Nnekay.com

Yes, as most people know we live in a very male-centric country. Men can get away with a lot more than we women-folk, and the majority of us have gotten used to- or at least for the time being have learned to adapt to these situations. Of recent, though I’ve been very upset, annoyed, and disgusted with the way that men are portrayed in media. There are only two types of men in popular media:

MAN SLUT and the WEENIE BOY

Both of these types are portrayed in everything from movies, music, television, fuck… even board games.They both take advantage of the woman, ultimately make her look bad, then are celebrated either for emotion or comedy. Normally, if these were just caricatures… I would pass it off as fiction, but through my trials and tribulations, I have found (to my horror) men are basically using these prototypes to structure their real life relationships

MAN SLUT

WWE, Spike network, Lil Wayne, Grand Theft Auto, Any College/High School Comedy, Hair Metal

Basically, he’s a lone wolf. He likes to sex women up, but that’s about it. He’ll never be pinned down to one lady, and usually has sumn’ on the side. Yes, he’s a bad-ass because he’s so in touch with his penis, but ultimately he’ll die alone, an old player. He’s funny, loud, and his sexually antics aren’t looked at in dismay, but instead as a “oh boys will be boys…” wink-wink to the rowdy good times of youth.

No way in hell will be he be your boyfriend, but he’ll string you along until he’s had his fill.

WEENIE-BOY

R&B, emo, Twilight series, Romantic Comedies, There is always one in a sitcom, acoustic guitars

He loves the idea of love, but always has that one bitch-girlfriend floating around in the background to fall back on when he feels the need to show emotion. He’s candle lit love making, and might actually shed a tear. He’ll be your boyfriend in two seconds flat, but might dump you because his false ideals of hollywood romance haven’t been fulfilled.

He may not want to date you but will string you along, mostly because he “feels horrible” and the possibility of getting laid.

I am fortunate enough to have a large amount or guy friends who are neither of these types, and the majority of them are in incredibly solid relationships. Why are they in these wonderful unions? Because they don’t adhere to awful media driven caricatures. We focus on how horrible the media portrays women, but I think we need to loosen up on the silly misconceptions of male identity, because ultimately it’s not only holding men back, but women as well who are nothing but objects to both of these types.

Dear Baby-Voiced Woman,

Your shtick ain’t current anymore. Maybe if we were in the 1950s, you could coo and gurgle your way through life, but it’s the 2000s and you know what? You’re voice is grating. Yes, some women just have high pitched voices- but they don’t squeal or giggle at inane male activity. I don’t even think most guys like this ridiculous behavior, you know why? Well, because most men don’t want to date little children. Which is what you sound like.

So let your balls drop a little bit and lower the pitch. You’ll find more people will want to hang out with you.

Sincerely,

The woman who is currently rolling her eyes at you.

Back when I was a rather insecure sixteen-year old, I took a short trip to Southern California with my mother. She’s an educator, and at the time the Museum of Tolerance was promoting free visits for teachers. Her school took a trip and she toted me along, to both see the museum and check out the colleges in the area. When we arrived, I was informed that she would be visiting the museum with the rest of her staff, and that I could go by myself a little later. Since I was an awkward teenager, this was both amazing and terrifying. I deeply wanted independence, but the thought of doing anything actually by myself was horrific. Being a teen is hard, and no way in hell would I ever want to revisit that pimply time. Anywho, our hotel was on the outskirts of Beverly Hills, meaning I would have to waltz through the land of palm trees to get to the Museum.

This seemed simple enough.

Being an awkward hormonal teen in the late 1990s-early 2000s who resided in the bay area meant, hiding yourself in as many layers of clothing as possible. I also managed to hide my face in a mess of braids. I basically looked like a mix between a hobo, swamp thing, and the Predator.  This was perfectly fine, because back home… it was sorta the uniform. I had some friends that would tart it up with a half shirt, but they still waded around in gigantic pants, and marshmallow parkas.

So I put on my favorite hoodie, carefully making sure to pull the sleeves down to cover my fingertips. Slipped on my army pants (handed down from a friend’s older brother), and ventured out into the world thinking I looked H-O-T.

A few steps in the Southern California sun, it dawned on me… hey, it’s hotter here. Determined not to show an inch of skin, I continued walking the street, hands shoved tightly into my pockets. I started to soak up my surroundings, only to find that yep, I was basically the only one on the sidewalk this day. While cars steadily passed me in the street, I realized it was true… no one walks in L.A.

Boutique- Plastic Surgery-Boutique-Plastic Surgery-Boutique… it was amazing, I had no idea it was actually like this! Then I began to notice the people- they were NAKED. Well, not completely nudie, but not heaped in a pile of vagabond clothes, like I was. To help the situation- I piled my braids into a bun on the crown of my head and continued on my path. When I finally made it to the Museum, I was a sweaty deflated mess. I sat in the cool museum, and received a card, depicting a Jewish teen from the WWII era. This dude had a good life with his parents in Poland. Because I paid attention in school, I knew I was about to be set up for disaster regarding this innocent Jewish teenager. So I prepared my heart strings, as I was lead through the museum on the guided tour.

Fuckn’ Museum of Tolerance… From Auschwitz to Alabama, I was a weeping mess. They really knew how to hammer in the injustice that occurred through of the years. I was denied service at a southern diner AND sent to the gas chambers… which is a lot for a sweaty teen in baggy clothing to handle. By the end of my journey, I found out my little Jewish teenage friend died in a concentration camp- and for some reason this broke me. I left the Museum of Tolerance a gigantic blog of tears, clothing, and perspiration. Wandering down the street back to the hotel, I looked at all the passing cars and thought, “you assholes, you have no idea how good you have it!” Angry, but not really knowing why, I marched through the bright sunny street a raving loony. For some reason all the injustice of the world had been transferred on to me, I felt like I was being ostracized for wearing homeless clothing, I would not be disrespected! So I starred down each citizen of Beverly Hills, forcing them to acknowledge me… not only tolerated BUT RESPECTED. Looking back , I probably would have avoided eye contact with the teenage version of myself too, but now I realized that this little journey was actually extremely beneficial. I had lived a comfy life, we weren’t rich, but we weren’t exactly living in a tent city either. I had only experienced mild racism as a little kid, and at 16 thought the world was pretty fair. The past was distant to me, and I figured it and didn’t really matter. This little trip shook me, though it took a few more years to truly become informed and aware of who I was and how I, as an African-American woman was perceived in this world. It was this walk through Beverly Hills which opened the door to my interest in learning.

It also taught me that it doesn’t hurt to shed a few layers of clothing… which I am eternally grateful for.

Dear Consumerland-

Can we please have the month of November back? I know we are in a recession, and ya’ll really want to get things crackn’ with the spend-a-thon that is the Holiday Season, but seriously… my Halloween costume is still on my bedroom floor, there is a pumpkin centerpiece on my coffee table, and I JUST threw out the saggy Jack-o-lantern, only because it was leaking a weird clear liquid. Otherwise I would have loved to watch it shrivel up into a toothless old man Jack-o-lantern. And you know what? Other than the fact that it’s gross to have a rotting squash on my front step, it would have been fine. Why? THANKSGIVING IS STILL PRACTICALLY A MONTH AWAY.  Which means that CHRISTMAS IS TWO FRICKN’ MONTHS FROM NOW.

This morning I turned on the TV, and what did I see? Oh just a jolly winter time commercial with some lady singing about a white Christmas and encouraging me to shop online for crap. Um… it’s sunny and 65 degrees in California, kinda hard to get into the spirit, when it’s barely cardigan weather. Okay granted, the Bay Area hardly ever has real seasons (which my East Coast relative love to yell at me about), so lets check out a city with  this so called “weather”

New York City: 60 degrees and partly cloudy

Burrrrrr! So cold!!! Where are my snow boots?!

How would you feel if your friend started dropping hints about his or her birthday two months prior? I do that… but I acknowledge the fact that its annoying, and also because my birthday is swallowed up by the behemoth that is Christmas. I’m pretty sure the last thing Jesus wanted was to be obnoxious…

So basically… I want my November back. Let the leaves change color, allow me to put on my Cosby sweater, and can we please bring back cornucopias, they’re so weird and useless…

Trust me, I’ll remember to spend my precious cashola when the time is right, I just want to be able to savor the seasons, and you know… give thanks for all that is good. Dontcha think that would make the Holiday season that much sweeter?