What Up My NIGGA!!

I was asked by a very good friend of mine, who just soo happens  NOT be of Black-American ancestry, why do black people greet one another with:  “What up my nigger!  He also wanted to know why Black people get upset when non-blacks are heard using this word. I was excited for this opportunity to, firstly give him a brief history of the word, from my perspective. However, I had to begin by lovingly explaining to him the difference between the two words; so that he wouldn’t make any inappropriate public mistakes…if you catch my drift.  There is a difference between:  

                                   .  Nigger                               AND

.  Niggah

I also took this opportunity to share with my good friend, that in ALL of my years on this Earth and my travels both in this country and abroad, that NOT one of my Black-American friends has EVER greeted me in such a despicable, degrading and disrespectful way.  No two black person’s are alike.

Being from another country and of another culture, he thinks that if WE, meaning black people, openly and publicly refer to one another by the “N” word, then why is it upsetting to Us that others reference US that way.  Herein lies the issue with the “N” word. This is why this word had to be buried and need not continue to be resurrected. 

Once considered a term of endearment amongst those in the black community. Although, some black people would argue that they have NEVER used the word. Um! Okay. I, on the other had, have used the word. However, now that I know better…I do better.  I liken the “N” word to chitterlings. Black-American slaves were fed the worst part of the pig. They, in turn turned this negative into a positive, by preparing the pig’s intestines in a way that was palatable.  These creative and resourceful Black people would infuse;  seasonings and a more suitable way of cleaning the innards of the pig; which over the course of time became a delicatessen in some homes. Still is today for some Black households.  They did the same with the “N” word. We changed the spelling and the pronunciation of this ugly word and tricked ourselves into thinking we were  creating some sort of solidarity and communion with one another when we referenced each other with “What up my Ni____!  It bothers me when I hear people, both young and old, referencing one another by this word. Its’ not cute. I don’t like it and I don’t think it’s necessary. Although, I grew up in the rap music culture; I blame rap for making this word accessible to ALL.  Not good. Not good at all. 

I went on to explain to my friend the difference in Us, Black people, using the word and white people using the word.  The history of the word nigger, originating around 1587, is often traced to the Latin word niger, meaning Black. This word became the noun, Negro (Black person) in English, and has been used to describe and refer to both Black-Americans and the Subsaharan African people’s as a form of:

.  inferiority

.  lesser in class

.  criticism

.  hostility

.  disregard

.  disrespect

My friend walked away with a better understanding; as did I. I get the hoopla over the word. I understand why some people would argue, if you can say it, then why can’t I. As my mother used to tell me growing up:  “Do as I say, Not as I do”. Know thyself and know OUR worth!

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Fibroids have NO Power over US!

I was around eight years old when my mother sent my sister and I to stay with my grandmother’s fishing buddy, Ms. Y’vetta, in Omaha, Ne. When you’re eight years old in the early 70’s, raised by a very strong, dominating and independent black mother, you don’t have the wherewithal,  the vocabulary, nor the courage to ask WHY?  You just do as you’re told.  My mother was never one to feel obligated to explain, to her children, why she was doing what she was doing. But, we trusted her and would follow her to the ends of the World if she said “Let’s go.”

Not until I was around thirty or thirty-one years of age, would I know why we were sent to stay with Ms. Yvetta for that short stint. 

I don’t recall exactly how old I was when I called my mother to tell her I had been diagnosed with uterine fibroid tumors, but I believe I was in my very early thirties. She didn’t seem surprised by my news. She dismissed it and replied, “Oh, I had those before when I was in my twenties.” “I had them removed when you and Nikki were little girls.”  In her nonchalant way of being, she told me she had a complete hysterectomy.  I realized the time we stayed with our grandmother’s friend, was the time my mother had her fibroid removal surgery. 

I’d known since I was a teenager that something was growing inside of me and it wasn’t a baby. It was a feeling I had. I used to get sharp knife-like pains in my abdomen days after my menstrual cycle. I complained to my mother about them and she told me, They’re just woman pains…’It means you’re becoming a woman,” She said.  She would speak in code that way; all mysterious sounding. lol.  I had no idea what pain in my abdomen had to do with becoming

a woman. I figured she didn’t either, so I dropped it.

By my early thirties, the tumors had grown so large and were growing fast, that it began to negatively affect nearly EVERY area of my life.  I was tired all the time. I was irritable and my uterus was the size of a 5-month pregnant woman. I opted for two procedures:

.  An Embolization

.  Partial Myoectomy.

I went with these procedures, because they were less invasive and would supposedly preserve my fertility, in the event, I ever decided to have children.  My sister flew down from Maryland to help me with the surgeries.  My mother, being the comic relief in the family, called the hospital a few days after my first procedure, to tell the doctor to give me a bikini incision; because I was an actress and might have to wear a bathing suit in a movie or tv show.  BYE! Momma. She also assumed I had a hysterectomy; although I told her about the procedures I opted to have. To know her, was to love her.  Bless her heart.

I was told, by my physician, that my fibroids would shrink by up to 50% after the embolization procedure. That hasn’t quite happened. Although I feel much better than I did eight years ago - I know that it's due to my DETERMINED spirit, the deep love and appreciation I have for my life condition, my meditation practice, exercise, a cleaner diet, more research and the work of my new chiropractor, Dr. Shanfar.  These uterine fibroids will be released from my body. I don’t know the “HOW”; however, I do believe it’s possible.  I've seen it come to fruition in my dreams.

Dr. Shanfar's approach to healing is to treat the whole person and not just the symptoms. She does this unique suction cup technique; which is painful, but you feel it moving the energy around and releasing scar tissue. Dr. Shanfar does this by incorporating nutrition, herbs, manipulation of the spine, joints of the extremities, and yoga poses, which have healing benefits for the mind and the body.

Dr. Shanfar’s technique  is one of the only absolutely non-invasive methods of healing where no external object will invade the very highly evolved system of intelligence that is the human body.  She is the first person, outside of myself, who is truly concerned; while being proactive with helping me to release these tumors from my uterus.  I went to her for my shoulder, my sciatic nerve and the clicking in ankles. Seeing her about my fibroids was the furthest from my mind. What I do know is that there are NO accidents. All things are in their divine order. And what doesn’t kill me, will make you stronger.  

I don’t typically allow people to touch my stomach. Not my massage therapist, not myself or my boyfriend. The work that Dr. Shanfar has been doing with me is  allowing me to unblock that sacred area. I now touch my own stomach. I massage my stomach. I lather my tummy with lotion, coconut oil and peppermint oil. I talk to my fibroids. I am learning to show compassion; which in turn I believe will help me to release them; as I no longer need them. I have many beliefs on why I developed  fibroids at an early age. That to be shared in a later blog.  What does matter is knowing that I have the power to release them from my body.

I share this with you because there are thousands of women suffering from fibroid tumors, uterine cysts and an array of other fertility-related situations. If me sharing my story gives another woman the power to start healing through her suffering; then my sharing will not have gone in vain.  I proudly wear the temporary scars from the suctioning technique that I have done twice a week. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Fuck Fibroids. They have no power over me and they have NO power over you.

Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl

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Are ALL the GOOD men in prison?

I've always had both a Fear and a Fascination with prison. My two biggest Fears in life have been:
.  Being a single mother
.  Going to prison

I'm claustrophobic; so I know I would lose my mind living in a 5 By 7 cell.  There's just certain things I know to be true about myself and that's one of them.

My mother, Donna-Marie Alvoid, God rest her beautiful soul, almost had me believing that ALL of the GOOD men were in deed in prison.

I'll never forget driving from Omaha, Ne to Lincoln, Ne to meet my mommas new boyfriend:  Edward Jackson. My younger sister and I would play in the background with the other visitor's children, while she and Mr. Edward talked and made  googly eyes at one another.  Mr. Edward was FINE too. He was that in-mate number 22, orange jump suit wearing, incarcerated, been lifting weights ALL day and eating mostly protein kinda-Fine.  He was buffed beyond belief with a creamy colored caramel vaseline-smooth skin and a smile that could put Bill Dee Williams out of show business.  The man was FINE!

My mom used to say to  me; which always felt more like advice that wasn't so good, that I needed to stop fooling with these FREE men and get me an inmate kinda love.  (I'm paraphrasing) I must've been all of thirteen or fourteen at the time of this advice.

As I watched the verdict being handed down in the Aaron Hernandez case yesterday morning, I was reminded of my mother's sentiment, that ALL the good men were in prison. Now,  I don't know if she meant that ALL the FINE men were in prison or if she really thought ALL of the hard working, educated, intelligent, conscious men, who really didn't commit that crime that landed him behind bars, kinda good man were in prison.

As the camera panned to Aaron Hernandez's expression when the verdict was handed down, I couldn't help but think, "Damn that man is FINE!"  I found myself looking around the gym to see if anyone heard my inner voice speaking outloud. He was nicely dressed with a fresh hair cut,  clear skin and a strong jaw line. He looked nothing like a murderer to me.  Good thing I wasn't on the jury.


Now that I'm older, I'd like to think I  understand what my mother may have meant when she said, "ALL the good men were in prison."  I believe she believed that soo many of our men (black men), who could've done something good with their lives, contributed to society in an impactful way, taken care of their children, loved their woman; simply made poor choices that landed them in prison.  And yes, the odds were and still are stacked against them.  It's not that ALL of them are BAD people. I don't believe there are BAD people; only people who make BAD choices and exhibit BAD behavior.  Aaron Hernandez is a man who apparently made BAD choice after BAD choice after BAD choice. His time has now come to the pay the piper.  

As for the notion that ALL of the good men are in prison; I think I'll take my chances with  a FREE man.

Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl
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DON'T Ever think U are better; cause you're light skinned!!

I was reminded of my skin color, being lighter than my sibling and most of the other women on my mother’s side of the family. I remember the first time I came home with a tan. I had no idea black people COULD tan. I was around ten years old. I’d played at the local community pool:  Miller Park, for what seemed like hours just baking in that Omaha, Ne summer-time sun.  I had the time of my life. One would think I was a swimmer, by the amount of time I spent hanging out at the pool.  Thats exactly what I was doing…hanging out and playing in the water; rather than actually swimming.  I arrived home in the early evening and was met with my mother sneering at me from the hallway saying to me:

 “DON’T ever think you bettah than anybody else in this house, cause you light skinned!” 

I was reminded of that statement yesterday, as I sat baking in the hot pasadena, Ca sun for over NINE hours.  I had no idea I was burnt until I reached behind me, this morning, to wash my back. OMGoodness! It hurt! The worst part about being out in the sun ALL day, was ALLOWING myself to get dehydrated. 

Although I did pack 2 liters of my 9.5. Alkaline water; it was not nearly enough to get me through 9 hours of flea marketing in the hot 80-something degree sun.  I had moments of thinking about the children of Tanzania and other parts of Africa and India, who don’t have access to clean water flowing from their faucets.  Additionally, these children might go several days without drinking any water. And here I was feeling sorry for myself. It’s not that I couldn’t get any water. It’s that I refused to spend $5 damn dollars for a bottle of water, that’s probably city tap water with fancy labeling bottled  in toxic plastic.  I figured if those babies  and moms of Africa and India; as well as other under developed countries can go days without water; surely can I go a few extra hours without water.  Well, here in lies the difference between us with our FIRST World problems and those with Third World problems:

.  At least we CAN drink the  water that flows from our tap and not get sick or die immediately

.  At least we DO have access to FREE water

.  We DON’T have to walk for miles just to fetch dirty river water to drink

.  Our bodies have become accustomed to having water on a pretty frequent basis

.  We get a lot of water from the food we eat; especially if we eat fruit and drink tea, coffee and those gosh-awful energy drinks

Although I know each one of our issues, circumstances and problems are relative; I couldn’t help but feel as if I was acting spoiled and a little entitled by the illusion that I NEEDED more than the 2 liters of water I packed with me.

Maybe or maybe not. Either way, by the end of my Awesome flea market experience of selling my favorite leggings with my girl, Too Tite Tonya Jones, I left Pasadena with a sunburn and a bout of severe dehydration that left me with an intense headache that is still slightly lingering today.

If this sounds like I’m complaining, it’s because I am.  Just a little bit. However, it’s mostly me offering you the opportunity to really show gratitude for what we have in this country; while being mindful of what We can do, collectively, as a people, community and country to help those who were simply born in a disadvantaged situation.  Don't take water for granted. Appreciate the water that we have flowing from our faucets, fire hydrants and water hoses.

As a ten-year old girl, I didn’t know what my mother meant by telling me not to think I was better than anyone else; only that I knew it was something serious and she meant business. I could tell by her tone that she was giving me a warning.  I now realize that when people think that WE think we’re better or cuter or smarter than them; it’s not OUR truth. It simply means that THEY, themselves, think that we are all of those things.  While I don’t believe my mother thought her first born  was better than she, my sister or other family members were. I believe she was preparing me to deal with the opinion of others. She wanted to keep me humble; while being prepared for the backlash of being perceived as different.  I, personally like my summer-time darker skin. I wish I could get as black as the night.

Love yourselves!

Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl

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How do you know when you're ready 2 let Go and Let GOD!

August 2011, I cried a tearful goodbye to my Black Jeep wrangler i affectionately named “Jeep Chronicles.” As I watched the tow truck take her away to her new owners, I was both sad and relieved. I had NO idea of my “HOW.” 

How was I going to:

.  To go grocery shopping

.  Get to the gym, The Santa Monica Stairs, Runyon Canyon

.  Spend time with friends

.  Get to the airport

.  LIVE

What I did know what that life did Not begin and end with my jeep wrangler. Although, at times, it did feel as though my identity as Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl and Fee King, the actor, were directly tied to that jeep. It was all about the look. I’d roll around Hollywood, Santa Monica and  LA, with the top down, my frohawk blowing in the wind,  my “No More Muffin Top” Logo on my back spare tire, jamming Tupac, Ledisi, Jaheim, Mary J. Blige and Luther Vandross.

I really thought I was the SHIT.  Then it all came to an end. I was done. I was definitely going through a shift in my life. I was over registering my jeep. I was sick and tired of putting my hard earned quarters into parking meters. I was frustrated with traffic. I loathed getting on the freeway.  I thought I would lose my freakin-A mind if my jeep got towed one more time due to outstanding tickets Maybe that one was due to my irresponsibility.

I walked away and NEVER looked back. I didn’t wonder, nor did I care what my actor, producer and writer friend’s would think if they saw Fee King on the bus or even worse…walking. You see, La is NOT a public transportation town. 

I had FAITH, CONFIDENCE and a DESIRE to design the life I wanted to live; which was a life of less stress.  

How did I do it you ask?

.  I prayed for patience and humility

.  I meditated for clarity and clearness

.  I believed in myself and God

.  I stayed Positive amidst the storms and challenges

.  I down-sized my circle of influence

.  I got a zip car membership  AND

.  I GOT A BUSS PASS!

Because I moved to Santa Monica, one would think the transition to riding a bike would be natural, right? NOT! Here’s the thing. I was turning 41. I hadn’t ridden a bike since I was in elementary school and I was terrified of a car door opening on me, while I was passing. I had vision of seeing myself flying over the handle bars of my beach cruiser, landing in the middle of the street and too embarrassed to get up. 

Three years later, all of that would change. I began dating a man who loved to cycle. This man does 100-mile rides. I mean he’s got the outfits to match. He’s suited and booted with the padded jumpsuit style shorts, the matching cycle jersey and the clip-in peddle shoes. I’m sure these things have real names, but I don’t know what they are because i’ve vowed to NEVER become that girl. What I will do; however, is continue to hop on my new bike as often as I can to either transport me to work, to the movie theater or simply taking a two and half hour trek from Santa Monica to Hermosa Beach.  No matter what mood I’m in when I get on that bike. I’m instantly catapulted into a place of pure bliss, freedom and gratitude.

I had no idea of the HOW four years ago. As I continue to live, learn and grow - I’m learning to trust my gut instinct and my intuition while living my life with FAITH.  People still look at my quizically when I tell them that I don’t have a car and that it’s by choice. What I do have, is a great life. One which is met with obstacles, challenges, triumphs and successes that keep me in a perpetual state of compassion for myself and others.  Can you believe this black girl (Woman) rides a bike?? WhooHoo!!

Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl

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Now I know where ALL the happy white people are...in Church!!

Love will make you do some crazy things. My boyfriend asked me to go to church with he and his family Saturday evening in Santa Clarita. I haven’t been to church in seven or eight years.  When we started dating, I told him I didn’t go to church and that i’ve been there, done that and i have the t-shirt to prove it. I also told him that i believe in God and that I have a personal relationship with God.  Lastly, I told him I had no interest in conversion. I’m opposed to labels and I take issue with people throwing around the title of being a “Christian” to loosely and then passing judgement if you’ve decided to NOT prescribed to organized religion.

So, here I am ironing my red party dress preparing to enter the doors of the church house with my man in tow. Thank goodness he phones me to tell me that they dress casual at this church. At least I wore a skirt. 

We arrived in Santa Clarita, after a 50-minute drive. Who drives nearly an hour to worship?  The same people who drive nearly an hour for a Jay Z or Beyonce concert I’m sure. No judgement. We walk up to the church and it looks like a mini concert hall with outdoor seating, big flat screen t.v.’s all around and a coffee shop.  We walk in to be greeted by what appeared to be happy people, smiling and welcoming us.  Now, I am treading lightly on water when I say this next statement.  But, here goes.  I have NEVER been in a room full of so many caucasian people smiling at me and greeting me with hellos. I’m just saying that …that has NOT been MY experience.  One after the other welcomed me. Several women gently pushed past other women to tell me how much they loved my hair. I seriously thought I was on candid camera. If only WE could all be that kind, loving and sincere with one another when we’re pushing our carts passed one another in the grocery store, at a traffic light or at a K-Mart blue light special. I’m just saying!  

We walk into the cathedral. Yes, I called it a cathedral. This was the largest church I’d ever been in.  It had stadium style seating and the room was dark. I almost thought we were waiting for Prince to hit the stage. The  the room became even darker before the stage lit up revealing  N’sync-like Christian Rock band.  WTFreak!  Young girls, between the ages of seven and nine were one row behind us singing the lyrics from the large flat screen tv screen projectors that scrolled: “King of Kings and  “our Savior saves”, yada! yada! yada!  They were adorable.  The band.. slash choir sang two songs too many; however, they played well together and had powerful voices. I liked them. I was on my feet swaying back and forth clapping my hand to my thighs. I was into it.   However, I did feel myself getting off beat.  I’m not sure what that was about; except that it frustrated me trying to get back on beat, in a church setting.

I couldn’t help but scan the congregation. I was one of maybe five black people; including the older black lady who was a choir member.  I know what you’re thinking:  Fee is always noticing race.  I notice OUR differences; yet celebrate our similarities.  I grew up visiting Baptist and The Kingdom Hall church, where black people attended church primarily with other black people.  I always wondered if white people went to church at all.  When I watched Tammy Faye Baker on TV, I thought it was a PBS special. I din’t know it was a real church.  lol

Not to mention, the last time I attended church, there were no women with rocking semi-backless dresses. There were no women walking around the church house with their entire G-String showing. Now, I’m not passing judgement; I’m just sharing the facts. My eyes and ears are recalling what I took in.

Soon after the choir/band performed, the collection bag followed. When I attended church, it was referred to as the “collection plate”.  Not only has the name changed, but they have an app. It’s called the “offering app”  WTFreak. 

The pastor, of “Real life Church” entered the stage area to address his audience. This is what he called them. I’m not making this up. Last time I attended church, they were referred to as “The congregation” or “paritioners” .  But, this is a new day and things have obviously changed. Pastor Rusty was a combination of stand up comedian, Adam Sandler, meets motivational speaker,Tony Robbins. He had a motivational speaker kind of vibe about himself.  

My take away from my experience at “Real Life Church’s” Easter Service is that this Christian Church is all about community. I get why families see the importance of worshipping with their children, family and friends. There was a sense of camaraderie and of belongingness. It was also confirmed to me that WE are far stronger together than we are SEGREGATED.  There was good energy resonating throughout the entire building. I would personally love to sit down and interview Pastor Rusty; as he’s got a good business model going on that I believe could be duplicated in any industry.

Now, will I return to “Real Life Church” for the Real people? Sure, why not.  Will I become a regular every Sunday church-goer?  Nah! However, I was enlightened and actually left with a better sense of what Easter is and why it’s celebrated Easter.  It’s less about the cadbury chocolate eggs and pas coloring dipped boiled eggs, chocolate covered hallow bunny rabbits and more about Jesus Christ resurrecting after three days, giving his followers hope because of the shedding of his blood. It’s still little murky for me. As a young girl, I would ask my mother questions about Jesus and the bible and she always told me, “We never question the bible”.  That was her way of saying, “Hell if I know and to stop asking her.”  So, here I am today, asking the questions and admitting that I don’t know much about the bible.  However, I am willing to learn; as I have a seeking spirit.

Yahollywoodfitnessgotogurl

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