I’m about sick to death of black men with full (or otherwise) love lives becoming experts on what black women need to do to be freed of their independence. So, STFU Tyrese.
Sometimes I get tempted to get all up in the commentary on these blogs, but it’s almost not worth it. Usually, some captain-save-a-woman-from-herself rolls up and checks everybody on having any kind of reaction at all. And that defeats the point. I am allowed to be annoyed at Tyrese/Steve/Jimi and anyone else who portends to know my complexity well-enough to explain away my freedom as a liability.
Whether or not anonymous commenter #1-8 likes it should be of no concern. It’s difficult enough being a well-read black woman in America without feeling like I need to defend myself against anonymous haters.

I know what’s best for me. I’m a grown ass woman, dog. I know how to choose a mate. There are a lot of black women who do, too. Don’t listen to Tyrese, aka, the fetus from Baby Boy. He is not a damn expert on you or me or anybody — he hardly even seems to be an expert on himself. Think I’m going overboard? Take a glimpse at his Twitter feed. He should stick to Fast and Furious cinema.