May 1, 2007
*random rant*I eat chitlins. Sure do. Haven't had any in about 6 years due to my mother's recent *healthier food* (which basically is a mask for her just being through with cooking) attitude of the past years. And I, along with thousands (maybe millions) of other people KNOW that you do NOT eat anyolebody's chitlins. Everybody doesn't know how to clean them or prepare them properly and it's not wise to eat the chitlins of a stranger.
But a strange and alarming situation has come into my line of view. Fried chitlins.
Otherwise known as Death Wish #4.
Fourth for African-Americans after Being Black In America, Reaching For Your Cell Phone In Front Of A Cop, and Not Minding Yo Own Damn Business. Closely followed by Baby Mama Drama and Ackin Funny.
When you think about it, chitlins are already dangerous enough. Since they're intestines you can be sure that fecal matter (aka "shit") has passed through them on more than one occassion. Shoot, I heard that you can get E. Coli AND/OR Salmonella from chitlins. In addition, they're pork and regardless of what you've heard about swine being the "other white meat" it ain't healthy unless it's lean. If you've ever seen a chitlin, you know that it's far from lean.
But on top of that, you wanna fry those badboys? You want to put a cleaned intestine in some sort of dry coating or batter, lay it in hot grease, and then serve it to someone to injest?
Have we lost our rabbit ass minds?
Quick question: What do you serve these with? (Please don't tell me French fries! I will have a stroke just thinking about it.)
Black people, a word with you, if I may.
I know that massah only gave us the scraps. I know that's why we eat hog maws, pickled pig feet, snouts, neck (pronounced "nake") bones, chitlins, ham hocks, and an assortment of other pieces of garbage from our barnyard pals. I understand that, and I ain't mad. In fact, I've partaken in every one of those delightful treats without shame. Quite delicious, if you ask me. These dishes are part of our rich history and hold many of our stories within their spoken recipes.
But let's get one thing clear: we were working all damn day during slavery! (At least, during THAT particular period of slavery.) We were out in the fields picking cotton or tobacco, or whatever else massah was growing. And we ate cornmeal mush for most meals on most days.
We are not doing that anymore. We sit behind desks. We drive cars. We ride buses. We might get up to change the channel if we can't find the remote. But we are not manual laborers anymore. (At least, the bulk of us aren't.) The only Black people I see riding bikes are kids, and they usually have a black plastic store bag full of Cheetos and Doritos, syrupy "drinks," and 25 cent candies.
These things are not healthy for us. Sure, once or twice a year is fine, but not at every Sunday dinner (while being served with fried fish/chicken, greens cooked with smoked pork, milk and egg-laden macaroni and cheese, mayonnaise-dripping potato salad, red or orange pop, and heavily sugared and buttered sweet potato pie). My grandmother, whom I speak so lovingly of, was caught eating a hog maw only days before her third and most debilitating stroke which left her as an invalid for the last seven years of her precious life.
Nuff said.
Obesity is killing us faster than corrupt cops. We've either got to totally give up these delights, or catch some sense and prepare them in healthier ways. I'm telling you right now, greens cooked without meat, for only about twenty minutes, are fi as hell! (Don't forget the olive oil and fresh garlic). Grilled or baked chicken is delish! Fresh pasta salads are an easy way to prevent that "itis!"
Black America, we must degrease!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
April 7, 2007
Less than a month after I asked for the peaceful resignation of extra regular hate, I am pleased to announce that someone has accepted my challenge and effectively upped their hate game.
Wednesday morning, on his New York radio station, Don Imus referred to the women (presumably, the Black womnen) on Rutgers' basketball team as "nappy headed hos." His exact statements are as follows: (Bernard McGuirk is his producer)
"That's some rough girls from Rutgers," Imus said. "Man, they got tattoos ..."
"Some hardcore hos," said McGuirk.
"That's some nappy headed hos there, I'm going to tell you that," Imus said.
In the past, Imus' "politically incorrect barbs" have included calling the renowned and respected Black female journalist Gwen Ifill a "cleaning lady," and New York Times journalist, William Rhoden, a "quota hire."
Cleaning lady? Circa-1960s, boring hate.
Quota hire? Post Civil Rights Movement uninformed silliness.
Nappy-headed hos? Priceless.
I'm telling you, for the first time in a long time, I was pissed. As a woman (ho) and a Black woman who wears her hair naturally (nappy-headed ho), I was a bit incensed, but delighted. He could've gone for the more traditional "nigger bitch," (which is as played-out as the Gumbi fade), but he took his hate game up a notch! I'm happy to say that his words actually caused me to try and come up with a retort.
"Nappy-headed ho? I don't see yo mama nowhere round here."
Not really good enough. And see, that's what I love. A challenge. A brain teaser. Creativity.
And what's more, have you seen this guy?And he had the unmitigated gall to call someone nappy-headed? Brilliant!
So, of course Al Sharpton is calling for his resignation. The National Association of Black Journalists is pissed. The editor of Essence is hurt. But you know what I say?
Let him stay!
Let him keep on making those delightfully racist and sexist comments so that all the world can see that hate ain't dead, these racists just scared!
To Don Imus, I salute you. You, Mister, have successfully upped your hate game.
p.s. I see National Association of Black Journalists. I see Essence magazine. I see Al Sharpton. What/who I don't see is NOW or any other "feminist" organization. I suppose they would've spoken out if the team had just been called "hos," but since Imus qualified his statement by adding the "nappy-headed" part, I suppose it's all good. Once again PROVING my belief that white feminists could care less about Black women!
p.s.s. Today, on a report about the "incident," I heard a blurb from Imus' show where he says that his producer has "done" Maya Angelou and then allowed his producer to launch into a disgusting imitation of Angelou and her poetry. These folks' hate game is top-notch!
Less than a month after I asked for the peaceful resignation of extra regular hate, I am pleased to announce that someone has accepted my challenge and effectively upped their hate game.
Wednesday morning, on his New York radio station, Don Imus referred to the women (presumably, the Black womnen) on Rutgers' basketball team as "nappy headed hos." His exact statements are as follows: (Bernard McGuirk is his producer)
"That's some rough girls from Rutgers," Imus said. "Man, they got tattoos ..."
"Some hardcore hos," said McGuirk.
"That's some nappy headed hos there, I'm going to tell you that," Imus said.
In the past, Imus' "politically incorrect barbs" have included calling the renowned and respected Black female journalist Gwen Ifill a "cleaning lady," and New York Times journalist, William Rhoden, a "quota hire."
Cleaning lady? Circa-1960s, boring hate.
Quota hire? Post Civil Rights Movement uninformed silliness.
Nappy-headed hos? Priceless.
I'm telling you, for the first time in a long time, I was pissed. As a woman (ho) and a Black woman who wears her hair naturally (nappy-headed ho), I was a bit incensed, but delighted. He could've gone for the more traditional "nigger bitch," (which is as played-out as the Gumbi fade), but he took his hate game up a notch! I'm happy to say that his words actually caused me to try and come up with a retort.
"Nappy-headed ho? I don't see yo mama nowhere round here."
Not really good enough. And see, that's what I love. A challenge. A brain teaser. Creativity.
And what's more, have you seen this guy?And he had the unmitigated gall to call someone nappy-headed? Brilliant!
So, of course Al Sharpton is calling for his resignation. The National Association of Black Journalists is pissed. The editor of Essence is hurt. But you know what I say?
Let him stay!
Let him keep on making those delightfully racist and sexist comments so that all the world can see that hate ain't dead, these racists just scared!
To Don Imus, I salute you. You, Mister, have successfully upped your hate game.
p.s. I see National Association of Black Journalists. I see Essence magazine. I see Al Sharpton. What/who I don't see is NOW or any other "feminist" organization. I suppose they would've spoken out if the team had just been called "hos," but since Imus qualified his statement by adding the "nappy-headed" part, I suppose it's all good. Once again PROVING my belief that white feminists could care less about Black women!
p.s.s. Today, on a report about the "incident," I heard a blurb from Imus' show where he says that his producer has "done" Maya Angelou and then allowed his producer to launch into a disgusting imitation of Angelou and her poetry. These folks' hate game is top-notch!
Myrt Is Gone
April 2, 2007
Six years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30 in the morning by my mother.
"Wake up baby. Myrt is gone."
To this day, the words seem foreign and wrong. They sound impossible and incorrect. Akin to,
"Jesus does not love you," or "you are a white American."
No.
Myrt is my grandmother. She IS my grandmother. And she is gone.
I know, I know. Better place. Up with God. Listening to angels sing. No more pain. Happy.
Content. Peaceful.
But gone.
No more silent-throw-your-head-back-and-laugh-and-when-everyone-is-finished-your-head-is-still-thrown-back-coming-down-off-your-silent-high.
No more "what-did-you-say-Shannon"-knowing-that-Shannon-really-shouldn't-have-said-whatever-it-is-that-she-said.
No more talking-about-transvestites-on-Jerry-Springer-even-though-she-could-barely-pronounce-the-words-after-the-third-and-last-stroke-left-her-as-an-invalid-for-the-last-seven-years-of-her-life.
No more reminding-mama-that-Purdue-roasters-were-on-sale-at-Jewel's.
No more Cleo-wig.
No more everything-that-her-grandbabies-do-is-funny-and-not-to-be-punished-with-whoopins.
And I didn't know how much it could hurt. I didn't know that when I ignored her lying in that bed because I was scared to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I pouted about having to help mama change her diapers because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I didn't want to go over to her house before church because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I always believed that she would get up and walk again and that all I had to do was wait it out and I'd never have to see my grandma like that.
She'd been there since my birth...
I thought she'd be there until the end.
And I knew that was an impossibility, but I didn't want to see my grandma like that; mortal.
She was not mortal to me. She was a Goddess with pinchable cheeks, and endearing toothless grin, and love that knew no bounds.
But gone.
And six years later, I still cry and miss her and am scared to mention her to anyone because I think that I will not make it through the conversation. Six years later I'm still missing the unflinching support and love that she offered so willingly. Six years later I just want to see her face and hear her silent laugh. Six years later, I listen to "Grandma's Hands" and I still see her hands. Six years later, I want Myrt.
And I know that, if she were here, she'd want me. She'd call me in her room and tell me something that I could barely understand, but understood better than anybody else. She would've come to my high school and college graduation in her signature wig and I would've taken pictures with her and she would've been so proud of me. I can't forgive myself for not giving her the same unconditional love that she gave me. It lurks in the back of my mind like a leash pulling me back from any happiness. I know that if she were here, she'd tell me that it's ok and that she understood, and that she still loves me. But since she's not here, it doesn't seem real, and I hurt.
She didn't see me grow up into a young lady with a proud head of nappy coils and a keen sense of who I am. She didn't see me in my red robe with my high school diploma, and she didn't see me with my black robe and my Bachelors, and she didn't see me with my graduate school fellowship. And out of everyone, she would've been the happiest.
But Myrt is gone. She's been gone for six years, and I still don't feel any better.
Six years ago today, I was awakened at 5:30 in the morning by my mother.
"Wake up baby. Myrt is gone."
To this day, the words seem foreign and wrong. They sound impossible and incorrect. Akin to,
"Jesus does not love you," or "you are a white American."
No.
Myrt is my grandmother. She IS my grandmother. And she is gone.
I know, I know. Better place. Up with God. Listening to angels sing. No more pain. Happy.
Content. Peaceful.
But gone.
No more silent-throw-your-head-back-and-laugh-and-when-everyone-is-finished-your-head-is-still-thrown-back-coming-down-off-your-silent-high.
No more "what-did-you-say-Shannon"-knowing-that-Shannon-really-shouldn't-have-said-whatever-it-is-that-she-said.
No more talking-about-transvestites-on-Jerry-Springer-even-though-she-could-barely-pronounce-the-words-after-the-third-and-last-stroke-left-her-as-an-invalid-for-the-last-seven-years-of-her-life.
No more reminding-mama-that-Purdue-roasters-were-on-sale-at-Jewel's.
No more Cleo-wig.
No more everything-that-her-grandbabies-do-is-funny-and-not-to-be-punished-with-whoopins.
And I didn't know how much it could hurt. I didn't know that when I ignored her lying in that bed because I was scared to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I pouted about having to help mama change her diapers because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I didn't want to go over to her house before church because I didn't want to see my grandma like that. I didn't know that when I always believed that she would get up and walk again and that all I had to do was wait it out and I'd never have to see my grandma like that.
She'd been there since my birth...
I thought she'd be there until the end.
And I knew that was an impossibility, but I didn't want to see my grandma like that; mortal.
She was not mortal to me. She was a Goddess with pinchable cheeks, and endearing toothless grin, and love that knew no bounds.
But gone.
And six years later, I still cry and miss her and am scared to mention her to anyone because I think that I will not make it through the conversation. Six years later I'm still missing the unflinching support and love that she offered so willingly. Six years later I just want to see her face and hear her silent laugh. Six years later, I listen to "Grandma's Hands" and I still see her hands. Six years later, I want Myrt.
And I know that, if she were here, she'd want me. She'd call me in her room and tell me something that I could barely understand, but understood better than anybody else. She would've come to my high school and college graduation in her signature wig and I would've taken pictures with her and she would've been so proud of me. I can't forgive myself for not giving her the same unconditional love that she gave me. It lurks in the back of my mind like a leash pulling me back from any happiness. I know that if she were here, she'd tell me that it's ok and that she understood, and that she still loves me. But since she's not here, it doesn't seem real, and I hurt.
She didn't see me grow up into a young lady with a proud head of nappy coils and a keen sense of who I am. She didn't see me in my red robe with my high school diploma, and she didn't see me with my black robe and my Bachelors, and she didn't see me with my graduate school fellowship. And out of everyone, she would've been the happiest.
But Myrt is gone. She's been gone for six years, and I still don't feel any better.
Nothing New Under the Sun
Ecclesiastes 1:9 The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
A country at war. The administration first vowing not to enter a war and then becoming very defensive and insecure, and therefore needing a consensus by any means. Thousands of Americans sent overseas to fight for "democracy." Rich Americans profiting from the deaths of civilians. Dissidents being discredited and followed. Opposition being squashed through the jailing of protestors. The protestors being held at an isolated island without the right to contact family, friends, or counsel. Political officials spying on foreign-born radicals. A search in a democratic country being performed without warrants. Acts being enacted to keep Americans from speaking their minds. One or two catchphrases being used to strike fear into the hearts of many citizens.
The year is 2006. Or is it?
It is not.
The introduction of this blog perfectly describes the days and times we are living in now.
President Bush, after saying that we were only going to bomb Afghanistan, has kept us in a war for years without an end in sight. Cheney and his Halliburton cohorts have profited mightily over the thousands of deaths of U.S. military and Iraqi civilians. On our homeland, people are afraid to speak out against the war or the administration. Anyone who is deemed suspicious, for whatever reason, is liable to be jailed. People who have been accused of associating with "terrorists" are being held at Guantanamo Bay without the right of a fair trial or even lawyers. Anyone with a last name that looks remotely Muslim, or anyone who appears to be of Middle Eastern descent is searched at airports. The Patriot Act was passed giving the government the right to spy on you and deny you your basic civil rights. "Terrorist" and "insurgent" are words that are spat from the mouths of politicians in order to keep the American public in fear.
Yet, all of these situations were presented to me during a documentary about Emma Goldman, the famous Russian American anarchist. She did not live in the new millennium. No, she lived in the old one.
The first paragraph describes America during the years of 1916 through 1920. I was not referring to pResident (no, that's not a typo) Bush. I was referring to Woodrow Wilson. I was not referring to Operation Freedom (or whatever it's being called now). I was referring to World War I. I wasn't referring to Cheney and Halliburton. I was referring to John D. Rockefeller and his friends. The people who are afraid to say all the right things at the wrong times are us. (Don't act like you ain't never been online and had to erase something because, "I ain't gonna give them a reason to get my ass!") I wasn't talking about random Middle Easterners or those who supposedly have ties to Al Queada. I was talking about Russian, Italian, German, and Irish immigrants who weren't being held at Guantanamo Bay. They were being held at Ellis Island, and they too were not given due process in accordance with the laws of this country. The raids in this case had a name; the Palmer Raids, during which time, Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer stated, "I believe, with these raids, the backbone of the radical movement has been broken." I wasn't talking about the Patriot Act. I was talking about the Espionage Act of 1916, which mandated prison terms for those who "obstructed the draft," and the Sedition Act of 1917, which threatened expulsion to foreign-born radicals. And I wasn't talking about "terrorists" or "insurgents." I was talking about "reds" and "anarchists."
So you see, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
As I watched this documentary, I felt the same chills down my back as I had felt when I first read Malcolm X's prolific speech, "The Ballot or the Bullet" which was given right before the presidential elections of 1964. I happened to have read it on the night that George W. Bush "won" his second bid for the presidency exactly 40 years later. During this speech, Brother Malcolm said, "America is just as much a colonial power as England ever was. America is just as much a colonial power as France ever was. In fact, America is more so a colonial power than they because she's a hypocritical colonial power behind it." (He also spoke another one of my favorite quotes from him in this speech, "Anytime you live in the twentieth century, 1964, and you walkin' around here singing "We Shall Overcome," the government has failed us. This is part of what's wrong with you -- you do too much singing. Today it's time to stop singing and start swinging. You can't sing up on freedom, but you can swing up on some freedom." LOVE THAT QUOTE!!!)
It's the same feeling I got the first time I really listened to Stevie Wonder's song, "You Haven't Done Nothing," which was a scathing commentary on Nixon released in 1974. However, with the lyrics, "We are amazed but not amused by all the things you say that you do. Though much concerned but not involved with decisions that are made by you………It's not too cool to be ridiculed but you brought this upon yourself. The world is tired of pacifiers; we want the truth and nothing else. And we are sick and tired of hearing your song, telling us how you'll change right from wrong. Cause if you really wanna hear our views, you haven't done nothing!"
Can the Jackson 5 please join me right here?!? (Listen to the song, you'll get it.)
Now, the old Black folks used to say, "when you know better, you do better." Well, what the hell is wrong with American leadership? Everything that is happening now, has happened before. Two or three times before! Why haven't we learned our lessons? Why hasn't the American public learned its lesson? Remember McCarthyism? Well, now it's just Rumsfeldism. Instead of some country in Europe, it's Iraq. Instead of Wilson, it's Bush. They're all just replacements. Same script, different cast. So, if this has happened before, why haven't we learned from our mistakes? Or why haven't we at least learned how to spot a lie?
You know what I think. I think it boils down to one Bible verse found at 1 Timothy 6:10, "For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows."
"As an anarchist, I am opposed to violence. But if people want to do away with assassins, they must first do away with the conditions that produce murderers." –Emma Goldman
"If America had entered the war to make the world safe for democracy, she must first make democracy safe in America." –Emma Goldman
A country at war. The administration first vowing not to enter a war and then becoming very defensive and insecure, and therefore needing a consensus by any means. Thousands of Americans sent overseas to fight for "democracy." Rich Americans profiting from the deaths of civilians. Dissidents being discredited and followed. Opposition being squashed through the jailing of protestors. The protestors being held at an isolated island without the right to contact family, friends, or counsel. Political officials spying on foreign-born radicals. A search in a democratic country being performed without warrants. Acts being enacted to keep Americans from speaking their minds. One or two catchphrases being used to strike fear into the hearts of many citizens.
The year is 2006. Or is it?
It is not.
The introduction of this blog perfectly describes the days and times we are living in now.
President Bush, after saying that we were only going to bomb Afghanistan, has kept us in a war for years without an end in sight. Cheney and his Halliburton cohorts have profited mightily over the thousands of deaths of U.S. military and Iraqi civilians. On our homeland, people are afraid to speak out against the war or the administration. Anyone who is deemed suspicious, for whatever reason, is liable to be jailed. People who have been accused of associating with "terrorists" are being held at Guantanamo Bay without the right of a fair trial or even lawyers. Anyone with a last name that looks remotely Muslim, or anyone who appears to be of Middle Eastern descent is searched at airports. The Patriot Act was passed giving the government the right to spy on you and deny you your basic civil rights. "Terrorist" and "insurgent" are words that are spat from the mouths of politicians in order to keep the American public in fear.
Yet, all of these situations were presented to me during a documentary about Emma Goldman, the famous Russian American anarchist. She did not live in the new millennium. No, she lived in the old one.
The first paragraph describes America during the years of 1916 through 1920. I was not referring to pResident (no, that's not a typo) Bush. I was referring to Woodrow Wilson. I was not referring to Operation Freedom (or whatever it's being called now). I was referring to World War I. I wasn't referring to Cheney and Halliburton. I was referring to John D. Rockefeller and his friends. The people who are afraid to say all the right things at the wrong times are us. (Don't act like you ain't never been online and had to erase something because, "I ain't gonna give them a reason to get my ass!") I wasn't talking about random Middle Easterners or those who supposedly have ties to Al Queada. I was talking about Russian, Italian, German, and Irish immigrants who weren't being held at Guantanamo Bay. They were being held at Ellis Island, and they too were not given due process in accordance with the laws of this country. The raids in this case had a name; the Palmer Raids, during which time, Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer stated, "I believe, with these raids, the backbone of the radical movement has been broken." I wasn't talking about the Patriot Act. I was talking about the Espionage Act of 1916, which mandated prison terms for those who "obstructed the draft," and the Sedition Act of 1917, which threatened expulsion to foreign-born radicals. And I wasn't talking about "terrorists" or "insurgents." I was talking about "reds" and "anarchists."
So you see, the more things change, the more they stay the same.
As I watched this documentary, I felt the same chills down my back as I had felt when I first read Malcolm X's prolific speech, "The Ballot or the Bullet" which was given right before the presidential elections of 1964. I happened to have read it on the night that George W. Bush "won" his second bid for the presidency exactly 40 years later. During this speech, Brother Malcolm said, "America is just as much a colonial power as England ever was. America is just as much a colonial power as France ever was. In fact, America is more so a colonial power than they because she's a hypocritical colonial power behind it." (He also spoke another one of my favorite quotes from him in this speech, "Anytime you live in the twentieth century, 1964, and you walkin' around here singing "We Shall Overcome," the government has failed us. This is part of what's wrong with you -- you do too much singing. Today it's time to stop singing and start swinging. You can't sing up on freedom, but you can swing up on some freedom." LOVE THAT QUOTE!!!)
It's the same feeling I got the first time I really listened to Stevie Wonder's song, "You Haven't Done Nothing," which was a scathing commentary on Nixon released in 1974. However, with the lyrics, "We are amazed but not amused by all the things you say that you do. Though much concerned but not involved with decisions that are made by you………It's not too cool to be ridiculed but you brought this upon yourself. The world is tired of pacifiers; we want the truth and nothing else. And we are sick and tired of hearing your song, telling us how you'll change right from wrong. Cause if you really wanna hear our views, you haven't done nothing!"
Can the Jackson 5 please join me right here?!? (Listen to the song, you'll get it.)
Now, the old Black folks used to say, "when you know better, you do better." Well, what the hell is wrong with American leadership? Everything that is happening now, has happened before. Two or three times before! Why haven't we learned our lessons? Why hasn't the American public learned its lesson? Remember McCarthyism? Well, now it's just Rumsfeldism. Instead of some country in Europe, it's Iraq. Instead of Wilson, it's Bush. They're all just replacements. Same script, different cast. So, if this has happened before, why haven't we learned from our mistakes? Or why haven't we at least learned how to spot a lie?
You know what I think. I think it boils down to one Bible verse found at 1 Timothy 6:10, "For the love of money is the root of all evil: which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows."
"As an anarchist, I am opposed to violence. But if people want to do away with assassins, they must first do away with the conditions that produce murderers." –Emma Goldman
"If America had entered the war to make the world safe for democracy, she must first make democracy safe in America." –Emma Goldman
Lest Our Feet, Stray From the Places Our God Where We Met Thee
December 23, 2006
God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,Thou Who hast brought us thus far on the way;Thou Who hast by Thy might, led us into the light,Keep us forever in the path, we pray.Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.Shadowed beneath Thy hand, may we forever stand,True to our God, true to our native Land.
"Lift Every Voice & Sing" –James W. Johnson 1899
Within the last three or four days, I have had several occurrences of discouragement about the state of Black America. I am always one to point out the injustices forced upon my people: historically and presently. I make no bones about criticizing governments, their participants, and any other world system that actively seeks to destroy and/or harm any or all of the African Diaspora. I have, in fact, made the voicing of my objections, and the activism that is essential to make those objections no longer needed, my life mission. Yesterday, I even bit the bullet and got my first tattoo, which is an equal sign (=), on my arm. I never want to forget my life's mission, and I always want to have a reminder in plain sight for me. I will not allow the European descendants of this world to dominate my people any longer without a hearty fight.
However, in the last few days, I've found myself wanting to fight my own people.
Three days ago, I began to engage with in an online debate with one of my Black friends who graduated from undergrad with me. Since I met him about a year and a half ago, I have constantly teased him about various situations involving white people, especially white women. (Once, he came into a program with a white girl and her Black boyfriend, and walked right past me. I wasn't offended because I didn't think he'd seen me. A couple of minutes later, he walked up to the white woman sitting next to me [whom I am a casual acquaintance of] and asked her to come and join the white girl he walked in with. He still said nothing to me. A couple of days afterwards, I called him on it, and his excuse was that he hadn't seen me. Well, as all of you have probably realized, I'm pretty hard to miss. Since then, I have since lovingly referred to him as "The Traitor.")
He wrote a blog, on another website, about the fact that the media refers to Barack Obama as "Black" or "African-American" even though he is biracial. His issue was with the "one drop rule" that most Americans, especially Black Americans, seem to accept as law. He also took issue with the term, "African-American," because he said that he was not from Africa. He'd prefer to simply be called, "American."
Blank stare
His case was that most African-Americans (those who are descendants from those brought over during the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade) do not share the same culture as those of Africans on the continent, and that we have more in common with white Americans than native-born Africans. He also pointed out that white people who were born on the Continent have more of a right to call themselves African-Americans than we do. He said that if he must be categorized by his race, he'd prefer the term, "black." He also said, "To term ourselves as art "African" reinforces a sad implication: that our history is basically slave ships, plantations, lynching, fire hoses in Birmingham, and then South Central, and that we need to look back to Mother Africa to feel good about ourselves."
Now, I have no issue with the term Black, but I do take issue with Black Americans who readily dismiss their ancestry. First of all, many native-born Africans do not have the same culture as our shared ancestors had. Europeans too, have readily influenced them. In addition to that, I don't think it's appropriate to measure one's Afrikanity based on what one eats, drinks, or speaks. Also, in my mind, opposite to what he said, terming ourselves as American reinforced a history based solely on slavery, discrimination, and crimes against humanity. For an African-American to only call themselves "American" means that they believe their history started with America. If they believe that, then they believe that their history started with slavery. I know better.
It is sad that people of the African Diaspora do not have any place to truly call home. We are certainly not home (or welcome) in the lands of our captors, but there are times when I feel that we would not be received much better in the land of our ancestors. We are truly a people without a home. But yet and still, we are African.
Malcolm X once said, "If a cat crawls into the oven and gives birth to kittens, do you call those kittens biscuits?" No. You certainly do not. My ancestors were forcefully brought to this land and then they gave birth to the generations who gave birth to me. But just because I was born in this country, doesn't make me of this country. And the sick need to assimilate into "Americanism" will never create an equal society. It will only create poor misguided people who are more concerned with "fitting in," and "making it," than they are with their own people.
The second discouraging situation occurred yesterday as I boarded the public bus to go to the tattoo parlor. When I boarded, a group of African-American teenagers were sitting in the rear of the bus yelling, screaming, and cursing. They did not seem to mind that there were other people on the bus. They didn't seem to mind that their four-letter words were crossing the ears of children and the elderly. It didn't take me long to realize that they were not only yelling, they were arguing. The bus driver got on the intercom and asked them to stop fighting, and to sit down. They did not heed his instructions. Moments later, a large group of the teenagers rushed to the front of the bus. It turns out that one of the girls involved in the argument had begun spraying pepper spray in our objectors' faces. It only took a few seconds for the pepper spray to fill the bus and send all of its riders off of it in fits of coughing, gagging, and choking.
Minutes later, the cops had the bus surrounded as if someone had called in a bomb threat. The perpetrators of the crime had already fled the scene, and the rest of us were sent to a bus stop down the street to wait another 15 minutes for a bus that is supposed to arrive ever 5-10 minutes. As I was standing on the bus stop, I felt tears well up in my eyes. But not from the stinging of the pepper spray. I wanted to cry because I simply could not understand why Black people must act this way with each other. Short of someone killing your mama, what could someone possibly have done to you to make you act this way?
Finally, today, as I was sitting at my aunt's house, we began to talk about the death of the mother of one of my second cousins (the mother of her son's eldest child). This young lady started having children at the age of 15, had 5 more children within a very short time-span and was also a heavy drug user. My understanding of the situation surrounding her death was that she was in the hospital giving birth to her seventh child (who passed away days after his/her birth), and had gotten sick and died. I was wrong.
According to my aunt, this young lady's "friends," came into the hospital and poisoned her. This was found out during the autopsy. Their reason for killing her? They wanted custody of her children so that they might collect Social Security and welfare checks for them. No doubt that their ultimate goal was to purchase drugs with the money they received on these children's behalf.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.
How did we, as a people, get so far away from God? (And if you aren't a Christian or don't believe in God, I ask, how did we, as a people, get so far away from the values we once held dear?)
I once asked if integration was the key to our undoing. Was it that we began to appropriate the sick values of our oppressors? Was it that the "American Dream" became so important that we were willing to pay whatever price for it?
Those who responded said that it was a mixture of integration and the crack epidemic. I think it was both of these things plus the whole generation of wonderful Black men that we lost in the Vietnam War. (Those who did not die in the war came back psychologically scarred, and those who ran from the draft probably wasn't about much in the first place. Please, everybody ain't no conscientious objector.)
It seems that Black America is living in a state of confusion. We don't know where we're from, who we are, or where we're going. We don't know what's important, what's miniscule, or what our priorities should be. We don't know how to save each other, our culture, or ourselves. It seems that we've totally forgotten who we are in a very short span of time. Our feet have strayed and we've become sloppy drunk with the wine of the world. We are no longer true to him, each other, or our native Land. And I mean, "we." I know that not all of us have fallen into this trap, but if one of us has, all of us have.
How can I go on, fighting against white folks who want to keep us down, when so many my own are doing a better job than white folks could've ever done? How is it that I, a Black woman born and bred on the Southside of Chicago, would rather be late to an appointment than get on the bus with Black teenagers? How is it that I can even dream about moving back home to the Continent to help those there when so many of my people need help here? But how can I help those in need when they don't want my help? How can I help them when I am too damn afraid to even go near some of my own people half of the time? And why must it be that my fear stems from the fact that I know many of them don't see me as their sista, but as a potential enemy?
How do we get back home? How do we sober up and return to the place where we met Thee? How do we meet each other once again?
God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,Thou Who hast brought us thus far on the way;Thou Who hast by Thy might, led us into the light,Keep us forever in the path, we pray.Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.Shadowed beneath Thy hand, may we forever stand,True to our God, true to our native Land.
"Lift Every Voice & Sing" –James W. Johnson 1899
Within the last three or four days, I have had several occurrences of discouragement about the state of Black America. I am always one to point out the injustices forced upon my people: historically and presently. I make no bones about criticizing governments, their participants, and any other world system that actively seeks to destroy and/or harm any or all of the African Diaspora. I have, in fact, made the voicing of my objections, and the activism that is essential to make those objections no longer needed, my life mission. Yesterday, I even bit the bullet and got my first tattoo, which is an equal sign (=), on my arm. I never want to forget my life's mission, and I always want to have a reminder in plain sight for me. I will not allow the European descendants of this world to dominate my people any longer without a hearty fight.
However, in the last few days, I've found myself wanting to fight my own people.
Three days ago, I began to engage with in an online debate with one of my Black friends who graduated from undergrad with me. Since I met him about a year and a half ago, I have constantly teased him about various situations involving white people, especially white women. (Once, he came into a program with a white girl and her Black boyfriend, and walked right past me. I wasn't offended because I didn't think he'd seen me. A couple of minutes later, he walked up to the white woman sitting next to me [whom I am a casual acquaintance of] and asked her to come and join the white girl he walked in with. He still said nothing to me. A couple of days afterwards, I called him on it, and his excuse was that he hadn't seen me. Well, as all of you have probably realized, I'm pretty hard to miss. Since then, I have since lovingly referred to him as "The Traitor.")
He wrote a blog, on another website, about the fact that the media refers to Barack Obama as "Black" or "African-American" even though he is biracial. His issue was with the "one drop rule" that most Americans, especially Black Americans, seem to accept as law. He also took issue with the term, "African-American," because he said that he was not from Africa. He'd prefer to simply be called, "American."
Blank stare
His case was that most African-Americans (those who are descendants from those brought over during the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade) do not share the same culture as those of Africans on the continent, and that we have more in common with white Americans than native-born Africans. He also pointed out that white people who were born on the Continent have more of a right to call themselves African-Americans than we do. He said that if he must be categorized by his race, he'd prefer the term, "black." He also said, "To term ourselves as art "African" reinforces a sad implication: that our history is basically slave ships, plantations, lynching, fire hoses in Birmingham, and then South Central, and that we need to look back to Mother Africa to feel good about ourselves."
Now, I have no issue with the term Black, but I do take issue with Black Americans who readily dismiss their ancestry. First of all, many native-born Africans do not have the same culture as our shared ancestors had. Europeans too, have readily influenced them. In addition to that, I don't think it's appropriate to measure one's Afrikanity based on what one eats, drinks, or speaks. Also, in my mind, opposite to what he said, terming ourselves as American reinforced a history based solely on slavery, discrimination, and crimes against humanity. For an African-American to only call themselves "American" means that they believe their history started with America. If they believe that, then they believe that their history started with slavery. I know better.
It is sad that people of the African Diaspora do not have any place to truly call home. We are certainly not home (or welcome) in the lands of our captors, but there are times when I feel that we would not be received much better in the land of our ancestors. We are truly a people without a home. But yet and still, we are African.
Malcolm X once said, "If a cat crawls into the oven and gives birth to kittens, do you call those kittens biscuits?" No. You certainly do not. My ancestors were forcefully brought to this land and then they gave birth to the generations who gave birth to me. But just because I was born in this country, doesn't make me of this country. And the sick need to assimilate into "Americanism" will never create an equal society. It will only create poor misguided people who are more concerned with "fitting in," and "making it," than they are with their own people.
The second discouraging situation occurred yesterday as I boarded the public bus to go to the tattoo parlor. When I boarded, a group of African-American teenagers were sitting in the rear of the bus yelling, screaming, and cursing. They did not seem to mind that there were other people on the bus. They didn't seem to mind that their four-letter words were crossing the ears of children and the elderly. It didn't take me long to realize that they were not only yelling, they were arguing. The bus driver got on the intercom and asked them to stop fighting, and to sit down. They did not heed his instructions. Moments later, a large group of the teenagers rushed to the front of the bus. It turns out that one of the girls involved in the argument had begun spraying pepper spray in our objectors' faces. It only took a few seconds for the pepper spray to fill the bus and send all of its riders off of it in fits of coughing, gagging, and choking.
Minutes later, the cops had the bus surrounded as if someone had called in a bomb threat. The perpetrators of the crime had already fled the scene, and the rest of us were sent to a bus stop down the street to wait another 15 minutes for a bus that is supposed to arrive ever 5-10 minutes. As I was standing on the bus stop, I felt tears well up in my eyes. But not from the stinging of the pepper spray. I wanted to cry because I simply could not understand why Black people must act this way with each other. Short of someone killing your mama, what could someone possibly have done to you to make you act this way?
Finally, today, as I was sitting at my aunt's house, we began to talk about the death of the mother of one of my second cousins (the mother of her son's eldest child). This young lady started having children at the age of 15, had 5 more children within a very short time-span and was also a heavy drug user. My understanding of the situation surrounding her death was that she was in the hospital giving birth to her seventh child (who passed away days after his/her birth), and had gotten sick and died. I was wrong.
According to my aunt, this young lady's "friends," came into the hospital and poisoned her. This was found out during the autopsy. Their reason for killing her? They wanted custody of her children so that they might collect Social Security and welfare checks for them. No doubt that their ultimate goal was to purchase drugs with the money they received on these children's behalf.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee.Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee.
How did we, as a people, get so far away from God? (And if you aren't a Christian or don't believe in God, I ask, how did we, as a people, get so far away from the values we once held dear?)
I once asked if integration was the key to our undoing. Was it that we began to appropriate the sick values of our oppressors? Was it that the "American Dream" became so important that we were willing to pay whatever price for it?
Those who responded said that it was a mixture of integration and the crack epidemic. I think it was both of these things plus the whole generation of wonderful Black men that we lost in the Vietnam War. (Those who did not die in the war came back psychologically scarred, and those who ran from the draft probably wasn't about much in the first place. Please, everybody ain't no conscientious objector.)
It seems that Black America is living in a state of confusion. We don't know where we're from, who we are, or where we're going. We don't know what's important, what's miniscule, or what our priorities should be. We don't know how to save each other, our culture, or ourselves. It seems that we've totally forgotten who we are in a very short span of time. Our feet have strayed and we've become sloppy drunk with the wine of the world. We are no longer true to him, each other, or our native Land. And I mean, "we." I know that not all of us have fallen into this trap, but if one of us has, all of us have.
How can I go on, fighting against white folks who want to keep us down, when so many my own are doing a better job than white folks could've ever done? How is it that I, a Black woman born and bred on the Southside of Chicago, would rather be late to an appointment than get on the bus with Black teenagers? How is it that I can even dream about moving back home to the Continent to help those there when so many of my people need help here? But how can I help those in need when they don't want my help? How can I help them when I am too damn afraid to even go near some of my own people half of the time? And why must it be that my fear stems from the fact that I know many of them don't see me as their sista, but as a potential enemy?
How do we get back home? How do we sober up and return to the place where we met Thee? How do we meet each other once again?
And I Am Telling You, I'm Not Going
January 2, 2007
On Christmas Day my mother, sister and I did what we've been wanting to do for a pretty long time now. We saw "Dreamgirls." My mother had seen the original Broadway production with Loretta Devine, Jennifer Holliday, and Sheryl Lee Ralphs. My sister and I had participated in our high school's production of it (we were in the pit band). So, we all have been big fans of this play for a loooooong time.
Anybody who knows anything about the play knows that there is one powerhouse solo that has stood the test of time. Hell, even if you don't know anything about the play, you probably know (or have heard of) the song, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" which is sung by the character of Effie White who was originally played by the Broadway diva Jennifer Holliday. In the film version of the play, Effie is brought to life but a very talented young lady named Jennifer Hudson (who just so happens to not only be a Chicagoan, but a Southsider, AND an alumni of the same high school my mother attended). Jennifer Hudson tore this song down the same way Jennifer Holliday had done 25 years ago.
As I sat in the crowded theater watching Effie sing this tune of heartbreak, betrayal, and longing, I was moved to tears. (and then, like the rest of the audience, moved to my feet in a standing ovation) I've heard the song a million times, and had seen it performed in high school, but I never felt the song like I felt it that night. However, even though Jennifer Hudson's performance could've rendered tears all by itself, there was something in the lyrics that was responsible for my surge of emotion. Something in it that I hadn't really thought of.
The song is about a woman begging a man to love her. Now, y'all should know that this sort of thing ain't my cup o' tea. I'm not at all for women acting beggy and whiny when it comes to men. I say, let his ass go! In fact, kick his ass out! And perhaps my aversion to all things needy was the reason why the song never struck me the way it did that night.
But I believe that the real reason why the song (and the performance) held so much power over me was because I began to see the lyrics in a different light. No longer was the song about Effie begging Curtis to love her. No longer was the song about a woman refusing to leave a man who didn't want her. The song became about me. The song became about Black women everywhere.
There is something so very resilient in Black women. Something that I've never seen in any other race of women. (And I'm not saying it doesn't exist there; I'm simply saying I ain't seen it.) No matter how many times we've been kicked down, it seems that we find a way to continue to go on. Sometimes we're raising as we're going, and sometimes we're falling as we're going. But we're always going. We never stop. Although they try to move us, we stay. We stay through the hard times and the good times. We stay through the times when we should leave. We stay when it's all supposed to be over and done. Sometimes our staying is to our detriment, but if we know that there is something good that can still come out of it, we stay.
In this country, it would seem that the best thing for all Black folks to do is to count our losses and leave. Honestly, although our progress has been great, it hasn't been as great as it should, or needs to, be. Anytime when our men are being mowed down in the streets, and our grandmothers are being shot in their homes, that should tell us something. It should tell us that we're not welcome here. It should tell us that although they smile in our face and regale us with notions of equality, we are not welcome. They make it hard for us to get decent educations and then complain when we don't succeed. They make up policies that are meant to keep us below them, but then sneer at us when we don't rise. They try to sweep their wrongdoings (past and present) under the rugs and make us forget why we are where we are. They give us nothing, and we're forced to make everything with it.
And although I would never claim that it's harder to be a Black woman than it is to be a Black man, we do face issues that Black men don't face (and vice versa). First of all, we face racism. We face the fact that just because our skin is of a darker hue (and sometimes the same hue) we are deemed to be "less than" or insignificant to many. The havoc in New Orleans went to show that the lives of Black people, especially poor Black people (and poor white folks too) simply don't matter in this country. Hell, they don't even warrant the president getting off of Air Force One.
Secondly, since we live in a patriarchal society, Black women also face sexism. Unfortunately, we face it from men who look like them, and men who look like us. A simple flick of your radio station to the nearest "urban" music station will tell you the tale. And don't turn on MTV or BET. We've been denigrated so much that we often begin to denigrate ourselves.
We have to stand up against the stereotypes about us ranging from the "angry Black bitch" (which many of us are; but can you blame us?) to the "Jezebel". We have to stand up to these stereotypes from everywhere. We have to stand up to racism everywhere we look. We have to stand up to sexism at every turn.
But still, we stay.
We don't have a history of quitting, and I would urge us not to create one now. We have to stay. For ourselves and for our communities. We have to yell. We have to scream. We have to shout. We have to stop all the rivers. We have to push. We have to strike. We might even have to kill. And maybe they'll never love us.
But I am telling you, I'm not going.
On Christmas Day my mother, sister and I did what we've been wanting to do for a pretty long time now. We saw "Dreamgirls." My mother had seen the original Broadway production with Loretta Devine, Jennifer Holliday, and Sheryl Lee Ralphs. My sister and I had participated in our high school's production of it (we were in the pit band). So, we all have been big fans of this play for a loooooong time.
Anybody who knows anything about the play knows that there is one powerhouse solo that has stood the test of time. Hell, even if you don't know anything about the play, you probably know (or have heard of) the song, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" which is sung by the character of Effie White who was originally played by the Broadway diva Jennifer Holliday. In the film version of the play, Effie is brought to life but a very talented young lady named Jennifer Hudson (who just so happens to not only be a Chicagoan, but a Southsider, AND an alumni of the same high school my mother attended). Jennifer Hudson tore this song down the same way Jennifer Holliday had done 25 years ago.
As I sat in the crowded theater watching Effie sing this tune of heartbreak, betrayal, and longing, I was moved to tears. (and then, like the rest of the audience, moved to my feet in a standing ovation) I've heard the song a million times, and had seen it performed in high school, but I never felt the song like I felt it that night. However, even though Jennifer Hudson's performance could've rendered tears all by itself, there was something in the lyrics that was responsible for my surge of emotion. Something in it that I hadn't really thought of.
The song is about a woman begging a man to love her. Now, y'all should know that this sort of thing ain't my cup o' tea. I'm not at all for women acting beggy and whiny when it comes to men. I say, let his ass go! In fact, kick his ass out! And perhaps my aversion to all things needy was the reason why the song never struck me the way it did that night.
But I believe that the real reason why the song (and the performance) held so much power over me was because I began to see the lyrics in a different light. No longer was the song about Effie begging Curtis to love her. No longer was the song about a woman refusing to leave a man who didn't want her. The song became about me. The song became about Black women everywhere.
There is something so very resilient in Black women. Something that I've never seen in any other race of women. (And I'm not saying it doesn't exist there; I'm simply saying I ain't seen it.) No matter how many times we've been kicked down, it seems that we find a way to continue to go on. Sometimes we're raising as we're going, and sometimes we're falling as we're going. But we're always going. We never stop. Although they try to move us, we stay. We stay through the hard times and the good times. We stay through the times when we should leave. We stay when it's all supposed to be over and done. Sometimes our staying is to our detriment, but if we know that there is something good that can still come out of it, we stay.
In this country, it would seem that the best thing for all Black folks to do is to count our losses and leave. Honestly, although our progress has been great, it hasn't been as great as it should, or needs to, be. Anytime when our men are being mowed down in the streets, and our grandmothers are being shot in their homes, that should tell us something. It should tell us that we're not welcome here. It should tell us that although they smile in our face and regale us with notions of equality, we are not welcome. They make it hard for us to get decent educations and then complain when we don't succeed. They make up policies that are meant to keep us below them, but then sneer at us when we don't rise. They try to sweep their wrongdoings (past and present) under the rugs and make us forget why we are where we are. They give us nothing, and we're forced to make everything with it.
And although I would never claim that it's harder to be a Black woman than it is to be a Black man, we do face issues that Black men don't face (and vice versa). First of all, we face racism. We face the fact that just because our skin is of a darker hue (and sometimes the same hue) we are deemed to be "less than" or insignificant to many. The havoc in New Orleans went to show that the lives of Black people, especially poor Black people (and poor white folks too) simply don't matter in this country. Hell, they don't even warrant the president getting off of Air Force One.
Secondly, since we live in a patriarchal society, Black women also face sexism. Unfortunately, we face it from men who look like them, and men who look like us. A simple flick of your radio station to the nearest "urban" music station will tell you the tale. And don't turn on MTV or BET. We've been denigrated so much that we often begin to denigrate ourselves.
We have to stand up against the stereotypes about us ranging from the "angry Black bitch" (which many of us are; but can you blame us?) to the "Jezebel". We have to stand up to these stereotypes from everywhere. We have to stand up to racism everywhere we look. We have to stand up to sexism at every turn.
But still, we stay.
We don't have a history of quitting, and I would urge us not to create one now. We have to stay. For ourselves and for our communities. We have to yell. We have to scream. We have to shout. We have to stop all the rivers. We have to push. We have to strike. We might even have to kill. And maybe they'll never love us.
But I am telling you, I'm not going.
And the reigning Queen of Africa is...(drumroll please)
January 5, 2007
Angelina Jolie!
That's right! According to an article in the January 8th edition of Newsweek, Angelina Jolie is the "Reigning African Queen."
In an article about Oprah Winfrey's new school for girls in South Africa, the authoring journalist, Allison Samuels, lists the names of celebrities who were set to attend the grand opening of the school, and she says, (exact quote):
"Julia Roberts, John Travolta, Stevie Wonder, Nelson Mandela, and the reigning African Queen herself-Angelina Jolie-are expected to attend the grand opening this week."
I obviously have been kept out of the loop. I had not received the memo that named this white American woman as the reigning Queen over the whole continent of Africa because she adopted an African baby. I had not been told that, instead of naming a woman like Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf (the first female president of Liberia), Winnie Mandela (one of the mothers of the anti-apartheid movement), or Wangari Maathai (the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize and first East African woman to receive a Ph.D), Angelina Jolie had been given the crown. No one told me that Queen Neferteri, Queen Nefertiti, or Queen Nzingha had been replaced with the likes of a white American celebrity.
No. Nobody told me of these recent developments, but I cannot say that I am at all surprised. Never mind the fact Queen Amina of Zaria expanded the domain of Azaria to it's largest size ever or created, in the 15th century, the city wall fortifications that are still prominent in Hausa culture today. Forget the fact that Candace, the Empress of Ethiopia, stopped Alexander the Great from conquering her land and that Ethiopia still, to this day, is the only African country that has never been colonized. It makes no difference that Yaa Asantewa of the Gold Coast fought the British invaders in 1896 when the Ashanti kings seemed too cowardly to do so. Nehanda, the "Great Mother of Zimbabwe" deserves no title for her valiant battles against the British in the 1890s. Queen Kahina's 700 A.D. fights against Arab invaders in an attempt to keep "Africa for Africans" are of little significance. Makeda, the Queen of Sheba, is no match for Jolie even though her beauty was so great that even the great King Solomon of the Bible was enamored by her beauty and produced a son with her who was the first in the line of the great Ethiopian emperors.
Since these ancient women of great significance don't deserve the title, I suppose it is even more preposterous of me to even suggest that the title "Queen of Africa" should go to one of the billions of African women who give their all, on a daily basis, to aid and assist the continent, even after all the pain and strife that Jolie's ancestors inflicted upon it. Surely the woman who works at an AIDS clinic in Kenya is not worthy of the title. The strong-willed woman who chooses to publish anti-government literature in Zimbabwe, even with the threat of death looming over her, is not a worthy candidate. The woman who opens offices in London to assist her sisters when they have migrated from their homelands to a foreign country should not even be considered. None of the billions of women whose ancestors were kidnapped from Africa's shores, and have been forced to live their lives in exile, come to mind. No. None of these women will do. Not even Oprah Winfrey, who was the reason for the article and who gave over 40 million dollars of her own money to open the school.
They lack a certain paleness of skin. A certain fineness of hair. A certain aquilinity of the nose. A certain superiority of ancestry.
Angelina Jolie, on the other hand, is obviously the rightful recipient of the title. She does, after all, have an Oscar and several Golden Globes. She is, after all, the child of a Hollywood star. She did procure one of the millions of underprivileged children in Africa and totes her around like the latest bag from Balenciaga. We shouldn't forget all of her forays into the refugee camps in Sudan where she was always, and rather conveniently, followed by a host of photographers as she looked down in pity upon the people. It would be irresponsible for us to forget that she starred in a movie called "Beyond Borders" as a devoted, and wealthy, foreign aid worker. In addition to all of the above, if she had not written that open letter to USA Today about Darfur, none of us would even be aware of that crisis.
So of course the title goes to Jolie. She has spent part of the last couple of years "helping" Africans, and looking perfectly European while doing it!
However, as we again enter the realm of reality, it should be clear to see that the journalist's words, although simple and probably unnoticed by many, are just the latest offense that Africa, and all of her people (especially her women) have suffered at the hands of the Europeans. These words, while awfully offensive, are not the problem, but the symptom. This sort of arrogance and praise for all things white is simply the result of Eurocentrism. It is a result that is no less disgusting than the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Scramble for Africa, or the raping of a whole continent and its people. It is no less disgusting than the fact that the "leader of the free world" referred to Africa as a country or that it is often referenced in a manner that would suggest that it is a state, not a continent big enough to hold all of Europe, the United States (including Alaska) and China within its borders. It is a result no more surprising than the portrayals of the great Egyptians as white, and native Africans as one-step up from primates.
It is harmful because it seeks to, whether consciously or subconsciously, posit Europeans as the owners, leaders, and rightful rulers of a continent they had no right stepping into in the first place. It sneakily helps perpetuate the belief that Africans, and those of Africa's Diaspora, are not fit to have control over what is rightfully theirs. It is harmful because it implies, and feeds into notions of, superiority and inferiority. It assists in the re-telling of the history, the maiming of the present, and the assault on the future of Africa.
Even though it is small, it is unsettling. And what is even more disturbing is that a Black woman wrote it. An alumni of a historically Black university (Clark Atlanta) and a member of the National Association of Black Journalists. Perhaps her words were meant to be snarky or sarcastic, but in the hands of the average reader, who probably wouldn't even take the time to find out the background of Ms. Samuels, they are harmful and irresponsible. Perhaps Ms. Samuels is simply another victim of the European assault on Africa. Perhaps she has totally bought into the assumed superiority of the white woman.
Although I do not know the appropriate protocol for behavior when encountering royalty, I suppose I should curtsy if I am ever in the presence of Jolie.
On second thought, perhaps I'll keep my head upright like the many true Queens of the Motherland.
Angelina Jolie!
That's right! According to an article in the January 8th edition of Newsweek, Angelina Jolie is the "Reigning African Queen."
In an article about Oprah Winfrey's new school for girls in South Africa, the authoring journalist, Allison Samuels, lists the names of celebrities who were set to attend the grand opening of the school, and she says, (exact quote):
"Julia Roberts, John Travolta, Stevie Wonder, Nelson Mandela, and the reigning African Queen herself-Angelina Jolie-are expected to attend the grand opening this week."
I obviously have been kept out of the loop. I had not received the memo that named this white American woman as the reigning Queen over the whole continent of Africa because she adopted an African baby. I had not been told that, instead of naming a woman like Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf (the first female president of Liberia), Winnie Mandela (one of the mothers of the anti-apartheid movement), or Wangari Maathai (the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize and first East African woman to receive a Ph.D), Angelina Jolie had been given the crown. No one told me that Queen Neferteri, Queen Nefertiti, or Queen Nzingha had been replaced with the likes of a white American celebrity.
No. Nobody told me of these recent developments, but I cannot say that I am at all surprised. Never mind the fact Queen Amina of Zaria expanded the domain of Azaria to it's largest size ever or created, in the 15th century, the city wall fortifications that are still prominent in Hausa culture today. Forget the fact that Candace, the Empress of Ethiopia, stopped Alexander the Great from conquering her land and that Ethiopia still, to this day, is the only African country that has never been colonized. It makes no difference that Yaa Asantewa of the Gold Coast fought the British invaders in 1896 when the Ashanti kings seemed too cowardly to do so. Nehanda, the "Great Mother of Zimbabwe" deserves no title for her valiant battles against the British in the 1890s. Queen Kahina's 700 A.D. fights against Arab invaders in an attempt to keep "Africa for Africans" are of little significance. Makeda, the Queen of Sheba, is no match for Jolie even though her beauty was so great that even the great King Solomon of the Bible was enamored by her beauty and produced a son with her who was the first in the line of the great Ethiopian emperors.
Since these ancient women of great significance don't deserve the title, I suppose it is even more preposterous of me to even suggest that the title "Queen of Africa" should go to one of the billions of African women who give their all, on a daily basis, to aid and assist the continent, even after all the pain and strife that Jolie's ancestors inflicted upon it. Surely the woman who works at an AIDS clinic in Kenya is not worthy of the title. The strong-willed woman who chooses to publish anti-government literature in Zimbabwe, even with the threat of death looming over her, is not a worthy candidate. The woman who opens offices in London to assist her sisters when they have migrated from their homelands to a foreign country should not even be considered. None of the billions of women whose ancestors were kidnapped from Africa's shores, and have been forced to live their lives in exile, come to mind. No. None of these women will do. Not even Oprah Winfrey, who was the reason for the article and who gave over 40 million dollars of her own money to open the school.
They lack a certain paleness of skin. A certain fineness of hair. A certain aquilinity of the nose. A certain superiority of ancestry.
Angelina Jolie, on the other hand, is obviously the rightful recipient of the title. She does, after all, have an Oscar and several Golden Globes. She is, after all, the child of a Hollywood star. She did procure one of the millions of underprivileged children in Africa and totes her around like the latest bag from Balenciaga. We shouldn't forget all of her forays into the refugee camps in Sudan where she was always, and rather conveniently, followed by a host of photographers as she looked down in pity upon the people. It would be irresponsible for us to forget that she starred in a movie called "Beyond Borders" as a devoted, and wealthy, foreign aid worker. In addition to all of the above, if she had not written that open letter to USA Today about Darfur, none of us would even be aware of that crisis.
So of course the title goes to Jolie. She has spent part of the last couple of years "helping" Africans, and looking perfectly European while doing it!
However, as we again enter the realm of reality, it should be clear to see that the journalist's words, although simple and probably unnoticed by many, are just the latest offense that Africa, and all of her people (especially her women) have suffered at the hands of the Europeans. These words, while awfully offensive, are not the problem, but the symptom. This sort of arrogance and praise for all things white is simply the result of Eurocentrism. It is a result that is no less disgusting than the Trans-Atlantic slave trade, the Scramble for Africa, or the raping of a whole continent and its people. It is no less disgusting than the fact that the "leader of the free world" referred to Africa as a country or that it is often referenced in a manner that would suggest that it is a state, not a continent big enough to hold all of Europe, the United States (including Alaska) and China within its borders. It is a result no more surprising than the portrayals of the great Egyptians as white, and native Africans as one-step up from primates.
It is harmful because it seeks to, whether consciously or subconsciously, posit Europeans as the owners, leaders, and rightful rulers of a continent they had no right stepping into in the first place. It sneakily helps perpetuate the belief that Africans, and those of Africa's Diaspora, are not fit to have control over what is rightfully theirs. It is harmful because it implies, and feeds into notions of, superiority and inferiority. It assists in the re-telling of the history, the maiming of the present, and the assault on the future of Africa.
Even though it is small, it is unsettling. And what is even more disturbing is that a Black woman wrote it. An alumni of a historically Black university (Clark Atlanta) and a member of the National Association of Black Journalists. Perhaps her words were meant to be snarky or sarcastic, but in the hands of the average reader, who probably wouldn't even take the time to find out the background of Ms. Samuels, they are harmful and irresponsible. Perhaps Ms. Samuels is simply another victim of the European assault on Africa. Perhaps she has totally bought into the assumed superiority of the white woman.
Although I do not know the appropriate protocol for behavior when encountering royalty, I suppose I should curtsy if I am ever in the presence of Jolie.
On second thought, perhaps I'll keep my head upright like the many true Queens of the Motherland.
Now That He Is Safely Dead, Let Us Build Monuments To His Greatness
January 14, 2007
Now that he is safely dead, let us build monuments to his greatness.
Tomorrow, we have been told, is the day that we celebrate the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his life, contributions, and dream. We reflect upon the dream itself, it's progress, and hopefully, its fulfillment. We are to try out hardest to make sure that Dr. King did not die in vain. We are to try our hardest to make sure that his dream stays alive.
Whatever.
Let me clarify. Dr. King was a man of greatness. He was kind, courageous, just and determined. He continually put his own life at risk for the sake of causes he believed in with all of his might. He wrote great books, gave great lectures, and delivered great speeches. He was, in my opinion, the epitome of manhood. He was able to stand up when other sat down. Able to motivate millions of people when he was in need of encouragement. Able to be himself without justification, pause, or apologies. He was a man of righteous indignation and justified anger. However, it has only been of late that I met this Dr. King that I speak of.
Growing up, Dr. King was the man with the "dream," who was shot and killed because he wanted Black folks to be able to sit at counters with white folks and eat burgers together. He was the man who wanted little white kids and Black kids (always the white kids first) to be able to join hands and sing Negro spirituals. He was the man that all my white teachers suggested I study when I wanted to study Josephine Baker (whom, they informed me, was a whore). He was the man who McDonalds aired commercials about on that day that we got off from school. He was a handsome, brown, cuddly man who always wore a smile and a dapper suit and hat. He was the man whom everyone loved.
It wasn't until later that I found out that everyone loved him because he was dead. All those white people who lauded him and sung his praises now had sung quite a different tune when he was alive. All of those white folks who quoted (or misquoted) him as they called for "racial reconciliation" ("reconciliation" being ridiculous as there was never any "conciliation" in the first place because of their crimes) were the same white folks whom he wrote to from a Birmingham jail. All those white folks who were so willing to dress their kids in Kente cloth vests for a day in order to sing gospel tunes with Black children were the same ones who would've never let Berniece or Dexter sit next to their kids in school. They were all the same white folks, or they were the children of the same white folks. (And yes, in my mind, that's damn near the same)
Now that King was safely buried in the ground, they could begin to drill one speech into our brains with the intensity of a child coloring with a dried up marker. They could press and press and press this one color, this one speech, into our collective memories and act as if this one speech represented all that King was, all that King wanted us to be, and all that we should be. Luckily for them, it seems that King's people have forgotten some key things about King himself. (With the help of some of King's people. *cougheddielongcough*)
The march at which Dr. King delivered the speech was called the "March on Washington For Jobs and Freedom." Not the "March On Washington For Black People To Convince White People That We Are Humans Too, And To Ask If They'll Please Allow Us To Live Next Door To Them Because That Would Be The Ultimate Dream Come True For Us Negroes." It wasn't called the "Let's All Stand Around Together Today, Smile Up In Each Others Faces And Act As If Racism Doesn't Exist March." And it damn sure wasn't called the "I Have A Dream March."
It was a march about goals of economic and racial equality. It was a march that shocked our then president, John F. Kennedy, because he had no idea that the Negroes were so unhappy. It was a march about the radicalism of everyone being able to have equal access to what this country has. It was a march about eradicating poverty, treating humans like humans, and acting like the good Christians that so many people in this country claimed to be. But even with all of that, it was just one march. It was one day out of millions of days. It was one event out of thousands of events. It was one speech out of hundreds of speeches. It was not the beginning and it wasn't the end.
Dr. King gave other speeches. Speeches about how evil war was. Speeches about evil poverty was. Speeches about how ridiculous the lack of good healthcare was. He said, "the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion all around." But yet, all we're bombarded with is, "I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word," and "violence as a way of achieving racial justice is both impractical and immoral." (We're mainly given that quote when white folks are afraid we're about to burn down some of their stuff.) But what about, "there is nothing more dangerous than to build a society, with a large segment of people in that society, who feel that they have no stake in it; who feel that they have nothing to lose. People who have a stake in their society, protect that society, but when they don't have it, they unconsciously want to destroy it?"
Why is it that I hear more about Dr. King wanting Blacks and whites to like each other than I hear about statements such as, "we must never be ashamed of our heritage…or the color of our skin. Black is as beautiful as any color….I am black and beautiful." Why is it that we hear more about Dr. King wanting unity amongst Blacks and whites than we do about Dr. King wanting us to treat those who do not reside in America with the same dignity? What about when Dr. King said, "God didn't call America to do what she's doing in the world now….God didn't call America to engage in a senseless, unjust war…and we are criminals in that war. We have committed more war crimes almost than any nation in the world and I'm going to continue to say it. And we won't stop it because of our pride, and our arrogance as a nation."
Why haven't we talked more about Dr. King; the realist? Why are we so stuck on Martin; the Dreamer? What good is a dream without actions? What good are quotable quotes without a complete picture?
I'll tell you what good they are. They're good for those who hated Dr. King when he was alive and now build monuments to him in his death because they know he's not alive to protect his own legacy and we're dense enough to let them create one for him. They're good for the "prosperity" pimps (and, although they don't know it, hoes) who call themselves preachers. They're good because they safely put blinders on our eyes. They raise up a man that we love and mutilate him into a man that they can love. They tell us just enough about him so that we can walk hand in hand one Monday out of the year and feel good about not going upside their heads for all the injustices we've suffered at their hands. They tell us just enough so that we can keep on hanging onto that one "dream" that has long since turned into a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. They tell us just enough so that we become so drunk off of the words in one speech that we can't see straight while they continually screw us with no lube.
Dr. King wasn't no damn teddy bear. Dr. King wasn't like the Jesus in the pictures who went around carrying lambs. Dr. King was more like the Jesus who went into the temple and overturned tables. He was a man who said things like, "But God has a way of putting nations in their place……He has a way of saying 'if you don't stop your reckless course, I'll rise up and break the backbone of your power.' And that can happen to America."
And yet, a man who lost his life while fighting for the rights of sanitation workers is now celebrated by Fortune 500 companies and we sit idly by as if that makes an ounce of sense. We listen to the "buddy-buddy" stories that people like Billy Graham tell about him when it's known that Billy Graham ain't never gave a damn about Black people until it was fashionable to do so. (and that fad has long since gone out of fashion) We sit around and listen to conservatives twist his words for their own twisted gain while they support a war that Dr. King would've been just as sickened by as he was by the Vietnam War.
What we (and yes, I'm talking to BLACK folks) need to do is stop dreaming and WAKE UP and smell the coffee (the black coffee; the coffee that hasn't been diluted with cream and sugar). We better take back Martin. We better let him have his own dream and think of some ways to get ourselves out of this terrible situation. We better remember who he was. We better be willing to give our lives just like he gave his.
Now that he is safely dead, let us build monuments to his greatness.
Tomorrow, we have been told, is the day that we celebrate the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and his life, contributions, and dream. We reflect upon the dream itself, it's progress, and hopefully, its fulfillment. We are to try out hardest to make sure that Dr. King did not die in vain. We are to try our hardest to make sure that his dream stays alive.
Whatever.
Let me clarify. Dr. King was a man of greatness. He was kind, courageous, just and determined. He continually put his own life at risk for the sake of causes he believed in with all of his might. He wrote great books, gave great lectures, and delivered great speeches. He was, in my opinion, the epitome of manhood. He was able to stand up when other sat down. Able to motivate millions of people when he was in need of encouragement. Able to be himself without justification, pause, or apologies. He was a man of righteous indignation and justified anger. However, it has only been of late that I met this Dr. King that I speak of.
Growing up, Dr. King was the man with the "dream," who was shot and killed because he wanted Black folks to be able to sit at counters with white folks and eat burgers together. He was the man who wanted little white kids and Black kids (always the white kids first) to be able to join hands and sing Negro spirituals. He was the man that all my white teachers suggested I study when I wanted to study Josephine Baker (whom, they informed me, was a whore). He was the man who McDonalds aired commercials about on that day that we got off from school. He was a handsome, brown, cuddly man who always wore a smile and a dapper suit and hat. He was the man whom everyone loved.
It wasn't until later that I found out that everyone loved him because he was dead. All those white people who lauded him and sung his praises now had sung quite a different tune when he was alive. All of those white folks who quoted (or misquoted) him as they called for "racial reconciliation" ("reconciliation" being ridiculous as there was never any "conciliation" in the first place because of their crimes) were the same white folks whom he wrote to from a Birmingham jail. All those white folks who were so willing to dress their kids in Kente cloth vests for a day in order to sing gospel tunes with Black children were the same ones who would've never let Berniece or Dexter sit next to their kids in school. They were all the same white folks, or they were the children of the same white folks. (And yes, in my mind, that's damn near the same)
Now that King was safely buried in the ground, they could begin to drill one speech into our brains with the intensity of a child coloring with a dried up marker. They could press and press and press this one color, this one speech, into our collective memories and act as if this one speech represented all that King was, all that King wanted us to be, and all that we should be. Luckily for them, it seems that King's people have forgotten some key things about King himself. (With the help of some of King's people. *cougheddielongcough*)
The march at which Dr. King delivered the speech was called the "March on Washington For Jobs and Freedom." Not the "March On Washington For Black People To Convince White People That We Are Humans Too, And To Ask If They'll Please Allow Us To Live Next Door To Them Because That Would Be The Ultimate Dream Come True For Us Negroes." It wasn't called the "Let's All Stand Around Together Today, Smile Up In Each Others Faces And Act As If Racism Doesn't Exist March." And it damn sure wasn't called the "I Have A Dream March."
It was a march about goals of economic and racial equality. It was a march that shocked our then president, John F. Kennedy, because he had no idea that the Negroes were so unhappy. It was a march about the radicalism of everyone being able to have equal access to what this country has. It was a march about eradicating poverty, treating humans like humans, and acting like the good Christians that so many people in this country claimed to be. But even with all of that, it was just one march. It was one day out of millions of days. It was one event out of thousands of events. It was one speech out of hundreds of speeches. It was not the beginning and it wasn't the end.
Dr. King gave other speeches. Speeches about how evil war was. Speeches about evil poverty was. Speeches about how ridiculous the lack of good healthcare was. He said, "the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion all around." But yet, all we're bombarded with is, "I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word," and "violence as a way of achieving racial justice is both impractical and immoral." (We're mainly given that quote when white folks are afraid we're about to burn down some of their stuff.) But what about, "there is nothing more dangerous than to build a society, with a large segment of people in that society, who feel that they have no stake in it; who feel that they have nothing to lose. People who have a stake in their society, protect that society, but when they don't have it, they unconsciously want to destroy it?"
Why is it that I hear more about Dr. King wanting Blacks and whites to like each other than I hear about statements such as, "we must never be ashamed of our heritage…or the color of our skin. Black is as beautiful as any color….I am black and beautiful." Why is it that we hear more about Dr. King wanting unity amongst Blacks and whites than we do about Dr. King wanting us to treat those who do not reside in America with the same dignity? What about when Dr. King said, "God didn't call America to do what she's doing in the world now….God didn't call America to engage in a senseless, unjust war…and we are criminals in that war. We have committed more war crimes almost than any nation in the world and I'm going to continue to say it. And we won't stop it because of our pride, and our arrogance as a nation."
Why haven't we talked more about Dr. King; the realist? Why are we so stuck on Martin; the Dreamer? What good is a dream without actions? What good are quotable quotes without a complete picture?
I'll tell you what good they are. They're good for those who hated Dr. King when he was alive and now build monuments to him in his death because they know he's not alive to protect his own legacy and we're dense enough to let them create one for him. They're good for the "prosperity" pimps (and, although they don't know it, hoes) who call themselves preachers. They're good because they safely put blinders on our eyes. They raise up a man that we love and mutilate him into a man that they can love. They tell us just enough about him so that we can walk hand in hand one Monday out of the year and feel good about not going upside their heads for all the injustices we've suffered at their hands. They tell us just enough so that we can keep on hanging onto that one "dream" that has long since turned into a nightmare of gargantuan proportions. They tell us just enough so that we become so drunk off of the words in one speech that we can't see straight while they continually screw us with no lube.
Dr. King wasn't no damn teddy bear. Dr. King wasn't like the Jesus in the pictures who went around carrying lambs. Dr. King was more like the Jesus who went into the temple and overturned tables. He was a man who said things like, "But God has a way of putting nations in their place……He has a way of saying 'if you don't stop your reckless course, I'll rise up and break the backbone of your power.' And that can happen to America."
And yet, a man who lost his life while fighting for the rights of sanitation workers is now celebrated by Fortune 500 companies and we sit idly by as if that makes an ounce of sense. We listen to the "buddy-buddy" stories that people like Billy Graham tell about him when it's known that Billy Graham ain't never gave a damn about Black people until it was fashionable to do so. (and that fad has long since gone out of fashion) We sit around and listen to conservatives twist his words for their own twisted gain while they support a war that Dr. King would've been just as sickened by as he was by the Vietnam War.
What we (and yes, I'm talking to BLACK folks) need to do is stop dreaming and WAKE UP and smell the coffee (the black coffee; the coffee that hasn't been diluted with cream and sugar). We better take back Martin. We better let him have his own dream and think of some ways to get ourselves out of this terrible situation. We better remember who he was. We better be willing to give our lives just like he gave his.
I'm A Legal Alien
January 30, 2007
Unlike Sting, I can't finish that stanza with, "I'm an Englishman in New York," but I can finish it with, "I'm an African in America." And although this situation of mine is glaringly obvious in many facets of my life, it has become even more apparent in my academic studies. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I'm not even referring to the fact that, since 2002, I've attended predominantly white institutions of learning. I'm not talking about the little racist attitudes of students, teachers, and faculties that I've had to encounter and fight with a smile (because they're supposedly terrified of a Black woman and a big voice). I'm not talking about the fact that I've been amongst the minority in every single class I've been in since undergrad (meaning that I was either the only Black person in class, or one of the only Black people in class). I'm referring to the actual "knowledge" that is being given to me through textbooks, lectures, and curricula.
I believe that it was in my junior year in high school that I figured out that the curriculum that was assigned to my peers and me was not customized to our lives as "minorities" in America. My freshman year in high school, I took a world history class. ("World History" meaning, "mostly European history.") My sophomore year, I took an A.P. American History class ("American History" meaning "the history of white folks in America." The lack of information taught to us about African-Americans became glaringly evident when we took the A.P. test. It just so happened that one of the essay questions, which count for a large portion of your score, was about art and its role in the Civil Rights Movement. Only three of us, including me, passed the exam.) My junior year, I took an A.P. European History class (you get the point). As I sat in that class, bored to tears by all the talk of European affairs, governments, wars, etc, etc, etc, a thought came to me, and because I was young and inexperienced, I verbalized it as soon as I was given a chance.
"Mr. Kos," I said, "why is it that Curie doesn't offer an African-American history course? Or a Latin American history course? I mean, the majority of this school is Hispanic, and then the rest of us are pretty much Black. We've only got a few white folks up in here, and they're first and second-generation Polish kids. Why do we have to take a class about European history?"
Mr. Kos' mouth tightened as he explained to me that European history was essential to "American" students because the history of Europe had an immense impact on the history of America.
I thought about it briefly as he went on to continue his lecture, satisfied in the belief that he had pacified me for the time being. Wrong.
I raised my hand again.
"Well, I understand that European history influenced American history because white folks run this country now [the class began snickering and saying, 'right'], but, I mean, it seems to me that African history has also had a large impact on American history. Because, if there was no Africa, and if what had happened in Africa hadn't happened, there wouldn't be African-Americans, right? And, I mean, I think we've had a large impact on America, haven't we?"
Mr. Kos' face began to flush. He certainly could not say that African-Americans hadn't impacted America, but if he admitted that we had, he'd have to admit that we should also have a class on African or African-American history. He obviously did not want to do that, so he told me that if I'd like to discuss this matter with him after class, I would be welcome to. I gave him one of those ole-skool-black-mama "hmmhmm"s that meant "that's what I thought sucka", and leaned back in my chair satisfied with the belief that I'd "treated" his ass in class. I believe I received an F for that marking period.
Upon my arrival to college, I perused the course listings for the upcoming semester. Being that I was at a university (one that considered itself the "Harvard of the Midwest" no less), there were classes offered in African and African-American history, which I suspect were only included after the continual bitching and moaning of the small percentage of African-American students who attended school there. (I don't remember seeing any Latin American history courses being offered) However, since I am a nitpicker and rabble-rouser of epic proportions, I did find some other disconcerting discrepancies in the curriculum.
For instance, there was a plethora of literature courses offered that centered on the writings of different European authors. There was a class that studied only works by The Bard of Avon, and classes that only studied European literature from certain time periods. There were classes devoted to European poetry and short stories. But I couldn't seem to find a class that centered on African or African-American writers. Not even a class to cover the literature of the African Diaspora. No. It seemed that all of our works were contained in courses with names like "World Literature," which basically meant, "literature by everyone who ain't white." Art majors suffered the same fate. There were many courses that studied Van Gogh, or Baroque period painting, but the only courses that addressed the immense amount of art rendered by those of the African Diaspora was contained in courses such as "World Art."
When I transferred to the school that I now attend, I'll admit that I was surprised by the availability of classes that specialized in the history, art, and lives of African-Americans. There was even an Afro-American Studies department! So, I proudly enrolled in some of the classes that talked about Black folks. And most of the time, the actual content of the courses was not a disappointment.
But, outside of those classes, I still ran into roadblocks. Even though I am constantly wary of any classes about "women" or "feminism," I took a course entitled "Women & Work" because it fit into my schedule and counted towards by degree. In almost every chapter of one book we used, the bulk of the chapter was taken up talking about white women and their plight ("tell me of your plight" Jahi gets it), and then a little two or three page section at the END of the chapter, which addressed "women of color." (Anybody who's read any of my blogs knows that I detest the term "women of color" with a freaking vengeance!) This sort of dismissal of the complexities and differences of experiences between different ethnic groups prompted white girls in my class to say dumb shit like, "there was even a time when women made less money than slaves." (First of all, SLAVES DIDN'T MAKE ANY MONEY, you simple bitch. Secondly, and this may come as a surprise, some WERE WOMEN! I know that's hard to believe seeing as folks love to use phrases such as "women and minorities" as if some "minorities" ain't women.)
And on and on it went, and on and on it goes. In one of my public administration classes, we were assigned to read an article by Herbert Kaufman, which was written in 1969. In it, he makes such statements as, "these people (obviously, it had not yet come to White America's attention that Black people detest being referred to as "these" or "those" people.) are not mollified by assurances that the characteristics of the system thwarting them also thwart selfish and extremist interests..."
Basically he was saying that the "have-nots" don't realize that the same system which denies them "shares of the system's benefits and rewards" also denies extremists their share of these "rewards." I may have not been alive in 1969, but I've seen enough episodes of "Eyes on the Prize," and heard enough stories from my 95-year old great aunt whose lived her whole life in central Mississippi, to know that the "extremists" were definitely getting their way. At least when it came to thwarting the "benefits" that should've been given to Black citizens. This article was written only 5 years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and only one year after the CRA which prohibited housing discrimination (which everyone knows Johnson hurried up and signed to pacify the "Negroes" after the assassination of Dr. King).
He then went on to call us "Negroes" by name on the next page of the article and said that they had, "recently begun to develop the organizational skills to mobilize their political resources only to find that it takes time to build channels of access to political structures. Rather than wait for admission to these structures.....these groups....have adopted a strategy of deriding those institutions and seeking to build new ones in which they can have greater, perhaps dominant, influence."
Well, excuse the heck outta the Negroes for being getting fed up with a system that made no attempt to recognize them as citizens who deserve rights, and building their own institutions! Furthermore, I'd like to add that the belief that in 1969, Negroes had only "recently begun to develop organizational skills" is ridiculous and obviously ignorant of the looooong history African-Americans had of organizing themselves. During slavery, negroes organized themselves. The African Methodist Episcopal Church (which still thrives to this day) was founded in 1816! During Reconstruction, many African-Americans came to be officeholders, which takes a whole lot of organization. The NAACP was founded in 1909, Marcus Garvey founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association (which boasted of over a million members in its heyday) in the mid-1920s. And let's not even talk about all the institutions of higher learning that were founded by Negroes previous to the 1960s.
And this is not the first time (nor the last, I suspect) I've had to read literature authored by people whose biases and ignorance about my people are glaringly evident.
Some people may say that this happens to me because of the fact that I attend predominantly white institutions instead of predominantly Black ones. They'd be wrong. From what I have heard from my peers who do attend those institutions (lovingly referred to as HBCUs), they don't fare much better. Sure, they might have a wider variety of courses about African-Americans, but many of their courses are the same, and many of them use the same textbooks that I use. Sadly, I don't think I'd fare any better if I went to school in the Motherland. Colonialization has screwed with their education systems to the point where they look a lot like European ones (in method and curricula).
So, I continue a quest that started my junior year in high school. It is a quest to seek out and find information that pertains to me and that educates me about ME. They're books that they wouldn't dare teach out of at the University of Illinois or any other state school (or private school). They're books that follow in the educational traditions of my ancestors. And because of that, sometimes they're not even books! Sometimes it's folklore passed down from my great-aunt, or snarky quotes from my great-grandmother's mouth and mind. Sometimes it's the amount and kinds of seasonings I put into my food, or the way I wear my hair, or swing my hips to the blues. Sometimes it's a look that I learned from the grown-acting girls down the block or a wave of the hand that would dismiss even the Queen. All of it is education. It may not be westernized, or Eurocentric, and it may never be appreciated by the masses. But I'll take it any day over folks like Kaufman and Kos.
Unlike Sting, I can't finish that stanza with, "I'm an Englishman in New York," but I can finish it with, "I'm an African in America." And although this situation of mine is glaringly obvious in many facets of my life, it has become even more apparent in my academic studies. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I'm not even referring to the fact that, since 2002, I've attended predominantly white institutions of learning. I'm not talking about the little racist attitudes of students, teachers, and faculties that I've had to encounter and fight with a smile (because they're supposedly terrified of a Black woman and a big voice). I'm not talking about the fact that I've been amongst the minority in every single class I've been in since undergrad (meaning that I was either the only Black person in class, or one of the only Black people in class). I'm referring to the actual "knowledge" that is being given to me through textbooks, lectures, and curricula.
I believe that it was in my junior year in high school that I figured out that the curriculum that was assigned to my peers and me was not customized to our lives as "minorities" in America. My freshman year in high school, I took a world history class. ("World History" meaning, "mostly European history.") My sophomore year, I took an A.P. American History class ("American History" meaning "the history of white folks in America." The lack of information taught to us about African-Americans became glaringly evident when we took the A.P. test. It just so happened that one of the essay questions, which count for a large portion of your score, was about art and its role in the Civil Rights Movement. Only three of us, including me, passed the exam.) My junior year, I took an A.P. European History class (you get the point). As I sat in that class, bored to tears by all the talk of European affairs, governments, wars, etc, etc, etc, a thought came to me, and because I was young and inexperienced, I verbalized it as soon as I was given a chance.
"Mr. Kos," I said, "why is it that Curie doesn't offer an African-American history course? Or a Latin American history course? I mean, the majority of this school is Hispanic, and then the rest of us are pretty much Black. We've only got a few white folks up in here, and they're first and second-generation Polish kids. Why do we have to take a class about European history?"
Mr. Kos' mouth tightened as he explained to me that European history was essential to "American" students because the history of Europe had an immense impact on the history of America.
I thought about it briefly as he went on to continue his lecture, satisfied in the belief that he had pacified me for the time being. Wrong.
I raised my hand again.
"Well, I understand that European history influenced American history because white folks run this country now [the class began snickering and saying, 'right'], but, I mean, it seems to me that African history has also had a large impact on American history. Because, if there was no Africa, and if what had happened in Africa hadn't happened, there wouldn't be African-Americans, right? And, I mean, I think we've had a large impact on America, haven't we?"
Mr. Kos' face began to flush. He certainly could not say that African-Americans hadn't impacted America, but if he admitted that we had, he'd have to admit that we should also have a class on African or African-American history. He obviously did not want to do that, so he told me that if I'd like to discuss this matter with him after class, I would be welcome to. I gave him one of those ole-skool-black-mama "hmmhmm"s that meant "that's what I thought sucka", and leaned back in my chair satisfied with the belief that I'd "treated" his ass in class. I believe I received an F for that marking period.
Upon my arrival to college, I perused the course listings for the upcoming semester. Being that I was at a university (one that considered itself the "Harvard of the Midwest" no less), there were classes offered in African and African-American history, which I suspect were only included after the continual bitching and moaning of the small percentage of African-American students who attended school there. (I don't remember seeing any Latin American history courses being offered) However, since I am a nitpicker and rabble-rouser of epic proportions, I did find some other disconcerting discrepancies in the curriculum.
For instance, there was a plethora of literature courses offered that centered on the writings of different European authors. There was a class that studied only works by The Bard of Avon, and classes that only studied European literature from certain time periods. There were classes devoted to European poetry and short stories. But I couldn't seem to find a class that centered on African or African-American writers. Not even a class to cover the literature of the African Diaspora. No. It seemed that all of our works were contained in courses with names like "World Literature," which basically meant, "literature by everyone who ain't white." Art majors suffered the same fate. There were many courses that studied Van Gogh, or Baroque period painting, but the only courses that addressed the immense amount of art rendered by those of the African Diaspora was contained in courses such as "World Art."
When I transferred to the school that I now attend, I'll admit that I was surprised by the availability of classes that specialized in the history, art, and lives of African-Americans. There was even an Afro-American Studies department! So, I proudly enrolled in some of the classes that talked about Black folks. And most of the time, the actual content of the courses was not a disappointment.
But, outside of those classes, I still ran into roadblocks. Even though I am constantly wary of any classes about "women" or "feminism," I took a course entitled "Women & Work" because it fit into my schedule and counted towards by degree. In almost every chapter of one book we used, the bulk of the chapter was taken up talking about white women and their plight ("tell me of your plight" Jahi gets it), and then a little two or three page section at the END of the chapter, which addressed "women of color." (Anybody who's read any of my blogs knows that I detest the term "women of color" with a freaking vengeance!) This sort of dismissal of the complexities and differences of experiences between different ethnic groups prompted white girls in my class to say dumb shit like, "there was even a time when women made less money than slaves." (First of all, SLAVES DIDN'T MAKE ANY MONEY, you simple bitch. Secondly, and this may come as a surprise, some WERE WOMEN! I know that's hard to believe seeing as folks love to use phrases such as "women and minorities" as if some "minorities" ain't women.)
And on and on it went, and on and on it goes. In one of my public administration classes, we were assigned to read an article by Herbert Kaufman, which was written in 1969. In it, he makes such statements as, "these people (obviously, it had not yet come to White America's attention that Black people detest being referred to as "these" or "those" people.) are not mollified by assurances that the characteristics of the system thwarting them also thwart selfish and extremist interests..."
Basically he was saying that the "have-nots" don't realize that the same system which denies them "shares of the system's benefits and rewards" also denies extremists their share of these "rewards." I may have not been alive in 1969, but I've seen enough episodes of "Eyes on the Prize," and heard enough stories from my 95-year old great aunt whose lived her whole life in central Mississippi, to know that the "extremists" were definitely getting their way. At least when it came to thwarting the "benefits" that should've been given to Black citizens. This article was written only 5 years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and only one year after the CRA which prohibited housing discrimination (which everyone knows Johnson hurried up and signed to pacify the "Negroes" after the assassination of Dr. King).
He then went on to call us "Negroes" by name on the next page of the article and said that they had, "recently begun to develop the organizational skills to mobilize their political resources only to find that it takes time to build channels of access to political structures. Rather than wait for admission to these structures.....these groups....have adopted a strategy of deriding those institutions and seeking to build new ones in which they can have greater, perhaps dominant, influence."
Well, excuse the heck outta the Negroes for being getting fed up with a system that made no attempt to recognize them as citizens who deserve rights, and building their own institutions! Furthermore, I'd like to add that the belief that in 1969, Negroes had only "recently begun to develop organizational skills" is ridiculous and obviously ignorant of the looooong history African-Americans had of organizing themselves. During slavery, negroes organized themselves. The African Methodist Episcopal Church (which still thrives to this day) was founded in 1816! During Reconstruction, many African-Americans came to be officeholders, which takes a whole lot of organization. The NAACP was founded in 1909, Marcus Garvey founded the Universal Negro Improvement Association (which boasted of over a million members in its heyday) in the mid-1920s. And let's not even talk about all the institutions of higher learning that were founded by Negroes previous to the 1960s.
And this is not the first time (nor the last, I suspect) I've had to read literature authored by people whose biases and ignorance about my people are glaringly evident.
Some people may say that this happens to me because of the fact that I attend predominantly white institutions instead of predominantly Black ones. They'd be wrong. From what I have heard from my peers who do attend those institutions (lovingly referred to as HBCUs), they don't fare much better. Sure, they might have a wider variety of courses about African-Americans, but many of their courses are the same, and many of them use the same textbooks that I use. Sadly, I don't think I'd fare any better if I went to school in the Motherland. Colonialization has screwed with their education systems to the point where they look a lot like European ones (in method and curricula).
So, I continue a quest that started my junior year in high school. It is a quest to seek out and find information that pertains to me and that educates me about ME. They're books that they wouldn't dare teach out of at the University of Illinois or any other state school (or private school). They're books that follow in the educational traditions of my ancestors. And because of that, sometimes they're not even books! Sometimes it's folklore passed down from my great-aunt, or snarky quotes from my great-grandmother's mouth and mind. Sometimes it's the amount and kinds of seasonings I put into my food, or the way I wear my hair, or swing my hips to the blues. Sometimes it's a look that I learned from the grown-acting girls down the block or a wave of the hand that would dismiss even the Queen. All of it is education. It may not be westernized, or Eurocentric, and it may never be appreciated by the masses. But I'll take it any day over folks like Kaufman and Kos.
But Some of Us Are Brave
March 8, 2007
Most people who really know me, or have at least heard one of my angry rants, can tell you that I dislike feminism. When I hear the word, I feel my body go into an extreme lurch and I almost enter a bout of dry heaving. My eyes automatically begin to roll, I suck peppermint (that's some ole Black Southern diction for ya), and start to sigh heavily enough for everyone around to hear and see.
My disdain for feminism started early, I suppose. Although I don't necessarily remember my mother actually having a conversation with me about it, I do seem to remember snippets of conversations that she'd had with other women concerning the matter.
"These feminists…"
Anybody with a Black mama knows how "these" was pronounced, and thus can understand how I came to understand feminism as a bad thing.
The first time I actually heard a Black woman speak against feminism was in eighth grade. My Black female teacher was going over "American history" with us when we encountered the part about the "Women's Movement." Like my mother, the contempt was scribed across her face for all to see. She sucked a bit of peppermint too.
Noticing that this was clearly our cue to ask for her take on feminism, somebody piped up and asked, "what do you think about feminism?" (I believe they mispronounced the word.)
Her eyes brightened, her hand found her hip, and her right leg was assigned to bear the whole of her weight. She leaned in as if she was about to share the secrets of the Nile with us. We leaned in to hear them.
"Feminism," she paused for added drama. "Is for WHITE women."
"White" was pronounced by elongating the "wh," spitting out the "i," and placing so much emphasis on the "t" that you thought she could've probably bruised her tongue saying it. But the overly exaggerated syllables weren't necessary for us to get the point. In my inner-city Chicago magnet school located at the top of Pill Hill, and filled with the children of educated and professional Black men and women, we knew that if something was for "white" people, then it damn sure wasn't for us. Nobody would ever intentionally want to be like white people. (Which is so very sad seeing as I don't remember one Black girl in my class who didn't have a head full of relaxed and bone-straight hair.) In fact, calling someone "white," was an extreme insult.
"Oh, you ackin white," was akin to accusing somebody of "ackin funny," which we all know is the worst crime a Black child can commit.
When pressed further, she explained to us that feminism was simply another tool that white men have used, and were using to further drive a wedge between Black men and women. When I went home that night and reported these new findings to my mother, she neither agreed with nor refuted them, verbally. She pursed her lips and did a quick nodding of her head to the side, which I knew meant, "sho ya right."
So, after that, feminism was off limits to me. Not that I was encountered with it much. I went to a predominantly Black and Hispanic high school and nobody was discussing feminism. Which further proved, to me, that it didn't have anything to do with me.
When I entered college, I was made to take a course called Writing As Critical Thinking (all my
Trumanites know what's up). One day, my tall, lanky, grey-haired, white, female teacher brought up feminism and sing its praises. My eyes instantly started to head to the furthest regions of my head.
But the woman gave it such a glowing review. She made it seem like it was the second coming of the Civil Rights Movement. I decided to check it out a bit more. As I did my research, I found out that feminism had several waves. As I went through each of the most acknowledged three, I saw something. Or I didn't see something.
I didn't see no Black women! Sure, I found them here and there, but they weren't like any of the Black women I knew, loved, or respected. And they were always sidled right up next to a white woman. And then, after reading a synopsis of Betty Friedan's "Feminist Mystique," my sheer disgust was replaced with contempt when I read bell hooks' comments that accused feminism of simply being white women speaking for all women but not knowing a damn thing about, or giving a damn about, anybody but themselves. (Like Ms. Friedan's assumptions about women not being allowed to work out of the house. Ummm, does this sound like the experience of most Black women? Hell, does it sound like the experience of poor WHITE women of her day?) Then I read where Patricia Hill Collins talked about how Black women have often been rejected by feminists and how feminism has often looked very anti-family from many Black women's perspective. And so, there it was. Proof that my teacher was correct.
And I'm sure somebody will read up to this point and think that this is going to become some story about how some glorious thing happened that caused me to see feminism differently and move into the light.
And they would be wrong. I don't see feminism differently. But it's not for a lack of trying. At the disdain and amazement of some of my friends, I opted to take a Women's Studies course. I sat patiently for a whole semester while whole chapters went on and on about the difficult struggles of being a white woman, and all "women of color" were given a couple of paragraphs at the back of each chapter. It became even clearer to me then that there are "women" and then there are "Black women." If you don't believe me, then ask yourself why people constantly use the term "women and minorities" as if some minorities aren't women. Because the only "woman" in this world is the white woman and the rest of us folks with vaginas are hyphenated versions of the sex. Sort of like African-American. Sorta American, but not quite there. "Black women." Sorta women, but not there at all.
And then there was the time when I requested the presence of the "women's" organization on-campus at an event which concerned a serious issue for Black women; AIDS. I didn't get an answer until I marched my Black ass over to the "women's" center stated that this kind of shit is why so many Black women don't like feminism. I was met with claims of incompetency on behalf of the organization.
So, why would any sane Black woman label herself as a feminist? Why would a Black woman volunteer to call herself part of a movement that didn't have a damn thing to do with her? (Oh, except for those convenient abortion clinics they've placed all up and through our neighborhoods for our "convenience," and "reproductive choice." Hmmmm.) I understand that, except for womanism, there isn't really a term that applies to Black women who believe in equality for women, but I'd rather just show people what I believe than use a label doesn't accurately portray who I am.
I have no clue, but since this blog is getting long, let me get down to my most recent encounter.
In December, I was asked if my organization (Sankofa) would like to co-sponsor one of two women:
Inga Muscio. Author of "Cunt." White. Female. Feminist.
Or
Deidre McCalla. Musician. Black. Female. Feminist.
Well, as much as I love to hear the literary Elvis' (white people who make money off of speaking about the pain and suffering of African-Americans) go on and on about the evil "white man," (which I think is just a way to get the blame off of them and make us forget that they too are white), and as attracted as I am to a book named "Cunt," I decided to go with the sista. Even though there was a "feminist" in there, I thought it would be extremely shady for the Black student organization to choose to co-sponsor a white woman who talks about racism from perception when there are so many Black people who can talk about racism from experience.
She performed for about an hour. It was good…if you like that sort of music. For me, Tracy Chapman and India.Arie are about as far as I delve into the acoustic world. (Oh, and John Mayer, but he's more pop, right?)
Then came the lecture, which was actually a discussion. She began to talk about being a lesbian, mother, and feminist. Although I got nothing but love for the first two categories, I was waiting for her to talk about being BLACK. I saw, in that audience, a number of really liberal folks who've said most offensive, outlandish, coonish, and racist bullshit to me without even knowing that they sounded like the exact people they claim to differ from. I thought, "here's their chance to learn. Here's a feminist. They'll listen to her."
But, it never came. Even at the prodding of a professor who spoke of Audre Lorde, (who, for all of her brilliant intelligence, was known to prefer white women. Hmmm.) and her comment about the feminist movement being largely led by white women who have the audacity to speak for all women.
She answered the question by talking about a group she started in Atlanta for the children of gays and lesbians, and how some of the white parents had issues with race that they'd dismiss by saying, "I teach Black kids," or "I have Black friends."
Yes, yes, yes. We know. Everybody in that room should already know that the whole "I'm not racist cause I have a black friend" bullshit is tired. (As Kat Williams would say, "that's nothing but entertainment for n*ggas.") But I was looking for more. Some in-depth speech about how she's had to reconcile her Black self with her feminist self.
But, it never came. Perhaps, for her, she didn't have to reconcile anything. Perhaps feminism comes rather naturally for her. But, at the end of the day, especially after talking to my roommate whom I sat next to, I was even more disenfranchised and tired of feminism than I was before. I understand a Black woman wanting to fight for the rights of women, but I can't say I understand why they choose to align themselves with white women to do that. I mean, historically, white women, with some exceptions, ain't been all that nice to us. Remember Ms. Anne?
But maybe I've got it all wrong. I've read that the co-founder of NOW was a Black woman (although the white woman got to be the first president. Hmmm.) I know that certain suffragettes were also abolitionists, and to them, I'm much obliged. Besides, maybe third wave feminism does include Black women. Maybe the feminists have woken up and gotten a whiff of that good Starbucks. But maybe, just maybe, we're still the tokens that they use so that they can appear to believe in equality.
And so I journey on. Dodging feminism like that inevitable bullet that you know is coming when you have the stupidity to watch a bunch of Black folks fighting. As I have the impudence to have several white liberal and female friends, I know feminism will come up. I dread it each time. I dread any comments about women's rights, or abortion, or anything of the sort. It's not because I don't believe in women's rights. (Not including abortion. I ain't down with that.) It's not that I'm not aware of patriarchy. When you grow up hearing your father say things like, "ain't nobody free in this world but the white man and the black woman," you can't help but see the extreme ignorance that sexism can produce. And I do want to see women treated fairly because I'm a woman. Because my mother is a woman. Because my sister is a woman. Because I know and love more women on this Earth than any other thing.
But I suppose that I have the knowledge, or at least, the belief, that until people my color are free, there really ain't much sense worrying about whether women are free or not. Black women were enslaved because they were Black, not because they were women. Black women were lynched because they were Black, not because they were women. Black women didn't get the right to vote in 1920 because they were Black, not because they were women. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, and my great-grandmother was pregnant with her children, they were kept out of certain hospitals because they were Black, not because they were women. Before anybody knew my gender, they knew I was going to be Black cause they knew my mama was Black.
Maybe I'll stick to womanism. Maybe I'll just stick to Shannonism. Besides, I don't need feminism to handle a brotha who hasn't come correct. I just need a pot of hot grits.
So, it must be as Barbara Smith's book title claims:
All the Women Are White, All the Blacks are Men, But some of Us Brave
Most people who really know me, or have at least heard one of my angry rants, can tell you that I dislike feminism. When I hear the word, I feel my body go into an extreme lurch and I almost enter a bout of dry heaving. My eyes automatically begin to roll, I suck peppermint (that's some ole Black Southern diction for ya), and start to sigh heavily enough for everyone around to hear and see.
My disdain for feminism started early, I suppose. Although I don't necessarily remember my mother actually having a conversation with me about it, I do seem to remember snippets of conversations that she'd had with other women concerning the matter.
"These feminists…"
Anybody with a Black mama knows how "these" was pronounced, and thus can understand how I came to understand feminism as a bad thing.
The first time I actually heard a Black woman speak against feminism was in eighth grade. My Black female teacher was going over "American history" with us when we encountered the part about the "Women's Movement." Like my mother, the contempt was scribed across her face for all to see. She sucked a bit of peppermint too.
Noticing that this was clearly our cue to ask for her take on feminism, somebody piped up and asked, "what do you think about feminism?" (I believe they mispronounced the word.)
Her eyes brightened, her hand found her hip, and her right leg was assigned to bear the whole of her weight. She leaned in as if she was about to share the secrets of the Nile with us. We leaned in to hear them.
"Feminism," she paused for added drama. "Is for WHITE women."
"White" was pronounced by elongating the "wh," spitting out the "i," and placing so much emphasis on the "t" that you thought she could've probably bruised her tongue saying it. But the overly exaggerated syllables weren't necessary for us to get the point. In my inner-city Chicago magnet school located at the top of Pill Hill, and filled with the children of educated and professional Black men and women, we knew that if something was for "white" people, then it damn sure wasn't for us. Nobody would ever intentionally want to be like white people. (Which is so very sad seeing as I don't remember one Black girl in my class who didn't have a head full of relaxed and bone-straight hair.) In fact, calling someone "white," was an extreme insult.
"Oh, you ackin white," was akin to accusing somebody of "ackin funny," which we all know is the worst crime a Black child can commit.
When pressed further, she explained to us that feminism was simply another tool that white men have used, and were using to further drive a wedge between Black men and women. When I went home that night and reported these new findings to my mother, she neither agreed with nor refuted them, verbally. She pursed her lips and did a quick nodding of her head to the side, which I knew meant, "sho ya right."
So, after that, feminism was off limits to me. Not that I was encountered with it much. I went to a predominantly Black and Hispanic high school and nobody was discussing feminism. Which further proved, to me, that it didn't have anything to do with me.
When I entered college, I was made to take a course called Writing As Critical Thinking (all my
Trumanites know what's up). One day, my tall, lanky, grey-haired, white, female teacher brought up feminism and sing its praises. My eyes instantly started to head to the furthest regions of my head.
But the woman gave it such a glowing review. She made it seem like it was the second coming of the Civil Rights Movement. I decided to check it out a bit more. As I did my research, I found out that feminism had several waves. As I went through each of the most acknowledged three, I saw something. Or I didn't see something.
I didn't see no Black women! Sure, I found them here and there, but they weren't like any of the Black women I knew, loved, or respected. And they were always sidled right up next to a white woman. And then, after reading a synopsis of Betty Friedan's "Feminist Mystique," my sheer disgust was replaced with contempt when I read bell hooks' comments that accused feminism of simply being white women speaking for all women but not knowing a damn thing about, or giving a damn about, anybody but themselves. (Like Ms. Friedan's assumptions about women not being allowed to work out of the house. Ummm, does this sound like the experience of most Black women? Hell, does it sound like the experience of poor WHITE women of her day?) Then I read where Patricia Hill Collins talked about how Black women have often been rejected by feminists and how feminism has often looked very anti-family from many Black women's perspective. And so, there it was. Proof that my teacher was correct.
And I'm sure somebody will read up to this point and think that this is going to become some story about how some glorious thing happened that caused me to see feminism differently and move into the light.
And they would be wrong. I don't see feminism differently. But it's not for a lack of trying. At the disdain and amazement of some of my friends, I opted to take a Women's Studies course. I sat patiently for a whole semester while whole chapters went on and on about the difficult struggles of being a white woman, and all "women of color" were given a couple of paragraphs at the back of each chapter. It became even clearer to me then that there are "women" and then there are "Black women." If you don't believe me, then ask yourself why people constantly use the term "women and minorities" as if some minorities aren't women. Because the only "woman" in this world is the white woman and the rest of us folks with vaginas are hyphenated versions of the sex. Sort of like African-American. Sorta American, but not quite there. "Black women." Sorta women, but not there at all.
And then there was the time when I requested the presence of the "women's" organization on-campus at an event which concerned a serious issue for Black women; AIDS. I didn't get an answer until I marched my Black ass over to the "women's" center stated that this kind of shit is why so many Black women don't like feminism. I was met with claims of incompetency on behalf of the organization.
So, why would any sane Black woman label herself as a feminist? Why would a Black woman volunteer to call herself part of a movement that didn't have a damn thing to do with her? (Oh, except for those convenient abortion clinics they've placed all up and through our neighborhoods for our "convenience," and "reproductive choice." Hmmmm.) I understand that, except for womanism, there isn't really a term that applies to Black women who believe in equality for women, but I'd rather just show people what I believe than use a label doesn't accurately portray who I am.
I have no clue, but since this blog is getting long, let me get down to my most recent encounter.
In December, I was asked if my organization (Sankofa) would like to co-sponsor one of two women:
Inga Muscio. Author of "Cunt." White. Female. Feminist.
Or
Deidre McCalla. Musician. Black. Female. Feminist.
Well, as much as I love to hear the literary Elvis' (white people who make money off of speaking about the pain and suffering of African-Americans) go on and on about the evil "white man," (which I think is just a way to get the blame off of them and make us forget that they too are white), and as attracted as I am to a book named "Cunt," I decided to go with the sista. Even though there was a "feminist" in there, I thought it would be extremely shady for the Black student organization to choose to co-sponsor a white woman who talks about racism from perception when there are so many Black people who can talk about racism from experience.
She performed for about an hour. It was good…if you like that sort of music. For me, Tracy Chapman and India.Arie are about as far as I delve into the acoustic world. (Oh, and John Mayer, but he's more pop, right?)
Then came the lecture, which was actually a discussion. She began to talk about being a lesbian, mother, and feminist. Although I got nothing but love for the first two categories, I was waiting for her to talk about being BLACK. I saw, in that audience, a number of really liberal folks who've said most offensive, outlandish, coonish, and racist bullshit to me without even knowing that they sounded like the exact people they claim to differ from. I thought, "here's their chance to learn. Here's a feminist. They'll listen to her."
But, it never came. Even at the prodding of a professor who spoke of Audre Lorde, (who, for all of her brilliant intelligence, was known to prefer white women. Hmmm.) and her comment about the feminist movement being largely led by white women who have the audacity to speak for all women.
She answered the question by talking about a group she started in Atlanta for the children of gays and lesbians, and how some of the white parents had issues with race that they'd dismiss by saying, "I teach Black kids," or "I have Black friends."
Yes, yes, yes. We know. Everybody in that room should already know that the whole "I'm not racist cause I have a black friend" bullshit is tired. (As Kat Williams would say, "that's nothing but entertainment for n*ggas.") But I was looking for more. Some in-depth speech about how she's had to reconcile her Black self with her feminist self.
But, it never came. Perhaps, for her, she didn't have to reconcile anything. Perhaps feminism comes rather naturally for her. But, at the end of the day, especially after talking to my roommate whom I sat next to, I was even more disenfranchised and tired of feminism than I was before. I understand a Black woman wanting to fight for the rights of women, but I can't say I understand why they choose to align themselves with white women to do that. I mean, historically, white women, with some exceptions, ain't been all that nice to us. Remember Ms. Anne?
But maybe I've got it all wrong. I've read that the co-founder of NOW was a Black woman (although the white woman got to be the first president. Hmmm.) I know that certain suffragettes were also abolitionists, and to them, I'm much obliged. Besides, maybe third wave feminism does include Black women. Maybe the feminists have woken up and gotten a whiff of that good Starbucks. But maybe, just maybe, we're still the tokens that they use so that they can appear to believe in equality.
And so I journey on. Dodging feminism like that inevitable bullet that you know is coming when you have the stupidity to watch a bunch of Black folks fighting. As I have the impudence to have several white liberal and female friends, I know feminism will come up. I dread it each time. I dread any comments about women's rights, or abortion, or anything of the sort. It's not because I don't believe in women's rights. (Not including abortion. I ain't down with that.) It's not that I'm not aware of patriarchy. When you grow up hearing your father say things like, "ain't nobody free in this world but the white man and the black woman," you can't help but see the extreme ignorance that sexism can produce. And I do want to see women treated fairly because I'm a woman. Because my mother is a woman. Because my sister is a woman. Because I know and love more women on this Earth than any other thing.
But I suppose that I have the knowledge, or at least, the belief, that until people my color are free, there really ain't much sense worrying about whether women are free or not. Black women were enslaved because they were Black, not because they were women. Black women were lynched because they were Black, not because they were women. Black women didn't get the right to vote in 1920 because they were Black, not because they were women. When my grandmother was pregnant with my mother, and my great-grandmother was pregnant with her children, they were kept out of certain hospitals because they were Black, not because they were women. Before anybody knew my gender, they knew I was going to be Black cause they knew my mama was Black.
Maybe I'll stick to womanism. Maybe I'll just stick to Shannonism. Besides, I don't need feminism to handle a brotha who hasn't come correct. I just need a pot of hot grits.
So, it must be as Barbara Smith's book title claims:
All the Women Are White, All the Blacks are Men, But some of Us Brave
Up Ya Hate Game!
March 19, 2007
People, I am declaring war on extra regular hate. For real. I'm gonna need people to up their hate game. I'm gonna need some kind of imagination in that shit. I'm gonna need you to stop all the ole skool slurs and come up with your something original. Because, just like Rhymefest, I don't like it unless it's brand new. That ole skool hate game is not going to come back into style. It's like the shoulder pads of the 80s. Not comin back. Go head and step it up, and bring sexy back with it!
Nigger? Nigga? Mud people? C'mon now! That bullshit is so out-of-date that Black people are using it on each other. My sister is doing a case study on diversity and some of the questions ask whether or not people would want someone of a different ethnicity to live in their neighborhood. Of all the racist shit that she's read, the only comment that has interested her (or more importantly, me) is when one white dude wrote that he doesn't want to live around the "outbreed" people. She, two of her friends, and I have decided that that hurt waaay more than nigga. That's a perfect example of people keeping their hate game up. Keep it fresh.
President Bush? We can diss the fool all we want, but that man is on his A+ hate game! That man can not only run around skrait hating on folks and make it look effortless; he can make it look clean, AND get laws passed to sustain it! And to really show you just how good he is, he's got a vice-president with a lesbian daughter who is having a baby with her partner! That is smooooth. Pimpalicious.
Meanwhile, today, on UIC's campus, I was going to lunch with my sister and her friends, and this white dude is passing out a flier about gay people. It had all the usual suspects.
1. Homosexual on homosexual violence is much more problematic than heterosexual on homosexual violence.
2. Homosexuals are costing us billions of dollars because of how rampantly they spread AIDS.
3. Hate crime laws are "special" legislation.
4. We should treat homosexuality like smoking. Discourage it "in a way consonant with our democratic principles."
5. Lesbians have higher rates of ovarian and cervical cancer.*yawn*
Gay men have more AIDS? Lesbians have more cancer? Hate crime laws are "special legislation?" Be kind and compassionate to gay folks while discouraging their destructive behavior?
UP YA HATE GAME!
I mean, I'ma need some creativity here. If you spend all damn day fuming over gay people and what they do in their homes on their private time, I'm gonna need you to stop quoting shit off of the internet. That doesn't work for academia, and it won't work in the hate game. Plaigarism. Ugh.
And people were actually standing by these men, shouting at them, and saying, "hate is being handed out here." Actually getting upset over that uber-boring foolishness. C'mon now! Ain't you got some studying you could be doing? There is absolutely nothing to see here!
Hate-mongerers need to come up with some shit that I actually have to think about shooting down. Your lack of creativity is having a negative effect on my ability to formulate critical arguments. I'm tired of being able to shoot down a racist, sexist, or homophobe with the same lines. I'm tired of refuting hypocritical Bible-thumpers with the same scriptures that they use against my beliefs. I'm tired of laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and not even bothering to refute it. It makes me look bad when I am forced to repeat the same things over and over. I'm too damn bright for all this lamery!
I need a challenge, and YOU are not doing your jobs!
And to all of those who say, "we need them to stop saying hateful things, not come up with new hateful things," I say "pooh on you." Hate is as old as humanity. (I guarantee that it was only a matter of years after creation that people started using that "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" bullshit) Hate is going to always be here. And those who detest hate will always be put to the test. So get used to it and keep your, "that's-bullshit-and-I'm-bout-to-tell-you-why" game on deck.
Besides, the more ridiculous stuff that they're forced to come up with, the more ridiculous they look.
AND
As my friend LaToya said, "get a little bit better with the hate because if people don't, they should have a coconut smile and shut the fuck up." Katt Williams said he doesn't mess with people who don't "keep it pushin." Take it to the next plane. Get on my level! If I don't hear some interesting things soon, I'm going to stop commenting on any of it! Just skrait up shut the hell up. And that will be a loss.So, in the immortal words of El Presidente Carter (Jay-Z, not Jimmy, although I do love me some Jimmy), "SHOW ME WHAT YA GOT!"
People, I am declaring war on extra regular hate. For real. I'm gonna need people to up their hate game. I'm gonna need some kind of imagination in that shit. I'm gonna need you to stop all the ole skool slurs and come up with your something original. Because, just like Rhymefest, I don't like it unless it's brand new. That ole skool hate game is not going to come back into style. It's like the shoulder pads of the 80s. Not comin back. Go head and step it up, and bring sexy back with it!
Nigger? Nigga? Mud people? C'mon now! That bullshit is so out-of-date that Black people are using it on each other. My sister is doing a case study on diversity and some of the questions ask whether or not people would want someone of a different ethnicity to live in their neighborhood. Of all the racist shit that she's read, the only comment that has interested her (or more importantly, me) is when one white dude wrote that he doesn't want to live around the "outbreed" people. She, two of her friends, and I have decided that that hurt waaay more than nigga. That's a perfect example of people keeping their hate game up. Keep it fresh.
President Bush? We can diss the fool all we want, but that man is on his A+ hate game! That man can not only run around skrait hating on folks and make it look effortless; he can make it look clean, AND get laws passed to sustain it! And to really show you just how good he is, he's got a vice-president with a lesbian daughter who is having a baby with her partner! That is smooooth. Pimpalicious.
Meanwhile, today, on UIC's campus, I was going to lunch with my sister and her friends, and this white dude is passing out a flier about gay people. It had all the usual suspects.
1. Homosexual on homosexual violence is much more problematic than heterosexual on homosexual violence.
2. Homosexuals are costing us billions of dollars because of how rampantly they spread AIDS.
3. Hate crime laws are "special" legislation.
4. We should treat homosexuality like smoking. Discourage it "in a way consonant with our democratic principles."
5. Lesbians have higher rates of ovarian and cervical cancer.*yawn*
Gay men have more AIDS? Lesbians have more cancer? Hate crime laws are "special legislation?" Be kind and compassionate to gay folks while discouraging their destructive behavior?
UP YA HATE GAME!
I mean, I'ma need some creativity here. If you spend all damn day fuming over gay people and what they do in their homes on their private time, I'm gonna need you to stop quoting shit off of the internet. That doesn't work for academia, and it won't work in the hate game. Plaigarism. Ugh.
And people were actually standing by these men, shouting at them, and saying, "hate is being handed out here." Actually getting upset over that uber-boring foolishness. C'mon now! Ain't you got some studying you could be doing? There is absolutely nothing to see here!
Hate-mongerers need to come up with some shit that I actually have to think about shooting down. Your lack of creativity is having a negative effect on my ability to formulate critical arguments. I'm tired of being able to shoot down a racist, sexist, or homophobe with the same lines. I'm tired of refuting hypocritical Bible-thumpers with the same scriptures that they use against my beliefs. I'm tired of laughing at the ridiculousness of it all and not even bothering to refute it. It makes me look bad when I am forced to repeat the same things over and over. I'm too damn bright for all this lamery!
I need a challenge, and YOU are not doing your jobs!
And to all of those who say, "we need them to stop saying hateful things, not come up with new hateful things," I say "pooh on you." Hate is as old as humanity. (I guarantee that it was only a matter of years after creation that people started using that "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" bullshit) Hate is going to always be here. And those who detest hate will always be put to the test. So get used to it and keep your, "that's-bullshit-and-I'm-bout-to-tell-you-why" game on deck.
Besides, the more ridiculous stuff that they're forced to come up with, the more ridiculous they look.
AND
As my friend LaToya said, "get a little bit better with the hate because if people don't, they should have a coconut smile and shut the fuck up." Katt Williams said he doesn't mess with people who don't "keep it pushin." Take it to the next plane. Get on my level! If I don't hear some interesting things soon, I'm going to stop commenting on any of it! Just skrait up shut the hell up. And that will be a loss.So, in the immortal words of El Presidente Carter (Jay-Z, not Jimmy, although I do love me some Jimmy), "SHOW ME WHAT YA GOT!"
October 29, 2006
Nigga. Nugga. Niggra. Nig. Nukka. Nigguh.
All different pronunciations of the same word. Nigger. Defined as "an extremely offensive name for a Black person."
And I used the word. Often. Quite frequently in fact. As anyone who personally knows me could attest to, I had a difficult time saying more than 5 sentences without the word "nigga" interspersed somewhere in there. (Of course, this is when I was in conversation with black people that I know and could be informal and familiar with.)
I used the word "nigga" in a myriad of ways.
I used it as a term of endearment for other blacks: "See, that's why you my nigga. You always come through for a sista!"
As a term of scorn towards other blacks: "Ooooh, I can't stand that shiftless lazy ass nigga!"
As a term of scorn towards non-blacks: "George W. Bush is one crazy ass nigga!"
When referring to food: "These niggas is delicious!"
In song: (sung to the tune of "Money") "Nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga.....NIGGA!"
When repeating the lyrics of popular songs: "That's that crack music nigga! That real black music nigga!"
When referring to my dog: "That lil nigga must be crazy! He pissed in my room!"
When referring to geographic locations: "Girl, ain't no way I'm living in Niggaville!"
When referring to time periods: "I'm with Kat! Never in the history of Niggadom has a nigga ever discovered a wild animal!"
As an adjective: "He wasn't just black. He was nigga black!"
When quoting friends (I love this quote from my girl Koko): "I ain't in the business of doing shit for a nigga that don't want shit done for em."
As an extra punctuation at the end of a sentence: "Mama, these folks down here are driving me crazy.......nigga."
And that's probably just the tip of the iceberg.
Some of you might be shocked. (Some of you already know I used the word because I've used it in your presence.) Some of you might have just lost any and every shred of respect that you ever held for me because of what you've just read. And, one hour ago, I wouldn't gave a damn....nigga.
You see, in spite of the fact of what the word once meant, how it was used, who used it, and in what context they used it in, I'd always felt perfectly justified in my usage of the word. For several reasons.
Number one: My great-grandmother, who was possibly run out of Mississippi in the 1940s for being an "uppity nigger," used the word quite frequently as I've been told. She was a woman who had many catchphrases; all more colorful than the next or the last. One of my favorite quotes from her is "Niggas ain't shit." Now, I know that sounds pretty harsh. It is. From what I've been told, she was a harsh woman. Said what she meant and meant what she said. I've also been told that she was a woman who, after giving you the tongue lashing of your life, would do anything to help you out of a bad situation. I've also been told that she loved the radical Nation of Islam brothers in the 1950s before many mainstream African-Americans could receive their messages. (Although she did say of Elijah Muhammad, "Oh please. That nigga ain't shit. I knew his ass before he knew Allah.") I've also been told that she hit the pavement for months in order to get the vote out for Mayor Harold Washington; the city of Chicago's first Black mayor.
So, I'd always figured, if she used the word, what's so bad about me using it? No doubt that as a young black woman living in Mississippi in the early 20th century, she'd heard the word in its original use. I'm sure she heard the word spat out of the mouths of white people many times as they abused Black people. If she could use that word, with all the bad memories that it had to have carried for her, then why couldn't I?
In addition to that, I've heard every single person in my family use the word at least once. On both sides of my family. Even my father's siblings, most of whom were born and raised in Yazoo City, Mississippi use the word. My 95-year old great-aunt Irola, who still lives in Yazoo City, once referred to my father as a nigga in front of me. If they felt comfortable saying it, why couldn't I?
I was not one to espouse the whole belief that blacks have appropriated the term and now use it as a term of familiarity or kinship. As I said, I did sometimes use it in that context, but I used it in negative contexts also. Honestly, I think that whole theory is just bullshit. It's a way for blacks, who love to use the term (like me), to make themselves feel better about saying a word that is obviously negative. To me, it's saying that "f*ck" isn't a bad word because it supposedly once meant, "Fornication Upon Consent of the King." Yeah, right. Whatever. We all know f*ck is a curse word, and we all know that nigga is a bad word too. But many of us use it because we can. Because we're grown ass adults, and just like we feel we have every right to use other expletives in appropriate situations, we feel like we have the right to use this one too. If I did meet an African-American who didn't like the word, I did respect their individual preference, and I would refrain from using it in their presence. (After thinking, "these uppity ass niggas kill me.")
And of course, since I am human and full of fatal flaws, errors, and double-standards, I was constantly ready to fight any non-black person who I heard using the word. I know some opponents of the word like to say, "Well, you can't use it and expect for them not to." I thought/think that's bullshit too. My mother, on many occasions, has called me all kinds of unpleasant names in fits of rage. However, if she ever heard anyone use any of those names when referring to me, I'm pretty sure I'd be on Myspace soliciting for funds for her bail. That's how I felt about nigga. Amongst Black folks (family) it can be said. But if you're not black (and ESPECIALLY if you're white), I'd start referring to myself in the third person ("Shannon is getting very upset right now. Shannon can no longer be held responsible for any of her actions."), slathering on vaseline, and removing my earrings. Because, basically, it was on........nigga.
That was my story, and I was sticking to it. When I heard the news earlier this week of how a group of African-Americans in Wisconsin had supposedly held a funeral for the word, I fell into a fit of laughter. Hey, if they didn't want to use it, then more power to them, but it was still an active part of my vocabulary. And I was using it. Frequently. Constantly. If you didn't like it, two fingers to the side.............nigga.
At least, that was my story until about two hours ago. While feeding my Myspace addiction, I came across a bulletin which contained an entire episode of the popular television show The Boondocks, which is derived from my favorite cartoon strip of the same name, by the brilliant Aaron McGruder. It was the infamous episode where Martin Luther King was brought out of a 40-year coma to find the black community in complete disrepair and disarray. He is, of course, flabbergasted by the behaviors and beliefs of so many African-Americans, and eventually his anger boils over in an impromptu speech he gives at a party/rally.
"You don't want to be a nigger cause niggers are walking contradictions. Niggers are full of unfulfilled ambitions. Niggers wax and wane. Niggers love to complain. Niggers love to hear themselves talk but hate to explain. Niggers love being another man's judge and jury. Niggers procrastinate until it's time to worry. Niggers love to be late. Niggers hate to hurry. Black Entertainment Television is the worst thing I've seen in my life. I've seen what's around the corner. I see what's beyond the horizon and I promise you, you niggers have nothing to celebrate. And no, I won't get there with you. I'm going to Canada."
Ouch. The first time I saw that episode; I couldn't stop laughing. The very thought of MLK using the word nigger was more than I could handle! And the fact that so many of our supposed "black leaders" were going crazy over it only added fuel to its hilarity! But for some reason, this time it was different. I wasn't laughing. I was hurt. Everytime he said the word "nigger," I winced in pain. It was like some kind of venom. It wasn't casual, cute, or common. It wasn't meaningless, funny, or understandable. It was terrible. Nobody would want to be called nigger by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Why? Because it's not a nice word and the very notion that what Dr. King would see if he walked into the year 2006 would cause him to call us niggers, hit me like a ton of bricks.
Suddenly, I had a very hard time imagining myself using the word. I tried to give myself the same explanations that I'd given to other blacks about why I used the word, but suddenly, all those explanations seemed silly and vapid. Yes, my great-grandma and grandmother had used the term. But they also loved "Amos & Andy" when it was on television. Yes, my great-aunt used the word, but if you asked her about the status of Blacks in America, she'd say that we are treated like kings and queens. (And you probably would too if you were a 95-year old woman who's lived in Mississippi all your life.) Certainly we, as a people, have grown since then. Yes, the word did add a certain uumph to any sentence, but I know my vocabulary is broad enough so that I can add seasoning to statements without using that word.
So, I've decided to stop using it. Yep, just like that. Now, just like any other bad habit, it will be hard for me to break, and I can't promise that I'll never use it again. Hell, one week from now, I might totally relapse and say to myself, "f*ck it, I'm grown, and I'm using it..........nigga." But I doubt that will be the case. And that doesn't mean I'm going to judge black people who do use the word. This is about a personal conviction. No more nigga for me. How about you..........sista?
You have been tuned in to The Evolution of Black Girl Pain. Come back next week for another exciting episode
Nigga. Nugga. Niggra. Nig. Nukka. Nigguh.
All different pronunciations of the same word. Nigger. Defined as "an extremely offensive name for a Black person."
And I used the word. Often. Quite frequently in fact. As anyone who personally knows me could attest to, I had a difficult time saying more than 5 sentences without the word "nigga" interspersed somewhere in there. (Of course, this is when I was in conversation with black people that I know and could be informal and familiar with.)
I used the word "nigga" in a myriad of ways.
I used it as a term of endearment for other blacks: "See, that's why you my nigga. You always come through for a sista!"
As a term of scorn towards other blacks: "Ooooh, I can't stand that shiftless lazy ass nigga!"
As a term of scorn towards non-blacks: "George W. Bush is one crazy ass nigga!"
When referring to food: "These niggas is delicious!"
In song: (sung to the tune of "Money") "Nigga, nigga, nigga, nigga.....NIGGA!"
When repeating the lyrics of popular songs: "That's that crack music nigga! That real black music nigga!"
When referring to my dog: "That lil nigga must be crazy! He pissed in my room!"
When referring to geographic locations: "Girl, ain't no way I'm living in Niggaville!"
When referring to time periods: "I'm with Kat! Never in the history of Niggadom has a nigga ever discovered a wild animal!"
As an adjective: "He wasn't just black. He was nigga black!"
When quoting friends (I love this quote from my girl Koko): "I ain't in the business of doing shit for a nigga that don't want shit done for em."
As an extra punctuation at the end of a sentence: "Mama, these folks down here are driving me crazy.......nigga."
And that's probably just the tip of the iceberg.
Some of you might be shocked. (Some of you already know I used the word because I've used it in your presence.) Some of you might have just lost any and every shred of respect that you ever held for me because of what you've just read. And, one hour ago, I wouldn't gave a damn....nigga.
You see, in spite of the fact of what the word once meant, how it was used, who used it, and in what context they used it in, I'd always felt perfectly justified in my usage of the word. For several reasons.
Number one: My great-grandmother, who was possibly run out of Mississippi in the 1940s for being an "uppity nigger," used the word quite frequently as I've been told. She was a woman who had many catchphrases; all more colorful than the next or the last. One of my favorite quotes from her is "Niggas ain't shit." Now, I know that sounds pretty harsh. It is. From what I've been told, she was a harsh woman. Said what she meant and meant what she said. I've also been told that she was a woman who, after giving you the tongue lashing of your life, would do anything to help you out of a bad situation. I've also been told that she loved the radical Nation of Islam brothers in the 1950s before many mainstream African-Americans could receive their messages. (Although she did say of Elijah Muhammad, "Oh please. That nigga ain't shit. I knew his ass before he knew Allah.") I've also been told that she hit the pavement for months in order to get the vote out for Mayor Harold Washington; the city of Chicago's first Black mayor.
So, I'd always figured, if she used the word, what's so bad about me using it? No doubt that as a young black woman living in Mississippi in the early 20th century, she'd heard the word in its original use. I'm sure she heard the word spat out of the mouths of white people many times as they abused Black people. If she could use that word, with all the bad memories that it had to have carried for her, then why couldn't I?
In addition to that, I've heard every single person in my family use the word at least once. On both sides of my family. Even my father's siblings, most of whom were born and raised in Yazoo City, Mississippi use the word. My 95-year old great-aunt Irola, who still lives in Yazoo City, once referred to my father as a nigga in front of me. If they felt comfortable saying it, why couldn't I?
I was not one to espouse the whole belief that blacks have appropriated the term and now use it as a term of familiarity or kinship. As I said, I did sometimes use it in that context, but I used it in negative contexts also. Honestly, I think that whole theory is just bullshit. It's a way for blacks, who love to use the term (like me), to make themselves feel better about saying a word that is obviously negative. To me, it's saying that "f*ck" isn't a bad word because it supposedly once meant, "Fornication Upon Consent of the King." Yeah, right. Whatever. We all know f*ck is a curse word, and we all know that nigga is a bad word too. But many of us use it because we can. Because we're grown ass adults, and just like we feel we have every right to use other expletives in appropriate situations, we feel like we have the right to use this one too. If I did meet an African-American who didn't like the word, I did respect their individual preference, and I would refrain from using it in their presence. (After thinking, "these uppity ass niggas kill me.")
And of course, since I am human and full of fatal flaws, errors, and double-standards, I was constantly ready to fight any non-black person who I heard using the word. I know some opponents of the word like to say, "Well, you can't use it and expect for them not to." I thought/think that's bullshit too. My mother, on many occasions, has called me all kinds of unpleasant names in fits of rage. However, if she ever heard anyone use any of those names when referring to me, I'm pretty sure I'd be on Myspace soliciting for funds for her bail. That's how I felt about nigga. Amongst Black folks (family) it can be said. But if you're not black (and ESPECIALLY if you're white), I'd start referring to myself in the third person ("Shannon is getting very upset right now. Shannon can no longer be held responsible for any of her actions."), slathering on vaseline, and removing my earrings. Because, basically, it was on........nigga.
That was my story, and I was sticking to it. When I heard the news earlier this week of how a group of African-Americans in Wisconsin had supposedly held a funeral for the word, I fell into a fit of laughter. Hey, if they didn't want to use it, then more power to them, but it was still an active part of my vocabulary. And I was using it. Frequently. Constantly. If you didn't like it, two fingers to the side.............nigga.
At least, that was my story until about two hours ago. While feeding my Myspace addiction, I came across a bulletin which contained an entire episode of the popular television show The Boondocks, which is derived from my favorite cartoon strip of the same name, by the brilliant Aaron McGruder. It was the infamous episode where Martin Luther King was brought out of a 40-year coma to find the black community in complete disrepair and disarray. He is, of course, flabbergasted by the behaviors and beliefs of so many African-Americans, and eventually his anger boils over in an impromptu speech he gives at a party/rally.
"You don't want to be a nigger cause niggers are walking contradictions. Niggers are full of unfulfilled ambitions. Niggers wax and wane. Niggers love to complain. Niggers love to hear themselves talk but hate to explain. Niggers love being another man's judge and jury. Niggers procrastinate until it's time to worry. Niggers love to be late. Niggers hate to hurry. Black Entertainment Television is the worst thing I've seen in my life. I've seen what's around the corner. I see what's beyond the horizon and I promise you, you niggers have nothing to celebrate. And no, I won't get there with you. I'm going to Canada."
Ouch. The first time I saw that episode; I couldn't stop laughing. The very thought of MLK using the word nigger was more than I could handle! And the fact that so many of our supposed "black leaders" were going crazy over it only added fuel to its hilarity! But for some reason, this time it was different. I wasn't laughing. I was hurt. Everytime he said the word "nigger," I winced in pain. It was like some kind of venom. It wasn't casual, cute, or common. It wasn't meaningless, funny, or understandable. It was terrible. Nobody would want to be called nigger by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Why? Because it's not a nice word and the very notion that what Dr. King would see if he walked into the year 2006 would cause him to call us niggers, hit me like a ton of bricks.
Suddenly, I had a very hard time imagining myself using the word. I tried to give myself the same explanations that I'd given to other blacks about why I used the word, but suddenly, all those explanations seemed silly and vapid. Yes, my great-grandma and grandmother had used the term. But they also loved "Amos & Andy" when it was on television. Yes, my great-aunt used the word, but if you asked her about the status of Blacks in America, she'd say that we are treated like kings and queens. (And you probably would too if you were a 95-year old woman who's lived in Mississippi all your life.) Certainly we, as a people, have grown since then. Yes, the word did add a certain uumph to any sentence, but I know my vocabulary is broad enough so that I can add seasoning to statements without using that word.
So, I've decided to stop using it. Yep, just like that. Now, just like any other bad habit, it will be hard for me to break, and I can't promise that I'll never use it again. Hell, one week from now, I might totally relapse and say to myself, "f*ck it, I'm grown, and I'm using it..........nigga." But I doubt that will be the case. And that doesn't mean I'm going to judge black people who do use the word. This is about a personal conviction. No more nigga for me. How about you..........sista?
You have been tuned in to The Evolution of Black Girl Pain. Come back next week for another exciting episode
Soundtrack To My Life
October 26, 2006
If your life were a soundtrack what songs would be in it?
Opening Credits:
1. "Golden Lady" Stevie Wonder ("To know the love and the beauty never known before, I'll leave it up to you to show it.")
2. "Unbreakable" Michael Jackson ("And when you bury me underneath all your pain, I'm steady laughing while surfacing!")
3. "Bravebird" Amel Larrieux ("You're a bravebird, of the rarest kind.")
Waking Up:
1. "We Don't Care" Kanye West ("We wasn't sposed to make it past 25, jokes on you we still alive!!!")
2. "Happy Face" Destiny's Child ("I woke up this morning, the sunshine was shining. I put on my happy face. I'm breathing, I'm able, I'm willing, I'm grateful to put on a happy face.")
3. "Strength, Courage & Wisdom" India Arie ("I found strength, courage, and wisdom. It's been inside of me all along.")
First Day At School:
1. "In Christ Alone" Michael English ("In Christ alone, I place my trust and find my glory in the power of the cross. In every victory, let it be said of me, my source of strength, my source of hope is Christ alone.")
2. "Funny How Time Flies" Janet Jackson ("Funny how time flies when you're having fun.")
3. "Yearbook" Hanson ("'Cause I'm looking through the yearbook then I find that empty space. There's a name without a picture, but I can't forget his face. Tell me where did he go, I want to know where did Johnny go?")
Falling In Love:
1. "1 Thing" Amerie ("It's this one thing that got me trippin. It's this one thing; don't want to admit it. It's this one thing and I was so with it. It's this one thing you did.")
2. "I Can't Help It" Michael Jackson ("Looking in my mirror, took me by surprise. I can't help but see you running often through my mind.")
3. "What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life" Sarah Vaughn ("What are you doing the rest of your life. Summer, winter, fall and spring of your life. I have only one request of your life; that you spend it all with me.")
Family:
1. "Mama" Boyz II Men ("You taught me everything and everything you've given me, I'll always keep it inside. You're the driving force in my life.")
2. "Sista" Shug Avery from The Colored Purple ("Sista, you been on my mind. Sista, we're two of a kind. Oh sista, I'm keepin my eyes on you.")
3. "Grandma's Hands" Bill Withers ("But I don't have grandma anymore. If I get to heaven I'll look for grandma's hands.")
Friends:
1. "Rose In a Concrete World" Joe ("We were like soldiers. Shoulder to shoulder…..If I was in trouble, then you was in trouble.")
2. "Count On Me" Whitney & CeCe ("Count on me through thick and thin, our friendship I will never end. When you are weak, I will be strong. Helping you to carry on. Call on me I will be there. Don't be afraid. Please believe me when I say, count on me.")
3. "Bridges" Destiny's Child ("I'll be the bridge you can use to, whenever you need to, get over problems in your way. And I will pick you up over mountaintops. Together we'll walk over the bridge.")
Fight Song:
1. "Takeover" Jay-Z ("It's like bringing a knife to a gunfight, pen to a test. You testin the line of fire wit yo thin ass vest!")
2. "Whatever Bitch" Mya ("And if you spoil my night, then we can take this shit outside. Tonight!")
3. "Let's Go" Trick Daddy ("Let's go! If you want it, you can get it, let me know. I'm bout to f*ck a n*gga up!")
Breaking Up:
1. "Son of a Gun" Janet Jackson ("Naw, I ain't gon go and act a fool, and be the lead story on the n*gga news.")
2. "Irreplaceable" Beyonce ("You must not know bout me! I can have another you in a minute. Matter fact, he'll be here in a minute.")
3. "I'll Die" Floetry ("If I stay right here, I'll die inside. Ran out of tears, I can barely get by. It's fair to say that we tried. You know I wanna stay, if I do, I'll die.")
Bitterness:
1. "Bitter" Meshell Ndegeocello ("And now my eyes look at you bitterly.")
2. "Resentment" Beyonce ("I may never understand why. I'm doing the best that I can and I, I tried and I tried to forget this, but I'm too damn full of resentment!")
3. "Ordinary Pain" Stevie Wonder ("Don't fool yourself. But tell no one else that it's more than just an ordinary pain in your heart.")
Longing:
1. "You Should Be Here" Raphael Saadiq ("You should be here in
the morningtime when I'm making my breakfast.")
2. "Neon" John Mayer ("And it's hard for me to take a stand when I
would take [him] any way I can.")
3. "Saturday Night Fever" Platinum Pied Pipers ("When I'm all alone
late at night in my bedroom I dream of someone who will love me
just for me, not my worldly things.")
State of the World:
1. "Village Ghetto Land" Stevie Wonder ("Families buying dog food now. Starvation runs the streets. Babies die before they're born infected by the grief. Now some folks say that we should be glad for what we have. But tell me would you be happy in Village Ghetto Land?")
2. "Mr. Nigger" Mos Def ("Do you do the same shit if the defendant is white. If white boys doin it, well, it's success. When I start doing it, well, it's suspect.")
3. "I Try" Talib Kweli ("An upside down kingdom where life is just not fair. So many suffering cause deep inside they're scared. Fear pumped into their veins to keep them from their destiny, where would they be if you and I don't care? I try.")
Party:
1. "Let's Get Down" Toni Tony Tone ("The function's on. Around midnight. What time is it? Are you inside? Available to come and play? Give me a clue so I don't have to wait for you. C'mon, let's get down, let's get down, let's get down.")
2. "Got To Give It Up" Marvin Gaye ("I used to go out to parties and stand around, cause I was too nervous to really get down. But my body yearned to be free. I got up on the floor and found someone to choose me.")
3. "Nasty Girl" Vanity 6 ("Tonight, I'm living in a fantasy, my own lil nasty world. Tonight, don't you wanna come with me. Do you think I'm a nasty girl?")
Revenge:
1. "Ring the Alarm" Beyonce ("I done put in a call, partner ring the alarm, cause you ain't never seen a fire like the one I'ma cause!")
2. "5 Minutes" Lil Mo ("So I put two together, and I found myself ready to go. Before she even knew it I was comin' down the road. It only took me five minutes.")
3. "Thin Line Between Love and Hate" The Pretenders ("The sweetest woman in the world could be the meanest woman in the world, if you make her that way. You keep hurting her, she'll keep being quiet. She might be holding something inside that'll really, really hurt you one day.")
Prom: (These are the songs I remember from my prom)
1. "Differences" Ginuwine ("My whole life has changed since you came in. I knew back then you were that special one.")
2. "Living For the Love of You" Ron Isley ("Drifting on a memory, ain't no place I'd rather be than with you. Loving you.")
3. "Rock With You" Michael Jackson ("I wanna rock with you [all night]! Dance you into day [sunlight]. I wanna rock with you [all night]. Rock the night away!"
Life:
1. "I Wanna Be Yours" Fred Hammond ("Oh Lord you made me, and You know me. From the beginning You held my heart, You held me close. So I won't resist You. But as you intended, I wanna be Yours.")
2. "Black Girl Pain" Talib Kweli ("They just know the name, they don't know the pain Black Girl!")
3. "Can't Hold A Good Woman Down" Mary J. Blige ("Been to the edge of the ledge but I didn't jump. My life will sum it up, you can't hold a good woman down.")
Mental Breakdown:
1. "Caught Out There" Kelis ("Aaaaaaaaah! I hate you so much right now! Aaaaaaaaaah!")
2. "Breakdown" Mariah Carey ("So I wear my disguise til I go home at night and turn out all the lights and then I break down and cry.")
3. "Fool of Me" Meshell Ndegeocello ("I've allowed you to make me feel like....I feel so dumb. What kind of fool am I that you so easily set me aside? You made of fool of me. Tell me why.")
Driving:
1. "I Wanna Be Where You Are" Jackson 5 ("Can it be I stayed too long? Did I leave your mind when I was gone? Well it's not my thing trying to get back. But this time let me tell you where I'm at. You don't have to worry cause I'm coming back to where I should've always stayed!")
2. "Gone" Kanye West ("We strivin homes. I ride on chromes!")
3. "Fast Car" Tracy Chapman ("You got a fast car, I want to take it to anywhere. Maybe we'll make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere.")
Flashback:
1. "Candy Coated Raindrops" Soul 4 Real ("My love, do you ever dream of candy-coated raindrops. You're the same, my candy rain!")
2. "Nite & Day" Al B. Sure ("I can tell you how I feel about you night and day!")
3. "Someone To Love" Jon B. ("Don't even like to think about it. I don't know what I'd do without it. I only know I live and I breathe for your love.")
Getting Back Together:
1. "Oooh Baby" Smokey Robinson and the Miracles ("Mistakes, I know I've made a few. But I'm only human, you've made mistakes too.")
2. "Stupid Things" Thicke ("All the stupid things I do have absolutely no reflection on how I feel about you.")
3. "The Greatest Romance Ever Sold" Prince ("Was there ever a reason for us to be apart? The air that fills up this room says not hardly.")
Marriage
1. "For You" Kenny Lattimore ("For you, I'd take your hand, your heart, and everything and add to them a wedding ring. Cause this life is no good alone. Since we've become one you're all I've known. And if this feeling should leave I'd die, and here's why; all I am is for you.")
2. "As" Stevie Wonder ("As today I know I'm living but tomorrow could make me the past but that I mustn't fear. For I know deep in my mind the love of me I've left behind, cause I'll be loving you always.")
3. "Stars" Kindred ("We've come so far, stars look up at you baby. My heart belongs right here next to you baby.")
Final Battle:
1. "Here I Am" Twista ("Here I am, come and get me!")
2. "We Are the Champions" Queen ("We are the champions my friends. And we'll keep on fighting til the end!)
3. "Number 1" Nelly ("I am number one! Two is not a winner and three nobody remembers.")
Death Scene:
1. "Hold On To Jesus" Steven Curtis Chapman ("I will hold on to the hands of my Savior. I will hold on with all my might. I will hold loosely to things that are fleeting, and hold on to Jesus, I will hold on to Jesus for life.")
2. "You're Not Alone" Richard Smallwood ("When you're blinded by tears, and consumed by your fears, and your daytime has turned to night. You may be unaware, but there's Someone who cares, and He's leading you to the light. You're not alone. Never alone.")
3. "A Change Gon Come" Sam Cooke ("I was born by the river, in a little tent. Oh, and just like the river I been running ever since. It's been a long, a long time coming but I know a change gon come.")
Funeral Song:
1. "With Hope" Steven Curtis Chapman ("We can cry with hope. We can say goodbye with hope. 'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end. And we can grieve with hope, cause we believe with hope there's a place where we'll see your face again.")
2. "If You Could See Me Now" Truth ("And though we've had our sorrows, they can never compare to what Jesus has in store for us, no language can share. If you could see me now, I'm walking streets of gold. If you could see me now, I'm standing strong and whole. If you could see me now, you'd know I'd seen His face. If you could see me now, you know the pain's been erased. And you wouldn't want me to ever leave this perfect place. If you could only see me now.")
3. "Liberator" Jason Eskridge ("You are my Liberator, Your blood set me free. You are my Emancipator, with Your blood You bought me. And now I'm free.")
End Credits:
1. "Don't You Forget It" Glenn Lewis ("Trust you'll find your way to love, hope is what your heart is made of.")
If your life were a soundtrack what songs would be in it?
Opening Credits:
1. "Golden Lady" Stevie Wonder ("To know the love and the beauty never known before, I'll leave it up to you to show it.")
2. "Unbreakable" Michael Jackson ("And when you bury me underneath all your pain, I'm steady laughing while surfacing!")
3. "Bravebird" Amel Larrieux ("You're a bravebird, of the rarest kind.")
Waking Up:
1. "We Don't Care" Kanye West ("We wasn't sposed to make it past 25, jokes on you we still alive!!!")
2. "Happy Face" Destiny's Child ("I woke up this morning, the sunshine was shining. I put on my happy face. I'm breathing, I'm able, I'm willing, I'm grateful to put on a happy face.")
3. "Strength, Courage & Wisdom" India Arie ("I found strength, courage, and wisdom. It's been inside of me all along.")
First Day At School:
1. "In Christ Alone" Michael English ("In Christ alone, I place my trust and find my glory in the power of the cross. In every victory, let it be said of me, my source of strength, my source of hope is Christ alone.")
2. "Funny How Time Flies" Janet Jackson ("Funny how time flies when you're having fun.")
3. "Yearbook" Hanson ("'Cause I'm looking through the yearbook then I find that empty space. There's a name without a picture, but I can't forget his face. Tell me where did he go, I want to know where did Johnny go?")
Falling In Love:
1. "1 Thing" Amerie ("It's this one thing that got me trippin. It's this one thing; don't want to admit it. It's this one thing and I was so with it. It's this one thing you did.")
2. "I Can't Help It" Michael Jackson ("Looking in my mirror, took me by surprise. I can't help but see you running often through my mind.")
3. "What Are You Doing The Rest of Your Life" Sarah Vaughn ("What are you doing the rest of your life. Summer, winter, fall and spring of your life. I have only one request of your life; that you spend it all with me.")
Family:
1. "Mama" Boyz II Men ("You taught me everything and everything you've given me, I'll always keep it inside. You're the driving force in my life.")
2. "Sista" Shug Avery from The Colored Purple ("Sista, you been on my mind. Sista, we're two of a kind. Oh sista, I'm keepin my eyes on you.")
3. "Grandma's Hands" Bill Withers ("But I don't have grandma anymore. If I get to heaven I'll look for grandma's hands.")
Friends:
1. "Rose In a Concrete World" Joe ("We were like soldiers. Shoulder to shoulder…..If I was in trouble, then you was in trouble.")
2. "Count On Me" Whitney & CeCe ("Count on me through thick and thin, our friendship I will never end. When you are weak, I will be strong. Helping you to carry on. Call on me I will be there. Don't be afraid. Please believe me when I say, count on me.")
3. "Bridges" Destiny's Child ("I'll be the bridge you can use to, whenever you need to, get over problems in your way. And I will pick you up over mountaintops. Together we'll walk over the bridge.")
Fight Song:
1. "Takeover" Jay-Z ("It's like bringing a knife to a gunfight, pen to a test. You testin the line of fire wit yo thin ass vest!")
2. "Whatever Bitch" Mya ("And if you spoil my night, then we can take this shit outside. Tonight!")
3. "Let's Go" Trick Daddy ("Let's go! If you want it, you can get it, let me know. I'm bout to f*ck a n*gga up!")
Breaking Up:
1. "Son of a Gun" Janet Jackson ("Naw, I ain't gon go and act a fool, and be the lead story on the n*gga news.")
2. "Irreplaceable" Beyonce ("You must not know bout me! I can have another you in a minute. Matter fact, he'll be here in a minute.")
3. "I'll Die" Floetry ("If I stay right here, I'll die inside. Ran out of tears, I can barely get by. It's fair to say that we tried. You know I wanna stay, if I do, I'll die.")
Bitterness:
1. "Bitter" Meshell Ndegeocello ("And now my eyes look at you bitterly.")
2. "Resentment" Beyonce ("I may never understand why. I'm doing the best that I can and I, I tried and I tried to forget this, but I'm too damn full of resentment!")
3. "Ordinary Pain" Stevie Wonder ("Don't fool yourself. But tell no one else that it's more than just an ordinary pain in your heart.")
Longing:
1. "You Should Be Here" Raphael Saadiq ("You should be here in
the morningtime when I'm making my breakfast.")
2. "Neon" John Mayer ("And it's hard for me to take a stand when I
would take [him] any way I can.")
3. "Saturday Night Fever" Platinum Pied Pipers ("When I'm all alone
late at night in my bedroom I dream of someone who will love me
just for me, not my worldly things.")
State of the World:
1. "Village Ghetto Land" Stevie Wonder ("Families buying dog food now. Starvation runs the streets. Babies die before they're born infected by the grief. Now some folks say that we should be glad for what we have. But tell me would you be happy in Village Ghetto Land?")
2. "Mr. Nigger" Mos Def ("Do you do the same shit if the defendant is white. If white boys doin it, well, it's success. When I start doing it, well, it's suspect.")
3. "I Try" Talib Kweli ("An upside down kingdom where life is just not fair. So many suffering cause deep inside they're scared. Fear pumped into their veins to keep them from their destiny, where would they be if you and I don't care? I try.")
Party:
1. "Let's Get Down" Toni Tony Tone ("The function's on. Around midnight. What time is it? Are you inside? Available to come and play? Give me a clue so I don't have to wait for you. C'mon, let's get down, let's get down, let's get down.")
2. "Got To Give It Up" Marvin Gaye ("I used to go out to parties and stand around, cause I was too nervous to really get down. But my body yearned to be free. I got up on the floor and found someone to choose me.")
3. "Nasty Girl" Vanity 6 ("Tonight, I'm living in a fantasy, my own lil nasty world. Tonight, don't you wanna come with me. Do you think I'm a nasty girl?")
Revenge:
1. "Ring the Alarm" Beyonce ("I done put in a call, partner ring the alarm, cause you ain't never seen a fire like the one I'ma cause!")
2. "5 Minutes" Lil Mo ("So I put two together, and I found myself ready to go. Before she even knew it I was comin' down the road. It only took me five minutes.")
3. "Thin Line Between Love and Hate" The Pretenders ("The sweetest woman in the world could be the meanest woman in the world, if you make her that way. You keep hurting her, she'll keep being quiet. She might be holding something inside that'll really, really hurt you one day.")
Prom: (These are the songs I remember from my prom)
1. "Differences" Ginuwine ("My whole life has changed since you came in. I knew back then you were that special one.")
2. "Living For the Love of You" Ron Isley ("Drifting on a memory, ain't no place I'd rather be than with you. Loving you.")
3. "Rock With You" Michael Jackson ("I wanna rock with you [all night]! Dance you into day [sunlight]. I wanna rock with you [all night]. Rock the night away!"
Life:
1. "I Wanna Be Yours" Fred Hammond ("Oh Lord you made me, and You know me. From the beginning You held my heart, You held me close. So I won't resist You. But as you intended, I wanna be Yours.")
2. "Black Girl Pain" Talib Kweli ("They just know the name, they don't know the pain Black Girl!")
3. "Can't Hold A Good Woman Down" Mary J. Blige ("Been to the edge of the ledge but I didn't jump. My life will sum it up, you can't hold a good woman down.")
Mental Breakdown:
1. "Caught Out There" Kelis ("Aaaaaaaaah! I hate you so much right now! Aaaaaaaaaah!")
2. "Breakdown" Mariah Carey ("So I wear my disguise til I go home at night and turn out all the lights and then I break down and cry.")
3. "Fool of Me" Meshell Ndegeocello ("I've allowed you to make me feel like....I feel so dumb. What kind of fool am I that you so easily set me aside? You made of fool of me. Tell me why.")
Driving:
1. "I Wanna Be Where You Are" Jackson 5 ("Can it be I stayed too long? Did I leave your mind when I was gone? Well it's not my thing trying to get back. But this time let me tell you where I'm at. You don't have to worry cause I'm coming back to where I should've always stayed!")
2. "Gone" Kanye West ("We strivin homes. I ride on chromes!")
3. "Fast Car" Tracy Chapman ("You got a fast car, I want to take it to anywhere. Maybe we'll make a deal. Maybe together we can get somewhere.")
Flashback:
1. "Candy Coated Raindrops" Soul 4 Real ("My love, do you ever dream of candy-coated raindrops. You're the same, my candy rain!")
2. "Nite & Day" Al B. Sure ("I can tell you how I feel about you night and day!")
3. "Someone To Love" Jon B. ("Don't even like to think about it. I don't know what I'd do without it. I only know I live and I breathe for your love.")
Getting Back Together:
1. "Oooh Baby" Smokey Robinson and the Miracles ("Mistakes, I know I've made a few. But I'm only human, you've made mistakes too.")
2. "Stupid Things" Thicke ("All the stupid things I do have absolutely no reflection on how I feel about you.")
3. "The Greatest Romance Ever Sold" Prince ("Was there ever a reason for us to be apart? The air that fills up this room says not hardly.")
Marriage
1. "For You" Kenny Lattimore ("For you, I'd take your hand, your heart, and everything and add to them a wedding ring. Cause this life is no good alone. Since we've become one you're all I've known. And if this feeling should leave I'd die, and here's why; all I am is for you.")
2. "As" Stevie Wonder ("As today I know I'm living but tomorrow could make me the past but that I mustn't fear. For I know deep in my mind the love of me I've left behind, cause I'll be loving you always.")
3. "Stars" Kindred ("We've come so far, stars look up at you baby. My heart belongs right here next to you baby.")
Final Battle:
1. "Here I Am" Twista ("Here I am, come and get me!")
2. "We Are the Champions" Queen ("We are the champions my friends. And we'll keep on fighting til the end!)
3. "Number 1" Nelly ("I am number one! Two is not a winner and three nobody remembers.")
Death Scene:
1. "Hold On To Jesus" Steven Curtis Chapman ("I will hold on to the hands of my Savior. I will hold on with all my might. I will hold loosely to things that are fleeting, and hold on to Jesus, I will hold on to Jesus for life.")
2. "You're Not Alone" Richard Smallwood ("When you're blinded by tears, and consumed by your fears, and your daytime has turned to night. You may be unaware, but there's Someone who cares, and He's leading you to the light. You're not alone. Never alone.")
3. "A Change Gon Come" Sam Cooke ("I was born by the river, in a little tent. Oh, and just like the river I been running ever since. It's been a long, a long time coming but I know a change gon come.")
Funeral Song:
1. "With Hope" Steven Curtis Chapman ("We can cry with hope. We can say goodbye with hope. 'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end. And we can grieve with hope, cause we believe with hope there's a place where we'll see your face again.")
2. "If You Could See Me Now" Truth ("And though we've had our sorrows, they can never compare to what Jesus has in store for us, no language can share. If you could see me now, I'm walking streets of gold. If you could see me now, I'm standing strong and whole. If you could see me now, you'd know I'd seen His face. If you could see me now, you know the pain's been erased. And you wouldn't want me to ever leave this perfect place. If you could only see me now.")
3. "Liberator" Jason Eskridge ("You are my Liberator, Your blood set me free. You are my Emancipator, with Your blood You bought me. And now I'm free.")
End Credits:
1. "Don't You Forget It" Glenn Lewis ("Trust you'll find your way to love, hope is what your heart is made of.")
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