Angie Stone’s “Brotha” seems to be the anthem of black people everywhere. With her smooth words of love, Stone places men of African descent on a pedestal.
Suddenly, it’s kind of hard to hate on brothas nowadays. It’s almost a sin. The things a brotha used to do that infuriated you to no end suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. Now, the black man can do no wrong; he’s become a walking, breathing demigod. Calling him on his crap is like booing a person who’s singing a gospel song. It’s hard to do.
Well, unless you’re me.
I understand it’s hard to be a black man in America. In fact, I couldn’t even fathom the hardships that our men go through. After all, black men are the envy of the world. White men fear them, white women want them and black women fight for them.
But this newfound belief that black men are such a rare commodity that we, as black women, should take anything off them is the main reason why I’m single.
I’ve heard this speech before. God knows it’s so hard for a black man to have anything in this world. The Man has broken his spirit and damaged his ego beyond repair. No matter what the black man does, we as black women should stick by his side.
How many times have I heard, “You’re just being too hard on a brotha?” Be it from something as mild as disrespect to infidelity, I’ve always been told that I treat black men too harshly; therefore, I’ll never be with one.
Somewhere down the road, I think that’s going to be a real loss.
Right now I’m not feeling it.
It’s hard to be on a campus where females outnumber males by such a large number. In a place where some girls try every trick their mama taught them (and quite a few others that mama knows nothing about), it’s easy for a Rattler man to have his cake and eat it too. A girl with an attitude like mine gets passed over. I can’t blame any man for not wanting a woman who doesn’t take any crap, not when he doesn’t have to.
Just a thought, though: These women who uplift you and tell you that your stuff doesn’t stink no matter what you do, don’t love you. Nor are they doing you any favors.
Some of you Rattler men have experienced the wrath of “Psst! Hey, baby!” and “My homeboy wants to holla.” Not all Rattler males are men, despite your anatomy. I treat you accordingly.
Call me whatever you want, but I’ll always keep my size eights firmly planted in the black man’s ass. Not because I hate you, but because I love you more than you’ll ever know.
J. Danielle Daniels, 20, is a sophomore political science student from Dallas. She can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org. She serves as Deputy Opinions Editor.