Reflections on an American Election

Silence.

A thought emerges…but it too is silenced.

I'm not sure how to respond to this - this new America. The possibility-turned-reality of a person of color - a black man - being elected to the presidency of the United States is not one for which I've been prepared. I can still envision that little girl with the afro-puff wearing the pink shirt that said, "Future President." The little girl who, when asked what she'd be when she grew up, responded without hesitation: "A teacher, a scientist, a doctor, and president." But then she learned that while teacher, scientist, and doctor might be within her grasp if she studied hard and went to college, president was never, ever, a dream to be reached. Not by little girls and especially not by little brown-skinned girls or boys.

And now, some thirty-odd years later, that little brown girl has exceeded her dreams. And still she wonders "what might have been" had the specter of race not cast a net over her dreams. A political career? Unlikely. Not really her cup of tea. But what other possibilities might have existed in a boundless imagination? More importantly, with the ceiling so visibly shattered, how does she raise that little brown boy, whose laughter rings throughout the house as she writes, so that he hears within his head, "Yes, I can," and not "No, they won't let me"?

Silence.

Yesterday, a brown-skinned man was elected president. Today my sister-in-law and her family woke up to find that their home, as well as those of other African Americans in their community, had been paint-balled.

Yesterday a multicultural coalition voted in record numbers to honor the ancestors on whose shoulders we stand. Today an African American family in Birmingham tries to clean up the $7,000 in property damage and untold amount in environmental damage done by those who rock-salted their lawn.

The hope abounds. And so do the hate crimes. And downstairs is a little brown boy who must be prepared for both of those realities.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

Silence.

A 12-Step Program for Strong Black Women

Last week, a reader asked the question that I get asked quite a bit, "What's your solution for women suffering from the disease of being a Strong Black Woman?" My usual answer is, "Give me a little time. I'm still working on it." Yeah, it's a cop-out. A way of admitting that I have no idea. I can diagnose the problem, but offering a solution is much harder. But there was something about the question posed this week that made me realize that it's time to stop putting off the question.

I must start with a confession. If this were a 12-step meeting for SBWs, I'd be saying, "Hi, my name is Chanequa and I'm a Strong Black Woman. I have been in recovery for almost six years now. But at most, I've probably only accrued a few days of being clean at once. I relapse constantly, maybe even daily. I don't know if I'll ever break free of this thing. But I'm here. And just for today, I will make at least one decision in favor of my physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health. Just for today, I will try to let go of my need for control, to become aware of when I need help, and to ask for help when I need it. Just for today, I give myself permission to cry when I'm sad, to scream when I'm frustrated, to smile and laugh when I'm happy, and to dance like I've got wings when the Spirit moves me. Just for today, I will reject the mandate to be a Strong Black Woman. Just for today, I will simply be."

The reality is that being a Strong Black Woman is an addiction, a force of habit ingrained in many of us from childhood. Moreover, it is reinforced by our families, friends, co-workers, and churches - all those people who praise our strength and continuous self-sacrifice. And it's especially lauded and reinforced by those who benefit from our caretaking. Our healing, then, is not a one-time event, but rather a lifelong process. It seems appropriate, then, to develop a 12-step program for Strong Black Women. Here's my first attempt:

1. We admit that we are powerless over our compulsion to be strong — that our physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health are suffering.

2. We acknowledge that we are not divine, that there is a Power greater than ourselves who can restore us to right relationship with ourselves and others.

3. We make a decision to turn our will and our lives, and those of the people we care for, over to the care and protection of the Divine.

4. We practice self-awareness, making a searching inventory of ourselves and our relationships.

5. We admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our compulsions and the traumas and fears that drive them.

6. We are ready to have the Holy One heal us.

7. We humbly ask the Almighty to remove our need for control and to nurture in us a commitment to self-care.

8. We make a list of all persons we have harmed and continue to harm through our excessive caretaking, and we become willing to make amends to them all.

9. We make direct amends to such people wherever possible by allowing them to assume responsibility for their own lives.

10. We continue to practice self-awareness and when we relapse, we promptly admit and correct it.

11. We seek through prayer, meditation, and journaling to nurture our connection with the Divine, praying for knowledge of Her will for our lives and for faith in Her protection and care.

12. We try to carry this message to the strong Black women in our lives and to embody these principles as an example to them and to the generations that follow us.

Make Room for Daddy

I have been thinking a lot about fathers over the past few months. To be more specific, I've been thinking about the denigration of the role of fathers in the African American community. Denigration is a tough word, to be sure. And it's not one that I use lightly. But increasingly, I'm coming to the conclusion that denigrating the importance of fathers is exactly what we're doing.

It's no secret that the majority of African Americanchildren are being raised in single-parent households - about 65 percent according to the latest estimate. Of course, "single-parent" is not a synonym for "absent father." Although the media and the so-called "Moral Majority"might like us to believe that the children living in single-parent households have all been abandoned by their fathers, many of these children live with their fathers and a good many more have fathers who are actively and critically involved in their lives.

But if we are honest with ourselves, we must admit that there are far too many African American children who are being raised without the presence of a father. While there are often grandfathers, uncles, or other male mentors in relationship with those children, I suspect that only a minority of those men really fulfill the role of father figure.

What's more, there are some neighborhoods where fathers are entirely absent. It's a running joke on Chris Rock's semi-autobiographical sitcom, “Everybody Hates Chris,” that his is the only father in the community. There are lots of men in the neighborhood, but only one fulfilling the role of father. It cuts too close as an imitation of life. It reminds me of several years ago when I was working with a dataset from a national survey of thousands of high school students across the U.S. In the beginning, to familiarize myself with the data, I reviewed the manual that described each of the variables in the survey and the range of values possible for each variable. It was some pretty heady material but I was making my way through it okay. At least until I got to the section on community data. There was one variable where the range of values seemed statistically impossible. I couldn't make sense of it. Finally, I realized what the manual was telling me - there are communities in the U.S. (in this case defined at the census tract level) where there are no fathers present. Not one. Not even Chris' dad.

We might imagine that the neighborhoods in question were poor. And they probably were. Economic and racial oppression has a lot to do with the absence of fathers. But I am not content to lay sole responsibility for this phenomenon at the feet of The Man. After all, as far as I can tell, The Man doesn't plan on changing the system anytime soon.

Perhaps it’s the focus on economics that has many college-educated, financially successful sisters deciding to bear children without the benefit of a committed father. I'm not going to speculate on why these women aren't married or even argue that they should be married (that's a topic for another day). Rather, I want to question the notion that seems to be underlying this trend - namely that prosperity (and maybe a strong sisterfriend network) is a substitute for a father. The idea seems to be that if a woman makes enough money or has enough support from family and friends, then she can raise a child successfully without the father's involvement. And there are many examples that prove this to be true. In fact, there are many women who have raised children successfully without the benefit of money, a strong support network, or a father.

But is this the exception rather than the rule? Let's face it - maybe Bill Cosby could have worded it better (and nuanced it a great deal more) but he wasn't all wrong - come on people! Yes, racism, classism, and sexism matter - a lot. However, I believe that it is precisely because these interlocking forces of oppression bear down upon black children and create an uphill battle for African American parents that we must do whatever we can to protect our children. And part of that protection has to involve fathers.

In my class on African American families, we read Mary Pattillo-McCoy's “Black Picket Fences,” an analysis of the strengths and struggles of middle-class African American families. At the heart of Pattillo-McCoy's argument is that the prosperity and privilege of middle-class African Americans does not insulate their parenting. Even in this tight-knit community, gangs, crime, and teenage pregnancy were highly prevalent. As we read the text, my students and I noticed a consistent factor in the lives of the teenagers and young adults who had succeeded - fathers. Each of them - whether their parents were married or not - had fathers who were actively involved in their lives. In fact, children who lived with their mothers but had daily contact with their fathers fared far better than did those who lived in households with fathers who were tangential.

Fathers matter. And they matter for more reasons than their financial contribution or even the benefit of having another body involved in childrearing. After a long time of ignoring fathers (and blaming mothers for everything that went wrong with children), child development experts have begun to realize this. There is a growing body of research that shows that fathers - good fathers - offer something that is unique from what mothers offer. And I believe that most children need the benefit of both to fully thrive.

In other words, African American women have got to stop using that mantra "I'm mama and daddy." We're not. And if you need any further evidence of that, just look to the number of young women who are chasing down father figures in the form of unhealthy sexual relationships and the number of young men who are chasing them down by emulating a model of manhood that they've seen on the corner or on BET. We have to reclaim the role of fathers in our communities. Otherwise, we may be throwing our children's lives down the drain.

Barkley Hendricks and the White Imagination

Last night, in celebration of Valentine’s Day, my husband and I went to see an exhibit by Barkley L. Hendricks. Known for his life-size paintings of ordinary African Americans, Hendricks’ work is shockingly realistic. I spent about 45 minutes walking through the exhibit. Most museum exhibits that I have seen have focused on the novel and the unfamiliar. But
surrounded by more than fifty of Hendricks’ huge paintings, I felt at home. These were faces that I knew. The detail to clothing, posture, and emotional expression was so remarkable that I expected each painting to come to life and begin talking to me as I gazed at it.

Later, there was a dialogue about African American men and body image that was inspired by Hendricks’ work. Did I mention that there were more than fifty paintings depicting a diverse array of black women and men from across the diaspora? Well, the sponsors of the dialogue chose to focus on one painting – Hendricks’ Brilliantly Endowed, a self-portrait of the artist
wearing nothing but a fedora, wristband, tube socks and sneakers.

Because I’d stepped outside of the exhibit hall for a drink of water and had gotten waylaid by a conversation with a friend, I missed the first part of the discussion. When I returned, I found a group of mostly white (and some Asian) faces sitting and standing in front of Hendricks’ exposed
penis. On an easel at the front of the group there was a flipchart with these words:

BLACK MALES TODAY	BLACK MALES IN HIS ART
flashy basketball crime unemployed hip hop hypermasculine power drugs style homophobia rap danger soul un(der)educated ghetto really nice guys	confident cool defiant in control thoughtful in your face meditative well-dressed muscular serene comfortable relaxed challenging attitude angry deep successful suave sexy

As I stood looking at the chart, a few African American couples joined the crowd, including my friend and her companion. Each pair began murmuring among themselves. Finally, a young man leaned over and whispered, “Were you here when they put together that list?” None of us were.

And we were all wondering what question had led to that left side. Perhaps they had specifically asked for negative stereotypes about black men. That was my hope anyway, even though I suspected otherwise.

At one point my friends’ companion spoke to the group at large: “It’s disturbing to walk in here and to feel so good about being surrounded by paintings of people who look like men, and then to come over here and see how the artist’s work is being received. I suspect that it tells us less about the artist than it does about the audience.” A middle-aged white woman spoke up cheerily, trying to reassure: “I don’t think you were here when we did the exercise. The left side wasn’t actually in response to his work.” As if that made it better.

At the end of the dialogue, I asked one of the facilitators, a young Asian woman, about the question that had prompted the list. She responded brightly, “Oh, we didn’t have anything on the paper other than the two headings, Black Males Today and Black Males in His Art. We just
asked people to say what came to mind when they thought of black males today. It could have been from media, from perception, from anything. Then for the other side, we told them to say what comes to mind when they thought of black males in his art.”

Ironic. At a time when a black man has made history by becoming the first person of color to have a viable chance of becoming the presidential nominee for one of our major parties, it is the stereotyped representations of African American men that whites spontaneously report (and
yes, I’m ignoring the “really nice guys” given that it’s a pathetically absurd attempt to make up for what came before it). That this was supposedly the educated, progressive crowd made it even worse.

But perhaps the real tragedy is that there are some African Americans, including those in high-profile positions, who seek to capitalize off of and perpetuate this image. BET (aka Booties Every Time) comes to mind. Which image do you think a white cop is more likely to have in mind when he encounters a black man with a wallet in his hand? How about a white human resources manager when she receives an application from a black man? Based on the list above, it is certainly not Barack Obama’s “bright, clean, and articulate” self. Clearly, this is not just entertainment.

Directly across from Brilliantly Endowed was another image, Sweet Thang (Lynn Jenkins), a painting of one of Hendricks’ black female students from Connecticut College. Slumped on a sofa, hand up to her head, the sister has a look of resigned frustration that is reminiscent of Fanny
Lou Hamer’s, “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I’d been drawn to the painting my first time through the gallery. After the group discussion, it became my clear favorite. Looks like that sister had just been around a group of white folks having a discussion just like this one.

An Open Letter to Tyler Perry

Dear Mr. Perry,

Do you like women? Not "like" as in gay or straight, but "like" as in respect. I have seen a few of your films now - Diary of a Mad Black Woman, Madea's Family Reunion, and Why Did I Get Married? And increasingly, I find myself questioning whether you truly love, respect, and appreciate women in their own right.

Don't get me wrong. I have found your films entertaining and thought-provoking, even if a little over the top. I have laughed, groaned, and mourned along with your characters. And I have truly appreciated your attempt to portray black women in roles that expand beyond the skimpily dressed, booty shaking figures that we see on MTV and BET. In your latest film, Why Did I Get Married?, you made a point of depicting professional, highly educated black women. And as woman with a few graduate degrees, I saw part of myself in your characters' struggles to balance work, family, and self.

But at the end of every film, I was discomfited despite having had a good laugh. And when people asked me whether I liked the movie, I struggled to express the conflicting feelings within: I was entertained and glad I saw it but I'm not sure that I liked it and perhaps I could have waited for the DVD.

Leaving the theatre after viewing Why Did I Get Married?, my husband and I did our standard check in. "What'd you think?" he said. "It was entertaining but…" I paused before continuing, "I'm starting to wonder if Tyler Perry likes women."

You see, Mr. Perry, I have noticed a disturbing pattern in how you resolve your films: the solution to the woman's problems is always located in a man. You seem to think women incapable of standing on their own, being happy, whole, and successful outside of a relationship with a man.

Let me assure you that I am not one of those "I don't need a man" sisters. I have been married for 10 years now and my husband's unconditional love and support has helped me to become who I am. However, I have also learned that my ability to truly love my husband is only made possible because loving him is a choice which I freely make - over and over again. I am not with him because I am afraid of being alone. I am not with him because I think that life would be meaningless without him. I am not with him because I feel otherwise incomplete. I am certain that I could live - and thrive - without my husband. But I choose to share life without him because he makes it richer. I've come to think of my marriage as the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae: the sundae is good by itself, but the cherry makes it different and better (and Mr. Perry - I really like cherries).

But your idea of "happily ever after" always involves a woman finding happiness in a new relationship or becoming a "better wife." Your female characters transfer their emotional dependency from one man to another. (Really, couldn't Helen have at least gotten an apartment of her own before investing her happiness in Orlando? Couldn't Sheila have done the same before marrying Sheriff Troy, less than a year after her divorce from Mike?) Professional women sacrifice their career aspirations in order to accommodate their husband's desire for more children. (Dianne's concern about pregnancy jeopardizing her career was a valid one held by many women. Rather than trivializing it as "selfish," perhaps she and Terry could have had a discussion about how to accommodate her professional aspirations as they raised their family, instead of her "I'll do whatever it takes to keep you" speech. I'm not saying that marriage should not involve compromise. I'm just asking for a little reciprocity). And sisters who seem to have it together, including supportive husbands, turn out to be emotionally repressed. (Why couldn't you at least let Patricia be emotionally balanced, given the fact that you portrayed three seemingly healthy men? Do you really think we're all screwed up?).

I'm worried because I've seen a lot of women like this - in my personal life and in my career as a psychologist. I've seen women who sacrificed their educational and occupational dreams because their husband's job required frequent moves or forced them to take on a disproportionate share of family and household responsibilities (in addition to their jobs). I've seen women who have denied themselves to take care of the needs of everyone around them. These women have ended up in my office - depressed, anxious, overweight, and just plain stressed out. And all the while feeling like they had no right to complain because "at least I have a good man."

I really appreciate your emphasis on forgiveness in your movies. But I wish you'd also emphasize the importance of reciprocity as well as individual health and fulfillment. I know that you're trying to do something good, so I want to push you to do more. Because ultimately, I believe that you do like women, that you love women. You just don't know how. So right now all you're doing is replacing one stereotype - the sex-craved jezebel - with two others that are slightly better - the needy, victimized woman or the superstrong sister. You're pulling the rug from beneath us even as you give us legs. And unfortunately, because many of us are so battle weary from the assault on our images, we don't realize that we should expect better. But we deserve better. And I have faith that you can - and want to - do better.

A Chance Encounter

I just had an interesting encounter. Sitting in the campus coffee shop at Duke University, where I teach part-time, a woman approached me.

"Are you a graduate student?" she asked.
"Actually, I'm a professor," I replied.
"Oh! What department?"
"Women's studies."
"What class do you teach?"
"Black Love."
"Wow! That must be explosive."
"It's quite enjoyable. I've just come from there." Indeed, I was still unpacking my computer.
"Well, I'm from the Caribbean and you want to know what I think of black men in America?" I nodded and she proceeded to gesture from the tabletop to the floor.
"I'm not sure what that means," I said.

She clarified by giving a thumbs-down sign. I wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"Really?" I finally said, hoping the lift in my voice would encourage her to say more.
"Black men in America are no good. Every now and then you find a good one here or there. But most of them are no good."

I wondered whether I should tell her about my husband, my brothers, my brothers-in-law, my cousins, my uncles, etc. - all the good black men in my life. I was tempted to invite the young brother at the next table to join our conversation. I wished that some of my students were around.

She continued. "Then again, I'm not a feminist. Are you a feminist?"
"Yes, I am."

She gave me that look, the one that sisters use - no matter if they're from U.S., the Caribbean, or Africa - when we're sizing you up. She announced that she was going outside to smoke. But as she turned to walk away, something caught her eye - the gleam from the ring finger on my left hand.

"You're married?!" she asked incredulously.
"Yes I am," I said.
"And you're a feminist?!"
"Absolutely. They are not mutually exclusive." I found it ironic that the woman with such a dismal view of black men was surprised to discover that a feminist liked men.

She went outside for a few minutes. Coming back in, she grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the table.

"Are you religious?" she asked.
"Yes, I'm a Christian. In fact, I'm a minister and I teach at Shaw Divinity School."

Her mouth fell open. We talked for nearly an hour before exchanging telephone numbers and promising to keep in touch.

Ironically, my class today was about the way in which our imaginations are shaped by popular culture such that we hold judgments about each other based upon what we think we know. Many of us walk around with scripts in our head that tell us what to expect from other people based upon a label. Black man = no good. Feminist = hates men. Christian = not feminist. These are a few that my conversation partner seemed to hold at the beginning of our encounter.

With rare exceptions, most of us have some sort of script in our head. And for those in the United States, these scripts are heavily tainted by the legacies of racism and sexism. And these scripts, in turn, poison our romantic relationships. They are the walls that box us in. They limit our imaginations in terms of who we see as romantic partners, how we function in relationships, and how we expect our partners to function. And quite often, they prevent us from seeing the truth about ourselves.

People are usually more complicated than labels. At the risk of sounding cliché, it's time to think outside the box.

The Burden of the Strong Black Woman

A single disorder is causing a health care crisis among African American women. It is not one that you will hear about on the news. It is not recognized by the medical establishment and few health care professionals would diagnose it. Yet millions of African American women are affected by it in some way and have been for centuries. The symptoms of this disorder can include stress, fatigue, headaches, poor dietary and exercise habits, obesity, hypertension, chronic pain, emotional numbing, and pent-up anger. The name of this disorder? Strong Black Woman syndrome.

You are probably wondering how being a Strong Black Woman can be bad. After all, the Strong Black Woman is resilient, assertive, strong-willed, independent, dependable, and persistent. She is capable of overcoming adversity with poise, confidence, and style. No matter the odds stacked against her, she presses on without a complaint. She is the sister who will come through when friends and family are in a pinch – serving as counselor and caretaker for all those around her. Her strength and determination have enabled her survival and inspired others to endure under conditions of extreme oppression and abuse. Her crucial role in the survival of Black people in the United States is undeniable.

But such strength comes at a cost. In an effort to protect herself from the overwhelming and paralyzing pain in her daily life, the historical Strong Black Woman learned to repress sadness, grief, and anger. The experience of repeated disappointment and shattered dreams taught her to dampen hope and happiness. Rather than living and enjoying life fully, she operated in survival mode, coasting through in a numbed emotional state, with just enough hope for the possibility of a better life.

While circumstances have changed, the Strong Black Woman has not. Unable to show any signs of weakness, she cannot ask for help when she needs it and buries any sign of emotional distress in an effort to look as though she has it together. Her fear of vulnerability causes her to be closed off to others, incapable of expressing her full humanity or experiencing emotionally intimate relationships. She sacrifices her own happiness for that of others and lives a life full of unfulfilled hopes and resentment. The perpetual caretaker, she spends most of her days caring for the needs of others, promising to reserve the leftovers for herself. But usually there are no leftovers. So she ends up taking care of the needs of others at the expense of her own spiritual, physical, and emotional health. She becomes tired, unhappy, not living up to her full potential, and stressed out. She experiences feelings of guilt anytime that she does something for herself and instead fills her days with constant activity. She loses her sense of connection with the Creator and suffers from stress and lifestyle-related health problems, including obesity, hypertension, diabetes, chronic pain, migraine headaches, and ulcers.

Each of us has a Strong Black Woman in our lives – our mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, or ourselves. It is time to release her. Free her from the bondage of being a caretaker and allow her to devote time to some much needed self-care. Help her to do the one thing that she is not strong enough to do – take care of herself.