And now, a word about John Mayer, because enough hasn’t been said about him. Seriously.

Before you say anything, yes, I know.

I know the whole John Mayer thing has been done to death. I know he’s a total idiot. I know that we shouldn’t take seriously anything what he says.

I know there are thousands upon thousands of blogs out there saying exactly what I’m going to say here. I know that what I say here won’t add anything new to the outcry, that there’s a good chance it will get lost among all the comments and the mocking and the boycotts and the suck-it-ups.

But it’s been a long time since I had a good rant at the Cafe,  and I need to get this out of my system so I can move on with my life. Because frankly, it’s bugging me.

Personal life detail rant to follow. Standby. Standby…

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A long time ago, I realized I was attracted to white guys.

How I came to that realization will have to be the subject of an different post. Suffice it to say, by the time I reached college, I was open to the thought that I would most likely date and marry a white guy.

Most of the family advice I got at the time was along the lines of "you’re setting yourself up to get hurt". And it was true—my heart got broken over and over again by guys who weren’t interested . My least favorite were those who were open to interracial relationships, but only wanted to date Asian girls. The worst? Those who were open to interracial dating, and then would proceed to point out—to me—girls they would like to date. "She’s cute," they would say, pointing to a girl walking by. Or they would talk and talk about some girl they met, how pretty she was, etc., etc.,

And really, all I heard was, "This girl is so much prettier than you, LaShawn. This girl is far more attractive than you. You’re a nothing, LaShawn. You don’t have long hair and you don’t have porcelain skin and you’re not slender. You’re not pretty, so let me just say you’re a friend and hey, let me tell you more about this girl that you’ll never, ever will be—"

And now, years and years later, here’s John Mayer. I already knew he was a jerk, but prior to the Playboy article (or the Rolling Stone article), I didn’t really care all that much, because I liked Room for Squares. But that article dredged up those same emotions of self-doubt and low self-esteem. Part of this could be that my church is doing a sermon series on freeing oneself from the past, so the past has been on my mind a lot.

What surprised me, though, was how upset I got over the interview. Upset and angry. At first, I was so upset that I considered tossing out all my John Mayer CDs. Then I posted a link from Salon that I thought adequately summed up my feelings. After I posted the link, though, I did a little more thinking about it, and realized, no it didn’t.

With all the images that are bombarding around us on what’s considered "standards of beauty", I’ve gone throughout my life ignoring those standards. They didn’t apply to me, and I soon learned that those who searched for those high standards weren’t worth my time. It took me a long time to figure out the beauty standard for myself.

I’d forgotten that in my past, while I knew guys who broke my heart, I also knew guys who really, genuinely liked me. And I did date. The past has a tendency to do that—dredge up all the worst parts of itself, but not the best. And one of those guys I dated liked me so much, he asked me to marry him. For the past eleven years, he tells me every day how beautiful I am. He ogles me, treats me like a queen, and does everything he can to seduce me into his arms.

Thinking about that makes me feel sort of sad for John Mayer.

He’s living the rock and roll life, and predictable, it’s turned him into a douche. Or maybe he was like that beforehand, I don’t know.  But he’s pretty much closed himself off to any black female relationship. Oh well. Maybe it’s for the best. Shame really. He don’t know what he’s missing.

As for me, I can honestly say that at age 38-soon-to-be-39, I have never felt more beautiful. Part of it is my hubby telling me so, yes. Part of it is also the locs, which, if you allow me for pure indulgence, I absolute rock in. But most of it, I think, stems from the fact that I’m a writer. I’ve claimed that as an essential part of myself, and it has given me confidence that I never had before. Or maybe it’s because I’m older. I don’t know. But I don’t need John Mayer, or any celebrity, or anyone in media, or anyone period, to dictate to me what standard of beauty I need to rise to. I find that in the gifts God’s given me, in my personality, in my health, in the way I take care of myself, in my laughter, and my love.

Oh, and my locs. Because I have to stress it again: I rock the locs.

+++

Personal rant over. Returning to regular blog.

Well, I had a post all set for updating things on Willow and my other writing projects, but that will have to wait until next time. Thanks for letting me rant. I think I’m going to give my hubby a big hug…and other things that cannot be mentioned here…

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3 Responses

  1. […] and by the way, you rock so much harder than that other dude who shall remain nameless. Possibly related posts: (automatically generated)Story Sale: […]

  2. :: stands up and applauds :: I have nothing more to add to this because every sentence here made me want to raise a fist and go “woohoo!” (that’s a good thing, believe it or not).

    P.S. You stopped by a really old blog I had up on word counts a really long time ago and I never replied because I used one of those bogus e-mail addies that we sometimes do and then lost the password to that and so couldn’t retrieve the password for the blog and.. you get the idea. Seriously– suddenly 3 years later I remembered the password. Don’t ask. That’s just how it is. So yeah. Now I’m replying. I LOVE this blog! Oh, as you can tell by the web link to this reply, I’m off doing other things now, not writing literary fiction anymore. =/

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