The Strange Case of Kat Stacks & Fifteen Year Girls Who Sell Themselves (Who Is Looking out for Our Daughters?)

I have two daughters, two beautifully intelligent young ladies who I absolutely adore to no end. But don’t get me wrong; I love my two sons with equal fervor, equal devotion. However, I have a far different relationship with my daughters. I spoil and dote on them incessantly. They are my heart.

And for some strange reason, when I look into the faces of other young ladies, especially young ladies around their same age, I see them, my two daughters; I see their faces. And when I see these young ladies triumph, when I see them succeeding, my heart leaps, and I rejoice. Conversely, when I see or hear of them being abused, mis-used, or exploited, my heart breaks.

My wife says that I have this crazy compulsion that causes me to mentally adopt children, to always assume the role of father, and when these, my adopted children, do something to disappoint me, or when harms befalls them, I take it much too personally.

My wife says that I am the very author of my own miseries.

However, two stories came out this week that causes me to ponder where all the fathers are, that causes me to ponder what goes on in men’s minds. But most of all it causes me to ponder, if so many men seem only too willing to engage in utterly deplorable, immoral behavior, who is looking out for our daughters?

Early Monday morning, a colleague e-mailed me the video embedded below and requested that I pen a few lines in response to the video. [WARNING: NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK]

I think I only got through the first thirty seconds or so before I stopped watching, and then sent a return email in which I politely but crisply requested that my colleague not waste my time by sending me such foolishness. However, later when I got on Twitter, I found that the name of the young lady in the video, Kat Stacks, was trending. And the remarks being made about her were disparaging to say the least.

I went to her site, which has been made private now, and amid the profanity and the stories of sexual conquest, I found this strange, non sequitor narrative of her three suicide attempts. And behind each of these suicide attempts is a relationship with a man, with someone who she turned to for love, for protection, for companionship, gone awry.

Instead of love, instead of protection, instead of real companionship, over and over again, she only found exploitation and abuse. At one point in this narrative she returns to her boyfriend/pimp after being beaten by another man, and he proceeds to beat her as his best friend holds a gun to her head. And during the beating, her only reply is, “Why, Daddy, Why?”.

And though we disparage her actions, in her sleeping with rappers it seems that she is desperately searching for some sense of self and access to some measure of power and control in her own life. In fact, she seems almost like a Superhead-lite, looking to find love in all the wrong places. And though we frown on her actions, she is our creation. She is our child.

But perhaps the most startling story to come out this week is that of a fifteen year old girl who took her seven year old sister with her to a party, ostensibly and ironically because she was concerned about the sister’s safety and didn’t want to leave her alone, and once there the fifteen year old began to have sex with various men in exchange for money. At some point, this fifteen year old girl even offered up her seven year old sister as well.

Yesterday, Trenton, New Jersey, police announced the arrest of twenty-seven men in connection with that case. Twenty-seven? You mean that that many men actually participated? You mean to tell me that not one person at the party had the courage, the temerity to stand up for those two children? No one said it was wrong?

One common thread connects these two stories. In both stories, any number of people, of men, stood in line to abuse and exploit these young women; however, very few seemed willing to stand up for them.

While we condemn Kat Stacks’ actions as deplorable and immoral, while we refer to her as a ho or a slut, what about those rappers and other celebrities who seemed only too willing to participate in the exploitation? They seemed only too willing to use their fame and notoriety as weapons to demean and destroy. These nasty motherfuckers filthy little men deserve more than a little of our ire.

And if you want to form a lawless vigilante mob to roll through Trenton and pull those twenty-seven men from their cells and stomp the very life out of them, please swing by and pick me up. But before we go after them, let’s round up all the other men (women) who attended the party, who knew what was going on, but stood by and said nothing; they are as culpable as those who actually participated. How could you stand by and just say nothing?

It all causes one to think. We would like to think we live in a moral society, and we would like to think that most people have the best interests of our daughters (and sons) in mind, but its seems as though the immoral, the predators, are more driven and emboldened by their perversity and degeneracy than those claiming to be good and decent are driven and emboldened by the mandate and urgency of right.

And in the meantime, while we are wandering in circles and pointing fingers and calling people names, once our children cross the threshold of our homes, after they are outside our purview, who is looking out for them? Who has their best interests in mind?

The Most Beautiful-est Thing in this World: Something for Our Daughters to Attain to

I have two daughters, two very beautiful, very intelligent young African American women. The older daughter is attending college, and the younger daughter is in her early teens and attends a school of the arts.

And I could not even begin to measure or express the very depth of my affection and adoration. I guess it then follows that I only want the very best for them. I want them to live out every inch of their tremendous potential.

So, I’m always on the lookout for public and professional role models for them, women who I can cite as exemplifying the persons I wish them to eventually become, whose narratives serve as road maps to success.

Sure, they have role models in their mother, grandmothers, aunt, and older cousins—some positive and some negative. But young women and young men need public and professional role models. They need to witness people outside their family, outside the familiar, those who are breaking new ground, who are taking the path less taken. They need to be encouraged to dream.

But I’m afraid images and narratives of persons such as these are two few, and those that are available are often obfuscated and drowned out by negativity. Daily I am appalled by the images and narratives available to our young people through the various media. That is why I became so absolutely excited when I first encountered the video embedded above.

The video is of a relatively new friend, Dee Dee Foster Theriault. Mrs. Theriault now works as a consultant, but as a collegiate athlete, she more than left her mark on the world. She was a USA Olympic Team qualifier, a USA all-around national champion, and the first ever elite gymnast in the state of Alabama.

My first reaction when I saw this video is that this has got to be the most beautiful-est thing in this world. And when I mention beauty, I don’t mean physical beauty, but what I am referring to is artful beauty, aesthetic beauty.

The beauty I am referring to is the beauty of one in the pursuit of excellence. It is the beauty of preparedness and focus. It is a beauty charged with desire. It is a beauty that bespeaks intensity and strength subtended by a certain grace, a certain spirit, a certain will to achieve, to go beyond that which is taken as the very apex of what can be achieved.

When I look at this video my mind wonders. I dream of my daughters performing gracefully on the balance beam or sprinting powerfully toward the vault. I dream of my daughters arguing vigorously before the Supreme Court. I dream of my daughters performing on a Broadway stage. I dream of my daughters performing the most complicated and difficult of surgeries. I dream of daughters exploring the very limits of their potential.

And then I sit back and contemplate the hopes and dreams I have for my two daughters, and I see the increasing possibility of those hopes and dreams coming to fruition. And I can only smile and say to myself, isn’t that the most beautiful-est thing in this world?

[You can find out more about Mrs. Dee Dee Foster Theriault and her new project serving as a personal mentor to young up-coming gymnasts as well as her new book series by clicking here.]

Picking through the Bones: Should the Past Have Any Bearing on the Future?

This the very last day of Relationship Week. And this week has been tremendously successful from my point of view. I sincerely thank everyone who stopped by, and I especially thank everyone who contributed to the conversation. I will return later today with a final summation of the week and what I have learned.

The notorious Karrine Steffans, better known by the sobriquet Superhead, has been ubiquitous in the media over the past few weeks promoting her latest book, The Vixen Manual: How to Find, Seduce, and Keep the Man You Want. Whatever you have to say about Ms. Steffans, she has mastered the fine art of selling herself, excuse me, self-promotion.

I watched or heard a few of these interviews, and they seem to follow a common theme. She is more than willing to talk about her current book, but should the interviewer bring up the past, she gets all indignant; she refuses to discuss anything of her past. [Click here to see or hear a couple of these interviews via the blog Witches Brew.]

In fact, in one such interview, she evokes the fact that she is now a wife and a mother of two little boys, and castigates the interviewer for bringing up the most sordid episodes of her life in light of that fact. But at this point she loses me.

Has her husband not read or heard of her first book, Confessions of a Video Vixen, in which she describes in detail her many, and I mean many, sexual exploits with entertainers and athletes of every stripe? Does she have a contingency plan for when her two precious little boys eventually ask her why people called their dear mother Superhead?

And in contemplating Ms. Steffans’ dilemma, I am reminded of a recent incident when I was introduced to the fiancé of my frat brother who moved here from out of town. She must have seen my eyes widen and registered the look of shock on my face because from where she stood slightly behind him, she immediately began to vigorously shake her head as if to say “No, please don’t.”

Back when we were undergraduates, she took her role as a sweet very seriously. She was in heavy rotation among the brotherhood, and word was there was no limit to what she would do to keep up the morale.

So, the question quickly becomes that if you were a man, would you or could you marry a woman like Ms. Steffans who has detailed her past sex life in a best-selling book for the world to see. If you are a woman, would you or could you marry a man if in his past he was, hmm, let's say a porn king. Remember the permanence of the written word; years for now that book will still be available for all to read and marvel. Remember the permenance of film. Who might be viewing his celluloid sexual exploits years from now?

But what of my clueless frat brother? He has no idea of his lovely fiancé’s past (and I ain’t about to tell him), but I know one of our brothers will eventually have one drink too many, and the ugly, naked truth will spill out. How will he react, or better still, how should he react?

When Mrs. Reddick and I got married, I never asked her about her past. I felt that what she wanted me to know, she would tell me. Not only that, an older relative, either my grandfather or an uncle, once told me to never ask a question if I were not sure I could handle the answer. And by the time we got married, I had sense enough to listen to the wisdom of old folks. Plus, I had a few bones in my own closet that I did not want to discuss.

But the fact is that we meet people and enter into relationships with people and fall in love with people without ever knowing their full background. Usually, we know only what they want us to know. And everyone has a few bones in their closet. When you see your special someone again, just look at them. And then ask yourself where they are hiding the bones.

Some of the bones are big bones, like of the tyrannosaurus rex variety, and some of the bones are of the smaller variety like those tiny pesky little fish bones you can barely see that threaten to get caught in your throat and choke you to death.

And if you love someone, I mean really and truly love someone, should the past even matter? True love is unconditional, but in the same instance, to forgive someone you must then forget that thing for which you forgive them. But sometimes things tend to get stuck in your head. Sometimes, whether consciously or unconsciously, the scenes tend to play themselves out in your head over and over again. It’s like a snowball rolling down hill. It just gets bigger and bigger and bigger and then the avalanche begins. What then?

At what point does your mate’s past, or your past, threaten the future?

Do you believe that you should know every little detail about your mate’s past? What if you found out something absolutely horrible about your mate’s past? What would you do? How would you react? How does the past affect the future?

Can Jungle Fever Drive You Crazy?

“One is very crazy when in love.” --Sigmund Freud

I said that this week I would throw out all the theory and just speak from my experience. So, here goes.

Not too long ago, I had lunch with three of my colleagues, all of whom are black women. Early into the lunch, the conversation turned to another colleague who was absent, a black male who after getting divorced from his black wife of nine months was making a very valiant effort to love every white woman in the world. And they were not at all happy about this development.

Now, I know when to keep my mouth shut, so the whole time I just kept my head down. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a salad that fast. But suddenly I heard nothing but silence. Their conversation had ceased.

When I looked up, the three of them were looking at me with such looks of derision on their faces that for a moment I looked around for an exit.

One of them finally spoke.

“Look at that, y’all. The cat seems to have gotten this soulbrother’s tongue. He’s unusually quiet on this one. Maybe he’s got a white woman bone or two in his closet.”

I sensed that a trap was being set, but I didn’t know how to avoid it.

“Well, I see nothing wrong with inter-racial relationships if that’s your thang, but I have never been in an inter-racial relationship of any kind.”

The trap was ready to snap shut now.

“You’re telling me you spent your early twenties in Europe, and you never had any type relationship with a white woman? Who you think you talking to? Boo-boo the Fool? Samantha Sausagehead?”

Laughter and high fives all around. The trap was sprung. I was caught in the snare. Where was that waiter with my drink?

“But the women I had relationships with when I was there were not white. They were European, German and French mostly.”

Now I faced three blank Negro-man-please stares. Only then did I realize the paradox of my statement, and tried to explain. But they were not having it.

What they could not understand was my explanation of my conception of whiteness. When in the United States, my conception of whiteness is subtended by a history of discrimination, of degradation, of oppression, of violence. For that reason, it becomes hard for me to imagine entering into a romantic relationship with a white American woman.

Not that I hate white women. I do not. Not that I don’t find white women attractive. I do. Lately something has happened to white women to make their behinds swell exponentially. But I cannot imagine giving myself over to a white woman like love, true love, requires one to do.

And when I speak of love, I’m talking the real thing. Not that infatuation love. Not that lustful love. But that Al Green “Make you do right, make you do wrong” love. That love that makes you give yourself over to another. That makes you drop all pretense, lower all facades.

Sigmund Freud once wrote something to the effect that if insanity is the condition of one being out of one’s mind, then love is the very first instance of insanity. To love is to vacate your mind in order to reside outside yourself with the mind of another. (Or something like that.)

In other words, love makes you vulnerable. Very vulnerable. Love makes you crazy.

The history of violent racism in this country causes me to put my guard up, to always be looking over my shoulder. To always be wary. I find it very difficult to drop my guard, to allow the vulnerability requisite to enter into a relationship with a white woman.

But notice I said “I find it difficult,” and not “never.” I stopped saying “never” a long time ago. Because the moment we utter never, the situation arises that will severely put “never” to the test.

I guess I’m just an old romantic. I actually don’t believe we consciously choose who we fall in love with. I think that love can irrupt in the strangest, most unlikely places. I believe that you simply meet a person. You get to know that person. And little by little you share small fragments of your mind, your person, with the person until finally one day you look up and you’re completely out of your mind. You’re absolutely crazy.

So, if I ever had to choose another mate for life, and should that mate perhaps be white, I would have to really go crazy, absolutely crazy. She would have to drive me out of my mind.

But isn’t that what we’re all looking for anyway? Someone who is so very special that they ultimately drive us absolutely crazy? Someone who will drive you out of your mind?

What are your views on inter-racial relationships? Are you in an inter-racial relationship now? What do you have to add to the conversation?

And please come back tomorrow when we will look for the bones in your closet.

Other blog articles of interest:

Max Reddick, “Black Mothers, Black Sons, and Little White Girls.”

Von, “Are You Still Black If You Marry White.”

Do Black Men and Women Hate Each Other? (Love Is the Root Politic)

Welcome to relationship week here at soulbrother v.2. This week I am conducting an experiment of sorts. I am going to devote the entire week to discussing a single subject—the relationship between black men and women. Let me preface the week by stating that I am not a counselor of any kind. And I will be writing from my experience which may or may not coincide with your experience; however, I am counting on you to fill in those blank spaces that may irrupt when my experience and knowledge break down and fail to adequately address the subject at hand.

I just got on Twitter last month. And you meet a lot of interesting people through Twitter. Von is one of those persons. Von blogs over at Black Conscious Thought.

She checked out my blog, and tweeted her approval, and then we entered into a conversation centered around issues pertinent to the African American community. We were not that far into the conversation when she asked me what I thought to be a very strange question:

“Do you think we really hate each other?”

Confused, I quickly tweeted back, “Who?”.

“Black men and black women. Do you think we hate each other?,” was the answer. “Sometimes it seems we hate each other.”

I must admit that I hadn’t given it any thought before Von posed that question, and I’m not sure what answer I gave her. But now having had time to sit and ponder the question for a bit, I can give a more well thought out answer.

And that answer is no, I don’t think we hate each other. In fact, I think black love is alive and well. Perhaps, the issues affecting black love seem more dire, more real because of our proximity to them, but no more dire or real than in the larger populous.

However, there are still a number of issues we must deal with. There are still some obstacles to us being where we desire to be, namely we often find ourselves at different places at different times, and we are often not honest about what we are really looking for, but perhaps the biggest impediment is that we look outward as opposed to inward in defining how we conduct our lives and affair.

Let’s begin with this personal story. Recently when out and about, I ran into a lady I dated perhaps twenty years ago. I was genuinely surprised and glad to see her. But when I called to her, she just gave me this blank look and then turned her head. Thinking that perhaps she did not recognize me, I went over to greet her.

What I got from her was an angry, spiteful grimace. I went in for the obligatory hug, but she gave me the stiff arm. Of course, I was a puzzled as to why she was acting this way, but soon through clenched teeth, she gave me an answer.

“You hurt me!”

But that was twenty years ago! What happened to time heals all wounds? Perhaps I should give you the back story.

We met after we both had just gotten out of unhappy, tumultuous marriages. During our initial meeting, she told me she was concerned only with raising her two sons. She only wanted companionship, someone to kick it with and have a few laughs every now and then. We both seemed to be on the same sheet of music, so we entered into an agreement of sorts.

But about a week into this thing, she had cleared drawer space and one side of the closet for me and presented me with a key to her apartment. Perhaps, I should have recognized the signs and walked away at this time, but I chose not to.

As time went on, it became clearer and clearer that she was looking for a bit more than mere companionship; she was looking for another husband. So, I decided to just step away from the situation before either of us became overinvested in something that was not to be. And she pitched a fit—an absolute fit.

But I don’t blame her. I should have decided to leave even earlier. It was unfair to her that I stayed as long as I did knowing that my idea of where the relationship was going did not coincide with hers.

And she was a very nice person, a very desirable mate. Had we met at a different time in our lives, who knows the possibilities? And if she had been a bit more honest as to what she was looking for, perhaps if she even knew what she was looking for, it would have saved a lot of hard feelings in the end.

But keep in mind, she has been walking around harboring these ill feelings for twenty years or so. How has this affected her views of the opposite sex and how she has dealt with the opposite sex? Remember the ripples caused when you throw a rock or some other object into the water. How have these ripples caused by her hurt and anger affected others who have in turn affected others?

Now, let’s take a look at African American men and women in relation to the larger society and culture. How much do you think the images posited by the various media affect the ways in which we deal with one another and live our lives?

In dealing with relationships with the opposite sex, my greatest teachers have always been my parents, my grandparents, and my in-laws. From them I learned that every day cannot be a good day; the secret is to control that which is within your control so that the good days outnumber the bad. From them I learned of the joy in struggle, and what two people can achieve even when the odds are arrayed against them just by being of one accord. But perhaps most importantly I learned that when in a relationship, each party must unselfishly give of him- or herself if they desire the relationship to move forward.

But how many people don’t have these role models to draw from? More and more people are taking their cues and lessons as to how to conduct themselves from the various forms of media. And often the information gained from these various media are false, based on the cultural imaginings of writers who are themselves often the product of dysfunction.

But for those who have no better frame of reference, these false images become real. For those who have no greater frame of reference, the images become scripts to be lived out in their own lives. And the result is a replication of the very dysfunction we witness on television, in the movies, on the radio each day. The result is that we are convinced that somehow we should hate each other, that somehow love is a game, a competition between the two sexes to see who can get the upper hand, and we act accordingly.

But this is what it all boils down to: Love is the root politic. One cannot truly love another until they love themselves first. And love of self allows one to pursue those ends which will nurture that love, which will celebrate that love, which allow that love to flow freely between oneself and another.

What do you think? Do you think black men and black women somehow hate one another? What can be done to make our relationships stronger?

Also, later today Charles J. will join us with a guest post, and join us tomorrow when the question will be, can men and women truly be platonic friends?