Saved and SAINTified (5 page)

Naomi and Valerie both looked down at the ground as they listened to S
aint speak on their behalf. He continued to pace back and forth, his body tense, his voice tenser.

“This was back in the
’50s and ’60s but it
really
wasn’t that long ago. They had to fight persecution to be with the men they loved. You think they weren’t scared? You think they woke up happy to see yet another burning cross on the damn lawn and that’s no exaggeration—both of them saw it! And here you sit, on easy street,” he turned toward the crowd, pointing a long finger at them as his eyes lowered and his brows knitted, “compared to what these two women endured.” He pointed to Valerie and Naomi who were now off to the side, closer by the door as if preparing to make their grand escape. “And you’re not willing to tell your goddamn parents you’re in love with a
white boy
because you don’t want them to see you differently! Shit! Is that what love is nowadays?! What happened to all that loyalty, huh?! What happened to the ride-or-die chick? Or is that only reserved for mothafuckas who are brown like you, but didn’t earn a goddamn thing—you just gave the shit away willingly?! Respect is earned! What happened, huh? Tell me!”

He could feel the nervousness in the room. The women seemed to huddle together, some looking at one another in confusion.

“Now, I know it takes time to get used to this. I’m not being heartless. I can understand a few months, needing to get used to the stares and all of that, but some of you in here have been dating the same man for over a year. His parents and friends know all about you, and he may have paid the consequences, but you won’t do the same!” He scanned the room again. “Most of you are, what? Under thirty?”

A few women nodded.

“Most of you look to be between the ages of twenty-one and thirty.” He continued to pace, and rubbed his forehead as if he had a headache. He sighed. “I know some of you personally, from your boyfriends.” He was calmer now. “I know what some of them are going through. They are going against everyone and everything, to be with you. You have to extend that same courteousy or please, just let him go.” Saint stopped walking and turned toward them, his expression grave.

“Just let him go, so he can find someone
who is not so afraid to let him love her! I’m not making light of fear. Fear is real, but when you allow it to make your decisions for you, you will always end up with less than what you had when you first started. I think…” He stopped midsentence and looked at Valerie and Naomi. “Queens, Mother Valerie and Mother Naomi, it is my strong suggestion that you leave me alone with them from this point on.”

Naomi and Valerie nodded, not needing an explanation. S
aint knew that they’d understand that his disposition was about to get raw, rough and uncut. He waited for the two ladies to close the doors. He paused a few more moments as he heard them walk away across the marble floor.

S
aint looked back over at the women, whose eyes appeared as large as saucers. He leaned against a buffet table, crossed his arms and ankles, and put on a grimace. The room remained quiet for what interminable seconds before he spoke again.

“What is the mothafuckin’ problem, huh?” he asked calmly,
waving his arm in the air. “Here we are, five months into this shit, these meetings, and I just don’t get this. You can call either of these ladies, anytime you need to. They told you that. Shit, even my own wife has extended herself to a couple of you who voiced an interest in broadcasting and journalism. My wife is busy, too! Real busy! Yet she did that for you. Stop playing with these women’s time. You’re causing your boyfriends all sorts of heartache, because you’re afraid. Let’s just say it, you need to hear the words so you can understand how disrespectful what you’re doing is.”

“Disrespectful? Ain’t nobody being disrespectful. What do you mean? Is that what you really mean to say?” someone blurted.

“Yes, do you need a formal definition of the word? I didn’t stutter.”

The woman hushed, rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Your man asked you, ‘When am I going to meet your family, Kia?’” Saint pointed to a young woman in the back. “‘When can I meet your mom, Danielle?’” His eyes shot to a woman sitting in the front row.

“Over half of you in here haven’t let your man meet your mother. That’s fucked up. Not because the opportunity ha
sn’t arisen, but you’ve been purposefully avoiding it because of what she might say.” He shook his head, looked down at the ground and gritted his teeth. “If you can’t even handle telling your mama, whom you’re living with, that you’re screwing and dating a Rainbeau, how in the hell will you be okay with the goddamn world’s reaction toward you? Y’all ain’t ready for this! I want to help you get ready, though.”

Several women nodded. The mood became slightly more relaxed.

“This is severe because of what your actions, or lack thereof, signify. It means you don’t take the relationship seriously. The most important people in your life have not met your man and you’re doing that on purpose, because of his race, not because you and your family don’t get along. Not because they are all about drama. … It is strictly about his race. You have outwardly said, ‘I cannot take you home, because you are not black.’ That’s what you’ve fuckin’ said!”

The women whispered amongst themselves.

He shook his head. “Is there something else going on?” He raised his hands. “Look ladies, we just need to get down to the nitty gritty. I’m here, so just ask me the questions you need to ask. Let’s hash this out so that it’s done and over with.”

After a few seconds of silence, a hand shot up in the crowd. S
aint looked at her and nodded.

“Yes, Empress
, what is the question?”

The twenty-four year old looked around the room. Her caramel complexion glowed under the lights. Her hair was brushed away from her face and tied into a sloppy ball of plaits. Two diamond stud earrings
glimmered in her ears and she looked shy as she caressed her prominent collar bone with her fingertips.

“Hi, Dr. Aknaten
,” she said almost inaudibly.

“Hello. What’s your name?”

“Syra.”

“Syra? That’s a very pretty name.”

“Thank you.” She grinned widely. “My question—well, it’s kind of a comment too—is that, when I just dated black guys, I know I didn’t have these hang ups and I know it’s causing problems in my relationship with Justin now. I have a lot of ex-boyfriends. I thought I had this dating stuff down pat, but with Justin, it feels like I’m starting from scratch. He never cheated on me or anything, but it’s like I have all this baggage. I am scared, I’ll admit it, but I think there is more to it. I don’t know what to do.”

S
aint listened intently and could feel the sincerity from her.

“So, with the black men you were with, there was a sense of peace because of the cultural awareness
and familiarity?” he asked, standing to his full height.

“Yes, I guess you could say that.”

“And all of those black men you were with, the good ones, the bad ones, and the ones that don’t really fit into either category, received more credit, even when they hadn’t earned it yet, right? It was because they were of African descent?” He was building his case, and so desperately needed her to follow along, to grasp each section of track he was laying out before he started the train of understanding.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“And you fucked them  ...  or let them fuck you, right?”

Syra looked around the room and blushed.

“Don’t get quiet on me now. You may be young, but you’re grown and this is a conversation that adults need to have.”

S
aint could see her squirming, her skin becoming flush. “Yes, some of them,” she answered quietly as she sat on her hands.

“And you let them cum in you…”

Whispers and a few giggles erupted in the room. Syra looked up at him, confused.

“I’m not trying to embarrass you,” he reassured
, his tone even and caring. “I think, though, that you’ve hit upon something very important, and it can help others, so I’m trying to make a point here. Now, can you answer the question?”

“Well, some
.” She looked away. “But what does all of that have to do with this?”

“It has everything to do with it, Syra.” He began to pace the room again. “What some of you are failing to understand is that your focus on the ethnic differences really isn’t the only problem here
. This is about a human condition. Regardless of your past lover’s race, your new lover is paying that man’s tab. Syra is smart enough to realize that she has baggage, but she doesn’t know how it got there. We can’t permanently move bags away, if we don’t know who placed them there and how the trash accumulated in the first place, ladies.”

He sighed and glided slowly across the room.

“All that will do is cause us to do double work. If you walk into your bedroom and see a bunch of garbage on the floor, you want to know how it got there, if you don’t recall putting it there with your own two hands—but you treat your soul with less care, each and every day. You don’t question all the shit lying around inside of you. Let’s take a look at it.”

He had their undivided attention.

“A man
puts his imprint on you when you make love. When he cums in you, that is him leaving a mark, like a fingerprint. I’ve said this I don’t know how many times. I know for a fact, that many of you in here
know
that I’ve said this, and I explained in great detail how it happens and why but you still aren’t getting the connection to that situation, to where you are right now, today!”

H
e pointed to the ground.

“
So, I’m just going to back track for a second, so you can follow along. Now, when you get with another man, that imprint from the previous man is still there inside of you. Then you got another man, and now you have all those previous imprints, smudges, dirt, fingerprints, their residue, so that by the time you meet your soul mate, he has to wade through all of this bullshit to get to your heart.” 

Several women nodded in understanding.

“He is swimming in the baggage of other men because it reprogrammed you. It made you trust less—that is programming. When you trust less because of a previous situation, that is emotional, mental and sexual programming. Programming is when an event occurs—whether positive or negative, it doesn’t matter—and you react to it, via your behaviors and actions for months, sometimes years to come. The situation made you bitter. That is
more
programming. It made you needier. That is even more programming, ladies. You are a broken down version of your full glory and former selves. You become the weakened version of
you
. All of those men that were inside of you left a calling card,
all
of them. It wasn’t one of upliftment and love, it was just trash. That is what baggage is, Empresses. A woman’s interpersonal baggage comes from her heart being broken. It happened when you realized that he just wanted to screw you.”

He crossed his arms
again over his chest.

“Let me explain to you what the hell happens, so that when you leave here, there will be no doubt in your mind as to why you need to stop all this foolishness and fuckery!”

His suddenly raised voice and jarred them all to full alertness.

“Syra, what would you say that your last boyfriend, before your Rainbeau, felt about you?”

She shrugged. “I’m not certain. He didn’t treat me well and to me, actions speak louder than words. He told me he loved me though.”

S
aint nodded. “Right—he told you he loved you, but his actions told you that he hated you. What did he do? Cheat?”

She nodded
. “Yes, amongst other things.”

“Do you ladies understand that a man
who hates you, from no provocation of your own, also hates himself? You need to understand that. You need to understand your baggage, so we can move this shit out of the way and you can allow your Rainbeau to love you, freely. You are setting up the road block and expecting him to still be able to pass through! Unfair! We need to see how it got there, the shit, the baggage—to see what’s in it and what it is made of!”

S
aint pounded his fist into his palm.

“When a man
who hates himself ejaculates in you, you have been poisoned.  There is no other way to say it, or sugarcoat it. That’s poison. A man who hates women, his mother, and himself will cum in you, and leave venom. You’ve taken in his demons. His semen is flowing through your body, re-wiring you, jacking your natural, creator-set programming up—which is your warehouse default, but now it’s all screwed up. That mothafucka turned your light into sludge. He needed a reprieve. Now, what have I taught you? Semen is…”

“Life
,” many women said in unison.

“Exactly. In semen is life
, so when a man that is messed up, emotionally and spiritually, cums in you, he is giving you that messed up emotion and spirit …
his
life, as he feels it! He is creating an unsanitary place where no love can grow—only fear and resentment. Think of semen as a foundation, as soil. Cracked foundations have trouble growing anything of value but easily allow bad, dank things to cultivate. Bad soil grows nothing but weeds that try to strangle flowers left from your new man. It may not have been your actual physical body, but your
peace
of mind, your emotional wellbeing and sexual programming has been defiled—has been raped—and you signed up for it.”