I Do Not Consent: Musings on Sexual Terrorism

I am the history of rape

I am the history of the rejection of who I am

I am the history of the terrorized incarceration of

myself

I am the history of battery assault and limitless

armies against whatever I want to do with my mind

and my body and my soul and

whether it’s about walking out at night

or whether it’s about the love that I feel or

whether it’s about the sanctity of my vagina or

the sanctity of my national boundaries

or the sanctity of my leaders or the sanctity

of each and every desire

that I know from my personal and idiosyncratic

and indisputably single and singular heart

I have been raped

From A Poem About My Rights by- June Jordan

I have been steadily dodging the writing of this blogpost about Black women and sexual abuse, however the words you are reading haunt me.  I would like to say that my thoughts on rape began just a few months back, but this would be a lie.  As a woman, and especially a Black woman, unkept and unsafe, the threat of rape is almost as constant as breathing and books.  What I will say is that rape has been at the forefront of my thoughts since POTUS Obama was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, which may seem odd- although it is not.  I became curious to see who else was nominated for the award.  I consider myself solution oriented and felt that if I would denounce my support of the committee’s choice, I certainly would need to provide the name of a more deserving victor.

As I searched the list and read the stories, one name in particular was familiar to me, although unfortunately not in cheer. It was Dr. Denis Mukwege, a Congolese gynecologist, who has dedicated his life to treating the women of DRC who are the victims of rapes so brutal that I would need an entirely separate blogpost to describe them.  Dr. Mukwege’s hospital is overrun with battered, tortured, mutilated women. In one province alone, over 27,000 rapes were reported, which accounts for at least 70% of the women living there.  While addressing the US Senate last year Dr. Mukwege made the following statement, that has etched it’s way into my memory much like my favorite lovers or Baldwin quotes, “It is important to point out that this sexual terrorism is done in a methodical manner”.  It had never occurred to me previously to describe rape as terrorist or methodical, but therein lies the truth of it.

Moving forward in time, again my thoughts and heart are bombarded with the ugliness of rape after reading an article about a fifteen year old girl being gang raped by five boys (and men) as more than twenty people spectated.  My blood boiled so terribly that I assumed it was fever and that this world had been successful in literally making me sick.  And as I spoke about the incident on twitter, I began to receive all of these private messages from women who had been victims of gang rapes themselves.  I didn’t want to believe that such violence against women was so prevalent and commonplace. Subsequently, the days and nights following the details of that rape were exhausting.  Thoughts of my and my daughter’s safety began to eat away at my sleeping hours, and I kept wanting to embrace all of the women who contacted me, somehow allowing my love to spill through my pores, providing protection where others had failed them.  Yes rape is terrible and a terror, even for those women not raped.

Rape is terrorism, especially if one defines terrorism as, “the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce”.  Certainly, there is no stronger example presented to contest an individual’s (and possibly a group’s) humanity than a publicly viewed rape and torture as were the cases in the Congo and in California.   Suddenly there did not seem to be so much distance between the US and the DRC.  However, as tragic as these rapes are we cannot afford to limit our anger and remorse to these specific cases of abuse.  Sexual violence against women also includes sexual harassment/extortion, spousal abuse, incest and child rape (May peace be upon Shaniya Davis), forced sterilizations, and an overall inability to choose, as a woman, what happens to one’s body.   My revolutionary crush, Angela Davis, agrees, which I noted while reading an address she presented at Florida State University in 1985 entitled, We Do Not Consent: Violence Against Women in a Racist Society. She writes:

These particular manifestations of violence against women are situated on a larger continuum of socially inflicted violence, which includes concerted, systematic violations of women’s economic and political rights. As has been the case throughout history, these attacks most gravely affect women of color than their white working-class sisters.   The dreadful rape epidemic of our times, which has become so widespread that one out of every three women in this country can expect to be raped at some point during her life, grimly mirrors the deteriorating economic and social status of women today.

If we disconnect rape, and consequently, all sexual violence against women, from their socio-economic foundations, we cannot adequately discuss solutions to said abuses.  We dis-serve women by only acting or objecting to sexual abuse in extreme cases.  We have to understand that a woman should control her reproduction, or desired lack thereof- and be allowed to do so safely and with no judgement.  We must admit that, no matter how “provocatively” dressed or sexually explicit a woman appears to be, we have no right to objectify her and/or harass her.  We cannot emotionally abuse women, use women, treat them as receptacles, even if they contend that such treatment is okay, because we know that it is not. We have to sincerely view women as human beings before we can wholeheartedly respect and protect them.

There is no truth but this.

Please read the rest of June Jordan’s poem A Poem About My Rights here:

http://wp.me/pxAOY-2Z

To truly understand the intersection of race, class and gender, please read Angela Y Davis’ Women, Culture and Politics

More on Dr. Denis Mukwege and his mission here:

http://wp.me/pxAOY-2Z

The Question of “Precious” and Monolithic Representations of Black Life.

Thus all Art is propaganda and ever must be, despite the wailing of the purists. I stand in utter shamelessness and say that whatever art I have for writing has been used always for propaganda for gaining the right of black folk to love and enjoy. I do not care a damn for any art that is not used for propaganda. But I do care when propaganda is confined to one side while the other is stripped and silent. ~ From The Criteria of Negro Art by W.E.B. DuBois

I have not gone to see the film Precious, nor have I read the novel Push. It is a personal choice really, mainly attributed to the sort of funk that I find myself in these days.  As I read headline after despairing headline, I realize that I have somehow become hopeless in the facts of life; a hopelessness that packs the room so tightly that there is no room for fiction.   I also rarely watch television, as I have learned to sensor what I allow to penetrate my thoughts. Thoughts become things they say. I also believe that they become spirits, which steal sleep and appetites, if one is not careful.  I find myself though, out of curiosity, reading many reviews of the film that lead me to believe it chronicles some of the most profane and bestial abuse that one could imagine one human being inflicting upon another.

I would be remiss to pretend that the tragedy of child abuse, child rape, and the stealing of innocence from children is not a dark part of our community-festering like a sore- never healing.  I’m reminded of this reality specifically today as I read headlines surrounding the murder of Shaniya Davis, a beautiful five year old who was sold into sexual slavery by the woman who gave birth to her and murdered by the man who procured her.  I choke trying to pronounce my feelings for her as I witness video stills of her murderer carrying her to a hotel room where he will undoubtedly do things my heart won’t allow me to imagine.  I’m nauseous, my hands are jittery, and I am slowly unraveling at the core behind what we have ceased to be, and subsequently what we have become.  As people continue to question why or why not a film like Precious needed to be made, my ponderings stretch beyond this.

I am not as much anti-Precious as I am pro- a film that depicts the lives of healthy, happy, well-adjusted Black children.  For I realize that, as much as we choose not to embrace this fact, we are at war for control of our image, our story, and our legacy.  Now, do not lose my message by believing that I do not support the telling of this story, as I realize that it may help and cure someone, just in its telling.  However, for every Precious, there needs to be an “insert film about beautiful Black love and beautiful Black babies that are a product of such love”, precisely because anything other than this creates an awful monolithic caricature of Black life that can be wielded by our oppressors as a sharp sword shanking our sanity (Check my fresh with that alliteration).  Television, film, written works, are propaganda that will either be used to further our cause or retard it.

I am simply in love with Black people, and I am a jealous lover. I care about how we look. I care about how we feel. I want to ensure that everyone who sees us at our worst, also sees us at our best.  In my fit of possessiveness I reflect upon the lives and strivings of those like W.E.B Dubois (who I’ve quoted above), Carter G Woodson, John Hope Franklin, and others who became determined to scribe our history after they were told as children that the Negro had no legacy beyond slavery.  Their fancy love affair with Black people led them on a life long quest to uncover all of our hidden treasures.  It is important work that requires dedication, protectiveness, and an almost infatuation with the manner in which we are presented.  These men are now of the spirit world. Who among us plans to fill their shoes and tell a story that stretches far beyond hate, abuse, and mayhem?

I, for one, am plenty full of the tragedy and hopelessness that is presented as Black life.  I have earnest plans to speak of us victoriously. I would besiege you all to take upon yourselves a similar labor of love, and if not be prepared to explain to your children why they are looked upon with the contempt of being dire and destitute, and nothing more. Of course, in the end, we all have choices to make. Choose well my friends….Choose well.

The Beholder of Beauty

I found God in myself/ and I loved her/ I loved her fiercely ~Ntozake Shange

Learning to love myself has become a peculiar movement, a long work in progress, and this thing that I am not certain I can embrace or escape.  Sometimes it feels as though something that should be natural is all but so. Along this journey, I collect myself, literally- I collect photos showcasing my evolution.  It is therapy, self-help, and a display of love, which I’ve decided I need and deserve.  In preparing myself for an upcoming photo shoot, I had a conversation with a male friend, who believes that my desire to have photographs taken- for no particular reason- is both narcissistic and a sign of insecurity. Hmph.  I sat quietly pondering how one could be both narcissistic and insecure, and ended up feeling both offended, reflective, and apparently blogging. I have no doubt that I am nothing if not awesomely dynamic, but how could I encompass such a dichtomy- just from desiring to be photographed?  More importantly, why is a woman who desires to love and heal herself labeled as wither being too much or too little.

Truth be told I am certainly more insecure than narcissistic.  I would argue that most women are. I would add to that argument the idea that society as a whole and many men and women in particular thrive on these insecurities. Women hating ourselves, and subsequently each other, has become quite a thriving market; and generally the same institutions we expect to uphold us, end up beating us down like those slave masters we read of and abhor.  It is a vicious and relentless cycle- this desire to collectively steal the joy from us.  Some, however, and through God’s grace and compassion, lend women lenses through which we can see ourselves as beautiful, amazing, and angelic. Saddi Khali, I believe, belongs to this lot.

I first came across Saddi’s photography after being invited to his  exhibition ‘Remember Peace/ Remember Pleasure” while visiting New York.  I was immediately mesmerized by him- his art, his vision, his desire to present Black women as tender constellations. As I perused his photographs I saw myself, gently placed in each photo. Some of them reflected my strengths- my warrior stance, the fullness of my breast, the sturdiness of my legs.  Others reflected my weaknesses- the vulnerability that, though I try to mask, shines through, and possibly the uneasiness that I have with the parts of me I consider flaws.  Yet in all of the photos, me and the women who posed as me, glowed unimaginably bright.

I imagine that every woman needs to be photographed, bare and beautiful, through the lens of someone who desires to break the chains that prevent her from realizing her greatest self- even if only to privately flip through on low or lonely days.  I sympathize with the person, male or female, who can not recognize the emancipation which comes through such a happening.  Through Saddi, and other lovers of women, we may somehow recapture what should naturally and rightfully be ours; true comfort in our skin.

Wish me luck on my journey towards inner peace, self-love, and unconditional acceptance. I wish you the same. In the spirit of the Hindu definition of Namaste let us recognize through the light of others the light within ourselves, and hope that there are spirits like  Saddi in place, waiting to capture those gargantuan glimpses on film. Ase…

Fall in love with Saddi’s images here:

http://www.modelmayhem.com/87793

http://www.modelmayhem.com/737609

Read and listen to him describe his art here:

http://creativityisme.com/2009/04/09/a-moment-with-saddi-khali/

The Pain of Mothering

There is never time in the future in which we will work out our salvation. The challenge is in the moment; the time is always now.  ~ James Baldwin

I sat kissing every one of Nailah’s fingers and toes, crying, after watching the video of Derrion Albert being brutally and fatally beaten.  A mother’s love is almost masochistic. It is unwavering. It requires every fiber of your being to love someone so much that even as she sleeps peacefully you worry and weep.  As a mother, you are somehow saddened by her happiness, fully understanding that one day she will learn the truth about this bitter earth.

My mother passes down stories of our mothers, one being that of my grandmother, who bore eleven children as the wife of a sharecropper in rural Louisiana during Jim Crow. The story goes that she could never shut her eyes until every last one of her babies was safe in her arms…or her home, which was very much like her arms- made up of hopes, timber and tears. At that time, in those moments, My grandmother knew that there was no safety for black boys and girls. Her heart would race, frantically counting those eight boys and three girls, praising God that none were raped, beaten, lynched, made an example of.

As I recall those stories I think of the mother of Derrion Albert. How she also, at some point, kissed fingers and toes. How she loved her son until it hurt her heart. How she also gave to him every fiber of her being in increments of years, tears, and fears. She is my grandmother, and every mother who has loved a child- but somehow exalted because she has to now figure out how to live without the being that made her God.

I also think of Emmett Till as I think of Derrion Albert, the courage it takes to bury a child, all the years that have passed between their deaths and the fundamental difference between their murders. You see, Mamie Till Mobley could direct her anger, outrage, and grief towards cowardly White men. Derrion’s mother somehow has to grieve for her son, and the mothers of the boys who murdered him.  Knowing, I’m sure, that they all lost their sons that day.  She unfortunately does not have the privilege of dreaming of a white sheet to tear to shreds.

I gather that all of these tears and ramblings lead to one supreme consciousness- the look on my grandmother’s face if, for any reason, I would have to explain to her that more so than keeping our children safe from White neo-slave masters, we have to keep them safe from other children, who look just like them.  I imagine her astonishment as I sit with my own.  I’m glad that she has met her Maker and does not have to contemplate such atrocities.

The Real Truth About Jump Offs

When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed. But when we are silent, we are still afraid. So it is better to speak. ~ Audre Lorde

I loved him. And somehow at that moment in time, I believed he loved me. My parting words to him were, “Thank you for making me feel like a jump-off. Goodbye”. I texted those words because I couldn’t utter them. The highest part of me simply would not allow them to be spoken as that term was for “other women” not ME.  I was wrong.  Language has no reservations.  He had stolen my heart, my body, my trust, my Queendom, all for his desire to sever the parts of me that he lusted from the parts of me that he had no time to consider.  And there were tears and there was pain and although the tragedy of my broken heart is not ingenious or epic, it is authentic and deserves to be told, village to village, in the tradition of our Griots- even if it does allow people to perceive me as being naïve, weak, or someone’s thing thrown away.

Last night, in light of a new blogpost at essence.com, a male friend asked me to define a jump off. I explained that in my opinion, a jump off is someone that is ready to allow sex to, well for lack of better words, “jump off” urgently, in the moment, and without a need for pomp and circumstance. And as I defined it I wondered where our Black womanhood had gone.  I literally could not believe that I had subconsciously etched in my memory this definition that defiled me and my sisters so terribly.  Also in that moment I realized the power of what we take into our bodies as media (music, print, the internet, etc.) and why it is called programming.  I know and love many Black women. I see them as beautiful, courageous, loving, loyal and royal…but also broken, conquered, tired, damaged and apparently jump offs. 

Having studied etymology I fully understand the implications and gravity of language.  In the least, the term jump off is non consensual- whether consciously or unconsciously. It is also anti-woman, as it originated as a term to label, cast, and define a certain woman as not being worth realness, tenderness, or care.  The problem is that this box is not composed of any particular type of woman, but instead any and all of us.  In the end we have to be honest enough with ourselves in that no matter how much we wish to re-define words- we cannot separate them from their origins.  A man will never be a jump off as the origin of the term makes this impossible.  He can, however, continue to be labeled as a big Black buck, and a philanderer- which is somehow just as tragic.

So, essentially, what we have created with the use of this term is a new dogma where women who want to be wifey (*sigh* this word requires an entirely different blog entry), somehow become jump offs. Even if our mouths accept the term, I am convinced our souls do not.  What we perceive as a usurpation of power, is actually a ploy to be less dishonored and humiliated. The power comes from not only NOT accepting the term, but also calling out any person who treats us as it is defined.  Terms become ideals and ideals become ways of life.

In short, and as my beautiful, hopeful friend Joi Spears always says, “Thoughts become things”.  I am a Black woman of beauty and wonder- let your thoughts reflect this and your words project this, otherwise…move around.

Oh here is the article the sparked today’s musings:

http://bit.ly/MDR2z

Owning Our Images

“If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.” ~ Audre Lorde

 

One of my greatest insecurities is caring more than I should about what others think of me.  I’m sure most of us, no matter how confident we appear, share this shortcoming.  One might concede that Western Society dictates this as it feeds us images that devour our self esteem and self worth.  However, as I grow and go, I realize how important it is for me to own my image, regardless of other people’s judgments of me, for in the end, it is my opinion that matters most.

As a collective body, as Africans here and abroad, we have lost our ability to define ourselves.  We somehow emerge to be just as confused as others “appear” to be when it comes to recognizing and presenting who we are(notice my quotations as appearances can be quite illusive). Don’t get me wrong, we are nothing if not colossal and non-monolithic- from the poor African farmer to the POTUS. However, as I sit reading a recent article in National Geographic concerning Somalia’s plight for a stable government and tweeting about Kanye West’s supposed “nigger moment” on the MTV Video Music Awards, I realize that all roads lead back to this- an outsider’s view of us being perpetuated as our inside view.

Immediately, we (including myself) dismissed Kanye West as a fool and a brute for observing that, in essence, Black people are being ostracized (if not completely omitted) from receiving accolades in popular music, when, in essence, American popular music has always been grounded in Black music (whether confessed or concealed). It took the beautiful mind of my friend Dwayne Rodgers (or @diggswayne on twitter) to make me ponder why we are so drastically not only against Kanye’s statements, but against Kanye himself.  We are so quick to condemn our own, rarely attempting to understand or offer healing.  Don’t get me wrong, I fully understand that it is less West’s opinions, which whether we would like to admit or not usually hold some substance, and more the irrational and trantrum-esque manner in which he presents those opinions that leaves us up in arms. In the least, we should recognize that he needs therapy/healing more than he needs to be called names or publically emasculated.  Similarly, when we hurl these insults, and our inward opinions appear in sources outside of our community, we become enraged at what we consider misrepresentation- when the foundation of that misrepresentation begins with us.  It reveals us to be just as irrational as we perpetuate Kanye to be.

The same can be said of our callous reaction, or lack of reaction all together, towards the conditions of many nations on the continent of Africa. Today I concentrate on Somalia; a country that has gone almost twenty years without a sound government or the services that one would expect a government to provide.  How many of us made jokes about Somali pirates, and actually found fault with the Somali people for protecting their borders in the only manner available to them?  Anyone from the Horn will lament on the French and others using Somali waters as toxic dumping grounds, or faux vested interest from Western countries, pretending to desire a “stable” government for the Somali people, but instead really wanting to protect direct routes to the Middle East. I am elated that I have a background in journalism and keen reading comprehension skills that allow me to decipher the subconscious messages presented in articles like “Shattered Somalia”, but realize that, unfortunately, a mass of our people do not share that same foundation.  Statements like, “This land is bred for trouble” moves one to conclude that not only is Somalia un-savable, but it is evil- even treacherous, and undeserving of our mercy or concern. I’m waiting to hear the uproar surrounding this mis-information… *crickets*.

So whether here or abroad, on a silly minute level that affects a few (like the Kanye incident) or an enormous level that affects a nation (like in Somalia), we fail to own or images- and thus the manner in which they are manipulated and controlled. Until we change THIS, we can not change our destiny, which Frantz Fanon maintains “is White”.

K’Naan on Somali Pirates:  

Kanye is a nigger apparently… http://bit.ly/Ma9If (a twitter link)

Brothers Remove Your Masks

I am at a very interesting point in my adult life, where after some difficult relationships, I find myself becoming a bit embittered.  My bitterness is not directed towards the specific Black men that I have been involved with, or Black men as a collective actually, but more so at the conditions that are sabotaging Black men’s potential to lead healthy, normal, lives.

I mean we all watch them fall apart; the Stephen Marbury’s, the Michael Beasley’s. They appear to us broken, fragmented, and reaching for our hands. Our brothers, our beloved brothers, are dying; both figuratively and literally, physically and emotionally, from mental illnesses that we as a community, out of the fear of stigmatization, will not allow them to diagnose and treat.

Statistically speaking, Black and White men are believed to suffer from depression at a similar rate of 12%.  Of course this represented percentage includes diagnosed cases only, and as we acknowledge our community’s lagging acceptance of mental health issues, we recognize that the percentage is probably much higher.

Actually, I don’t know very many brothers who would not benefit immensely from psychological evaluations and subsequent therapy sessions (or sisters for that matter, but that is another blog for another day) .  I am a proponent of mental health screenings and counseling, and through all of my efforts, I have yet to convince any of the brothers I have tried to assist to admit their needs or seek the appropriate help.  So our men continue to mask, which according to Dubois we are exceptionally gifted at, trading their pain for fake gansterisms and unnecessary hardships or submerging themselves in drugs, alcohol and women to sedate or escape the pain.  Sitting by, idly watching them self destruct in our faces, must be akin to Africans watching their kinsmen being loaded onto slave ships. Somehow we know that we are witnessing tragedy, but in that moment we know not how to stop it.

I say this to you brothers… your pain does not escape my heart. I understand the complexity of trying to compete in a world that proclaims you should not even be allowed in the game.  I sympathize with your frustrations in being looked upon as some type of perfect example of masculinity, yet being emasculated every day of your life by your oppressor, and sometimes the woman that claims to love you.  I acknowledge your humanity and all of the bitter-sweetness that accompanies it.  You do not have to be “the man” for us; you can simply be “a man” for us- with flaws and heartaches and disappointments like everyone else.  And as I free you to be beautifully human, I only ask that you put your machismo aside to also acknowledge my need for tenderness and kindness, and free me in return.  Our captors say that we don’t know how to love ourselves or each other. Let us work to prove them wrong.

And as always I leave you with a beautiful quote from a beautiful Black man who also fought to have his humanity acknowledged…

Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. ~ James Baldwin

Word Wisdom

Words without thoughts never to heaven go ~ Shakespeare

I apologize for neglecting you all, as somehow, twitter has become my new blogspot. I attribute my frequent, sometimes ten in a row, tweets to my Muse grabbing hold of me and not relinquishing control until I am able to fully commit her words to the universe. Her words, like those of Djehuty (Toth in Greek), must be pronounced in that moment.

Djehuty is the Kemetic Neter (God) considered to be Ra’s heart and tongue, and the only Neter that can translate His will. The Greek translation of his name is believed by Kemetologist to be where the word thought originates.  Africans, and yes Kemet-Egypt is a part of Africa, have always understood the power in the translation of thoughts through the words we speak, write, and commit into being. In short, our words become our essence and our actions.

Do you not believe me? Take a moment to view Dr. Masura Emoto’s study concerning the crystalization of water. In part of his experiement glasses of water were exposed to negative and positive words. The water in the glasses crystalized differently, with the negative words creating dark sludge-like crystalizations.  If negative and positive words can affect water in such a manner, imagine how they can affect the heart of men.

Part of the reason that I chose writing and literature as a focus of my academic studies, and the reason that I write poetry, live my life on twitter, and bother you all with my blogs, is because I feel a close and personal attachment to word transmission (I include written and spoken words in this definition).  Words affect me deeply and concretely, and my latest life lesson has been to realize that others do not share this same connection.  We are socialized to believe that words can never hurt us, which is one of the greatest fallacies propagated as cruel words leave the deepest scars and are the hardest to heal from. By that same standard, kind words can deliver us, resurrect us, and free us; even if only from ourselves- which is why we prosper from self-affirmation.

Beautiful ones- I said all of that to say, choose you words wisely as they create the person you are.  Also realize the positive and negative words you say form and transform others; it is a very cumbersome but honest realization.

Sade beautifully illustrates my thoughts of today in her song “Every Word”. Enjoy…

My Sorrows Can Not Be Skip’d

 

My father and Henry Louis “Skip” Gates have nothing in common. Pops was not Harvard educated and the story of his ancestry has never been made into a PBS special.  You see, my father lived in the bowels of the old south; racism felt about as natural to him as raising the cotton he sharecropped in the hot southern Louisiana sun. 

He had been farming since he dropped out of school in the sixth grade, hoping to help my widowed grandmother somehow break even at the end of the seasons, remember…sharecropping was a “neo slavery” that often left African Americans owing White land owners more money than they earned during the sale of their crops at harvest.  He never abandoned farming, which I later realized was a blessing as I understand the process of growing my own food.  As a matter of fact, my father could build a house, farm, fish, and hunt; or basically live independently if our government one day decided to treat him like a refugee (queue Katrina). I used to somewhat be embarrassed by his “countryness”. He even grew a couple of bushes of cotton every season, which I now realize was his non-verbal communication of the Akan principle of Sankofa. You see, Africa lives within us, whether we acknowledge her or not.

Sidebar: My father lived to see me make my pilgrimage to the Continent (great…now I’m crying). I brought him back a royal sword because I realized when I became an adult that, in his modest way, he was a great warrior, and he deserved to know it.

I watched my father struggle to support his family with an inadequate education and a prayer that his children would be more than him. I surveyed his mechanical genius as he repaired TV’s, refrigerators, and air conditioners- with no formal training, and pondered who he might have been had he been afforded the basic human rights that we all should be guaranteed; mainly the right to thrive.  I witnessed his uneasiness when being pulled over by police, I suppose, as he wondered if he would be threatened, beat, or murdered in front of his children. I observed my father bury himself in alcohol as he suffered being a man in a world that demanded that he could not be one. The horrors of racism and racial profiling are not lost on me, a thirty-something, educated, and freedom bound Black woman.

So as I watch the novella that is the Gates-Crowley-Obama stream of events; I don’t stand unaffected. As they all “play” the race card, and joke, and sip beers, I realize that my father’s memory deserves a real discussion on racism and how it affects us individually and collectively. This mask of cohesion and diplomacy only leaves one set of losers; and it is not an officer bold enough to be offended as he was called out on his behavior, which surely pointed to a white superiority complex that remains the large elephant in the room that everyone pretends not to see. (Ahem- that sentence was mad Baldwin-esque).

And speaking of Baldwin, I think this quote from him serves this post well:

I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.

Mr. President, I await the invitation to tell you my father’s story.  Please have plenty of Kleenex on hand, because it’s not a jolly tale. Oh, and my father drank Pearl beer, it’s a southern classic.  If you would forward that invitation in his name and in care of Jo the Nubian, I would greatly appreciate it.  By the way, his invite warrants only the finest calligraphy and stationary; you know the kind reserved for dignitaries and sorts.  I’ll check the mail daily.

Justice for Jada

(Jada- may she be better cared for above than she was below.)

 

‘Children are the reward of life.’

It is the Congolese Proverb that we chose as the theme for our shower when Nailah was born. Nailah, my now rambunctious three year old daughter, was born prematurely at six months- weighing only 17 ounces.  I went to the hospital every day during those four months; pumping breast milk, praying, holding, hoping that my belief in her and God would not falter. I gave her every ounce of love I had within me, knowing that nothing but love would bring both of us through. One day after leaving the hospital, I witnessed a woman verbally abusing her small children, and me distinctly wanting to strangle her. In that moment I gathered that those feelings were probably attributed the stress of trying to keep my breast milk flowing, or the exhaustion of trekking through those hospital corridors everyday. In hindsight though, I realize that it was the fact that I, who had done everything I could to have a healthy baby, had one who was clinging to life, and she, who had healthy children, was berating them because they moved too much in their chairs. It wasn’t at all fair.  I recall vividly my mother telling me that life isn’t fair or filled with justice, so I might as well get used to it.  No truer words have been spoken.  I knew then, even in my anger, that we live in an absurd world where fairness is about as absent as clarity. My mother’s words and my work at answering all of the “how comes” in life have yet to erase the faces of those poor babies or that encounter.

Fast forward to June 16, 2009, I sat reading an article about a missing child, Jada Justice, who had allegedly gone missing while left unattended on the side of a gas station in an unlocked car at 9:30 pm.  I immediately became emotionally attached to the story because in one of the photos provided Jada resembled Nailah.  As the days passed, I heard less and less about her. The SC Governor- yes, Neda- yes, but no Jada. I watched Nancy Grace, whom I somewhat despise because of her failure to report on the cases of missing black and brown children, and found nothing past one mention of her.  Finally, in the midst of hearing of the passing of Michael Jackson, I read that Jada’s body was found.  The emptiness that I felt within my spirit, well, I can’t seem to adequately pronounce or articulate it. I think I have been holding my daughter nearly to the point of suffocation since I read the news.

Somehow, I feel that we failed to protect Jada. She was neglected, obviously, both in her life and in her death, but she is not the only one.  Mainstream media neglects to adequately report on our children who are missing, abused, or murdered.  I consider Caylee Anthony and the amazing news reports that meticulously guided us through the search for her, and even her mother’s trial after it was determined that she obviously murdered her daughter.  I dare you to search the two names and witness the difference in available information regarding the two girls. The search results should at least sour your stomach, if you are strong enough to subdue regurgitation.

I want justice for Jada, probably to the point of forming a group of vigilantes to avenge her death.  I would also like to have street fights with whomever chooses the news stories that are produced in these mainstream media outlets.  The rage that is conjured from hopelessness is more than likely the strongest rage that one can possess, I figure, and can turn a kind intellectual into a mad-woman.  In the least, I can pass on Jada’s story and shed light on the not-so alarming, not-so new trend of neglecting to report on our children:

http://bit.ly/7OOhJ      Jada’s story

http://bit.ly/rXOzj         Missing Black children get less media coverage.

http://bit.ly/15jXoN     What color is that baby?

http://bit.ly/AsoDi         Where is Jada? Missing Black girl ignored…

Kiss your(or someones) babies tonight and pray for Jada’s family. Along with doing those two things I also plan to wish upon a star that there is a special place in hell for the people who abuse, abduct, and murder children, and those who make conscious choices not to report such events.

I am sick to have to add an update to this post, however the following article outlines the details of Jada’s murder. I really have no other words.

http://twitthis.com/vyeuks