Why Valentine’s Day Sort of Sucks

It’s not a good look to say that Valentine’s Day sort of sucks on Valentine’s Day. It sounds like I’m sitting around sipping on a big glass of Hater-Aid. So, I waited for the day after V-Day to say it sort of sucks. And it does. But not for the obvious reason of my singleness.  For the last decade, I have been uncoupled more than I’ve been coupled, so I’ve always done my own thing for Valentine’s Day. Sometimes I’ll catch an early movie, or have dinner with another single friend. I don’t give much thought to V-Day except as it relates to my students. V-Day is a big day for middle school students, and that bothers me. How in 7^th and 8^th grade do my students come to expect the exchange of trinkets and gifts to demonstrate their love and affection for each other? 

On Friday, I was driving to work when I saw a young man, small in stature with this gigantic teddy bear! I laughed and I shook my head. He was truly struggling carrying that over-sized stuffed animal. Well, low and behold, when I got to school I found out that it was one of our students carrying the bear. The principal made him leave it in the counselor’s office until the end of the day. She knew that a bear that size would cause disruptions throughout the day. I looked at the bear and I kept thinking, what does it mean? 

New Year’s Eve and Valentine’s Day are the biggest couples holiday, and my middle school students are not old enough to “show their love” on New Year’s Eve, so Valentine’s Day is their day. The boys are out shopping for candy and cards to give to their girlfriends and the girls are waiting for their gifts. This is why Valentine’s Day sucks. There is the expectation the boys will purchase gifts for their girlfriends. What lessons are we teaching our children? Are we telling them that love is bought and sold?

I remember Valentine’s Day as a child. You brought the cutesy Valentine’s Day cards to school and passed them out to your friends. If your parents were feeling especially generous, then they bought you candy to share with our friends. It was sweet for the most part, but there was also a level of meanness because every child didn’t get a card. If you didn’t like so-and-so, he or she didn’t get a Valentine.

One year, maybe first or second grade, every boy in my class gave be a Valentine Day card. And I had a meltdown. I cried because I didn’t like all of the boys in my class, and I thought that by giving me a card, they had to be my boyfriends. The teacher sent a note home, and my mother and I had to have a talk that evening about why the receipt of cards from the boys did not mean that they ALL had to be my boyfriends.

I can laugh today, but I was confused by this idea of “love”. And perhaps it is my own trauma about love that fuels my issues with V-Day and my students. There were boys who caught my attention in junior high, but I didn’t have a boyfriend. It was strictly prohibited, so if a boy had given me a Valentine’s Day gift I would have been trying to figure out how to sneak it in the house, or better yet just leave it at school. In my tenure as a teacher, I have witnessed many V-Days over the years, and it ain't nothing nice sometimes.

When Valentine’s Day falls on a weekday, the girls come to school all dressed up, and the boys come bearing gifts to show their love. And not every girl who has a boyfriend gets a gift. To be among her peers, and not be acknowledged by her beloved is social suicide. I’ve seen a many angry and/or sad girls on Valentine’s Day. I’ve seen boys come bearing gifts only to be rejected. This breaks my heart. What are we teaching our daughters? What are we teaching our sons?

Adults and Valentine’s Day is one thing, but for adolescents whose hormones are out of whack, it can be too much.Why are girls expecting gifts? What are they obliged to give in return? Where are boys supposed to get money from to buy gifts? Call me old-fashioned or whatever you like, but this idea of “love” in middle school makes Valentine’s Day sort of suck.

What We Can Learn From Selma

When we sanitize history, it lets us off the hook. Stephanie J. Gates

 As I sat in the theater glued to my seat watching Selma, I was visually reminded of the strength and tenacity of Black people.  The words of Amelia Boynton resonated with me when she reassured a reluctant Coretta Scott-King that she was ready to meet with Malcolm X in her husband’s absence because the blood of her ancestors flowing through her body has prepared her for this day. It is a quiet yet powerful scene that reminds me of the greatness of Black people.

Years ago, watching the mistreatment of Black people in films bothered me.  I’d be so angry after watching the gross injustice and indignities African Americans were subjected to because of racist policy and practices in America. But I stopped focusing on what was done to us, and started focusing on what we did in response. I am in awe of the likes of Amelia Boynton, Jimmie Lee Jackson and other unsung heroes of the civil rights movement. And that is one of the reasons I love Selma. It is not a water-down, sugar-coated white-washing of history. It is a docudrama based on actual events. And while some may level charges of inaccuracy, I argue that even historical facts are subject to interpretation. Ava DuVernay made the civil rights movement come alive for me just as it did when I was a child.

As a teenager, every year during Black History Month, I would sit mesmerized in front of the TV watching the Eyes on the Prize documentary series. I wish that I had been born sooner so that I could have been a participant. Though I love African-American history, I have a special place in my heart for the civil rights movement because it seemed like a magical period in American history. Those documentaries brought the movement into my living room. Those documentaries changed my life. I wanted to learn more, and do more. When I became a teacher, the series along with other films became  staples  in my classroom. When one of my students would ask why we were learning Black history and it wasn’t February, I would simply remind them that they were Black 365 days out of the year and 366 during Leap Year. 

Even though there were no lunch counters or buses to integrate when I was growing up, I understood the very realness of racism. When my family moved from the segregated Westside to the integrated Southside, we faced challenges of around issues of race. There were White kids on the block and though we all played together  outside, we did not visit each other's homes nor did my niece and I venture beyond the via dock at 111th and Cottage. Pullman was a White working class neighborhood and we were not welcomed there. And though we lived in an integrated neighborhood, our schools were still segregated.

My segregated existence and love for civil rights collided in college. It was my first integrated experience, and two things stand out:  one of my professors said that MLK was a womanizer, and White people, especially men) thought they knew everything. Whenever I said anything thing that was different from their way of thinking, they simply talked over me until I stopped talking. Learning of King’s infidelities made room for his humanity, and I found my voice again as I learned about our history. My class on the civil rights movement was an eye-opening experience.  My fantasy idea of the civil rights movement was far removed from the truth. It was not this joyous Kumbaya movement where everyone got along. There were tensions, disputes, jockeying for power and plenty of politicking going around. And once I got over the initial shock that my heroes were human, it made my history that much richer.

So as I watched Selma I was reminded of the realness of the people who participated in protests and demonstrations. As I watched Selma I was reminded of what is going on in America today. As I watched Selma, I saw ordinary, everyday people doing extraordinary things. I saw myself in them. When we sanitize history, we strip our heroes of their humanity. We turn them into God-like beings that let us mere mortals off the hook. We don't think that we can live up to the legacy that was left us. But not only do we have to live up to it, we owe it to those who paved the way for us. If they could do it, we can, too. We can learn from Selma how to continue and hopefully, finish the work the civil rights workers started. We should feel the that the blood that pumped through them then, pumping through us now.

An Open Letter to My Ancestors

Dear Ancestors,

To those on whose shoulders I stand, I apologize. From the deepest part of me, I am sorry for the mess that we are in in this country. You knocked down the door of segregation and pushed us inside, but we didn’t know what to do once we got here. We thought our work was done. We gulped the Kool-Aid and didn’t know that it was spiked. Now we’re confused and disillusioned. But there is still hope for us. You didn’t give up; we can’t either.  

We messed up. We think that because we have advanced degrees, live in integrated neighborhoods, drive luxury cars, and send our kids to private schools that we have arrived. We think that because we can afford to have someone clean our homes have a diverse group of friends and maybe even have White friends and family members that we can eat at the big table. We thought we were in the House, but now know that we are still in the kitchen.

If we had not forgotten our history, we would not be surprised by recent events. We first came here as indentured servants, but when it was discovered that the color of our skin made us easily identifiable, we became an even cheaper source of labor--free. Most of us descend from Africans who came here as cargo; property, and we’ve never been able to completely wash away the smell from that trip. Hard Truth: We are the shit on the bottom of America's shoe. And no matter what we do, the stench of who we are stays with us.

Many of the founding fathers were slave holders: Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, and George Washington among others. When Jefferson penned the words “all men are created equal” in the eyes of the Constitution, he was not speaking of African Americans. We were designated as 3/5 of a person for the purposes of property value. We were no different from the farm animals. Not much has changed. 

We should have known better, and maybe we would have done better. Doing the work that needed to be done instead of sitting comfortably on the legacy you left us. We nodded off into the good life thinking that we had accomplished something only to learn that we haven't. We are despised in the country of our birth. We are made to feel like outsiders and agitators dare we speak out against the injustice that is as American as apple pie and Chevrolet. 

The road to freedom is paved with your blood and your broken bodies. But your spirit lives on in us. How could we forget that? We are here because you chose to survive. We are here because you didn’t fall for the okey-doke. For every major victory, there has been backlash. From the Emancipation Proclamation to the election of Barack Obama, we have faced strong opposition to change. We have been, beaten, lynched, raped, bombed and the victims of other unspeakable acts of violence against us, and yet we are still looked at as savages of some sort. That’s why we kill each other, right?

 When Barack Obama was elected President of these “United” States and everyone was wondering if he was ready to be president, I was wondering if we were ready for him. We were not. Never in the history of this country has a President been so disrespected. I’m still trying to recover from the fact that three major networks decided not to air the President’s speech. Who does that?

Assimilated to the point of indoctrination, some of us are inebriated on the idea of inferiority. We actually believe that in America there is difference between Black people and Niggers, not understanding that we are ALL Niggers in the minds of many. From Phyllis Wheatley to Charles Barkley, some of us have drunk too much Kool-Aid and think that our arrival in this country is the best thing that happened to us since home-made buttered biscuits. I have to give credit where credit is due: the brain washing was thorough and complete. Once we learned to hate ourselves there wasn’t as much work to do to keep us in line.

The reality of our situation is that we have only been desegregated. We have never been fully integrated into American society. The society in which we were born into and still live in is racist. And that’s the norm. We can’t forget that. It is what it is. We can’t change the origin. We have to know that and keep moving.

I had to sit back and marinate on what’s happening because at first I was upset. I kept wondering where I was. I was thinking: This is America? Then is I realized, This IS America. I had to remember what so many of you have been telling us for years: without struggle there is no progress. So, I’m glad to see so much social unrest. I’m glad to see us struggle. For I know that progress will follow.

I’m sorry that we lost our way. I’m sorry that we forgot our place. But I know that we’ve always made a way out of no way. You showed us that. We were not expected to survive, much less thrive. But we have always been able to use that which was turned against us in our favor. So, while we might be the shit on the shoe, we also know that it’s our manure that made it happen. America is America because of the shit on her shoe. So, that makes us The Shit, right?

Bathing in the Beauty of Blackness

Last weekend, I checked out. I left the building because I needed to insulate myself from the ugliness of racism. So, I wrapped myself in the beauty of Blackness instead. The constant barrage of negative press and off-handed, mean-spirited and misdirected comments were wearing me down. I could not take one more “news” story or opinion from the keyboard psychologists and the armchair forensic experts on anything and everything from Cosby to Ferguson. I simply did not want to deal with anymore widely polarizing views on these and other issues plaguing Black America. 

This was before the grand jury decision in Ferguson, so as the country waited to hear what we already knew, I left the darkness of a country still deeply divided by race to seek solace in the love I have for my own people. I yearned to see people like me living life. Being normal.  Not being characterized by race. Not being demonized or victimized. I needed an alternative view of what makes me, Me. So, I took a respite from media and conversations around the proverbial water cooler and chose to focus on the strength and the beauty of Black culture. First stop: film.

On Saturday morning, I rose early and went to see Beyond the Lights. I love the work of Gina Prince-Blythewood, and I had been following the back story for Beyond the Lights, so I was ecstatic when it was finally released. And even though I had seen it opening weekend, it was worth a second look. On the surface, it was a simple universal love story, and who’s not a sucker for a good lover story? But below the surface it is a story of why it's important to live life authentically.  And yes, love is universal, but it's as refreshing as the first spring rain to see faces on the big screen that mirror me. And so I cocooned myself in Noni and Kaz's story and rooted for the happily-ever-after. Second stop: dance.

Saturday night I went to see the Dance Theater of Harlem (DTH) at the historic Auditorium Theater.  It was their first time in Chicago in 10 years. When DTH stopped touring years ago, I was saddened by the news. But when I found out they were coming to Chicago, I bought tickets and the timing couldn’t have been better.  As I sat in the audience watching those beautiful Black bodies in motion, I was in heaven. It's no secret that classical ballet is comprised of those mostly of a lighter hue, so there are very few dark spots in that sea of whiteness. But DTH founded by Arthur Mitchell the first African-American Principal dancer with New York City Ballet and Karel Shook In 1969 has been a training ground for African-American ballet dancers. The company is definitely diverse now, but there was enough color filling the stage to satiate my desire for cultural recognition and reconnection.  The first two dances were typical classical ballet, but the last dance was ballet to the hits of Aretha Franklin and James Brown, and it brought the racially-mixed audience to its feet. Next stop: church.

Still not ready to return to the ugliness of a racist reality, on Sunday I settled in for some good ole’ down-home religion. I am not an avid Church goer, but I love the faith of Black people. Since coming to this country we have learned to fill our spiritual well when it runs dry. Gospel music is a balsam for my wounded psyche. And on Sunday evening, I tuned into the Trinity United Church of Christ broadcast streaming live on the internet. The choir was dressed in African attire and Pastor Moss had on a jacket made from African fabric. His message was on immigration, and Pastor Moss spoke of the parallels between the African-American experience and that of current immigrants. He cautioned us not to get caught up in the rhetoric around the issue of immigration and forget where we came from. I watched the church service and was in fellowship. Last stop: Literature

Then I curled up in the bed with my favorite African-American historical romance writer Beverly Jenkins who weaves little known history into the stories of Black people.  I am reading the third one in the Destiny series. This one is about Pilar, a Black pirate who steals the ship of Noah, one the Yates men in the series.  My choice to bask in the beauty of Blackness would cause some to label me a racist, but as a woman of color with little power, I am far from being a racist though I can be prejudiced and bigoted. But I'll save that for another conversation.

Weighted down by racism and oppression, I needed to take the time to take that weight off me. Bathing in the beauty of Blackness reminded me on whose shoulders I stand. It reinforced for me that I come from a people who are tenacious, who are resilient, who get knocked down again and again but like the Phoenix will rise. I bathed in the beauty of Blackness, and my soul is soothed.

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.