Under the Bus—Black Women and Girls in America

To borrow a line from pop singer Lilly Allen, “It’s Hard Out Here” . . . for a Black Woman or Girl. Just when we thought we were on the mend from the injuries inflicted after Miley Cyrus threw us under the bus in her attempt to “blacken her sound” with her American Music Awards attempted twerking performance, here we are under the bus scrambling for safety-- again. As Black women, our bodies and our sexuality have never been ours to own. And thanks to Cyrus and others, Black women’s psyche and sexuality is constantly being crushed under the flashy expensive rims of the various “isms” rolling through the world we live in.

The tire tracks on our backs were just starting to fade, when I saw this bus coming at us full speed just as we were about to step off the curb at we-can-move-past-this-episode avenue. The driver, Lilly Allen, a British pop singer that I didn’t know existed until I was trolling on the internet and ran across her controversial “Hard Out Here” video and the responses—positive and negative--to it. What is supposed to be “a light-hearted satirical video that deals with objectification of women within modern culture”—according to Allen in response to the Black feminists who took offense at the video—turns out to be another vehicle for calling out sexism and misogyny without understanding how race is intricately woven into the fabricate of discrimination against women of color—especially Black women.

While the lyrics sound as if the song can be a feminist manifesto, the video paints an entirely different picture. Lilly asks, “Don’t you want to have somebody who objectifies you?” and proceeds to do just that under the weakly executed guise of satire.  She sings that if we don’t get the sarcasm, then we’ve misunderstood, but it’s Allen who misunderstands. Her stinging indictment of patriarchy in the music industry subjugates Black women to the roles that she rallies against. Though she uses diverse dancers (African-American, White and Asian) the only ones twerking, making sexual gestures and getting slapped on the ass are the Black dancers. Allen is right when she sings, “Inequality promises that it’s here to stay. Always trust the injustice because it’s not going away.” Allen’s video continues to sexualize the bodies of Black women. She is simply a stand-in for the very men she calls herself calling out. 

As I lay in the gutter, trying to collect myself, I could hear the rumbling of another bus coming. I didn’t have time to roll out of the way; it was too late. Kansas City Fashion Designer Peggy Noland was driving a bus painted with her infamous naked Oprah Dresses. Noland, who has worked with Miley Cyrus and Rihanna, has created a line of T-shirt like dresses that feature Oprah’s face photo shopped on to various Black women’s nude bodies. There’s a skinny Oprah, a fat Oprah, an Oprah with a KISS rock star face and an OMG! full frontal naked Oprah! 

When asked about her inspiration for the dress, Noland said the idea came about as a result of society’s fascination with what designer, celebrities are wearing during red carpet events. So instead of Who are you wearing? as in designer, one can say that he/she is wearing Oprah. Why Oprah? Noland claims that “One of Oprah’s most effective qualities is that she’s a placeholder, she’s a stand-in for you with her foibles and her failures—especially with her public issues.” Never mind that Oprah has carefully crafted the Oprah brand that has made her one of the world’s most powerful women. Noland explained that she tried to mimic what artist David Nelson did in the 80s when he created a painting of the then recently deceased Mayor of Chicago, Harold Washington.  The painting was of a nude Washington dressed in women’s lingerie. Washington, Chicago’s first African-American mayor was a well-respected and much-loved public figure, especially in the Black community. And the painting created such an uproar that some Alderman ceased from the Art Institute where it hung. The incident ignited a wave of racial tension in the already segregated city. 

In an interview about the dress, Noland said, “We feel very protective of our public figures; we don’t want them to be exposed that way. . .” But it’s interesting that in her misguided attempt to show us the human side of public figures, she chose to model her concept after Nelson’s work of a beloved Black figure to create an unflattering image of another iconic figure in the Black community. I don’t understand why she didn’t use someone else who has struggled with weight or another powerful figure to make a statement—why not Kirstie Alley, Hilary Clinton, or even Jackie Kennedy? Why this trend of White women rising up against patriarchal norms while throwing Black women under the bus to make their point? 

When I saw the broken discarded bodies of my sisters scattered across these American streets, I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Our bodies had been crushed under the White feminist banner, only to be hit by another bus barreling toward. This bus was driven by none other than, R&B Crooner R. Kelly promoting the release of his latest album, “Black Panties”. The bus was filled with R. Kelly supporters who prefer public amnesia to acknowledgement of Kelly’s reckless past with under aged girls. The arguments are the same: the girls were “fast” and wanted it, the parents were to blame, and he was found not guilty. Never mind that the release of the album coincided with a lengthy detailed interview with Jim DeRogatis, the pop music critic who first broke the pornography case against Kelly when DeRogatis was mailed a copy of the infamous R. Kelly sex tape.

This is not here-say as the staunchest supporters would have us believe. In a recent interview with the Village Voice, DeRogatis gives a detailed description of what it was like to work on the case against Kelly. DeRogatis points out the obvious: the pornography charges, the annulled marriage to his 15 year-old, protégé, Aaliyah, and the cases settled out of court. DeRogatis also talks about how the court documents are filled with lurid stories of Kelly’s escapades with underage girls, and how he was able to get away with it for so long. The girls testified that that they recruited girls for Kelly and he forced them to have sex with each other. 

Not guilty doesn’t automatically mean innocent. Kelly has consistently denied all of the allegations against him, but he instead of moving away from the controversy, he goes full throttle with some of the most vulgar and sexually explicit music that makes you wonder who served as his muse especially given the album covers for Black Panties.  The cover features Kelly carrying what looks to be a very young woman clad in black panties. He’s holding a violin bow as if he’s about to play her. Then on the deluxe album, Kelly is surrounded by young Black women wearing only black panties. The songs and the images are disturbing. It’s as if Kelly knows that he got away with a crime and he’s rubbing our faces in it. 

Race issues are about Black men and gender issues are about White women, so where does that leave Black women and girls? It’s 2014. Do we need hologram of Sojourner Truth delivering her “Ain’t I Woman? Speech in 1851 at the Women’s Convention in Akron, Ohio?  In defense of her video, Allen said “it has nothing to do with race, at all.” But Lilly Allen, it does. When it comes to Black women in America—it has everything to do with race. Allen is absolutely correct when she sings “It’s is hard out here for a Bitch especially a Black one looking for a bone of respect in a country that continues to deny her humanity.

The irony of it all is that, DeRogatis a White man, who benefits from patriarchy and White privilege in America understands better than Allen, Noland and Kelly what it’s like on these streets for Black women and girls. DeRogatis believes Kelly was able to give do what he did because of the marginalization of Black women in our society. “The saddest fact I’ve learned is: nobody matters less to our society than young Black women.”

Beep, beep! Get of the way. You know what they say about buses, if you miss one, there’s another one coming—and it’s headed our way.

My Issues With The M.R.S.

My Issues with The Mrs.

While waiting to get a facial, I overheard the esthetician remark to a woman, “You better get that body in shape for that wedding.” I chuckled at the irony of the statement because I was perusing a book, If I’m Looking for a Prince, Why Am I still Kissing Frogs? And just as the esthetician’s words hit my ears, the words on the page jumped out at me: “Girls are socialized to expect few alternatives to being someone’s wife.” Still waiting for my turn, I read a little further: “Traditionally, women have been socialized to believe they need a man for financial security, emotional stability, and social status. The idea of becoming Mrs. So-and-so to gain entrance into the social circle has been an accepted practice.”

There it was—the hiss of —M.R.S. in my ear again. The idea of being The M.R.S. had been like hot breath on my neck, and I needed to deal with my issues with M.R.S. It started when I went to see Baggage Claim—a film that I knew would be a no-brainer comedy with a clichéd ending but promised lots of eye candy. So, I settled in for light entertainment, and while I was happy that her character’s wish came true, I was annoyed by the message: There’s no room in the world for us single girls.

Paula Patton’s character, Montana Moore is beautiful, witty and terribly flawed because for the life of her, she can’t get a husband! And to make matters worse, her younger sister has snagged a man and is engaged, and her multiple-married Mama doesn’t know what is wrong with Montana. The hunt for the husband is bananas! But it ends well because the man she’s looking for has been right there all the time. Don’t we always overlook the good ones? At least that’s what these men who are experts on women want us to believe—but that’s another story for another day.

I guy I used to date a guy sent me a text recently that said, “Hello Mrs. Gates.” And I replied, “Are you looking for my mother because I’m Ms. Gates.” We’ve known each other for years, so why he calls me by my mother’s name, I’ll never know. He got the message because the next message he sent was Mrs. Singleton—his last name. I laughed, not because he used his last name, but because it is common practice to date before getting married, and a few random text messages does not constitute dating. Or did I miss the new millennium dating memo?

I had a message on my voicemail from the women who periodically do housework for me. They also address me as Mrs. Gates, but I don’t bother to correct them. I shake my head and laugh because people are always giving me something I don’t have—a husband. It’s not that I’m anti-marriage; I’m still a sucker for a happily-ever after ending. But I don’t like being judged as less than a woman who happens to have a husband. I get the—what-is-a-good-woman-like-you-doing-single? or it-must-be-something-wrong-with-you-if-you’re-still-single lines all the time. I’d be better off if I say I’m divorced, but to be over 40 and never married—I’m definitely damaged goods! Why is my worth as a woman tied to my marital status?

I thought that if men didn’t have to be identified by their martial status, why did I? Married or single, a man is Mister, but a woman is Miss or Mrs. or now the more non-identifying moniker of Ms. Which is what I prefer. Time has actually mellowed my staunch stand on the Ms Vs Mrs. Back in the day I use to go into a full speech about how I was a Ms and not a M.R.S. I wore Ms (still do) as proudly as married women wore Mrs. because some of the married women I encountered were quick to correct anyone who called them Ms. It was if that extra letter and extra syllable gave them something that single women didn’t have and they flaunted it. And some married women think that all single want women want their husbands. I had to tell a paranoid married woman that single doesn’t mean desperate! What’s even sadder is that some of the women waving their wedding flags the highest have wandering husbands. But I learned long ago that it’s not wise to tell someone about their mate.

I put my book away and settled in for a relaxing facial with no more references to Mrs. until I tuned into Scandal and Olivia Pope’s daddy, Eli, took her to task for even thinking about settling for being just a Mrs.—even if was First Lady of the United States of America! He told her First Lady was aiming too low; that she should at least try for Secretary of State. I almost fell off my couch. There it was again—this idea of being a Mrs., but Papa Pope had turned the fantasy of First Lady on its head! So I started thinking—AGAIN!—about this whole idea of Ms. Vs. Mrs. and I know that for me the title of Mrs. is not only political, but intensely personal as well. Society dubs single women as misfits whereas the title of Mrs. earns a certain level of respect—deserving or not.

We put so much pressure on women to get married that women hurt themselves and others in the process of trying to get him, as Beyonce’ says, “to put a ring on it.” I’m still trying to figure why Beyonce’—no last name needed—decided to name her tour, The Mrs. Carter Show World Tour, after her husband, Jay-Z who doesn’t use his own last name. I’m not mad—just curious as to the reasoning behind it. She was Beyonce’ after she married and had a baby, but now she’s Mrs. Carter? Hey, it’s not for me to figure out.

Beyonce’ aside, I am disturbed by the deals some women make with the devil to get married. But once they are married, they retreat behind the halo of marriage. The irony is that the term “Mrs.” originally meant Mistress which is who some of them were before they actually became the Wife. A lot of women believe that man is eligible even if he’s in a committed relationship because he’s not married. There are women who know they’re the jump-off, chick on the side, wifey or whatever, but they grow tired of their second class status and try to “upgrade” themselves.

I know a woman who is her husband’s third wife. He cheated on Wife No. 1 with Wife No. 2, and cheated on Wife No. 2 with Wife No. 3, but the third wife says that he knows better than to cheat on her. Really? I know of another woman who was her Wife No. 2 after being the mistress. A friend of mine was supposed to attend a wedding, but it was called off. She shared with me that the bride-to-be received some photos of her husband with another woman the night before the wedding. The other woman sent the photos. The bride-to-be called off the wedding; he later married the other chick.

I had a friend who was dating a woman that he liked, but he met another woman. The second woman was a Christian and didn’t believe in pre-marital sex, but she somehow ended up pregnant. Go figure. He kept seeing the one he liked even after the Christian woman got pregnant. So, she waited until the other woman was at his house and showed up with her pregnant belly in full view. He was definitely wrong for not coming clean to his girl, but the other woman was wrong, too. It wasn’t her call. My friend and the Christian woman got married after he prayed and God told him that she was to be his bride. They married. The marriage ended after she cheated on him.

As a little girl I didn’t dream about planning my wedding and getting married. I thought one day I’d get married because that’s what was required. In my 20s I fell in love with a man I thought would be my husband. We talked about marriage. Even though we had our ups and downs I hung in there because I thought he was the man I was supposed to marry. One day I called his house and a woman answered the phone. Our relationship ended. Five months later he was married. We dated longer than they were married, but she’s the ex-wife; I’m the ex-girlfriend. In society, she matters; I don’t.

Even though my parents were married, I was raised in a single-parent household. When I got older, I used to joke with my mother about me being the make-up after the break-up baby because I never remember my father living in the house with us. I am the youngest of seven so it’s easy for me to figure out the relationship was unraveling before I was born.

When my parents divorced, my father remarried. He married his mistress. When my father died, my sister helped his wife write the obituary, and my mother was listed as the first wife and mother of his children. But on the day of the funeral, when I looked at my father’s obituary, my mother’s name had been whited out. So, he was survived by his second wife, their six living children (me and my siblings) and two stepchildren (her children). I balled it up. What was there to say—she was in fact the M.R.S.

I know of women who had sex with other men leading right up to their weddings because the men they really want won’t marry them, so they’re settling for less than they want and deserve by marrying men that could give them the coveted title of M.R.S. even though they don’t love the men they married. How sad for them if the love doesn’t grow into something worth sustaining. Maybe settling is better than being single. I don’t know. But I’ve met plenty of married people who I wouldn’t trade places with because I can be bad by myself. There’s no point in being a married single woman. And I know a few of them—they do everything with their friends and family, but rarely anything with their husbands. They are married in name only.

I probably won’t get married, and I’m ok with that. I don’t find myself longing for a husband. I just want to be happy. .If I happen to meet a wonderful man who wants to get married, I’d consider it. But if it never happens I still want to live my best life. I’m not hatin’ on married women. I wish women who are already married as well as those waiting to walk down the aisle well. It’s not the M.R.S. that I have issues with, but the ways in which some women become M.R.S.

The Lost Earring

               I love earrings. I wear my hair cropped close so the right earrings accentuate my face. I take my time buying earrings that are right for me, and with anything else, of course I end up liking some better than others. They grow on me because they end up being a good fit for my style.  I had a pair that I was especially fond of for no other reason than seem to add something a little extra.  They were silver and shaped like daisies. They became my go-to earrings; I wore them frequently.

               One day, I came home from being out and about and discovered that the earring had slipped from my ear; I had lost it. I had been a few places so there was no way to retrace my steps and find my earring. I'd lost earrings before--many times. No big deal, or so I though. But this one bothered me.  I hadn’t worked out that day so there was no reason for me to take them out, and I know I put them both in before I left that morning. Did I forget to secure it with an earring back? Why was I lamenting the loss of this one earring? I was puzzled until I dug deeper into my subconscious.

               The more I thought about the earring, the more it reminded me of lost relationships.  I thought about the people I continue to reach out to, but my texts and phone calls go unreturned.
  As unsettling as it is, I know I need to let go of what’s already gone.  I’ve spent too much time trying to figure out when the other one fell out. Did it slip away when I wasn't looking? Had the back fallen off long time ago and I just wasn't paying attention?  At this point, does it even matter?

             I am one of those people who hold onto things long after their expiration date. And while I logically know that everything changes, I'm not always willing to embrace change until I'm ready. But change happens with our without permission. When I took inventory, I realized that I have a few earrings in my jewerly box without a partner. I’m still holding onto them thinking that one day the mate will reappear. It’s kind of silly to have these random earrings unless I’m going to start a trend of wearing mismatched earrings. But I know that’s not my sense of style. For me, earrings work best in a pair;  I need two to make it work.  While I have come to the realization that there are some relationships in my life that are not working because half of the pair is missing, I’ve also checked to see if I am half of the missing pair in other relationships. Is someone looking for me, and I’ve slipped away? Do I need to check myself and find my way back?

             I have a compartment full of single earrings that I don’t know what to do with, so this weekend I'm lovingly tossing out the mis-matched earrings.  No more taking up precious space in the compartment of my life when they no longer have a purpose. Recognizing that they aren’t useful to me now, doesn’t de-value the role they played when they were part of a perfect pair. They added value at that time. And for that I am forever thankful. They're gone, but not forgotten. It’s time to move on.   There are new earrings to buy and new memories to create. The time in my life for something new, is past due.

Where I’m From

I recently ran across the poem, Where I'm From by Georgia Ella Lyon, and I used it as inspiration to create my own story of  Where I'm From. It reminds of how each of us has a narrative to tell, and that it is our responsibility to share our stories so that we learn from each other and grow into the people we were meant to me. This is Where I'm from

I am from Home Juice delivered to my door,

Ethnic baked goods from a bus trip across town

Meals made from scratch; nothing out of a box at my house

I am from sit-down Sunday and holiday dinners

Pepper steak and rice in Chinatown

My mother, my sister, my niece and me

I am from karate lessons in the basement,

Home-made heated tents when the furnace went out,

Swing sets on a summer day

Dance parties in the front room

I am from being chased through the house – laughing and squealing,

Hide-and-go seek, Simon Says;

I am from a  time that allowed me to enjoy being a child

I am from “See you later alligator, after while crocodile;” “Watch out there now;”

And “If it had’ve been a snake it would have bit you” –

When I couldn’t find something in front of my face

I am from singing in music workshop,

The red swivel seats of an integrated Woolworths

And neighbors who know my name

I am from the bottom of the slave ship

Washed up on the shore of North America

Two cultures merged to make me

I am from Africa by way of Nigeria and Sierra Leona

From the intersection of Georgia and Mississippi

From the west and the south side of Chicago

I am from the Ancestors

On whose shoulders I stand

I am from the breath of God

I am from this place we call

Life

Where are you from? I would love to hear your story.

Tale of Two Runs

I recently joined a running group to give a much needed boost to a sluggish exercise program. I’m not really a runner; I jog/trot my way to my desired destination. The group meets at a running store on 102^nd and Western and they run through Beverly. This was something I manage twice a week because it was on the way home from work. I could get some things, meet for a run and head home. Perfect.

The first day out I cheated myself and ended up walking. In my rush to leave that morning I forgot to pack a required essential—my sports bra. I knew I couldn’t run without my attention-seeking companions acting out and trying to get some attention. They needed to be tied down, and I had left the harness at home. So, I resigned myself to walking. But it was a wonderful walking experience.

Although I ride through the Beverly/Morgan park neighborhood and admire the scenery, it was not something I had done on foot. The perfectly manicured, rich deep-green lawns surrounding the home create a sense of serenity. As I walked and enjoyed the view, I could feel the stress that had been nipping at me fall away. I passed a boutique and peeked in the window, and then ducked in the jerk chicken restaurant to grab a menu. It was a wonderful prelude to what I hoped would be a peaceful evening.

On Saturday, I decided that I wanted to run outside again, but I didn’t want to drive to Beverly. Since there’s a park near my house that I have used as part of my exercise regiment in the past without incident, I decided to go to the park. The area around Palmer Park is definitely not as scenic as Beverly, but I could be outside and be one with nature—or so I thought.

The early morning peace was pierced by the sounds of sirens speeding west on 111^th St. unfortunately, living in an area plagued by violence, the sounds of sirens are commonplace. I started my run and noticed CTA workers in the park along with a bus. “That’s odd, I thought.” As I rounded the corner I saw the news crews. I saw people gathered. I saw a building across the street with the windows broken out, and the yellow tape stretched across the fence in front. I slowed, but I didn’t stop.

The next time around, I became a voyeur and whipped out my phone. Snap, snap. I took pictures to document the difficulty of even something as simple as a run in certain neighborhoods.  Two days earlier being one with nature melted the tension of a long day, but on Saturday, the songs on my from iPod were fighting with my stream of consciousness thinking of-what-had-happened-and-whose-life-was-forever-altered-by-the-early-morning events. 

I couldn’t help but wonder how could anyone find peace in the midst of unrest?