Saved and SAINTified (57 page)

“I’ve addressed this before in other conferences, but I can elaborate and even build on my last response. The answer is pride, man.” He grinned as he held his head high
to pronounce his words. “You are fuckin’ with a man’s pride.” He licked his lips and thought about what he was going to say a bit longer. “When you go into his den and take his woman—that’s dangerous territory you’ve entered. There is a feeling of ownership and instead of using that energy to better his relationship with his black counterpart, the black man has opted to verbally, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and sometimes physically, beat her down further. Then, when that isn’t enough, he comes after us, as Rainbeaus, waving his finger, warning and promising to declare war on us—because his attempted brainwashing of her by telling her she was fucking the slave master didn’t work.

“Now, this isn’t true of all black men. I always have to make this disclaimer because some pockets of the media like to take snippets and run with
them. But there is a large enough amount of men like this, who are doing just what I described. There is no accountability with people like this. They blame everyone but themselves. When you are having a problem with an entire group of people, can’t get along with none of those motha fuckas. The problem is you, not them! And this shit right here goes beyond race, okay?”

Saint thought back at his altercation at the bar with Raphael’s associates. The tyrant trio burned with anger, not once seemingly to be able to look their ownselves in the mirror. The hatred for him, was their own hatred for themselves, and he felt sorry for them. He rubbed his forehead and continued.

“This is a human epidemic that crosses gender and racial barriers. You see people all the time saying ‘all men do this and that’, or ‘all women do this and that.’ You haven’t dated all men and women, so that’s a lie, and if every mothafucka you run into does the same thing to you time and time again, check your fuckin’ self! You are either delusional, have the worse string of luck of anyone that has ever walked the planet or enjoy being a martyr so much that you can’t see that your own shit is stinkin’! It’s
you
, man!”

The crowd lit up and
clapped.

“People should be free to date and mate with who
ever they wish, but there is in fact a need, from a statistical standpoint, for your presence in the black woman’s life. Now, some argue that this is all propaganda, that it’s not true ... that there are plenty of single black men. Let’s say that’s true. The next question follows though: “Are they all ready for a commitment?” Saint’s eyebrow rose in scepticism.

“Some of these men feel that there are so many women available to them, why in the hell would it be advantageous for them to settle down
? Or they say, ‘marriage is only a piece of paper’. That’s a mothafuckin’ cop out. Marriage was created before the piece of paper, okay?” he smiled. “Now, if anyone thinks marriage is just dead, chopped trees, then yeah, they’ve missed the whole damn point. The paper takes care of the legality, but the marriage is in the heart and mind first; you are supposed to vow to your wife to be faithful, to nurture her, to be her friend, her lover, help provide for her and should children come, to be responsible. She is to vow to be a good wife to you—your friend, your lover and the mother of your children.” He took a sip of water to moisten his parched throat. “The next question to look at is, ‘Is he straight?’ He may be single, but is he into women? If not, does he count? No. He doesn’t want pussy,
any
pussy, so, he can’t be a candidate. The third question is, ‘Is he financially stable?’

“In order to be in a committed relationship and build a foundation, you need to be
able to take care of your wife and everything that entails. If he can’t do that, he isn’t ready to commit. I’m not talking about being rich, I’m talking about him able to pay his bills without dependency on others, as well as, take care of another person, his future wife. If he can’t, he isn’t ready. Doesn’t mean he is a bad man if he just isn’t there yet—just means he isn’t a good contender. The fourth question is, ‘Is he emotionally ready for a relationship?’ Does he think most black women are bitches or ain’t shit? Does he believe women are shady? You’ll find a lot of this type of shit from guys who hurl these sort of insults at their so-called black Queen. That is emotional instability.”

He looked upward into the lights as anger oozed throughout him. It grated his nerves when he’d hear such things. He knew it was tied to the woman, but it was maternal and that is where the sickness dwelled. Saint narrowed his eyes as he gleamed back into the audience.

“The way that man feels about his mother will be transposed to the woman of his choosing unless he gets some sort of counseling and acknowledges the correlation. Men who have had a hard time with their mothers—whether due to emotional or physical abandonment and abuse—are going to repeat the pattern, more often than not. If he felt his mama wasn’t shit, then there isn’t much of a chance for the woman he picks later, either, and that is regardless of her race.

“
We can’t help it.” He stabbed his chest with his index finger. “Our mother is our first love; it’s a strong ass bond. She teaches us how to treat a woman by how we see her treat our father and us and how she carries herself. Us men are fragile regarding our mamas, whether we admit that shit or not.”

“Tell us we can’t fuck worth a damn, gotta little ass dick, call us broke ass sons of a bitches
—nothing hurts us more than to tell us, ‘your mother didn’t love you’, especially if that shit is true.” Saint backed slowly away from the podium.

“That’s the answer
... the answer to us, as men, is inside of our mama. A woman doesn’t have to look any further! How we view her, feel about her, determines so much regarding our love lives, guys! I talk about baggage all the time—don’t bring that shit with you. If your mama was a prostitute, you gotta work that shit out before you can have a healthy relationship with a Queen! If your mama abandoned you, you gotta understand that shit wasn’t about you not bein’ good enough—it was all about her. That was a choice she made, and it’s not a reflection on your worth! Get yo’ shit tight! Get it together!”

Several men in the front row stood and clapped.

“She is our moon. Black Goddess, first mother on the planet Earth. Breathed sweet life into the nectar of our being, so we could feast on the truth from which we came. The ocean sings her name every first tide of each and every morning. Black Goddess, what is your name?” Saint shook his head and smiled, and the applause lingered as he chanted the haunting words. “Your name is my name, for I am from you, Queen. Empress from the Islands, Monarch from the continent of Africa, Lovely Lady from the United States of America—your skin glows like sunbeams and your eyes shine like black pearls. Your ruby tongue cuts the glass of my heart like dark diamonds and I can’t help but to let you in! At first, I just wanted to part your sands and swim in between your sweet cloudburst but you caught my heart, made me sail, as if I were drifting out to sea. You made
me
love me ... the unloveable, or so I thought ... because of trauma from Mama.” He shook his head. “Because you are
you
, black Queen!” He jumped up and down, shaking his fist in the air, working the crowd into a frenzy.

The dancehall music began softly, then increased, driving the crowd into a passionate delirium as Beenie Man chanted over the contagious reggae beat.
Saint began to sway, causing an uproar of clapping and men standing to their feet, emphatically cheering. He moved his pelvis back and forth to the beat, going into a daze. He went deep within himself, feeling as he did back in the underground, grimy clubs he’d attend with his boys when he was twenty and carrying a fake I.D. He and his crew burst through the paint chipped doors to dance with the lovely Jamaican women in the club, to vibe to the loud dancehall tunes, drinking and smoking fat blunts all night long.

“YO MAMA!” He shouted over the cheering and loud, base infused music. “WHAT YOU GOT?! What you bringing that Queen? Huh?! Your damn
Mama issues, huh?! That’s the answer to your question, man ... The womb can be the tomb for her offspring. It’s the front door to his perception.” The music softened as he continued to speak.

“Listen to me, Rainbeaus! Love yourself, be fuckin’ ready and prepared. And if anyone
…” his eyes narrowed, reacting to the rising heat rising within his body, “…if ANY mothafucka, tries to get in your way, stop you from seeking what you deserve, run their asses over with the truth of their fucked up ways and keep on steppin’!”

More cheering moved like a wave inside the room.

“And once you get that Queen and those babies, after all the shit you probably went through to get where the fuck you are—if anybody tries to ruin that for you, remember, you built that shit like Mitt Romney said, right?” he said to loud snickering.

“You built that shit
—you and your Queen—this ain’t Legos! You built it out of blood, sweat and tears so if anyone tries to tear your shit down, take no prisoners, Rainbeaus.” He laughed manically. The music grew loud again, forcing many pockets of men in the audience to begin dancing and vibing to the beat. “Some of y’all don’t have any fuckin’ rhythm, but that’s okay, just work on it in the bedroom please!”

Saint
laughed loudly over the music, still clearly heard as he yelled in his microphone. Several men on the panel joined him as he danced.

“Who the fuck is this?” he asked as the song blended into another dancehall tune. “Patra’s sexy ass?!”
He grinned. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. I know who this is. Of course it’s Patra. Her poster was on my wall back in New York. Many jack-off nights to her image ... many! I kept lotion companies in business!”

The crowd burst out laughing.

“Is that me, man?!” he snickered as he pointed to the large screen which now projected him large as life, working the stage with his perfectly timed, jerky movements. Saint loved dancing—the twists and turns were like sex to him. The movements were the same as he made love to the beat. The treble made his soul dance, allowing him to blow off some steam. Inside, he felt his big brother, Bomb, protecting him, speaking in Spanish and handing him his ‘colors’ to fly at the right place and time. He felt his father hugging him protectively, and telling him ‘Everything will be okay. Your mother and I will be with you.’  He felt his Goddess kissing him, her body open as she helped relax him with her sexy ways and words. He felt his sons kissing him on his cheek and holding him tightly, their little hands around his neck his favorite jewelry ... All of these people were inside of his soul, fighting right alongside him. And last but not least, he felt his daughter, his little pretty Princess he was hell bent on protecting. He couldn’t detect her heartbeat, but he could feel his seed, shining like brand new gold.

I’ve been through too much shit to let
anyone ruin my foundation. I had to wait years to meet my soulmate. I had to deal with her own racist issues and pain from other men. I had to deal with my crazy ass mother-in-law. I had to deal with people fuckin’ with my Queen at her job and other places, because she was with me. She wasn’t strong enough to let that shit roll off her back just yet; she had to grow into it. I had to deal with taking a slug in my goddamn back, to save my soulmate’s life, because of the ignorance of other mothafuckas. I had to deal with those same mothafuckas trying to invade my damn home! Then I had to deal with crazy ass Stanley, who was trying to destroy the peace and sanity of interracial couples across the country. It’s my calling. I couldn’t just let that shit go! It stressed me the fuck out. Then, my marriage almost ended over some pussy I never wanted!

Fuck you,
Nizsm! I can still feel you. You feel happy right now, proud. I can tell you’ve been dancing on my baby’s grave.

I’m ready, playa
. Let’s go!

The following morning...

“We have t
he very provocative, scandalous, sensational and Mack-Daddy of ’em all, Dr. Saint Aknaten in the studio with us today. Holla atcha boy!” The D.J held his headphones close to his rounded, dark face, brandishing a welcoming grin as the music bites from Dave Chappelle played over the music. ‘Fuck yo’ couch’ repeated over and over to a catchy hip hop instrumental. Saint chuckled lightly as he leaned back in his studio seat.

“Alright
Saint, do you mind if I call you Saint?” the black man asked as he gripped his microphone in the bright studio.

“Not at all.”

“Not at all!” the D.J. repeated teasingly. “This Asian man,
whatever
he is, got a voice deeper than mothafuckin’ Barry White! That’s cool, dog.”

Saint
smiled and nodded as he played with the cap on his water bottle. “I’m half Korean and half Egyptian,” he corrected.

“Glad
that before you zoomed back home you could stop at our studio here in Texas,” DJ Tornado said, ignoring him. “You have quite a following and I’m glad you weren’t afraid to have a man to man discussion.”

“I don’t know the meaning of afraid and I’m man enough to have an adult discussion. That’s what grown people do.”

A slight silence brewed between them.

“Alright, before we get to the calls, let me ask you somethin’, man. When did you know you dug black women?”