Femme Fatales

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September 12, 2011 by Manny Wordsmith

Never give your whole heart away. A wise girl told me this once.

I’ve had the unfortunate experience of doing this on multiple occasions. I’m not proud of throwing my heart out there like a bag peanuts at a baseball game, hoping that it would reach the right person instead of some sweaty drunk girl with giant hands who gets kicked out at the 6th inning of every game.

I’m learning more and more about myself every day, but before I knew anything, my mom had a plan for who she wanted me to give my heart to.

My mom, wanted me to find a “church” going girl, preferable black or of a minority descent. Someone nice and pleasant who was just as nerdy as I was, but minded her P’s and Q’s and dressed appropriately . I didn’t think this was a long shot. But my mom’s first mistake was  putting me in damn near all white churches. WTF?

So I was constantly the “odd” man out.

I’d sit through these summer church camps, copper-toned and crispy, while the hoards of other kool-aid stained kids were whiter than washer machines and bowls of milk. Their moms would keep them inside and away from the cancerous sun. But my mom kicked me out every chance she got. “Find an adventure…” she’d say

So I stood out a bit. And the same ol’ story applies here, blatant racism and awkward encounters with other parents, blah, blah and blah. The idea of growing up to marry any of the backwards, overly confident, fake goodies was slim. I never was able to connect what my skin color had to do with how I interacted with people who were trying to find God just like me. Even at that young of an age I knew that there was a cultural, social and economic divide. Maybe I wasn’t able to articulate it, but I knew that things didn’t sit right.

The second mistake my mom made was to assume that church girls were pure.

Yeah, maybe she didn’t say this, but I was led to believe it. Especially since she assumed every girl in our neighborhood was a “hussy”. It took me years to realize what that word meant. But pretty much my mom hated any girl I liked. No matter the descriptions I gave, everything circled back to church.

When a New Year’s Eve overnight party was planned at our church I assumed that I would have the perfect opportunity to holla at some holy chicks. Up to that point my brother Victor, my friend Chris and I had pretty much been outcasts. We’d been there every Sunday for youth service, but we missed the real shoulder rubbing, nitty-gritty, black light youth services on Wednesday’s. These were the services where they played Creed and P.O.D., while some skinny tool with spiked hair and a headset mic told every one that they should “Rock Out!” for God.

By the way, just because a lead singer is openly Christian, it doesn’t mean it’s a Christian band or a better band. Scott Strapp blows weather he’s wearing a crucifix or sporting a kufi and praying five-times a day. Just a note.

I’m not going to say that the color of our brown skin played a role in how we were treated. It was like we didn’t know the “right people”. And my mother didn’t care. She wasn’t fake or double-dealing. She didn’t think money made you more important or put you closer to God. Her feelings toward these aspects made us practically unknown, even though we’d been attending the church for years. None of this stopped us guys from throwing our hats in the ring. We thought  that maybe this group activity would even things out and put us on the radar.

But it didn’t. It just left us even more bewildered than before. We were stuck with a bunch twisted teens all night, who saw this event as a way to share stories about fellatio and how often they smoked weed. Now my brother and Chris, who were older and farther along than I was, didn’t have any troubles speaking. But I couldn’t keep the attention span of any one girl long enough to spurt out anything cool, current or relavent. It was a made dash of speed flirtation and hormones that I never got a memo for. Everyone was already running before I got there and the race was done before I could figure out that good girls wanted bad guys.

It was pretty much my last straw. I wasn’t accepted anywhere it seemed. Not even by other Christian people (Too nice for church girls? WTF?). It was a drag and never was the same for me. Each and every time I visited or was apart of a youth service, I noticed skanks, sluts and sexual deviants off the bat. I literally saw a girl give a guy a clothed lapdance while she danced to “Shake that ass” by Mystikal…in church!

Teens are just wild as it is. But some of the wildest come from big church backgrounds. Which makes me ponder, why act wholesome when every one assumes you already are? Right? Just smile, curtsey and help your youth pastor have an affair after hours. No one will every expect it! Cheeky ass, home schooled weirdos. You all think just because religion was pushed on you, you suddenly have an excuse to be a rebel, a whore, an asshole or a pagan. You’re all lucky that your parents even had the decency to put you any where semi-good. You could’ve been left on the streets at 12, sucking dick for crack, just to get a Hero sandwich.

Anyway, my mom had a good idea. Manny is good, he needs a good girl to add-on to his already abundant goodness. And since all nice girls are at churches and not on the streets, he should look there for his first girlfriend and not to Heather, the white girl in the neighborhood who spat, smoked and swore.

Well it seems that my experience has defined me and now I’m the farthest from my mom’s original formula . Now I date girls who cuss like sailors, drink me under the table and get tattoos of machine guns and middle fingers without flinching. Ok that last one was a small exaggeration, but know that I don’t determine how good a girl is by how much she goes to church. I determine it by her actions, how she treats me and how she wants to be treated. And I think my mom would at least appreciate that.


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