Relishing A Sister’s Misfortune.

JAY-Z, 4:44Like most of you, I have been caught up in JAY-Z’s latest album, 4:44, all weekend. The album is dope, as are many of the think-pieces I’ve been reading, dissecting its dopeness. The album spoke to me and my reality on many levels (a separate post forthcoming), but interestingly, a think-piece about the album, highlighting a somewhat separate (at least on the surface) issue, has me feeling some kind of way.

Sis, We Gotta Stop Letting Black Men Ruin Us – Crystal deGregory Ph.D. – Medium

An open letter to black women who’ve listened to Jay-Z’s 4:44 and are waiting on an apology from the men who did you wrong. This could easily be a conversation about how Beyoncé lost her mind, her career, or her literal life behind Jay-Z. But, thankfully, it is not.

Honestly, the entire article speaks to me, but this quote is particularly poignant:

“That’s right. We gotta stop celebrating ruinous men ruining any woman —even a woman who has betrayed our Sisterhood’s” sacred trust. We made him and his situation look so good that Sister really thought she was getting herself a prize — a poison that looked like it tasted so good, she was willing to steal it because of her own desperate thirst.”

Okay. Those of you who read this blog know that I have had my share of experiences with no good, “ruinous”, ain’t shit men. Most particularly, my ex-FWB. I knew he wasn’t shit when I hooked up with him, but as you may recall, my ex-friend highlighted just how ain’t shit he was, and set into motion a set of sneaky, snaky events that ultimately ended our friendship.

To sum it up, she slept with him, lied about it, started a fraud ass relationship with him, got knocked up, and the rest is history. You may also recall that she ended up reaching out to me a bit after the baby was born, humbling herself to “apologize” and tell me just how ain’t shit she found out he was (a “you told me so” moment from which I took copious amounts of pleasure) — denying their baby, “cheating on her”, knocking up another woman. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

Ex-FWB & some chick he knocked up.

Digressing a bit, you know when you’re bored, on social media, and you go down that rabbit hole, searching and scouring looking for shit? Well, last week, I went down that rabbit hole, and found this photo of ex-FWB from January, with some other broad he knocked up (likely, the woman my ex-friend mentioned). The petty in me wanted to anonymously e-mail it to my ex-friend. But, truth be told, she’s probably seen it. Point being, I took pleasure in imagining my ex-friend’s pain. Like a lot.

It was beautiful — glorious, really — being able to experience karma (and its justice being rightly served). However, reading the words in the aforementioned article really made me pause. I’m sitting with it for a while.

REWIND: Not a Love Thing.

This was written two and a half years ago about my FWB (before the drama with him smashing my friend). Re-reading this really shows me how starved for attention I was. Or, perhaps, how emotionally twisted I was after the number my ex did on me. FWB was the first person I “let in” after my ex — plus, as was said in my favorite movie, “Love Jones”, “This ain’t no love thing; we’re just kickin’ it.”

“This ain’t no love thing; we’re just kickin’ it.” – Darius Lovehall, “Love Jones” | © 1997 New Line Cinemas, Dir. Theodore Witcher

There are many reasons why my “FWB” is no good for me.

I am more than willing to put the 10+ years he spent in prison behind him – he paid his debt to society, and I am not a judgmental person. However, he is only 36. He’s been “out” for a little less than a year, but I believe that the 10 years “away” has invariably left him in a limbo state of grown childhood. I’m no psychologist, but there has to be something to this.

He has 7 kids with 5 different women. His youngest are 12 and oldest is 20 or 21. He was a busy (and sexually irresponsible) man for most of his life. I have no children (on purpose). But, it’s obvious, based on little comments he makes (that I ignore) about me having his baby, that he’d be happy to “trap” me, and that’s never a good sign. I’m not with it.

He’s married. He and his wife have not been in a real relationship since he’s been out, but, uh, yeah (I didn’t know he was married when we first hooked up). Neither of them supposedly have the money to file for divorce. Whatever.

His “wife” is nuts. Seriously. Though she is in a new relationship, she has told him that she’d rather see him “dead or in jail” than happy. So, living 40 minutes away is likely a good (safe) thing for me.

I am a PhD candidate, and he has no concept of what a PhD really is. In the past, he’s referred to my dissertation as “that thing”. Hear me out, I am the least pretentious person in the world, and I have never required that my partners be as “educated” as me, but…that thing? C’mon, dude.

He’s not curious about my book collection. Okay, this may not sound like a big deal, but it kind of is…to me. I have two, packed full, tall book cases (with mainly non-fiction cultural studies stuff), and NOT once has he perused my collection – even out of curiosity. I once joked that anyone who steps into my space, and doesn’t at least browse my books is…no good. Things aren’t looking good for him.

He was (admittedly) physically abusive to his wife.

He’s possessive.

Enough said.

So why am I hung up on this guy? I don’t get it, and it’s really fucking with me.

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“You always want what you want when you want it. Why is everything so urgent with you?” – Nina Mosley, “Love Jones” | © 1997 New Line Cinemas, Dir. Theodore Witcher

My sister says that this situation with him may be the universe’s way of showing me that I’ve “moved on” a bit from my ex and/or I’m ready to open myself up emotionally to someone else. Who knows.

I’m a very witty, intelligent, attractive, never married and educated woman with no kids. I’m a catch, and I deserve better than him. Let me keep repeating that mantra.