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.