Essence: What's Wrong With Being A Virgin?

Olympic track & field athlete Lori “Lolo” Jones recently became a hot topic after she disclosed on a recent episode of HBO’s Real Sports that she is a 29-year-old virgin.

“I just don’t believe in [premarital sex]. I want to wait until I’m married to have sex. It’s just a gift I want to give my husband,” said Jones, who is hoping to nab a medal at the London Olympics in July. “But please understand this journey has been hard. There’s virgins out there and I want to let them know that it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Jones’ confession came during a line of questioning about why the hurdling star, impossibly pretty, is single. Notably, it’s a question hardly ever asked of male subjects, and it says a lot about our culture that an accomplished athlete — Jones won a silver medal in 2008 —  would even feel like she had to justify a choice like this on a show about sports.

TMZ — because you know you’re a big story if you hit TMZ — weighed in by teasing Jones for being a Goody Two-shoes and hinted that she may be dishonest about her sex life. A fan on Twitter wrote to Jones that TMZ had made her seem like a “lying, lonely virgin dork.”

One of the more baffling responses to Jones’ virginity was criticism that she shouldn’t have spoken about how hard it is to maintain... as if NOT having sex in a society super-saturated with messages to have it is somehow easy.  

“Griping that it’s so unbelievably difficult to hold off on sex takes away from the message she seems to be trying to send,” wrote a blogger for Jane Dough. “Complaints... won’t inspire others to stay chaste until their wedding night.“

I didn’t get the impression that telling others how to live was the point of Jones’ admission. It was more like, "This is how I’m living." Jones' response to the question about her single-ness (because, you know, it’s like a disease that must be diagnosed before it spreads) seemed like a rambling answer when she was caught off-guard. I don’t know one unattached woman who has a good answer for some version of “Why are you single?” no matter how many times she might have been (rudely and invasively) asked.

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Essence: Falsely Accused of Rape

Last week, a former high school athlete was exonerated on rape charges after his accuser admitted she had lied about the sexual assault.

In 2003, Wanetta Gibson, then a high school sophomore, accused Brian Banks, a star athlete, of rape. On the advice of his counsel, Banks, then 16, pleaded “no contest” to forcible rape, and served 6 years in jail for the alleged crime. After Banks was released from prison, Gibson, who successfully sued her school district for a $1.5 million settlement in conjunction with the rape charges, “friended” Banks on Facebook and later met with him to confess she had lied about being raped. She offered to help Banks clear his name, although she did not agree to repeat the confession to authorities because she feared having to return the settlement money.

Banks plans to file a claim against the state requesting money for the years he spent in prison, according to the Los Angeles Times. His lawyers say he is entitled to $100 a day for every day he spent behind bars under state law. Banks does not have plans to file a claim against Gibson for making false accusations.

“I know it’s best for me to try and move forward in a positive manner for the betterment of me,” Banks said on the Today show. “It hurts no one but myself to hang on to the type of negative energy.”
 
Police said there is no official investigation into Gibson’s conduct, but officers are “reviewing the matter” and “will be in consultation with the district attorney’s office following the review.”

I’m not a legal scholar, and I am unclear if Banks will ever see a dime from the state for his wrongful incarceration, especially since he pleaded “no contest” to the charges instead of “not guilty.” And while I appreciate his taking the high road in respect to his accuser, I do think if ever there was a time to get dirty-filthy-grimey on anyone, this is it. Clearly Banks is a better man than most. You accuse me of a crime I didn’t commit and I serve time?! Please believe I’m taking you and your mama for everything, including the kitchen sink.

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The Root: I Don't Want Kids; He Does

I don't think I was born with the "mommy gene." I am 34 and have concluded firmly that neither having nor raising children is for me. I've told my fiancé multiple times: "No, I don't want children." The wedding date has been set, but recently he's been talking about planning a timeline for our future, and children are on his list. What can I say to let him know that I'm serious about not wanting kids and still get married in July? --A.T.

You're knee-deep in wedding plans right now, but I suggest putting them on hold until you and your fiancé reach some sort of resolution on this issue, if that's even possible. Not being on the same page with your partner about having children is a deal breaker.

Your fiancé probably thinks that you can be convinced to have children once you are married. I'm concerned that he has chosen to ignore your oft-stated perspective on this issue. He seems certain that he will get his way, and I can't tell from your letter if that's from a sense of entitlement or just wishful thinking.

It's unfathomable to many people that a woman genuinely, honestly, really doesn't want kids, but many women don't. A 2008 Pew Research study found that among women ages 40-44, there were equal numbers of women who are childless by choice and those who would like children but cannot have them. Additionally, 1 in 5 American women end their childbearing years without having birthed a child. (In 1976 only 10 percent of women were doing so.)

I'll guess that over the years, when you've revealed that you don't want children, your desire not to become a parent has been brushed off. You've likely heard some version of a patronizing "Oh, just wait" or "You'll grow out of it," as if you'll come around in time. There's a popular saying that goes, "When men say no, it's the end of an argument; when women say no, it's the start of a negotiation."

You have to explain to your partner that this isn't a passing phase, and you won't suddenly wake up one day and decide, "Yes, kids, please!" You are no more likely to be convinced to want children because he does than he will be convinced not to want them because you don't.

You've done the right thing by telling him all along that you do not want children. (Most women I hear from who don't want children have avoided telling their partner the truth for fear of rejection.) And though you've told him several times now, you need to tell him again -- and again -- until you're sure he gets it. Before this wedding takes place, he must understand that you are serious about not having children.

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Vibe Throws Shade, Few See Light

Courtesy of VIBE magazine I’d seen the latest Vibe cover by the time my inbox, twitter feed, facebook and formspring were deluded yesterday with people sending it to me or asking, well, “Have you seen...?”

Yeah. I have.

People kept asking me if I was going to write about it, thinking I was going to go-off in 1000 or so words about Vibe losing their gotdamned mind. I figure there’s plenty of bloggers who stayed up late tough-typing to do just that. And if I was going to repeat what everyone else said…? Meh. I’d rather get some sleep.

But I’m still on Vegas time, three hours behind. And I’m in Maryland visiting my folks and the slow-crawl of suburbia is actually keeping me awake. So here goes… and no, it’s not what you’ll expect me to say. If I’m writing that, what’s the point?

I laughed when I saw the VIBE cover featuring Tamar Braxton, Kandi Buress, Evelyn Lozada, and Chrissy Lampkin all sporting f***-me heels and boobs pushed to gravity defying heights. It wasn’t the image, it was the coverline. “Meet Your New Role Models”— a declaration, not a inquiry— is everything. It’s graphic genius. Shade at it’s best. The problem is, I think that went over most people’s heads.

Magazine coverlines are the bread and butter. You can put Pulitzer-winning content inside, but if the cover sucks no one will ever know but subscribers because no one will pick it up on a newsstand and say, “hmm… what’s in here?” That’s the point of coverlines. Everyone judges books – magazines are called such in-house— by their covers. The right coverline with the right image is what compels newsstand buyers to make a Blink-like decision to pick up the mag and flip thru it (engagement) or to make a snap decision to buy it (cha-ching).

Editors obsess over coverlines for days. They gather everyone witty  in the office to come up with catchy ways to describe the issue’s best stories. They make a long list of a million different ways of saying the same thing in the shortest, punch-packing way possible. Coverlines are carefully thought up by consensus, then narrowed down by the HNIC. Then he or she picks a few favorites, and has the overworked creative director slap them on the various images being considered for the cover.

The Editor in Chief gets all these versions of the cover and throws them up on a wall side by side by side (at least), then stares at them for hours, if not days, tweaking and re-tweaking until the words and image are perfect, or something like it. This isn’t rocket science, but it’s close.

I assure you that someone(s) thought long and hard about this seemingly blasphemous cover line that’s got everyone so riled up, and in the end said, “f*** yeah! Let’s do it!” and laughed wildly about the sh**-show that was to come, one that was undoubtedly courted and welcomed.

It’s no different than Time putting on the cover a near-four year old kid snacking on his mom’s boob, or Newsweek trying to one-up Time by declaring President Obama "The First Gay President" and giving him a rainbow halo. It’s just like this time last year when VIBE put a bare-chested, tat-covered, C-titty-cup having Rick Ross on the cover of the 2011 Sexy Issue and sat back and waited for the collective, “what the f---?!” that came like clockwork.

The cover line that’s ticked everyone off so is akin to a 6’4 guy calling one of those 5’2 testosterone filled, overly aggressive lil’ dudes “hey, Big Man”  just for kicks. You’ve called him big, but no one thinks he is just cause you said it.  You can call Evelyn and Chrissy and Tamar “hey, role models” and they might answer, but if you have any sense, you're in on the joke, or at least you should be.  It’s the same as a drunk guy yelling at the emperor, “hey, I like your clothes!” And near everyone in the crowd laughs… at the emperor.

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Essence: Are We Asking Too Much of Black Celebs?

Over the weekend, I caught sight of images from D’Angelo’s first photo shoot in 12 years. Yes, you read that right. D’Angelo — Brown Sugar, Voodoo, “the Next Marvin Gaye” D’Angelo, whose third album we’ve been not-so-patiently waiting for, who is set to give his first U.S. performance in a decade at the ESSENCE Music Festival this July. His hair is still cornrowed (but I’m not even mad), his body is trim — not that it matters, but I know you wondered — and he looks as yummy as he did all those years ago when he was glistened up, staring at the camera, and asking us, all slowly and carefully, “How Does It Feel?”

He’s on his way back to the spotlight, and GQ has the details. Of course, the article tackles the long-awaited answer to where the heck D’Angelo has been all this time. There was a car accident that nearly killed him and a few stints in rehab to treat alcohol abuse and cocaine addiction. But all those were symptoms to distract him from the pressures that arose after he went from successful off of Brown Sugar to superstardom after he appeared seemingly naked in the video for the lead single off Vodoo. (Doesn’t this story sound familiar? Whitney said her downfall was the hype over The Bodyguard.)

Writer Amy Wallace interviewed several entertainers and celebrities to help explain D’Angelo’s decade-plus disappearance. It was a telling observation by (my favorite) comedian Chris Rock that helped to explain what Black celebs are up against.

“Black stardom is rough,” Rock said. “I always say Tom Hanks is an amazing actor and Denzel Washington is a god to his people. If you’re a black ballerina, you represent the race, and you have responsibilities that go beyond your art. How dare you just be excellent?”

I get why this happens, even if I don’t agree that it should. Black folks don’t get enough mainstream positive images of themselves. The larger-than-life figures? The glamorous Hollywood stars or legendary performers? They come too few and far between. Just watch any non-Black awards show and you’ll find about 10 A-list Black faces in a sea of white ones where there are so many blond, lithe “superstars” that they’re nearly indistinguishable.

We don’t have the white privilege of having too many. And so when we get someone who excels, we support and rally around. For a while at least, we uplift; with the best of intentions, we see our “best” as ambassadors to go places we’ll never get invited and open doors we’ll never see, and we beg of them not show their natural behinds when they arrive. We place our “best” folk on pedestals with expectations no human can ever live up to. And on that pedestal, we often don’t allow for growth, missteps or many other things outside of a very narrow box we stuff Black celebrities into.

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Essence: Is Celebrity Business Our Business?

Last week, the National Enquirer — not exactly the standard of quality reporting — decided to get all up in actress Raven-Symoné’s business. The tabloid alleged that the child star (The Cosby Show) turned millionaire entertainment mogul has a girlfriend.

I couldn’t be bothered so much to care. One, I don’t freak out about folks not being straight; and two, admittedly, I have a soft spot for Olivia — I mean, Raven, who is currently starring in Sister Act on Broadway (and receiving rave reviews). I watched her grow up on TV and I’ve always respected her hustle in front of and, more importantly, behind the camera. She’s a young shot-caller. And in an age when reality stars have become celebrities by selling the most salacious aspects of their lives and young women clamor for the spotlight by any means necessary, Raven’s managed to keep it old-school in the best way possible: displaying talent instead of sex.

I actually didn’t expect her to respond to the allegations. She’s always been as tight-lipped about her personal life as the consistently closed-lip smile she sports on red carpets. But maybe she was feeling feisty when she took to Twitter to set the record straight.

“I'm living my personal life the way I'm happiest,” wrote Raven. “I'm not one, in my 25 year career to disclose who I'm dating. And I shall not start now. My sexual orientation is mine, and the person I'm dating to know. I'm not one for a public display of my life... My career is the only thing I would like to put on display, not my personal life. Kisses!”

Many who read her response dissected it for what it may have really meant since she didn’t declare whether she was straight, lesbian or otherwise. But they overlooked, perhaps willingly, the whole point.

Somewhere along the way, many of us picked up the idea that we have a right to know everything about the private lives of celebrities — from where they shop to what — and apparently even who — they do. I’ve heard Beyoncé, notoriously private, get called out for not leaking pictures of her exposed pregnant belly, or not uncovering baby Blue when she’s being carried in public. I’ve read an article about Jay-Z’s so-called obligation to reveal pictures of him doting on his new daughter to send a message to young Black men about the importance of fatherhood. Tyra caught hell for not speaking about her then-boyfriend of three years and the Smiths — Will and Jada — still catch heat for not doing more to dispel rumors that their marriage is intact.

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