“bein alive & bein a woman & bein colored is a metaphysical dilemma/I haven’t conquered yet” -Ntozake Shange
This says it all.
This quote says everything about how I feel in this body, in this skin, with this face, in this world some days. Waking up woman and brown, for me has increasingly becoming an exercise that has to be undergirded by a mental, spiritual and at times, physical armor. When I get up and face the world, I never know what new attack on the body, mind, and spirit of black women or women of color or poor women has happened in the illusive still of the night. If we are not being publicly humiliated by national radio hosts, then we are warding off mainstream media’s attacks concerns about why we aren’t married or “marriageable” or worse we have to be faced with 40 foot tall, full color, attacks on our wombs, using one of our babies.
Our murders go unnoticed. Our children are unprotected. And our existence and humanity becomes couched in the sexualized, unforgiving lens of white men, the incessant needs of black men or the whiney, intrusive, pseudo omniscient agency of white women.
It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. It’s unconscionable. But mostly, its exhausting.
I have started and stopped this blog post three times. It was meant to be the very first blog I posted back in 2010. At the time I just wanted to introduce the world to the space I created for and about Black women’s lives – I wanted us to be able to sing our songs loud and proud and unapologetically. I didn’t publish what I wrote because I thought there were enough spaces like that on the internet. I was wrong, there are never enough. I attempted to write it again, from a different perspective in February of 2011 when the Anti-Abortion ads went up around the country attacking Black babies in the womb and Black women at the core and again in March 2011 when the 11 year old girl was gang raped in Texas, but I couldn’t quite express my outrage in the way I wanted to at the time. I wanted to cry for Black women all over the page but I didn’t think either narrative needed more pain, so I digressed. Every time a major news story hit the web about Black women or girls, I tried. When Too Short released the video instructing jr. high school boys on how to sexually assault little girls, when the Black maid was raped by Strauss-Kahn, when Zoe Saldana was cast as Nina Simone, any number of the GOP attacks on reproductive health and poor women and children – over and over again – I wanted to write something, but something stopped me.
Tonight, like what has become all too commonplace, I returned home, sat on my bed, opened my laptop and was gutted. Russell Simmons, co-founder of iconic hip-hop label, Def Jam, and often called the “godfather of Hip-Hop” launched a new digital media venture called AllDefMedia. One of the first projects released from this new Youtube based project was called… “Harriet Tubman Sextapes.” Yes, you read that right. By now you might have seen it and definitely should have heard about it. It’s vile and disrespectful and unscrupulous to put it mildly. The immediate response around all parts of the social media spectrum was a resounding “No!” It was shared over and over on Facebook and Twitter with messages of anger and appall at the unbelievable images being acted out in the name of our patron saint of ‘get free or die trying’ – Harriet Tubman. H A R R I E T — T U B M A N!!!!! Who does that? However, The uprising from the virtual black community worked. The video was removed and Russell Simmons issued a (lame) apology.
Ok, so now what?
Today all of the people who missed it last night will wake up to the story. There will be fresh outrage. There will be long, diatribes and open letters. There will be virtual commiseration happening all across the interwebs. And while that’s good – great even. It still doesn’t help me sleep at night or ease into my mornings any better.
I went to a private, catholic school from first grade through eighth grade with the exception of one year – fourth. In the fourth grade my mother put me in The Parkchester School – P.S. 106. I got along fine in the school for the most part. I made a friend or two and our little group played together at lunchtime and did group projects and generally held each other down. The thing we didn’t do was walk home together. I didn’t live in Parkchester, the privately owned apartment complex where the school was housed. I lived in Bronxdale projects about 20 minutes away and used my grandmother’s address to attend the school. That fact was little known to most of my peers, but when a particular group found out, the resident “mean girls” of the class, they decided to torment me about it. Everyday they would say something to me, write notes about me, or do things like tell other kids I was dirty and bummy (and y’all know that’s not even possible – I was born fresh to def). I tried to be friends with them. I tried to tell the teacher on them. I even tried to clap back at them – but nothing worked. They hated me.
This went on for a while until finally, one day they caught me walking alone and said something slick about my moms. I decided to do what my mother had alway taught me to do when surrounded by a group that might attack me. I grabbed the biggest one and began wailing on her first. I was actually getting her good because she was tall but gangly and awkward. Of course the other two jumped in and they eventually overpowered me. They dumped my book bag out and stomped on my glasses. They tore up my bus pass. They even threw dirt on me. I got home and told my mother who of course came up to the school the next day. These girls had committed the ultimate offense by putting their hands on me and she was going to put her foot down. Well, the school said it happened off of school grounds and they had no evidence of the fight, but they brought all of the girls to the office and we had “the big meeting.” The girls apologized half-heartedly – not for jumping me – they didn’t admit to that, but for “making me feel bad if they had done that in any way.” When it was all over and my mom went home and I returned to class, the principal called me over and said “are you okay Tarana, do you feel better?” And because I hadn’t yet been taught to put the comfort of others before my own, I said – “No! They still hate me.” I tried to explain to the principal that this wasn’t over and that wasn’t a real apology. What I said specifically, and I still remember, was “I’m okay today, but what about tomorrow?”
What about tomorrow? What about when this happens again?
Those three girls were just bullies, yes. But I also remember that incident so well because it was the beginning of a shift for me. I knew then that I would *never* let another person beat me and if I ever did get jumped again I wasn’t going to rest until I paid each person back. There was a seed of anger and bitterness that was planted during that situation and eventually rooted itself in other growing feelings of unworthiness which I fed and nurtured. I met girl after girl over the years that I felt like represented what those girls in the fourth grade represented and I figured that they hated me too because of things they said and did, but they were just hurt black girls surviving off of a pittance of bravado, healthy portions of other black girl’s pain and giant gulps of internalized oppression. I figured out how to conquer black girl hurt with unconditional black girl love. I took time to dig into my hurt and anger and bitterness and in the course of doing so I discovered a roadmap to loving Black girls and women in spite of and because of what they had been taught about loving themselves and loving me back. But this ain’t about us loving us. It’s about everybody else hating us. When those girls were tormenting me, before I got jumped, I would go home and spend hours at night trying to understand why or what I could do differently to get them to like me or at least leave me alone. The more things failed, the more determined I was to try something new. Not because I wanted to be down with them but because I didn’t want to hurt anymore.
This hurts.
And its a complex pain. Sometimes it’s sharp and jabbing, but most of the time it’s an unrelenting and indescribable kind of dull, lingering pain. Feeling like you have to carefully navigate your existence around the whims of any number of others is continuously painful. Will they attack my skin color or hair, will they call me an unfit mother, will they say I’m not marryable, will they attack my child, will they harass me at work, will they rape me, will they kill me – and if they do who will care? Carefree feels like a luxury when our reality is a practice in vigilance and resilience. It may sound outrageous, but that’s why I kinda-sorta envy the reality show chics and those who aspire to be like them. There is a disconnection from ‘giving a fuck’ that they wield with supreme precision and expertise and sometimes I just want – that. I want that so that during the times when I can’t find an ally who doesn’t bamboozle me into expending what energy I have left on heaping praises on them for ‘allying’ for me in the first place or the times when I feel like I’m screaming into a deep, dark well that sounds like a groundswell of support but in reality is just my own voice screaming back at me – I can say fuck it, I’m twerking by the cakes and get on with my life. But I don’t have that luxury and I’m not throwing a pity party about it because it’s a clear choice, but damn, it’s a choice that’s isolating as hell. I love that I have the support of my online community in the midst of these whirlwind storms, but then I shut down the computer and lay in the dark of my room thinking, “damn, even Russell Simmons hates me? Do they all hate me?” And I don’t know him, or particularly care what he thinks or doesn’t think normally and I know he by no means represents all Black men, but today, that thought makes me cry a little bit. Nah, alot. It makes me cry because, I have to go to sleep and then wake up tomorrow (God willing) and I have to crawl through my daily download of information and try desperately to avoid the land mines and hand grenades that can be waiting to rip me up from the inside out. And then when I don’t avoid them, because I never do, and they continue to tear away at my spirit…then what?
“Somebody, anybody, sing a black girl’s song…sing a song of her possibilities…”
Dear Brothers:
I guess I want my song. We sisters have been singing to each other for a long time. We have a small chorus of brothers who join in from time to time. But really, we have been force-fed songs for everybody else. We know all of the words to our songs by heart and our songs are pretty, but they don’t soothe our souls like when…you sing. I don’t expect * them * to sing, but I want you to sing. my. song. Love me. Sing to me. Protect me. Make this pain go away. Don’t create this pain. Is it too much to ask to go to sleep and wake up to the melody of you singing my song? I want to go through the day with your song for me playing over and over again in my head. I want to have random memories of your lyrics cross my mind and make me smile. That’s how I want to survive, with you and I singing each other through unjust verdicts and heinous videos and anything the world throws at us. I know how to sing your song. I sing it with a hoodie on, I sing it in front of prisons and courthouses, I sing it every chance I get, I promise you I do.
sing. my. song.
Don’t hate me because I love you. We could sing together but my voice is tired. I just want you to sing for a little while.
Please.
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Maya Angelou Loved Me
May 29, 2014 in personal commentary | Tags: I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings., I Love Maya Angelou, Love for Maya Angelou, Mama Maya, Maya Angelou, Maya Angelou Death, Maya Angelou's Influence, Phenomenal Woman | 5 comments
Maya Angelou loved me.
I know because she told me.
I had two occasions to be in her presence. The first was during college. It was a private dinner for her in Alabama and I was in a room full of people who were all, at least in their own minds, way more important than me. I was meant to be decoration for the event. “Youth” for the sake of saying young people were in the room. I sat at my table all evening listening to person after person speak about how wonderful Dr. Angelou was and how Phenomenal Woman and Still I Rise were a testament to her strength and wisdom, etc. I agreed and I nodded my head and clapped my hands as an outward indication that I did. But inside my brain I was whispering to myself and rejecting the spurious parade of adoration. The thoughts in my head were coming so fast and furious that I literally started shaking my head ‘no’ and had to tell myself to stop. I was just so uncomfortable. All of the praise being heaped upon her and no one was telling the truth. No one was saying ‘this is what a warrior looks like’ and no one was saying ‘truth can’t get any truer than what this women represents’ or that ‘this is how joy operates’ and I was getting sick from the omission. At the end of the dinner we were allowed to come down a sort of receiving line to shake her hand and get a picture if we had a camera. It was 1994. No camera phones and no digital cameras. I bought a disposable camera and left it in the car I came in by accident. I stood up really slowly when the line formed and tried to be as far to the back as possible so I could be the last person to greet her – hoping to get more time. The line moved excruciatingly slow and I watched as the person in charge got more and more antsy, checking her watch and whispering in the ear of the person next to her. My heart was racing. I was not about to miss my opportunity and I had a small window to do something about it. Following my instincts, I stepped out of line and made my way behind the dais to a door on the side of the room while there was still so much buzz going on in the space. As I was walking I heard that antsy woman say, “I’m sorry, but we have to let Ms. Angelou go now…” and like I suspected she would – she shut the receiving line down. The other folks in line grumbled and pleaded and held their cameras asking for at least a picture – but I was focused. Ms. Angelou and her party turned and headed straight for the same door that I saw her enter through and when she arrived. When the group got to the door I politely opened it like it was my job and then stood with them quietly as they waited for the the rest of the group. When I got within earshot I said “Did you enjoy your evening Dr. Angelou?” and she said “Oh, yes, dear very much.” Then I said, “I didn’t get a chance to meet you, but I love you very much!” She said, “Aren’t you meeting me now?” The group laughed and then the fidgety women who had been looking at her watch realized I didn’t belong. She asked if I was a student and I told her I was and then she said that I needed to go out of the door in the front. At that moment Dr. Angelou said, “What is your name dear?” and I told her. She said “Well it was great to meet you” and I asked if could I hug her just as the the remaining folks came. She turned and hugged me and I said almost teary eyed, “I love you” and she said “And I love you, Tarana.”
She said she loved me. And she pronounced my name right.
That moment was a highlight of my life, but I already knew that she loved me.
I grew up in a Black woman’s literary paradise. My mother had hundreds of books all over our house and a majority of them were from the most beloved and revered women writers of our lifetime. Toni Morrison and Alice Walker and June Jordan and Gwendolyn Brooks and Ntozake Shange and Nikki Giovanni and Maya Angelou. As a little girl who loved to read I was always fascinated with the books my mother read mostly because of the pretty book covers and spectacular names . In particular, the Maya Angelou books had amazing covers and titles, but every time I asked my mom if I could read one she would say things like “I don’t know if you’re ready” or “not yet” and I would be so frustrated – but I obeyed her and left the books alone. I finally read “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” at 13. I was in the sixth grade at Sacred Heart Middle School and it was a rough year. I remember when I started reading the book I was confused because it wasn’t hard to read. I thought my mother held me back from reading it because she thought it would be too difficult to understand. When I got to the part about young Maya and Mr. Freeman I understood. In the book, Maya Angelou talks about being raped by her mother’s boyfriend at 7 years old. I was raped by the big brother of my childhood friend at 7 years old. At 13 years old – at the time I was reading this book – I was being molested and nobody knew. My 13-year-old mind could not understand and didn’t know that this was a thing that happens to girls and women around the world. I thought it was just me. I thought I was the kind of girl who bad things happened to. I didn’t tell my mother or anyone because I didn’t want them to know what a dirty, bad girl I had been. When I read about what happened to a young Maya Angelou it was the first time I even had a thought that another little girl could have gone through what I went through. I finished reading the book and I continued keeping, what was now in my mind, our secret. For me, Maya Angelou at that time was just another name on a book on my mother’s book shelf. She wasn’t “Dr. Maya Angelou” the esteemed poet, author, activist and all around wunderkind – she was a lady who wrote a book that shared my secrets.
Later on as a freshman in high school we read and studied “Phenomenal Woman” in my english class. I knew the poem but this was my first time dissecting it and reading her work with other students. My honor’s english teacher, Mr. Pieteritan, was in his white-liberal glory and very proud of himself for having this poem in his curriculum for Black History Month. I remember him passing out the handout and saying “you guys are SO going to love this!” Most of the class didn’t know the poem and many didn’t know Maya Angelou at all. I was excited when I saw her name on the paper and really eager to read out loud. Mr. Pieteritan allowed me and my friend Yolanda to read the poem together. I remember acting out a little bit and making the class laugh while I read; and then I remember him asking us what we thought this poem was about. Someone raised their hand and said something like it was about her letting the world know that she was fly and couldn’t be stopped. Mr. Pieteritan immediately agreed and went into this whole thing about how this was her way of saying “hey world look at me I’m a Black woman and I’m just as good as any white woman!” and then I remember very distinctly, he said while doing a weird ditty-bop type movement with his body – “She’s talking jive right? She’s kinda trash talking and saying ‘Yeah I’m better than you and you better believe it!” Before I knew it was going to come out I said “What are you talking about?” No!” Mr. Pieteritian was kind of used to my outbursts so he just turned and held out his hand and said “Ok, Ta-raan-a elaborate.” (he always pronounced my name wrong saying the middle part like the past tense of ‘run’ as opposed to the like the name ‘ron’). I sat up in my seat and said to him and the class that she was not talking ‘jive’ and she was not comparing herself to white woman – at all. I said that the poem, in my opinion was descriptive and that after a life like she had lived she was trying to explain to the world why they were so amazed by her and why she would never walk with her head down because she was a phenomenon. I said a bunch more. I was passionate about my explanation. I talked about how saying she was “jive talking” was an insult and demeaning to her. I talked about how all Black woman should feel this way. I talked about how she never mentioned white women or white people at all in the poem and it was “just like white people” to think that she had to be talking about them. When I was done, my classmates where a mixture of annoyed and amused. My teacher apologized for offending me and anyone else in the class and then went on to give a long, drawn out mini-lesson on the history of “Jive” in America. I rolled my eyes because although I didn’t know what ‘white privilege’ was at the time I certainly knew when I was experiencing it. I tuned him out and I sat for the rest of the class reading the poem over and over. I had read it before but not really read it. As I read the poem over and over and over my memory of young Maya Angelou and what happened to her was smacking up against what I was reading now. Even though I defended her right to be ‘phenomenal’ intellectually, I didn’t understand what that meant or how it was even possible spiritually. At a time when I was working hard to balance to duality of what I thought my deep, dark secrets made me and who I needed to be in order to keep those secrets covered up – I couldn’t understand how this woman who had been through what I had been through was able to hold those memories in the same body that held joy. I was amazed. I wanted to get to that place so badly and at that moment, with that poem, I started the journey and committed to finding out. I’m still on the journey but I’m as close as I have ever been because of her. I understand that its possible because I have the lived experiences that I was determined to have because she told me and showed me that I could.
Maya Angelou loved me.
I know because she told me.
From I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings to Phenomenal Woman and every line in and around those remarkable works – she told me. She gave me a roadmap to myself. She and her friends did that and I won’t ever stop being grateful.
Rest in Peace Mother Maya.
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