I Got 99 Problems and a Bitch Is One

I have never been in a fist fight. I've had some close calls, girls talking in my face, catty sh*t. But fighting isn't my first instinct. My first instinct is to stare down the other person and then talk sh*t about them behind their back. My stomach will get tight and I will become slightly nauseous from internal anger but I don't allow that anger to surface. I struggle to remain in control of my anger at all times. So when a "young woman" got into my mother's face and called her a fat b*tch, I had a crisis of conscious. The result: I ended up in the bed the next day, racked with guilt, fierce anger, and a horrific stomach ache.

This girl, let's call her Tiffany, became a friend of the family about one year ago. She was 18 and came from a troubled background. She had a mentally ill mother, spent time in foster homes, a diagnoses of a cornucopia of her own mental illnesses, and a sister/cousin (I ceased trying to understand that phenomena a while ago). Despite these attributes she was smart, bubbly and friendly. She was a typical teenager, a wanna be Nikki Minaj barbie who wore tutus. Tiffany moved many times in her life and chose to stop living in her father's home because he told her she had to start washing dishes. This fact would prove to be a significant clue to explain her recent meltdown.

Tiffany had lived with her best friend for 5 years but because of recent changes in her life, the birth of her first child and changes in her friend's household, she chose to move out. She made a series of moves over a couple of months. Around that time, our family was looking for a larger residence and we welcomed Tiffany into our home. After about 2 months I began to think of her as my younger sister. My mother treated her like a daughter.

I'm skipping a lot of day-to-day living but the basic information is this: she had a large room and didn't pay rent, I willingly and joyfully watched her baby for free, she crashed our car, she was an cherished and valued part of our family.

And then I asked her to sweep the floor.

She left the house and didn't come back. She essentially told me to f*ck off. She came back to the house and locked her door like we were riffling through her stuff. She didn't say a word to my mom. After she was confronted she said I treated her like a child. I guess expecting someone to get off of their ample ass to do a miniscule task like sweeping was too overwhelming. But again, she left her dad's house because he told her she had to do the dishes.

The next time I saw her two policeman were at our house.

She had stormed into the house and had a mental breakdown because she was not able to take her janky clothes, TV and her daughter's crib according to her time schedule. She got up in my mom's face and called her a fat bitch (although she's pushing 170 and ain't shit). She threatened to call the police. My mom called her bluff and called the police. Two squad cars arrived to ensure no violence occurred. I haven't seen her since.

And I didn't kick her ass. I just stared the f*ck out of her. I didn't really yell. I didn't really curse her out. I didn't her kick muthaf*cking ass. Hence my guilt and delayed, fiery anger.

So let me return to theme of this blog BAP, Interrupted. I describe myself as a Black American Princess which I define as an African-American woman who is well-educated, cultured, confident, self-aware and interested in spiritual and intellectual growth. A BAP doesn't have to have a specific socio-economic background, but she does have a certain je ne sais quoi quality about her. But I now recognize a BAP doesn't need to be afraid of getting ignorant or getting her ass kicked.

I have a great deal of resentment. My stomach no longer hurts but my anger has yet to subside. I might forgive at some point far in future, but I will never forget.