A SUBCULTURE OF OUR YOUTH
There he goes, chronologically a man. Twenty-five years old, stuck in his brother-boy ways, neatly platted cornrow touched his shoulders and platinum, temporary cap cover his right eye tooth and distort his beautiful smile. Brother-boy has holes in both ears to hold his cubic zaconic studs. His arms are covered with tattoos of pit bulls, dragons, tarantulas, and mother love scrawled on a tiny patch of skin as a demonstration of his devotion to her.
Brother-boy wears a tight tang-top on a hot summer’s day, his over sized sports jersey, and a do-rag under his flat bill baseball cap. He allows his Sponge Bob boxers to cling to his waste to hide the cleavage of his buttocks. Brother-boy doesn’t own a dress suit, doesn’t want a suit, doesn’t need a suit; he ain’t got nowhere important to go. He prefers baggy jeans that ride on his hips bellow his cartoon character boxers, and sporadically he uses one hand to yank his jeans up, less they fall to his knees.
Nike, Tims, and Jordans, are lined up in pairs along the wall in his closet, and a brain draining decision is required to decide which ones will grace his feet that day. He doesn’t realize it doesn’t matter because Brother-boy’s jean cuffs only allow the toes of his shoes to be visible. Brother-boy is exhausted just getting dressed. He’s talented, but ain’t got no job; don’t need no job, he got a mama. Brother-boy wants to be a Brother-man.
SURE YUH RIGHT.
THE BABY’S MAMA
It must be me. I mean, maybe my age is showing, but I got a couple of beefs. Now, you may agree with me or you may think my way of thinking is out dated. First, let me cover this ‘Baby Mama’ issue. I hear these Brother-Boy-Sperm-Donors brag about their Baby-Mama. I want to round up all of you young wanna-be a ‘Baby-Mama’ and sit you down. I have a few things I want to say. I’m not talkin’ about the educated adult female that has made the conscious decision to bring a child into this world. I’m talkin’ to you young girls, you teen children. The law of our land refers to you as the ‘Infant Child’. You are the Infant Child of your parents or guardian until you come of age. So your Infant Child is now the Infant Child, belonging to you, the Infant Child of your parents or guardian. I see you with your wailing babies slung on your young hip and the weariness in your eyes. You’re already tired and you are still an Infant Child.
The circumstances for the existence of your babies come in many forms. Only you know why or what happened. Where you devastated or elated when you realized you were pregnant? Only you know the answer. But know this, there is no glamour associated with being an Infant Child with an Infant Child, and certainly there is no glamour in being referred to as ‘My Baby’s Mamma’ by a ‘Brother-Boy-Sperm-Donna’. Even today in this liberal society, you will be faced with ridicule and scorn. Know that it may be in your face or hidden behind the whispers of your so called friends. Either way it’s unfair, while the Brother-Boy is praised for his baby making abilities.
He says he loves you, maybe he does. Maybe he thinks he loves you, maybe he knows he doesn’t. Brother-Boy will tell you what you want to hear. And know this, “A hard dick ain’t got no conscious.” God made it that way; how else to populate the world? The male of the species has been selected the aggressor since Eve fell from grace.
Think about it. You want to be a Baby Mama and you’re just an Infant Child. Brother-Boy ain’t no man. He’s an Infant Child like you. He’ll show you and your child off like his trophy and when required to pay the cost he’ll call you a ho, say you been around, make you cry because his hard dick made you believe he loved you. You’ll call him your Baby’s Daddy and he’ll call you a lying whore.
Think about it, what happened to protected sex? Do you think you’re too young to die? Well, maybe as an ‘Infant Child’ you won’t die, but by the time Aids destroys your ‘T’ cells you’ll be an adult. And you will die, and your innocent Infant Child infected by infected sperm may die as an Infant Child. Is this the legacy you want for your child. If you gotta ‘do the do’, make sure Brother-Boy covers it up. If he ain’t got a raincoat pull one out for him and close your legs to his excuses for not wanting to use it. You won’t be no Infant Child who is a baby’s mama and you will live.