Born March 3, 1968
Daddy said, her name is Tamika
But i'll call her Bugalou
Years go by
Daddy leaves
But his love is still present
Bugalou knows he'll always be there for her
He calls
I'm coming to get you
She's so excited
Daddy's coming
She sits
And waits
And waits
But daddy never shows
Or calls
Days pass
He apologizes
She forgives
He's her daddy
And she loves him
But he loves the bottle
It's the monkey
Attached to his back
Years go by
He's there when he can be
When the monkey allows
The quality of his time is so immense
That the quantity matters less
Bugalou loves him
She's daddy's little girl
Sixteen and pregnant
A disappointment to many
But not to daddy
He still makes her feel special
And says, "The decision is yours."
Grandchild is born
Little Bugalou
He loves her just as much
And she adores him
Daddy now has two girls
Bugalou is now a mommy
Always calling daddy for advice
He's such a good listener
The best advice giver
And friend
And daddy
He's there when he can be
When the monkey allows
He disappears
Reappears
Does his best
Gets rid of the monkey
For a little while
He is himself
Monkeyless
Daddy
But alas
The monkey comes back
They fight for years
And eventually
The monkey wins
And takes his life
Daddy's gone
Bugalou feels alone
She misses her daddy
She talks to him
But it's not the same
He doesn't answer back
He's in a better place they say
It's no comfort
Years go by
It gets easier
She talks to him
And hears his voice
"Don't take no wooden nickels."
She learns to find strength
In his memory
Lives her life to make him proud
Thinks of him daily
Feels enveloped in his love
And even though she still cries
Because she misses him so
She knows he's looking down on her
And willing her through life's challenges
Bugalou misses him
But it's okay
Because no matter what life throws her way
He instilled within her
The strength to survive
And she will always be
Daddy's little girl.
I LOVE YOU DADDY!
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
What is stress?
I was going to blog about the debate, but changed my mind. I think it speaks for itself. I'm just trying to prepare of November 4th. I'll keep it short and sweet.
There are times when I wonder what's going through Barack Obama's mind. I can't imagine the stress and strain and pressure. I give the man props. I wouldn't want to be in his position, but I give him the utmost respect for trying to make it do what it do.
Good luck brother!
There are times when I wonder what's going through Barack Obama's mind. I can't imagine the stress and strain and pressure. I give the man props. I wouldn't want to be in his position, but I give him the utmost respect for trying to make it do what it do.
Good luck brother!
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Strange Fruit
A friend of mine mentioned this song to me this morning and I couldn't get it out of my head. Nina Simone's haunting voice, coupled with the lyrics, always makes me cry.
Strange Fruit
Seven trees
Bearin strange fruit
Blood on the leaves
And blood at the roots
Black bodies
Swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin
From the poplar trees
Pastoral scene
Of the gallant south
Them big bulging eyes
And the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia
Clean and fresh
Then the sudden smell
Of burnin flesh
Here is a fruit
For the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the leaves to drop
Here is
Strange and bitter crop
As singed by billie holiday
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter cry.
Strange Fruit
Seven trees
Bearin strange fruit
Blood on the leaves
And blood at the roots
Black bodies
Swinging in the southern breeze
Strange fruit hangin
From the poplar trees
Pastoral scene
Of the gallant south
Them big bulging eyes
And the twisted mouth
Scent of magnolia
Clean and fresh
Then the sudden smell
Of burnin flesh
Here is a fruit
For the crows to pluck
For the rain to gather
For the wind to suck
For the sun to rot
For the leaves to drop
Here is
Strange and bitter crop
As singed by billie holiday
Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter cry.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
A Woman's Job?
My husband and I attend a couples group every Monday. Even though we've been together for a while, it has actually helped our relationship. You can never stop learning about the person you're with because you are both constantly changing. It's nice to converse with other couples and meet new people.
Yesterday was our fourth time going to this group and I have noticed a pattern. All of the women in the group complain that their husbands don't help them around the house. Not one of the women in the group is a stay at home mom. These are all women who have jobs and careers. One woman even leaves home earlier than she has to in the morning to take her husband to work. She also picks him up at the end of the day.
I am the lone wolf in the group. I believe that if we both work it is OUR responsibility to keep our house in order. Who says it a woman's job to maintain a household that she shares with her husband? If I bring home some of the bacon, shouldn't he fry it up in the pan sometimes too? How is he "helping" her if they live together and are raising the same children? Why is it the woman's responsibility to cook and clean? Do they not eat the same food and sleep in the same bed?
Now, I have done a little soul searching and I know that part of the reason I am so adamant about shared responsibility is, over the years, I watched my mother cater to men who didn't deserve her. They took advantage of her warm nature and, for lack of a better word, used her. If they tried it now, there's no telling what weapon she might use to end their life. I'll put it this way, being taken advantage of has not warmed her heart to the men of the world. It makes me sad.
Watching this, I vowed never to let a man take advantage of me. I met my husband when I was 15 years old and always kept this in mind. I would do things for him, but never wait on him hand and foot. It took me years to realize I may have gone too far. He once told me that I didn't do the little things for him that other women did for their man. When we went to parties, I would never fix his plate. In my mind I knew he had two hands just like me and could make his own damned plate.
I was so busy making sure I was the opposite of how my mother use to be that I went too far. It took me a long time to realize that the little things matter. There's nothing wrong with making your man's plate or bringing him his dinner. It's okay to let your guard down sometimes.
With that all being said, I still don't get how men "babysit" their own kids, or "help" their wives clean the home they live in. It's not her job. If it was, she would be getting paid. What's wrong with shared responsibilty?
Yesterday was our fourth time going to this group and I have noticed a pattern. All of the women in the group complain that their husbands don't help them around the house. Not one of the women in the group is a stay at home mom. These are all women who have jobs and careers. One woman even leaves home earlier than she has to in the morning to take her husband to work. She also picks him up at the end of the day.
I am the lone wolf in the group. I believe that if we both work it is OUR responsibility to keep our house in order. Who says it a woman's job to maintain a household that she shares with her husband? If I bring home some of the bacon, shouldn't he fry it up in the pan sometimes too? How is he "helping" her if they live together and are raising the same children? Why is it the woman's responsibility to cook and clean? Do they not eat the same food and sleep in the same bed?
Now, I have done a little soul searching and I know that part of the reason I am so adamant about shared responsibility is, over the years, I watched my mother cater to men who didn't deserve her. They took advantage of her warm nature and, for lack of a better word, used her. If they tried it now, there's no telling what weapon she might use to end their life. I'll put it this way, being taken advantage of has not warmed her heart to the men of the world. It makes me sad.
Watching this, I vowed never to let a man take advantage of me. I met my husband when I was 15 years old and always kept this in mind. I would do things for him, but never wait on him hand and foot. It took me years to realize I may have gone too far. He once told me that I didn't do the little things for him that other women did for their man. When we went to parties, I would never fix his plate. In my mind I knew he had two hands just like me and could make his own damned plate.
I was so busy making sure I was the opposite of how my mother use to be that I went too far. It took me a long time to realize that the little things matter. There's nothing wrong with making your man's plate or bringing him his dinner. It's okay to let your guard down sometimes.
With that all being said, I still don't get how men "babysit" their own kids, or "help" their wives clean the home they live in. It's not her job. If it was, she would be getting paid. What's wrong with shared responsibilty?
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