Like many teenagers, I naively created a time line of what I wanted to accomplish at certain stages of my life. I planned to finish college and start my career as an electrical engineer by twenty-two. I was to be married at twenty-five and have the first of my three children by twenty-seven. By forty my ideal self would own her dream home and travel bi-annually to exotic destinations around the world with her picturesque family. It’s safe to say life doesn’t always go as planned.
In seven short days I will celebrate my fortieth birthday. I have never been married. I do not have any children. Nor do I own my dream home, yet. But, what I do possess is an invaluable asset that can not be bought, self-awareness. Author, Stephen Covey defines self-awareness as the capacity to stand apart from ourselves and examine our thinking, our motives, our history, our scripts, our actions, and our habits and tendencies. Because self- awareness is intangible my teenage self wouldn’t have known to desire it. Honestly, my twenty five year old self couldn’t even fathom its worth.
Although I wholeheartedly agree with Covey’s definition, I would go step farther by adding that self-awareness is not only the capacity to view ourselves apart from the things we do, say and think but it is our willingness to perform that separation. Self-awareness is an arduous but rewarding process that leads us to our highest selves and purpose. It is the process of coming to a clear understanding about who you are and why you are.
The journey towards self-awareness has no exact time table. Neither is it linear or fluid. It dares to ask the hard questions we pray no one utters and unearths every layer of microscopic debris that hinders our greatness. I am entering this new phase of my life with a kind of clarity and confidence that can only come by what Iyanla Vanzant refers to as “doing the work.” This “work” isn’t pretty and at times can be downright painful. But, this labor of self- love yields an endless bounty of joy, peace, passion and purpose I never imagined possible. Becoming self-aware doesn’t render me perfect by any means. In fact it forces me to confront my imperfections and flaws head on with truthful analysis and thoughtful adjustments.
The vision I had for my life as a teenager pales in comparison to the life I am actually living. I plan to be married one day but until then I am utilizing this period of singleness learning about the world around me and offering my talents, gifts and abilities to bettering my community and my world. I haven’t birthed any children yet but I am an intricate part of dozens of thriving, loving villages that rear healthy, whole children. And that dream home will become a reality but until it does I will continue traveling this nation and as much of the world as I can, making myself at home at every destination. After high school I tried my hand at electronics engineering but soon discovered that didn’t like working in the technology field. I later discovered a passion for social science and literature that I am using to create a career path as a writer, community educator and inspirational speaker who makes a living on her own terms. Life does indeed begin at…….
In the fall of 2002, while walking through the vibrant HBCU campus I attended, I heard hip hop music blaring from a huge, red, HIV/AIDS testing van. While the music played, a small crowd gathered dancing to the tunes. I joined them and began thumbing through the informational pamphlets on a display table. On that same table were a few raffle prizes set aside for those who agreed to be tested for HIV and other STI’s. Almost immediately a pair of white socks with purple butterflies captured my attention. I did and said all I could think of to walk away from that table with the socks without being tested but the lady I was talking to wasn’t going for it.
After about twenty minutes of small talk and unsuccessful negations I gave in and agreed to get tested. I was more afraid of the needle than I was of the possibility of testing positive. I was told that if I didn’t hear from them in three weeks then I was fine and that I should get tested at least once a year. One week passed, two weeks passed, three weeks passed and I heard nothing. Those were the longest three weeks of my life but that weekend I celebrated like I had won the lottery.
As I prepared to go to class the following Monday morning I received a phone call from a woman with a raspy voice who said she was calling on behalf of the health department. I questioned her about my results but she refused to answer me with a definite yes or no. She was eerily calm which let me know something was wrong. She then instructed me to come to the health department the next day at 9am. When I arrived I was taken into an oatmeal colored office no bigger than my bathroom. I sat in a tan metal folding chair awaiting my fate when a portly, balding white man walked in. He explained that I tested positive for HIV and that my viral load was so high that I now had AIDS.
In that moment I collapsed, sobbing. My first thought was how was I going to tell my younger sister and the rest of my family that I was now living with the same disease the killed my mother seven short years earlier. I knew they would be devastated but I also knew I couldn’t go through this alone like my mother did. She lived and suffered in silence in fear that her family might judge or ridicule her. Ultimately, she kept her sickness a secret until she couldn’t anymore, swearing my sister and I to secrecy. By the time most of her family knew about her health we were preparing for her funeral.
I was determined to do things differently so on the same day I was diagnosed I started telling people. I told my closest friends and my family. Although they were shocked, they were supportive. They encouraged me and assured me that I wasn’t alone. My family has been my greatest support system. I also have to credit my faith community for their outpour of love and support when I publicly disclosed my status several years ago. It’s because of them that I have the strength and the courage to tell my story in hopes that I can prevent some woman or girl from contracting HIV.
The last fourteen years have been a beautiful struggle. Since being diagnosed I have earned a Bachelors and a Masters degree. I have traveled to Kenya twice and written my first book. It’s hasn’t been easy but I have grown to love the woman I have become. I am a woman of faith who has found her purpose in the midst of chaos and devastation. I have discovered the power of forgiveness by forgiving myself and others who have harmed me. I have even found the strength to forgive the man to sexually assaulted and infected me as a teenager. Forgiving him freed me to become a better me.
During this journey to self-love I have encountered so much ignorance and negative stigma. I am still amazed by the number of myths and inaccurate assumptions that continue to remain about women living with HIV/AIDS. I see it as my duty to offer correct information when I hear false information being shared. I also call out those who help drive negative stigma among women living with HIV. The stigma around HIV/AIDS especially among Black women is a silent killer that I am committed to conquering one interview, one speech, one conversation and one article at a time. We are not dirty nor are we the oversexed minions we’re often portrayed to be. We are mothers, sisters, wives, cousins, nieces, friends and grandmothers. We too are Black Girl Magic.
To me Black Girl Magic is the mystical place where Blackness and femininity collide. It is the defiance against the boxes and labels mainstream society suggests we live in and wear. Black Girl Magic is the ability to defy odds while achieving dreams bigger than yourself. It is loving you while loving others in the process.
I beamed with pride as one of my all time favorite performers accepted the Soul Train Lady of Soul Award earlier this week. I have been a fan of Jill Scott ever since her Long Walk days. Her unapologetic approach to Black womanhood has always inspired me. Her latest CD Womanserved as the sound track to my summer 2015 shenanigans which included a road trip to see her live for the first time. She exudes authenticity whether she’s doing an interview, performing on stage, or acting. As a fellow creative, thinker and lover of love I imagine Jill as the big sister I never had offering the kind of woman to woman wisdom that only comes through lived experiences and lessons learned.
On most days I live my life like it’s golden, on my own terms with joy in my heart and a smile on my face. I’m usually driven with purpose and vision not only for myself but for the dozens of little Black and Brown girls I teach and the millions of hearts I have yet to touch. But this Wednesday the heaviness I have been trying to shake for weeks, won and I needed a day. A day to collect my thoughts, breathe deeply, shut off the noise and just be. I simply didn’t have the energy to face the day so I did that which I dread. I called my job at 5a.m. expressing regret that I wouldn’t be coming in due to “personal reasons”. It had been a while since I needed one of those days, maybe three months now, and for that I am grateful. There was a time when my life was one long continuous “day”.
When I saw this video of my favorite songstress comforting a stranger she met coming to work on one of her “bad” days I couldn’t help but think about the millions of other women around the world who simply need a day, a day void of stress, confusion, worry or fear. I felt relieved in knowing that I am not alone. I felt strong in knowing that even on my weakest days I am a warrior. Thursday I rose when the alarm sounded, showered, got dressed and walked into my job ready to face a new day. And although new days come with new challenges, new experiences and new perspectives, I am forever grateful to God for new days.
I was raised in a small Southern town most known for being a mecca of Black collegiate life. Every fall I looked forward to watching sororities and fraternities, step teams, Black beauty queens and rhythmically equipped brass horned marching bands strut their stuff down barricaded streets in the heart of the city. Homecoming was and still is a celebration of Black excellence, saturated in survival. Orangeburg, home of the South Carolina State University Bulldogs, Claflin University Panthers and a little knownMassacrethat resulted in the death of three college students and life altering injuries to dozens of other young protesters is and forever will be my home. Once a year the streets that acted as the stage for SC State’s Homecoming festivities barricaded themselves with intimidation and intolerance as the Ku Klux Klan paraded their bigotry through the town square under the veil of heritage and White pride. When I was a kid my mother would park her car within viewing distance of the shouting white men wearing flowing white robes and a pointed hat that looked more like a practical joke than a scare tactic. My younger sister and I silently looked on from the back seat while she explained who these men were and why their voices were so hot with rage. In her mind, our survival relied on how well we knew how to navigate through the maze of biases, discriminatory practices and assumptions that would be made about how we looked as opposed to who we were.
My city, situated less than eighty miles from Charlestonis drenched in unspoken segregation and “good ole boy” politics. Without warning or intention the geography of my upbringing sharpened my awareness and heightened my racially spatial awareness. There I honed my Oscar worthy acting chops in the presence of White people whose worthiness depended on my seemingly joyful demeanor and Yes\No sirs and Yes\No Ma’ams. From an early age I’ve come to expect a White instructor’s surprised reaction to my ability to think, reason and compute as I effortlessly leaped over their low expectations. When their amazement subsided I was either hailed as an anomaly or accused of cheating, neither were flattering. I still cringe when I catch myself flashing “the smile” to White passersby. You know the “I’m smiling halfheartedly so that you know that I’m not a threat because if you get scared enough my safety could be in jeopardy” smile. There I learned not to notice the change being placed on counter instead of in my hand, the clutched purses and the frantic but subtle pulling of small children closer as I walk past. Learning the slow, calculated lean to retrieve proof of insurance from the glove box so that you can live to pay the ticket was a lesson that I’m sure has saved my life at some point. There is no syllabus, lesson plan or course description written to better equip me to navigate the nuances of master\slave, Black\White, superior\inferior than growing up in South Carolina.
Today the confederate flag was removed from the state house grounds in Columbia South Carolina. I honestly wish that I felt something other than indifference about this symbolic act, but I can’t. I know too much. I know that I live in a country that has prospered only because of the institution of slavery. I know that thecost analysisof the removal of a Confederate flag in 2015 still renders the descendants of African slave labor economically and politically debilitated. I know that the state of South Carolina bought cheap seats and will eventually get more bang for their buck as a reward. I know tourists will be relieved that this “race thing” is finally over, spending millions throughout the year. During the winter months wealthy, liberal, northerners will retreat from harsh winters to beach front condos that once served as the site for receiving docks of forty percent of all African slave labor into the “new” world. I know that this fall University of South Carolina football fanatics of all racial backgrounds will buy garnet and black jerseys, beer and burgers as they root for their favorite NCAA team in a stadium that costs about the same amount of money needed to overhaul South Carolina’sbottom rankingpublic school system. Ultimately, I know that the removal of that flag will never dismantle the racially biased social, economic, educational and political systems and laws that we currently govern ourselves by.
I worry that the sentimental antics of South Carolina politicians will influence American citizens to accept the chump change of the removal of a symbol as real progress. Fifty years ago a thriving movement initially designed to fight against racial separation was cut short and infiltrated by assassinations, pacification and empty rhetoric. Its ultimate accomplishments have resulted in aVoting Rights Actthat has been recently picked apart like a carcass and a form of integration that legally isolated poor Blacks and lined the pockets of White owned corporations, feeding the beasts of capitalism and consumerism. The battle for the true personhood of every American citizen is far from over. And although I live in a less hostile environment than my foremothers and fathers could have ever dreamed of I refuse to accept passive aggressive behavior as justice.
As in any war, allies are key, so it is with this one. In recent months a growing number of bandwagoners declaring “all lives matter” and well-meaning but ill informed, savior oriented implants offering surface level solutions have disguised themselves as allies when in essence they are an extension of the very enemy they long to distance themselves from. True allyship requires mutuality, solidarity and unwavering loyalty that most of today’s “allies” are not willing or able to sacrifice. The 2015 ally is most needed, strategically placed in their own homes, businesses, neighborhoods, places of worship, and classrooms acting as counter intelligence agents willing to face the same kind of ridicule and isolation millions of Americans experience daily as they confront the bigotry of their families and peers. It’s no longer enough to momentarily engage in battle in accordance with a preset comfort zone. The battle that lies ahead will require every American to eventually choose a side regardless of age, ethnicity, gender, religious affiliation or economic status. There is no place for on lookers or bystanders if our nation is to ever be restored to the genesis of its intent.
Note: To be clear I am not referring to a physical race war but a war to restore humanity from dominating ideologies that have gradually depleted our morality and compassion.
I Believe by KB
I believe (I believe)
I believe that (I believe that)
I believe that we will win
I (I)
I believe (I believe)
I believe that (I believe that)
I believe that we will win
Let me take it there
Please brag on what you did
How you smashed your first week sales
It ain’t like your numbers make vaccines that heal weak cells
You brag when your money go somewhere besides yourself
I’m going with our voice
Where they got them bullets flyin’ like it’s PowerPoint
And then I’m going down to HaCo
With a chance of makin’ it down to flocko
I’m with the Southside kids ’til they reach age
And then head for the Keys like spring break
‘Cause I believe that we intervene with our knees grey
And go and be changed, then we talk about it
I get it poppin’, pop it, you probably got a problem
Before they can stop me, gotta cut my power like I’m Amish
Hold the torch up high in the thick dark
The dream works no matter how bad the pics are
‘Cause I see how bad the globe is
But they don’t know how bad our hope is
They don’t know how bad we want this
It ain’t where we at boy it’s where we going!
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I (I)
I believe (I believe)
I believe that (I believe that)
I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
They tell my young dudes that success is up to you
But that’s hard when you got twelve years of wack schools
So it’s rap or it’s racks, either way you get them bars
When they give up we get charged
What’s the system to our God?
We don’t fight for the W
But we fight from the double you
Never said it wouldn’t be trouble
But, but he bring trouble to whatever troubles you
As struggles do multiple valuable things that are wonderful
We suffer through, hustle through all the things he wants to humble you
Humble you, take you and break you and make you into another dude
Take away any other truth, he’s the one that can comfort you
Aight!
Wait on it, tomorrow we live!
He’s makin’ all things new!
Makin’ all things new
Tell the paraplegic that he gon’ dance
Tell breast cancer that she won’t win
Tell racism that he gon’ end
What he doesn’t heal now, homie he gon’ then
Let’s go!
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I (I)
I believe (I believe)
I believe that (I believe that)
I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
I believe that we will win, I believe that we will win
Last month America commemorated the fiftieth anniversary of the March on Selma with grand flair. To celebrate television networks broadcasted specials that featured tributes by today’s most prominent public figures, and an Oscar worthy film bearing the name of the Alabama town most known for birthing the Civil Rights movement, Ava Duvernay’s Selma hit box offices in January. Today I had the privilege of meeting author and Selma survivor, Lynda Blackmon Lowery. As the last stop on the Chicago leg of her book tour to promote her autobiography Turning 15 on the Road to Freedom , Lowery vividly described the heinous treatment of Blacks during the 50’s and 60’s and shared various personal accounts of the brutality and violence she experienced as a demonstrator during the day that has become known to the world as Bloody Sunday.
I listened just as intently as the sixty to seventy eleventh and twelfth grade girls who were also in the room. Every day I have the opportunity to interact with this group of young women as an employee at the only all girls’ charter school in Chicago. The school is located on Chicago’s south side in the historic Bronzeville neighborhood and specializes in college readiness and cultivating leadership skills. As Mrs. Lowery’s presentation came to a close she opened the floor for questions from the audience. Several hands raised with questions about the speaker’s past. Suddenly, a shift in the questioning happened. The sixteen and seventeen year old, inner city, Black and Latina girls in the room began to process how Selma and the events of the Civil Rights movement might be relevant to them, their peers and the current struggle of African Americans.
In all honesty I was having a similar conversation in my head. Weeks earlier I traveled to my home state of South Carolina for Spring Break. In the midst of my leisure a cell phone video shook the nation as we witnessed the murder of Walter Scott, a fifty year old, unarmed, Black man who was gunned down by Michael Slager, a white North Charleston police officer. While in the Palmetto state I attended a candle light vigil and demonstration at a city council meeting organized by a group known as Black Lives Matter- Charleston SC. It’s only been a week and a half since I returned to Chicago and already there’s been display of injustice that has made national news. Three days ago the acquittal of Dante Servin, an off duty Chicago Police officer who shot and killed 22 year old Rekia Boyd in March of 2012, sent shockwaves around the city and the country. While processing these recent events and countless others I was eager pick the brain of this seventy something Civil Rights heroine who had graced our school with her presence.
A student asked Mrs. Lowery if she saw any parallels between Jimmy Lee Jackson and the young Black men and women who have recently been murdered by police. To my horror and dismay Mrs. Lowery responded by dismissing the Black Lives Matter movement as a passing fad that only exists while news camera crews are present. She also blamed the people of Ferguson for not voting for their elected officials of choice and slightly boasted about being confronted by Lesley McSpaden, the mother of slain teen Michael Brown about her stance on the way in which the Ferguson community responded to Brown’s death.
As Mrs. Lowery continued to expound, the major generational divide that exists between the freedom fighters of yesteryear and the willful warriors of today became painfully obvious. Unfortunately, her assessment of the current movement to validate and humanize Black life in this country is based on a false narrative provided by mainstream media. And although I believe voting has its proper place in this current battle it cannot be the end all be all because voting laws have changed drastically since 1965. According to ProCon.org, in 2010 an estimated 5.85 million people in the United States (2.5% of the nation’s voting age population, excluding DC) could not vote due to a felony conviction. When asked about racism in 1965 and racism now Mrs. Lowery explained that in 1965 the lines between Black and White were clear and everyone knew exactly where they fit in society but today racism is much more covert. To take this train of thought a step further, I deduce that although blatant, individual racism is frowned upon today, systemic, subtle racism permeates every aspect of American politics, economics, education and entertainment.
Mrs. Lowery delivered a powerful message of self-love and self empowerment. I look forward to purchasing and reading her memoir and although I disagree with many of her opinions, my hope is to connect with others from her generation to glean from their experiences as a means to chart the course forward in this fight to preserve Black life. During her presentation, Mrs. Lowery admitted that she felt that her generation dropped the ball in sharing our history and instilling a knowledge of self to the generation that followed. She said that many of her peers exchanged the invaluable life lessons that guided their activism for materialistic things in an effort to give their children “better” opportunities. Mrs. Lowery might not realize it but Black Lives Matter as an extension of the strides towards progress she and thousands of others made in the 1960’s. This generation of freedom fighters may wear Jordans and stilettos but we walk on the way that was paved for us fifty years ago. At the end of her talk I posed a sincere yet lengthy question. I highlighted out the fact that through technological advances this generation has the ability to communicate with the world in a matter of seconds and eventually asked Mrs. Lowery how my students and I could utilize this kind of power in conjunction with her experiences as a freedom fighter to promote change. Although I didn’t get an exact answer believe that think this line of questioning opens the door for an overdue intergenerational conversation that I believe holds the key to our freedom.
A few Fridays ago I ventured out for “movie night” after work with a few co-workers. Our film of choice was Selma, the Oscar nominated historical drama based on the 1965 Selma to Montgomery voting rights marches. Suppressing the skepticism that rests in my psyche anytime Hollywood attempts to portray events in history that accentuate the racial tumult that resides in America’s social, political and economic fabric, I paid for a ticket, quietly settled into an aisle seat and watched intently. My initiale reaction to the film was one of an interrogation the past in search for answers for the present. Amid the marches, social upheaval and hashtags surrounding the non-indictments of Officers Darren Wilson and Daniel Pantaleo I looked to the accomplishments of the Dr. King, James Bevel, Diane Nash, Hosea Williams, John Lewis and people of Alabama to seek out lessons for effective, system changing organizing.
Lesson One: Know Your Enemy
“If you know your enemies and know yourself, you will not be imperiled in a hundred battles… if you do not know your enemies nor yourself, you will be imperiled in every single battle.” Sun Tzu
In today’s struggle for justice the enemy has not been clearly defined. From my observation an overwhelming majority of us (American citizens) have taken an emotionally charged stance against actions without strategizing and politically and economically confronting the responsible parties involved. The proverbial “they” that have established systems that perpetuate the disenfranchisement and marginalization of certain populations are well organized entities made of people who have names and have been assigned various roles to maintain them. Our job as organizers, activists, advocates and concern citizens is to identify those people, understand how their roles and responsibilities benefit the status quo and utilize our rights as U.S. citizens to strategize ways to disrupt and interupt the status quo.
Lesson Two: Without Sacrifice There is no Justice
“Human progress is neither automatic nor inevitable… Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals.” Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.
One to few reasons the march to Selma was a success was because countless people were convicted into taking part in the action. The film clearly demonstrates the willingness of hundreds of Alabama citizens to use their collective voices to change the voting rights within the state. However, I am not at all naive to believe that there weren’t naysayers. I imagine that for every person who joined in the fight there were another ten criticizing the marchers from their living rooms. During the height of the outrage around the non-indictment of Officer Darren Wilson for the shooting death of Michael Brown an alarm was sounded, asking consumers to boycott Black Friday 2014. Although sales slightly decreased from the year prior it was evident that millions of people who unknowingly hold the power to provoke change ignored the call, relinquishing their power to various corporations and companies whose stock holdings drive our public policies. As my disappointment in this failed attempt subsided to reflection it became clear to me that the idea of intentional, collective struggle is so foreign in today’s society that so few people see any benefit of practicing it that this strategy might be obsolete. Individual and collective sacrifice are inevitable necessities if substantial social change is to be a reality.
During a general conversation, one of my favorite men in the whole wide world asked me via social media, “Do you think Bill Cosby raped those women?” My unhesitant reply, “Yep.” In reaction to my instant affirmative response my best male friend immediately questioned the motive of Cosby’s accusers, their timing, and the validity of the their stories all in an effort I believe, to protect an image we have all come to know and love over the past three decades. Like thousands of others in the cyber world, in a rhetorical manner he asked “Why didn’t they say anything when it happened?” Without thinking, I responded, “For the same reason I didn’t.” It’s been about fifteen years since my last unwanted, unsolicited sexual encounter. I like to think that I am healed of the emotional and mental anguish that accompanies that kind of violation but it’s during times like this that I’m not so sure.
Earlier that same day I had was engaged in a casual conversation with an eighteen year old learning disabled, young woman who like me had been violated. Her assailant, an immediate family member who accosted her when she was thirteen. She described the details of the assault in an almost trans-like state, showing little emotion, numb. As I listened intently I drifted into a mental space I hadn’t visited in over ten years or more. As she spoke of her own burdens I was forced to recall my own. Somewhere deep within me I envied her. I was jealous of her thirteen year old audacity that told a family member about the damage that had been done to her developing body and mind. I never told. Kept it a secret in fear no one would ever believe that he was even capable of such a violation. Her voice and my silence yielded the same results, zero consequences. Her family accused her of trying to “get attention” and ultimately didn’t believe her story until she as diagnosed with a matching sexually transmitted infection her assailant contracted years earlier. They currently live under the same roof, five years later and he was never charged with a crime. I only hope that I was my attacker’s only thrill and my silence wasn’t an invitation to continue his violations.
If I didn’t feel safe to tell anyone about being assaulted on what was supposed to be my first date with a seemingly perfect gentleman then I understand how and why Cosby’s accusers remained silent for so long. My student told and what does she have to show for it, a venereal disease and a constant reminder that those who are supposed to love and protect her chose to protect him. So I ask who would believe that the man who created an empire by making millions for the past thirty years laugh could harm a fly much less rape dozens of women? Hollywood is a multi-billion dollar entity that specializes in creating optical illusions. Cosby’s name alone generates millions of dollars. He has captivated the hearts and minds of millions of television viewers across the world pretending to be a devoted, witty, charismatic, OB/GYN, husband and father of five who loved jazz, hoagies and couture sweaters. Who exactly are we as a people who believe and remain blindly loyal to a fictitious persona as opposed at least considering the complaints of at least a dozen women? Who have we become as humans when the preservation of a man’s reputation is more urgent than the safety and security of the defenseless among us? Who are we if men, like my best friend, who are genuinely concerned about the well being of the women and girls in their lives continue to interrogate potential victims rather than the perpetrators? At what point do we challenge ourselves to peek behind the curtain of smoking mirrors that simultaneously corrodes our consciousness by controlling how we live, think, feel, act, dress, eat and play? Unfortunately, I don’t have all of the answers. And honestly most times my questions only lead to more questions. But, I am convinced that the safety and well being of every woman and girl on this planet rests upon our collective and consistent determination to ask and answer the hard questions about the sexism and misogyny that has been interwoven in the fabric of American popular culture and has seeped into our homes. Although it may cost us an icon it’s finally time that we break the silence and expose the predators among us.
I can’t count the number of times I was sent out of the room as a child so that my mother and my “Aunties” could have “grown up” discussions. My mother’s closest friends were known to me as Auntie So and So despite there being no blood relation. I didn’t understand how or why they qualified as “aunties” then but as I’ve grown older and become an “auntie” myself I have come to learn that sister friends are just as much of a necessity in a woman’s life as family is. Most times when I was sent out of a room I did as I was told and went to my bedroom without thinking twice about what Mommy and Auntie So and So might be discussing. But there was something about Auntie Liz’s visits that often made me wonder.
Auntie Liz was my mother’s closest childhood friend. She had three children right around the same ages as my sister and me but my play cousins rarely came to my house with her. I later came to learn that my house and my mother were Auntie Liz’s few but reliable safe havens. I heard her cry a few times as she sat at my mother’s round, glass dining room table. I couldn’t make out the details but I was smart enough to know that her tears must have something to do with the fresh boo boo’s covering her face. Crying about a boo boo made perfect sense to my eight year old logic because I’d shed a tear or two after scraping my knee or accidentally slamming my finger in a door. Little did I know, Auntie Liz’ boo boo’s were no accident.
Several years later I attended Auntie Liz’s funeral with my mother. Actually the entire town did. Rumors and accusations swirled about the pretty young mother who’d been shot and killed in her own home. Auntie Liz died at the hand of the one responsible for her boo boo’s and tears, her husband.
I haven’t given Auntie Liz’s visits much thought until yesterday when the video of Ray Rice and his then fiancé now wife emerged. As I watched Rice drag and kick the limp body of the woman he professes to love across that elevator floor my mind immediately drifted back to Auntie Liz. As a child I sympathized most with my play cousins who were left to grapple with the loss of not one but both parents. I haven’t spoken to them in years but yesterday they consumed my thoughts.
My first encounter with domestic violence was early and indirect, yet close enough to awaken the memory of my mother’s mourning. Weeks, months and years after Auntie Liz’s funeral, she mentally memorialized her fallen friend by questioning herself and wondering if she’d done and said enough. Many nights my mother sat at that glass table alone, I imagine trying to make sense of her sister’s demise. Yesterday’s events and the commentary that followed reminded me of Aunt Liz and her children and the hundreds of thousands of women and children like them whose well-being is consistently endangered by the very person who’s been entrusted to protect them.
Since publishing my last blog post I have accepted an offer for a new job, traveled home to South Carolina for the first time in a year, created and facilitated a workshop and completed a major project that’s been a year in the making. Needless to say I have been more than busy. As I continue to move forward in accomplishing my goals I’m finding it to be essential to intentionally practice self-care. The subject matter that I’ve dedicated my energy, intellect and efforts towards is so emotionally and mentally heavy that I often find myself seeking refuge to privately process the severity of it all. In addition scrounging up the courage to tackle the tough stuff I’ve also come to realize my efforts will always be scrutinized. I’ve learned quickly that no matter how good my intentions may be there will always be critics whose opinions of my work may not be favorable. Through the magic of social media, perfect strangers can and will rip your literary work to shreds with limited insight of who you are or your lived experiences. I’ve also learned that no matter how humbly or unassuming I approach this work there will be people who will perceive me as a threat. I’ve also come to know that that’s their issue not mine.
In the past I’ve run from my purpose for fear that others might not be receptive to what I have to add in the work to promote social change in the Black community. For years I agonized over and tried to escape the calling towards greatness because I subconsciously knew that lessons like the ones mentioned above are equally essential to my growth as the work itself. After much reflection I’ve stopped running and decided to remain still with an open mind and a heart of acceptance of a calling that’s greater than myself. Since making this decision I have been showered with various forms of affirmation and willingness to help from friends, family and strangers alike who understand and support my mission and the passion that drives it. In addition to those affirmations I continue to keep in mind the millions of people who have yet to discover their own voices for whom I speak on behalf of. So with clear vision and a solid mission I unapologetically join the ranks of writers, educators, advocates and activists both past and present. No turning back now, it’s time to keep on moving, don’t stop.
Most Mondays my Facebook newsfeed is normally inundated with news reports and blogs about the “senseless” violence that occurred in Chicago over the previous weekend. In years past it’s been accurately predicted that as temperatures rise and summer approaches, the incidents of violent crime increase. This year is no different. Criminologists have made their predictions and sounded the warning sirens about this summer’s potential death toll. Today after realizing that I hadn’t heard that there was any violence to speak of I searched for the violence statistics and was pleasantly surprised to find that gun related deaths were minimal this past weekend. I discovered that four people were killed and another twenty two were injured. These numbers include a young man who was shot and killed by the Chicago Police Dept., the shooting is being investigated.
The fact that I had to seek these numbers out says to me that four deaths isn’t sensational enough to be considered news worthy. Let’s face it, the story of four measly deaths isn’t half as exciting as a six month old being shot multiple times or the violent death of a beautiful teenaged girl who performed at the President’s Inauguration. Depsite it’s lack of sensationalism, in my opinion four deaths is four too many.
Call me crazy but I wholeheartedly believe that all things are possible through prayer AND persistence. I also believe that the gun violence in Chicago can and will cease in due time. However, I’m disappointed to hypothesize that when that time comes there will be too few news reporters willing to tell the world about the a community who silenced the violence with the same fervor as they told stories of the hundreds of young lives lost in previous weeks, months, and years. Chicago State University and activist, Dennis Johnson accurately surmised during an interview on the Melissa Harris Perry Show last year when he said, “Violence will never cease until we find a way to make money out of peace.” The people who live in the areas most affected by Chicago’s gun violence epidemic have done a cost benefit analysis of sorts and have measured the potential lost in lives ended way too soon and the hope to be restored by actively combating gun violence from a grassroots standpoint. We’ve come to realize that even though there is no money to be made by promoting peace we stand to lose something much more valuable by remaining silent, our future.
Truth Becomes Her 