It’s an epidemic!
Or is it a few cases that cause mass hysteria?!
Apparently, the flavor of the day on blogs throughout the web, is a Washington Post article on Helena Andrews. Helena is a single, 29 year old, successful black woman, living in D.C. She’s about to release a new book titled, “B*tch Is the New Black.” It’s a memoir on the perils of being a successful, upwardly mobile, black woman. There are also plans for a film based on the book.
You can read the article here: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/12/09/AR2009120904546.html
Also, www.verysmartbrothas.com has a great post on the issue/article.
Meanwhile, here are a few excerpts from the Washington Post article:
Andrews writes about what it is like for a young, black woman dating in D.C., trying to find a mate who seems ever elusive. The futile rituals are familiar: the dressing up, the eager cab ride over to the party, the hold-your-breath as you walk in, scanning the room quickly for any looks returned. The mantra sounding in the back of your head: “So-and-so found a man last year at a party like this. Maybe tonight is my night.” Then one by one, the men prove to be disappointments and disappointing: married, uninteresting or uninterested.
The disappointment as you end up at the bar once again, committing straw violence in your drink (stirring the drink frantically and unconsciously).
Andrews writes the truth of those nights. The truth is for too many, they never work out. Not for Andrews and not for her friend, Gina, who is a prominent character in her life and in the book.
“For a lot of black women, especially young successful black women, we have a lot of boxes on our master plan list checked off,” Andrews says. “We think happiness should come immediately after that. But that is not always the case.”
Love is much too hard to find and when these women do, it may go all wrong because of issues that are too complicated for statistics, Andrews says. She is quick to say, “There are tons of black families who are healthy and good.” Even so, black women are more likely than white women to grow up poor or otherwise struggling financially; to be fatherless and to experience a myriad of other societal and/or familial dysfunctions. Ironically, the “issues” can also include being a “strong” woman: the can-do, opinionated type many black women become after growing up in a matriarchal household, the type with whom some men still just can’t deal.
“I have tons of friends who are extremely successful lawyers and lobbyists, staffers on the Hill. They are great at what they do. They are in their late 20s and early 30s,” Andrews says, sipping Ethiopian coffee. Her dog, Miles, is sitting beneath the restaurant table, whining softly.
“But there is loneliness at their jobs, because most likely they are the only black person there and people treat them like they are the only black person there. They dress a certain way. They go out on the weekend. . . . And still they end up going home, and it’s you and your d*mned dog.”
For my black women who feel like they fall into this category… I seriously believe this is a personal problem. It isn’t an epidemic. It’s just life. Sure, you have your degree, a good job, a nice place, and a few of the finer things in life that may constitute “success.” But just because you haven’t found a Barack Obama-type with swag doesn’t mean it’s hard out here for you. Maybe your standards really are too high. Maybe the fact that you have a degree and a job doesn’t really mean crap in the grand scheme of things. What lies beneath your resume? What other qualities do you bring to the table.
Which brings us to my ode/parody of the Helena Andrews epidemic. Cause after all, she just wants to be successful, right?
I want the money,
Money and the cars,
Cars and the clothes, (and to be)
I just want to be… I just want to be successfullllllll
I just want I to be… I just want to be successfulllllll
Awww yeah B, I effin’ feel ya
They be staring at the B.A. like it’s unfamiliar
I got it and earned it, to me there’s nothing realer
Except this condo in the ‘burbs, something like a villa,
And when I leave, I always come right back here (alone)
The black woman that all of these black men fear,
I had me a winter boo, but that was last year
Dropped his a** quick, he was a muthaf*ckin’ cashier!
A thousand thread count sheets on my bed,
Quarters of creamy crack shape the perm in my head,
Take my attitude too serious, you hate me,
Cause I don’t feel a brutha who ain’t ballin’ with a J.D.
Yeah… I want it all that’s why I strive for it
Text me, and you’ll never get a reply for it
Any Happy Hour, 1st Friday, I get fly for it
I know hubby’s coming, I just hope that I’m alive for him…