A comprehensive but humorous philosophical collection of data pertaining to the likings of Black America that, as a whole may be viewed as stereotypical in nature, but primarily... not so much.
Once prepaid hit the scene, every black person I know was like “I’m there!” Of course in the beginning, prepaid was the rich man’s skinny, hungry stepchild by a broke wannabe woman he decided to marry, but we saw passed all that. In the age where our credit wasn’t gone get it, prepaid was God’s protection for contract phone’s rejection.
First to hit the scene was the prepaid phone. Remember that? You could get a low-grade refurbished phone, put like 30 minutes for $30 on it and suddenly you were mobile. Just like that! No social security number. No deposit and still you were finally apart of the 21st century. The downside was the phone itself and of course the amount you were paying to charge it up- both was a hot mess but we got over that. We’ve been living bare minimum since we got off the boat in chains, so what did that mean to us? We almost weren’t talking at all. Are we really going to throw a fit about not having the latest tech-savvy phone to hit the market?
Oh but now! Now you can get some of the hottest phones that even contract phones offer and the loading cost is ten times better. For a flat fee, you can get unlimited everything and be done. The only potential downside left is that you usually have to buy the phone outright but even that is starting to disappear. We can go to Wal-Mart and buy a sweet phone for an awesome price now and T-Mobile extends the ability to pay for a phone over time instead of upfront.
Now that prepaid sales have exceeded contract sales, other services are jumping on the bandwagon and even white folks are beginning to see the beauty in it. Prepaid electricity is even catching on, but prepaid electric is still in its beginning stages and isn’t always such a great idea. It really depends on your situation. If you suck up a lot of energy for whatever reason, I wouldn’t go prepaid energy. Otherwise, prepaid can be a sweet deal.
Let’s face it, as black people we really don’t care much for commitment and we look at long-term responsibility sideways. I think it’s embedded in us from 400 years of enslavement. The energy of it strikes up an ancestral memory that innately sends us running and we can’t even explain why. Tell us we are indebted to faceless white folks for a locked in 2-years that will come at a hefty price to break, charge us well over $100 monthly and then leave us stuck with the same phone even after a newer, better version comes out a month after you bought that one, and something about it will speed up the heart rate. Feet get to itching to run and we usually do. And definitely don’t fix your mouth to start asking for social security numbers and driver’s license and going on. We will soon be out of your store!
But thank the Lord some genius thought of prepaid. Some greedy, money-hungry genius sat up trying to figure out how to get all the money from everywhere he could, including the broke and bad credit- well thank God for you. Where would black folks be without it? Because of prepaid, I can see my broke brothers and sisters walking down the sidewalk, they ain’t got no car… but they sho’ can talk!
If you don’t have a bank account and need to find the nearest place to cash your check, just find any black person and they’ll give you turn by turn directions to every check cashing location in a 50 mile radius.
More likely than not, a black person who’s ever had an account with a bank has forever ruined the relationship to the point of never being granted the right to have another in this lifetime. Give us access to our own money via the ability of check writing with the option to float and the relationship is terminal from the start. It’s what we do; we f**k things up. So once we discover that we have forever burned the bridge between ourselves and the high esteem of the banking world, where else can we turn to for financial savior as a low-cost, check cashing joint that will give you money right on the spot?
Oh how we love it, don’t we: the clean, sweet smelling buoyancy of money stiff as a board with newness? Counted in rapid succession and placed in our hands, save a few dollars and nickels, and away we go- free as a bird. No waiting a few days for the check to clear. It’s done and we got our money. It’s all we wanted. All we want in life is free access to the money we worked hard two weeks for and we don’t need anyone telling us we can’t have it on the count they stashing it for us. Nickel-and-diming us to financial death- we won’t have it. Can’t stand for it and it’s how our relationship with the bank quickly sours.
Of course, to better accommodate us, there have come into existence the bank without credit checks. They don’t bother to investigate our banking history although it comes at a much higher rate. Still, if we are ever in a place where we absolutely can not receive all of our money right then and there and especially if debit cards are involved, our diacritical union with even the no-credit-checking banks will come horribly to a crashing end.
There is no other way to put it- check cashing joints were created solely for us and systematically placed on every corner where at least five or more black people reside. They were created to maintain our very sanity. Without them, we would virtually have no relationship with money whatsoever. A pay check would simply be just another piece of paper with a random white mans signature on it: no use. No use at all. The denial of a check cashing place would literally and figuratively drive all black folks insane and into definite, irrecoverable devastation. We need check cashing joints to breathe, I tell you. It’s just the way it is.
They are out there- yes- but you would be hard pressed to find a negroe who doesn’t believe in God. If they have some doubts, perhaps they should tread lightly when sharing said spiritual wondering's with black folks just foaming at the mouth to tell you a thing or two about questioning God. Don’t you ever in your life question the existence of the Almighty and His will. Don’t you ever…
If a white person mumbles something about the “A” word, black people simply frown because we aren't surprised. It isn't true, of course, that all white folks are atheists. There are millions of white people who believe and praise God, but if they don’t and start rattling off at the mouth about Big Bang and other such nonsense, we can say we expected as much. A lot of black people think white folks are far more likely to succumb to the devil’s rotten womb of atheism than blacks. Therefore, if something extraordinarily terrible happens to them (lets say... getting struck by lightning two or three times) we chalk it up to their inability to respect the Lord in all His splendor.
Black people think white folks have no respect for God’s power because they don't believe in His existence. We think only Hispanics and African-American's praise the Lord. If a white person is on television sharing a survival story and what they believed saved them from certain death, black people brace themselves for what we hope they’re going to say but know they aren’t. We want white folks to say, “It was God. Had it not been for my strong spiritual beliefs; had God not been in my life to hear my prayers, I would not be here today.” Instead, they say something along the lines of, “The skills I acquired while in Girlscout's circa 1972 is this reason I’m here today. Had I not learned how to tie a rope 700 ways from Sunday, I would be dead. My rope tying skills along with remembering what I learned from watching MacGyver is what gave me the will to live. Thank you MacGyver. Thank you Girlscouts of America. Your cookies have kept me going. ”
What the hell?
We throw our hands up and say something like, "See there! That's why that shit happened to they ass." Then we chalk it up to what we chalk it up to and move on. But let that same story be told by a black person who fails to acknowledge that it was the Lord who carried her through the ordeal. We get mad as I don't know what. Call up mama n'em, tell her to turn to the channel and talk for hours on end how it's a damn shame she couldn't give props to God. Even hip hop artists, who just spent months creating 17 hours of songs that cuss ya mama out, tell you how they killed some fool that stepped on they shoes and how many hoes they brought home after the club will thank God first and foremost inside the CD cover.
We don't get surprised when white folks leave God out of their lives. It's why we think they receive what's coming to them- freak accidents and other corn-ball incidents where massive amounts of them are killed simultaneously. Not since the slaughter of hundreds of black people in Guyana at the hands of Jim Jones (in the so-called name of God) have we witnessed large amounts of black folks dying in one big swoop. We learned our lesson in seeing the rotting corpses of all those black men, women and children scattered about after drinking what? Kool-Aid- another thing black folks tend to love. God is in the spirit of other blacks... not a white man trying to take us out of the country to die.
Yes, I know there are black atheists out there but it would not be in their best interest to admit it to other blacks… especially Big Mama. Big Mama is the one who keeps the family together, forces all the children into church and fills our belly with greasy, fried, bread-like substances better known as Sunday dinner. She has the King James Bible within eyesight no matter what part of the house you're in and it's ALWAYS open. She understands why God is so important in our lives. She understands what the new generation of black folks seem to be losing: that having God in our lives can lift our heaviest burden and keep us going while others are jumping to their death because they lost their job and every penny in the bank is gone.
This goes as far back as slavery. When white people had our folks hemmed up by ropes and getting whipped; in the hot sun picking cotton and running cows; making biscuits from scratch for mas’sas white children and living in crammed makeshift shacks like sardines, who else could they bond with but the Lord? Their husbands were getting sold or traded. Their children were also being sold or turned into servant girls who fanned mas’sas white children with peacock feathers to keep them cool. (This actually happened.) The women were getting raped and/or beaten. The only thing constant in a black person’s life was food, cotton, and the Lord.
So don’t go telling some diehard church going black person about the Big Bang Theory as means of explaining the inspirations of mother earth; rich cycles of ever changing seasons; the beauty in trees; the coolness of the wind; the warmth of the sun; the natural sweetness of honey; the awe of mountains; an animals natural instinct to survive and the promise of God with rainbows the likes of which no human could ever create. You can not even swear by one hair on your head because it is not yours to use for collateral. You and all there is about you is the creation of the Almighty. What can I say? Black folks- we love us some God. But if you don’t… you might want to shut the hell up and keep that ish to yourself baby.
The featured painting is titled End of Summer by Lorraine MacLeod.
Ass, dunk, monkey, or derriere… whatever you may choose to call it, nothing gets the juices flowing faster than having a colossally bubbled ass. A huge backside is an ugly woman’s best friend and her saving grace from God. She may have a face like Whoopi Goldberg but if she appears to have stuffed a basketball down the back of her pants, all is forgiven. For straight women, the “among other things” include muscles on a man and… (drum roll please) his penis.
Big bodies are considered the promise of pleasure; at least we hope it will bring pleasure. You have to ask yourself why is having a big whatever so desirable within the black community? I have researched, as I always do and the information I uncovered may explain the psyche behind this phenomenon. It is quite intriguing to say the least- the attraction to bodies of substance is an intrinsic desire that dates as far back as Africa.
Historically, the African woman with meat on their bones is thought to be healthier and more fertile than those who are thin. It’s determined that if an African woman is fleshy, she is a good provider or that she comes from an affluent family. Her body size is an inclination that she will be an excellent mother, capable of bearing healthy children carried to term without incident. Should food ever become scarce, a large African woman will also have enough adipose tissue to hold her over.
However, when our black ancestors were transported to the United States, big women began to serve a different purpose: breeding. Suddenly, women of fleshy concerns are delegated as child bearer via slave owners. Their masters summon them to birth as many children possible and much like cattle, are considered gateways to lucrative means. The more children owned, the greater the masters slave holdings. More slaves equal greater wealth. The only way the plump female slave can escape this dastardly sentence is to become a mammy. Mammy is the caretaker of the slave owners white children and therefore safe from sexual advances. She lives better than the other slaves as her weight and status keeps her protected from sexual desires. What’s more, the threat of being sold as a breeder is removed.
Once again, obesity equals virtuosity, security, and respect in the black community. Mammy was of high status- she served a social purpose and she still lives deeply nestled within the soul of black people. We have subscribed to the transmitted behaviors and perceptions of our ancestors that a curvy female and powerfully built male is desirable. It may explain why black people see beautiful, healthy men and women with weight in all the right places as the person to marry. Black culture dictates that a woman who is considered to be “thick” is a dime piece. It’s the thick girl we find in music videos provocatively dressed and jiggling her behind for the camera. Women like Buffie the Body and Houston's own Rita G. are making an earnest living displaying their fleshy behinds for the demanding black audience of modernized Africans.
The big, strapping field nigga with muscles and a sizable penis is the insurance women need to ensure their healthy, strapping children will carry the seeds of now well into tomorrow. We like to watch what we call a fine black man gracing our theater screens. He is pleasing to the eye and marketable to the available and even unavailable straight black woman. A strong, muscular black man is the real man. He is what a real black man should be and his size will bring him money. He can provide for his family and protect them from harm… especially by way of physicality. He can lift heavy objects and do yard work. He can perform well in the bedroom and accomplish all of the laborious effects that the female body isn’t designed to carry out.
Our rich past has subconsciously inspired the credence that voluptuous bodies are not only acceptable but in some cases, one to be envied. It’s even worthy of aspiration. Black people should aspire to gain weight. Get thick. In the deep south, a black person who lacks curves or muscles is labeled po’. Something must be wrong with them. They must have a disease, living on drugs, or broke. Their life must be in shambles because it’s the only excuse available to explain why they don’t have weight on them. A black person who has their life together demonstrates so by gaining weight. It's not that way with white people. When white people have money, they get on what I like to call The Hollywood Diet. White people go to great lengths to get skinny, but the more money black people have, the shinier our status and the more we eat. We have the money to consume steaks and shrimps… together. We can now afford the good alcohol and all the other edible luxuries that escaped us when living an underprivileged life. It’s at our hungry fingertips now and how dare you suggest we deny ourselves the sumptuousness of what we previously could not have. We will have all the things we couldn’t have before and good food is at the very top of the list.
Buffie the Body, as mentioned before, has made an earnest living by showing off her enormous ass. Her behind has essentially become an asset that pays the bills and allots her the chance to live a posh life. Most importantly, it keeps a continuance of food on her table. Ten years ago, contravening ailing health and an early trip to the cemetery was worth the sacrifice when a significantly smaller Buffie decided to fend off her slim 120 lbs by chugging down supplemental shakes.She readily admits that she has a dangerously unhealthy diet of junk food and sugary drinks. To top it off, she proudly refuses to exercise as this may deduct from her attributes- right along with the paycheck. In reality gone askew, veritable black men don’t want to see or touch hard, boney, or muscular bodies on their women. They want the soft cushion of fat to hold onto. The woman with hips and plenty of ass is the kind of girl black men fantasize about and Buffie demonstrates this by getting paid (very well, may I add) to live a fundamentally unhealthy lifestyle.
The powerful body secures not only the effect of sexually illicit pleasures but money as well. The vision of a large woman or man is supposed to indicate their status in life just as it did our ancestors. It is a subconscious whisper in the back of our minds. It's self-evident in our mannerisms; the way we conduct our lives and even speech patterns. Though it is hidden, it stands like a statue as this sort of psychological link to ancestral eating patterns. For example, po’ is a word we use to describe a thin person, but the psychology behind the slang term is astonishing. When the “o-r” in the word “poor” isn’t pronounce, it comes out sounding like poand the person who is skinny because they don’t get enough to eat is considered po.
“If it weren’t for the fact that they were poor, food would be more readily available to them and they wouldn’t be po’.”
Many black women don't feel the need to lose weight even after their doctor advises them to. They would rather blimp themselves into a diabetic coma rather than lose the big ass they love so much. The doctors tell us that statistically, black women are facing diabetes, cardiovascular disease, cancer and premature death at a higher rate than other races but we don’t care. Self-image is more important than health. What will attract a suitable lover is more important than health. How the partner in our life view us is more important than health. We just don’t think about it until the inevitable occurs.
In an unpublished interview, black men between ages 45-65 in 2002 all agreed that real black men love their women between sizes 14-20. Being voluptuous in all the right places is an asset that all of the men interviewed found desirable. When magazines depict skinny little models but our culture says being thick is beautiful, for the black woman this concept holds a serious dilemma. Should we strive to be thin or accept our body as it is? The media sends a message that thin is in but being a thick black woman is viewed as an asset by those whose opinion matters the most: not the physicians or the media, but the person we have a love affair with.
I’m afraid I am a victim as well. As my happiness increases and the more money I have, the more I eat. I reward myself for living a great life with a table full of greasy, unhealthy food. I make no apologies for it and I do not plan to lose any weight. I’ve got it all in the right places and I love it. What’s equally important is the fact that my fiancé loves it. I’m not marrying the doctor who told me to watch my weight- I’m marrying my man and I know plenty of other black women who feel the same way.
A woman with hips and ass is hungrily sought after by the male in that she not only brings pleasure-promises but healthy children who secure immortality for the family bloodline. A man with a powerful body and a large penis assures the female that she will experience sexual pleasure and his genes will introduce strong, healthy children well into the future. Through the strength of his massive body, he ensures protection and the ability to care for her and their children.
Whatever changes that may take place within the mindset of Black-America pertaining to body image, the graveyard is the future for everyone- including the healthy. I am in no way advising any woman to reach maximum density with their weight. Diabetes and heart attacks are real issues that can not be ignored. Morbid obesity is a hard reality that I promise you never want to face. But not everyone should be bone-thin, either. Our bodies are designed differently from the next person and trying to subscribe to the same psychosocial image can land you on the sofa of a therapist. Speaking for myself however, since I have to die anyway, I’d rather die knowing I lived a happy life: that I ate good food, appealed emotionally, sexually and physically to my fiancé ... and had plenty of fun along the way.
So… you go Rita G. and Buffie the Body! I love my big ass, too.
Somniay is a well educated writer, Registered PhT, and business owner who poetically describes her racial background as, "An amalgamated mixture of contraindicated heritages." The last of 14 children, Somniay moved to New York City in 1998 where she joined the Gotham Writing School to improve her writing abilities. After returning to her southern roots in Texas, she began attending college where she achieved a degree in Science and later, Pharmacy. Somniay is currently enjoying a life of traveling the U.S. with her Navy veteran husband, David and their three children.
"Stuff That Black Folks Like" is a humorous and at times stereotypical examination of all the things black people find interesting. I must admit that the idea was not originally mine. It came from another blog I'm subscribed to called "Stuff White People Like". I thought it was insightful, classic, and although stereotypical in nature, intrinsically hilarious. I started thinking: what do black people like? Unfortunately and to my horror, I couldn't come up with anything! I started thinking maybe I wasn't in tune with my inner negroe. But one day, while in the shower (where all great and innovative ideals come to life) my mind became flooded with hundreds of things that black people like. I was so inspired, I ran from the shower, quickly jotting at least twenty ideas on an envelope. Later, I neatly entered said ideas into my handy dandy laptop, thus devising this blog non-creatively titled "Stuff That Black Folks Like".
