Living in My Skin - Part 1

As a Black woman in a racist, sexist environment living in my skin has been burdensome this lately. It feels heavy and hot like I am walking around on a 90 degree day wearing a fur coat; I am suffocating. The mistreatment of us disturbs me. In light of things happening recently, I had to contemplate what it means to live in my skin. I went back into my archives and found pieces I had written about sexual abuse in the Black community.  The articles go back to 2009 but the issues are constant. Much of what I’ve written has remained the same. I only updated where I thought necessary. It is my goal to disrupt the dominant narrative that exists in our society around the devaluation of Black women and girls. We are not promiscuous gold diggers using our bodies as currency to get ahead. We are not “fast” “hot” “sassy” “thots” “hoes “or any of the other derogative terms used to dismiss us as sexual beings and make us sexual objects. We are not perfect. Like everyone else, we make mistakes.  And like everyone else, we deserve to be treated with respect and dignity. We deserve to be valued. We are, after all worthy human beings, too. This a three-part essay series. I will publish a new essay every day for the next three days. Please feel free to comment on any of the essays that resonate with you. Thank you for reading and sharing your most valuable commodity—time—with me.

ESSAY #1, sometime in 2009

 In 6^th grade, I was a kindergarten monitor who took great pride in my job. One day during the students’ nap time two boys entered the room, and as they walked toward me, the one in the front said, “it’s time to f****!” When he flicked off the lights my heart moved into my throat and silenced my voice at the same time that I noticed he was the cute boy I had seen on the playground. There we stood frozen in time, and then the two of them walked out of the room. They didn’t touch me, and I didn’t tell. Why? At the tender age of 11 had I already internalized the cultural mandate not to tell on a Black male who threatened to cause me harm?

 Historically there has been very little attention paid to sexual assault of Black women and girls, largely because there is a common misconception that it does not exist, and if it does, it doesn’t matter. “The deeply held belief that Black women are less valuable than women of other races/cultural groups—a legacy of slavery—pervades all aspects of American culture,” said Johnetta B. Cole and Beverly Guy-Shetfall in their book Gender Talk.

When R & B superstar R. Kelly faced charges of child pornography and child endangerment, I prayed he would go to jail and send a message that there are consequences for crimes against Black women and girls. I was hoping that if convicted it might miraculously open up the conversation around the sexual violence against Black women and girls just as Rihanna and Chris Brown spotlighted domestic violence. Even though Kelly has a long, troubled and documented history involving underage girls, his support from males and females is unwavering.

 “When the verdict was announced, dozens of Black women (and some Black men) cheered outside the courtroom as the singer made his way past them to his waiting tour bus,” Allison Samuels wrote in her article Sexism on Trial on newsweek.com. VH1 featured two Kelly supporters who left their children in the care of babysitters while they went to court every day to support Kelly during his trial. Kelly is back in the news again this time for accusations of keeping young women in a cult. They are not under aged, but there are allegations that the young women are being held against their will. And nothing has changed. His supporters are even more vocal now. His personal life is none of our business. These young women are grown and Hugh Hefner does the same thing at the Playboy Mansion. I have no desire or energy to argue these ridiculous points. I don’t care about Kelly’s personal life, but I do care about the well being of young Black women. The idea that a magic number makes us grown is stupid. We can’t even agree on the number—17 for consensual sex (in Illinois), 18 to vote and 21 to drink. So when exactly is one an adult? And if what Hugh Hefner does sets the bar for our expectations, we are aiming the bar so low that we risk tripping over it.

Even though Kelly is a celebrity which in high profile cases most often vilifies the victims, the sordid story around Kelly’s fetish for under-aged girls and young women is indicative of how sexual assault and abuse is viewed by society in general, and the African-American community in particular, if the victim is Black and female.

 Growing up, I remember any adult could reprimand a child caught doing wrong, but I learned early that even though children had to be accountable to adults, the reverse was not always true. The same people, who told my mother if I stepped out of line, were the same people in collusion with the two men on my block who repeatedly sexually abused their stepdaughters over the years. There was a hedge of protection around my niece and me that no one dared penetrate, and to this day I’m thankful for that, because it allowed me to remain a child. But as I look back, I wonder why no one protected those two girls on the block and all of the other Black women and girls who’ve been led to slaughter by the men who were supposed to protect them?

 Some years ago, I read former Washington Post reporter Patricia Gaines' autobiography, Laughing in the Dark, and the book resonated with me because Gaines story is the story of so many African-American women and girls who share a twisted sense of solidarity around the issue of intra racial sexual violence. I understood her confusion, her shame and her sense of blame that she brought those things on herself because I had heard the same song sung by many Black females. I also understood her sense of helplessness. “Being a Black girl-child meant I had about as much influence in the world as there was in my itty-bitty finger. . .”

  Gaines remembers how the change in her body brought about a change in men—particularly her father’s friends who “liked to touch me intimately when no one was watching,” she says in the book. Gaines did not tell her parents because their friends “were like relatives and I didn’t want my parents to be disappointed in their friends,” she said in a phone interview. Growing up in the south Gaines said that everything around her affirmed that she was a powerless person—she was a first a child, then a girl child, then a colored girl child so she was “low on the hierarchy of power”—a pattern of powerlessness that would follow her into her adult life and lead to more abuse.

Some women, like Gaines, are breaking their silence. No!, is a documentary about intra racial sexual abuse in the African-American community by filmmaker, Aishah Shadidah who is also “a survivor of sexual violence,” she said in a phone interview. The film debunks rape myths, and explores the why behind the silence. Each of the women featured tells a horrifying story of being raped by a man or boy she knew, and for various reasons decides not to speak out against her attacker. As is most often the case, many of the women in the film, are single at the time of the sexual abuse—a time of increased vulnerability as we navigate our way into adulthood.

According to RAINN (Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network) 1 in 6 women will be assaulted in her lifetime, and college-aged women are 4 times more likely to be assaulted. The majority of rape victims (73%) know their assailants and rape often happens within the race so it stands to reason that young Black women will more than likely be raped by a Black male, and yet in most cases, the victims will not come forward. Victims of sexual violence often blame themselves, and Black women and girls are no different except we also shoulder the responsibility of race loyalty.

Fast forward. . . It’s 2017 and we are still strangely silent dialogue around sexual violence in the African-American community.  Even with a Black woman and two Black girls occupying the White House for eight years, our lips remain sealed on the issue of intra racial sexual violence. What will it take for us to speak up?

I Should Kill Myself Today

Photo courtesy of Pinterest

 I should kill myself today. Just take myself out the game. Do away with the pain and misery. I mean, what’s the point of living? I woke up to a story about adults calling a child ugly because her beauty is too big for the box they put it in. Hell let the world tell it, Black women are uglier than sin! Angry, mean, and ungrateful, too. 

We are bitches, hoes, gold diggers and Baby Mamas served up as Internet fodder for media consumption for the world to devour. People say if that ain't you, they ain't talking about you. But perception becomes realty right? Which means that we are a monolithic mess! Not allowed to be me--individually because we are always WE. 

Everybody wants somebody to love and appreciate them. But since it ain't no love for Black women and girls in the world why not give myself wings and take flight from the ugliness of this life? I think I should kill myself today. 

I'm single for real. Ain't got no man. No side dude, no playmate, No nothing. Did I mention that I ain't got no any kids? None. Nada. No man. No kids. I have no place. I mean I really should kill myself for taking up space. Tell me somebody, by society's standards, what's my worth?

I'm a teacher in a public school no less.  If a child does well, the parents did something right. If he fails, I did something wrong. Failure of students is my fault as teacher competency (or lack of) is the automatic default. No matter that I'm on the bottom rung of the education decision- making ladder, I should have some magic up my sleeve or a pull a miracle out of hat. But my mere mortal status doesn't allow me to do that. I should kill myself today.

But wait! Good news. We are highly educated women according to the stats, but oh, it's still not being translated into us getting paid. We make 64 cent to every dollar, the lowest wage for all women of color. We have a slew of health problems, too, so let’s just do away with the formalities of acting like we need to exist. I should kill myself today. 

You know what's the ugliest thing of all? People who look like me co signing on this foolishness. Ain't that some ish? A series of YouTube videos telling me how undesirable I am. I mean damn! I googled to see if such videos existed for other ethnicities. And guess what? There are none to see.

Treated like trash, some of us don’t know what to do with the anger and the pain, so we lash out at each other. Instead of coming together we clash, and then crash into anybody on our path. Yea, today is a good day to kill myself. 

But wait! Can we be in this world, but not of it? We have always moved through this world differently than the rest—marching to the beat of our own drum. And that never stopped us in from doing our best. We have to get back to the days of old. Bring the light back into our darkened souls. We need to look no further than those around us for inspiration and motivation.

My mother has lived longer than eight decades on this earth and rises every day to celebrate her birth. Her legacy lives through her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren. As a branch of her family tree, I don’t have time to be blue because I know that I still have work to do.  I can live another day.

When I can go back and forth on Gates Girl Rock with six of the most intelligent, thoughtful funny, and fiercely loyal women I have the pleasure of sharing blood with, I’m reminded that I am blessed to experience such bliss. I can live another day. 

When young people remind me of my worth through listening ears or a comment on my blog that shows that I too have a legacy because a commenter "admires my strength and transparency because not everyone has that," I think I can live another day.

When I go interact daily with an amazing group of women who keep me grounded and remind me if the magic we do, I can live another day. I have a multitude of friends who are an essential part of my life. I can trace true friendship back to elementary school. I'd be a fool not to live another day. 

 I am a member of a group who has faced unspeakable horror and terrible hardship, who get up every day to do it all over again; I owe it to them to keep pressing forward. It's not easy being a Black woman in this world, but I've heard that anything worth having is worth fighting for.

So, today I fight for me, and for the other Black girls and women who are not feeling the love and are contemplating killing themselves. No, I won't kill myself today. I’ll look at all I've been through, and all that I'll have and know that my riches yield the highest stock.

I look at Black girls who Rock, and I swaddled myself in Black Girl Magic. I’ll remember to breathe and seize the moment because I know that THIS is a gift from above. And everything God makes comes from Love. So, I got this. And if you're reading this, you got this. WE got this. And today, I know I'll live another day. 

What makes life livable for you? What gets you through the bad days? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Who Will Weep for the Loss of the Lives of Black Women and Girls?

 I look down at my hands and they are covered in blood, and there is blood on my clothes. And I don’t know where the blood is coming from. My heart beats wildly in my chest. Whose blood is this? I wonder. Then I wake up. I’m in my room. There is no blood. I was dreaming. The nightmare has ended. But my breathing is heavy. And I can’t slow down the pounding in my chest even though I’m wide awake. The feeling follows me throughout the day.

My heart feels heavy—like it’s weighted down with a cement block tossed into the ocean. No matter how much I try, I can't seem to lift my spirits. I see Her bloodied body pop up in my news feed. I am startled, and then I quickly press hide. And then I am angry: angry at the insensitive asshole who took the picture and posted it, and angry that I didn’t report it to Facebook for being offensive. I guess I was shocked that the photo was even there.

Jessica Hampton

A young woman is dead. She's dead because a man felt entitled. She's dead because she said no. She's dead because he stabbed her in broad daylight, on a train while people watched. She's dead because people didn't try and intervene. They live streamed the savage attack, and posted photos of her bloodied dead body on social media before her family was even notified. News reports say the family found out via social media. Her name was Jessica Hampton She was 25 and the mother of a young daughter.

Pamela Johnson

This story really bothers me. I don’t know if it’s because of the callousness of not only the killer, but the bystanders as well. I don’t if it’s because it happened in the middle of the day, or because it’s the third senseless killing of a Black woman in Chicago in a little over a month. There was 32 year-old Pamela Johnson who was killed fleeing would be robbers. She was hit by a truck. There was 49 year-old Yvonne Nelson who was exiting Starbucks and took a bullet to the chest that wasn't meant for her. And now this. I’m a Black woman; I live in Chicago. And I’m afraid.

 Yvonne Nelson

Is my anxiety because these women were killed in the city where I live? A city plagued by violence. That’s part of it for sure. But I also experienced similiar angst when 16 year-old Amy Inita Joyner-Francis died after being jumped in the bathroom at her high school in Delaware, and again just recently when police found the badly decomposed body of 40-year-old Lyntell Washington in a ditch in Louisana. 

Amy Inita Joyner-Francis

The deaths of these women sit with me. They stay with me when the media move on. They remind me of our fragile existence as Black women and girls and our never-ending struggle to find peace in a place in that too often tries to render us invisible or devalues us if we are seen at all.

Lyntell Washington

 There is very little love for the Black woman and girl when we are living, so I read these stories and I wonder who will weep for the loss of the lives of Black women and girls?

Why I Hate Chris Brown’s Song “Loyal”

When a rich nigga want you

And your nigga can’t do nothing for ya

These hoes ain’t loyal

By Chris Brown

“These hoes ain’t loyal.” I wake up too many mornings with the hook playing in my head. Here’s the kicker: I hate this song! And yet I can’t get it out of my head right now because it’s stuck on repeat. This happens every time I’m somewhere the song plays. I like the beat and I don’t want to because I can’t stand songs with misogynistic lyrics. So, the fact that this song won’t leave me alone, means that I need to write about it. I need to explain why I detest this and similar songs that treat women as things. A hoe is a thing; it’s an object. It is a tool to be used. It is easily discarded and replaced. So, when we sing along to the catchy beat, we subconsciously accept that women and girls are things. We accept that they are disposable.  And we don’t recognize their humanity.

When we sing along, we can go along with Jamal Bryant, pastor of Empowerment Temple in Baltimore, MD who was speaking to his congregation back in June about cheating men, and talked about the other woman and said, “These hoes ain’t loyal.”I listened to the entire sermon so as not to be sucked into a sensationalized news story because I know how things can be taken out of context. But this was not the case. His sexist, homophobic, misogynistic sermon made references to “sanctified sissies” and “baby mamas”, too. So the song lyrics fit right in with the rest of the foolishness. 

When we sing along, we are not offended by the pastor’s remarks. We are members of the congregation clapping and standing up in agreement.  We are mostly African-American women being bamboozled and hoodwinked by the words of a charismatic preacher who is once again blaming women for the downfall of men. What’s even more interesting in this scenario is Bryant chose to use this particular song to chastise women for not being loyal when his marriage ended due to his infidelity in 2013. He was calling women out in the sermon when he was the one who stepped out on his wife. 

When we sing along, we can accept that three professional African-American women hanging out at a hotel in Manhattan couldn’t have been anything other than professional hookers. On August 28, three friends: Kanataki Washington, Cydney Madlock and J. Lyn Thomas were seated in a restaurant in the Standard Hotel in Manhattan when an African-American man introduced himself and offered to buy the women drinks. But before they could take him up on his offer, a security guard whispered in the man’s ear and ushered him away. Washington said the security guard told them, “Come on ladies. You can buy a drink, but you can’t be soliciting.” 

The security guard insisted that the women were soliciting sex. And when the women reported the security officer, they were met with indifference, and told that security personnel were hire through an outside agency. But a few weeks later, Washington says she received an email from a staff member of the hotel inviting Washington and her friends back for a dinner (valued at $400) and a bottle of champagne. None of the emails addressed the women’s prostitution claim, but the hotel was willing to pay them to come back which was a slap in the face. The hotel was okay with paying the women for being insulted, but wouldn’t acknowledge the insult. 

When we sing along, we accept two teens found dead and bound together along a road in Duval County, Florida as par for the course. Angela Mangum and Tjhisha Ball were best friends according to their family members, and both the girls had been working as strippers at the time of their deaths. Law enforcement officers in Jacksonville, Florida are looking for tips, but the story has gotten little media attention. In the few news outlets that I’ve seen the story reported, the pictures that are shown are mug shots of the women who were arrested but never convicted of any crime. 

When we sing along, we see these pictures as confirmation that “these hoes ain’t loyal” and deserved to die. We don’t see them as victims because we like our victims clean; we like them White; we like them right according to a strict code of conduct that says bad girls can’t do good, and good girls aren’t bad. So, that there is a killer(s) on the loose, does not hold our attention. We flip the page or scroll onto the next news story if we have even seen this news story at all.

When we sing along, we don’t raise an eyebrow when we learn that a police officer targeted African-American women and sexually assaulted them. Daniel Holtzclaw, a 27 year-old officer with the Oklahoma police department preyed on middle-aged Black women. Eight women have come forth since February of this year complaining that they were pulled over during traffic stops and fondled, ordered to perform oral sex and even one women accused Holtzclaw of rape. He was arrested August 20. His bond, originally set at $5 million dollars was reduced to $500,000 and Holtzclaw has been released from jail and placed under house arrest. Across the nation we are protesting police brutality and excessive force. And yet we are quiet around this decades old issue of police officers abusing their power and assaulting Black women. 

When we sing along, we are not outraged that a mother of three lost her life just this month for not responding to a man trying to get her phone number. Mary “Unique” Spears was leaving the repast of a family member, when a man started harassing her. He wanted to know if she was single, and if he could get her number. He was persistent, and when Spears’ boyfriend tried to intercede on her behalf, the man took out a gun and began shooting. He shot Spears once, and when she tried to run he shot her twice more.

When we sing along, the seeds of misogyny take root in our mind and become entangled with rational thought. So even when we clean up the lyrics and sing, “these girls ain’t loyal”, we know that the girls in this and songs like it are still tools of a trade designed to degrade and devalue females in general but  African-American women and girls in particular who society consistently classifies as hoes and treats as such.

So, think about that the next time you find yourself bobbing and singing to Loyal.