Why Play the Crying Game?

On this week’s episode of Love and Hip Hop (Yes, I’m still watching.), Scrappy and his child’s mother, Erica, had a discussion about him dating another woman so soon after they called it quits (which he blatantly lied about, but that’s another story). A little background: They’ve been on and off for 10 years. He’s gotten back with her repeatedly trying to reconcile their past issues, only to move out of their place, break up with her and begin dating his “best friend” all while singing another tune to her. During the conversation, Erica laid out her gripes and even shed tears, which seemed to be out of pure frustration. Scrappy said in his confessional that he couldn’t believe she cried. Finally, she showed some emotion, so he knew she cared. Oh, Scrappy.

I can relate to Erica’s struggle. Years ago, a guy I once really liked told me I had the emotion of a rock. Then, it actually hurt my feelings, but today, it’s pure comedy. I can laugh now because it was true, and even then, I knew I was being “rockish,” but I couldn’t believe that he saw it and called me out.

To scream and yell, throw tantrums and/or cry was a no-no for me. I didn’t see the point, but maybe I hadn’t encountered a situation that would get me that riled up. I was seen as maybe too strong and a no-bullshit-taker, but also as an enigma. Enigmas are no fun, atleast, not after a while. Over time, I understood better. It’s a terrible thing to have feelings for someone, but you can’t read them. They need an affirmation, a touch—something.

This whole “Break down, so I know it’s real” deal though? Nah.

So, you’re saying you need to see a woman literally cry tears, the ugly cry that makes the most beautiful women unattractive to know she cares for you? That she cares about how she’s being treated? True, no one can read minds, but I still don’t buy that way of thinking. It’s backwards. The goal should be NOT to make someone you care about cry or throw fits. You don’t need a woman’s reactions to signal that you’re playing with her emotions or you’re doing wrong. That’s something you know before you even do it.

You want to know how someone feels about you? Ask. Don’t act out to get a reaction out of them. That’s a telltale sign of an immature, even insecure person.

Teach people how to treat you by making your concerns known, yes, but that lesson shouldn’t have to include breakdowns, tears and fighting. For some women, it can eventually come to that point, but it’s usually when she’s had enough, and it’s too late.

For those who think playing these games is some sort of initiation process in relationships, ask yourself if the means is really worth what may wait in the end?


4 Culture Trends I Want to Disappear Sooner Than Later

There’s so many, many things I could write about today, but I’ll take easy road andcover what I’d originally planned: trends. Trends are things that are hot, but only for a brief moment. They’re all the rage until something better comes along. Remember wearing Tretorns or Herringbone necklaces (I’m from Memphis, don’t judge me)? Or how about, wearing overalls with one strap hanging off? Trends never stop. The world is a big azz Forever 21, and we keep going back for buy one, get two free sales. Here are a few trends in our culture that I want to go away IMEEGIDLY!

Skinny Jeans (for men)

I don’t want to see my man or any man for that matter, rocking these skinny jeans. I’m the only one rocking the skinnies around here. Some would say it’s no different from NBA players wearing tight “hooping shorts” in the 1970s, but yes, it is. I don’t have much to add. I mean, just look at the picture. I’m over it.

Big Azz Earrings

Back in my early 20s, I loved a big earring. In fact, I didn’t start wearing studs regularly until my late 20s. If you couldn’t see them before you saw me, I didn’t want them. Years later, the infamous Basketball Wives have made oversized earrings trendy again. Some of them of cute, yes, but I’m not about to kill myself by getting my earrings caught up in my hair, a swinging door, seatbelt, whatever. Y’all have gone entirely too far when these earrings are reaching your thigh sitting down. That’s not an accessory, it’s a health hazard. I refuse.

Twitter Beef

I know Twitter beef won’t go away until Twitter is no longer the trend. It’s entertaining, but it’s also embarrassing. In just a week, because people would rather solve problems and instigate altercations via computers, we now know that Royce of Basketball Wives boyfriend, Dezman was trying to get with his child’s mother. We also know, as of yesterday, that Deion Sanders took his children with him to file a police report after his estranged wife, Pilar and her friend allegedly jumped him. Le sigh. It’s just all too much. Some things should NOT be handled over social media sites. As if a beat down wasn’t enough, you gotta tweet about it, too. Woo-sah, people! Woo-sah!

Recording Violent Acts for Worldstar Hip Hop

Honestly, I shouldn’t even write about this because I didn’t watch the controversial video of the two teen girls fighting posted on WSSH last week. I do know that the young girl who made the attack was arrested because the video went viral. That’s a good thing. My problem is when people deliberately commit these acts to submit to these sites to get a few minutes of “fame.” I’ve seen kids beaten and robbed for their sneakers and clothes. Fools flashing drugs, money and guns. Only to be arrested later. Who does that? This generation lives by the “Look at me” mentality, and it’s getting them nowhere but behind bars. Then again, I guess that’s some of them should be.

Justice, Choices and Other Bleak Things in America

In one of my favorite movies, A Thin Line Between Love and Hate, just after playboy, Darnell, played by Martin Lawrence, discovered that a crazy ex-lover had stolen the tires off his truck right in front of the police station, he shouted, “Where’s the justice?! Where’s the justice?!” That’s long been one of my top quotables always resulting in a laugh or two when I or friends come across unfortunate, but hilarious circumstances.

Today, I’m asking the same question, but it’s no laughing matter. It’s beyond serious and deserves speculation, discussion and action: Really, here and now in 2012, where’s the justice?!

By now, you’ve got to know that our country is in an uproar. In just one week, I’ve read stories about a few things that have knocked me off my feet. In no particular order, they must be addressed:

Trayvon Martin and the Hoodie Effect

I could give you a run down, but that’s what the Internet is for. Just know this, an unarmed 17 year-old black man was gunned down by a self-proclaimed vigilante because he looked “suspicious.” The killer, Zimmerman, has not yet been arrested for killing someone who was armed with a bag of Skittles and an iced tea. Did he shoot in self-defense? Would Trayvon have really harmed him? Up until today, those were the major questions swirling around the media airwaves. I log on to Twitter to find that Geraldo “I Got Knocked the Eff Out” Rivera says that black and Latino parents should teach their children not to wear hoodies, which was worn by Trayvon at his time of death. The hoodie killed him just as much as Zimmerman.

Wait. So an article of clothing meant to cover your head  (it was raining)  is the issue moreso than his race? Oh okay. Silly me. I don’t know how it feels to be a black man, but I know that they’re often told don’t “look the part” to prevent being pulled over by police, i.e., don’t play loud music in your car, don’t purchase a certain type of car, don’t sag your pants, etc. I understand that. Black men are already targets regardless of upbringing, social, economic status, education, etc. Why give them another reason to harass you? Wearing a hoodie has become part of  The Don’ts Handbook for Black Men now?

If that’s the case, should Caucasian men be allowed to wear black as to appear as a Goth or wear long trenchcoats, as they may shoot up a middle school or shopping mall? Plenty of skaters and your  fashion plate cool kids wear hoodies, too. Are they suspicious, as well? No?

Let’s be honest here, the bottom line isn’t a hoodie or anything you can take off of your body. It’s what’s there that cannot be removed: color. I pray that the Martin family sees justice for their son.

Take Birth Control, Lose Your Job

Arizona is showing out. Again. Earlier in the week, I came across this story on Slate. An excerpt reads:

The Obama administration recently issued a mandate requiring all employers to cover prescription birth control under company health plans. Arizona legislators recently introduced abill that would allow some employers to opt out. That’s not terribly exciting. An employee can just pay for birth control out of her own pocket. But here’s the troubling part: If her employer is seriously opposed to birth control, and wants to discriminate against her for taking it—even though she’s paying for it herself—a provision in the Arizona bill would allow that.

The lines between work and what one does after work. As an employer, in an ideal world, you’d like your employees to have the same morals, ideals as you. You like chicken, instead of fish, so I should, too. I am strongly opposed to smoking, I should be, too. Wake up, people. Aside from an extreme, such as murdering and/or abusing children, as an employer, your only concern should be my productivity and contribution to the bottom line. Me popping BC pills that I pay for out of my own pocket at 5 p.m. daily is none of your business. It’s my choice. Point, blank, period.

For starters, not every woman takes birth control for contraception. They regulate menstrual cycles and regulate menstrual pain, along with other things men have no clue about. Secondly, if taking them to prevent pregnancy is the issue, would you rather I become pregnant, take medical leave, leaving you with one less, possibly highly productive employee for a month plus, six to eight weeks for maternity leave? Does that make any sense? No. That makes for discrimination.

You have a right to know what medications I take as it could negatively affect your business and/or staff, similar to knowing if I have any criminal offenses on my record? Will that question be added to employment applications now? It’s ridiculous. Do better Arizona.

You Want My What?

Employers are asking for Facebook passwords these days, huh? Nah. I’m good. You have my social security number, my address and Google, plus an extensive background check. What the hell else do you need?

Again, the work/home lines are blurred. First, it was cool when you knew employers would search social media sites to see if you would be a good fit or a misrepresentation of their company. Everyone simply changed their privacy settings to ‘Friends Only.’ But to ask for an account password is infuriating. This quote from a story via the Business Insider says it best:

“It’s akin to requiring someone’s house keys,” said Orin Kerr, a George Washington University law professor and former federal prosecutor who calls it “an egregious privacy violation.”

Is it really that big of a deal, or does that tell us that we’re sharing too much of lives on social media sites? If we’re not posting expletives, raunchy music videos and pictures of us getting wasted at bars, shouldn’t we feel free to hand our passwords over? NO. It is a big deal. Where’s the stopping point? Accounts have passwords for a reason, right?

Any employer that requests my Facebook password or any other password won’t have to worry about me being a candidate any longer. If I had one, I suppose they’d ask for my first-born next.

Media and Black Women: Who Will You Believe?

As I sat and watched (and cursed at) the train wreck that is Basketball Wives last night, I cringed atleast a million times within the hour. The end scene where Evelyn and Royce fight at the swanky restaurant pushed me over the edge. I’ll be honest and say for a brief moment, I condoned violence among women, hoping Royce would’ve gotten atleast one more jab at Evelyn. Beyond that, I couldn’t believe that they conducted themselves that way in public (I’m lying to myself), calling each other “hoes” and “bum ass bitches.”

It quickly reminded me of an essay I wrote a recently about how black women shouldn’t believe everything we hear, read or in this case, see about ourselves. I used a couple of examples of black women being thrown under the bus, and for the life of me, I can’t believe I failed to mention media’s portrayal of  us and our relationships with other women. From just the first half of one episode of Basketball Wives, or any other reality show, we’re put on display to be bitter, malicious, messy and classless. We aren’t all that.  For consolation, I have to put on my Naive Hat and believe that women cannot act this immaturely in real life. It’s just a show; it’s just for a check. Right? Please tell me I’m right.

Ironically, my essay, The Milk’s Gone Bad: Don’t Believe Everything You Hear or Read was published on ForHarriet.com last week, but I just saw it yesterday. Read it and let me know what you think.

Five Things I’m So Over

The Royal Wedding

I’m happy for Prince William and Kate Middleton. They seem cool people, and I love her style, but why does the media care so much about this wedding happening thousands of miles away? In one morning, I saw atleast three segments on them. First, there’s the replica of Kate’s engagement ring, then there’s Barbara Walters trying on hats Kate would wear by an American couture headwear designer, then the anchors of Good Morning America are actually going overseas to cover this. Why? Every woman (just about) dreams of and gushes over a fairytale wedding fit for a princess, but I, personally, could care less. How did these “royal experts” become such, and why are they important? I’m over it, and it hasn’t even happened yet.

Everyone Else versus Tyler Perry

A few days ago, writer and pop culture critic Toure’, began a Twitter rant about filmmaker Tyler Perry, which I believe lasted for more than a day. I don’t follow Toure (and I don’t know why), so I don’t know where his motivation came from. The release of Madea’s Big Happy Family or just because? Just yesterday, the Internet blew up, reporting that Perry told Spike, Lee, iconic filmmaker and longtime critic of his work, to “go straight to hell.”

Though I’m not a “stan” for every piece of Perry’s work, I don’t turn into a poof of smoke whenever he makes a move either. Here’s a tip: If you don’t like the work, don’t support it. Money talks. Do you really think ranting on Twitter to the movie gods about it will make him retreat? I doubt that. He’s too successful to stop. There are different lanes and genres in art, not to mention, people are making their own lanes. Agree to disagree and shut up. I’m over it.

Relationship Advice

Who doesn’t love a good debate on relationships? They’re entertaining, thoughtful and sometimes stupid and infuriating. This will probably sound crazy coming from a single girl, but please spare me on the advice. It’s not that it’s not needed sometimes, it’s that it’s coming from too many places and people. I could care less about what Steve Harvey, Tyrese and a gazillion bloggers and “experts” have to say about how and when to get a man and keep him. This rant is pointless since as long as men are living and breathing, women will always want advice about them. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll ever break the code, and vice versa. That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it, but I’d rather Tyrese show me he can spell “conscious” correctly than tell me about men. I’ve over it.

Sales Calls and Visits

A friend mocked me when I told her I have a “house phone.” It’s a necessity in my eyes, though I rarely answer it or use it. Whenever I decide to check my caller ID, it’s full of sales and unknown calls that I’m never here to receive since I’m at work. For the past three weeks, this phone has been ringing off the hook! Who are these people? Not only are people calling all day long, they’re making visits, too! Last week, I played like I was asleep on my sofa as someone rang my doorbell repeatedly and peered through my door’s window. Another time, just as I was about to tell a girl who I thought was a Jehovah’s Witness that “I believe in the Lord,” she told me she had specials on roof shingles. Get me outta heah!!! Oh, the things that happen during the day. I’m over it.


I won’t even get that deep on this one. Just know that Donald Trump has clearly shown how he feels about “the blacks” by continuously bashing and questioning President Obama’s citizenship. It’s damn ridiculous.  He, Sarah Palin and anyone else who, two years later, still goes through great lengths to disprove his citizenship can go play in 5 p.m. traffic. I’m over it, and they should be, too.

Where’s My Trophy?

One of my favorite questions to ask at any random time is, “Where’s my trophy?” For what, you ask. For being a woman. Once a month, we endure a myriad of emotions, pain and anything else under the sun. How dreadful to be happy, depressed, angry, aggravated and in tears all within 30 minutes? Again, where’s my trophy? Are children supposed to be it because I don’t have any yet. It doesn’t stop there though. In my 40s and 50s, I have to endure menopause and combust into flames from hot flashes, too?  I wouldn’t trade being a woman for ANYTHING in the world, but today,this right here, is bringing me down. Today, this is me……


Nothing good can come from this.

Le sigh. I’ll be popping these Ibuprofen like sunflower seeds today. I pray I can get myself together within the next hour or two because I have a ton of work to do. Maybe some music will help, but for some reason this one keeps coming to mind….

But enough about me. That’s life.

I don’t consider myself a feminist, but I do read Jezebel occasionally. This morning they published “Twitter’s Incredibly Depressing #rulesforgirls.” Read it and weep, ladies. Perhaps the most depressing thing of all is I’m sure most of the responses came from “Black Twitter.” Lord help.

DMV Adventures: Hey, Where’d Your Wedding Ring Go?

Sometimes it just takes too long for me to write about the randomness in my life. Here’s Part II of my visit to the DMV on Labor Day Weekend. Read Part I here.

Day 2 of our Girls Trip to the DMV was under way. We’d obsessed over what to do, where to go all morning, and the standard answer was still, “To the District.” So, off we went.

After clowning with the staff at Ben’s Chilli Bowl (They were singing MJ’s “PYT,” and I line danced in the middle of the restaurant.), we strolled down U Street to see what the rest of the day had in store. A gorgeous guy, skin kissed by the sun, stood outside of a cafe and motioned for us to come in. Surprisingly, it was a day party, and behind those doors, people were getting it in.

Almost immediately, some guy approaches me and begins dancing. I can appreciate a guy who doesn’t want to bump and grind or  challenge me to a dance-off, so I two-stepped with him for a little while. He was nice-looking, but I could tell he was slightly older. (I have to remember to stop saying “older,” as if I won’t be 30 soon. Le sigh. ) He wore a cap, a tee and what my girls coined as “dad jeans.” Hilarious. Atleast he didn’t have on K-Swiss to complete the look.

Before he could ask my name, he  spouted out all types of “compliments.” I wanted to say, “Thanks, but you make the truth sound so disgusting.” He was thisclose to calling me a “tall drink of water.” I sensed that this was a Living Single club episode waiting to happen.

In an instant, he’d swayed me to the bar for a drink; I obliged. Don’t judge me. The entire time, my girls are laughing as I make funny faces over his shoulder. I noticed they kept throwing their hands up, pointing to and wiggling their ring fingers. Was “Single Ladies” on?

Nope. Ohhhh, I get it.

After a few sips of  my cocktail, suddenly, I didn’t feel like dancing anymore.I thanked and chatted him up, I was on to next.

“So, your friend with the “Dad Jeans” had a wedding ring on. You didn’t see it?” one friend asked.

“He did? Nah, didn’t see it.”

“Yeah, while you were ordering your drink he stuck his hand in his pocket to take it off,” the other chimed in.

Oh yeah? Men. As if him being married was the only barrier between us.

Before I could respond, Mr. I Don’t Wear My Wedding Ring was back in my personal bubble trying to dance. It became painfully obvious that this was first time out in a long time without the wife. He was just too damn eager. Poof, be gone!

It took me atleast 15 minutes to get away from him. Not to mention, he kept coming back around to ask if I was ready for another drink. What do I look like, a fool?

“No, I won’t be getting another drink. This is enough,” I said. “I think you’ve had enough, too.”

“I’m just gettin’ started!” he replied as he continued to dance himself silly.

I gave him the side-eye of all side-eyes. I could see the imprint of his ring sitting snug in the bottom his left pocket, but I didn’t even mention it. It was unnecessary to point something so blatantly obvious out to an adult who knows right from wrong. If hiding a symbol of your marriage is part of a scheme to test if you still have your mojo, there’s nothing I can say or do to help. On top of that, I didn’t even know the guy. Why not leave on a high note?

“Okay, well good for you. We’re leaving now. Nice meeting you.”

I left him standing there. The last time I saw him, he was doing something like the Reebok on the patio, scoping out his next victims, some college girls with bad weaves.

In the words of the great lyricist, Silkk the Shocker, “You ain’t gotta lie to kick it.”

The Break-Up

I think I broke up with my hair stylist. Well, I did in my head, atleast.

To bring you up to speed, I’m “going natural.” I haven’t had a relaxer since December 12, 2009. That’s a mighty long time, and I’m proud of myself sticking for it out. I recently heard growing out relaxers described as the new black. Everybody’s doing it.

Negative. Especially not in my stylist’s salon… Nothing but perms and weaves are done. Our business relationship is similar to a dead-end romantic relationship. You don’t want to believe it’s coming, but you can see it a mile away. There’s nowhere to go, but the other way, to get out. Don’t get me wrong—I love her to death. I’ve tried to hold on to her, getting spiral curls and even twists to get me through, but as I sat in her chair last week, I knew I wouldn’t be back for a long time.

Why, you ask? Because she doesn’t know how to style “virgin” hair. How dreadful. Maybe she just doesn’t want to. When I made the decision to transition, we talked about my options and the fact that she’d no longer be my stylist after a while. The conversation was refreshing. Thankfully, she’s not the type to be offended if a client goes elsewhere for services, but I don’t think she thought I’d go this long. My visits have dwindled from every other week to once or twice a month, if that.

My hair grows like weeds, so after two months, it was a beast. Instead of random “beauty shop” conversation, I listened to her talk about how long it was going to take to spiral, how she doesn’t have the patience to deal with it and how I’m going through a phase. I didn’t pay for that; I paid for styling services. End of story.

Take away the customer service component (which is stellar usually), and my main gripe is stylists’ limited skill sets. Why don’t they know how to handle transitioning or natural hair? Why do I have to go to an older stylist or one who “specializes” in children’s hair? I don’t think natural hair should be a specialty. It should be a requirement because we don’t come out of the womb with relaxed hair. Yes, natural hair is fragile and needs special care, but so does  relaxed hair. So why aren’t both taught in cosmetology school?

According to the State of Tennessee Board of Cosmetology, a cosmetologist, which requires 1,500 hours, and a natural hairstylist, which requires only 300 hours, are two separate classifications. Moreover, I think that proves the takeover of relaxed hair. Yes, I understand that some women’s hair requires so much to maintain, perhaps, a perms is “needed.” Even better, I understand that the unbe”weave”able world of weaves and perms is where the money is, but are we so far gone that  some “stylists” don’t even know what hair without a perm feels like?

Unfortunately, there’s an ignorance about our hair in the African -American community. I’m way far from who the natural community call “hair nazis,”  I don’t want to rock ‘fros and twists or emulate Angela Davis or Jill Scott. I’ll most likely continue to wear it flat ironed because that’s what works for me. I don’t know if I’ve had any self-discoveries that many women talk about, but I have gotten a glimpse of the lack of education about what grows out of our very heads.

Maybe I’m selfish in feeling like my stylist should be able to do all things cosmetology. I doubt that natural hairstyling was even apart of the curriculum when she took state board exams. Even so, I think a stylist should be trained to work with all types of hair. I pray styling options are added to state boards nationally because contrary to popular belief, everyone does not have a relaxer.

I’m not venting because I think natural hair is the only way to go. No elitism here. There are days when I want to run to the chair and feel that cold Mizani cream on my scalp, and who knows–I might do just that.  My biggest concern is the miseducation about hair–period. For far too long, we’ve been sitting in the chair or even standing behind it without knowing what’s really going on. Our only mission is to make it pretty.

Aside from my rant, the obvious solution to my problem is simply to find another stylist. Already taken care of, whether she knows it or not. In addition, I know how to do my own hair, and did so weekly for years. Luckily, I inherited those skills from my granny, who was a cosmetologist for 40 years. When I don’t feel like dealing with it, which is often, I pay someone else to do it. Complaints and jokes about what I do with my hair isn’t apart of the agreement.

It’s been great, but I’ve got to say goodbye now.

SYAD Awards: The Woman to Woman Edition

I don’t usually write about issues are already saturating the media, unless I have a different spin on it,  but this? I couldn’t pass this one up. Welcome to the second installment of the Sit Yo A** Down Awards. Today, I have the honor of the presenting the award to none other than……

Ginny Thomas, wife of Supreme Court Justice, Clarence Thomas.

Oh Ginny. Where do I begin? If you haven’t heard yet, apparently, Mrs. Thomas has channeled Shirley Brown, the unsung R&B singer of the classic, “Woman to Woman”. You’re familiar with the intro atleast, aren’t you?

“Hello, may I speak to Barbara? Barbara, this is Shirley. You might not know who I am, but the reason I am calling you is because I was going through my old man’s pockets this morning and I just happened to find your name and number…

Yeah, she pulled something similar to that. Evidently, since the sexual harassment suit Anita Hill, then Clarence Thomas’s aide, filed against him 1991, ol’ Ginny has been holding quite a grudge. She goes so far as to contact Hill by phone at Brandeis University, where she is now a professor. She left the following voicemail:

 “I just wanted to reach across the airwaves and the years and ask you to consider something. I would love you to consider an apology sometime and some full explanation of why you did what you did with my husband.”

 Really? What year is it again?

I, a proponent of closure, understand that there’s no expiration date on apologies –when they’re warranted. In her defense, Thomas said she was extending the “olive branch” to Hill. That message doesn’t sound like she’s making peace with the olive branch. It sounds accusatory. Ms. Hill thinks the same, according to her statement.

“I appreciate that no offense was intended, but she can’t ask for an apology without suggesting that I did something wrong, and that is offensive.”

Soooo, I guess she won’t actually be handing that branch off, huh? Clarence, get your wife and tell her, “SYAD!”

*Check out the first SYAD Award recipient here.

Is Television a Mirror of Black Women’s Relationships?

Just when I thought I’d had enough of “hospital shows,” Hawthorne comes along. Between the legendary ER, Grey’s Anatomy and Private Practice, I figured there were only so many ways left to cause a patient’s death, fall in love with a co-worker or dying patient (Izzy) or sleep with the boss. I guess I was wrong and right.

This is Hawthorne‘s second season, and honestly, I only watched it the first time around because it’s staring Jada Pinkett Smith. It’d been a while since she’d graced the small screen. She’s a great actress, but I couldn’t get into the story line. Needless to say, I stuck with my other “hospital shows.”

After Hawthorne’s hospital closed down, she moved on to another facility. Enter Vanessa Bell Calloway (She will always be “Jackie” from What’s Love Got to Do With It?), who  plays Gail Summer, the hospital’s head nurse. Two words to describe her character: Straight Bitch. What kind of person denies the care of a woman in severe pain, belittles staff and has the dying patient’s boyfriend arrested to prove her authority? Apparently, the writers thought this was a great character for a black actress. Great.

Don’t get me wrong, Calloway does a superb job of playing the bitch. As she threw a tirade in the chief’s office over having her position taken away, she went on about fancy doctors who come in to change the way things are done, only to leave for a better job, leaving her to pick up the pieces in a struggling hospital. And let me tell you, that hospital was the worst.

The point is, after that scene, even I, a black woman thought, Well, just what we need. Another attitudinal black woman. Let the eye rolling begin.

Yeah, that sums it up. I can’t tell you how many shows I’ve seen where two women have butted heads over something. It makes a good story because everyone knows a bitch. Hell, you might be the one. I feel differently about seeing two black women at each other’s throats on television though. Unfortunately, art imitates life, and maybe these writers are showing what we see all too often: Black chicks who don’t like each other.

In Hawthorne‘s case, I think it’s more so Summer’s demotion that’s causing such an attitude. She seems to thrive on being the HBIC, thus dead set against the inevitable change coming her way. In many women’s cases though, it could be any reason why she doesn’t like another, even if the woman isn’t really sure herself.  How many times have you heard this?

Woman 1: Oh, I saw **Melinda** the other day. You know her?

Woman 2: **Major side-eye** Yeah. I don’t really know her-know her. I don’t like her.

Woman 1: Why?? She’s cool.

Woman 2: I don’t know. It’s just something about her.

I don’t doubt a woman’s intuition, her ability to see what the eye does not, but most times, there’s a reason for blatant dislike, that the woman just doesn’t want to admit. Could it be something as petty as the other woman’s attire, style, hair, career, accomplishments, relationship, etc.?

Are black women quicker to size each other up than other races? Why are we always pitted against each other? Have you experienced this?