Dear Jaha,
I wonder if your brain and heart are on overload, like mine.
I've been in several conversations today, mostly about how "public
intellectuals" talk about the wrong things. I don't know.
I think the fact that Beyonce dropped an album and talked
about feminism and BDSM and bitches is worth a conversation.
She did, after all, have a baby girl on her hip the whole time.
You and I, we know something about working and holding babies.
We hold our babies and other's on our hips all the time while we
weep over our dead ones.
I don't even know how to talk about "affluenza," and our son, Dione Payne, 16,
robbed, beaten, and sexually assaulted by 36-year-old Michael and
39-year-old Michael. They are charged with aggravated robbery
and aggravated murder. We know about aggravation--damn! And
they dropped his limp body off at an emergency room to die--
WHAT? did the burly Southern white racist men who raped him,
beat him, suddenly have a wave of compassion? Is that even
possible after you've beaten someone within a gasp of his last breath?
I mean, the emergency room ride doesn't make sense in a world
where we can't keep our children safe on our hips, safe from affluenza
or from white men who don't know the worth of black bodies. I am tired
of writing THESE kinds of posts--aren't you?
It's been a hard year in the world that is not safe for us, for our children.
And then, today, I'm having a conversation with a public intellectual
who says black women, that is, women like me and you--feminist, strong
take-no-tea-for-the-fever women--Jaha, he had the nerve to say
we hate black men. It was a sweeping, all-encompassing statement.
You know, I will admit. Some black women hate black men. It's not like
they don't have the scars, the rapes, the cigarette burns to fuel that hatred.
But to say we all hate black men? It's a wonder we don't. But we'll hurl
ourselves into all kinds of twisted contortions to keep from holding
a black man accountable. Some grown black men--we'll walk them
all the way back to their sorry excuses and write them out in cursive, in our
own blood if we have to, just so they won't have to say, "sorry." We love
them like that against our own lives.
It's been a hard day, and still I'm grateful. It's the season for gratitude.
But it's hard, when black boy's deaths make us weep so hard our eyes
swell and some black man says we don't love them, while we're
looking for another hip to swing them on, so we can protect the
whole lot of them--even if we die.
Be brave. Keep writing. Word.
© Valerie Bridgeman
December 18, 2013
Whew! Is what I will say right now. I am tired of proving my love for black men. I don't have to anymore. I prove it every day. I am rearing one after all. I had a baby with one after all. I voted for one. I raise my fists for all of them. I kept my stupid mouth shut for one after he raped me and dared me to tell so that he wouldn't go to jail. I love black men like I love myself. And I mean that. Like sometimes I don't like myself but damn if I ain't gon stick with me. Why is it so confusing? Because I love being a woman and and will fight to the death of me for women's rights does not mean that I hate men. If I have oatmeal for breakfast do I loathe steak for lunch? Doesn't that sound crazy? But then there I go again, going on and on. Isn't that what they say we do too much of? Mouthing off? Except they never seem to get enough of me cheerleading for them. Never get enough of my amens. Maybe I will never understand. Perhaps my hair is just too nappy. Oops. Did I say that?
ReplyDeleteI just walked away, sis because, really? everyday we're proving love for black men--making babies with them; raising babies; fists pumped; mouth shut; like oatmeal with sugar-butter-milk added steamy hot for breakfast love. But then, I haven't had oatmeal for breakfast in a while. I don't imagine we will ever get it, while we go right on with our Black Feminist/Womanist selves. Write on. Love however you can survive.
ReplyDelete"Love however you can survive" indeed
ReplyDelete