Saint And Sinners: The King Angel Child of New York

by Tiana Laveen

  “Xenia, you need to talk to Saint about this,” Traci urged, breaking the silence as she crossed her legs.

  “I can’t, because I don’t understand it quite myself… Traci, he’d be devastated.” She looked woefully at the woman. “It came on all the sudden. It’s like a nightmare I can’t wake up from! Without getting into a bunch of personal details…” She blushed a bit as she recalled their episode on the subway train. “I have always wanted him in that way, Traci. Even when I have been dead tired, I still would give it up more times than not, because I knew once we got started, I’d be wiiiide awake.” She shook her head, causing Traci to smile and nod in understanding. “And, it’s not just sex; it is all forms of physical attraction and expression.”

  “Do you still feel in love?” Traci’s eyes glossed over as she spoke.

  Xenia felt grateful the woman cared enough to make her come to her home for the evening. Her mother had her children and she thanked her lucky stars her mama was in town after all.

  “Yes! That is what makes this even more confusing. I love him just as much as I ever did; it is just the physical aspect.”

  “I know sometimes I am tired, too, but I get what you’re saying. This sounds more than that. Xenia, if this doesn’t pass soon, you may need to see someone.”

  “I know…I know.” She sniffed, set her teacup down on the table and wiped her running nose. “My allergies have been acting up.”

  “Xenia, you don’t have to pretend with me. It’s okay if you want to cry…” Traci rose and sat directly next to her, wrapping her arm tightly around Xenia’s waist, bringing her close.

  “Xenia, we’re friends and I can’t imagine how you feel but I’m here for you!” She squeezed her closer as Xenia dabbed at her swollen eyes. “It’s alright, hell, I’d want to cry, too, but there has to be a way to overcome this. We’ll figure it out.” Traci kissed her cheek.

  “Thank you, Traci.” Xenia sniffed and wiped her nose once again. She grabbed her purse at her side, dug inside and pulled out her phone. “Let me send him a quick text message… He is about to get on stage and knowing him the way I do, considering what is going on, a word from me might help.”

  Traci nodded in agreement.

  Saint, I want to wish you good luck tonight and may you be of great assistance to the Rainbeaus that are there to receive your wisdom. I know you will knock ’em dead. I love you so much! –Xenia

  *

  Saint tapped the toe of his black and white shoe against the stage as he gripped his cell phone. He couldn’t help but smile; her timing was perfect. He read and re-read the text message Xenia had just sent him as people finished getting settled in the large, jam-packed Auditorium Theatre at Roosevelt University in Chicago, Illinois. He slid his phone back, but not before ensuring it was turned off, then listened quietly as the host announced him and the other men on the panel. Tonight, he would be broaching and exploring topics he seldom had, but realized they were quite important, nevertheless. He’d taken great care to get himself prepared, despite the personal obstacles he was currently facing. He was determined to get to the bottom of Xenia’s problem, for any problem she was having was his problem as well. He was her husband. He loved her, and anytime she wasn’t herself, upset, irritated, annoyed or worried, he would do anything he could to bring her peace. On a more selfish level, he needed whatever this was to be nipped in the bud as soon as possible. The thought of going without lovemaking for an extended period of time caused him great anxiety. He couldn’t let that happen; not now, not never.

  “…And without further ado, we present Dr. Saint Aknaten!” He’d missed practically his entire introduction as he drowned in his mounting uncertainties. Regardless, he was centered now. The place lit up in cheers as music burst through the speakers, bringing him right into his zone, pushing him away from his thoughts of a love life in jeopardy. He jumped to his feet, animated, full of life, and did a 360 turn, clapping his hands together then tapping the microphone attached to his dark red button shirt to ensure it was on.

  “Alright, you worthy sons of bitches!” he yelled as he approached the middle of the stage, causing uproar. Men jumped to their feet, applauding him. “Yeah…it’s Saturday ‘knight’, with a ‘K’…’cause you need to be a knight in shining armor, mothafucka!”

  More clapping ensued—and whistles, too.

  “She don’t need savin’, the Black Queen… You do! So dress up for your part!” He now could barely hear himself over all the commotion. His star power erupted, and it thrilled him. “Alright…” He grinned as the host raced over and handed him a chilled bottle of water. Latching onto to the thing, he quickly unscrewed the cap, breaking the seal. He took a long, hearty swig, after which he handed it back to him. “Thank you, man.”

  The host nodded and skirted away, taking a seat.

  “Now, tonight, we are going to talk about some real shit. So, take your seats, relax and most important of all, listen.” He paced the stage a few times as he waited for the crowd to settle down and get situated.

  “Tonight’s discussion title is provocative within itself, though it was not done by design. It is what so many of us have heard throughout this journey as you take steps to reach your goals or to help solidify the existing relationship with your black Goddess. As you all know, tonight’s conference is called, ‘White Man’s Whore.’”

  Owwws and Ahhhs ensued, followed by light babble. Saint cracked a crooked smile.

  “That’s right.” He started to pace, his gaze first on the stage, then on the audience. “We’ve all heard it, now let’s talk about it and what it means to us.” He pointed to himself and then the crowd. “Let’s see what it entails, dissect it, piece by piece, so that we can fully understand the concept. Now…” He paused, then began to pace the stage slowly but surely once again. “When you hear of a black woman being called, ‘The White Man’s Whore’ because she dated and married interracially, that is more of a reflection on the accuser, than on the woman. You see,” he said, clearing his throat, “There was no notion of a, say…”—he shrugged his shoulders—‘A White Woman’s Stud’, in this same context… As usual it refers to men demeaning woman, a hypocritical notion. If you look at the interracial statistics in this country, black men have been having sexual intercourse, dating and marrying non-black women to a much higher degree than black women and for a far lengthier time. Black women are still the least likely to date and marry interracially, even after more social acceptance; it is still taboo in their minds.

  “When they do step out and broaden their dating scope by including non-black men, they are coined, ‘A White Man’s Whore’, a woman giving up her candy to the slave master, right?” He laughed grimly. “There is an active campaign in this nation to keep black women in their place, gentlemen. In no other time in history has the country of America been more accepting of interracial relationships and also more volatile, all at the same time. It is a paradigm of mine, due to an uprising of black men who are seeing black women leaving the fold. It is an orchestrated, powerful mode of mind control…it is mental pimping, from afar. It is being done online via viral videos, it is being done in person, it is being done via social media. It is being done on the radio stations. It is being done in musical expression. It is being done all over the place, wherever there is an opportunity to reach a number of people all at one time, or individually even…that suffices as well. Whatever. Means. Necessary—and I say to that, if these same soft, pussy ass, degenerate, overly-emotional insecure mothafuckas used that same goddamn energy to work on themselves and fix how they think of, talk to and treat black women, they wouldn’t even have to do all this so-called sabotage, mind fucking, screwing and manipulation! And listen up, men…” He pointed sternly out into the audience, his tone grim. “Any of these black Queens that fall for this shit are not ready for YOU!”

  The crowd lit up in applause.

  “Don’t apologize for a goddamn thang! That is on her!” He pointed to his heart. “If she rejects y
ou because of what her brother, uncle, ex-boyfriend, black male co-worker or some stranger down the street said, as well as all those other so-called people that call themselves a man, then she has some homework to do before you even think about stepping to her. The best mate is a perpetual student, but make sure they are putting in the work. And to the leaders of Blackistan…”—He stood still and looked out at the sea of men as if he were on a teleprompter—“…if you are so fucking wonderful, you don’t have to try to convince another person how damn glorious you are by lying, attacking and practicing old-school tactics of mind control. Good shit sells itself!” A cluster of loud whistling followed.

  “Believe it! How many times have you seen anyone say, ‘Hey, I got a big ass diamond here I’m trying to give away, pawn off, get someone to take off my hands…but no one will take it!’” He threw up his hands and tossed out a dumbfounded expression, causing a rumble of laughter. “Or, I have two million dollars sitting on my front lawn, but I can’t get anyone to pick it up and take it away from me…Yeah.” He smirked. “You’ll hear that the last day of never! And these mothafuckas that say this shit are sippin’ on their own Kool-Aid. This is what happens when you get a bunch of mentally ill, desperate, emotional men together, let them co-sign on their own shit and form a group to combat some perceived injustice or societal woe! The name of my new book coming out next month is titled, ‘Fuck your Feelings.’” The crowd burst out into laughter.

  “For those that have seen me speak before, you know that is an important concept. Feelings will get you fucked up! Make your choice unwisely, and you will suffer. Now, feelings are there for a reason, but if not paired with logic, good reasoning and intelligence, you are nothing more than a mess that no one wants to damn deal with it. Anytime someone co-signs what I’m saying, the guy is called a Mitch or Mangina. Those terms are funny to me, especially since they are coming from dudes that act like teenage girls on their periods…emotionally un-fucking stable! How damn ironic. A cloud calling a cotton ball, ‘Fluffy’, simply doesn’t compute. Clean up on aisle mangina, mothafucka! Wipe yo’ own self up!” He cackled, and others followed suit.

  “Damn, shit,” he said around a grin as he began to pace the stage once again. “Now, I told you all I would be hitting hard and heavy tonight, like a fucking heavyweight.” He scratched beside the side of his mouth. “It’s going to get uncomfortable. Discomfort is good sometimes, though. It’s going to be an awakening. Set your alarms. It will be eye opening to some so wear your glasses. It will stoke a fire in others. Check your smoke detectors. ’Cause let me tell you…” He stopped pacing and faced the crowd head on, peering up into the balcony then back to the floor seats. “Blackistan is not the only place where this warped fuckery exists…”

  He heard murmurs, men talking amongst themselves.

  “That’s right, some of you so-called Rainbeaus help perpetuate this mess, help keep the fuel in the car, keep it on ‘F’, keep it going. You see, some of you sexualize every goddamn thing. As men, we tend to do that by default, you know.” He paused. “We have default programming, default settings, as I’ve discussed before. These default settings have no rules, follow few morals and customs, and are controlled by our cocks and ego. When you participate in colorism, for instance, you are helping fuel the tank. When you talk about a black woman as some sexual treat exclusively, you fuel the tank. When you won’t stand up for her, and let the media, the Blackistan leaders, mind fuck her, rape her emotions right in front of you, you fuel the tank. When you are too fuckin’ afraid to approach her because of what your silly ass so-called friends might say, you fuel the tank. When you fall into stereotypes, ignore racist jokes and don’t tell the people closest to you about her, you fuel the goddamn tank!” His voice echoed, shaking the place to its core.

  “And I’m pissed about that shit!” He shook his fist in the air. “Now, let’s get into it. I stated first,” he counted off one finger, “when you over-sexualize them, you help keep this going. I understand that is the default setting; we’ve covered that already. However, you have to ascend to a higher level of behavior. Don’t approach her and say anything about sex, her figure, none of that. She already gets that. Coincidentally, she is told she’s ugly because she doesn’t look like a blonde Barbie doll, yet these same mothafuckas cursing her looks are trying to find a way to jump up ’nd down in ’er pussy! That’s modern day mental slavery, that’s Blackistan for ya, that’s the way this works. That’s what you’re up against! Don’t. Fuel. The. Tank.

  “Now, let’s move onto colorism right quick.” He paused and moved his hand out towards the audience, as if inviting them inside of his world. “Some of you may not know what that is and some of you in here are not American, so the concept may be even more unfamiliar to you, though it does exist globally. Nevertheless, staying on task here, colorism is a preference of one shade over another based on stereotypical and racist ideologies. It is practiced in the black community. It is practiced in Africa. It is practiced wherever European influence has had an influx in population, a footmark, an economic impact, and has had a history of cultivation, thus, allowing them to leave a cultural imprint. It is a systematic way to control, to oppress, to cause self-doubt and one to devalue their physical presence as it pertains to physical comparison, in this world. Now,” he put one finger in the air, “here is where you come in, Rainbeau…you modern day man. You believe, well, I’m here!” He shrugged his shoulders. “There is no way that I fall into this category. I love black women! I would not be sitting here, Saint, I wouldn’t have bought a damn ticket to this conference if I were part of this issue! It is not my fault what my ancestors did! I am not them!” He paused for effect.

  “Now, you do have a point, Rainbeau. In part, what you believe is true. You have evolved, we know this, we can see this; however, evolution does not necessarily equate to an individual evolving to a higher being!” He placed his hand in the air, as if leveling a playing field. “To evolve means to transform, change and grow. A bear cub will transform, change and grow. As a newborn, it is practically incapable of killing anyone, including a human being. However, once it is an adult, it can maul and murder in a matter of minutes with its claws and teeth! It changed…it grew…it evolved. But if you were its victim, if it attacked you, that evolution was not in your favor, now was it?! My wife and I, not too long ago, were having a rather whimsical discussion about colorism.” He took careful steps across the stage as he pointed to his temple. “As most know, I have a young daughter. She is the joy of my life.” He grinned proudly.

  “All three of my children have different complexions—which his common in many black families, particularly African American families, due to a hodgepodge of DNA from the results of historically forced and voluntary sexual occurrences. With myself being bi-racial, mixed with Middle Eastern and Asian blood, and my wife being an African American, we could create a myriad of different physical possibilities. Now, my daughter is the lightest of my children.” He tapped his bottom lip thoughtfully with his index finger. “She basically looks like a very light complexioned version of my wife. My wife is considered by most in the African American community to be brown-skinned. Now, that term may mean something different to you.” He slightly chuckled. “Many Rainbeaus see all black women as brown-skinned, but in the laws of complexion as well as colorism, that simply is not true. Some black women are even lighter than, say, a white guy from Ireland or Sweden. It happens.” He sucked his teeth and continued.

  “Some have such a rich, dark complexion, it is literally black, as the shade definition denotes. And then, of course, there is everything in between which is where most African Americans fall, somewhere in that gamut. My wife, I would say, is almost in the middle. She’s a few shades lighter than the medium, the middle of the spectrum. She has a bit of a red hue to her complexion. She is not considered light-skinned or dark-skinned in her black community. When you look at her, you would not question whether she was black. She looks the part, however; she has told
me a few stories from her childhood where, depending on whom she was around, some people referred to her as light-complexioned. Now, my wife is not hung up in all of that, but let’s say she was…

  “Let’s say, my wife had issues concerning her complexion. That would make her susceptible to the games people play in regards someone’s skin tone. Speaking of games, and also the over-sexualization of black women in this country, I would like to merge those two points, if you will. Now, I want to preface this by saying there is absolutely nothing wrong with having preferences. We all have them, whether we realize it or not. I know that I do.” He touched his chest, his fingers sprawled as he affirmed his point. “I did not realize it consciously until I was a grown ass man, but I have a thing for big breasts.” This instigated a few chuckles. “I like it all, don’t get me wrong. It is not something I gave much thought to, but after thinking about all the women I’ve slept with, the ones I seemed to enjoy looking the most at had that in common! Now, isn’t that something?

  “I honestly never mulled over this until I was preparing for this conference. This event caused me to think about my own preferences and internalize them. Some say, a breast preference, large being the preference, denotes a man being a mama’s boy. There is actual scientific data behind these concepts.” He stopped and smirked. “Well, in my case, that would be true. My mother was a very petite, almost physically fragile, Korean woman. I would prefer to not talk about her in a sexual manner.” He grinned. “But let’s just say her assets were in line with her body type, okay? So, this breast fixation of mine, that some may believe I have, did not come from her, in that regard. However, breasts are associated, as they should be, with mothers—comfort and nursing. Thus, I cannot rule out the possibility my predilection could stem from that, especially since I was a ‘Mama’s Boy’ and was terribly close to the woman. And even more importantly, since I lost my mother at a young age, this is definitely a possibility! Initially, I told myself I didn’t have any. The only pre-requisite was that the woman be black!”