Church and Me

 “Stephanie, why is it that you don’t go to church?”  A friend of mine recently caught me off-guard with this question.  So, I tried explaining to her what really wasn’t clear in my mind at the time. I gave her the usual spiel about not liking mega preachers, not feeling a sense of fellowship yada, yada, yada. But rolling this question around in my mind later, I had more questions than answers: Why don’t I go to church? I used to go to church, what happened? Am I going back to church?

Though most of my friends are regular church-goers (as is this one), no one ever point-blank asked me why I didn’t go to church. I never explained why I didn’t go anymore than they had to explain why they went. My standing joke whenever people talked about church was that I had back slid so far that I was standing still. And it’s not that I’m anti-church; I go when I want, but I don’t go regularly even though my name is on the membership role of a local church. My spotty church attendance dates back to my childhood. 

Unlike many African-American families, mine was not a church-going family, but we were neither atheist nor agnostic; we believed in God. But God showed up in our house in different ways. I grew up in an eclectic Christian-based household.  On Sundays we listened to church on the radio, and watched Jubilee Showcase on TV. We only went to church on Easter, and for me it was more about the fashion than the faith because I always got a new outfit. 

I am from a house where we had to be quiet during thunderstorms because God was doing His work; I carry a protective Saint in my car to avoid accidents. Then there was the round Buddha- like figure that sat and still sits on my mother’s dresser. For some it smacks of blasphemy, but for me it was about finding God in various places and spaces. 

Even though I started attended church semi-regularly as a teenager and then as an adult, my thoughts constantly returned to the spirituality of my childhood. My upbringing allowed God to be bigger than a name or a place to me. It allowed to me to accept that there is more than one path to God. One of those paths is church, and I do venture down that path from time to time, not just every Sunday.

Peace in the Storm

I could smell it; the scent of the first drops of rain against my brain registering that there was a storm stirring in my soul. It’s been said that in life you are always doing one of three things: entering a storm, exiting one or trying to hold on in the midst of one. Except for an occasional shower or two, the sun was radiating brightly in my life. But I knew the rain was coming. Felt it swirling around me. Didn't know the direction it was coming. I couldn’t anticipate the extent of the downpour. I just knew that I was going to need something to get me through.

It started as soon as the school year ended. A trip to the emergency room turned into a hospital stay for my elderly mother. She had pneumonia. She stayed a few days, followed up with her primary care physician and things were on the mend. Then I had to leave and go out of state to be with my niece who was having surgery. I have been in and out of hospitals so many times that I almost hate them. I said goodbye to both my father and my oldest sister in the hospital. But in spite of my fear, I ignored the knots in my stomach and push forward. My mother was fine; my niece would be, too.

Her surgery went well, so I thought I’d a reprieve from the rain until I returned from vacation. Wrong! My friend and traveling partner was complaining constantly of pain and malaise. And for someone who doesn’t like going to doctor until she falls over—sometimes literally--was actually doing what she was supposed to, but she wasn’t feeling any better. She felt so bad that she decided not to take the trip. I knew then that she felt bad because she would never miss a trip! Then my mother started feeling bad again. It was raining on my head. I wanted to stay home. 

I am not my mother’s only child, and I could not do anything for my friend. I felt helpless, but I had to relinquish my false sense of control. I had to accept that I am a mere mortal and to let go and let God take control. So, I decided to take my trip because I knew it would be still raining when I returned. The storm was brewing, but I had a temporary shelter.

The trip was to Toronto for a literary treat with the Literary Sisters. The Literary Sisters, started by Ruth Bridges, is a group of women from all over the country who gather in different places to discuss literature and anything else on their minds. Sometimes they gather in a place to talk to authors about their works, and other times they’re traveling around the world. This was my third trip.  

And for me, it was a much needed retreat. I sat in the company of brilliant and beautiful Black women from all over the country and from all walks of life with a shared passion for literature; it was and/ is a gratifying experience. I am a reader, and every time I’m in the company of the Literary Sisters I learn how much reading I still have left to do! Being with them is like sitting in the front row of the classroom of life.  

There’s no cattiness. No competition. It is a gathering of warm and wonderful women. We talked about books, current events, our lives. We experienced the beauty of Niagara Falls and the hustle and bustle of Toronto. Due to bad weather, only one author was able to fly in for the retreat. But in this day of Kindles and Nooks, it was good to listen to the New York Times best-selling author Kimberla Lawson Roby to not only read from her book, Perfect Marriage, but to also autograph keepsake copies of her other books.

For an extended weekend, I found peace in the midst of the storms swirling around in my life. I shared meals, conversations, and knowledge with a wonderful group of women who cocooned me from the pellets being hurled at my heart.

I returned home refreshed, renewed and ready to do battle with the health care system that is denying my mother the right to quality health care, and to support my friend who was diagnosed with cancer. I maybe be standing in the eye of the storm, but thanks to my Literary Sisters, I am also able to find a sliver a peace in this place. Thank you!

Letter to My Nephew and Other Black Males in America

Author’s Note: In 2005, I sat down to pen this piece for my then nine-year-old great nephew. At the time it was more of a passing thing, but today I am pressed to write this piece as I grapple with the tragedy of Trayvon Martin and other Black males in America. This writing is urgent because of my relationships with the Black boys and men in my life. I write to make sense of what does not make sense in an attempt to maintain my sanity.

Dear Nephew,

Then: Your saucer-shaped, deep brown eyes look innocently from underneath long lashes as though you are not capable of any wrong doing. A big smile creases your face as your cinnamon brown hands reach up and grab me around the neck as you plant a wet, slimy kiss on my cheek.  But before your arms come down, those innocent eyes become devilish and you tickle my neck.

I looked at you then and I was afraid and I’m afraid now because I know the world does not love you like I do. So, I am fractured in how I deal with you. On the one hand, I want you follow the words of the U. S. Army and be all that you can be. I want you to grab life by the proverbial horns and ride it as I cheer you on from the sidelines. And I do! But I must also teach you the ways of world that you were born into. In his 1963 essay, My Dungeon Shook: Letter to My Nephew on the One Hundredth Anniversary of the EmancipationProclamation” James Baldwin said, “You were born into a society which spelled out with brutal clarity, and in as many was as possible, that you were a worthless human being.” And here we are 50 years later, and the essay is just as relevant today as it was then.

Now:  You’re 16 almost 17 now. And I look into your and face I worry about what the future holds for you. I wonder if your bigger-than-life personality will take you places or hold you back. You know that you are loved, but I don’t know how to tell you that many in world will not love you back. Should I tell you like Baldwin told his nephew that the best that you can hope for is acceptance? Is that enough?

We have sheltered and protected you, and I wonder if we have done you a disservice as a Black male in America? You know that you are special, but what happens when you are outside the circle of our influence? When I try to explain to you about being stopped by the police for no other reason than Breathing While Black you tell me that you will never be spread eagle across a police car. It’s hard for me to get you to understand that this is probably an unfortunate right-of-passage for you. And there is a part of me that applauds the fact that this not how you see yourself, but it’s not enough. So, I take you to see documentaries like The Central Park Five so that you know what’s real in the world you live in.

You are forever asking me to drop you off somewhere so that you can ride public transportation, and I keep telling you, no. You resent that we pick you up and drop you off. You accuse us of treating you like a baby because you think you are invincible to the dangers lurking in the world. It’s hard for me to explain to you that because of the world that you live in, the enemy will many times be someone who looks like you. Yes, I can talk to you about Emmett Till, and Trayvon Martin, but I must also talk to you about Darion Alberts.

You are one more in a long-line of Black males that I love, and what I’ve learned is that to love you-a Black male in America- is to love you with rubber-band like tension taut across my heart. I have to love you with trepidation. I have to love you in a schizophrenic kind of way—pull you close, push you away. I have to love you and let you go so that you’ll grow. It is your growth that is frighteningly beautiful because it is both a necessity and a threat to your survival. But to love you and all other Black males in America is to embrace the fear and beauty that surrounds you.

Love you to life!

TTSteph

Niggers, Lynchings, Ice Tea and Skittles—Connecting the Dots

The media frenzy surrounding the Paula Deen fiasco would be laughable if it didn’t point to something more disturbing. This nation's mocked alarm and indignation at Deen’s actions is insulting when the made-in-America mentality that produced Deen's mindset is the same one that is on trial in the murder of Trayvon Martin.

Let me begin my piece by stating that I choose not to use “nigger” or any of its various inventive spellings when I’m speaking. It is a personal choice out of homage to my ancestor who died so that I might live a better life. And I am irked by the usage of the N-word because the potency of the word in certain contexts is not defused by not naming it. So, if I refer to it, I spell it out.

Even though I don’t use it, I know plenty of people that do and it’s difficult to explain to non-Black folk (and some young Blacks) the nuisances of the word, but I can suggest two books devoted exclusively to the topic: Jabari Asim’a The N-Word: who can say it, who shouldn’t and why and Randall Kennedy’s Nigger: The Strange Career of a Troublesome Word if want to under the word in its historical context.

Nigger has always had multiple meanings in the Black community, and that is where it should have stayed, so that we do not continue to have these ridiculous conversations about its usage among non Blacks. We should have heeded our elders’ advice when they told us, “What goes on in this house, stays in this house.” But we are here AGAIN! And while we’re here, we might as well dig deeper and connect the dots between niggers, lynchings ice tea and skittles. 

For an eloquently definitive essay on the different meanings of the word, I urge you to read Writer Gloria Naylor’s essay Mommy, What does ‘Nigger’Mean? Naylor explains that the people in her grandmother’s living room. . . “transformed nigger to signify the varied and complex human beings they knew themselves to be.” They “took a word that whites used to signify worthlessness and rendered it impotent.” But when the word was uttered by a white boy in her 3^rd grade classroom, it took on an entirely different meaning than the one she heard in the living room.

This is the barbecue we had last night.

 

My picture is to the left with the cross over it. Your son Joe.

I’m not hopping aboard the Poor Paula train. This was more than just a racial slur. Deen and her brother were named in a lawsuit that alleged “violent, sexist and racist language.” in the work environment. It’s difficult to separate a person’s words from his actions. The man who beats his wife doesn’t call her honey or sweetheart before he strikes. She’s bitch, slut, hoe or some other derogatory term. 

It is this same disregard for human life that drums up images of lynch mobs in my mind as I peruse the pages of the book, Without Sanctuary-Lynching Photography in America. I am blown away by the seemingly cavalier attitude of the people gathered. People dressed up and brought their families to these horrific events, and sent post cards to friends and relatives to mark the occasion. “To kill the victim was not enough; the execution became public theater, a participatory ritual of torture and death. . .”We were niggers before they tortured, hanged and burned us with their vigilante style justice. We were niggers after. 

I look at the children in this picture and I wonder how their psyche was affected when they witnessed these horrific crimes against humanity? Did they grow up and denounced their racist up upbringing or did they learn that “niggers” were less than human and should be treated as such? How did they raise their children? Are they the Deens and Zimmermans of the world? 

It’s easier to vilify Deen and Zimmerman than to acknowledge that their thoughts were manufactured right here in America. Here is an ugly truth: there is still a part of America that continues to see Black people as disposable niggers. Zimmerman’s thinking of a Black male as a potential threat is right in line with the thinking of many in America regardless of color. The Black male has been so demonized and dehumanized much in our society that we are desensitized to his plight.

So, a night watchman can shoot a teenager whose only crime to date is breathing and walking while Black. The actions of Deen, Zimmerman and countless others demonstrate how far African Americans still have to go to be recognized as citizens in this place we call home. Regardless of how many gains we've made, we are still vilified and whatever happens to us is justified. Black people are being lynched every day, but we don’t even recognize the rope around our necks until someone yanks our false sense of reality from beneath our feet.

In the case of ice tea and Skittles, the morality of America is on trial. Will the verdict move us in the right direction or set us back?

Stolen Childhood

I am a teacher. I am a student. And I learn a great deal from the students that I teach. After two recent experiences with the students at my school, I came away with an absolute confirmation of something that I was thinking was true, but that I didn’t know to true considering the culture and climate that we live in today. Even in this day and age when children are growing up too fast, they still want to be children, and they look to us—the adults for guidance and direction.

My first revelation came after I was bamboozled and hood-winked into chaperoning the 8th grade trip to St. Louis. I was charged with keeping up with a group of 43 students while we explored St. Louis for two days. It was a wonderful trip! On the second day, we went to Six Flags and when we got inside the park, there was a concession stand that sold super hero capes. And a number of the students—boys and girls stopped to buy capes. Even the so called “cool kids” especially the boys, donned their capes and ran around the park getting on rides. It warmed my heart to watch them get to simply be kids. They traded their hardened city armor for a flimsy fantasy cape, and they looked happy and relaxed.

My second revelation came when we took our 6th and 7th graders skating and bowling as an incentive for good behavior. It’s June, and the students are antsy and ready to be out of school. So, the outing was a good way for them to release some that bottled up energy. While 6th grade has been pretty decent this year, 7th grade has been challenging. So, I was in some ways dreading the trip even though past experience has taught me that students know how to get it together when they leave the building. Some of the same students had been problematic in some capacity or another all year. But rather they were skating—or trying to learn, or bowling, they were well behaved and having fun. It was another positive experience.

Children are challenging. And children will try adult--especially adolescents; It’s their job. But it is our job as the gatekeepers to draw that hardline in the sand. We cannot continue to allow the line between adults and children to recede. What I learned from my students is, that at the end of the day, they really do want to be children. We have snatched their innocence by allowing them access to adult content that they cannot handle. We have stolen their childhood. And we need to give it back.

Pass on the Bitch, Please!

            BITCH! Bitch, bitch, bitch BEE-ACH! No matter how long I roll it around in my mouth, and mentally chew on it, my brain simply cannot digest hearing women referred to as bitches. I think I’m bitchose intolerant because it nauseates me to hear so many of seasoning our language with this bitter condiment.

It takes me back to my childhood when my mother used to make me take a spoonful of Cod Liver Oil every day. She swore by it for warding off colds and other infectious childhood diseases. To offset the taste she would mix it with some type of juice and tell me to hold my breath and drink it. Orange, apple, cranberry—it didn’t matter. Nothing disguised the taste of the oil and I always had this queasy feeling in my stomach in the end.

Fast forward to the future. My aesthetician encourages me to drink Olive Oil or Flax Seed Oil in the morning to moisturize my skin. Like my mother, she also tells me to mix it with juice. Though I don’t think I’ll die from the concoction like I did in my childhood, the residual of oil lacing my lips  and subsequent  burps serve as  reminders that no matter what I take it down with, it just doesn’t settle well with me. Bitch is an acquired taste that I haven’t acquired.

Even when the heavy peppering of the language leaves us irritated, some of us still like to sample this unsavory appetizer. So, we try to soothe our discomfort by trying to make it taste better. It’s Ms. Bitch to you or we use the acronym Babe In Total Control of Herself. Maybe it works for some, but it just slides around in my stomach.          

 

I know that for some women, Bitch is a term of empowerment and/or endearment. I have had this conversation with friends and family, and I have had to be firm in my unwillingness to partake. Sherry Argov’s Why Men Love Bitches and Why Men Marry Bitches are popular books, and there are others. Then there is the TV show, Don’t Trust the B---- in Apt.23. Bitch seems to be on everybody’s table these days—right there next to the salt and pepper shakers, and most people sprinkle it throughout their conversation with little regard to its high level of emotional potency. The recent backlash against Beyonce for Bow Down proves that not every woman likes the taste of it.

I remember watching Queens of Comedy and trying to distinguish between the negative connotations and the positive connotations, but after a while it all sounded the same. The women the comedians liked were bitches. They called themselves bitches. And the women they didn’t like they called bitches. Try figuring that out!

For the sake of equality, we have even gotten into the habit of calling men bitches when they whine, complain or act too aggressive. These are all negative characteristics we associate with women. As another way of insulting gay men, we call them bitches, too.

Bitch is a derogatory term. It is the lowest form of debasement. Harassed by an obscene phone caller, he terminated every conversation by calling me a bitch of some sort. Failing to respond to a man’s cat call while walking down the street earned me the title of bald-headed dyke bitch. Endearing? No! Empowering? I don’t think so! How can a word that makes a woman feel like the contents of a pooper-scooper be liberating? I cannot get up from the table after having a big bowl of bitch and feel good about myself. I’ve tried to tell myself that words can only have as much power as I give them, but even as I say the word bitch to myself, it looks and feels nasty in my mouth and makes me want to spit it out.

For those that like to chew on it, I hope that it does not cause indigestion, heart burn nausea or the desire to spit it back in the face of the server. As for me, bitch is never pleasing to my palate. So, if you’re serving it up at your table, I hope you don’t mind if I pass on the bitch.