MASCULINE: A GAY MANS STRUGGLE

-M A S C U L I N I T Y-

Imagine being a boy. Imagine liking other boys. Imagine that as far as you can see, there is no one else like you. Imagine all the other boys liking girls. Imagine how you feel as you realize that who you want, you simply cannot have. Then imagine being told that what you want, is wrong. Imagine being told by your teachers and parents that a boy plays sports. Imagine you hate sports. Imagine kicking the soccer ball into the wrong goal. Imagine being teased every day. Imagine trying to fit in by being more of a "boy" and trying to hide your lisp, all through grade school. Imagine talking to your friends with your hands in your pockets to ensure they won't move in a feminine way, as you talk. Imagine an older boy kissing you. Imagine the next day, and how invisible he makes you feel by not acknowledging you in front of his buddies. Imagine this happening over and over again. Imagine being gay.

What a difference a summer made. Courtney & I in the background? LOL

Every gay boy has his first crush, and it's almost always on a boy who is on the path to heterosexuality. I remember mine like it was yesterday. He was the only perk in the Hell that was middle school. It was the first day of sixth grade and there was something noticeably different about most of the boys. Many of them had grown an inch over the summer, while others, proudly showcased dirt above their upper lip. There was one boy in particular, who seemed a lot different. I recall the adrenaline rush as well as my nervousness around him. Damn....His voice, deeper. His eyes, sharper. His chest, harder. However, none of those attributes competed with the wet dream that were his lips. So red, so wet, so full for a white boy.
And when he smiled...
God that smile... 

His name was Ryan Francis. 

I went to an all boys private school. It was a recipe for disaster as I entered middle school and started to enjoy the locker room. (Besides the smell) Everyone started talking about girls around sixth grade, well, almost everyone. There was Courtney, yea, he and I would discuss the latest developments on Dawson's Creek. I didn't know it then, but now I realize why he and I clicked. 

Ryan probably looks like this guy today, at least in my head

I remember, the way I felt around Ryan, especially in phys ed. To watch him on the basketball court, to see his chiseled arms in the locker room. To gaze into his grey eyes in English class, then quickly look away. I noticed the way his straight, dark brown hair, would flirt with his eyebrows. When he laughed, I always dropped my pencil, because my hand would start to shake. It was overkill, how his dimples sat in that olive toned, smooth skin. I loved how he and the other jocks would run around with those lacrosse sticks.
I knew it then, at age eleven and a half, that I liked boys. Not only that, I knew what kind of boys I liked. You see, I wasn't too attracted to Courtney, he was too, well, too much like me. I liked him as a friend. Who else would talk to me about Katie Holmes and that horrid dress she wore on the finale? To those who claim we aren't born this way, let me be a testimony. 

It seems that in the gay world, the desired poster boys are hand delivered from the straight world. You know, it's either the hot White jock or the big bad Black thug. (A lot of White men enjoy the fetishism of the Black man but that's another blog entry.)
Society holds the sweaty super hero with a cape high on a pedestal. Batman and Superman are what we see on TV growing up. Just like heterosexual girls, we are subliminally told that this is what is desirable. This is masculine, this is desirable, therefore this is what you as a gay man will strive to be and what you will desire from others. As far as gay men in my generation, we didn't grow up knowing gay was even normal. We certainly didn't see hot openly gay men on the covers of magazines. We didn't see the Prince kissing another Prince in a Disney movie. We grew up in a heterosexual world, lusting after the boys that the heterosexual world put on pedestals for the heterosexual women.

Programming: The baby-faced alpha male

For me, I unfortunately grew up with boy bands like The Backstreet Boys. They were the symbols of what was hot. So in the gay community, similar images popped up, such as semi-muscled twink types with baby faces. Then there was L.L. Cool J, a hot and tempting bald headed Black man who licked his lips and made panties wet with his almond shaped, bedroom eyes. It was no surprise that for the Black gay community, their symbols of sexy consisted of masculine, thugged out and cocky men who were bad but so smooth with it. (Hand delivered from Black Entertainment Television) There weren't a lot, if any, images close to what my softer, chubby friend Courtney looked like when I was a kid. Nothing against him, it's just that I didn't have any reason to wet dream about anything other than what I was exposed to. You know, the macho models with the chiseled abs on the underwear packets my mom bought for me. I loved when my mom bought me new underwear. #LOVED.

I digressed. Sorry.

It was no surprise that the first males I was attracted to were heterosexual. Sorry Boys Scouts of America, but I was attracted to my troop leaders son, Garrett Wilson. (Call me) Like most gays, I grew up surrounded by a different world. I was a palm tree in a forest of pines. Being the minority and not finding Courtney to my liking, the frustration only mounted. I grew up being told that boys play sports, boys like girls and boys don't use the word "honey" unless they are talking about the stuff bees make. (I called my female teacher "HONEY" and my eleven year old self was sent to the head masters office)
Let's just say that I frequently went home with a letter for my parents to sign. SMH

"DON'T CALL ME HONEY!!!! TO THE PRINCIPALS OFFICE NOW!!!!"

I grew surrounded by what I thought boys were suppose to be like. My classmates played lacrosse and danced with girls at the mixers. This standard was often reiterated by my father, who was a big scary Methodist preacher. So I tried to be what I thought boys were suppose to be. In the process, I hung around a lot of these, "normal" boys and became attracted to them, because after all, they were what I was exposed to. I didn't have a lot of gays around me in high school, I was outnumbered by all the straights. If there were gays around me, I didn't know, because most of them didn't want anyone to know. Naturally, I began to be attracted to the heterosexual male. Not only that, I followed the social norm of being a "boy" and I wore the FUBU, the Timberlands, the Rockawear, the hoody. My mother always reminded me, "This is what the boys are wearing these days." I never wanted to wear what she bought, but I knew I had to. She was a school teacher so she knew what got kids teased. I lived in fear every day of my life. Fear of who I was.

I practiced my trade walk and mean mug in the mirror at home. It was tiresome, because I never got it right. The "switch" of my hips would reappear no matter how rehearsed I was. Masculinity was of utmost importance in the world I existed in, especially in my urban neighborhood. The boys on the block would tease me. You couldn't switch up and down the street if you wanted to go home safely every day. I couldn't be myself. I started to hate myself and beyond that, I hated the guys who I thought I was attracted to. 

One would assume that my White private school and the Black urban neighborhood I lived in were a paradox. They weren't. They both hated who I was and dictated that I was to become someone else. I felt no safer at school than I was in my front yard. I was harassed by the older kids in the locker room at school, and chased down the street in my neighborhood. Masculinity was a means of survival.

Sorry Dawson, "No Fats, No Fems" Aww don't cry

As I went through college, It became a game of finding the downlow trade. I found myself wooed by what I couldn't have. When dealing with the clubs and gay websites, it seemed that "No Fats, No Fems" was a tagline. I often wondered what a rainbow had to do with the gay community, especially since the masculine male was the only thing that got any praise. I had grown to like the alpha male, the "unclockable" male who seems straight but really isn't. That never worked out well because the hot guy on the promenade didn't wink at me, though I swore he did. He was looking at the female behind me, and I blushed for no reason. Guys like him, even if he DID fuck me, wouldn't acknowledge me if he passed me the next day. I damn for sure wasn't allowed to acknowledge him. It didn't matter how beautifully my locks blew in the Atlanta wind, I wasn't a female so his frat brothers had to believe the lie. The lie that I was a stranger to him, never in his bed. So I put masculine guys on a pedestal while they put me in a closet. Where they do that at? EARTH. Even after the humiliation of being invisible after these "downlow" encounters, the challenge, the chase, captivated me. 

But why? 

Dennis Rodman: "DOWNLOW? Yall still doing that?!"

Why was I so attracted to these so-called masculine men who clearly didn't even love THEMSELVES?

I didn't know it then, but I was attracted to my own self hatred. I was spoon fed expectations and those expectations became qualities that I forced on my partners. 

As I roared through my twenties I SLOWLY opened my eyes and finally realized that the Ryan's of the world are simply unattainable. I put down the act, let the lisp go wild and I traded unavailable lacrosse jocks in for conversations about dramas. Don't get me wrong, a hot jock with a lacrosse stick will always get my corn to pop, but it's not all that I am after. I give the Courtney's of the world a chance now, because after all, a boy needs his pillow talk.

Clarity only comes after a blurry cloud of confusion. I lived many years lost in a society that told me who to be, what to like and what to hide. I know now that manhood is expressed in many ways. One doesn't have to dress up in it, if they already have it between their legs. I know who I am now, and this is my version of manhood. Hate it or love it, I am skipping my way down the yellow brick road to the beat of my own drum. Alongside me, Courtney. Because why strive for the Ryan's of Emerald City, when you can have Courtney who has been riding with you, all along.

ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE

It's your birthday.

Truth be told, you've blown out too many candles

You aren't excited about getting any older

It feels the same.

Though you appear nonchalant

You actually do care.

You care about other people caring...

About your birthday,

Of which you care nothing about.

You wait for the phone calls. You stare at your Facebook notifications.

You want to see that red square with a high number within it. 

Just like when you were a kid, you like this day, because it makes you feel special.

It makes you feel popular.

You want people to show up. You want to be the center of attention for a change.

You want to be rewarded for simply being alive. 

But as you've gotten older, the rewards decrease. Your friends start to have excuses. They can't find a babysitter. They have a 5 p.m. meeting and can't make it for cocktails. You aren't blowing out any candles, because no one bought you a cake. At work, your coworkers present you with a grocery store cupcake. It has a candle stuck in it. They sing happy birthday. 

You can't help but think...

These people are just trying to be nice. They are just following formalities. They don't even know what city I was born in. They never even call to say hello. They walk away when I approach the water cooler.

This has turned into the loneliest day of your life. You just want to feel special, not patronized.

You want to be reassured, that it's a great thing to enter another year of life. After all, there are people around you who know you exist and who want you to continue to exist.

But you aren't even sure that your so-called friends remember your birthday. 

You glance over your text messages as you sit at the bar alone. You wait for a coworker who was nice enough to do happy hour with you for your birthday. They never show up when you invite them out, but this time, they do. They show up because it's your birthday, and they feel that they have to. They show up ten minutes late with a forced smile. The bartender wishes you a happy birthday after your coworker mentions it. 

The bartender offers you a free chocolate cake for desert. 

For thirty years of life, you are only worth a piece of a chocolate cake? 

I wonder what forty will bring. 

Joyce Vincent, Dead 3 years...

Joyce Vincent, was a thirty-eight year old woman, who was found dead in her United Kingdom apartment in 2006. The only thing strange about it, was that she had been dead for over three years. The television was on, and she was surrounded by Christmas gifts that she planned to wrap. Christmas gifts for friends who never even bothered to check on her, for some three years while she lay dead. 

She was a beautiful Black woman. She had an amazing singing voice, had rubbed elbows with celebrities and was engaged to be married. No matter how beautiful and statuesque she was, she still couldn't convince people that her existence mattered. 

You see, Joyce could be any of us. Rich or poor, average or supermodel, we all get lonely. When we were kids, we assumed that life would be full of lively birthday parties. We thought, if mommy loves me, then surely the world does too. Well, high school arrived. We ate the apple and the fig leaf fluttered to the ground. We soon learned, that the friends we thought we had, moved on to a new identity. We discovered that birthday parties were no longer about us. People came to your party based on who was going to be there. You became an afterthought, sometimes not even a thought at all. 

Did someone really buy me a bottle of wine? Everyone knows I don't drink wine.

I guess everyone doesn't know, huh?

Wait, are they drinking the wine they bought for me as a gift? 

Do I have to force drink this wine?

When you left the comfort of home, where wall markings celebrated every inch grown, the world slowly became darker. People fail to notice your new highlights and no one keeps track of your height. So you parade yourself around, hoping to be seen. You go to house parties but unlike the childhood slumber parties of yesteryear, your friends have replaced you with alcohol and erections. 

No one is there to laugh with you, they are there to get drunk and to get laid. 

Formal dinner parties are just awkward. Everyone talks about their careers and your underwear keep riding up your ass. The conversations seem to be rehearsed and you'd rather be in bed watching Parks and Recreation. Instead, you are here, pretending to like her tilapia and tolerating your neighbors pretentious husband. Yes, to be a popular adult, you need to be fake. You need to tolerate. 

As you get older, your birthday means less to your friends, so it means less to you.

They become more interested in the party, than the person blowing out the candles. 

It seems that every year, the faces change around the cake. People aren't as consistent as they once were. 

You can't remember the last time these idiots sat with you on a couch, yet here they are...

With their smart phones taking photos of you for Facebook. 

It seems that social media has become you. This is where you hang out. Mary never responded to my text but I know where to find her. She's on Instagram in front of a mirror. She's more interested in the comments of strangers than remembering to wish you a happy birthday. 

She says to you on Twitter,

"Sorry, I've been swamped with work, but we are hanging out this weekend! Drinks on me!"

You wonder, why couldn't this bitch just call me? 

Come to think of it, no one ever calls you. When they do, they are lost some where and need directions or they have some hot gossip that they just have to tell you.

You could be bleeding out of your rectum, but they never ask how you are doing. They really need to tell you who they saw in the public bathroom. You don't care about the story. You don't even care about the man or woman lying next to you in your bed.

Why did I invite them over? I wasn't even horny. 

You just wanted to feel a warm body. Your apartment seemed lonely. It was just you and Nancy Grace. You and the cat who only looks at you when it wants to be fed. 

Another meaningless hookup and another phone call from someone who has a lot to say, but says nothing at all. 

You are lonely and you don't realize it. 

When you're in a crowded bar, you are lonely. It doesn't matter how many guys hit on you. 

Or how many women laugh at your corny jokes. You just don't feel that camaraderie anymore. The spark isn't there. The familiarity is gone, replaced with acquaintances with busy schedules and an intoxicated interest in your casual conversation. 

When you go to one of your friends housewarmings, you are lonely.

Everyone is so celebratory about their new home, but you don't give a damn. It's not your home. Your friend seems happy to see you but they only stayed at your birthday dinner for twenty minutes. They brought a date who you knew nothing about and now here you are, at their new home, staring at their fiance. 

There are so many new developments, that haven't been explained before hand.

You used to talk about everything together. Now you're awkwardly introduced as the best friend as you notice the absence of your picture any where in the apartment. His photos, however, are everywhere. At least he has a firm handshake. 

Fuck adulthood. People seem to come and go. When they are around, they don't even seem to be there. It's like you have to put on a show just to get someone to show up for the next act. It seems everyone is competing for each others attention, yet they are unaware of an Alexander Graham Bell invention. They are all comedians, philosophers and rebels on a website that makes them all feel important.

Every morning, you wake up with your pillow and you ask yourself, 

"If I didn't wake up, would anyone care to notice?"

You buy all the nice clothes to be noticed. You buy all the gadgets to feel connected. But all anyone notices is the clothes, not you. All you are connected to is web identities with short attention spans.

What happened to the bar where everyone knows your name? What happened to the coffee shop poets? Now it's just latte linguistics. 

There are no friends at Starbucks. Just lonely people on their laptops and tablets, feigning romance with hot overpriced drinks with fancy names.

We live in a world of make believe. We convince ourselves that we are popular because twelve people liked a status about the Seahawks. Sure people think you are funny because they said "LMAO" after one of your text messages. Would they be reeling in laughter had you said this in person? 

None of it is genuine. 

You go to work alone. So you turn on the radio or pop in your favorite CD. 

Maybe you ride the subway and you're surrounded by tons of people, the same people everyday, but you never talk to any of them. Your Ipod prevents you.

We are lonely by choice. 

Who would approach you while you're preoccupied with your touch screen?

The thing is, we are afraid to admit that we are indeed lonely. We are billions of lonely people, pretending to be popular with billions of other lonely people who are doing the same thing. 

You blow out the candles, everyone is clapping, even your sister who you've never seen eye to eye with. 

For that moment, you feel loved. You can't wait to upload the photos they took. People will see, that you are not lonely. That people showed up for you. 

You stare at the photo while you lay in bed. You read the comments from people who never showed up for your birthday because they were too busy. The people who were at the party, don't call you the next day. They don't hang out with you the next weekend.

The bartender doesn't remember you, but you remember how stale that chocolate cake tasted. 

Your sixty-five year old mother gives you a hug, she whispers to you,

Happy Birthday baby.

A tear falls from your eye as flashbacks of pizza and pointy hats fill your mind. 

When she dies, who will wish you a happy birthday like this?

All the lonely people

Where do they all come from? 

THE GAY THINGS, STRAIGHT MEN DO

FOOTBALL

Not long ago, I chilled with a straight guy named Rob, at his bachelors pad. We played beer pong, watched college football and took turns burping. To be honest, I don't give a fuck about football, but the homo eroticism is better than a wam-bam casual encounter from Craigslist. To sit next to a hot, six foot, muscular jock on a couch, while he talks about fucking women.... Is simply divine! Have you ever noticed that football makes straight guys horny? They usually end up fucking their girlfriends or wives after their favorite team wins. I always enjoy being in the room while these heterosexuals get all juiced up over grown men tackling each other over a big hard ball. Sex never happens, the self torture hurts, but the jack off session later is worth it. Wait, I digressed. Sorry.

The straight mans Broadway

Beer pong is fun and burping without saying "excuse me" can be liberating. There is something intimate about guys getting together to watch football. In all actuality, all we are doing is watching a bunch of guys in skin tight pants tackling each other and showing off their bulges. What's even more interesting, is the fact that guys wear the jerseys of their football idols; They passionately cheer them on in their manly way with their buds. Grown men wearing the numbers of their idols, in a room full of other excited guys, where man hugs are exchanged when touchdowns are made... 

Football is extremely gay, both on the field and around the plasma screen. Sports in general promotes a very intimate male camaraderie, but football takes the cake, with its shirtless super fans and man cave tight end watch parties. As a grown man bends over and throws a big brown ball between his legs, millions of other grown men watch that tight ass in HIGH DEFINITION.
And after those Ravens win or lose that game, they hit the showers
Yes, I WILL RSVP THE SUPER BOWL PARTY! 
HELL. THE. FUCK. YES. 

GANGBANG/BUKKAKE

Quiet as it's kept, I've always enjoyed so-called straight porn more than gay porn. Nothing like Belladona getting gang-banged by a bunch of horny prisoners. The male porn star Brian Pumper loves to gang-bang chicks with other guys, one dick in the pussy and the other one in the ass. How gay is that? Two sets of balls slap against each other while they aggressively fuck a big breasted bimbo. Then there's bukkake, which is a bunch of so-called straight guys, standing in a circle, masturbating on a female. You mean to tell me there is nothing gay about a guy standing in front of other guys, jacking off? I don't care how many vagina's are in the room!

Oh the gay things heterosexual men do. 

Lovin' the Crew

When I was a teenager, I would hangout with a lot of straight black guys. It was as if they could only have sex with a girl, if other guys were around. One time they were adamant about fucking some Ethiopian slut in the backseat of my Toyota Corolla. Does fucking a subservient girl with other guys make them feel more dominant? Or is it an excuse to get their rocks off with other guys? I may be mistaken but it seems like the act of gang bang is more prevalent in the black community. Young black men grow up in a hip hop culture where it is deemed "cool" to fuck a girl in the ass. Cool to get a girl who enjoys "LOVING THE CREW" which basically is the act of getting fucked by a guy and all his homies. My question is, if you are already fucking in the ass and already in a room full of other naked dudes with erections, why not fuck a guy in the ass?
I speak for myself, but as a gay man, I could certainly get my rocks off in a gang-bang on a girl if I were surrounded by hot guys with big hard dicks. (Especially if they cheered me on in the way in which they watch football.)
Don't start feeling too sexy ladies, they may be more into each other than they are into you.

JESUS

As a preachers kid I have always found myself surrounded by a shirtless buff White man on a cross, and I found myself strangely turned on by Jesus's six pack.
A bunch of grown men in robes crying, screaming and doing everything but busting nuts over a sexy White man who enjoyed getting his feet washed by twelve groupies is very gay.
This may come across controversial but people take religion way too seriously anyway.
Take a step back and look at the flaming queen on the pulpit, twirling around in a robe, confessing his love for a White male carpenter.
Straight men seem to love getting excited over another man, Whether it be Ray Lewis or Jesus.
"I've got the baddest bitch in the game, wearing my chain!" That's right, Jesus has all these bad male bitches wearing His chain, even if it is technically a graven image.
Holy Communion is the most gay of all, especially in the Catholic and Episcopal churches.
All the men dressed up in their Sunday's best, line up to get a chance to get on their knees and get a wafer fed to them by a grown man in a robe. I often wonder if those priests go commando. I digress.

Aint this some gay shit...

They take those wafers with their tongues and they sip the wine from the chalice with their eyes closed.
Vatican controversy aside, there is a lot of gayness in a religion that claims being gay is an abomination.
So while the straight men sing, play tambourines and idolize powerful men in a Bible absent of powerful women, I'll be jacking off to Michelangelo's David.

FRATERNITIES 

Do I really need to explain this?

This video will do the talking.

I went to a historically Black college, Clark Atlanta University, and let me tell you, the Que's stepping on the yard sometimes got confused with gay porn. Nothing but big burly shirtless black men jumping up and down with their ass cracks showing.

A fraternity is the gayest thing known to man. Look at it in it's entirety.
Once again, straight men love to idolize other men. In a fraternity, they will get themselves branded by other men in a room full of shirtless screaming men. They will do anything for their "brothers" and they often go on retreats for the rest of their lives to a secret location with their brothers. No women allowed.
The fraternal order is male bonding at it's finest. They dance together, scream together and did I mention, they get naked together?
My father told me that during hazing for his fraternity, they would tie a string around your dick and see how much pain you can take.
The fact that a grown man will do ANYTHING to be apart of an orgy of manhood is very homo erotic.
Have you noticed how fraternities are always doing something SHIRTLESS?
Bare chested young men with a passion for male camaraderie is a common theme in the lives of the heterosexual male.

IS BEYONCE A FEMINIST?

For millions around the world, the name, "BEYONCE" evokes an image of the most powerful female entertainer in the world.

You may even think of more than one woman; A cinematic daydream of a revolution of women "running the world", through the inspiration of this one, independent woman.

Me personally, I think of a victim of the entertainment industry with an identity crisis. A woman who never had a childhood. A lonely superstar who has never had a true friend outside of the industry. An illusion of feminism concocted by male puppet masters.

VIDEO: Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, the African writer featured on "Flawless"

I think of a colossal mismatch of messages. One minute girls run the world, the next minute...
She's simply, "Mrs. Carter"
If you're not just "his little wife" then maybe you shouldn't have changed your last name.

In this blog I will tackle the question which isn't suppose to have an answer.

Is Beyonce a feminist?

Wait, do we even know what a feminist is?

According to Merriam-Webster, feminism is the theory of the political, economic and social equality of the sexes. It is the organized activity on the behalf of women's rights. 

I will start off by addressing my admiration of this survivor of the cut-throat slaughter house that is the music industry. I commend Beyonce for being head strong and taking her own career by the reigns. She's been able to do things most men haven't been able to do. She's got her hands in many pots and created a new word for the dictionary. She's expressed her sexuality in the ways of a man and never settled in the role of the blonde bimbo who waits for a man to jack off to her. She takes the lead, calls the shots and commands the man to dance with her. She's bound together millions of women and gay men alike in a movement of self realization and retaliation against a "man's world."

But does all of this make her a feminist? Or is she actually just a tragic story of a muzzled recording artist, dressed up like a fire starter?

But where are her degrees?

Is she a hypocrite? Does she want women to bow down to her while saying that women to run the world?

You decide.

It's Friday the 13th. Everyone is already feeling a bit uneasy. What do I buy these people for the holidays? Will I get a bonus this year? Is there going to be black ice on the road on my commute to work? Will I have bad luck today? And then she hit us.

Beyonce surprised the world of zombies with her midnight iTunes only album release. Not just an album, seventeen accompanying music videos. Not just music videos, HIGH BUDGET videos with guest stars, special effects and dialogue.

VIDEO: My video version of this blog featuring "Yonce"

Cynical as I always am, I actually enjoyed most of this new body of work, including the videos. I was entranced by her, from the ratchet rhymes to the emotional ballads. It seems that Beyonce has crossed into a new dimension, a deeper identity of which she is willing to share with the world. No more robotic pop star who hides from lyrics too personal. She's giving us MARY J BLIGE, telling us the 411. Who knew that Jay Z skeeted on her gown on the way to a club in the car? Who knew Beyonce didn't feel "pretty"? What was really shocking to me, was when she expressed, though briefly, her feelings about the crooked record labels. With all of this, there seemed to be a conscious effort to appear vulnerable, but most of all, a voice for women. Beyonce always waved the flag of Girl Power with hits like RUN THE WORLD, SINGLE LADIES, INDEPENDENT WOMEN and IRREPLACEABLE. However, now she's taken it to another level by asking "bitches" to bow down, then telling them that they can do anything a man can do. The voice of an African feminist writer seems a bit odd on a Beyonce record. Is Beyonce truly finding herself in her music or is she just becoming more confusing to the masses? One minute she's "Flawless" with a bunch of White grunge trouble makers, the next, she's feeling unpretty like TLC???

She commands women to bow down to her while asking them to empower themselves? It's a lot to take in. WHO ARE THESE WOMEN WRAPPED UP IN THE NAME BEYONCE? WHOEVER THEY ARE, I REALLY LIKE ALL OF THEM!!! It's funny when you step back from Beyonce, you see a beautiful mess, or should I call it, a "Beautiful Nightmare." When you're wrapped up in her beautiful voice and sexy body, you forget to look at the bigger picture, WHAT IS HER OVERALL MESSAGE HERE? Are you a feminist?

Or an egoist?

FEMINISM OR EGOISM?

MATERIALISM is the new FEMINISM?

She's already stated that she's got a big ego, with the help of Kanye West, the self-proclaimed douchebag. Is her message that she's a bad bitch so keep making her rich? Or does she represent women who need to be uplifted? She doesn't appear to be humble, she doesn't appear to strive for anything other than material wealth, so how organic is her "feminist" position? If your idea of measuring up to a man is the accumulation of wealth, then I feel sorry for you actually. It's progressive to not need a man for money, but didn't you and your backup dancers beg a man to "PAY YOUR BILLS" back in the day? Maybe you've matured, no wait, you haven't. In "UPGRADE U" she merely speaks of Hermes briefcases and expensive cars when it comes to upgrading a man.
Why can't you upgrade a man to get beyond materialism in the journey toward humility? Why does a woman need to become rich in order to be heard or valued? Why does a woman need to be "Flawless" in order to "look good"? That's what she said in her song "Flawless"....You know, the same song where she opens up asking women to BOW DOWN. Sorry, not women, "BITCHES". I mean, the African writer, Chimamanga Ngozi Adichie, who talks about the struggles of the woman on the Beyonce track "Flawless", seems random and almost like lipstick on a pig. What the fuck does feminism have to do with being flawless? It's not like Beyonce was talking about inner peace and happiness, she spoke of her physical appearance.

PARTITION: Is this what a feminist looks like in 2014?

I thought a woman was more than her figure, more than what a man deems important. You said that "Pretty Hurts" but place extra attention on your looks in other songs. You behave like a stripper with other scantily clad women in the "Partition" video while your surveying husband smokes a cigar with an erection. Every time you talk about your BIG EGO it's because of your financial success and body? Not because of your character or ability to break down barriers? Merely becoming a millionaire isn't breaking down any barriers as Janet Jackson, Mariah Carey, Madonna, Cher, and many before you have already done that honey. I'm not a hater, I'm just confused.

Don't get me wrong, I respect her hustle. I respect a woman getting money. I understand that men think to get women they need to impress them with diamonds, but if Beyonce already has her own rock, then it's implied that they need to impress with their soul. But when she met Jay Z, he made way more money than her and she wasn't as big of a super star. Actually, she left her high school sweetheart for rich rapper Jay Z.

If Beyonce is to sample snippets of the great thinker, Chimamanda Adichie, whose speech touched on gender roles, then maybe Beyonce needs to be an example of resistance rather than a regurgitation. In "Cater to You" by Destiny's Child, she sings about cooking her man dinner and doing anything for her man. She plays the stereotypical gender role to an exact T, even in the way she interviews. If you interview her, you are prepared to speak to a little girl, demure and "so blessed". Interviewers are bored with a woman who refuses to talk about her husband while her husband constantly treats her like a trophy.

He constantly calls her "THE BADDEST BITCH IN THE GAME WHO WEARS HIS CHAIN" in his music and in public. And MRS. CARTER wears his chain and raises the sign of ROCKAFELLA, her husbands company. She is quiet while her man is loud in interviews. She plays the gender role as if she's in a corset, waiting for the horse and carriage to arrive. Is this a feminist who sees a problem with gender relations? Or is she exploiting gender?

Angry about gender roles Beyonce?

I think Beyonce is a talented writer, entertainer, singer and mogul. I just think this "feminist" stance is literally manufactured. She's handled, she's packaged. She's a repetitive contradiction. You can't take her too seriously, she may not even deserve this blog entry. She's a simple pregame for the club. She's a sing-a-long after a heartbreak but she is NOT a voice of a revolution. She's not even a deep dialogue at a dinner party, she's probably still as demure as that little Houston debutante. She is certainly a woman who speaks through her "art" but it's not even HERS. She interprets, she performs and may have a few ideas along the way. She's not a Janis Joplin or an Angela Davis and certainly not a Chimamanda Adichie, even if she puts a soundbite on her record. She's just an entertainer in a black leotard, so why do we ponder her so philosophically? Why am I? Because people seem to take her seriously and so does she. Well, She's not the leader of the free women. How could she be when she is so unfocused. Blonde weave blowing in the fan while she preforms "Pretty Hurts." If it hurts so bad, stop making it look so good.

Is the Law of Attraction a Fraud?

Ever look around yourself in complete confusion? 

These people shouldn't be here...

Are these my friends?                                                                                       

Is he as good as it gets? 

Is this my job? 

Why am I here? 

IS THIS MY LIFE?

I've read "The Secret" with an admitted cynicism. I understand the power of positive thinking, but after weeks of visualization boards and taking "can't" and "never" out of my vocabulary, it seems that my grass still isn't green enough. You see, the law of attraction, as it's called, kind of makes you feel crazy. It wants you to see things which are not there yet. The four car garage full of Bentley's when your 2010 Toyota Corolla just got repossessed. It wants you to fall in love with a man who doesn't exist, while you shamefully hike your draws up after another bad hookup. 

Don't get me wrong, the basics have always been something which have worked for me. If I wake up in the morning and tell myself that it will be a great day at work, that I will get all of my work done on time and there won't be any drama, the day actually goes a lot smoother. But as far as red carpets and a six foot mass of muscle laying next to me on Egyptian cotton...

I haven't gotten that far yet.

Is the law of attraction something we humans conjured up to make ourselves feel better about our pathetic lives? Is it a source of hope, similar to the likes of the major religions which paint promised lands in the midst of wars and pestilence? Is it a cash cow philosophy for Rhonda Byrne's, you know, just something to keep the drones dreaming while the charlatans get richer? 

The Capricorn in me has always struggled with the unseen. I've always questioned God and as a preachers kid, that questioning always got me in trouble. I've always wanted proof or at least a receipt. I don't like the idea of praying and waking up the next day to the same bullshit. I don't appreciate a God who is too stubborn to reveal Himself, nor a law of attraction which keeps me seeing unicorns in the land of student loan debt. 

What I can always appreciate, is the idea of hope. That maybe I do have control of my own destiny and all I need to do is just believe that my hard work will pay off. However, the poker faced side of me looks at the one percent of America and concludes that success only comes to those who it's chosen for. 

How powerful are our minds? Are we able to bend the status quo and create a matrimony of prosperity and happiness in the midst of corruption? Is this as good as it gets or are we just unwilling to ATTRACT what we want with our positive thinking? 

Ever since I was in first grade, I've seen myself as THE Isayaah Parker. A celebrated entertainer who no longer walks the earth invisible. The writer who wins awards and changes lives. I've seen myself as greater than the boy who was constantly teased for his stuttering, big ears and feminine behavior. As an adult, I see myself as more successful than the minimum wage jobs I've been enslaved to. I've visualized people respecting me, rather than micromanaging me and treating me like a robot.

I used to create worlds in my bedroom and on the middle school playground. My stuffed animals were my audience and my Pink hair moisturizer was my microphone, used for my Academy Award acceptance speech. Every time the family Volvo would stop in front of Church on Sunday's, I would imagine someone opening my door for me, I'd step out onto the red carpet, cameras flashing and fans screaming. I wouldn't hear my dad yelling at me to hurry up and get out of the car, I wouldn't see the steps of the church, All I would see is lights. I've used the law of attraction, over and over again; Not even on purpose. So why now in my late twenties am I not famous and sitting on a beach writing my next timeless classic? Why am I not turning Tyler Perry down for a role in his new film and accepting an offer from James Cameron? 

Pessimistic as it appears, I've always seen my life as a nefarious plot against me. I like the idea of reality transforming as a result of mere imagination; but it begs the question:

Will I ever be satisfied with my life? 

Ironic.

As the advertisements bewitch us with shit we don't need, as we splurge on self help books and overdose on gadgets which make us feel connected to glorified nothingness, What is it that we are after? No matter how much shit we acquire, we will always want more. Apple will always make what we do have, outdated in less than a year. Someone can always be more famous, more beautiful to the masses. The grass can always be greener, so green that it becomes an unrecognizable color. 

Is anyone ever truly satisfied with their reality? 

Why can't we live in the moment?

Why are we chasing conveyor belts? 

We are raised in a society that indoctrinates feelings of discontentment at an early age. Disney assigns roles and injects dreams of being a princess or a king. No child is ever satisfied being plain ole lil Mike or Gabby, they MUST aspire to be Snow White with seven adoring fans. They want to fly on carpets and sing about a whole new world because their current world is unacceptable. We grew up with bedtime stories and begin the assertion that reality is simply not good enough. We go on to school and work to better our lives, but our lives never truly get better. After all, no matter how much more income we acquire, we owe more money to someone, and we have to work even harder. 

What is the true lie? 

The idea that we can change our lives with daydreams? 

Or the notion that our lives need to be changed at all?

We unknowingly suffer in a society based on fear and messages of unfulfillment. 

You can change a life with a blog. You can be famous in your community. You can meet a friend at the park rather than waiting for two thousand friends on Facebook to like a status. 

Maybe what we need to attract is not the lifestyles of others....

Maybe we need to attract ourselves.