So, here are some basics: my favorite vegetable is kale (I don’t like collard greens), I have an instant gratification problem, and “I want to shoot myself in the face” is probably the phrase that comes out of my mouth most often these days. A black woman who doesn’t like collard greens (or watermelon, by the way) you say—how black can she really be? Black enough to know what Fubu stands for without googling it, to appreciate the poetry of Jay-Z’s raps, and to have gotten my hair permed (that means chemically straightened in black speak).
I am starting this blog with one real goal in mind (besides satisfying my narcissistic inclinations): to educate others about what it’s like to be a black gay woman in America. I am not attempting to speak for the other unicorns out there, but to connect with them, share experiences, and hopefully help the rest of the black world to realize that a) gay black people do exist, even if we do have to hold secret meetings of the Prince and Tracy Chapman fan clubs in the back of fish and chips joints on Monday nights, and b) that it’s just not that fucking big of a deal. (That’s for my Grandma, minus the profanity, of course!)
I will talk about a variety of things here, step on lots of toes, and most likely offend...well, everyone in some form or another, but I will always be real, and always be as honest as I know how to be. Deal?
Ok, let’s get started.
"Hi, my name is black girl, and I'm a homo."
"Hi black girl."
Peace and love and bugs named Doug,