Fackin Truth Blog

You missed a knock-down drag-out brawl at my house on Saturday night.

I'm not kidding. Me and the Mr. went at it. I'm talking about a knock-down argument that Ali would rather watch than his own boxing footage. I'm talking about a war of words that Mi.ke Ty.son would call "ludicrous" in that simple little voice of his. If words produced physical force, our neighborhood would look like Beirut.

I must preface this post with a factoid: I am not a fighter. I will go out of my way to compliment you or do something nice for you whether I've known you for 1 decade or 1 hour. I don't have many buttons, and they're hard to push. In fact, I represent a dying breed of peacemakers.

But let's keep this real. I'm 95% peacemaker and 5% vicious LionSharkPitBull. I'm not impenetrable. If you go looking for one of my few buttons and pressing around like a monkey on a switchboard... well... then... man-up and take what's coming.

Did I also mention that I'm fair? Consider those words FAIR WARNING.

I have no memory whatsoever of how the brawl started. I guess that's how it goes after an emotional blackout. Because I blacked out fo'real. Sure, I remember most of what happened, but I had spit-fire pumping through my veins. Once spit-fire starts flowing... I'm on a mission to shred you silly like taco cheese. (I love tacos, but I digress.) Forget the guns. I'm old school with an English teacher for a mama and a memory like a flash drive. If you flinch in pain when I spit, then I'm fighting my A-game. Bring. It.

We broke just about every rule in Dr. Ron Rice's Fighting Fair in Marriage during our 1-hour-or-so argue-fest. We didn't ask permission to initiate the "discussion." We didn't avoid sensitive personal subjects. We certainly missed the memo about "don't fight in bed at night."

Like mental ninjas, we lurked in and took deft slashes at places we knew we could draw the freshest blood. I can't even post the best quotables here because I can't think of one that doesn't count as TMI (too-much-information).

Popcorn would not have done justice for watching this 12-round fight. If you had tickets to this throw-down you woulda been tossed a quick-grab a bag of Funyuns or some cold chicken from the fridge. As contenders, we brought the heat. Muhammad Ali rolled over in his sound sleep.

We even threw in some childish moments to keep the party interesting and mix things up a bit.

I really want to slap you in your mouth.

AND???? My daddy will killllll youuuuuuu. I'm his bay-bee.

So you want me dead???

Well.....

You've never been passionately in love if you've never fought with passion. Only a fool believes that a fight-less relationship is proof of happiness and compatibility. Too many times, especially in your youth, it's proof that nobody cares enough to engage the other.

Looking back, I didn't throw fire like that even when my ex-husband walked out to be with his girlfriend. What a dangerous sign that we'd divorced emotionally long before - or worse, possibly never even married - long before he started turning-in keys and walking out the door. As I responded to Nikki describing the apathy surrounding her own marital breakup:

My ex husband walked out on me and remarried 1 month after our divorce. When he left, I was hurt and angry. I wanted to fight for us. When he called, he was cold and rude, and sometimes I would get ill in the bathroom after he hung up.

But I'm glad I didn't put up a championship fight. Because I wasn't mourning over him. I mourned the death of a fantasy about marriage and not about our marriage. I mourned the thought of raising two boys alone and what that would do to me financially. I mourned over losing the image of a woman who could keep a husband and nurture a family. I even mourned about all the Mr. Fixit household jobs that would go undone.

And beneath all that mourning for the wrong stuff, I was happy to be free. I clearly wasn't engaged enough with him emotionally as a friend, wife, or lover to simply miss his presence. The greater tragedy would have been if we stayed together.

The thin line between love and hate isn't an urban legend. That ish is real. Like a well-placed landmine, you don't understand the power until you prance through the forest of love, trip the line, and detonate the bomb.

Fighting each other. Then crying together. That's how the night ended.

The landmine exploded. We argued over who tripped the line. We fought about the damage. We tied our bandanas, painted our faces and sniped each other from the bushes.

Now blackouts have side effects, so I'm not sure when this next thing happened... But somebody got the medicine kit and started dressing the other's wounds. Suddenly, we're in a mountain of gauze, ointment and tears.

Like old kung fu warriors in a badly dubbed TV spot, we acknowledged how the other was a truly formidable opponent. Not because of superior skills, but because only the best of friends and deepest of partners can fight like animals, hit where it hurts, and spar without spilling an ounce of love from the tank.

We're still talking about that day. He speaks with a serious resolve about the necessary purpose for the blowout. (I love a man who understands that good and bad both teach purpose, but I digress again). We would jump in front of a train for each other. We fight with passion and not hate - which is obvious based on how we recover. And most of all, running through the lilies isn't the only way - or necessarily the best way - to learn about the person to whom you gave your life.

Now that the spit-fire has ebbed and I'm back to my 95% peacemaker self, I can still say without a doubt that I'm one of the luckiest (read "most blessed") chicks on the planet.

Long Lost Mother?

My sweetheart's mother passed away in 1999... seven whole years before I met him. The loss was unexpected so her absence still resonates throughout his life. Holidays such as Mothers' Day are particularly difficult as he remembers mom's laughter and home-cooked meals.

I wear lots of hats, but one day last year I decided to wear my hair out for a date. I washed. I cut. I pressed and curled. Like I dropped a bomb, he declared, "Oh my God. You look like my mother."

We shared the picture with his sister who I have yet to meet. Her reaction.... tears. Without any warning from him, she declared... "She looks like mom."

Here's a side by side so you can decide... Does this look like my long lost mother?

How To Get Your Rugrat Kids to Appreciate the Luxury of HOME

There's nothing like living out of a suitcase to teach the virtues of "home."

My 15-year old son boarded an American Airlines flight late Sunday night and eventually landed in Paris, France. I sent him on a 12-day tour of France so he can practice all that French that he pretends to know how to speak.

In spite of all the closet crying I did, I'm happy he's officially a world traveler.

At the ripe old age of 16, I did a 28-day tour of 7 European countries, courtesy of my awesome parents.

At the riper old age of 17, I did another 10-day tour of France and Spain.

I'll never forget what those trips did for my understanding that the world is bigger than my neighborhood, my city, and the United States.

Unfortunate children will not have the chance to explore outside their neighborhoods.

More fortunate children will have the option to travel out of the state.

And the blessed children will have options that include a chance to travel the world.

It doesn't bother me one bit that my son is the only brown face on the France tour. Throughout my life, I was often the only Black person participating in opportunities that my amazing parents secured for me. Through that, I developed a love for all people... not just the familiar faces in my family/school/neighborhood.

After 2 days of touring like some kinda International Negro, my son had this text message exchange with me:

"Mom, what's my [ATM] PIN number?"

"####"

"Thanks"

"I hope you're having fun, sweetie."

"I'm a little homesick."

I must admit that my heart exploded in a smile to see him realize that the love of home is more valuable than the thrill of traveling to a foreign country while changing hotels and living out of a suitcase.

I'll help him make good on that comment when I send him to clean the hall bathroom with a toothbrush upon his return to the United States.

One of the most dangerous goals of "good parenting"

Integrity: firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values: INCORRUPTIBILITY.

Incorruptibility: incapaable of corruption: b: incapable of being bribed or morally corrupted.

Hope can be dangerous. I'm talking about parents led by the hope that their children never have to struggle or "want for anything."


Why? Because achieving these goals means destroying a child's foundation of personal integrity: building character and delaying gratification.


One day several months ago, I breezed by my television as T.D. Jakes delivered a teaching sermon. He caught my attention with an almost wistful declaration to parents who grew up during the Civil Rights Movement. It went something like this:

'As a generation, the worst thing we did as parents was to shield our children from struggle. We don't want the hardships of life to touch our children, but we forgot that our own moral integrity came from our struggles. And now we're crippling our children by being a friend instead of a parent - all because we want life to be fun for them. But fun without discipline handicaps our children.'

My mind raced back through my own history. I thought about things that happened to me and saw how my own compassion, honesty, and empathy emerged from the rubble of some craptastic life events.


I thought about the times my parents either told me to "wait," "be still," or to deal with the consequence of my actions. I remember getting popped in the mouth, receiving a spanking, going to bed without dinner, and the times I lost privileges around the house.


Today, everybody from the government to your neighbor calls that "child abuse." Discipline designed to grow a child into a healthy and productive member of society is labeled "oppressive" or "emotional abuse." Letting children run wild and make-up the rules gets applauded as progressive or new age parenting. Headstrong children curse parents in public and dare the parents to respond. These children don't develop respect for authority... at least until the Authorities in Blue take over where parents leave off (or really, never got "on").

There's no doubt about it, the worst form of child abuse is to remove healthy limitations and rob a child of the opportunity to develop personal integrity early in life.

Famous American youth provide the perfect peek into this trend. Britney Spears. Paris Hilton. Lindsay Lohan. No boundaries. No limits. Out of control. Don't have enough integrity to claw themselves out of a wet paper bag. I'll leave the gossip reporting to TMZ.com, but you get my drift.


You don't have to search Hollywood for the best examples. You can spend 10 minutes in the local mall and spot the children who clearly enjoy boundless living at home. Rude. Self-serving. Disrespectful. Would just as soon spit at you than say "I'm sorry" for stepping on your foot.

If you listen closely, you can also detect the ones who are borderline suicidal because mom refused to buy the latest Razor phone. Seriously. That child is overdone. Flip him over, stick a fork in him, and remove him from the oven. And if you're lucky, he won't shoot-up his school when he needs a little attention.


I officially went "old school" with my parenting the moment I became a mother. I may be more liberal than my great-great-great grandmother, but I "don't take no mess." And my boys know it. I'm proud of the young men they're becoming. And this is why I'll forever rally against one of the most tragic forms of child abuse.


Hope can be dangerous. Stop hoping that your children will have an "easy" life and start hoping that their struggles will make them the best they can be.

Overheard in the Family Van - A Song of Race, in D-Minor

I had a moment this week that left me wondering if my 15-year old son was really mine. Seriously. If I hadn't been the star witness and Principal Groaner at his birth, somebody would be swabbing his mouth... as we speak... for a DNA test ala Maury Povich.


I took him to apply for a passport since he's leaving to get his first taste of the International life. As he watched me go through identifying myself for his application, he asked why he had to show-up for the event. I went into some monologue about potential fraud blah-blah-blah and figured the issue was closed.


Later that day, I happened to see the written clause requiring minors to be present during the application.


"Hmmm. Maybe I should show him this little nugget to solidify my original answer."


Yeah. Right. It sounded good. And then this happened:

"Minors?!?! I had to be present because I'm BLACK?"

"Honey, you had to show up because you're a kid."

"Oh. Because back in the day, blacks were called minors."

"Ummmm. No. My-nor-eh-TEES."

"Does that mean I'm a minority minor?"

Will the missing real mother of this child please stand up?

Family courts gone wild.

The family court system of these United States is a hot hellah mess.

The wheels keep spinning and the money keeps flying as the courts and lawyers come out the only winners in Divorce and Child Custody Gone Wild.

One man, The Angry Dad, chronicles his run-through-hell as he battles to share his children with his ex-wife. He names names and takes no prisoners when calling out the guilty - from the judge, to the lawyers, and even the social worker assigned to prove how abusive he is for doing things like.... like.... not buying the children a dog.

Allegations against The Angry Dad include his refusal to buy the kids a dog (who's gonna take care of the mutt between visits????) and his use of an alarm clock to wake the kids in the morning (well what the heck do YOU use to get up? Does the Pope come and whisper in your ear?)

Oh yeah. There was also a complaint about a recent grocery store visit. Apparently, the kids wanted a snack that he didn't buy. After itemizing his actual purchases that day, he had a healthy balance of nutrition (e.g. vegetables) and snack food.

In other words, lawyers and court appointed bots are making a killing on trying to take this guys kids. The money. Oh God the money he's spent. And the jaw-dropping pettiness of the allegations. Unreal. Go read for yourself.

I know. I know. You can't believe everything you read on the internet. But I'll say this:

1. I've been following this man's story for a long time.
   
   
2. He's quite liberal with names and locations which can be  validated.
   
   
3. And even if not a word is true, his story mirrors the truckloads of similar testimonies from frustrated fathers who want amicable divorces and subsequent shared parenting.

My sweetheart is on the list of fathers wounded by the family court system. I want to give a shot out to Just Another Disenfranchised Father, who authors the first blog that I ever read about this issue. I must flip a quick nod to Glen Sacks. Glen is fortunate enough to have his wife and children close by, but he's a tireless advocate for the men who don't.

Have you been on either side of a family court nightmare? Looking back, did the system help fuel the contention?

Zealous Pre-Nuptial Planning

What happens when a billionaire father gets a bee in his bonnet about his daughter's pre-nuptial agreement?

A Hot Rich-Folk Mess.

Alexandra Fisher, the lawyer-daughter of hotel tycoon Jeff Fisher, didn't make it to the altar after her father bellowed an 11th-hour objection to the pre-nuptial agreement.

Alexandra and her beau Josh Bailer had already signed a pre-nup. Both were happy to decline alimony if the marriage ended in divorce. And why not? Neither side of the family suffers from linty pockets, and the bride has the edge.

Although the groom has a cushy job as a Wall Street trader, he can't touch the bride's combined wealth as a lawyer in line for a booyah inheritance from daddy's hotel fortune. Seems reasonable...

...but billionaire-daddy will have none of it. Although Alexandra is a lawyer and set to inherit a ka-jillion dollars, Father Fantastic insists that his daughter receive alimony in the event of a divorce.

Last year Daddy reportedly sold his Innkeepers hotel chain for  nearly £1 billion. (If he's so worried about his daughter's future, he could pop a cool £100 million into a Daddy's-Girl trust fund.)

Apparently, the wedding guests partied in separate hotels and the would-be couple flew home on separate flights.

Verily Verily I Say to Young Women - Get it Together Now While You Have Life, Love and Youth Ahead of You

Rambo Feminism (as I call it) doesn't always liberate women. In this essay, one woman discovers unfortunate and potentially life-altering blemishes on the underbelly of the "feminist" movement. Originally posted by kellymac:

A Middle-Aged Princess Grows Up.

On the cusp of my 45th birthday, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. It wasn’t the bathroom mirror, it was a photo I had from graduate school. I looked at myself 20 years ago and had a startling and clear epiphany. It wasn’t a happy moment. It was a terribly sad moment. It was so sad that I involuntarily burst into tears, something I haven’t done since the dark days of my divorce.

I looked at the photo and came to the conclusion that I had made a real mess of my life. I felt the utter misery of my life come in waves of sadness, regret, anger, and loneliness. For almost an hour I cried as I looked at the photo of a younger me. I was 24 with a fresh MBA from an excellent school. I was eager to conquer the business world. I was eager to prove that women could do anything. I was so much thinner. My clothes looked stylish, almost sexy. Of course the hair style was awful but that was the 80s and such styles could be forgiven. I saw the brightness in my eyes, the sparkle of life, of the great opportunities that were open to me. The world was there for my taking and I was ready.

But somehow, some way, it never came to be. My life evolved into something painful and difficult. But until that moment when I looked at my photo from over two decades ago, I always blamed someone else. It was never my fault for the bad decisions I made. Typically, it was the fault of men - my father, my boyfriends, my husband, my boss, my sons. Never, ever was it something that I had done. When I commiserated with my women friends, they always supported me. They even supported me when I had my affair, telling me that my husband was not giving me the attention that I needed. I read the women’s magazines and every article was about how women were always strong, intelligent, morally righteous, unable to make bad decisions. Worse, I believed that any of my needs, no matter how frivolous, no matter how many times I changed my mind, no matter how miserable I made the men in my life feel, were more important than anything - motherhood, career advancement, a healthy marriage, whatever.

I hate the world for teaching me those lessons. I remember complaining about how my husband never grew up. But as the tears streamed down my face, I came to the conclusion that I had never grown up. I never learned about compromise, trust, tolerance, niceness. I was a bitch, pure and simple. I know now that being a bitch is not about strength or independence. Being a bitch is about being repellent, unpleasant, unhappy, and lonely. Being a bitch is nothing more than being a spoiled princess who is too selfish or stupid to accept the joy in life.

I had become a fat, unpleasant, middle-aged princess because I had refused to grow up. Sure, I had taken on grown-up responsibilities (marriage, career, house, motherhood) but at the core of my psyche was a 13-year-old girl who stamped her feet and whined when she didn’t get her way. Of course, I had stopped whining years ago but I simply replaced the whining with emotional manipulation and ornery bitchiness. No wonder I was still single and my two teenaged sons spent all their free time with their father.

When I was growing up, being a dilettante feminist, I swallowed the standard line that women can have it all. I wanted it all and I wanted to make no compromises, to assume no sacrifices, and to feel completely validated in all of my lifestyle choices. The biggest mistake in my late teens and early 20s was to let other women - women whom I thought to be strong, independent, and intelligent - determine which lifestyle I was to follow. I was simply too spoiled and lazy to look inward, to embrace the kind of introspection necessary to find one’s own path in life, the path that could lead to real fulfillment and happiness.

I remember college well. It was a fun time and I thought, at the time, an enlightening time. The parties were exciting, the political debates intense, the string of boyfriends and casual sexual encounters pleasant. I studied hard and I played hard. I attended the campus feminist meetings and listened to diatribes from sturdy and self-righteous peers about the evils of masculinity. I learned to scorn men when I didn’t need them for selfish reasons - study partners, shoulders to cry on, willing sexual partners. But I was never hesitant to bat my eyelashes or let my skirt ride up on my then-slender thighs if I needed something from a man. Men were handy to have around occasionally, but certainly not required, as my female peers kept insisting.

Leaving Home

I had a completely different topic planned for today. My "L" topic was set to examine Cornell West's assertion that Love and Service are the superior credentials for curing corrupt and ineffective leadership.

But alas, I read the following comment at another blog about the influx of Section 8 housing into [formerly] good black neighborhoods. I flooded with emotion over my current living situation. The excerpt:

Whites uniformly resisted the influx of these persons into their areas (the “not in my backyard” syndrome). Most Black politicians (at least in my area) supported these programs out of solidarity with our less-fortunate brethren. Unfortunately, the Black politicians failed to consider what the unlimited influx of this population would do to previously stable and decent Black communities. Decent Blacks also failed to think this through in terms of demographics and quality of life. Most of us were naive and wanted to help our brothers and sisters. The few Blacks that were wise enough to predict what would happen were loudly denounced as Black bourgeousie snobs.

It turned out that the so-called snobs were right: The Section 8 people brought their crime and chaos with them, and destroyed the quality of life in previously thriving communities.

The Section 8 fiasco (or conspiracy depending upon your point of view) is only part one of this situation. Part two is gentrification. Here’s how this has played out:

After the Section 8 recipients overrun and destroy viable Black neighborhoods, the property values go way down. By that point, most Black middle-class residents have been driven out by the crime.

Entire comment can be read here: [Source]

The author of the comment was responding to an issue of race relations in the U.S. But on this day, in this moment, I can only digest this in terms of my family.

So here I am. Living in a neighborhood for 8 years and watching it decline for at least the past 6. I've observed how the Section 8 element has taken over the quality of life - everywhere from destroying the physical beauty of the townhouse fronts (think ghetto), to selling drugs, to jump-starting a gang lifestyle.

One of the local thugs recently took aim at my son. Both boys are the same age, but Baby Huey outweighs my son by about 6 inches and 100 pounds. And of course, Huey the Hell Hound perpetrated the near-assault while surrounded by a group of children.

I promptly called the police to handle the situation and followed with a visit to the local high school. I found myself crying that I haven't been able to provide a better environment for my sons to grow in.

For the past few years, I battled myself over a decision to join the community Board to help affect change. But at what cost would I work to change the minds of the hopelessly lost who are taking over my neighborhood?

My neighbors don't care enough about themselves to stop throwing dirty diapers on the ground. Garbage often surrounds the dumpsters as people don't dare reach the additional inch to keep the ground clean. Imagine the bugs and odor during the summer months. The garbage was so thick on one occasion that I took pictures.

The Board removed the swimming pool and tennis court around the time I moved in. Lack of respect by the residents ruined these luxuries for all of us.

My spark to join the Board for change was renewed after hearing about how a nearby townhouse community almost completely eradicated numerous problems after banning Section 8. And at this point, spearheading an effort to banish Section 8 remains the only good reason to participate on my neighborhood Board.

I find myself doing things that I don't ordinarily do. Emotionally exhausted, I go to sleep earlier, like I'm hiding my head under the blankets. I watch ungodly amounts of television, disappearing into the fictional lives of my favorite characters. And the biggest change yet, I find myself playing the lottery with hopes of skipping the 3-year savings plan in favor of quick money for a quicker move.

None of this is productive. And I'm disappointed in myself.

Frustrated with my inability to afford a move and sad that my credit hinders freedom of movement, I return to my townhouse daily with one hope - that soon I'll be Leaving Home.

And I Forgot to Mention...

I forgot to mention something for those of you who read about my "interesting" but beautiful Mothers' Day.

Upon arriving at our table, V noticed that my 7-year old son hadn't told my mother "Happy Mothers' Day." He looked at my son, and said, "R, did you tell your mom-mom Happy Mothers' Day? Make sure you walk over and tell her now." I chimed in agreement since we were all there to celebrate the two women at the table.

Somehow, my mother took that as a bad thing. She made a negative comment directed at V for that. And I clearly remember that was the moment when V's face fell. Inside the hurt look, I saw the familiar look of "I can't win."

But since life is more than the sum of trials we face, I want to share an email about "Threes" that my lovely daughter sent to me:

Three things in life that, once gone, never come back:
1. Time
2. Words
3. Opportunity

Three things in life that can destroy a person:
1. Anger
2. Pride
3. Unforgiveness

Three things in life that you should never lose:
1. Hope
2. Peace
3. Honesty

Three things in life that are most valuable:
1. Love
2. Family & Friends
3. Kindness

Three things in life that are never certain:
1. Fortune
2. Success
3. Dreams

Three things that make a person:
1. Commitment
2. Sincerity
3. Hard work

Three things that are truly constant:
Father - Son - Holy Spirit

I ask the Lord to bless you, as I pray for you today; to guide you and protect you, as you go along your way. God 's love is always with you, God's promises are true. And when you give God all your cares, you know God will see you through.