The Black Snob

Politics. Pop Culture. Pretentiousness.

Archive for May 2008

Mothers and Daughters

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In light of the recent melodrama over Alice Walker and her daughter Rebecca Walker, I thought it would be interesting to explore the relationships between black women and their mothers. Therefore I’m soliciting personal stories from readers about their relationships with their mothers for an upcoming article I’m writing for the blog. If you’re interested in sharing your story, please e-mail it to me. I will not use anyone’s names as I want people to be honest about the good and bad, their love, disappointment, joy and pain in their relationships with their mothers.

So if you have a story to share, write up to a max of 500 words on your relationship with your mom and email The Black Snob at

PS. I’m still on break! But I’m still answering my emails and working on story ideas for when I come back. Toodles!


Written by blacksnob

May 30, 2008 at 4:50 pm

Mission Accomplished

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TO: Lt. Dr. Stankonimilitant, Psy Ops


SUBJ: Clinton proposal

Doctor S, SCAN is in a festive mood! Folks been poppin bottles like they won the Super Bowl! Sooooooul Train blaring on every TV in HQ. Congratulations are in order! No one at SCAN has any idea how you got Senator Clinton to say “assassination” and “Obama” in the same breath, but you did it!

Dr. S, between me and you, what did you do? Drug her? Bribe her? “Promise” her a post in the Obama administration? Threaten her life? Bill’s? Chelsea’s? Photoshop pictures of her and threaten to leak them? Kidnap her family? Bill’s family? SCAN knows that you can be a bit of a loose cannon, but this is brilliant! Dr. S, I’m in line for a promotion off of what you did. I won’t forget you, bruh! SCAN execs are contemplating going on a week-long vacation. Caribbean, son! Holla atcha boy when I gets back. 1…



TO: SCAN HQ, Agent Q

FROM: Lt. Dr. Stankonimilitant, Psy Ops

SUBJ: Re: Clinton proposal

Agent Q, in all honesty, that wasn’t me. The good Dr was workin on gettin the pieces into place to bring this theater of the absurd to an end. Regrettably that was all Senator Clinton’s (un)doing. It was quite stunning to hear and rehear and rehear. The good Dr is checking on Obama’s Secret Service detail for potential problems. If harm comes to Obama, someone is gettin Stankonized, please believe. It will be the Syriana way.

Q, since you gettin big upped, what about me? Dr. S been in the field eatin ramen noodles and s**t, gathering intel for SCAN. Q, a small request. Dr. S wants to lead Psy Ops. No physical harm, no bodies except for Flava Flav. You have my word.

*Written by SCAN’s regular contributor Dr. Stankoniforous. If you have an idea or want to write for SCAN send an email to The Black Snob.

Written by blacksnob

May 30, 2008 at 1:25 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Snobbin’ Ain’t Easy

with 13 comments

Taking a trip down dusty memory lane I was alarmed to see how random my looks were in high school. On one hand I could be very whimsical and fetching. On the other I looked like a cross between “Blossom” and “Ugly Betty.” Granted, the clothes I was wearing from the 1990s were in style at the time and America Ferrera’s signature character is donning the same baggy, Cross Colors-esque duds in the skinny jean era. But it’s still no less shocking.

Behold the amazing contrasts.

As a junior fashionista I have to say, I was pretty hit or miss except when it came to the hair. Other than my super bang, helmet-do from Freshman year picture day, my hair looks fantastic. And while the loudly colored Parker Lewis Can’t Lose shirts and floral prints really time stamp me, for a four-eyed chick with braces I managed to hold it together.

That said, I’m going to take the next two days and the weekend off. I’m pretty exhausted and need some time to revamp. Please feel free to still send emails, suggestions and feedback. I will still be checking my mail, but save something big happening in the news I think I’m going to get some sleep, do some job hunting and hit the gym a few more times.

Until then …

TTFN — Taa-taa for now!

Yours truly,

The Snob

Written by blacksnob

May 28, 2008 at 9:44 pm

Posted in The Snob

Feminism. Abandonment. And Rebecca Walker.

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Rebecca Walker, daughter of “The Color Purple” author Alice Walker, recently divulged her true feelings about her mother’s ardent feminism and their estranged relationship. I first read about it on The Ultraviolet Underground and Okayplayer.

In a column written for Great Britian’s The Mail, Walker talks about being abandoned and neglected by her mother who she labeled as selfish, seeing children as a burden, trapping women into subjugation. She essentially calls her mother a feminist fanatic, pushing the most extreme ends of the women’s rights movement.

Some have criticized Walker for “outing” her mother as a bad parent, accusing her of only doing it for her career, but I think what she did took a degree of courage. If she was truly raised with the ideology that children were a burden and internalized that she was an unwanted inconvenience to her mother that’s a tough load to carry psychologically.

It’s hard to go against your mother, especially when she’s more famous and better liked than you. Alice Walker is an icon in literary, black and feminist circles. Her story in some ways reminded me of Christina Crawford’s tell-all about her famous mother Joan Crawford. She was bashed for writing her book after her mother died and left her out of the will. They said she only wrote it because she was angry, like being cut out of will wasn’t reason enough alone to be furious.

You can debate Walker’s methodology, but the only people who really know what went on in her childhood were her mother, her father and herself, and I believe her sense of abandonment is real. A lot of black children are abandoned either physically or psychologically by their emotionally stunted parents. Abandonment happens every day. Black parents who think a “whoopin'” is the answer to everything. Black parents who look the other way when their latchkey kids engage in risky behavior. Black parents who just aren’t there. Fathers who split. Mothers who leave their kids to be raised by grandmothers.

Familial loyalty can only go so far in a damaged relationship and Rebecca and Alice Walker would have to have a damaged relationship for it come to this. My mother and I have our differences on things, but we have a healthy relationship. She deserves my loyalty because she gave me unconditional love and devotion. I don’t have anything to bitch about.

Rebecca apparently does.

Side note: The article is worth reading for her analysis of the extreme end of feminism alone. While I’m a feminist, I identify more with Rebecca views that the movement was about giving women options, not labeling all things related to “femininity” and “marriage” bad. My mother is an independent minded woman with a college degree who became a full-time stay-at-home mom. I don’t think she ever felt subjugated by my father. Their marriage was both retro and modern. My mother had options. That’s the point. Women can choose their destines, whether it be a career or motherhood.

Also, if all children were burdens no one would have any and that would be the end of all of us, so that logic is a fallacy. This is the real mythology of the movement, that women can “have it all.” We still don’t live in a fully egalitarian society. Having a family does involve concessions, usually on the woman’s behalf. Anyone who thinks otherwise is delusional.

Written by blacksnob

May 28, 2008 at 11:57 am

Shakespeare’s Got Nothing on This ‘Nothing’

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I have insomnia, so I stayed up most of the night thinking and making this graphic that is both a pun and at the same time very apropos to describe the trivial way the Democratic race for the nomination has been portrayed: as a series of gaffes, laughs, smears, slanders and out-right, bold-faced lies.

Angry ministers. “Me So Pretty” Breck Girl allusions. Cackles. Billary. Asbestos laced pantsuits. “Menacing” middle names. Is he or isn’t he a Muslim? Assassination fantasies. Sniper fire over Bosnian skies. Flag pins and patriotism. Sexism is worse than racism. Racism is worse than sexism. Ferraro. Steinem. The Weather Underground. Bitter-gate. Elitism. Geraldo dreams of black baby genius factories.

She’s a monster. He’s nothing but words.

Is this what things have come to?

For the most exciting election in a generation all the spats, missteps, misfires and misspeaking seem to be the obsession of a press corps and cynical populace bored by the perceived similarities of the candidates’ stances.

The campaign for the Democratic nomination is a joke. And I don’t mean that the voters are a joke or that the candidates are jokes, but to the system, the process and to the outsiders looking in, this is a joke. This is schadenfreude. To the jaundiced eye this is a menagerie of when ambition and ego collide.

Part of the flaw is the fact that there is no honor among politicians. Expediency is the rule of the day. Who’s quarterbacking and who’s piggybacking? If it’s the Barack Obama train leaving the station, that will be the one they’ll ride. But we can’t get there without a laugh track and a fistful of statistics arguing who can’t win what and where and white working class people as Hillary Clinton plots her next move in her quixotic bid for a nomination that is seemingly beyond her grasp.

God bless her cold, dark heart. She is truly The Thing That Won’t Die. Cheering for her is almost like cheering for the gut sucking beast in Ridley Scott’s “Alien.” Making Barack Obama Sigourney Weaver in this scenario.

In politics no one can hear you scream.

I know I may be in the minority on this, but I don’t think she actually wishes the most tortured of ill will on Barack Obama. I think she wishes that something, anything would surface to make him damaged goods. Invoking Robert F. Kennedy and his assassination by Sirhan Sirhan was more telling of how dire things are in Clinton Country. She’s cranky. She’s tired. She’s fucking up.

It’s everyone else’s fault but my own. The rallying cry of the fatally ironic. The last refuge of the refuted.

In this Shakespearian melodrama, every player takes turns being the clown for the cameras. The pundits chew over the 24-hour surveillance courtesy of the World Wide Web. From boob tube to YouTube. This is point and click journalism. No investigation, no background check required. Whatever sounds good to the ear. Whatever tune can captivate the masses.

They can beat Hillary with the same Missy Elliott hot beat, rapping “She’s a bitch!” over and over, then switch to marveling the perils of Barack’s “naivety” and the drama of being the man with the permanent tan. They don’t even flinch as they talk out of both sides of their neck, then let out their own cackles. Kick ’em while they’re up. Kick ’em while they’re down.

The only thing more annoying than this fixation on the trivial is the fact that so many people gobble up this garbage. A third of all voters believe Obama is a “secret” Muslim, as if a religion indicated one’s intent. There’s the non-stop coverage of Bill Clinton’s word vomit. Video of John Edwards fluffing his hair as if everyone wasn’t doing their same, working to look their best to impress eager voters.

What does Hillary Clinton want?” Cries out Chris Matthews every night (while Clinton avoids him and his show). Most say a VP spot and that’s why she remains swinging haymakers, racking up delegates and hammering home the point that Obama is weak among “Reagan Democrats,” code for the white blue collar class that is less sophisticated, most resistant to Obama’s halcyon calls for egalitarian change, most suspicious of the tan man.

Vote for the black guy? Surely you jest! He’s scary. He has a funny name. His pastor and his wife hate America. And Israel. Or at least that’s what FOX News keeps telling me. And CNN. And certain segments of MSNBC.

God bless American? No, no, no. Goddamn America. And two wars rage on. And the economy falters. And a crime wave sweeps American cities. And folks are siphoning the gas out of other people’s tanks. Four houses on my block remain unsold and it’s been more than a year for three out of the four that are on the market. I’m unemployed with no health care. Millions of others are unemployed with no health care.

But don’t ask the candidates about us, the huddled broke unemployed war-weary masses. Please do continue making a farce, making fools out of us all. Make the monkeys dance for our delight. Watch them burn ever-so-bright then burn out.

They’ve crunched the numbers for Barack and it doesn’t look good. There are too many leaks in the dike and not enough fingers. But when they say this, the following is what I hear:

The bitches and the niggers have fucked everything up! The laity cry out for a savior. A man who rose from the political dead to become a champion of the trees and the bees. Al Gore riding astride a steed like El Cid prepared to vanquish the Moors from Spain.

What we need right now is a white man! There was none of this Ferraro v. Brazille, Tina Fey v. Tracey Morgan, “Black on Bitch” violence when the white man ruled the roost. We need someone gender and race neutral! I don’t see color when I see a white man. I just see a leader. The sort who doesn’t raise these sort of hackles, these difficult questions about sex and race. Obviously this task is too difficult for a multitude of menopausal doyennes and Obama-aid drinkers. Look at the horrors they have caused, breaking apart a coalition white men worked so hard to forge.

And they said a child shall lead them. But would a white man do for you? Standing in a suit, so inoffensive and plain, the same as we’ve had before? No more fighting over who’s time has come. No more calls for her to be done. No more “go back where you came from.” Just the (always) chosen one. The only one who can lead and we would follow. Ambitions borrowed on promises of tomorrow. He said tomorrow your time will come.

But not today.

Spades and skirts are a joke. Their foibles make me smile. How can you take one so seriously, when they can’t hide their inadequacy? Where is that golden child? I’m voting for John Edwards even though he’s been out of the race for months. I’m building a bridge back to the twentieth century to play “Return of the King.” I’m looking for that one ring, that one white man to rule them all.

My precious, my precious. I covet your banality. I covet your perceived normalcy. Your neutrality. Obviously this nomination was never meant for me. (Or any other harridan or black buck. We’re bad luck!) Thank you Pat, Chris, Sean and Lou. For reminding me that only more of the same will do. It was naive of me to believe that we could move past this fallacy. We will shut the fuck up and accept our inferiority. We’ll all just drop our trousers and bend over. We know the game. We’re begging. Please fuck us all one more time.

Fuck change.

Written by blacksnob

May 28, 2008 at 7:57 am

Parade of Suedo Stars!

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For all us poor people, it was just “May.” For the rich and famous, last week was the Cannes Film Festival where everyone goes to France to be camera-whores.

It’s hard work, but someone has to put on a $8,000 mini dress and go do it.

As always, Supermodel and Cellphone-Fu black belt champion Naomi Campbell was on hand at Dolce & Gabbana’s Cannes party.

She was wearing Roman-esque silver gladiator sandals, a sparkly mini-dress and black feathers for a coat of some kind, but she’s Naomi. She could put on a black Hefty garbage bag and make it work.

While a lot of people at this party looked especially garish (Lindsay Lohan and her disappearing emerald skirt and Rose McGowan’s scraggly red hair to be specific), others looked less so. Like Sean “Dolphin Teeth” Combs and Kerry Washington who only looked a little silly in his white tuxedo suit and her hairy gold sweater of a dress.

Nice “finger jewelry.”

Is it just me or shouldn’t Kerry’s legs be shinier? Her face area has a nice, healthy glow and she’s wearing gold so shouldn’t her legs be all cocoa butter oiled up? Because at these sorts of events with all the cameras flashing not enough sheen can make a Negro look ashy. And that’s what I’m really saying. I realize she’s no “Ashy Larry” but the matte finish look does not work for a black person’s “evening legs,” especially when the skirt is this short and the gold is blending in with her natural skin tone.

I’m not saying she has to bathe in a bucket of Crisco or make love to some fried chicken from Church’s, World’s Greasiest Retail Chicken Chain, but … it couldn’t hurt.

But enough of that. It’s been five minutes. Are Nick and Mariah still together?

Oh, thank God! I was worried. No pictures of them had shown up in my inbox for nearly three whole days. Sure, I’d seen that one picture of a solo Nick at a party Diddy threw last week, but nothing substantial since the Six Flags Cupcakes of Love soirée they gave me May 16th. Thank heavens some paparazzi were there in Japan to greet them at the airport where a shy and resigned Mariah Carey fought tears as she reluctantly posed for pictures.

“Is this what you wanted! Is this what you came to see, you whores!” she shouted as she whipped out her left hand, displaying her wedding ring. “Why won’t you people LEAVE US ALONE? Why, Nick? Why???

I know it was hard, Mimi. I really do.

This is what it sounds like when doves cry.

And black tights with black sandals? Really? Is that what’s hot in the streets now? I can’t hate because she’s sort of making it work, but … black tights and sandals? It makes her look like she should have on a leotard, hopping a time machine to the 1980s so she can go “Jazzercise” in hot pink leg warmers, a matching scrunchie and a crimp ponytail.

Written by blacksnob

May 28, 2008 at 12:21 am

Picture Me Rollin’*

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Craziest thing? Wheeling around in this dealie is my earliest memory. I was in that sucker that much. (I believe it took me the longest to learn how to walk. Thirteen months to be exact which might explain the frequency in which I was sitting in this.) I can remember the colored shapes on top. I can remember trying to get from the couch to the patio door in it. I can remember just sitting there, chillin’, when my lil’ legs got tired. Then I don’t remember anything else from my babyhood until suddenly I’m three and Baby Sis, aka Baby Snob, is born and is threatening to bite me as we sit on the kitchen floor in our church clothes.

No one believed me when I said that she was a biter. But I knew better.

* Correction: The baby in this photo is my little sister, Baby Sis. As babies almost all the Snob Girls looked exactly alike and Baby Snob looks exactly like how my mother looked as an infant. So upon further review Big Sis told me that this was not me, but that is the walker all three of us used as babies.

Written by blacksnob

May 28, 2008 at 12:03 am

Posted in The Snob