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?

Institute for Teachers of Color Committed to Racial Justice (ITOC): A Reflection

I applied for and was accepted into the Institute for Teachers of Color Committed to Racial Justice (ITOC) conference in Los Angeles, California. Coming off a rough school year, I was ready to be around other educators with a like mindset. Like everywhere else, the emphasis is on raising standardized test scores, so social justice work takes a back seat if it has a seat at all.

I went to work on Monday to finish out a school year that I was glad to see end. Because I teach writing as enrichment, my class serves as a preparation period for teachers, and there is no love for prep teachers. Homeroom teachers just want to know that they are going to get their break. Outside of that we are invisible. In addition to feeling like I was being erased, I was also trying to recover from student involved trauma.

Feeling devalued and distressed, I pushed myself to get through those last two days. Initially excited about the ITOC conference, I began having doubts about attending. I was tired. I was dealing with too much, and I had anxiety about traveling alone. I didn’t know what to do with the emotions coursing through me. It was easier to just skip the conference and try again next year. But the easiest thing is not the best thing, so I decided to go anyway.

On Wednesday, I caught an early morning flight that put me in Los Angeles at the start of the conference. I went straight from the airport to the conference rolling my luggage behind me.

Breakfast was being served when I arrived, so I fixed myself a plate and found an empty table. A beautiful, young woman with locks whose name I don’t want to butcher invited me to sit at her table; I did. The morning went well. I loved the ice breakers because they allowed me to connect with other people and stay within my comfort zone—or not. 

At lunch, I went looking for my roommates and found my tribe: Sonya, Yolanda, Dara and Samantha. They welcomed me into the fold and made space for me.  Then I ran into Cecily, a woman I knew from Chicago. She and I worked together years 7 or 8 years ago, and I had not seen her since then. We’ve always shared positive energy so; it was good to reconnect. 

After the 1^st workshop after lunch, I decided to go and check in. It had been a long day and we had dinner that night. I could not get the wifi working on my phone, so one of the organizers called a Lyft for me and paid for it. The next morning I tried to repay her and she refused to take the money. I’m sorry that I don’t remember her name.

Attending the ITOC conference was life-changing and reaffirming. In my life, I have been blessed to interact with people whose presence stays with me long after they’re gone. At the first school I worked, the staff was really like family. My women’s triathlon teammates helped me face my fears and finish what I started. My belly dance sisters, Nefertari, are friends for life. And now I can add ITOC to that list.  If I never attend another conference (I certainly hope that’s not the case), I can say that my first ITOC conference was amazing. 

ALL of my needs were met. I had healthy food options. I connected to people. I was in a safe space; I could breathe. So, I was able to soak up so much of the knowledge that was presented. I gained new knowledge, but I also learned that I am on the right track with my teaching. I was doing circles before restorative justice became the latest buzz word. I used to have my students do mood reports based on the weather, and I was reminded in one of the workshops that this is still an excellent way to keep my finger on the pulse of what’s happening. 

It’s been a week since I returned, and I’m still processing all that I learned and experienced. The conference was both professional development and a retreat all rolled into one. When I stepped off that plane in California, I was broken. When I got back on the plane headed home, I felt renewed and ready to not only work for social justice, but to live a life of social justice.

We Talked on Friday

This is not the blog I was supposed to write. My original plan was to write a two-for-one on fathers in honor of Father’s Day. But life changed the trajectory of my plans.

I sit here as the rain beats against the window pane in perfect sync with the pain piercing my heart. 

We talked on Friday; he sounded fine.

It was like any other weekend. I had a laundry list of things to do —retirement party, day out with my girls, writing class, dance class, selling books and as life would have it—unexpected things happened, too. One of my former students passed away, so I went to the wake on Friday after leaving the retirement party. On the way home, I called my friend Charleston but couldn’t reach him.

Regardless of what my mind says, my body says rest on Friday. I can rip and run the rest of the week, but by body demands I rest on Friday. I was obeying my body when the phone rang. It was Charleston calling me back. We met when I was 15, and it seemed like we had known each other forever. There was always a Commodores easy-like-Sunday morning-ness between us.

We had not spoken in years, but had recently reconnected a few months ago and fell into the groove that had always been us. He thought I was out and about because when we talk, a lot of times I’m in my car. He laughed when I told him I was at home. He was always teasing that he needed some of my energy.

We talked for a long time about everything and nothing. We laughed and reminisced. No matter how much time had passed, we always managed to pick up right where we left off. That’s a rarity to be treasured. We leave people behind, and they us in our evolution. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

His parting words as our conversation ended were, “I’ll call you tomorrow.” Saturday came and went. We didn’t speak, but that was not unusual. We didn’t talk or text every day. Sunday I was trying to get ready for the book selling event. It crossed my mind to send Charleston a “Happy Father’s Day” text as a joke. Like me, he didn’t have any children. I got busy and as easily as it crossed my mind, it slipped my mind. I thought about him a couple of times throughout the day, I’d sometimes think back on something we said, so that wasn’t unusual either. I was trying to sell books, so I stayed focused on the task at hand. I knew it would be late when I left, and he was an early riser so I figured we’d talk or text on Monday like we had been doing. 

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I had loaned my sister my car. She picked me up and drove home. I unlocked my phone and had a notification that my Charleston had been tagged in a photo. I clicked on it. It was a photo of him and a message stating that he had died earlier. I shook my head in disbelief. I told my sister my friend died and we had just recently spoken. I said it, but I didn’t believe it. He wasn’t on Facebook that much but I went to his page anyway--my heart thumping. More R.I.P., R.I.H. messages.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine.

I know that tomorrow is not promised to us, but the truth of this is sometimes cruel. My emotions are all over the place and instead of fighting with them; I’m forcing myself to sit with them. I sit with my anger: I want to know why him? Why now? I sit with my guilt: Why didn’t I text when I thought about him? Would it have made a difference? Did I miss something in the times we spoke? I sit with my sadness: The broken promise that he’ll never call me tomorrow. And through my tears I sit with my happiness: we shared a life time of memories, and we reconnected even for a short while. I can cherish that.

We talked Friday; he sounded fine. He died of a heart attack on Sunday. I write this on Monday as I grapple with the grief of losing a dear friend. 

Charleston Lee. Gone, but never forgotten.

When “Woke” White People Fall Asleep at the Wheel

Comedian Bill Maher was driving the social justice bus and he fell asleep behind the wheel.  Maher dozed off and called himself a “house nigger” on his show during a conversation with Republican Senator Ben Sasse from Nebraska. The comment set off a firestorm again about the use of the N word. Why are we still talking about this? But since we are, I’m going to add my two cents worth to the conversation.

Full disclaimer: I’m not a fan of Bill Maher. His brand of humor doesn’t appeal to me. That said I want to explain why we should not be surprised. In watching the clip, I thought the word slipped too easily from his mouth for it to have been an accident. The N-word is part of Maher’s vocabulary. Even so-called allies are not immune to thoughts of bigotry. Allies with the best intentions are still white in a world where white is still right.

Maher apologized and admitted that he “did a very bad thing” and even had a sit-down conversation with his friend sociology professor Dr. Michael Eric Dyson and Rapper/Actor Ice Cube. Even though Maher apologized and appeared willing to listen to what his guests had to say, it came off to me like, hey, I said I was sorry. Can we move on? I don’t know if he fully understood the weight of what he said and why so many people were offended. Cube was right when he said that Maher was a little too comfortable. He thought his Black friends and girlfriends, his support of Black Lives Matter and his contributions to Barack Obama’s campaign gave him a pass. For some it did; for many it did not.

It was pointed out in both clips that it was a teachable moment, and it was. I just hope people were paying attention. Probably not. We’ve been down this road before, and this won’t be the last time. 

 And while Maher might be a cool guy to many, let’s not forget that he too perpetuates stereotypes about Black people. Remember when Maher said that President Obama wasn’t Black enough?  Maher called Obama a Wayne Brady kind of Black which created tension between him and fellow comedian Wayne. What does that mean? That all-Black-children-are-born-to-single-mothers-on –welfare-with-different-baby-daddies-who-grow-up to-be gun-toting, drug-selling thugs.

I took issue with Dyson and Cube constantly trying to reassure Maher that when they were talking about white people and their use of the N word that they weren’t talking about him. Why wasn’t he one of them? Because he’s supposed to be woke? Well, he fell asleep and slammed into the median of inappropriateness. I belong to a few groups on social media and we discuss race. The white people in my groups never use the N word. How woke does one have to be to get a nigger pass and how is Maher any different from the liberal, I-voted-for-Obama undercover racist dad in Get Out? Just asking.

I liked the Daily Show and I loved John’s Stewart’s passion for social justice issues. And though I was disappointed, I was not surprised when one of Stewart’s former writers, Wyatt Cenac said Stewart told him to “fuck off” during a heated debate about a segment that Cenac said was racially insensitive. Remember when Matt Damon another liberal and Obama supporter fell asleep behind the wheel? During the 4^th season of HBO’s Greenlight Project, Damon interrupted Black film producer Effie Brown to explain diversity. He nodded off and drove right off the road.

And who can forget the Queen of driving while white and fighting against injustice? Rachel Dolezal’s advocacy is overshadowed by a blatant lie. For years she passed for Black knowing that one day it was going to blow up in her face. She did great work, but she lived a lie.  She still doesn’t understand the wreckage she left behind when her lies and the truth collided head on. Some of us are still trying to recover from that one. I think it’s hard because Dolezal denies even being at the scene the accident.

In each of these scenarios, the actions of our allies left us bleeding on the side of the road. And white people are good for whitesplaining and mansplaining away the blood dripping from our faces when our heads hit the steering wheel. (See previous examples). When woke white folks fall asleep behind the wheel, they need to be held accountable for the injuries they cause. “I’m sorry,” is not enough to take away the pain.

Black Music Month

image courtesy of Google.

“When you say ‘black music,’ understand that you are talking about rock, jazz, R&B, reggae, funk, doo-wop, hip-hop and Motown. Black people created it all. Being Puerto Rican, even salsa music stems back to the Motherland [Africa]. So, in my world, black music means everything. It’s what gives America its swag." Bruno Mars

Though it’s still spring, it feels like summer. I hear the voice of Randall’s father on This is Us telling Randall to roll the windows down, and turn the music up. I’m riding in my car with the windows down listening to the soulful sounds of my satellite radio. I flip back and forth between the Groove and Soul Town singing along to the sound track of my life. Music—especially good music puts you in a wonderful space. There’s a story behind every song; there’s history. So, I nod and sing along as the songs take me back to a simpler place in time.

 

June is Black Music Month and I am going back down memory lane as Gladys, Aretha and Patti, Michael, Marvin, and Stevie—no last names needed speak to me like ghosts from the past. Music is intricately woven into the fabric of my life. And it feels wonderful to wrap myself into something so comforting and familiar. There is no place in my life where music is not.

 Mashed Potatoes is a song before my time, but it is a song deeply embedded in my memory. I heard it growing up. It was one of my mother’s favorites.With a little begging and pleading we could get her to dance the mashed potatoes for us. Before there was steppin’ there was boppin’, and I used to love watching my sister, Linda and my brother, Ray bop in the front room (Living room wasn’t in my lexicon yet). I step, but I never learned to bop. 

Our house was/is a dancing house. If my sister and brother weren’t cuttin’ a rug, we were going down the infamous Soul Train line. Ain’t Gone Bump No Mo with No Big Fat Woman was another house favorite as my nephew Steve bumped with his TT Julie. At any family gathering you can find us dancing to the oldies, wobbling, shuffling, cabbage patching it or perculating. Maybe the family that dances together stays together.

The theme song from Shaft comes on and a smile creeps across my face. When I was young, my sister, Debra choreographed a dance for me and my niece Rhonda and our friends Aviva and Vontella (who we called Bonnie). So many memories flood my mind as I ride along. James Brown, Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud and my first afro. Basement parties at Mendel Catholic Prep when I was in high school. Heart pounding, body sweating as the music goes from fast to slow and the boy I like from around my cousin’s house asks to me to dance to the Commodore’s Zoom.

So, this month I’m enjoying listening to music that is my life.  I’m reminiscing on the contributions that so many artists have made not only to my life, but to the world. President Jimmy Carter initiated June as Black Music Month on June 7, 1979. In 2009, former President Obama renamed it African-American Music Month. In his 2016 proclamation, Obama said that Black music and musicians have been instrumental in helping America “to dance, to express our faith through song, to march against injustice, and to defend our country’s enduring promise of freedom and opportunity for all.” Whatever name you call it Black music is simply American music. It is our story.

Join me in celebrating the contributions of Black music. Music really is is a healing force in the world.

What’s playing on the soundtrack of your life? I’d love to hear about the songs and artists that you love. Leave me a comment and let me know.