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by Alise Leslie when sadness is no longer an emotion when it becomes a residence an empty abode, with no windows filled with the smoke of anxiety and the ashes of what used to be comfort are spread about with no mythical birds in sight no Lazarus resurgence of normal my mind’s eye projects onto empty walls playing back “could-have-beens” in high definition mistakes are played by giants hitting every cue. moving pictures of stagnation. establishing shots of a ghost town backdrops of statues constructed from stolen moments and irony. those moments where heaviness is your only evidence of existence where the only thing to grab onto are slippery slopes of your magnanimous mind with delusions the opposite of that grandeur shit damn. pardon my French but “je ne suis pas heureux” and no one you care about understands that it means “I. am. not. happy.” where a rainbow at the end of your storm seems too far fetched because how dare i imagine that it will end… no pots of gold nothing to pay off this debt of guilt compounding disinterest in positivity because curling into a ball is easier than smiles and platitudes easier than stepping outside. easier than changing. sadness is what happens when you are too tired to rage against the machine. and you realize the machine is you. and you don’t believe that the grand mechanic in the sky can fix it. you’ve been running on fumes so long that anything else feels preposterous when half tanks feel like luxury when half empty is a goal you’re living a half life, and having a life is not a figure of speech, but a daily struggle sadness is a volume of unfinished poems in dead languages…. where you chant “e pluribus unum” in unison with your problems molehills conspiring with mountains sparks conspiring with lightning bolts May showers conspiring with Katrinas. feelings never conspiring with common sense. words that used to mean something in some long forgotten time get lost in the ether of hardship. stanzas are scattered in the white noise of forgetfulness you are praying that your verses can, for once, cause a commotion that emotion, for once, can lose to logic. so that happy can join your vernacular and occasionally finish the metaphor of a good day. Alise "Naturally Alise" Leslie is a poet, blogger, avid vinyl collector, and mental health advocate. She writes at the blog, "In My Mental Mind: a black girl's journey through mental illness" (inmymentalmind.com), focusing on mental health issues, particularly for women and men in the POC community, through personal stories, poetry, and music. Read more: http://soar.forharriet.com/2015/03/depression-defined.html#ixzz3TjMV2XgE Follow us: @ForHarriet on Twitter | forharriet on Facebook
Usher is officially done. Seriously. After his last disastrous release. Raymond v. Raymond needed to be a groundbreaking piece of R&B-tinged pop perfection. Instead he delivered a tepid collection of semi-catchy but generally soulless songs.

There are, of course, a few bright spots on the album. But there's a problem when all of the standouts are "guilty pleasures." Little Freak is one of the albums most alluring cuts. Polow Da Don and Esther Dean's production and songwriting respectively, combined with one of the most unlikely Stevie Wonder samples you could ever imagine make an all-around great track.

But from the first listen, something about the song struck me as disconcerting.

There's the chorus.
Black women do not save. That is, of course, unsurprising considering the American culture of consumption has transformed into a culture of debt [1]. But it just so happens that structural racism has made partaking in this culture all the more costly for Black communities.

A few weeks ago, the Post Gazette featured a study that explored into the racial wealth gap in the United States. This time, researchers analyzed the fiscal divisions through a gendered lens. The findings told what we already knew: Whites (this time women) control the overwhelming majority of wealth in the United States.

The writeup, titled “Study Finds Median Wealth for Single Black Women at $5” (an obvious attempt to capitalize off of the mainstream media's obsession with the pathology of Black women.), wasn't perfect [2]. But the fact remains: the economic structure of this country combined with the financial illiteracy of Black women promise us certain financial doom.

Yes. Yes. I know. Obama "can't be the president of black America; he is the president of all Americans." But America should be ashamed of its acceptance of the ongoing economic exclusion of Black Americans. Barack Obama should be chastised for his blatant neglect of the issue.

I'm sick and tired of seeing statistics like these:
While overall employment in March stood at 9.7 percent, some 16.5 percent of African-Americans were unemployed. A staggering 41.1 percent of African-Americans between 16 and 19 years of age are unemployed, based on the March numbers, while 19 percent of adult African-American men and 12.4 percent of adult African-American women are facing unemployment. With the exception of the unemployment rate for teenagers, those seasonally adjusted numbers were up over February statistics, even as white unemployment stayed the same. (Source)

Unsurprisingly, Blacks are not only unemployed at higher rates, but they are jobless for longer periods.
The typical period of unemployment, while always higher for African-Americans, is now at nearly 24 weeks, compared to just 18.4 weeks for white workers. And the report found that nearly 45 percent of unemployed African-Americans have been so for more than 27 weeks.

I chose Harvard because I love to intellectualize, and I love being around people who love intellectualize. Pointless conversations don't exist. I take something away from every interaction I engage in.

Growing up around the compassionate conservatives of suburban Texas/Oklahoma has taught me the value of alternative viewpoints. I never discount someone's intelligence or motives simply because they don't agree with me. I reserve my venom for the unabashedly xenophobic and the willfully ignorant.

There was a recent exchange on an email list I'm on about Jill Scott's column for Essence on interracial dating. I expected tempers to flare because lets face it: Ivy League Male is to White Girls as Tyler Perry is to Big Black Peen, but I wasn't expecting this.

A Harvard Business School graduate came up with these gems.


A complete lack of political fortitude.

Say what you will about Dubya, but if he believed in something, he made it happen. He steamrolled his way to victory with far less decisive margins (GOP to Dem), and he did it with far less political capital than Barack Obama.

What we have witnessed in the past 2 or so months is a complete political collapse of the Obama administration regarding healtchare. Initially, they failed to take control of the message, and now they've failed to correct those mistakes in their rebuttals. We're left with a crippled strategy run by those willing to compromise anything necessary to get this one in the "win" column.

You want to talk about alienating the base? Well consider me alienated. What is reform without a public option perfectly.

My television shero, and possibly the smartest woman on tv, Rachel Maddow sums it up.

In the past month and a half, I have developed an unhealthy attachment to Michael Jackson. An attachment that was utterly nonexistent prior to 6.25.09. I'm sure my bandwagon mourning is not unusual, but I'm an extremist and every sense. So any sort of obsession, especially those that are socially acceptable, is a slippery slop. There are, no doubt, other reasons why the loss of The King of Pop so hard (the most obvious being the recent death of my father at 50), but maybe I'll save that for a later post (subscribe please!).

I really don't know where I am in the stages of grief, but If I had to guess, I'd say I'm somewhere in between complete obsession and self-loathing. Damnit, Michael. I wish I knew how to quit you. I tried to ween myself, but the fount of Michael Jackson mania is everflowing. Withdrawal at this point would be unbearable. Plus I just ordered Jackson Family Values on Amazon, and I know that's just going to lead me further down into my black hole of fanaticism. Anyways, my constant trolling for any and every MJ tribute and video on the internet brought me to my newest friend in my head. Meet Sy Smith.

Soul songstress Sy gets the honor (wait that was too obnoxious. Distinction, maybe?). I admit that sometimes I am a bit embarrassed by my rather transparent musical tastes. Though they are vast and varied, they usually have one thing in common: undeniable mainstream appeal. I, of course, don't like everything on the radio, but the majority of my favorites have at one point have enjoyed some airplay. no music snobbery here. Much like your friendly, neighborhood crackhead, I'm just looking for a hit. That's all I ask.

I digress for the 50/11th time. My neverending search for my new favorite forgotten hit means I often overlook a ton of incredible underground artists like Sy. I came across this video, and I knew Sy and I were meant to be bff. Yeah it's creepy, but I don't care. Watch the video, and you'll understand why we're destined to become friends.
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FYI "Show You The Way To Go" is one of my favorite aural discoveries since Michael's death. It even made it onto my imeem Old School Jams Playlist.

Who She Is...
  • Name: Sy Smith
  • Birthday:October 7, 1978
  • Hometown: New York, NY

Why We're Friends...

  • She wears black pleather leggings even though she's not stick thin. Betch is fearless. Check the afro, honey.
  • She's a drama queen. In my world, that's not a pejorative. Leave the Xanax at home if you want to role with me.
  • She's insanely talented. I believe that If you want to be great, you've got to surround yourself with with greatness.