There are a bunch of little boys out there getting Black women pregnant and dipping; it’s really starting to make me angry.
You, Azania Olezene, Lakieshia Jones, James Holcomb and 2 others
Tell why are these Black women dealing with “little boys”?
Marshall Grant Because these boys lie to women and make them think they actually love them.
LG If notice, its only happening to ones that are weak in the minds! They allow it to happen. But a woman that’s strong will know not to have sex til she’s married in the first place. Or if she is going to have sex she’ll use protection.
Marshall Grant Bro, 72% of all the Black children born last year were born to unwed mothers. That is up from 24% back in 1965.So you saying that 72% of the pregnant Black women out there have weak minds?
Marshall Grant Me. In my opinion. Men need to take personal responsibly for both the woman and the kid and stop being cowards.
1.a person who lacks courage in facing danger, difficulty, opposition, and pain.
…There are a bunch of Black Male cowards out there.See More
LG And I agree! But Yo… out of the 72%… where how many had guns to their heads to have sex? Maybe 26%. The others where just to dumb to realize that the nigga or niggas they’re dealing with can’t even support himself. So why have sex with …’em at all?
Trust me, I get angry too. But at the same time there are women out here that want to get pregnant just to use the system so they won’t have to work like some of their crack headed moms. Some try to trap men into having baby. See More
Get out of here. That is a small % who actually think that.And even if that were true, Black men need to Man-Up and take responsibility for first the woman, then the kid.
I’ve read, seen, and heard too many stories of a Black woman getting …knocked up by some dude. Then the dude treats her like dirt, then he acts like he’s soooo in to his daughter/son.
Makes me sick!See More
Malaka Grant I can’t believe what I’m reading here. I was going to leave this alone, but these arguments are akin to “I raped her because she was wearing a tight skirt. She looked like she wanted it!”COME.
LG no. No. No. I’m not arguing I love my cousin! These are only opinions. Rape is one thing that I will never condone. But the statistics he is talking about come from all urban areas in America, where the majority of blacks people live. If yo…u’ve never experienced this or seen it action, how can you say black man are cowards in general. I agree that dead beat dads should pay. But a rapist… should do his time between the grass and the earth’s core.
My Opinion is that… Not every black woman is innocent. Now if you believe anything different then that… you like it, I love it! Just remember… experience is the best teacher! See More
Marshall Grant Naw dog: The 72% stat is across the board. This is the “Out Of Wedlock” rate for ALL Black American children born in the United States in 2009.
My wife’s rapist comment was analogy to your blaming the majority of black women for the “out of …wedlock” rate. Not an example.
I have seen it & dealt with it. And all these men involved are cowards. They treat women like they did something wrong and do just enough for the kid to save face.
The state of Black America is declining. Someone needs to speak out and challenge the status quo.See More
KS Wow… the black women that you speak of obviously need to make better choices. It takes two… So I guess guys lying to women to have sex is a new thing? I refuse to believe our black women are that dumb & according to you, getting dumber… Marsh, you should look into the effect of women’s lib movement on the “out of wedlock” percentages.
So I sat there reading this exchange on Facebook, gobsmacked. I know it’s long, and between all the punctuation and grammatical errors of those trying to make their points, I wonder if you made it to the end? If not, let me sum it up for you: According to LG and KS, the fault that all these little Black bastards (and I mean ‘bastard’ in the legal sense) are running around the country lies in women like me – women with ‘weak minds’. Women who let men beguile them with sweet words. Women who believe that man who is lying naked next to you in the dark, holding you tightly and whispering how much he loves and cares for you is telling the truth. That fine, smooth shaven brother who professes that he will ‘always have your back’ no matter what. Women who should have KNOWN he was lying. Women should KNOW that every man has multiple partners, regardless that his lips say you’re the only one. Blind women. Ignorant women. Women who make poor choices. Women who should wait till marriage to have sex and therefore have kids. You know…a weak minded woman, who can’t see past the smoke and mist of professed and proposed love that this man is wrapping them in. Women like ME.
Two-parent, middle class home. College educated. And Magna Cum Laude at that. Independent thinker. World traveler. Praised and recognized on every assignment ever given.
Here is the confession of a ‘weak minded woman’ to the man I once loved. To the man who savagely defiled that love and threw myself esteem in the gutter.
I’m going to take this time to map out everything that’s happened from the time I found out I was pregnant to the day I decided to move on and make a better life for my daughter without you in it. I’m not going to put my own spin on things. I’m going to present the facts exactly as they happened.
When I told you I was pregnant that Sunday morning on June 13th, you reacted with amusement. You asked me if I was sure it was yours, I said yes. You asked me if I was going to keep it (in a very angry tone), I told you I did not believe in abortion. I asked you what we were going to do. You said we were not getting married. I told you I didn’t want to marry you anyway.
You said you weren’t happy, because you really didn’t want a baby right now.
“You think I do?” I replied in disbelief.
You asked me how we were going to split the cost of the baby and I said I could make a list of all the things a baby would need: Diapers, formula, medication, daycare, etc. You said “NO” – you would give me a set amount and you could probably only afford $200 a month. Which implies that the rest of the costs would fall on me. You also said if the baby was a boy, you would name him and his name HAD to be a “C” name with your last name. You said if it was a girl, I could name her whatever I wanted and she could have my last name. You flicked your hand in a dismissive manner, like a girl didn’t matter.
I prayed for a girl, and all my friends did too.
From June to December, you called me every Tuesday/Wednesday and Friday to ask me how I was doing, and how the baby was. You would normally get right into how you weren’t sure this baby was yours, and your dad said you should have a blood test. You occasionally asked me how I was. You promised to help me with my medical bills because I had just started a new job and I needed prenatal care. You never came to visit me, you never sent me a dime to pay for prenatal care… you never even asked if I’d eaten. In fact, one day when I was having an especially bad day, I brought this up to you, and YOU said “What do you want me to do?? Come and rub your feet??”
Of course I said no.
Every week you called me to yell at me, to tell me you didn’t want a baby. Finally, I guess you got a hold of yourself and realized it was going to happen, regardless. You had your mind set on a boy. The week I asked you to come with me to determine the sex of the baby, you said you’d be there. I called your phone repeatedly on the Monday we were supposed to meet. Your line was disconnected. Finally, in the end, Marshall came with me so I wouldn’t have to go alone. HE got to see how healthy and beautiful my baby was. A beautiful girl.
Somehow, at around 9 pm that night, you managed to find a phone to ask what was it? A boy? A girl? I told you it was a girl. “Are you serious??” you asked. “A girl? Damn! I knew this would happen to me because I wanted a boy so bad.”
You hung up on me.
Then you called back to ask me if I was sure it was a girl. I said yes. You hung up again. I was switching wireless plans and phone numbers that night and didn’t bother to tell you. After all, why would I want to share the life of my child with someone who didn’t want a girl?
After much email conversation, you managed to convince me to give you my new number, which I did. You told me to never try to keep your child away from you again – and it better be my child, because if it wasn’t, you would kill me.
I laughed, because I thought you were joking.
“What are you laughing at?” you growled. “I’m serious. I’ll kill you if I find out this is not my child.”
On and on for months until my mind and by body couldn’t take it anymore. I was taking as many Tylenol as the doctor would allow. My blood pressure was through the roof. You had stressed and worried me so much that I developed toxemia, and Nadjah was born prematurely, through a T-section. I’ll never have a regular birth because my uterus was too thick at the time of her birth.
On the day I went to the hospital, no one would pick up the phone except you. Nadjah hadn’t moved in two days and I thought she was dead in the womb. The only reason I called you is because I knew she was your child, and I felt you had a right as her father to know what happened to her. Oddly, you came to the hospital. I was surprised, and yes, somehow grateful not to be there alone. However, once Marshall and my sister got there, there was nothing else for you to do. Except create more drama. You had nothing nice to say about the man who made sure I ate healthy food to make sure YOUR baby developed well, or tried to calm me down after crying all afternoon from our screaming matches. I had to conserve my energy to get through a delivery, so I did not have time to engage you. You suddenly decided that Nadjah needed to have your last name, even when YOU were the one who said she could have mine, and I could name her what I chose. You chose to throw Nicole in there. As usual, I was still trying to please you, even though we were on to yet another broken promise.
Your family came to visit and they were all very supportive. Again, no kind words for me from you.
“Yeah Mama, her hair doesn’t always look like this,” or “she normally looks better than that.” Why would I be concerned about how my hair look when I was being told I was on the brink of death?
Finally Nadjah was born, after an epic cuss out, when I reminded you that I did NOT want you in the delivery room. That place of honor belonged to Marshall. Yes, you may have planted the seed, but he watched over it and made sure that it grew. He was the only person who talked to my belly and felt Nadjah kick. She always responded when she heard his voice. He was really her daddy, not you.
I told you previously that Nadjah could have your last name, but you just couldn’t wait for me to recover and get some rest. You slunk into my recovery room and made me fill out her vital records papers with your name on it just HOURS after I’d had surgery. I couldn’t sit up, see or write. The blood pressure was still affecting my vision. I begged you to do it the next day, but you wanted it done NOW. You later described what you did as a “pimp move”. My brother called it a bitch move.
After Na was born, I didn’t get to see her for 3 days because she was in the NICU and I was still on magnesium in the maternity wing. You made it your business to tell all the charge nurses about how I didn’t give you a wrist band, and how you were the baby’s father, and what a shame it was you had to sign your own name on a visitor’s clip board to come in and see her. On the DAY I went to visit her for the first time, do you know I had to hear all about that as soon as I hit the gate??? Again, you managed to steal some level of peace from me. The second time I went up to see the baby, you pushed my the wheel chair to the elevator, and then went over to the nurse’s station on the way back. Apparently, one of the nurses was someone you used to date. So while you made plans to have lunch and see her again, I sat by the elevator wondering what was going on. Was it awkward for me to hear (from you) about some chick you used to sleep with after I had just delivered your kid? Absolutely.
Let’s not forget about the time you showed up drunk to the NICU one evening before she was discharged.
After 2 weeks in the NICU, I got to take her home. Marshall, my sister and a friend all went through great lengths to make sure she was comfortable and that I was doing well. The first night you came over my house, you wanted to take her to see your brother. I told you it was fine. Again, very little positive to say. You talked about a stain I had on my kitchen floor and that my toilet “looked like dudes lived here” because I cleaned everything but the bottom of the seat. You made no mention of how you might help me out by cleaning the seat yourself if it was such a big deal, because after all, I was a first time mom with a premature born baby who had special needs who might, just might, need some help.
I will admit that first month you gave me $360 over the course of the month. It helped a lot. This dissertation isn’t about money. I’ll get to that at the end.
Things settled down for a bit and we did not argue as much. I told you that I planned on getting married and you told me it was too soon, and that we should consider a relationship. A week later, you told me you had taken a girl to lunch that you met at a party the weekend before. She was dark skinned, with slanted eyes and long hair. She was “fine, and pretty too.” But she pissed you off and you left her with the bill at the restaurant. What was the point in telling me this? You never took me to lunch. You never told me I was “fine and pretty too”; but for some reason I had to hear about all your exploits. A couple of weeks later, you told me that you had met someone from Africa as well. And she was “fine, and pretty too.” At the same time, you were trying to convince me that getting married was not such a good idea. In fact, one day when I came to pick up Nadjah from your apartment, you excitedly told me about your plan to keep the baby in the spare room if I moved in. “Look at all the closet space she would have,” you said. What was the point in that if you were dating someone else?
This whole time, I had to deal with my feelings for you, which had not been fully resolved, worrying about how I was going to pay my rent because I had not earned maternity leave and trying to plan a decent wedding. At the same time, it seemed like you were trying to get as much out of me as you possibly could: Asking me to drop off and pick up Na from your house; packing her bag; making sure she had formula; calling me at inconvenient hours of the night and morning. At the very least, if you did not want to give me enough money to cover half her needs, you could have shopped and made sure these items were at your house.
For the six months after that, things went pretty decently. Our major fight was that you and I show up on time at a designated place and time. I drew up a contract and you threw it out, because you did not want to play or abide by any rules. I felt that the least you could do was show up on time to get your baby, and show some consideration for MY time. Was I late in meeting you sometimes? Absolutely. After a while, I didn’t care if I showed up on time or not.
After a while, you began to again display traits that ‘you had to take care of you’ first. I had come to depend on the little money you were giving me. Your car broke down, and you told me that you HAD to get it fixed, otherwise you would not be able to get to work. Well, I HAD to pay the babysitter, since my sister was no longer able to watch Nadjah. Somehow it all worked out, without your help. A few months later, after crying broke, you were suddenly able to buy a house. I bit my tongue because you said you’d wanted to buy a house for a long time. But while you were gallivanting with your real estate agent, again, you were not able to give me the $200 you promised. All this time, I was trying to be as congenial as possible. I lent you money to go to your class reunion, I lent you money to put gas in the car, I lent you money so you and Nadjah could have something to eat when she visited.
Since it became obvious that you were not going to be able to financially support my baby, I asked you to do little things to help in her upbringing; like not to sleep with her in the bed or not hold her all the time because it made her clingy. You promised you would, and failed again. Every other week it was a battle to get her back on schedule; and if you recall, you would sometimes pick her up in the middle of the week from Wednesday to Saturday.
In the midst of all this, I had to hear your snide commentary. “When was she going to be potty trained?” “She’s not going to Alabama with me until she is.” “When are you going to get her to stop sucking her thumb?” “Why do you do her hair like that? My baby isn’t going to have an afro!” “I don’t like the way she’s dressed/what she’s got on?” Never once did you offer suggestions or solutions. Did you give compliments? Yes, later on they came and it was refreshing to hear something nice about the job I was doing or how smart you might have felt Nadjah was. And it was only until the end of 2007/ early 2008 that you went and got her some clothes or gathered hand-me-downs from your friend’s daughter.
I also still had to hear about other women you were sleeping with, like the chick who ended up pregnant while she was sleeping with you AND some guy that was engaged to be married. You told her it was wasn’t yours because you “filled the bag up every time.” Was this really information I needed? I never asked you about these things! You just felt like I should know!