to the party in a pool themed Ariel cosplay. The birthday princess, her friends, and her cousins lost their shit. I mean, for a quick second, I thought I was working at Disney. It was quite a head spin. And interestingly enough, all of the kids just immediately embraced me as Ariel. They all lined up to comb my hair with a fork and talked about how much they loved my star fish hair accessories. I just wanted to do something nice for the birthday girl but I did not realize how my presence and attire would positively impact the other kids. This exercise made me remember that prejudice is not innate, it is learned. Early exposure to different people in positive and relatable situations is immensely powerful. The kids just saw me as Ariel. The venue staff believed I was a hired princess. No one asked why my skin was not pale or why my eyes were not blue. The children just wanted to play with my (wig) hair and give me hugs. I am a grade punk when it comes to children. I feel that children are more brilliant than the most established and learned academics. There is no filter with children. They tell the truth exactly as they see it in the simplest of terms. I learn so much from even the shortest interactions with them. Lastly, with the permission of a friend of mine, I will recall the story she told me last night after she saw my Princess selfies posted on Facebook. I smiled when she commented "You are amazing and the most perfect Ariel". Later that night, she direct messaged me and said "You don't understand how much it means to see you portraying Ariel. When I was a little girl on the island, I had a disney princess coloring book. I would often get reprimanded for coloring Ariel with brown skin. They would tell me: No, Ariel is not dark skinned. She is white. But the thing is, even when I was a little girl, I chose to see Ariel and Megara (female lead in Hercules) as women of color. Ariel is from the Kingdom of Atlantica. As in the Caribbean as in part of the Atlantic Ocean. I always imagined Ariel to be a brown skinned Caribbean woman. So seeing you portraying Ariel is a realization and validation of my perspective of who she always was. Unlike Hans Christian Anderson's original Little Mermaid, this mermaid princess lived in the warm waters and even warmer weather. Doesn't it make sense that she be POC? I really had no words because I was crying as I read the words she typed. Here I was thinking I would be shamed by young children for being a black woman  impersonating a character who everyone deems as white. But then I considered the logic of Ariel looking like me: A brown skinned Caribbean woman who loves to wear bright colors like the tropical fish she befriends. Not only does this logic makes sense but it will resonate with me forever. This ladies and germs is why Representation Matters. Because every little girl deserves to see herself as a princess: A girl who is loved and cherished and made feel to powerful and special. It is not so much the pretty dresses or the shiny tiaras or even the love of a handsome prince/princess,  but rather the internalization of the notion that she is female and that she will be embraced no matter what path she chooses in this life or the next.

Pokemon Go..And Get Street Harassed

Greetings Friends. WWFBG here to talk to you about my very favorite subject in the whole wide world: Street Harassment! Excited? You bet I am. Let me tell you about the first time I got ever street harassed. I was twelve years old.  I had been hanging out with my cousins in their apartment playing video-games and reading manga. You know, the usual nerdy shit. Anyway,  my mother had come to pick me up to go home. "It's time to leave, daughter of mine. Your sister has Girl Scouts in the morning". I immediately proceeded outside to get to the car. I believed my mother was right behind me so I continued onwards. What I didn't realize was that it had become very dark. On the other side of where my mother's car was parked, I noticed three large looming figures coming towards me. After adjusting my glasses, I realized it was a group of older teenage boys about 15 feet in front of me. I felt the hairs on my back stick up immediately. "Here Kitty-Kitty. Bark! Bark! Woof Woof".  Were these assholes seriously barking at me? My eyes darted to and fro praying they were trying to get someone else's attention. Alas, no one else was around. And now, they were coming closer to me. I didn't know what to do. All I knew was that in this moment I was not safe and for some reason my feet wouldn't move to run. Just then, my mother appeared at my side while on her cell phone "Okay, Talk to you soon.  Bye!".  The door opened to our red minivan and I jumped inside. I turned to look in the direction of where those boys were coming from to see that they had magically disappeared.  They say that a girl's menarche marks her entrance into womanhood,  but I disagree. I believe it is the first time, you have to deal with  a snide comment about your appearance, a lecherous leer or someone calling out to you to tell you what they would like to do to you while walking down the street. Twelve years old! I could barely fit into the size AA training bra that I finally convinced my mother to let me wear. I was a little girl, not at all ready to deal with the libidos of older boys and grown ass men. Fast forward to September of 2012 in San Francisco California. I was on my way to meet my colleagues for dancing and drinking at a queer friendly gathering called "Mango". I rode the 14 Muni Bus from Downtown to the Outer Mission. It is a long but always entertaining ride. Anyway, I get let out about 2-3 blocks from the club. I am walking down the sidewalk when I see what looks to be an old grandfather and a small boy (He couldn't be more than five years old) . I didn't  have my sunglasses or my headphones because I want to be fully aware of my surroundings. In those days, I didn't have a smartphone with oh so handy GPS.  Boy, did I regret that. I walked past the grandfather who looked me right in the eyes, licks his lips and made smacking sounds at me. He then began to whistle at me like I am some house pet who needs coaxing to come back home. I am growing hot with anger but I remain silent and begin to walk quickly. As I past them, I turn my head only to see that same small boy whistle at me and make smacking sounds at me. I am almost to the club but then I decide to stop around the corner. My body is shaking and my glasses are fogging up with the tears that have welled up in my eyes. I am so livid and frightened, I feel like I am on the verge of a panic attack. What upset and scared me the most was the horrifying sight of a little boy assimilating rape culture and machismo right before my very eyes. To that little boy, if his grandfather called out nasty things to women and girls on the street, that was perfectly okay. In fact, I am sure he thought it was a game. I bet the next time a woman walked by their post on the sidewalk in front of the bodega  and the little boy wolf whistled, that his grandfather gave him a high-five and ruffled his hair. Rape Culture, Misogyny and Sexism do not just appear in the minds of males, they are learned behaviors. I like to joke that I am an equal opportunity target for street harassment. I have been cat-called, wolf whistled, grabbed at, and "fuck you then, bitch (ed)" by every ethnicity of man and literally everywhere I have ever lived.  And by the way, when you are a woman of color, you not only get to be harassed for your physical appearance but also objectified for your skin color "Hey chocolate bunny, you look delicious.  Can I have a bite?. Or, Mmm. Hey spicy Mami! Bring that caramel ass over here!" Once again, let me set the record straight. Street harassment is not a behavior that is solely practiced by "urban ethnic men". Therefore,  I am calling out all men. Including the men who do nothing when their fellow men are assholes and creeps to females who made the simple mistake of venturing out in public. I am calling out all men who tell me "Well, I do not parrot that shitty behavior and neither do my friends. What can I do? Why should we talk when we are not the ones who do it?" Well fellas, you should be talking about it with your buddies. It doesn't matter if none of you are participating in that behavior, there is bound to be one of you who knows some other man that does. So yes, you do need to talk about it. And you need to talk about it now. Your female friends, your partners, your-co-workers, your own fucking mother are at risk for being scared shitless from the very first second a man tells them to smile. Street harassment like rape is not about sexual desire, compliments or flirting. IT IS AN ASSERTION OF POWER! That is all it is. Pokemon Go is a bad-ass game for encouraging people of all shapes and sizes to go forth and catch em all! It is promoting social interaction and improving mental health (especially as it relates to social anxiety). However as a woman who plays PokemonGo, I have the simultaneous task of staying hyper vigilant to catch that CP 1350 Blastoise who suddenly popped up while trying to avoid catching the eye of those creeps who hang out on the corner of 18th & University while also  trying to pretend I didn't hear "NICE LEGS, SUCK MY DICK" OR "HEY BEAUTIFUL, SMILE FOR ME".  Bruh, I am just trying to hatch this 10 kilometer egg. I swear to god it is going to be a high level Lapras. Bitches love Lapras.

"Hey Girl, Nice S.T.E.M. (S)"

Greetings, friends! Last year, I had the pleasure of attending a Little Mermaid Themed 4th Birthday Party. We shall call the birthday girl Cindy. Cindy's mother is a doctoral student who has been awarded prestigious research fellowships and grants. Her work has been published in the leading journals in her field. Cindy's mother loves to bake cookies and get her nails done with her mini-me when she's not kicking major ass in Science. Science is the S in the acronym S.T.E.M (Science, Technology, Engineering and Mathematics). From her mother, Cindy is learning that it is okay to be a cisgendered femme-presenting young girl AND that it is also okay to be a girl interested in the pursuit of traditionally male-dominated fields. Now, let's talk about Cindy's father. Cindy's father is tall, broad-shouldered, and extremely physically fit. From the limited interactions I have had with him, he presents as a very hyper-masculine man. I am not sure what he does for a living, but I do know that physical fitness is very important to him.  And, he is working hard to pass that passion and discipline onto his offspring. Returning to the scene of the party, my fiance and I were sitting down at the kid's table enjoying Capri-Sun Coolers and birthday cake when Cindy's father appears with two different types of gift bags. One gift bag has Ariel's face on it and contains pastel colored favors containing a sea-shell compact, clip on earrings, and a noise maker. The other gift bag boasts a photo of Optimus Prime and Bumblebee containing a noise maker, yo-yo, and something else I forgot. The birthday princess magically appears at her father's side to distribute the gift bags. She looks at me and holds up one of each. "Which one do you want?" But before I could choose the Transformer's bag (I was not interested in clip on jewelry that would probably turn my ears green) Cindy's father said "Cindy, please hand her the Little Mermaid bag. That one is for the girls. Now, please hand him the Transformer's bag since he is a boy".  I pasted on a grateful smile, but on the inside I was wincing. I suspected if Cindy's father had not intervened, Cindy would have let me choose the Transformers gift bag. Instead, her father's direction has introduced her to gender socialization and gender typing. Basically, the belief that girls and boys are supposed to play with different toys, wear different clothes, and grow up to pursue careers most appropriate to their assigned gender at birth. This socialization begins around Cindy's age (3-5 years old). Others argue that the prep work actually begins when parents find out that the baby is going to be a girl (Think Pink! Think Frills!) or a boy (Cars! Blue Paint! Chip off the Old Block). According to the antiquated sexist doctrine of "Separate Spheres of Influence", women were expected to be the nurturers and men were expected to be the providers. When it became apparent that two incomes were needed to sustain a household, (Note, I am writing in the context of the history of the nuclear, presumably White-American middle class family. We will talk about women of color as head of households in a later post) women went to work. Women went to work as teachers, secretaries, and nurses. And friends, what do these occupations have in common? Their primary output is nurturing and subservience. Teachers nurture and care for their students while under the supervision and authority of the principals. Nurses nurture and care for their patients while under the supervision of the physicians. See how the separate spheres of influence were reinforced even while the working mom was away from home?  Go ahead, have your Oprah-Aha moment. I'll wait. Welcome back. Today, women outnumber men in college enrollment. There are women behind the camera in the entertainment and fashion industry.  There are women who are succeeding as physicians, attorneys, university professors, scientists, C.E.Os, and accountants. And, whether you like her or not, there is a woman who is a candidate for the highest office in the land: The President of the United States. Oh and many of these examples include Women of Color! But before we go yelling "Finally! Sexism is Over! Let Our Plans for the Neo-Amazonian Race Commence!!, let's address a few elephants in the room. 1) Women are still being paid less than their male counterparts for doing the exact same work. 2) Women are pressured to get married, bear children AND have a kick-ass career before they are..I dunno age 30. 3) Women are continually subject to gender-based discrimination and sexual harassment. Here are a few couple of examplars. Exemplar A: A young woman is employed at a retail grocery store as a cashier and a bagger. Woman goes out to parking lot to return carts left by customers to the front of the store for future use. A man in his car passes by the woman and shouts "What's a little girl like you doing handling all those carts by yourself? Where are the men who are supposed to do that?" Exemplar B: A young female holds down a work study job in a downtown office to subsidize the high cost of living while completing her graduate coursework. She decides to put on some makeup, curl her hair and don stockings because she has been inspired from marathoning too many episodes of Mad Men. Her fellow work study employee arrives just minutes after she does and greets her by saying "Wow, you look really nice. Are you all dressed up today for me? Heh. Heh". Exemplar C: A younger woman is engaging in conversation with an older woman about her career pursuit of psychology. "Psychology, huh? I was a psychology student until I met my husband (gestures towards luxury vehicle parked directly behind her). You're too pretty to be going to school this long." Let me know if you want more, I have plenty. As a black woman in STEM, I am damn proud to represent. Many of my fellow sisters in science are receiving their doctorates this year. And once I find out, I tag them in a facebook post and publicly congratulate them as Dr. (insert last name here). I do this for a few reasons. 1) To let them know that becoming a woman of science or excelling in any traditionally male dominated field is no easy feat. 2) To let younger women, older women, little girls, and anyone who identifies as female know that we are capable of so much more. 3) To exemplify how we as women can lift each other up in solidarity. 4) To send a subtle reminder to the men and boys out there, that they need to take down their outdated "No Girls Allowed Sign" taped to their treehouses built on benevolent sexism, rape culture, and gatekeeping. Girls can do anything we damn well please. We can strap on sexy Louboutins while we create advanced programming codes for NASA rocket launches. We can wear oversize flannel tee-shirts and Dickey's pants while we grab beers with our male friends and complain to them about our husbands/wives and the obviously thrown game playing on tv.  We can wear vintage dresses complete with petticoats and Granny's pearls while spending two hours in a comic book shop arguing with the owner on why Captain America is a more suitable leader of the Avengers than Iron Man. So, the next time I am walking down the street in my favorite fire-engine red pencil skirt and a man calls out to me from his car "Hey girl, nice stems!" I will pray that for once, he is complimenting me on my science genius. And finally, for all of you nurses, teachers, and administrative assistants out there: I am not disparaging you for pursuing those careers. In fact, allow me to personally thank you for all that you do. You all are under-appreciated, overworked, and underpaid....AND IT PISSES ME THE FUCK OFF that it continues to be this way. Best Regards, The White-Friendly Blerd Girl

Obligatory Housekeeping Post

It's me again. Wow. Thank you to those friends who gave me feedback on my intro post. I want to take a moment to invite you all to the following privileges you have as my readers. They are as follows: 1) You are welcome to challenge any opinion I discuss on this blog. I encourage discussion! I lap that shit up like buttercream frosting. I feel that as tech-addicted twenty somethings, we don't spend enough time talking to one another about our ideas and our beliefs. 2) You are also welcome to send me any suggestions for future blog posts. I am a slave (bad joke, sorry) to knowledge and research. I don't have a lot to say about any one thing, but I can have a little bit to say about a lot of things. And, I am always open to learning about a new perspective or theory. The bigger my brain gets, the wider my toothy toad grin. :) 3) My space is a safe space so long as we all play nice. That means, be respectful to me and to your fellow readers.  Everyone has a right to their own opinion. Go troll somewhere else. If you troll here,  I will ban you and then write your name in my notebook. And if you're an anime fan, you know what comes next. That pretty much covers all of the rules. I look forward to making this a regular thing for you guys. Actually, its mostly for me, because writing keeps me sane and hopefully off the 11 o lock news. I will do my very best to blog once a week. I think Wednesdays will be best, if not for the alliterative title potential. With that said, I bid thee a Happy Friday-Eve in advance. Next week, I'll be back with a post called: "Hey Girl, Nice S.T.E.M (S). " Best Regards, The Weird White-Friendly Blerd Girl

Wide-Awoke: The Beginning

Hi friends! I'm the Weird White-Friendly Blerd Girl!  Just yesterday,  I decided yesterday to create this blog. Why do you ask? I created this blog to create a separate space from my very public Facebook where I can rant, rave, and be unapologetically black and nerdy (i.e, blerdy) without having to post the disclaimer TLDR.  Fuck that! My posts will be longer than the length of your favorite male pornstar's junk but a lot less hairy, I promise! Basically, I am tired of friends I haven't talked to since middle school and distant family members I haven't seen since I was an infant direct messaging me while asking the following series of questions: Are you okay? Wow, I didn't realize you were so angry about everything!  Could you please explain to me what you mean by colorblind racism? I thought we were supposed to be colorblind? As a black person, how do you feel about.....WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE! As a black woman who has gone to predominantly white institutions since Catholic Pre-K circa 1994 and was raised in the alabaster suburbs of Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, I consider myself an expert on navigating white spaces. I have almost thirty years of experience in "speaking white, acting white, and eating white" In fact, a lot of old white people often feel moved to praise my very existence and frequently express the following sentiments : "You speak so well!" "You're exceptionally pretty and well-mannered"! My goodness, you remind me of a young Michelle Obama!" The fact is comrades and home-skillet biscuits, I have been cursed with the title of "White-Friendly Black Person. In the 1990s,  I was simply called the Oreo, but they have similar connotations. I have become so good at being around white families that I am already promised to marry into one! Haha! *evil laughter* (Darling, if you're reading this, you know I love you and your family. The people need to laugh, okay?) . It is 2016, and it is time the world know that I am black and have always been black. I may wear my hair relaxed or under an uber feminine cosplay wig,  I may get excited about eating grilled cheese sandwiches while reading first editions of Amazing Fantasy/Spider-Man comics, but I will always be black *pokes skin for effect*.  You got that, rich old ladies at the neighborhood grocery store? I am black, I am proud and I have major feels about the state of this little blue planet we live on right now. As a person of color, as a woman in the STEM field, and as a citizen of this country, I have a lot to be concerned with right now. As I sit in my office hunched over my macbook, I am avoiding going to my lab's main office because I don't want my fiance to be right about the alleged Neo-Nazi Propaganda posted in the hallways of my building or being ejected from my PI's printer. Like seriously, WTF?  It doesn't matter, how "white-friendly" you can be as a POC. Fact: Having an abundance of melanin puts you at risk of being attacked and killed. It doesn't matter if you live in San Francisco, California or in Jackson, Mississippi. Just look down at your phone and you'll see Twitter Tweets, Facebook posts and You Tube reaction videos reporting about another person getting killed for being POC, Muslim, Queer or even a lovely combination of all three. Of course, hate crimes, terrorist acts, and police brutality are nothing new under the sun. However, social media has decided it is a BIG FUCKING DEAL. Is this what George Orwell was yammering on about? Fear propaganda and the continual erosion of free speech and free thought? Could be. Take a look at the cell phone drones crossing the street. They are fine with inputting their bank information into an app on their phone but they'll be damned if they have to make eye contact with another human being who narrowly misses colliding into them because they are also on their phone. Oh, and by the way, I am not attacking these people because I do it everyday. I am black and female. That's a dangerous intersection to cross, my friend. Being constantly on my guard is already stressful, since I am trying to catch this damn Poliwrath on Pokemon Go. Shit! He disappeared after I walked five steps. Sigh. In any event, let me give you a few warnings about the contents of this blog: 1) You will not agree with everything I say. 2) You will probably be offended by most of what I have to say 3) You will either rejoice or revolt at my incessant fangirling about science, literature, history, comic-books, cosplay, anime and American pop culture. 4) You will probably read this when your old Uncle Archie is on the John muttering to himself about the damned coloreds. You have been warned. Cheers, The Weird White-Friendly Blerd Girl