color me badd

i am convinced that white women are hyper-sexualized. they like to talk bout it, be sexy (or try to be), find otu what you do or think about it, write about it. they are obsessed with sex, sexuality, beauty, and weight.

during the lecture this morning, my instructor was on the panel and the topic was “what is your inspiration?” she showed photographs of women who inspired characters in her novels. all of them were gaunt and she pointed out this fact. one image, in the list she shared from the painter whose work inspires her, was a parody of bea arthur, naked from the waist up, sagging breasts and all. really? was that necessary?

then she shows an image (painting) of two naked men (a la the David archetype) from the back, they’re sailing. i get the point, the art was used as inspiration, but two naked men? oh yes, they have a sexual relationship in the book. goodness!

one woman was disappointed that her girlfriend (who she earlier in the week told me was black, after reading my outline) is married to a nigerian man and won’t share anything about their sex life. WHAT THE FUCK?! we don’t do that. we don’ t speak of the bedroom outside the bedroom. and why do you want to know? so you can look at her man and size him up? so you can fuck him? so you can do the things she won’t?  hell mothafuckin naw we don’t tell. don’t ask don’t tell has a new meaning among sistas and their men and what happens in the bedroom.

i would drop kick a ho in a minute if i caught her ogling my man based on what she thinks she knows about his bedroom performance. any high jumps, bar scaling, or steeplechases my man does are for me to know.

but back to the recap…

i only noticed today, or perhaps last night as i read the last 2 of 4 pieces that the themes are repeated in each novel. i’m left with:

lesbian relationships, leaving a man for a woman but never the reverse.

opening the novel with letters to or from someone

history (Jewish, WWI, 1970, 1985, birth control)

sexual repression


family dysfunction

selfish children

then i look around the room and i see white women. dun du dun dun dunnnnnnnn! is it any wonder? this is a room full of women from 43-60 (I’m guessing 60 is the max). some are divorced, engaged, married with children (adolescent, teens, college).

the young man and i are the oddity. he is a college student with a bit of an adenoid problem, or something that causes his speech to be slurred and nasally. he’s smart as a whip, offers insight and has a keen understanding of what one could do to enhance the novel. then there’s me. i look younger than i am (as said to me by the 43-year old, after asking my age over dinner last night). she thought i was 31. bless her.

i want to stand on my chair or climb onto the table and pad to the front like lucy liu in kill bill and say, all you white women have the same existence! you, you there, the sickeningly anorexic one. yes you. do you see yourself? or do you draw an outline of a fat person? and is everyone in here a closet lesbian? what’s this about college is a time to explore? yea, it was a time for me to explore those books and get the hell outta there within the 5 years of my free-ride scholarship. seems to me that for them (and yes i’m generalizing, it’s my blog, right?) college is the time to sleep with men, women, both at the same time, smoke weed, shrooms, snort cocaine and then emerge squeaky clean, get married, have babies and write about the shit 25 years later after they’ve left brad for sherry and explained to their three kids that “you just can’t help who you fall in love with.”

and the bob dylan references. “he’s so americana.” whose americana? my americana is motown and james brown. i can’t pick out a bob dylan song or lyric to save my life.

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