Female Problems by Maurice M. Gray, Jr.

As much as we African-American men love our women, they are, at times, aggravating and frustrating (as of course are we, but this is about us!). It’s been my (and many other brothers’) experience that some (not all) sisters can be manipulative, confused, confusing and dishonest; the same as we men can. We aren’t perfect either, but that “all men are dogs” line is tired, played out and needs to be laid to rest. It’s been my experience that, when faced with the sort of man she professes to want, many sisters I’ve encountered don’t know how to deal with him and wind up driving away the very man they claim doesn’t exist.

The problem with our relationships is that not enough of us know and love Jesus, not enough of us know and love ourselves and that when it comes down to it, we’re just plain too stubborn to admit that there’s a problem. Yet here we are, the descendants of Adam and Eve, consecrated by God to play out this drama called love and relationships, drawn to each other even as we fight.
Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

From the journal of Erik Dawson

***************************************

“Get out my way!”
Erik didn’t have time to react before someone shoved him knees-first into the nearest table. As a laser blast of agony seared through his already traumatized left leg, he gritted his teeth and suppressed a scream.
The offender’s friends tried unsuccessfully to get him to leave, if not apologize. Erik steadied himself, braced on his good leg and glared up at a man a foot taller than his own five foot four.
“What, you short, crippled and deaf? I said get out my way!”
Erik’s response was to remove his collapsible cane from his pocket and click it out to its useful size. He planted it on the floor for balance, stared the man down and held his ground.
“Oh, you must notta had your butt kicked lately. Otherwise, you’d get it out my way!”
You might’ve re-injured my leg just to show off for your friends, Erik thought. I don’t care how big you are- I ain’t taking this.

Sam Sanders was halfway to the door when a crowd across the room drew his attention.
What’s going on over there? Oh man, not a fight.
Sam strained to see over the crowd, and saw a six-foot brother cursing out a five-footer.
The little dude is Erik from church. He’s the guy who survived that car crash last year. Everybody talks about how well he handled his rehab and what a nice guy he is. I better help him out before Pastor has to say how nice he was in the eulogy.

A ray of common sense peeked through the curtain of Erik’s anger and revealed just how much trouble his temper had landed him in.
This is for real. Maybe I can convince him that it wouldn’t do much for his rep if he kicked my butt in front of all these people.
Erik stepped aside to let the drunk and his entourage pass.
“Look bruh, let it go. We all had a good time tonight- no need for all this.”
“Forget that! I seen you looking at my girl earlier, shorty. It’s on now!”
I had to run across a drama king. I can see the headlines now. Erik Dawson, age thirty, killed in comedy club for allegedly looking at a woman’s butt. Like you could miss it in that outfit.
Erik shook off his musings and stared at the big drunk, wondering how he’d get out of this one.
God, now would be a good time for an Old Testament miracle. Can a brother get a sling and five smooth stones right quick?

“Aw man, not again!”
Garvey Flowers emerged from backstage after a successful routine and saw the same thing he’d seen at the Comedy Cave for the past three weekends: Big Dante causing trouble.
Fool can’t get up in the morning without picking a fight.
A thought occurred to Garvey, and he headed towards the disturbance.
Maybe if I help bounce his big behind, they’ll give me a permanent gig.
Garvey sighed and made his way through the crowd, questioning why he chose this profession in the first place.
With no hope of a diplomatic solution, Erik brought his cane up and held it like a Star Wars character’s light saber. The drunk snickered.
“Oh, you went and got your own switch? Give it here then, and take your whipping like a man.”
Erik surprised even himself by flashing an obscene gesture with his free left hand. In his mind, Big Dante exploded forward like a panther. In reality, he moved like a turtle on Prozac. Erik had time to sidestep, make a sandwich, pivot on his injured leg, eat the sandwich and use the cane to trip Big Dante headfirst into a table.
Bystanders laughed as Big Dante stood up, apple martinis and beer dripping off his head. Erik tensed for a second attack.
I’m only gonna get one shot at him- it’ll have to count.
“Boy, I’m’a bust your - - -.”
“What’s your problem?”
A voice sounded behind Erik just as he prepared to hit Big Dante below the belt. Sam pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers, grabbed Dante and spun him around. Erik blinked in surprise at the sight of an unexpected benefactor, but stayed focused on Big Dante, determined to use the cane on him again if he so much as flinched in Erik’s direction.
“Is it a problem over here?”
The voice from behind Dante startled all of them. As Dante turned, Garvey steeled himself against the man's toxic breath and got right in his face.
“You ain’t gonna come in here every weekend causing trouble. Take your bad-breath-having-rode-the-short-bus-to-school behind on somewhere before I put my foot in it.”
Big Dante blinked in surprise. “Oh, you want some too? We can go!”
Sam stepped closer. “Since you’re not into fair fights, how about all three of us?”
Big Dante looked uneasy. Sam was his height, and Garvey was about five inches shorter, but stocky enough to give him pause. And Erik was short, but armed.
Erik wanted to break into a holy dance, but maintained his cool.
“Like I said bruh, let it go. It ain’t worth all the drama.”
Big Dante allowed his humiliated girlfriend and the couple with them to lead him away. Erik kept his cane ready and watched Dante and his entourage until they cleared the door.
Garvey put a hand of Erik’s shoulder. “You a’ight, man?”
“Yeah.” Erik smiled and relaxed. “Whew, that was close. I almost had to jack him up!”
Garvey and Sam looked at Erik, looked at each other and then exploded with laughter. Erik tried to maintain his poker face, but lost the battle and laughed until his back hurt. He sat down, still laughing.
Sam regained his breath first. “Man, you should be the one onstage!”
Garvey gasped for air. “You ain’t kidding- that was funnier then anything I said all month!”
Erik caught his breath. “Seriously though, thanks, both of you. It was about to get ugly.”
“Man, that was a hour past ugly!” Garvey laughed. “He was gonna knock you into next week and beat you again when you got there!”
The three men introduced themselves and exchanged brother-hugs and hand pounds all around. The crowd around them dispersed and spread the story about the almost-fight to those who were too far back to see what really happened.
“Listen fellas, thanks for having my back. I was about to go get something to eat. Come with me and I’ll hook you up- it’s the least I can do.”
Garvey's eyes lit up. “I don’t turn down free food. Lead on!”
The three men ended up at the Golden Dove on DuPont Highway, one of the only restaurants in the state of Delaware open past midnight. It wasn’t crowded, and they got a table right away.
Sam picked up his menu. “Erik, what were you gonna do if we hadn’t stepped in?”
“Appraise his family jewels with my cane.”
Sam and Garvey cracked up.
“And if that didn’t stop him, I was gonna lie there and try to control the bleeding until the ambulance came.”
“Good plan. Ever consider running?”
Erik frowned. “I don’t run well these days, Garvey. Besides, he took me there. It didn’t make one bit of sense for me to stare him down like that, but when he pushed me, I lost it. And by the time common sense kicked in, it was too late to back down.”
Sam drank from his water glass. “Did I see you give him the finger right before he came at you?”
Erik blushed. “Yeah. Not the smartest thing to do under the circumstances.”
“Man, that dude was from Beat Down, Alabama and he was ready to take you home for a visit!” Garvey shook his head. “The police woulda found you lying in the parking lot and wondered if those were tattoes on your butt or footprints!”
They all laughed, but Erik stopped suddenly.
He’s right. That moose would’ve worn me out. I almost threw away eight months of physical therapy for some idiot.
“You okay, bruh?”
Erik forced the self-recriminations down. “Yeah, I’m cool. It was stupid for me to challenge him. I mean, I ain’t been out the hospital that long and he would’ve put me right back in. Glad you two were there. It looked like everybody else there wanted to watch him feed me my cane!”
“I gotta admit, I helped you for selfish reasons.” Garvey chuckled. “I been performing there the past three weekends, and darn if Big Dante hasn’t acted a straight fool every time I’m there. I figured if I helped throw him out, the owner might offer me a contract.”
“Whatever works. I’m just glad you did it. How about you, Sam? Why’d you jump in it?”
“Guess I’ve got a Batman complex or something. I couldn’t just let that big joker push you around and not do anything about it. Besides, if Pastor Nathan found out I saw you in trouble and didn’t help, he might have put me out of Calvary!” Garvey blinked. “Oh, you do go to Calvary! I thought I seen you there. You sing on the choir, don’t you?”
“Yeah, the Men’s Choir. I’m about the tallest guy there- you can’t miss me!” They laughed and talked for another hour, barely pausing long enough to eat. Erik paid the check and they stepped out into the cool night air. Both Sam and Garvey noticed that Erik winced within a few steps outside and had to pull out his cane again.
Sam reached out a hand to steady Erik if necessary. “You okay?”
Erik waved him off. “Yeah, I’m good. I just overdid it tonight. I’m supposed to walk as much as I can without using the cane so my leg will get stronger, but fighting a homicidal drunk is definitely pushing it too far.”
Garvey thought for a moment. “Erik, if it’s none of my business, just tell me. However, I’m real nosy and I want to know what happened. Your accident I mean.”
The three of them had reached their cars. Erik sat on the hood of his father’s Buick LeSabre, and the others followed suit.
“Since you had my back tonight, the least I can do is tell you. I gotta warn you though, this ain’t a short story. We could be here a minute.”

Maurice M. Gray, Jr. is an author and comedian and a contributor to The Soul of a Man: A Triumph of My Soul Anthology. Female Problems will release this June. Learn more about Mr. Gray at www.mauricemgrayjr.com, and more about The Soul of a Man at http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/.

The Resurrection of Street Lit by JIHAD

So often and for so long we, as African-American authors, have been pigeon-holed into very few categories. Let's be real, Mr. Charlie publishes what has been proven to sell: mainstream, baby-momma (daddy)-drama, and romance. Now over the last decade, Mr. Charlie has added Christian Fiction thanks to Victoria Christopher-Murray, Erotica thanks to Zane, Urban Erotica, thanks to Noire, and Street Fiction thanks to Teri Woods.

Street fiction: dead? I don't think so. Saying street fiction is dead is like saying poverty is non-existent. Street fiction is the re-emergence of the Harlem renaissance era. Look at Chester Himes, Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, Claude Brown, James Baldwin, and others.
Yes, there are a lot of authors writing poorly edited and meaningless street tales, as there are a lot of authors writing poorly edited mainstream, Christian Fiction, and Erotica stories. Let me give you some names of some Street Fiction authors that should be mentioned in the same light as Toni Morrison or Alice Walker: K'wan, Y. Blak Moore, Sister Souljah, Keith Lee Johnson, and Treasure Blue.

It is so easy to focus on the negative, and there are some atrocious stories, but I would much rather see us writing, than stealing, drug dealing, and killing. There's no glamour in having gone to prison, it's a stage that many black men go through unfortunately, but if we write about the life that we have lived, then just maybe we can prevent others from following in our footsteps. I did time in prison, a lot of it, and I was the first to write and publish a street fiction book, in August of 2000, (Wake Up Everybody: The Life of a Player) later renamed Street Life, since the days of Donald Goines. And it was the Street tales of Goines and Iceberg Slim that captivated me enough to keep my fingers turning pages. These books inspired me to read and I moved on to write about my life and the streets, for the sole reason of preventing our youth from following in my footsteps. You see, there are boys, girls, men, and women that are reading, that would have never picked up a book if it weren't for the Vickie Stringer's and Nikki Turner's of the world. Illiteracy has taken a heavy blow because of Street Fiction. What we need to do is help those who want to write and teach them the craft.

I've watched and listened to Nick Chiles and so many others degrade the art form of Street Fiction, and it is sad. It reminds me of Delores Tucker and the Reverend Calvin C. Butts who so adamantly campaigned to stop Hip-Hop in the early 90's. But, let's take a look at Hip-Hop. Look at Nas, Common, Kanye West, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Q-tip, Grand Puba, Public Enemy, Krs-1, Rakim, Outkast, Gnarls Barkley, Paris, Tupac, and so many others that are teaching, and preaching about conscious, political views, and a history that Pastors and schools are not teaching and preaching. If Hip-Hop ended, millions of people would not take any time to reflect on issues such as the diamond trade, which was brought to the consciousness of many solely because of Kanye's song Diamonds are Forever.

So, let's lift the Street Fiction up that is good and relevant. The bad will eventually be weeded out, and hopefully these authors that really love to write will begin studying the craft. But we have to stop assaulting Street Fiction. Instead, assault bad writing and bad editing; Assault these mainstream publishers that won't sign someone if they write conscious street fiction, but will sign someone writing inconsequential garbage, solely because they've sold a lot of books in the past.

Love and Life.
Jihad

ESSENCE Magazine best selling author JIHAD is the author of several novels and is a contributor to The Soul of a Man. Visit http://www.jihadwrites.com/ to learn more about JIHAD and visit http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/ to learn more about The Soul of a Man.

The Beauty of Natural Black by Tyrell DeVon Floyd

The Beauty of Natural Black
By
Tyrell DeVon Floyd

Her Natural Beauty is enough,
even when covered up
she exemplifies God's Grace in the finest way

Her attitude is flawless,
and her self respect is strong enough
never to be tarnished;
truth be the word that best describes her

The way she takes nothin' and makes somethin'
is nothin' short of being an art form,
and her warm spirit reaches out to everyone
even when it goes unnoticed

She's as natural
as clouds sit high in the sky,
yet somehow her mind remains grounded

She's sexy without having to
parade her sexuality;
her attire consists of a dress
that's long enough to sweep the floor,
her hair swings low
like a chariot swings low
as it hangs to the middle of her neck

She's Beautiful,
and even more beautiful
as she holds fast to the struggles of life with a smile

She'll starve before climbing
the money hungry tree of greed;
instead she makes do with what she has

She's pure in nature and
respectable in appearance,
she has ingegrity;
so she cares less about the rainbow's colors
of fortune and happiness,
instead she's content just
being Black

To those unaware of her beauty;
they say she's quiet, sheltered, lacluster, and bland
but on the other hand a good man
acknowledges her as his
greatest compliment

She has everything that those counted
above her lack,
and for that,
she'll always be the true Queen
until the others gain what she has;
and that's,
the fortitude to
remain who she is despite
what others think

Her beauty embodies the naturalness,
the naturalness,
of the color Black

Tyrell DeVon Floyd is a radio personality based out of Seattle, Wa, and is a contributor to the forthcoming The Soul of a Man. Please visit http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/ to learn more about The Soul of a Man, and to reach Tyrell DeVon Floyd, E-mail: keep_it_rell@yahoo.com.

Urban Lit is Dead by Joey Pinkney

Urban Lit is DEAD! by Joey Pinkney

Yep, I said it… Urban Lit is dead. Done. Finito.

Flatline…
Who am I to say that? I don’t have the same status in the Urban Lit industry as Nas has when he said the same thing for his music. I don’t have to. I read a lot of Urban Lit, and it’s dead.
Why do I speak such blasphemous words? This sentiment stems from an email conversation I had with Therone Shellman after reading and reviewing his novel No Love Lost. (Read my review of No Love Lost, click here.) His novel was atypical and his approach to life after the streets was refreshing. Another one that comes to mind is Erick Gray’s Crave All Lose All. (Read my review of Crave All Lose All, click here. Read my interview with Erick Gray. Part I, click here. Part II, click here.)

In brief, we discussed how Urban Lit doesn’t do justice to the situations that people are relegated to in hoods across America and beyond. The immorality and reality of the streets isn’t present in a lot of stories on the market today. Without going into detail, that book was the first one that I read in a long time that actually shined the light on the side of the game that most people see but few want to talk about.

Call the Coroner…
The Urban Lit genre is pumping out books with the same book covers and the same stories. Most of the authors have to boast their jail experience to get the attention and respect they think they need to sell their stories. (Sounds like rappers who have to talk about their hood exploits in order to be respected, instead of being lyrically proficient.)
The Urban Literature landscape is taking the natural life cycle of all cultural trends. It’s just like Hip-Hop, born from desolation and neglect. Just like the Hip-Hop that influenced its current direction, Urban Lit has gone from being an obscurity to being shunned to being assimilated into popular culture. That’s why the larger publishing houses are following suit and creating imprints to cater to ravenous readership that Urban Lit definitely has. That’s why you can go to Barnes and Nobles or Borders or even Wal-Mart and see the latest and greatest in the (unofficial) Urban Lit section. It’s selling.
Before it got it’s name, authors like Omar Tyree (who recently stopped writing Urban Lit), Sistah Souljah and Teri Woods wrote books that spoke to a group of people who couldn’t get the time of day from the larger publishing houses. The prevalent thought at the time was that “those people” don’t read. Urban Lit has now been digested and regurgitated by the large publishing houses just like Master P did to rap music during his hey day. And just like his albums covers, words are blinged out, the men look mean and the women look horny.

From the Cradle…
With a “for us, by us” mentality, what would later become Urban Literature was strictly a person-to-person enterprise. Authors were printing up there own books and selling them out the trunk, on the corner, mom-and-pop stores and beauty salons. Full of sex, violence and grammatical errors, these books and the readers who loved them were looked down upon by the mainstream book industry.
Then the book industry got hip. “Those people” were buying those books terrible books. “Those people” were requesting sequels and anything else their favorite hood author put out there. Why? Because those books were entertaining, but they also had an underlining message. Readers could relate.
Fast forward a couple of decades. Now every book cover either has a young black dude with braids, two ear rings, tattoos, sagging jeans and a mean mug or the book has a young female in her early twenties wearing something that makes it easy to figure out what the birthday suit is like. The stories are still about the hood, but nowadays there is a twist. The money, clothes, hos, jewelry, expensive cars, huge houses and the swagger runs the stories.
Urban Lit authors still have to get on their grind, print up the copies and sell them by any means necessary. The difference now is that they have to compete for shelf space with the larger publishing houses. A lot of times, they have to compromise the integrity of their story to fit what the readers will buy. It’s no longer a novelty to have a book with the hood as the backdrop.

To the Grave…
The immorality and reality of the streets isn’t present in a lot of stories. This article actually stemmed from an email conversation I had with Therone Shellman, author of No Love Lost. Without going into detail, that book was the first one that I read in a long time that actually shined the light on the ___ side of the game. (Another one that comes to mind is Erick Gray’s ___.) Shellman is a person is has been there and done that, and it shows in his approach to his story.
A lot of people complain that most of the Urban Lit books are the same three or four stories with a different title and character names. For that matter, most of the authors have the same felonious background story in their bios. It’s just like Hip-Hop nowadays. You could take a black male between 16 and 36 (because you know we stay young looking for a while) and give him a grill, some tatoos, a fitted, a throwback (or white tee), some sagging jeans (and boxers), a gold necklace with some goofy pendant, a diamond encrusted watch, and some Air Force Ones. Then put him in front of a mansion with a couple of Lambourghinis and Escalades with a buch of women in their early 20s in bikinis. Throw on some music, let him pose and point around aimlessly showing off that goofy pendant. Oh yeah, I almost forgot let him rap…
That’s similar to what you see in Urban Lit. Most Urban Lit books has the guy that’s a drug dealer with all the name brand clothes and cars. He has enough jewelry to finance a small army. The problem is that that guy gets robbed and/or killed in real life. A perfect example is all of these rappers getting their chain snatched left and right. They talk all that stuff on the albums and still get robbed when they leave the studio. Where are the guns? Where are your boys?
On top of the hood watching you, the cops are watching harder. Most of the dudes that make it to BET’s American Gangster get an episode because of one big mistake, being too flashy. Make a solid gold crown if you want, the cops will do everything they can to take that and everything else, including your life.

Eulogy…
I understand what’s going on. People don’t read Urban Lit to get the scoop on reality. Like my girl Davida Baldwin said it, “You don’t read Street Lit for self-help and motivation, you don’t read street lit to help out the community, you read it for entertainment.” If you put the average thug n!gga or hoodrat on the book cover, it wouldn’t sell. It would probably make it hard to sell the book right next to it, too. (LOL!) If it takes a model on the cover to get noticed, then sex has sold again. To be honest, authors don’t spend months and years to write a book for it to sit in a book store. They write it to hopefully put money in their pockets.

The larger publishing houses are in the game to sell units. If you like it, they love it. Business is business, but we the readers should expect more from Urban Lit authors.

The passionate Joey Pinkney is a contributor to the forthcoming The Soul of a Man: A Triumph of My Soul Anthology. Learn more about Joey at http://www.joeypinkney.com/ and learn more about The Soul of a Man at http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/.

Domestic Violence and Abuse Sucks! by S. D. Denny

When I was seventeen, I met a handsome young man who I eventually discovered turned violent when he became jealous. After getting hit in the head on more than one occasion, I walked away from the situation and refused to see him ever again. I never imagined that I’d be confronted with this kind of violence again, but in my twenties I became involved with yet another man who would use violence to try to control my life. This time, it wasn’t as easy to walk away from the situation because I’d had a child with him. For years, I lived in fear of being hurt or even killed. I thank God that He protected me from harm and showed me what real love is. On the other hand, not everyone is able to escape this sickness as easily. I continue to pray for a family member who has been the victim of domestic violence for over 15 years now. It’s as though she doesn’t think she deserves anything better; like this is what her life should be like. What about her innocent children? Should they be made to suffer as well?

Domestic violence doesn’t just affect the victim. It reaches far and wide and there are indirect victims who suffer as well. For instance, the children of the victim suffer as they watch their parent or guardian abused and demeaned at the hands of their perpetrator. And there are family members who are helpless as they watch their child, sister, or brother constantly in danger, not knowing when or if the phone will ring or if a knock will come at the door bringing bad news.Domestic violence is more common than some of us may be aware.

Around the world, at least one in every three women has been beaten, coerced into sex or otherwise abused during her lifetime. Nearly one-third of American women (31 percent) report being physically or sexually abused by a husband or boyfriend at some point in their lives, according to a 1998 Commonwealth Fund survey.If you or someone you know is a victim of domestic violence and would like to get help, here are a couple of resources where you can start:http://www.endabuse.org/http://www.ncadv.org/ or call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233).

Have you or someone you know ever been the victim of domestic violence?

What affect did it have on your life or the life of your family and/or friends?

How did you become free from the situation?

“She speaks!” I listen…

Visit http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/ to learn more about S.D. Denny and her forthcoming debut novel, The Baker's Dozen.

Burnt Cookies by LaToya S. Watkins

I think we were friends before. Of course, I can’t remember now. Mere adversaries today. Tomorrow might be better, if one of us chooses to retreat. Marriage, humph. As sacred, which equals scary, as the whole institution is, I loved it in the beginning. Seven or eight months ago. Maybe this morning too. I wonder when I lost track without even knowing that I had stopped counting the days since I had arrived at my sweet paradise. I wonder when Eden faded and something close to, but not quite Hades was birthed. Maybe it was the loads that became tons of weekly laundry that would only respond to my hands or my touch. Or maybe it was the cookies that kept burning in the oven every time I tried, because mommy, employee, student, and wife, overthrew baker. And I forgot the cookies, no I forgot the oven existed.

I know… it was ironing clothes for two days for three children while reading, Through Women’s Eyes, for Thursday night history in the Masters program, coupled with reviewing galleys for work the next morning, all the while looking forward to a precious four hours of sleep. It was creating my own schedule so that the kids had a ride to school and didn’t have to wait in the rain after they were released for a ride that would never come. It was me, the magician who got up first and alerted the family that daybreak was underway and it was time to start the day. I didn’t only push start on the coffee pot; I ground the coffee fresh daily.

And in all my venting and ranting and raving, I love him. Today, I don’t like him, but always I love him.. I burnt the cookies tonight and I am upset. I burnt them last night too and he braved the cold and drove to the nearest grocer to buy more.. He was sorry that I had burned them. He blamed himself. He said that he has learned to watch the oven when I bake because I have so many roles that I tend to loose track. I promised me last night, no more burnt cookies. Or maybe it was no more angry love. No more pouting, I promised. I think. But after more burnt cookies and an hour of wailing Bob’s Could This Be Love, I pout. Did I mention it was because of burnt cookies? Can you believe I tossed the whole pan across the kitchen? He ran in (this was not the first time I had thrown the burnt cookie pan). I had already placed my earplugs back into my ears and pushed play on the Ipod and Bob was back in my ear with his melodic hymn about love, life, and peace by the time he made it into the kitchen.

He was careful with his words and looked me directly in the eyes (even though I avoided his). I think he does this for control, but he’ll say that he does it to indicate that he is paying attention to me. He spoke gently, but loud enough that his voice drowned out Bob’s, “Why do you do that?”

I didn’t look up from the dishes (that I had started to wash to take my attention off of the cookies), but I was aware that the cookies still lay on the ground beside the fridge where they had landed. “Don’t come in here,” was my sharp reply.

He stood a bit longer, willing me to look at him. When I didn’t he disappeared down the hallway, to give me and those cookies time to cool off.

He returned later when I had folded Bob’s voice up and placed him on the counter. I was in the den now, folding warm clothes from the dryer. He was in the kitchen, sniffing through the Alfredo that I had prepared for dinner. I still avoided his eyes, which he seemed unfazed by. He looked over the bar into the den and asked, “Hey babe, want me to fix your plate?”

He is a good man, burnt cookies don’t faze him. I fear though, that this angry love I am giving will push and push and push and push. He will be a hurt man, an angry man, a burnt man. Much like the cookies I tossed tonight. I don’t want to love him angry. So I pray:

Lord, give me the patience to handle the everyday obstacles of being a matriarch. I don’t take it lightly, but I know that there is a perfect balance in your plan. Give me vision to see anger before it has a chance to engulf my spirit. For your word says anger but sin not, and in my anger I am prone to sin. Humble me before my husband as he follows you, I shall follow him. Position my family so that the true head is the head and I am but a help-mate. Give me comfort in the fact that there will be plenty more burnt cookies, but let truth be in no more angry love.

LaToya S. Watkins is the author of the forthcoming

In Love with Losers. Find out more at http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/.

2009 Black Book Club Rock Awards!!!!

Elissa Gabrielle has been nominated for the 2009 Black Book Club Rock Awards in the category of Sistah of Excellence!

Voting begins February 6 and ends March 15, at http://www.bbcrvoting.blogspot.com/. Please support Elissa by casting your vote!

February 10, 2009 at 9PM/EST will be the official kick off party on the Sistah Confessions Radio Show with a monthly spotlight thereafter.

God Bless You All.

http://www.peaceinthestormpublishing.com/