tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56216351743132184692024-03-14T09:55:35.454-04:00Loving Blackthoughts on love, faith, and the folkChanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.comBlogger39125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-26787990976421896292014-10-15T09:53:00.002-04:002014-10-15T09:54:16.101-04:00A Primer on Self-Care<div class="storify"><iframe src="//storify.com/drchanequa/self-care-doesn-t-have-to-cost/embed?border=false" width="100%" height=750 frameborder=no allowtransparency=true></iframe><script src="//storify.com/drchanequa/self-care-doesn-t-have-to-cost.js?border=false"></script><noscript>[<a href="//storify.com/drchanequa/self-care-doesn-t-have-to-cost" target="_blank">View the story "8 Self-Care Tips (All Free!)" on Storify</a>]</noscript></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-12361946605647468692014-09-19T09:05:00.000-04:002014-09-19T09:05:08.425-04:00Interview with Rachel Held EvansLast month, New York Times bestselling author Rachel Held Evans asked to interview me about <i>Too Heavy a Yoke</i>. Here's an excerpt below. <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<em id="yui_3_17_2_1_1411131562012_333">Today
I am thrilled to introduce you to Dr. Chanequa Walker-Barnes, a
theologian and psychologist whose mission is to serve as a catalyst for
healing, justice, and reconciliation in the Christian church and
beyond.</em> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5nBWfNekUyg-Cq4e93o1fkucgnxVHJ4mIdZLMCwiOtBsLijJ0SxsdC5RfNlHJwP1mm1si0vYThjetn5RVUyJSaRCMEDbMjjn4188PnxWXWGqPRe99aHLVEURyehx3eqmGI50fG5vYTC8/s1600/THAY+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5nBWfNekUyg-Cq4e93o1fkucgnxVHJ4mIdZLMCwiOtBsLijJ0SxsdC5RfNlHJwP1mm1si0vYThjetn5RVUyJSaRCMEDbMjjn4188PnxWXWGqPRe99aHLVEURyehx3eqmGI50fG5vYTC8/s1600/THAY+cover.jpg" height="200" width="135" /></a><em>I first learned about Dr. Walker-Barnes when Christena Cleveland wrote <a href="http://www.christenacleveland.com/2014/08/farewell-strongblackwoman/" target="_blank">a stirring response</a> to her first book, </em><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00LP3GMV2/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00LP3GMV2&linkCode=as2&tag=racheleva-20&linkId=TB6J6W5XFD4XXVK2" target="_blank">Too Heavy a Yoke: Black Women and the Burden of Strength,</a><em>
which examines the impact that the icon of the StrongBlackWoman has
upon the health and well-being of African American women. I was so
intrigued I read the book myself and was challenged, encouraged, and
moved by it. The chapter on the Trinity profoundly changed the way I
think about self-sacrifice and interdependence, particularly as a woman,
so I knew the moment I finished the book I had to have the author on
the blog. </em></blockquote>
Read the rest of the interview <a href="http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/chanequa-walker-barnes-too-heavy-a-yoke" target="_blank">here</a>. <br />
<em></em>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-54895635742436932142014-08-07T15:38:00.003-04:002014-08-09T10:59:26.919-04:00Recent Articles on the StrongBlackWoman<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMT2C504vF-q3l4pPXNqKgyS5ozM8Q0GFai7fm2EwOy57dFN52MxQUgolLcx3nrFZhDEA4Pk8gRFcDvPQ6Z53u_BB-uz1JbRYRaZpOl23NmDgK9cGbEahIJxLHFtY7nJUVnHf4ieAIRNdk/s1600/THAY+cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMT2C504vF-q3l4pPXNqKgyS5ozM8Q0GFai7fm2EwOy57dFN52MxQUgolLcx3nrFZhDEA4Pk8gRFcDvPQ6Z53u_BB-uz1JbRYRaZpOl23NmDgK9cGbEahIJxLHFtY7nJUVnHf4ieAIRNdk/s1600/THAY+cover.jpg" height="200" title="Cover photo for book "Too Heavy a Yoke: Black Women and the Burden of Strength"" width="135" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><b>Breakdown: The StrongBlackWoman in Crisis</b></span><br />
<span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">This week, I guest-authored an article, </span><a href="http://www.forharriet.com/2014/08/breakdown-strongblackwoman-in-crisis.html" target="_blank"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; color: #042eee; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><u>"Breakdown: The StrongBlackWoman in Crisis,"</u></span></a><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> for ForHarriet.com. In the article, I narrate the true-life story of a StrongBlackWoman who arrived at the point of physical breakdown after failing to care for herself in the midst of crisis. Here's an excerpt:</span></span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">Without realizing it, Veronica had been caught in the vicious stress-health cycle of the StrongBlackWoman. Rather than giving herself the space to feel and express her emotional distress, she repressed it. She distracted herself by directing her energies to taking care of the needs of other people and institutions. She crammed even more activity into an already hectic schedule. And she devoted even less time to engaging in self-care behaviors. She had already had difficulty getting an exercise routine going. When cries set in, she began skipping meals and when she did eat, she relied on fast food and sweets. She sacrificed her sleep and leisure time to keep up with all that she had going on. Together, it was a perfect recipe for breakdown. With no outlet, her emotional distress became embodied in physical form. Her existing health problems were exacerbated and she developed new ones: headaches, dizzy spells, fatigue, fainting. </span></span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">In </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Too-Heavy-Yoke-Burden-Strength/dp/1620320665/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1407439908&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><b><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; color: #042eee; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><u><i>Too Heavy a Yoke: Black Women and the Burden of Strength</i></u></span></b></a><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><b>,</b> I devote a chapter to describing the link between embodying the myth of the StrongBlackWoman and health problems among African American women.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><b>Farewell, StrongBlackWoman</b></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">Be sure to check out Christena Cleveland's excellent article, </span><a href="http://www.christenacleveland.com/2014/08/farewell-strongblackwoman/" target="_blank"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; color: #042eee; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><u>"Farewell, StrongBlackWoman."</u></span></a><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> Cleveland is a social psychologist and the author of </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Disunity-Christ-Uncovering-Hidden-Forces/dp/0830844031/ref=sr_1_1_bnp_1_pap?ie=UTF8&qid=1407391490&sr=8-1&keywords=christina+cleveland" target="_blank"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; color: #042eee; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><u><i>Disunity in Christ: Uncovering the Hidden Forces That Keep Us Apart</i></u></span></a><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">. In her article, Cleveland reflects upon her own embodiment of the StrongBlackWoman and her commitment to healing. She writes:</span></span></span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"><i>My name is Christena and I am a StrongBlackWoman. I am beatable and human, and I am okay with that. I give myself permission to scream when I am angry, cry when I am hurting, ask for help when I need it, and remove myself from communities that can’t or won’t care for and nurture me as a black woman. Every day is a struggle to put down the StrongBlackWoman façade and take up authenticity, true strength rooted in God and community, self-love, and mutual love. But today I choose to face that struggle and receive the help I need to overcome it.</i></span></span></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="-moz-font-feature-settings: normal; -moz-font-language-override: normal; font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">What's your commitment to healing as a StrongBlackWoman? Or to supporting the recovery of a StrongBlackWoman? Join the movement and claim your right to a life of authenticity, love of self, and relationships based upon reciprocity. We can do more than survive. We can thrive!</span></span></span>
<br />
<br />Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-25367740368961236592014-07-13T16:44:00.000-04:002014-07-17T11:19:27.915-04:00A Time to Grieve<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkQxMrlwIN3cBPjRBKiYENBU5BBm9XWphZXjc4ZMv7tZ3q2f183FS0Lu1MQl51ZT03RJqxCL7zMko9iyWkFIDc7IjFYpq6oFjEk21pJ2pNVmE8QMt7Ma0gc71M5yskfPdzq9ru_wzG4JT/s1600/Se%CC%81pulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkQxMrlwIN3cBPjRBKiYENBU5BBm9XWphZXjc4ZMv7tZ3q2f183FS0Lu1MQl51ZT03RJqxCL7zMko9iyWkFIDc7IjFYpq6oFjEk21pJ2pNVmE8QMt7Ma0gc71M5yskfPdzq9ru_wzG4JT/s1600/Se%CC%81pulcre_Arc-en-Barrois_111008_12.jpg" height="200" title="A detail of the 1672 sculpture Entombment of Christ, showing Mary Magdalene crying." width="153" /></a></div>
It was effortless, really, the way the tears rolled down my face. In the six days since my breast cancer diagnosis, I have not really cried. I have been a StrongBlackWoman in recovery for nearly twelve years. And even though I vowed not to play the role of the superhuman sister who hides her emotions behind a brick wall, old habits are hard to break. I’ve had a hard time connecting to the grief that I knew was there. I shed a few tears here and there, but never for more than a minute or two.<br />
<br />
In part, it was because I was still in shock. But there was something else: I don’t want to be comforted. I don’t want anyone trying to staunch the flow of my tears once they start. Grief tends to make other people intensely uncomfortable. And often they try to deal with their discomfort by shutting down its source. I don’t want anyone trying to cheer me up so that they could feel better, especially not with meaningless cliches like “God won’t give you more than you can bear.”<br />
<br />
I need to grieve, and not because I feel hopeless. My mother is a 20-year survivor of a Stage IVB breast cancer. Mine was caught much earlier and I have no doubts that I will fully recover. I’m already picking out the soundtrack that I will dance to when my doctor pronounces me cancer free. But the path to being cancer free is a really arduous one. It is going to disrupt every facet of my life and at a time when life seemed to be on the upswing after several years of major losses and transitions. It will be physical and emotional hell, not only for me, but for my family as well. And for that I need to grieve.<br />
<br />
So this Sunday morning, when the tears finally began to flow just moments after I sat in the church pew, I didn’t fight them. I let their cleansing power work, giving release to the grief and anger that need to escape for my healing journey to begin.<br />
<br />
<i>Photo credit: Detail of Mary Magdalene crying in sculpture Entombment of Christ (1672). "Sépulcre Arc-en-Barrois 111008 12" by Vassil - Own work. Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons</i>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-41621348507734006402012-04-18T11:47:00.010-04:002012-04-18T12:18:26.518-04:00Anxiety and the StrongBlackWoman<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsJxxKiga68ut02WnDz3eRps2e-QR5kHJjIzTZ3l4LptCvGfIYE-pMpBuRcUbi_v0LRYeCiF3Mv2VUCrFTSZ3CFJjWzGlhzCi28nFrPmnsj0pGPBgHP0upT3nJdVF6WKXRmc_-V3s0zx-/s1600/j0178811.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGsJxxKiga68ut02WnDz3eRps2e-QR5kHJjIzTZ3l4LptCvGfIYE-pMpBuRcUbi_v0LRYeCiF3Mv2VUCrFTSZ3CFJjWzGlhzCi28nFrPmnsj0pGPBgHP0upT3nJdVF6WKXRmc_-V3s0zx-/s200/j0178811.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5732775748031587250" /></a><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I’m anxious. There, I said it. Ironically, saying it publicly is not as freeing as I’d hoped it would be. In fact, it’s somewhat anxiety-producing. Perhaps I should stop writing now, delete this line, and move on.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">No, it must be said. It is part of my recovery as a <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/09/burden-of-strong-black-woman.html">StrongBlackWoman</a>. You see, <b>a SBW isn’t supposed to be anxious</b>. At least, most people think she's not supposed to be. A SBW is supposed to be…well, strong. Impervious to fear, worry, and anxiety. She’s supposed to have everything - especially her emotions - under control. Her strong religious faith (a SBW is usually religious) is a prophylactic against worry. She stands on platitudes such as “God won’t give me more than I can bear” and “If God brought me to it, He’ll bring me through it.” And if she is an especially good Christian, she can quote or paraphrase off actual Biblical verses such as the one about lilies and sparrows (cf. <a href="http://www.biblestudytools.com/matthew/passage.aspx?q=matthew+6:25-34">Matthew 6:25-34</a>). And if those don’t work, she is simply to immerse herself in more busyness and keep her feelings to herself.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">That’s precisely what I’ve done for most of my life - kept my fears and anxiety to myself. About ten years ago, I realized that I probably have a strong biological predisposition to anxiety. A lot of people in my family have a lot of fears: dogs, scary movies, lightning, New York cabbies. Some of my relatives (who shall remain nameless) practically jump out of their skin at the least provocation. Some of us are pretty open about our fears, prompting the rest of us to label them “scary,” as in “Chile, you kno’ she ain’t goin’ to that movie. She so scary.” <b>Others suffer silently.</b> Since I’m a clinical psychologist, some of my relatives have come to me over the years to talk about these issues - the panic attacks, obsessions and compulsions, the prescriptions. And all the while, I’ve thought that it was strange that I didn’t have an anxiety disorder given my familial predisposition and my personal history of trauma.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Somehow, <b>I overlooked a lot of symptoms</b> - the nightmares and insomnia that started by my sixth birthday, my fear of the dark, my refusal to walk alone in my suburban neighborhood during the day because it seemed too deserted, my self-consciousness, and my chronic mental multi-tasking. The symptoms have appeared - and disappeared - at different stages in my life. And most of the time, they’ve been subclinical, meaning that they were not severe enough to require professional intervention. Mindfulness-based activities such as yoga and meditation, along with good nutrition and exercise, were sufficient to keep the symptoms in check.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Then came parenthood. The hypervigilance required of parents during the first few years of a child’s life is enough to trigger any subclinical anxiety problems into a full-scale clinical syndrome. Next came a one-year period of tremendous loss, trauma, and change, the cumulative effects of which created multiple cracks in the dam of strength that I’d built over the years. Finally, two months ago, I came home to discover that someone had broken into our house, <b>just the right trauma to unleash a Katrina-like flood of anxiety over my already weakened defenses</b>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The typical SBW reaction would have been to act as if all were okay. If I were operating in full SBW mode, in response to queries about how I was feeling, I would have offered some heroically faithful retort like, “God is my fortress and my shield!” But I haven’t been in full SBW mode for a long time. In fact, I have been in <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2008/08/12-step-program-for-strong-black-women.html">recovery</a> for almost ten years. Granted, there have been a few <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2009/07/strong-black-woman-goes-to-doctor.html">relapses</a>, but at this point in my journey, I have no interested in being a myth. I am committed to discovering and embracing my authentic, fully human self, including my needs and vulnerabilities. So I told the truth: <b>I’m not okay. I’ve had problems with anxiety for a long time and this just puts me over the edge. I am afraid, more afraid than I can tolerate on my own.</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">For the first time, rather than suppressing my fears, I owned them. Instead of trying to deny my anxiety (to myself and others), I decided to make sure that my anxious self received the care that I needed. I continued my weekly therapy sessions, made sure that I exercised and ate well, and went for a massage. But when, after a few weeks, my anxiety level remained sufficiently high enough to jeopardize my sleep and my blood pressure, I took another step: anti-anxiety medication.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">As a psychologist, I tend to favor “talk” therapy over medication. And in this case, I knew that my symptoms would eventually decrease and return to their normal levels. Yet I also agreed with my therapist who, as both a licensed counselor and priest, reminded me that God does not require us to suffer needlessly. Suffering anxiety was not doing me, or anyone else, any good. In fact, with every day of elevated blood pressure increasing my risk of eventual stroke, <b>a few months of untreated anxiety could have a much worse long-term impact</b>.</p><div><br /></div><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I wish that more of my SBW sisters would recognize their problems with anxiety and seek treatment, whether it be counseling (with a properly trained and licensed therapist), medication, or both. Despite the myths about our mental and spiritual fortitude, SBW are actually quite anxious. Epidemiological research consistently demonstrates that Black women in the U.S. have a relatively high rate of anxiety disorders. <b>Nearly 1 in 5 Black women has a diagnosable phobia</b>, higher than any other racial-ethnic group. Black women also have significantly higher rates of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) than Black men or women of other racial/ethnic groups. <b>It turns out that hidden behind the myth of strength is a lot of unnecessary suffering</b>.</p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 18.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The first step in releasing our fears is to admit them. Huh, this is starting to feel liberating, after all.</p></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-66991173281747113932012-02-22T15:40:00.014-05:002012-02-22T16:19:06.851-05:00Relinquishing Selflessness: A Lenten Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYLy07jJm2wye4nEkr1prxRpnp5a475YvDexgJFlLn4MHPvKPR-m9JOTsW7G_7MegKkOhFGCX7_KuflrrJFuN4kLf8rPPsu8-IZNK9eO-Qc6KPahvcaGNgdnoSGw3dJc16Lwqu0XkTyXo/s1600/Lent-Chocolates.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYLy07jJm2wye4nEkr1prxRpnp5a475YvDexgJFlLn4MHPvKPR-m9JOTsW7G_7MegKkOhFGCX7_KuflrrJFuN4kLf8rPPsu8-IZNK9eO-Qc6KPahvcaGNgdnoSGw3dJc16Lwqu0XkTyXo/s320/Lent-Chocolates.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712071965545971858" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;"><div><br /></div></span><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I'm giving up selflessness for Lent. That may seem counterproductive to the Lenten focus on denying self. I should probably do something more...spiritual. Like committing to fast. Or getting up before dawn to spend an hour in prayer. Or giving up Facebook, Twitter, and television so that I can spend more time reading Scripture. Even something seemingly as mundane as giving up chocolate might be more high-minded than giving up selflessness.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Trust me, I tried to think of something else. I was really thinking about giving up social media. That’d be a tough one for me. I will try to curtail my compulsions to check Facebook. But that’s not my Lenten discipline.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Nope, <b>my discipline is being less selfless</b>. The New Oxford American Dictionary defines selfless as “concerned more with the needs and wishes of others than with one’s owns.” The chief antonym for selflessness: unselfish. New Oxford has nothing positive to say about selfishness.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">That’s problematic. It would seem that a certain level of selfishness, or self-centeredness, is necessary for the preservation of the self. By the way, New Oxford seems to approve of the idea of having a self, “a person’s essential being that distinguishes them from others, esp. considered as the object of introspection or reflexive action.”</span></p><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">But what about Scripture and Christian tradition? Scripture is a pretty strong advocate for self-denial. In each of the synoptic gospels, Jesus tells his disciples, “All who want to come after me must say no to themselves, take up their cross daily, and follow me. All who want to save their lives will lose them. But all who lose their lives because of me will save them” (<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=luke%209:23-24&version=CEB">Luke 9:23-24</a>, see also <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Matthew%2016:24-25&version=CEB">Matthew 16:24-25</a>, <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark%208:34-37&version=CEB">Mark 8:34-37</a>). A whole host of monastic movements and practices of asceticism have been based, in part, on such teachings.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">However, denial is not the final word that Scripture has to say about the self. Embedded in the Great Commandment is an often overlooked element: Christ’s assumption - in fact, his command - that we love ourselves. In response to the legal expert who asks which commandment is the most important, Jesus responds: “The most important one is <i>Israel, listen! Our God is the one Lord, and you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your being, with all your mind, and with all your strength</i>. The second is this, <i>You will love your neighbor as yourself</i>. No other commandment is greater than these” (<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark%2012:%2028-31&version=CEB">Mark 12: 28-31</a>). <b>It turns out that Jesus thinks that loving oneself is connected to loving one’s neighbor.</b></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4vi7TFiulF7w8QDEXqrS7RiRsxKZdy8LD1Q8rR661lCBkCVPfp5SPFEHKJxJJ-pJkPE9XvaMxlw3cWFcOkXmHY9LpW8s2dARf6Yf5Xj6dNklgeRlkW69ojVM1ZnRKM31zeB6OcWNFcSij/s320/images-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712069156551585010" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 275px; height: 183px; " /> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">For Christians, then, self-love and self-denial live in an</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ">dynamic interplay. It’s a tension, to be sure. Straying too far into self-love can lead to all manner of sin, not the least of which is idolatry. <b>But excessive self-denial is just as problematic and can also be a form of idolatry.</b> For some of us, self-denial comes easily precisely because we don’t have a strong </span>sense of self to begin with. That’s often the case for women and girls, who are often taught to put others before themselves. The helping professions (including ministry) also tend to attract people who are good at putting the needs of others before themselves.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">So being a woman in the helping professions (both a psychologist and minister), self-denial comes easy to me. To make matters worse, I’m the eldest child of a single mother. By the age of twelve, i was a full-fledged parentified child, taking care of my younger brother while my mother worked long hours, often on the night shift. My mother, coincidentally, was the eldest of eight children. And her father had to drop out of elementary school so that he could take care of his younger siblings while his parents worked on a sharecropper’s farm in Mississippi. That’s at least three generations of training in self-denial culminating in one package…me.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">I’m always looking out for the needs of other people, whether they be family, friends, or strangers. I don’t even wait for people to express a need; I anticipate it. I’m the person who sees a problem, develops a solution, and assumes the responsibility for implementing it so as not to add a burden to anyone else. Even when I’m driving, I look out for the needs and feelings of others. If my turn approaches too quickly and I’m in the wrong lane, I’ll miss the turn rather than cause other drivers to slow down momentarily. For some reason, one of my chief driving rules is that it’s wrong to inconvenience other drivers. I have no idea where I got that from, but it’s paradigmatic of my life.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Selflessness has gotten me in trouble health-wise. About ten years ago, my body sent a not-so-subtle message: “You’re doing too much for other people and you need to take better care of yourself.” I listened, at least until I went to seminary, where the workload and content taught me that good Christians (and good students) take up their cross by pulling all-nighters, living off caffeine, and putting off health until they graduate. Moreover, they should do this without uttering a complaint, otherwise their professors might accuse them of having the wrong priorities.</span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">There have been plenty of reinforcements for the message that I should focus less upon myself than upon others. The devotional that I use, with its heavy emphasis upon social justice, instructs me to direct my prayers toward others. Save for the Lord’s Prayer, there is no space within its daily liturgy to bring my own needs before God. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">And sometimes churches add fuel to the fire. One night during a church committee meeting, I tearfully shared my struggles with balancing my teaching position, being a new parent, and serving the church. Several committee members responded by telling me that I needed to get better childcare so that I could do more for the church!</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">It turns out that my body’s early signals of physical distress were roadside signs warning me of the all-out roadblock up ahead. I now find myself living with a chronic illness that could possibly have been prevented if I had put more focus upon myself than upon others. Fortunately, or perhaps not, the condition can be managed if I finally learn to do what I’ve been so horrible at doing: loving myself. Hence, my Lenten discipline.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica; min-height: 16.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGDjTm59ajWoYtJ1KyYSBHuEPR7AbNGVw_oh7ahxRv27DK3NoIVuj06GMm_-m9Q3HdVaOMgxJ-crQRD7Gy43uToMeXpCBEv4DkzZgiehTLlcO_7eT3hdbuNm7a7KNsk98B_Id_LSedg9P/s200/self-love31.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712070431032191826" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 194px; " /><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">It’s not the easiest discipline to observe. There is <b>no clear checklist or set of rules</b> that I must follow on a daily basis. Right now, I'm beginning with something simple: praying for myself. Each morning, I pray the Psalms. After I read the Psalm through once, I <b>pray it through</b>, putting myself in place of the petitioner, even altering the words to reflect my situation. It makes me feel less guilty to pray for myself if I’m following a Biblical precedent.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font: normal normal normal 13px/normal Helvetica; min-height: 16px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">So kudos to those of you who are practicing some form of self-denial this Lenten season. As for me, I’m practicing self-love.</span></p></div></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-34454572730519129622012-01-07T07:38:00.009-05:002012-01-07T11:03:08.833-05:00A StrongBlackWoman Goes to Therapy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmr_HEF_M0nxN1VDoDtQ3mak9iymxHz_fmG0UqD3KsTzCR4g0K8nDVM1ktdHsgxbUjsIMxms5Z9uiPnlTsO4gREwBbjF-UrRgo-bEhgqIrjrO9BcuhY5pqHh0wjg2HDFqoF0TndLFsNE2/s1600/black-woman-sad-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSmr_HEF_M0nxN1VDoDtQ3mak9iymxHz_fmG0UqD3KsTzCR4g0K8nDVM1ktdHsgxbUjsIMxms5Z9uiPnlTsO4gREwBbjF-UrRgo-bEhgqIrjrO9BcuhY5pqHh0wjg2HDFqoF0TndLFsNE2/s200/black-woman-sad-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5694921125467746674" /></a>"How did I get here again?" That was the question that I asked myself as I drove away from my therapist's office. Processing the session, I realized that I was once again in the full throes of <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/09/burden-of-strong-black-woman.html">StrongBlackWomanhood</a>. I was trying to be all things to all people and I was suffering for it: I was having trouble sleeping, my chronic pain had intensified, and my blood pressure had gone up. <div><br /></div><div>The irony is that I am writing a <a href="http://louisville-institute.org/Grants/abstract.aspx?id=9460">book</a> about the StrongBlackWoman. You'd think that spending my days reading and writing about this phenomenon would somehow inoculate me against it. At least a little. Right? Wrong. This most recent relapse has further convinced me that being a StrongBlackWoman is so ingrained in many Black women that it is an addiction. It requires constant vigilance. And it also requires getting help.<div><br /></div><div>Some time ago, I posted a <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2008/08/12-step-program-for-strong-black-women.html">12-Step Program for StrongBlackWomen</a>. Over the past few months, I've been working the program. Right now, I'm on step 5: <i>"We admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our compulsions and the traumas and fears that drive them."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div> </div><div>For a long time, I thought that I could keep my own counsel. After all, I'm a clinical psychologist and a minister. And I'm fairly psychologically healthy. I've spent a lot of time in introspection - journaling, meditation, and reflection. To be fair, I haven't been alone in the journey. My spouse and best friend have been sounding boards. And I have repeatedly brought the issues to God in prayer.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's been a productive process. Yet I realized that I needed something else, or more accurately, someone else. I needed someone who could listen to my processing with a professionally trained ear, to help me to see the connections between my past and my compulsion to be a StrongBlackWoman. I needed someone who would listen for as long as I needed them to listen. I needed a therapist.</div><div><br /></div><div>The director of my doctoral fellowship program, <a href="http://www.blackvoicenews.com/more-sections/8-commentary/36004-two-great-champions-of-america.html">Dr. Israel "Ike" Tribble</a>, used to say: "Everyone is of your color is not of your kind, and everyone who is of your kind is not of your color." African Americans are often very reluctant to seek help from a therapist and when we do, we usually want an African American therapist. My therapist - a white man in his late 60s - is certainly not of my color. But he is of my kind. Since he's an ordained Episcopal priest as well as a licensed counselor, I thought that he'd have both spiritual and psychological insights that could aid me in my healing. And so far, I haven't been disappointed.</div><div><br /></div><div>My therapy sessions provide two gifts: a dedicated and uninterrupted space in which to remember and process my life experiences; and an empathetic and nonjudgmental person who listens with his whole being and provides insight just where it's needed. Each week, I unfold another part of my life story. I notice the connections between my past experiences and my current struggles. I feel affirmed, supported, and empowered to heal. And I feel the chains that bind me in the yoke of the StrongBlackWoman breaking away, one link at a time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every StrongBlackWoman in recovery needs multiple mechanisms of support and accountability. Some of these can be found among our family and friends. But sometimes, we need professional support as well. Admitting that we need help is difficult. But refusing to seek the help we need could be deadly.</div></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-73739759956700163482011-11-07T17:13:00.016-05:002011-11-09T14:25:15.858-05:00Loves Roundness<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330033;">From the third definition of "womanist": "Loves music. Loves dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless." - Alice Walker, In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens: Womanist Prose (1983)</span></blockquote></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(80, 0, 80); font-family:Cambria;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_4ltiFePbUkcNDyIqhmPWIW2bo3cqLrcH_Cnj7QpK39ATO0ypfXoc3WNdLED-Eklmbp6-w9CUkKVmOMXNyB263DTeU7DqAkhjmfWyjdDwyXuvIqumr5dB_S2GVPjrzDjmGoR1annunxgG/s320/DoveLadies.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672387269657157362" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 289px; " /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;color:#330033;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-family:";"></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial, sans-serif;color:#000000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span style="font-family: Cambria; font-family:";"></span></span></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">“Girl, where you been hiding those legs?!” my high school classmate shouted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It made me regret the decision to wear my favorite outfit – a purple mini-skirt and matching top, ironically chosen because the long gold-flecked shirt covered what I considered to be my worst asset.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Until that day, I hadn’t realized that my thick, muscular calves were just as capable of eliciting attention.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I tried to hush my classmate, but he was unhushable.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His appraising stare and loud mouth followed me down the walkway and onto the bus.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">This was the late 80s, when skinny black women tried desperately to gain weight so that they’d be considered appealing to black men, whose aesthetic was defined by a preference for things thick.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From the waist down, I had thickness in abundance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I hated it.</span></div><div><blockquote><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Loves love and food and roundness...Loves herself. Regardless.</span></i></blockquote></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">My classmate's yell was eerily similar to one that I'd heard one day when I was at my grandparents' house.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Where did she get that butt?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>None of y’all got butts like that!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That time, the voice belonged to a longtime family friend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Her daddy’s people,” was the answer offered by one of my mother's sisters.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Oblivious to my shame, the woman kept going, “And ain’t got titties the first!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Damn.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did she really have to go there?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She could have won the top prize in how to crush a teenage girl’s ego.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">It was true, though.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was the inverse of my mother and her sisters, who tended to be heavy up top and narrow below.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was built just like the women in my dad’s family, more like an inverted P, the small of my back ending abruptly in a large mound.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I once had to whip out my school ID on a clearly-too-old-to-be-talking-to-me man who refused to believe that those hips, those thighs, that ass belonged to a sixteen-year-old.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Cambria;">Being a natural introvert, I hated the attention that my lower half brought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It probably didn’t help that I spent my early adolescence in nearly all-white schools, where skinniness was in and thickness was sin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So as best as I could, I tried to camouflage it – loose pants, shirts that hung below the waist, ankle (or at least mid-calf) skirts and dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For most of my life, I have been incredibly uncomfortable with my body.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Cambria;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "> </span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;">Strangely enough, while I have deplored my own thickness, I love it on other women. Beyonce is beautiful, but Jill Scott and Marsha Ambrosius are downright breathtaking! The irony is never lost on me. I watch them in admiration, wondering why I have had such a hard time appreciating that same roundness in myself.</span></div><div><i><blockquote><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;">Loves love and food and roundness...Loves herself. Regardless.</span></blockquote></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;">This month, I enter the last year of my third decade.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Looking ahead to the big 4-0, I have decided that the next two years – preceding and then entering my forties – will be dedicated to celebrating me, loving me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And that requires me to learn to love roundness…my roundness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have realized that 20 years from now, I will look at images of the 38-year-old me and wish that I had enjoyed this body while I had it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have realized that it is time to do with my body what I learned to do with my hair – delight in it and all of its big roundness – rotund belly, ample derriere, thick thighs, and boulder-sized calves.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;font-size:100%;">Even as it flagrantly violates the societal ideal of beauty, as it repeatedly sidelines me with chronic illness, and as it requires medication that causes it to regain much of the 35 pounds that I worked so hard to lose, I am committed to loving this body…this flesh…this round, brown flesh. And guess what? On more and more days lately, I actually do. <b>Regardless.</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family:Cambria;"><iframe width="420" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/vz1xYTPOTBo" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></span></div></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-3403142451734385732011-10-25T10:36:00.011-04:002011-10-25T14:55:34.294-04:00Paint the Town Purple (and Pink)!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfGjKO8m-PV3xEW0Bxeppo8gUDhFYpyjS4-5NIiPCmzy2bAXnlXwsc1AxgCuYv8sNOSJ2S1pkCzSOj1NhslJgVTJC0eDmHh6ZdDxuHFkgKCvyxzFev4zk438QONhWFo8PHm7e9iJtHWxY/s1600/pink-and-purple-ribbons.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 139px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyfGjKO8m-PV3xEW0Bxeppo8gUDhFYpyjS4-5NIiPCmzy2bAXnlXwsc1AxgCuYv8sNOSJ2S1pkCzSOj1NhslJgVTJC0eDmHh6ZdDxuHFkgKCvyxzFev4zk438QONhWFo8PHm7e9iJtHWxY/s320/pink-and-purple-ribbons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667447580543990194" border="0" /></a>For as long as I can remember, pink has been my favorite color. Nearly everyday, you can find me sportin' some shade, even if it's just my carnation pink leather briefcase. Every once in a while, though, I get so inundated with pink that I need a break. In the year or two after I pledged <a href="http://www.aka1908.org/">Alpha Kappa Alpha</a>, almost every gift from my relatives was pink or green - fuchsia suede shorts, emerald leather coat, rose-colored shirts, mauve sweaters, pink...pink...pink. For about 10 years after, I essentially purged my closet of all pink. It was still my favorite color; I was just sick of it.<br /><br />This year, with <a href="http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/">Breast Cancer Awareness Month</a> underway, I am starting to feel the same way. The entire city seems adorned with pink, from shopping centers to funeral homes. There was a time that I loved purchasing merchandise with that pink loop. My mother is a breast cancer survivor. She was only 41 when she was diagnosed with stage 4B breast cancer. When I tell that to doctors, they look at me like I've got an expiration date stamped on my forehead. That, together with my first lump scare at age 28, has had me going in for a <a href="https://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/edp/">breast smash</a> annually for ten years now. And still, I'm getting tired of seeing the town painted pink.<br /><br />Maybe it has to do with the commercialization of breast cancer. A few days ago, I passed a Rue 21 store with the display window full of ribbon-adorned shirts that had more to do with breasts than cancer. What percentage of this junk actually goes toward finding a cure? Or perhaps providing aid to the victims of this disease who are poor and lack health insurance? Saving ta-tas is nice, but saving lives is much, much better.<br /><br />I think, though, that my frustration has more to do with the invisibility of the other symbol for this month. October is also <a href="http://www.ncadv.org/">Domestic Violence Awareness Month</a>. The month is almost over, and I've yet to see a single purple ribbon (much less a 10-foot-high one mounted in front of a shopping mall). I've seen no races, no marches, and no men, women, or children cheerfully declaring their status as survivors. The only acknowledgement that I've seen was a spoken word performance at the church my family attends in Birmingham (and I'm deeply grateful for the prophetic ministry of <a href="http://www.eastlakeumc.net/">East Lake UMC</a>).<br /><br />Long before my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, she was involved in a physically abusive relationship. I saw and heard the abuse on more than one occasion. I have a distinct memory of being about 5-years-old and throwing myself between my mother and her abuser, yelling at him, "Don't you hit my mommy!" But I was well into my 30s before I thought of it as domestic violence. My mother was not a passive victim. She fought back. She called the police. And when she was overpowered, she grabbed whatever she could to defend herself. She was nothing like those women on Lifetime movies, who cowered and hid behind sunglasses. So for years, I simply did not recognize her victimhood, even as I was a passionate advocate on behalf of women's issues.<br /><br />Domestic violence is one of those things we don't like to talk about. Few people are eager to claim their status as victims or perpetrators. And even though <a href="http://www.ncadv.org/files/DomesticViolenceFactSheet%28National%29.pdf">1 in every 4 women</a> in the United States experiences domestic violence during her lifetime, those experiences often go unnamed as such. This is especially the case in the African American community. Growing up, I often heard African Americans dismiss domestic violence as a white issue: "No sistah is gonna let a man beat her. Black women are too STRONG to be victims. They fight back!" Collectively, we liked to pretend that a woman's attempt to defend herself against violence actually nullified the existence of that violence, even though the perpetrator was usually larger and stronger. We allowed ourselves to believe the lie that Black women are less likely to be victims of abuse than women of other races, when in fact, approximately <a href="http://www.idvaac.org/forthepress/factsheets/FactSheet.IDVAAC_AAPCFV-Community%20Insights.pdf">29 percent of Black women</a> have suffered violence at the hands of a romantic partner. We hid our heads in the sand while Black women, who comprise only 8 percent of the U.S. population, accounted for 22 percent of all intimate partner homicide victims.<br /><br />If those of us who are survivors remain silent, how can we ever expect those who are still victims to find their voices? It's time to end our silence. Let's paint the town purple!Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-9054784741450430762011-10-19T11:38:00.013-04:002011-10-19T12:01:18.638-04:00Time to Unplug<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwj5dXkMW62hnOBlCttoNhaMGgRfkpN6oe1YXuA1F4DWg3KHsOIJBSgJTovjpEDFm9RsYxBLqloVCZyFoIK2VtZMs4rFhWXc-pSCeoxRiY_zv89D9x3D-W-8WrY8O7MvLvjL9gL9IeXiBh/s1600/Man-on-laptop-620x480.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwj5dXkMW62hnOBlCttoNhaMGgRfkpN6oe1YXuA1F4DWg3KHsOIJBSgJTovjpEDFm9RsYxBLqloVCZyFoIK2VtZMs4rFhWXc-pSCeoxRiY_zv89D9x3D-W-8WrY8O7MvLvjL9gL9IeXiBh/s200/Man-on-laptop-620x480.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665232445541566130" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" >Two weeks ago I discovered a writer’s haven – an internet café at a public library. It’s got tables, plenty of power outlets, restrooms, vending machines, and even a microwave. Walled off from the rest of the library by glass doors, it opens into a private courtyard, with benches, picnic tables, and yes, more power outlets! It’s been a great spot to work. Armed with a thermos full of coffee, a lunchbox, and a laptop, I can work there all day – without spending any money!</span><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p face=""" size="12.0pt" style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This morning, though, my haven keeps getting interrupted. Every few minutes, a young man dressed in a sports store uniform, pops in with his cell phone to his ear.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A longtime lover of library silence, I'm impressed that he is </span><span style="font-size:100%;">respectful enough of the patrons in the main space to take his phone conversations elsewhere.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I just wish that </span><span style="font-size:100%;">"elsewhere" was somewhere else.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Doesn't he see me working?!</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> </p><span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;" > </span><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family:";font-size:12.0pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_nUs6AJ1nSTew28KJVVx4wNFIAIqHcdwjPlndHkSOufAKo-XuxJZJVnarwRojO-eILw4iNW1ZTW6h2sL9Bczetqyar26r9dfHsbhuZ6QwCulQL1JalVdHeOl3F1cfVNSZwpA7NqES-W0/s1600/self-care.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_nUs6AJ1nSTew28KJVVx4wNFIAIqHcdwjPlndHkSOufAKo-XuxJZJVnarwRojO-eILw4iNW1ZTW6h2sL9Bczetqyar26r9dfHsbhuZ6QwCulQL1JalVdHeOl3F1cfVNSZwpA7NqES-W0/s200/self-care.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665231224291732146" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Cell phone conversations are loud, even when people think they're speaking quietly.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">So it didn't take long for me to get a sense of what was going on.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">He was being called repeatedly by his job.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">More than three hours before his shift was supposed to start (like I said, cell phone conversations are loud), his co-workers were tracking him down, asking him when he was coming to the store.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">By the fifth call, he walked straight through the café to the courtyard.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Even with the doors closed, I could hear him giving instructions to someone.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">By that point, my frustration with the noise had turned into sympathy for this man, who couldn't enjoy his morning off without </span><span style="font-size:100%;">constant interruptions.</span></p> <p face=""" size="12.0pt" style="margin: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"> </p><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;"> </span><p style="margin: 0in; font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I couldn't help but think of a few of my friends in ministry.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I have been to a few ministry retreats and conferences this year where I've watched colleagues who could not get away from issues back home.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Every few minutes, they got a call, text, or email from someone who ostensibly needed their help.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And every few minutes, they were responding.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It was nearly impossible to have conversations with them without them pausing to take a call or answer a text.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">"Hold on, I need to respond to this" was the frequent refrain.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Their busyness took on a manic element as they rushed from task to task.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: times new roman;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"> </p><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;"> </span><p face="times new roman" size="12pt" style="margin: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;"> </span><p face="times new roman" size="12pt" style="margin: 0in; font-family: times new roman;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">If it were just conversations with me that were being interrupted, I wouldn't be bothered.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But I knew that their addiction to busyness was all-encompassing.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It impacted their health and their relationships. Is it ironic that it happened most, actually always, with African American men and women?</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Probably not.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">My guess is that it's the <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/09/burden-of-strong-black-woman.html">StrongBlackWoman</a>/<a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2009/10/rethinking-strongblackman.html">StrongBlackMan</a> thing rearing its head.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Layer that with Christianity's emphasis upon "bearing the cross" and you've got a full-scale case of ministry overload and eventual burnout.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"> </p><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;"> </span><p style="margin: 0in; font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A few months ago, my husband and I imposed a blackout period on electronic devices in our household, a two-hour evening time slot in which we would not utilize our cell phones or computers.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Miraculously, it was doable.</span><span style=";font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglw0S-bvgC9v0BIZWa81RzeXdlXTSdaZZB1c91ZXbPQUwvm41GwoKPHjle0ERgvXEOORraDMKagWnSLJnU2khq10uIrCuYWgJHg66oqnVV-J9phDMSoKmNu5BGsnuR9x2AoliIPNg_8I8g/s1600/aafcfam2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglw0S-bvgC9v0BIZWa81RzeXdlXTSdaZZB1c91ZXbPQUwvm41GwoKPHjle0ERgvXEOORraDMKagWnSLJnU2khq10uIrCuYWgJHg66oqnVV-J9phDMSoKmNu5BGsnuR9x2AoliIPNg_8I8g/s200/aafcfam2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5665231421030652706" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">The world didn't come to an end.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Our lives did not turn upside down.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Instead, we had two hours each evening when we read, talked, or played games rather than checking Facebook and playing Angry Birds.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Over </span><span style="font-size:100%;">the past few weeks, though, there's been a gradual erosion in our observance of the blackout.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It probably began around the time of a deadline when I "just had" to work on something for a few hours.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">It's a slippery slope.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I better scramble back up before I fall too far.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I encourage you to do the same.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Make a commitment to "unplug" for part of your day - even if it's only one hour.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And for that hour, be present to the world in other ways.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Spend time with your partner.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Play with your kids.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Read a book.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Take a long, hot soak in the tub.</span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And trust that God is in control of everything else.</span></p>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-8769700192892238352011-08-15T12:04:00.011-04:002011-08-15T12:26:03.303-04:00Going Natural<span style="font-style: italic;">This article appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.geezmagazine.org/">Geez Magazine</a><span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>
<br /><p face="Arial" size="10pt" style="margin: 0in;">
<br /></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial;font-family:Arial;font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It started in front of the mirror. I was in the bathroom, trying to figure out how to squeeze the next appointment between classes, a dissertation, and a research assistant gig. I'd pulled off some impressive scheduling maneuvers before, but in the final stages of my Ph.D. program, it was increasingly difficult.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial;font-family:Arial;font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial;font-family:Arial;font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZYucBDpO3rhlFa_d4_B00Hi-6v0NDnmmyDK3KSK6m13cqIv5eCOGRc9ApQB5A0PmfVMTY-AFcrb1QyBSTyu1W-xw1L2BGys4T9-mhi94BST4FeX9Opb-vRgMIAf6AgNbBCTojRaQ21Pd/s1600/00443277.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 138px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheZYucBDpO3rhlFa_d4_B00Hi-6v0NDnmmyDK3KSK6m13cqIv5eCOGRc9ApQB5A0PmfVMTY-AFcrb1QyBSTyu1W-xw1L2BGys4T9-mhi94BST4FeX9Opb-vRgMIAf6AgNbBCTojRaQ21Pd/s200/00443277.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641117360668589298" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">My weekly salon visits began in my junior year of college. During a visit, my mother looked at me and asked, "When was the last time you got your hair done?" I'd mostly done it myself since freshman year. "You need to get it done every week." Was she kidding? It took a minor miracle to stretch my paycheck for groceries and textbooks. "I'll pay for it." But not tuition, groceries, or books? Just like that, my priorities were ordered.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In the bathroom six years later, I estimated that I spent at least fifteen hundred annually on my hair. My graduate stipend was eleven thousand dollars. That means thirteen percent of my income went toward my hair, toward salon visits and the cabinet full of products bought in my ongoing search for the bottled miracle that would keep my always-reverting hair straight. No wonder I couldn’t give to the church. I was tithing to my hair dresser!</span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Suddenly I heard a voice. No, not God's. It was my hair: "Isn't it obvious that I don't want to be straight?" Ridiculous, I know. Of course, my hair wanted to be straight. Why else would I endure costly and corrosive chemicals every five weeks and pay to have someone shampoo and style my hair each week in-between relaxers? "That's the point! You have to keep going back because I don't want to be straight!"</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In some lost book of the Bible, African American women must have been given a new Decalogue. The first commandment: “Thou shalt keep thy 'do nap-free at all times and at all costs.” African American women are likely the only racial/ethnic group in the world where the majority do not wear their hair in its natural texture. In a society gripped by racism and sexism, we are strongly discouraged from doing so. Some corporations actually have policies forbidding “ethnic” hair. An article in the August 2007 edition of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >American Lawyer</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> magazine reported that a </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Glamour</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> magazine staffer did a presentation for a New York law firm on the "Do's and Don'ts of Corporate Fashion," in which she deemed black women's natural hairstyles "shocking," "inappropriate," and too "political" for the workplace.
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">For Alberta, a UCC minister, potential professional consequences were key in her consideration of going natural as a corporate employee twelve years ago: "To be natural was a radical approach." Comedian Paul Mooney puts it bluntly in </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Hair Show</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, the documentary directed by Chris Rock: "If your hair is relaxed, then white people are relaxed. If your hair is nappy, then they're not happy." And if the professional costs aren't high enough, there are also personal consequences. Alberta reports, “My family was against natural hair because of the stereotypes that had plagued the black community. We had to look like the ideal model - the Barbie doll - and not embrace our culture." Another minister, Dionne, who works for a Pittsburgh community development organization, first tried going natural as a college freshman; a noticeable decrease in romantic interest from guys sent her back to the salon after just seven </span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">months.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">It is no wonder, then, that most African American girls are subjected early to harsh processes designed to break the bonds of naturally kinky hair and to transform it into straight, socially acceptable hair. According to the authors of </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, sixty-five percent of African American women use chemical relaxers or hot combs to straighten their hair. In recent years, these processes have been supplemented by methods of integrating commercial hair, including extensions, weaves, and wigs. The popularity of extensions and weaves among African American women has risen so dramatically that one comedian joked that the current generation of </span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Black children will never see their mothers’ real hair.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQaemF76oSaTiVsoe7zuTcy8PY5Ozz-_xsRb38RIEuvaciR5oqRddAxCNSbob_gjjIHiR0qx9p7EPLQEkogzAW_l3MFnFFqBCirg4eQMcG8vpElzK4TtXxzTNZrrgWvBMQaouLZMwFsAEK/s1600/00409110.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQaemF76oSaTiVsoe7zuTcy8PY5Ozz-_xsRb38RIEuvaciR5oqRddAxCNSbob_gjjIHiR0qx9p7EPLQEkogzAW_l3MFnFFqBCirg4eQMcG8vpElzK4TtXxzTNZrrgWvBMQaouLZMwFsAEK/s200/00409110.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641117989342982690" border="0" /></a>When I was six years old, I got my first relaxer, beginning a twenty year odyssey of chemical processing (which doesn't even include the hot combing of my early years). The results were often disastrous - burns on my scalp, neck, or ears, and damaged hair. At 27, I'd had enough. Since high school, I'd expected going natural when I was older. I imagined myself sportin’ a silver afro, not because of a dye job, but because I couldn’t fathom having the courage to do it before I was sixty.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">But standing in the bathroom that morning, something came upon me. I’m not sure if it was courage; it may have been plain ol' fatigue. The next day, I was sitting in my stylist’s chair as she trimmed away the chemically straightened ends, leaving me with the half-inch of new growth. Seeing </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >my</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> hair for the first time in my adult life was daunting. A persistent thorn in my flesh had been my hair's refusal to show any sign of the racial miscegenation evident in my caramel complexion. The stuff on my head was thick, coarse, wiry, and tightly coiled. I put on a brave face, smiling in response to the stylist's pleased expression. I walked to my car, donned a baseball cap, drove to the nearest beauty supply store, and bought a wig. It took five weeks for me to adjust to the sight of my own hair and to feel comfortable exposing it to the world.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">When I did, it was like being emancipated. I was freed from a daily twenty-minute hair ritual and a weekly two-hour salon appointment. Freed to exercise anytime I wanted, not just when I could spare an hour afterward to get my hair back in shape. Freed from fear of rain (a relaxed head’s kryptonite) and the weight of the umbrellas and ponchos I carried everywhere. Freed from the bondage of constantly striving to make my hair conform to an ideal that I could never attain.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Alberta experienced a similar kind of freedom when she went natural at the age of thirty-three. "This was a spiritual journey. I embraced who I was. I began to love African American culture and history. I realized that on this journey I had a voice as an African American female. My hair was a symbol of power."</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">For some African American women, going natural is just a temporary style preference. But for others, especially </span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">those of us rooted in the traditionally conservative Black church, letting our hair exist in the way that it grows out of our head is revolutionary. It is a countercultural move, an intentional act of personal liberation from the sociopolitical powers and principalities that tell us that we are "less than."</span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">After her first transition to natural hair, Dionne returned to relaxers for over three years before making another attempt to go natural. "My reason for going natural the second time around was this deep desire I had to really appreciate the grain of hair that God gave me. I had been thinking a lot about what it meant for me to be made in the image of God. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">One of the things I concluded was if God took the time to create me with my specific grain and texture of hair, why couldn't I take the time to appreciate my hair in its natural state. In addition, I wanted my hair to serve as a source of inspiration for other young, black women who struggled to appreciate their hair. I wanted my hair to spark conversation that would allow me to empower women to wear their hair natural. I prayed that prayer before cutting my perm off and I can't tell you how many opportunities I've had to minister to women about their hair since I've gone natural. I can honestly say that after three years of wearing my hair in locs, I absolutely love my hair and would never consider perming it again. I'm so proud of my God-given hair and I'm learning to appreciate it more and more!"</span></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial;font-family:Arial;font-size:10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrA8jZOKYZgozVX6NCUlfRM-yhHG8K_OLP62Er_vG49gSL514enO9Rwo-_2Blll36a9HydTFLnR-Gas2ElCMUsO9QrwFLBa5_OPArY2ZvNnvDu2orohVpIJWdn3f63ppt5reVUYxi6ZDNW/s1600/00409484.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrA8jZOKYZgozVX6NCUlfRM-yhHG8K_OLP62Er_vG49gSL514enO9Rwo-_2Blll36a9HydTFLnR-Gas2ElCMUsO9QrwFLBa5_OPArY2ZvNnvDu2orohVpIJWdn3f63ppt5reVUYxi6ZDNW/s200/00409484.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5641118874839308578" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in; font-family: arial; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Although I had not anticipated it at the time, that last visit to the hairstylist marked the beginning of a journey of spiritual transformation. A few months later, I had different experience in the mirror. Arriving at work one morning, I pulled down the visor to look in the overhead mirror and discovered a pair of beautifully enormous brown eyes. For most of my life, I had spent so much time obsessing over my hair that I had never noticed my face. That morning, I drank it in, recognizing the reflections of my parents in my face, realizing how much I looked like the aunts whom I admired. In going natural, I saw myself for the first time. I realized that I was beautifully, wonderfully, and intentionally handknit by God. And I was good.</span></p> Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-73982878772617089582011-07-26T10:38:00.006-04:002011-07-26T10:58:13.290-04:00We Got Mad (Hair) Issues<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh158z4Ty73UlXX_OQHRdRJOEIb6mF-nTuhLyj4E8sVj6XDuv5bHz_-qjOjcz_W4IKlQ2Xwz7Dk3Hwv97ycDDJHJ_S6Nsgrvm8waxuPSofLJBgWGTGLE9F0xRRLzCjm9jkJrBVwdic4DJOK/s1600/European_Weave_100_Sleek_Human_Hair_Weave.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh158z4Ty73UlXX_OQHRdRJOEIb6mF-nTuhLyj4E8sVj6XDuv5bHz_-qjOjcz_W4IKlQ2Xwz7Dk3Hwv97ycDDJHJ_S6Nsgrvm8waxuPSofLJBgWGTGLE9F0xRRLzCjm9jkJrBVwdic4DJOK/s320/European_Weave_100_Sleek_Human_Hair_Weave.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5633675014418302642" border="0" /></a><br />Recently it occurred to me that I've been that I've been fairly silent on a topic about which I'm fairly passionate and that has considerable significance to Black love - Black hair. Or more specifically, our personal and cultural hang-ups about Black hair. Maybe my silence has to do with its potential explosiveness. Conversations about Black hair tend to devolve into a sort of war between two nations - those who wear their hair relaxed and those who wear it natural. It's a touchy topic. But fully loving ourselves also means loving our hair in its natural form.<br /><br />That's an assertion that usually rubs relaxed heads the wrong way. Keep in mind that I don't think it's wrong to relax or straighten one's hair. My issue (really <span style="font-style: italic;">our</span> issue) is that the vast majority of Black women have been straightening their hair for so long that we don't actually know what our real hair texture looks like. <span style="font-weight: bold;">We are afraid of our natural hair texture</span>. We don't want to see it and we don't want anyone else to see it. So collectively we spend billions of dollars each year on hair care products even though we are among the poorest group of people in the United States.<br /><br />Imagine if every Black girlchild, around the age of 8 or 9, went to a plastic surgeon and had her skin lightened because she lived in a country in which light skin was considered beautiful and brought considerable advantages in terms of education, income, and marriage (<span style="font-style: italic;">Oh wait, it does</span>.). And then for the rest of her life she avoided the sun and went back for regular "touch-ups" every six weeks to ensure that her skin stayed light. I suppose we could argue that doing such a thing has nothing to do with race-based beauty ideals. But we'd be lying to ourselves. The good news, though, is that it will be easier to lie to ourselves after several generations of Black women and girls have been doing it. Then we can pretend that it's just the way that things are done.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">It's hard for a person to admit that she doesn't fully love and accept herself.</span> It was hard for me. It still is. I've been natural for nearly 13 years now, after what seemed like a lifetime of conscious and unconscious hair self-hatred. Now, I'm working on getting over my body self-hatred (<span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously, do these two skinnies need to be sitting across from me eating cake while I sip on a skinny, sugar free, decaf misto?</span>).<br /><br />Whenever the conversation turns to natural hair, women with relaxed hair get defensive. Do me a favor and relax your defenses just long enough to ask yourself these questions (<span style="font-style: italic;">and don't worry - I've got something to say to women with natural hair too</span>):<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><ol><li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Do you know what your natural hair texture looks like?</span> Most black women don't. At the slightest sign of kinks, we rush to the salon for a new application of the creamy crack. How can you claim to love you if you don't know what you looks like? </li><li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Do you know how to take care of your natural hair?</span> That is, do you know how to style it, moisturize it, keep it healthy? Only in the past 10 years have natural hair care products become widely available. That's amazing in itself considering that beauty salons and beauty supply stores are among the businesses most likely to be found in Black neighborhoods. Of course, the irony is that most of these stores devote much of their floor space to selling hair - Malaysian, Indian, Asian, and European hair - to Black women. Apparently, relaxers are no longer strong enough to tame those natural kinks, coils, and curls. We've just resorted to wearing other people's hair.</li><li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Do you feel just as beautiful with natural hair as you do with relaxed hair?</span> You should. After all, your natural hair is the hair with which you have been fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God. And as the church folk say, God don't make no junk.</li><li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Can you honestly afford the time and money that it takes to maintain your relaxed hair?</span> This really should be the clincher. If you're putting your hair styles on credit or on layaway (or ignoring other obligations - including tithing - because of your hair), then you can't afford it! Now that's not to say that natural hair doesn't take work; if you want to wear anything other than a closely cropped fro, it's going to take some work. And the learning curve is steep in the first few months if you're learning how to take care of your own hair for the first time in your adult life. But overall, I've found it to be much less time consuming and costly.</li><li><span style="font-weight: bold;">Does your hair want to be relaxed?</span> Not all Black hair is the same. Some people's hair does well with relaxers. But many of us have hair that just doesn't want to be fried, dyed, or laid to the side. For years I struggled to find the right relaxers and styling products that would make my hair stay straight for more than a few weeks (seriously, I once walked into a new stylist for a wash n' set and she told me I needed a touch-up. My response: "I just had one last week."). I finally realized that my hair was rebelling against the chemicals. It didn't stay straight because it wasn't meant to be straight.</li></ol>I don't expect women to go out in droves and do the big chop. I just want us to be honest with ourselves about the reasons that <span style="font-weight: bold;">Black women are the only group of people in the world who talk about wearing our hair in its "natural" state as if it's an abnormality</span>. We have hair issues just like we have skin color issues.<br /><br />By the way, for the naturalistas among us who have been reading this with a self-righteous smile on our faces, we have hair issues too. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Many of us have made an idol out of natural hair</span>. We act as though wearing our hair naturally automatically elevates us to a higher spiritual and emotional plane than our relaxed sisters. Please! Now, it's true that for many of us - including myself - the decision to go natural is part of a spiritual journey (I'll post another article about that shortly). But for a lot of folks, it's just a hairstyle, plain and simple. It doesn't denote self-love or the lack thereof; it's not a symbol of spiritual growth or political sensibilities. They do it because its convenient or in style. Sometimes they do it because they're flat broke and can't afford anything else.<br /><br />So let's talk about hair. But let's drop the defensiveness, self-righteousness, and all the other stuff that impedes healthy, community-building dialogue. We've got enough issues without it.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-23131135265669025092011-07-26T10:36:00.001-04:002011-07-26T10:37:57.962-04:00A Long Hiatus<p style="margin: 0in; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Yikes!<span style=""> </span>Has it really been 8 months since my last post?!<span style=""> </span>It's been a tough 8 months.<span style=""> </span>Some medical and family issues have put this StrongBlackWoman on the sidelines.<span style=""> </span>Against my chronic SBW tendencies, I've been forced to cut back.<span style=""> </span>But that's the topic for another day.<span style=""> </span>Fortunately, the receipt of a research leave grant means that I get to spend the next year writing.<span style=""> </span>I'll be working on my book and reviving the blog.</p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0in; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">The next post is coming up in just a few minutes.</p>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-6766165627757538842010-11-23T06:16:00.011-05:002010-11-24T08:07:32.839-05:00For Colored Girls: Tyler Perry's Invitation to Lament<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0O5MMWFXIOrJTeSGj6RejuJAYzHpK5NJRkuN6uVXD5cxvr6aVQirzjPM0edMM2MJ2t9_6GbzUrggxV1GA0bWKZgiYbkS23UVR06MOFjNKyVZRFadmYWmF_RkQHVIcjHR8pToWjJE5JCY/s1600/tyler_perry_for_colored_girls_060410_m.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0O5MMWFXIOrJTeSGj6RejuJAYzHpK5NJRkuN6uVXD5cxvr6aVQirzjPM0edMM2MJ2t9_6GbzUrggxV1GA0bWKZgiYbkS23UVR06MOFjNKyVZRFadmYWmF_RkQHVIcjHR8pToWjJE5JCY/s200/tyler_perry_for_colored_girls_060410_m.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543102163548125986" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><blockquote>No bad news<br />No bad news<br />Don't you ever bring me no bad news<br />'Cause I'll make you an offer, child<br />That you cannot refuse<br />So don't nobody bring me no bad news</blockquote>Those are the lyrics sung by Mabel King in her role as Evillene in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078504/"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Wiz</span></a>, the all-Black adaptation of L. Frank Baum's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wonderful Wizard of Oz</span>. The irony, of course, is that Evillene (the wicked witch of whom kids were actually afraid) was the epitome of bad news. So is it strange, then, that this song leaped into my head when I thought about the resistance of some Black men, particularly Black male pastors, toward seeing Tyler Perry's latest film, <a href="http://www.forcoloredgirlsmovie.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;">For Colored Girls</span></a>?<br /><br />Just to avoid misunderstanding, I am not labeling Black men or Black male pastors as the epitome of bad news for Black women (although some folks might, in the case of the latter). And I confess that I have leveled a fair share of <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/search/label/Tyler%20Perry">criticism</a> at Tyler Perry for his portrayals of African American women and African American romantic relationships. Earlier this year, in a post about <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2010/04/another-look-at-tyler-perry.html">Why Did I Get Married Too?</a>, I wrote:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-size:100%;">The essence of both <span style="font-style: italic;">Why Did I Get Married?</span> films remains the same: Black romantic relationships are screwed up because: (1) there are a lot of no-count black men out there (i.e., the abusers, cheaters, etc.); and (2) black women are ball-busting bitches who don't know how to appreciate a good thing when they find it. </span><br /></blockquote>Of course, I'm not alone in my criticism. Tyler Perry is to the blogosphere what George W. Bush was to late-night comedians. He provides plenty of fuel for the self-righteous indignation of...well, just about everybody.<br /><br />As a teenager, I cut my womanist/feminist teeth on Ntozake Shange's choreopoem, <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1439186812?ie=UTF8&tag=lovin0e-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1439186812%22%3EFor%20colored%20girls%20who%20have%20considered%20suicide/When%20the%20rainbow%20is%20enuf%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=lovin0e-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1439186812%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E">For colored girls who have considered suicide/When the rainbow is enuf</a>. I've never seen the Broadway production, but the <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%3Ca%20href=%22http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B000067IYK?ie=UTF8&tag=lovin0e-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B000067IYK%22%3EFor%20Colored%20Girls%20Who%20Have%20Considered%20Suicide/When%20the%20Rainbow%20Is%20Enuf%20-%20Alfre%20Woodard,%20Lynn%20Whitfield%20%28Broadway%20Theatre%20Archive%29%3C/a%3E%3Cimg%20src=%22http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=lovin0e-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B000067IYK%22%20width=%221%22%20height=%221%22%20border=%220%22%20alt=%22%22%20style=%22border:none%20%21important;%20margin:0px%20%21important;%22%20/%3E">PBS film adaptation</a> starring Lynn Whitfield and Alfre Woodard (as well as Shange herself) occupies a prominent place in my DVD collection. So I was more than skeptical when I learned that Perry had acquired the rights to Shange's work and would be writing, directing, and producing it. Yet I also remained hopeful that he would somehow avoid butchering Shange's elegant and heart-wrenching treatise on the lives and loves, struggles and triumphs of African American women. I wanted and needed Perry to do well with this film. And as the film's release date neared and some positive reviews came pouring in, I became even more hopeful.<br /><br />Since the film's release, the feminist blogosphere has been afire with the criticisms of Perry's adaptation, which has been labeled as a weak and undeserving imitation of Shange's masterpiece. Other critics (read "probably White critics unfamiliar with Shange's work") have excoriated the film for its jumpy quality and lack of a cohesive storyline. Quite frankly, I disagree with all of them. Shange's work is a highly artistic, complex piece that defies easy categorization. Perry took a feminist choreopoem aimed at a 1970s theater audience and produced a 2010 film that was relevant, accessible, and profitable. That's not an easy undertaking. But he did it. And in my opinion, he did it well.<br /><br />I was surprised by just how much I enjoyed the film. I went to see it with my colleague and fellow womanist theologian, Dr. Cheryl Kirk-Duggan. And I expected that we'd leave the film with a listful of complaints. Instead, we both walked out saying, "That was great!" But my delight met with another source of resistance: the individual boycotts of African American men who refused to see the film because of its assumed depictions of African American men as predators.<br /><br />I heard the protests most frequently among male students and colleagues at the historically Black Baptist seminary at which I teach. At some level, I understand. After all, I am an African American woman, member of a racial-gender group whose images are routinely assassinated on the large and small screens. These days, a Black actress can hardly buy a job. But I digress...<br /><br />I found a few ironies in the refusal of Black men who were leaders in the Christian church to watch the film. First, I doubt that many (any?) of them were basing their protest upon a careful reading of the original work. They were objecting to what they had "heard" about the film, not upon any concrete data. Second, it was the same stance which was articulated against <span style="font-style: italic;">The Color Purple</span> in the 1980s and <span style="font-style: italic;">Waiting to Exhale </span>in the 1990s. It seems that whenever a Black female writer's narrative of Black women's pain is adapted for film, some brothers turn into Evillene, mad at the possibility that someone might bring them some bad news. And as a consequence, the struggles of Black women's lives are silenced behind a wall of Black male denial. "Don't make brothers look bad" becomes a weapon of silence waged against African American women by Black patriarchy.<br /><br />In the case of <span style="font-style: italic;">For Colored Girls</span>, this is especially disheartening. <span style="font-style: italic;">For Colored Girls</span> is an invitation into lament. It shatters the myth that Black women have transcended the burden of racism and provides a glimpse of the gendered forms of oppression that uniquely and/or disproportionately impact Black women in America: rape, incest, domestic violence, child abuse, HIV/AIDS, lack of social support, and problems in relationships of all kinds. In contrast to his prior work, Perry makes no attempt to wrap everything up in a nice, neat little bow at the end. The characters' lives and pain are unresolved. There is no prince in shining armor coming to save the day. There is no quick fix. As an audience, we are simply invited to sit alongside these women (as well as the men) and to hear their stories for two hours. To cry with them, to hold them in our hearts, to see ourselves in them, and to see them in ourselves and in the women we know.<br /><br />The church could learn a valuable lesson from that. Perry's characters may be imagined, but they are also real. And they are in the church, sitting in the pews every Sunday morning, outfit tight and hair and makeup just right. They go to church, at least in part, hoping to receive a balm for their wounds, but also terrified of letting anyone see just how wounded they are. Perhaps they think that no one cares. Or maybe they don't want to be the ones to bring their pastors "no bad news."<br /><br />Brothers - get your heads out of the sand. Go see the film. And if you're a pastor or minister, take a few women with you. And after the film, sit with them for a while. Hear their stories. Cry with them. Hold them in your hearts. See yourself in them and see them in the women that you love. Don't try to fix it. Don't let your black male ego raise its defenses. Just lament.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-43915409558610195732010-10-11T16:41:00.005-04:002010-10-11T18:27:44.396-04:00Speaking Out: An Ally Confesses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WvBo-0hUSog0HwvA3c7rWBxED8xA2SAqmyHYVhewinuRAnrlRwJZoCx9hkgEQRckpFmoaz5VCp25x7u5-uXzm3jG7GeL5cDUr-0p7qCVkZF3O9NXlvgbJ5GpAgRPcTx9osBk9tKLKz06/s1600/allylogo.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_WvBo-0hUSog0HwvA3c7rWBxED8xA2SAqmyHYVhewinuRAnrlRwJZoCx9hkgEQRckpFmoaz5VCp25x7u5-uXzm3jG7GeL5cDUr-0p7qCVkZF3O9NXlvgbJ5GpAgRPcTx9osBk9tKLKz06/s320/allylogo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5526918583454048242" border="0" /></a>It has been eighteen days since <a href="http://www.nj.com/news/index.ssf/2010/09/hold_new_rutgers_post.html">Tyler Clementi reportedly killed himself</a>. Clementi was a freshman at Rutgers University. He leapt to his death from the George Washington Bridge one day after his roommate and another Rutgers freshman secretly broadcast a live video stream of Clementi having sex with another male student. I cannot imagine the embarrassment of having one's sexual activity displayed for public consumption. It's a humiliation that would likely drive most of us into a deep depression. With the exception of the most brazen, most of us would worry that we could never again show ourselves in public. Just the thought is terrifying.<br /><br />For Clementi, the shame must have been exponentially greater. Only one month into his first year of college, he may have feared the prospect of going through the next four years known on campus as "that guy." And in an era when social networking blends one's professional and personal existence for all the world to see, he may have worried how it would impact his future employment prospects. And then there's the fact that Clementi was not just engaged in sex; he was having sex with another man. If Clementi was closeted, I can imagine that he saw no other way to resolve his anguish than to end his life.<br /><br />I feel my heart breaking each time that I think of Clementi and the many gay youth who commit suicide each year, and the many more who attempt to end their lives. As a Christian, I feel responsible for each loss of precious life. I feel responsible for every hateful look, word, or deed that drives my LGBT brothers and sisters to such despair, especially those acts of hatred lobbed at them by people who proclaim to be followers of the merciful and loving Christ.<br /><br />I feel responsible because I once threw the insults. Raised in the South in a conservative Christian family and church, I believed that homosexuality was a sin worthy of eternal of damnation. Oh yeah, I also thought it was a trick of the white man designed to annihilate the descendants of Mother Africa (look, it was the resurgence of black nationalism, okay?). Like many of the people I knew (none of whom were gay or lesbian, conveniently), I thougth that homosexuality was learned behavior, a product of a sick society that was moving further and further away from God. And as long as I stayed around heterosexual, conservative Christians, there was no one to argue otherwise. I could and did join in the chorus of "God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve" without witnessing the impact that the spiritual assault had upon the lives of homosexual men and women.<br /><br />But living on a college campus made it impossible to keep the emotional distance necessary to maintain my ignorance. Away from the watchful eyes of their parents, same-gender-loving peers were much freer to express their affection publicly. So too were the Bible thumpers, the emotionally immature, and the sexually insecure (who often were the same people). After a few university-newspaper headline-mkaing incidents of heterosexist harrassment, it dawned on me: "Who in their right minds would choose this life?"<br /><br />Gradually, I became convinced that sexual orientation, at least for the overwhelming majority of the population, was not a matter of conditioning or choice. It was innate and largely out of one's control. Still, I thought it was a deviancy, a biological mutation that could and should be cured, sort of like diabetes or nearsightedness. And while my resolve was weakening, I still thought it was sinful, just no more sinful than any other behavior that the Church doesn't like. I was a softer, gentler heterosexist. At least, I was until Susan and Gloria happened.<br /><br />Susan and Gloria were clients in the substance abuse treatment program at which I worked part-time during my second year of graduate school. The program was intensive - six months in a residential facility with limited outside contact. The women were nearly all long-time drug users who had tried and failed in other treatment programs. Our program was often their last hope.<br /><br />Susan and Gloria had entered the program within less than two weeks of each other and were in the final month of treatment. During their stay, they had become close. Really close. Now close friendships among the women were common, but this one was different. And everyone noticed. Other clients openly accused them of being lovers. They were adamant in their denial, but admitted that their love for one another had grown beyond friendship. "We don't know what we are," Gloria once said resignedly.<br /><br />The staff was less confrontational. The general consensus seemed to be that if we ignored it, it would disappear. Maybe it was that head-in-the-sand mentality that prevailed during the women's last few weeks of treatment, when the the administration decided to issue twelve-hour passes to both on the same day so that they could begin searching for jobs and housing in preparation of their transition back into society.<br /><br />I came to work the day after they had gone out on their passes. Panic was in the air. "They didn't come back," one of the women said softly. The normally boisterous group was quiet. For the entire day, they sat just outside my office, jumping expectedly every time a door opened or the phone rang. With this group, failing to show up after a day pass meant only one thing - relapse. And for women who had managed to accrue almost six months clean after decades of addiction, that was a fate akin to death.<br /><br />Finally, with just two hours left on my shift, the pair returned. They explained that after registering Susan's daughter in school and finding Gloria a new apartment, they were overcome with excitement about their impending graduation. "We couldn't help it," Susan said, her eyes focused on the floor of my tiny office. "We did it."<br /><br />"You did what?", I asked, praying that she would not say the dreaded R-word. "We were together," was all that she could muster. Guilt weighed heavy in her voice. "Together how?", I queried, putting to use the clinical skills I was learning in my psychology program. I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted her to say it. Like everyone else, I had seen the love that had grown between the two women. I wanted them to own the moment in which they had consummated their love, rather than hiding behind ambiguities. "We made love," one finally said. Before I could utter the cliched "And how did you feel about that?", Susan continued, "Then we figured that since we're going to hell anyway, we might as well go all the way." And just like that, they went out, bought some crack, and threw away six months of hard recovery work.<br /><br />As I delivered the director's decision that they were both ejected from the program, I wept with them. And I felt responsible. I knew that it was the rhetoric of folks like me that made them believe that their lovemaking was an unforgiveable sin, as opposed to an act of beauty. I knew that Susan and Gloria had confirmed what I was beginning to suspect for many of the program's clients - that their substance abuse was an attempt to mask their struggles over their sexual orientation. On that day, I realized that my position had to change. I made a conscious effort to get to know to stories of people who identify as gay and lesbian. As I heard their pain - the many ways that they tried to deny their sexuality, their unanswered prayers to God to "fix" them, their stories of depression, substance use, and suicidality - my heart opened up. So did my mind.<br /><br />At some point, I realized that I could no longer consider homosexuality sinful. I could no more imagine God punishing someone for a sexuality that they could not change than I could imagine God sending someone to hell for being born blind or deaf. I became convinced that the real sin was the hurt inflicted by so-called "people of faith" unto our homosexual sisters and brothers.<br /><br />It is a theological risk, to be sure. I am fully aware that I could be wrong. But I accept that risk, prayerful that if I am wrong, God will forgive my error as one born out of my desire to emulate Christ's love and compassion for the "least of these."<br /><br />But it is not enough. In the fifteen years since saying goodbye to Gloria and Susan, I have been too invisible an ally, especially when revealing my stance would risk the rejection and condemnation of those who I hold most dear - my family. I have been silent too often when heterosexist comments have been made by people whom I love. And my silence may have made the Tyler Clementi's of the world feel that they are alone. Enough.<br /><br />I am heterosexual. I am Christian. I am an LGBT ally. And I will be silent no longer.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-13505743892185694832010-08-15T09:37:00.021-04:002010-08-16T06:27:32.364-04:00Single Black Women: The Miner's Canary<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ></span><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem?, they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> - W.E.B. DuBois,</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" > The Souls of Black Folk</span></blockquote>How does it feel to be a problem? The question famously articulated by W.E.B. DuBois is well suited for single black women in 2010. There's been a lot of chatter this year about the seeming crisis of singlehood among African American women, especially well-educated, middle class African American women. The issue has been the focus of an ABC <span style="font-style: italic;">Nightline</span> <a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/FaceOff/nightline-black-women-single-marriage/story?id=10424979">special</a>, a Washington Post <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2010/02/24/AR2010022405727.html">story</a>, and countless blogs.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0b6oultpGz0WlfTctN16FkKslRkRg6yW7BzQzL8hW6E_i2TnT_6KVdR61Q9rrlzz9iUYxYzmKEaAMNxtkRsfHhlKcfUhXjTUhLbBwuYs44AFJF4fFnxRZ0vcZC30UIDcZcVTB9Bp5wGWw/s1600/MPj04425860000%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0b6oultpGz0WlfTctN16FkKslRkRg6yW7BzQzL8hW6E_i2TnT_6KVdR61Q9rrlzz9iUYxYzmKEaAMNxtkRsfHhlKcfUhXjTUhLbBwuYs44AFJF4fFnxRZ0vcZC30UIDcZcVTB9Bp5wGWw/s200/MPj04425860000%5B1%5D.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505655847231012466" border="0" /></a>The latest entrant into the conversation is CNN's <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/LIVING/08/10/black.church.women.single/index.html">coverage</a> of a debate sparked by author and relationship columnist, Deborah Cooper. Cooper recently wrote a <a href="http://survivingdating.com/black-churches-how-black-churches-keep-african-american-women-single-and-alone">post</a> arguing that the black church is responsible for the low marriage rates among African American women. The crux of her argument is that the black church teaches women that the only suitable marriage partners are men who are "equally yoked," in other words, fellow Bible thumpers and avid churchgoers. Cooper thinks this is problematic since there are many more black men who do not attend church than those who do. Her solution: black women need to skip Sunday services and head instead to the local sports bar in their best <span style="font-style: italic;">go get 'em</span> outfits.<br /><br />On the face of it, it might seem like a decent argument. After all, Cooper is saying that women need to expand their notions of appropriate romantic partners. I'm not one to quibble over that point, given that most women's lists of desired attributes in a romantic partner are based more upon fantasy than reality - Disney movies, romantic comedies, and Harlequin romances.<br /><br />Cooper overlooks the fact that religious identity and involvement are not arbitrary characteristics but are central to many people's sense of self. They form the core values and beliefs about who we are and how we related to other people. And while all forms of religious practice, including the beliefs and practices of black churches, have some problematic aspects, Cooper's criticism of patriarchy within the black church overlooks the ways in which black women find sustenance to cope with racism, sexism, and classism within the walls of the church. So admonishing women to loosen their religious ideals for the sake of marriage is short-sighted and irresponsible.<br /><br />Still, that's not my main contention with Cooper's argument. I have the same issue with her column that I have with every article and television report on this topic: they are trite, specious, and unrevelatory.<br /><br />Most of these discussions are based on a single, faulty assumption: black women's singleness is an abnormality. Often there's a second assumption: this abnormality is the result of some deficiency, most of which resides in black women themselves.<br /><br />Maybe. But there's another phenomenon occurring that is repeatedly overlooked in these discussions: there is a pervasive cultural shift underway in America with respect to beliefs about and practices of marriage. The high rates of singleness among African American women are the proverbial <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Animal_sentinels#Canaries_in_coal_mines">canary in the coal mine</a>. They are not an abnormality but rather a prediction of the direction in which the rest of the country is heading.<br /><br />In societies stratified by systems such as race, class, and gender, those groups on the lowest rungs of the sociopolitical ladder are particularly vulnerable to social shifts. Lani Guinier and Gerald Torres say it well in their book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Miners-Canary-Enlisting-Resisting-Transforming/dp/0674010841/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281882804&sr=8-1"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Miner's Canary: Enlisting Race, Resisting Power, </span></a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Miners-Canary-Enlisting-Resisting-Transforming/dp/0674010841/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1281882804&sr=8-1"><span style="font-style: italic;">Transforming Democracy</span></a>:<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:100%;">"Those who are racially marginalized are like the miner's canary: their distress is the first sign of a danger that threatens us all. It is easy enough to think that when we sacrifice this canary, the only harm is to communities of color. Yet others ignore problems that converge around racial minorities at their own peril, for these problems are symptoms warning us that we are all at risk."</span></blockquote>When it comes to marriage in the United States, African Americans have been the miner's canary for a long time. According to Census reports, there has been a consistent decline in marriage across race and gender since 1950. While the decline has been more pronounced among African Americans, it is not unique.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUZmhKYK87ksNV5LpAWEES04LJtBKoCqfG50fqgN-jK1vFf_CzEMdyS1BGH2tGDwHVunlbNq5w5Q_85oIjT2bRlWnMq7w7SL-DJxzym82qvE0Cw4w8HPPBiIeFs9pBSH5TztEAes4Z4v9/s1600/Marr_rates_chart.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibUZmhKYK87ksNV5LpAWEES04LJtBKoCqfG50fqgN-jK1vFf_CzEMdyS1BGH2tGDwHVunlbNq5w5Q_85oIjT2bRlWnMq7w7SL-DJxzym82qvE0Cw4w8HPPBiIeFs9pBSH5TztEAes4Z4v9/s400/Marr_rates_chart.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505647966194411042" border="0" /></a><br />Notice that rates of marriage among black Americans have always been lower than rates among white Americans. Also notice that rates of marriage among white Americans in 2009 were similar to the levels for black Americans in 1950. Perhaps in another sixty years, the percentage of white Americans who are married will be akin to the 2010 rates for black Americans.<br /><br />There is, however, something interesting happening with African American women. Between 1950 and 1960, the percentage of women who never married were similar (and low) for blacks and whites. Likewise, black and white men had a similar likelihood of never being married. Since 1950, the chances of never marrying have increased for blacks and whites. However, the rates for blacks increased at a faster rate. And the percentage of black women who never married have risen so dramatically that they now approach the rates for black men.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxf5AMbUNq_UW-5iVifHjxpjMyYmNjbOe91CJINKBRpPoe6xggSduD5yHJwX8WNB_A66gJZg6qlzDbIGhNhhRVk4pV7UqOHaJf5Z6JuW25whQwW-64ZSAyqBaS2ff4czeJSbNFgsGB2zm/s1600/Nevmarr_rates_chart.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPxf5AMbUNq_UW-5iVifHjxpjMyYmNjbOe91CJINKBRpPoe6xggSduD5yHJwX8WNB_A66gJZg6qlzDbIGhNhhRVk4pV7UqOHaJf5Z6JuW25whQwW-64ZSAyqBaS2ff4czeJSbNFgsGB2zm/s400/Nevmarr_rates_chart.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505648719788711490" border="0" /></a>Again though, notice that the chances of never marrying for white men and women in 2009 are actually slightly higher than black men and women's chances of doing likewise in 1950.<br /><br />Marriage, in general, is on the decline in America. So if being single is a problem, it is the nation's problem.<br /><br />So, how does it feel to be a problem?<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Note: I have constructed these charts based upon a very brief (and not very scientific) analysis of Census data.</span></span>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-43062371033914114592010-08-06T13:39:00.001-04:002010-08-06T13:40:32.653-04:00A 12-Step Program for Strong Black Women<p class="MsoNormal">If this were a 12-step meeting for StrongBlackWomen, I'd be saying, "Hi, my name is Chanequa and I'm a StrongBlackWoman.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I have been in recovery for almost eight years now.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But at most, I've probably only accrued a few days of being clean at once.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I relapse constantly, maybe even daily.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>I don't know if I'll ever break free of this thing.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>But I'm here.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And just for today, I will make at least one decision in favor of my physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just for today, I will try to let go of my need for control, to become aware of when I need help, and to ask for help when I need it.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just for today, I give myself permission to cry when I'm sad, to scream when I'm frustrated, to smile and laugh when I'm happy, and to dance like I've got wings when the Spirit moves me.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just for today, I will reject the mandate to be a StrongBlackWoman.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Just for today, I will simply be."<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Being a StrongBlackWoman is an addiction, a force of habit ingrained in many of us from childhood.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Moreover, it is reinforced by our families, friends, co-workers, and churches - all those people who praise our strength and continuous self-sacrifice.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>And it's especially lauded and reinforced by those who benefit from our caretaking.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Our healing, then, is not a one-time event, but rather a lifelong process.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>It seems appropriate, then, to develop a 12-step program for StrongBlackWomen.<span style="font-size:0;"> </span>Here's my first attempt:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">1. We admit that we are powerless over our compulsion to be strong — that our physical, spiritual, emotional, and relational health are suffering.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">2. We acknowledge that we are not divine, that there is a Power greater than ourselves who can restore us to right relationship with ourselves and others.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">3. We make a decision to turn our will and our lives, and those of the people we care for, over to the care and protection of the Divine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">4. We practice self-awareness, making a searching inventory of ourselves and our relationships.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">5. We admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our compulsions and the traumas and fears that drive them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">6. We are ready to have the Holy One heal us.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">7. We humbly ask the Almighty to remove our need for control and to nurture in us a commitment to self-care.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">8. We make a list of all persons we have harmed and continue to harm through our excessive caretaking, and we become willing to make amends to them all.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">9. We make direct amends to such people wherever possible by allowing them to assume responsibility for their own lives.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">10. We continue to practice self-awareness and when we relapse, we promptly admit and correct it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">11. We seek through prayer, meditation, and journaling to nurture our connection with the Divine, praying for knowledge of Her will for our lives and for faith in Her protection and care.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">12. We try to carry this message to the strong Black women in our lives and to embody these principles as an example to them and to the generations that follow us.<o:p></o:p></p>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-57664125516545740632010-06-04T11:59:00.009-04:002010-06-05T07:40:41.430-04:00Reading and the Black-White Achievement Gap<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOdE22DJTHmX1DqJBJ7zSwy9uDoJf0gIeUfyH5PjQvRk64kUXVfKyesA7oW-0BfjaEPTIRLvVr1as1B7y-sX0r6s-4pkzV86dfUms05-BVcDatrARZk7QzC1lnrTqBJyMdTIyIXfYv3lR/s1600/j0409107.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixOdE22DJTHmX1DqJBJ7zSwy9uDoJf0gIeUfyH5PjQvRk64kUXVfKyesA7oW-0BfjaEPTIRLvVr1as1B7y-sX0r6s-4pkzV86dfUms05-BVcDatrARZk7QzC1lnrTqBJyMdTIyIXfYv3lR/s200/j0409107.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479253087057257858" border="0" /></a>Since childhood, I have been an avid reader. In elementary school, I almost failed fifth grade because of my love of reading. When the teacher gave the first worksheet of the day, I'd finish it as quickly as possible so that I could reach for the book that I had stashed in my desk. Every now and again, I'd look up to see what the rest of the class was doing. If they were still working, I kept reading. I always marveled at how long it took my classmates to complete a worksheet. It wasn't until the "D" appeared on my progress report that I realized that my peers had been moving on to new assignments while I was reading.<br /><br />With a toddler around, I don't often have the luxury of becoming so engrossed in books that I'm oblivious to what's going on around me. But I am addicted to books in the way that some women are addicted to shoes. Give me a free minute and there's likely to be a book in my hand. When I leave the house - whether it's for a day of work or for extended travel - I often spend more time agonizing over which book(s) to take than what to wear. I swear I get a contact high when I walk into a bookstore.<br /><br />So it's probably no surprise that I would really, really, really love to have one of the new e-readers on the market now. The idea of being able to carry thousands of books on one device is euphoria-inducing. And to be able to buy and instantly read a new book no matter where I am…OMG! Given the number of books that I have to buy for my classes and research each year, the comparatively low cost of e-books could mean a pretty significant savings. Well, in reality it'd just mean that I could buy more books for the same amount of money. Okay, but it'd definitely be less weight to carry around, which would help my chronic back pain. Not to mention it'd save on shelf space.<br /><br />But every time I think about these miraculous devices, I experience a twinge of reluctance. There's just something about a physical book that can't be replaced. I tried to convince myself that I'd adjust to an e-reader over time, but I still couldn't imagine switching over to a virtual library.<br /><br />A few days ago, I finally realized why a Kindle, Nook, or iPad could never replace physical books for me. It's because my library is not just for me. It's for my children.<br /><br />For years, I've been trying to accumulate a library that includes books that I think all progressive families should own. There are certain books that I want to have sitting on the shelves so that my children might be compelled, in a moment of boredom or curiosity, to pick them up and read them. These include books like Alice Walker's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Color Purple</span>, Carter G. Woodson's <span style="font-style: italic;">Miseducation of the Negro</span>, W.E.B. DuBois' <span style="font-style: italic;">The Souls of Black Folk</span>, Harriet Jacob's <span style="font-style: italic;">Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Autobiography of Malcolm X</span>, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cost of Discipleship</span>. Not to mention Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy, Lewis' Narnia series, and the entire Harry Potter series.<br /><br />Last week, as I was writing in the journal that I'm keeping for my son, I felt compelled to list these books, and others, as required reading for him to be a thinking Black man (I'll post the list sometime soon). It turns out that I was making this list in the same week of publication of a <a href="http://www.sciencedirect.com/science?_ob=ArticleURL&_udi=B82Y4-4YC2XKM-1&_user=1450828&_coverDate=02%2F10%2F2010&_alid=1342741897&_rdoc=1&_fmt=high&_orig=search&_cdi=33048&_sort=r&_docanchor=&view=c&_ct=2&_acct=C000052773&_version=1&_urlVersion=0&_userid=1450828&md5=2bd324eff4fab9d9bd36a84cbc836883Let">study</a> showing that the number of books that a family owns is a better predictor of children's academic success than the education, occupation, and socioeconomic status of the parents. Children who grow up in a home with 500 books complete an average of 3.2 years more schooling than children who grow up in homes without books. And the effect is even greater for children from the poorest families. For parents with only primary-school education, having as little as 25 books in the home means that children will complete 2 more years of schooling than their counterparts with no books. USA Today has a brief <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/news/education/2010-06-01-summerreading01_st_N.htm">article</a> on the study, which appears in full in the June 2010 issue of the journal, <span style="font-style: italic;">Research in Social Stratification and Mobility</span>.<br /><br />While the study didn't look at race, I can't help but to wonder about the impact that a family library can have on academic achievement among African American children. Studies like these often focus on poverty (and they should). However, there's a long line of research documenting a significant and persistent achievement gap between middle-class black and white children in America. As one <a href="http://www.physorg.com/news188056690.html">researcher</a> states, "the school performance of middle-class black children is closer to that of poor white children." By the age of 5, black children in middle-class homes own an average of 60 books; their white counterparts (i.e., children of parents with similar levels of income and education) have 100.<br /><br />More than once, I have visited the homes of middle-class African American friends and family and have noted that there are few, if any, books in the household. In contrast, these homes are usually well-stocked with DVDs and state-of-the-art entertainment and gaming systems.<br /><br />A few months ago, when I proudly posted a video of my then 20-month-old practicing his alphabet, a few family members asked what our secret was. Quite simply, we limit his television consumption and we read to him often. We take him to story hour at the library, buy at least two new books each month (at not quite two, he has at least 60 books), and have read a minimum of 4 books per day since infancy (the current average is 6-8 books per day). In fact, 99% of the time, if he brings a book to us, we will stop whatever we are doing and read it. Even if he brings 12 books in a row (which he likes to do), we read all of them. You might call us a child-reading-centered household.<br /><br />Does it mean that he'll be smarter than other kids? No one can predict that. There are a ton of social factors out there waiting to influence him as he grows up. We may not be able to combat all of them. But hopefully, our attempts to raise a reader will give us a head start.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-58837343762733448512010-04-06T09:56:00.010-04:002010-04-06T11:04:30.005-04:00Another Look at Tyler Perry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwX9kludjPHHUFCmjSieLUnsQgW0jscMQtOKi2wg9t4NgW1349Jr3Q6lvzYH5Aa2cagfzKcqXDGVVjxTCqyHT7IsjCRcMbN-IGzMeWQiLhsYZuejDs4nyAysAwKtFeYNjd204weE7yFDJr/s1600/Perry_Why2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwX9kludjPHHUFCmjSieLUnsQgW0jscMQtOKi2wg9t4NgW1349Jr3Q6lvzYH5Aa2cagfzKcqXDGVVjxTCqyHT7IsjCRcMbN-IGzMeWQiLhsYZuejDs4nyAysAwKtFeYNjd204weE7yFDJr/s200/Perry_Why2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5457040468767623186" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Yesterday I went to see Tyler Perry's new film, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Why Did I Get Married Too?</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Of course, I didn't go to see it purely for entertainment's sake.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Since he debuted on the major film circuit a few years ago, Perry has tended to elicit one of two responses from black viewers:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">rabid loyalty or seething hatred.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I tend to fall somewhere in the middle.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">To date, I have seen nearly all of Perry's films, one of his stage plays, and even a few of his filmed stage productions.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Granted, Perry's work is not likely to garner an Oscar nod anytime soon, but it's always entertaining.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The play that I saw, </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >What Goes On In the Dark</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, was the best laugh I've had at a live show since Cedric the Entertainer's set during </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The Kings of Comedy</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> performance in Miami over ten years ago.</span><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:";font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p> <p face=""" size="12pt" style="margin: 0in; font-family: georgia;"> </p> <p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I'll pass on the television shows though.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I tried to watch </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >The House of Payne</span><span style="font-size:100%;">, but its oversimplified story lines, clichés, and overacting (reminiscent of the SNL skit, <a href="http://www.hulu.com/watch/3522/saturday-night-live-the-overacting-negro-ensemble">"The Overacting Negro Ensemble"</a>) became painful.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Why Did I Get Married Too?</span> is vintage Perry. Once again, he uses his "everything but the kitchen sink" approach - mixing slapstick, romantic comedy, and drama with a few gratuitous hot body shots (even Janet Jackson's cleavage, which was uncharacteristically demure in the original, makes quite a few appearances). The film's many plot lines include divorce, domestic violence, adultery, grief, financial hardship - in sum, nearly every possible catastrophe that could happen. With this film, Perry seems to be taking himself a little too seriously; he went to an epic length of 2-1/2 hours, a good 45 minutes too long.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The overall verdict? It was...entertaining. I laughed, sometimes in spite of myself. And as I walked out of the theatre, I thought, "Maybe I should just leave Tyler Perry alone and not write about this one." Did I mention that Perry inspires a sort of rabid loyalty? Writing anything negative about him causes a knee-jerk reaction among his fans, who immediately accuse the critic of being an intellectual elitist snob who clearly doesn't understand his work and therefore has no business writing about it.<br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The irony is that I often receive the opposite reaction when I ask students in my undergraduate classes to watch and write about one of his films. More than one student has responded, "You want us to do what?! What are we supposed to learn from that? His movies are stupid." Even those students who secretly enjoy Perry's movies question the idea that there could be anything worth intellectual engagement within them.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The last time that I wrote about <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/11/open-letter-to-tyler-perry.html">Tyler Perry</a>, I critiqued his treatment of women's roles, which have a pretty heavy patriarchal lens. Perry's films are usually part-entertainment and part-morality play. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why Did I Get Married Too?</span> doesn't have the preachiness of his earlier work and it's easy to assume that the film has no message. But it does. And it's an important one.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The essence of both <span style="font-style: italic;">Why Did I Get Married?</span> films remains the same: Black romantic relationships are screwed up because: (1) there are a lot of no-count black men out there (i.e., the abusers, cheaters, etc.); and (2) black women are ball-busting bitches who don't know how to appreciate a good thing when they find it. Now, here's where you need to read carefully before you press the comment link: Perry does not paint all black men and women in this light. In this series, Mike (played by Richard T. Jones) clearly represents the former, while the rest of the men portray the latter. Even Marcus (played by Michael Jai White) seems to have reformed his philandering ways in this one.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The women, on the other hand, almost universally fall in the category of too strong for their own good. Angela, Marcus' wife as played by Tasha Smith, is still a twenty-first century depiction of the <a href="http://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/sapphire/">Sapphire stereotype</a> - the loud, abrasive black woman who loves to belittle black men. Patricia (portrayed by Jackson) is classic Strong <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/09/burden-of-strong-black-woman.html">Black Woman</a> - a repressed psychotherapist who spends all of her time fixing other people while her own life is in shambles. As for Diane and Sheila, the characters played by Sharon Leal and Jill Scott, respectively...well, I don't want to give the movie away.<br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Whether it's the <span style="font-style: italic;">Why Did I Get Married?</span> or Madea films, Tyler Perry's works are a form of social commentary. The question is, what kind of comment is he making? Is Perry simply depicting what is? Or is he pointing to what ought to be? Those of us who critique Perry usually assume that he's doing one or the other, oftentimes both. But I think there's another way to look at Perry. His art (and yes, I believe it is artistic) exposes what many people believe to be true about the state of African American relationships. Simply put, he's just depicting what many African American men and women believe to be true about black relationships - that black men are dogs and black women have too much baggage.</span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:georgia;font-size:12pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in;font-family:times new roman;font-size:12pt;"><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Perry's meteoric rise to success is evidence that he's a genius as a businessman. He knows how to tap into the psyche of his audience and to give them what they want to see. So the question is not why he keeps playing the same tired old story, but why we as African Americans keep believing that story and what impact it has on our lives. </span><br /></p>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-81759404179519636132010-02-10T11:32:00.004-05:002010-02-10T12:06:16.687-05:00Reggie Bush and the Essence Cover Controversy<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRzkN37zEv4Ir-ECw2yq13auKfRpHch0REMdPmj0_ItPkJzHvm4f8J2b-hJ8MqCjWbfC8ZTYrvvCJgdUUVm3uYe34zObdM6mpXPEn5GjumLklSzwgSXObW9pdfDlWm0_FrDWdFQKnmD4Z/s1600-h/IMG_BLOG_REGGIE_ESSENCE.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 152px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRzkN37zEv4Ir-ECw2yq13auKfRpHch0REMdPmj0_ItPkJzHvm4f8J2b-hJ8MqCjWbfC8ZTYrvvCJgdUUVm3uYe34zObdM6mpXPEn5GjumLklSzwgSXObW9pdfDlWm0_FrDWdFQKnmD4Z/s200/IMG_BLOG_REGGIE_ESSENCE.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436662151694160818" border="0" /></a><br />In all the turmoil over the Vanity Fair "Hollywood Issue," another <a href="http://blogs.bet.com/entertainment/spotlight/2010/01/07/essence-takes-heat-for-reggie-bush-cover/">magazine cover controversy</a> has gone relatively unnoticed. It seems that a lot of Essence readers are upset over the magazine's decision to feature Reggie Bush on the February cover, the "Black Men, Love and Relationships" issue. The problem? Essence is supposed to be black women's magazine. And Bush just happens to be dating a white woman - Kim Kardashian, to be exact (although part of the controversy involves whether Kardashian's Armenian ancestry qualifies her as "white"). It seems that in crossing the color line in his romantic relationship, Bush has failed the racial litmus test. By at least one segment of the population, he has been deemed as insufficiently black.<br /><br />Here's the kicker: among the names that have been bandied about as more appropriate cover choices is Robin Thicke. Yep, that one. The ivory-skinned, soul-singing son of Growing Pains star Alan Thicke. The younger Thicke is married to African American actress Paula Patton. It seems that qualifies him to be an icon of black love, according to some Essence readers.<br /><br />Confused? Okay, the equation goes something like this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Black man + white woman = Rejection of all black women<br />White man + black woman = Affirmation of all black women<br /></div><br />Of course it's madness. But the easy thing to do is to scoff at the women who think like this. My first reaction upon reading about the "controversy" was to do my best Bill Cosby impersonation: "Come on people!" My second reaction was embarrassment that some of my sisters (assuming that these are actually black women making these comments) are so publicly living into the stereotype of the Angry Black Woman.<br /><br />But there's an important question here, I think. What has American society done to make the self-image of some black women so fragile that they equate interracial relationships involving black men with personal rejection and view interracial relationships involving white men as a form of validation? The answer to that question is not simply, "They got issues." It implicates all of us, regardless of our race and gender. And it's not just a historical question. It certainly starts in slavery. But it doesn't end there.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-647961619852968652010-02-05T10:45:00.013-05:002010-02-05T11:37:54.528-05:00Vanity Fair and the Light/Dark Thing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHNAZUPE7Z2wWOg_oKxjk7YZoZK9KCK5qIfKyP6_dfJe1bZFMtWZUHrkb2zu_JxWLSV9beHKdEWyhId4-xbiQZoRudtufSx5NoclW-fPN_idYb81NulZi6AwU9RfNM7Mmxt75-okgW4Ov/s1600-h/vanityfairMar2010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJHNAZUPE7Z2wWOg_oKxjk7YZoZK9KCK5qIfKyP6_dfJe1bZFMtWZUHrkb2zu_JxWLSV9beHKdEWyhId4-xbiQZoRudtufSx5NoclW-fPN_idYb81NulZi6AwU9RfNM7Mmxt75-okgW4Ov/s320/vanityfairMar2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434788304531000562" border="0" /></a>There's been quite a buzz in the blogosphere these days about the lack of diversity in Vanity Fair's annual "Hollywood Issue." The fold-out cover features nine of Hollywood's up-and-coming actresses. And wouldn't you know it? All nine happen to be very thin, fair-skinned white women. Notable exclusions include Zoe Saldana, who starred in two of the year's biggest films ("Star Trek" and "Avatar") and Freida Pinto, star of the runaway hit, "Slumdog Millionaire."<br /><br />But most of the controversy over the lily-white cover has centered upon the omission of Gabourey Sidibe, the Oscar-nominated star of "Precious." Sidibe was not completely ignored; she appears inside the magazine. But her exclusion from the cover has a lot of folks talking about the magazine's bias against people of color. One writer bluntly questioned whether Sidibe is <a href="http://www.news.com.au/entertainment/fashion/is-precious-star-gabourey-sidibe-too-fat-too-black-for-cover-of-vanity-fair/story-e6frfn7i-1225826399950">"too fat, too black"</a> for the magazine's cover. The fact that Sidibe graces the March 2010 cover of Ebony magazine seems to underscore the charges of racism. A lot of folks, many of them non-black, are pulling the race card on this one.<br /><br />But not so fast. I discovered the Vanity Fair controversy the same way that I learn about most popular culture these days - via Facebook. The posts started flying the same day as the Grammy's, which inspired quite a few comments as well. So between reading people's thoughts about the Vanity Fair cover, I also got my fair share of interesting tidbits such as: "<span style="font-style: italic;">Beyonce didn't call Jay-Z by name because he doesn't really love her</span>"; "<span style="font-style: italic;">Michael Jackson's kids don't look like him because they're not his kids</span>"; "<span style="font-style: italic;">What is she wearing?</span>"; and "<span style="font-style: italic;">Doesn't Lil' Wayne look like a cockroach personified?</span>"<br /><br />Oh wait, did I forget to mention that all of the Grammy posts were by African Americans? Now, I'm not going to make the argument that Lil' Wayne should be a contender for the male version of "America's Next Top Model," but a cockroach? Come on people. Let's not get it twisted. There is only one feature of Lil' Wayne that makes such a comparison fathomable - his blackness.<br /><br />The cockroach insult is not a new one. It has been used as a racial slur for a long time. But among African Americans, it is an epithet typically reserved for dark-skinned blacks. No matter how "unattractive," medium and fair-skinned blacks are immune from it. It is the slightly subtler version of the "African booty scratcher" insult leveled on school playgrounds. And in the vast majority of cases, both the perpetrator and the victim are African American. After all, let's face it - the only white people who would dare enunciate such obvious racial epithets are the hood and swastika wearing varieties.<br /><br />At some point in their lives, many dark-skinned African Americans have heard the term "black" hurled at them by other African Americans with such venom that it makes them feel lower than low. The color complex is the wound of internalized racism that African Americans try to keep concealed from whites. We may have come a long way since slavery, but we've yet to learn to love our blackness. I once heard activist <a href="http://www.jmpf.org/content/perkins/biography/">John Perkins</a> say that black people hate ourselves so much that we required an entire movement to try to convince ourselves that black could be beautiful. If the continuing (and perhaps rising) popularity of <a href="http://www.thegrio.com/health/why-lighter-skin-is-an-international-obsession.php">skin lighteners</a> is any indication, that movement still has a way to go.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3X1I9MbcfDIhIXGNeyWUOMpZNLOfqhXg_jZQCxwbqO9rOAC5I1-zrh4HWx7-Oea2vR3rb20dplSEIOqeD_YShnjx4R-RkpeT9W1neFxEldWBEJA21Bty99XdPZsCFyhG5LCXUQgivTHv/s1600-h/EbonyMar2010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS3X1I9MbcfDIhIXGNeyWUOMpZNLOfqhXg_jZQCxwbqO9rOAC5I1-zrh4HWx7-Oea2vR3rb20dplSEIOqeD_YShnjx4R-RkpeT9W1neFxEldWBEJA21Bty99XdPZsCFyhG5LCXUQgivTHv/s200/EbonyMar2010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434794318802766418" border="0" /></a>Oh yeah, we're not supposed to talk about skin lighteners anymore, especially in mixed company. But if you open that Ebony issue featuring Gabourey Sidibe, I'm sure you'll find plenty of ads for them inside, their number likely rivaled only by the number of ads for hair straighteners.<br /><br />I'm not opposed to critiquing the Vanity Fair cover. But quite frankly, I'm less interested in convincing white folks to love blackness than in helping us to love ourselves.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-20849534987285592132010-01-09T10:58:00.008-05:002010-01-09T11:38:32.340-05:00The Fascination with the American Negro (Episode 1)<div><div>I have spent much of my life being the first, the only, or the youngest. It comes with the territory as a black person in the academy and as a woman in ministry. When I began my current position at a historically black seminary three years ago, it was the first time since elementary school that I had been in an academic setting (either as a student or professor) that wasn't dominated by whites (although my high school was predominantly black, the AP classes in which I was enrolled were decidedly not, but that's another story).<br /></div><div>My husband's experience is similar, albeit in reverse. The day that he graduated from college was his last time that he spent his days in a majority black setting. Over the past 15 years as an engineer, he has always been one of a small handful of people of color at the firms at which he's worked.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhvKWWy72MmAz47xKBjRF_f7eo4SL4d9oJUHAMlxBBb9eSVysQ6WbnT4ZuWmAeXu4mCvfaRTfQKLxbA3PwcERxfN20YkbulUxQY9s38U4vgWyxygsRigJ7fmSocC8433H5wrnHt1iQJ4H/s1600-h/20091007_01.JPG"></a></div><div></div><br /><div>So it's not surprising that by virtue of our socioeconomic status (as well as our commitment to racial reconciliation), we spend a lot of time in places populated mainly by whites. In our home city of Durham, we're part of the granola crowd. We shop at Whole Foods, are members of the <a href="http://www.ncmls.org/">NC Museum of Life and Science</a>, and take our son to classes at the <a href="http://www.thelittlegym.com/">Little Gym</a>.</div><div></div><br /><div>Herein lies the challenge. Because we are usually the only African Americans (or among a small minority) in the contexts that we inhabit, so is our 18-month-old son. As a result, he's become something of a celebrity. Being the "only" makes you highly noticeable and recognizable. When you play the go-around-the-circle-and-introduce-your-child game, everybody remembers the name and face of the solitary black child. It's not uncommon for my husband to have unfamiliar white women greet our son by name at the grocery store or museum. We've gotten used to it.</div><div></div><br /><div>But it makes for some very strange moments at times. Take this week's gym class, for instance. There was one little girl who had apparently never seen a black person. Or at least black hair. Or at least a 1" <a href="http://www.naturallycurly.com/hair-types">Type 4B</a> Afro that had been packed under a winter cap (I admit it, the boy looked like <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=who+shot+john">who shot john</a>). For the bulk of the 50-minute class session, this little girl followed my child around the room, pointing to and patting his head. He seemed oblivious to it and kept playing. But his mother, who has some major hang-ups around race and hair, was not.</div><br /><div></div><div>"Oh here we go," I thought, "It's time for another 'fascination with the American Negro' moment." Since the majority of African American women do not wear their hair in its natural texture, when we do, it is often a source of heightened attention and discussion by folks of all races. But with whites, there is an added element (especially if you have locs, which I did until two years ago) - morbid curiosity:</div><br /><div><blockquote><em>"How did you get your hair like that?"<br /><br />"I didn't. This is what God gave me."<br /><br />"I've never seen hair like that."<br /><br />"That's because it's usually hidden under relaxers and weaves."<br /><br />"Ooh, can I touch it?"<br /><br />Hell no.<br /></em></blockquote></div><div>Sorry, that was a flashback. Post-traumatic hair syndrome, I guess. But having absolute strangers or casual acquaintances try to turn you into a hands-on museum exhibit is beyond maddening.</div><br /><div></div><div>I once spent a week at a retreat for black women. Toward the end, after days of spending every waking moment together, one of the women said to me, "Your locs are so beautiful. Can I gather them?" I could tell her motives were pure, so I said yes. My spine tingled as she stroked my locks from crown to nape, pulling the wandering strands - in the most gentle way possible - into a single stream flowing down my back. In that space, surrounded by women trying to love ourselves and one another, that was an act of love.</div><br /><div></div><div>Of course, none of that - the dehumanizing-museum exhibit moments or the intimate acts of sister-love - means anything to a blond 18-month-old who thinks the fact that her new friend's hair looks and feels like a cotton swab is cool. Her mother was clearly embarrassed, trying unsuccessfully to make her stop. "Don't worry about it," I told her, "he doesn't even seem to notice."</div><br /><div></div><div>Meanwhile, I thought to myself, "Okay, this is really the last straw. He won't sit still long enough for us to pick it out, it gets messed up anyway, we have to get soy nut butter and applesauce out of it twice a day, and now he's getting harassed by little white girls."</div><br /><div></div><div>He was in the barber's chair three days later.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9B2RfcDcMA1ysFG42zNDw3dr3EZM-DEECVh7HYwmGXWhT6Luh2r0qfAPNWOODfFYd9CA2jPZjLq778RdELFqP8hqzfgHtg-DXfotni4ZbOpwNm3l8rtFBgYAxvoCwfdXXxAEd-4cdOyE1/s1600-h/IMG_0913.JPG"></a></div></div>Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-39234986817031604642010-01-02T10:19:00.009-05:002010-01-02T12:09:52.177-05:00Resolutions for Revolution (or, What Black Folks Need to Do in 2010)Another New Year has arrived. If you haven't done it already, it's time to make those New Year's resolutions. Never mind the fact that you may not keep them past March. Making them - and even breaking them - is an important exercise. It encourages us to spend some time reflecting on the lives that we would like to live, the persons whom we would like to be, and the values and practices that we hold most dear. It helps us to embody, in word and deed, God's ongoing creative activity in our lives. Even our failures are important. They remind us that our transformation is not entirely under our control; we must lean into God's grace and strength for real change to take place.<br /><br />This year, the celebration of the New Year and the impending observance of the Martin Luther King Jr. holiday are inextricably intertwined in my mind. Perhaps it is because I am still haunted by my last visit to my hometown of Atlanta. It's been 15 years since I left Hotlanta and each time I return, I am reminded why the city has become one of America's black cultural capitals. There is so much to do, see, and experience of the Black diaspora in the city - galleries and museums, cultural centers, civic groups and organizations, historical sites, and soul food and Caribbean restaurants. Even the walk through the airport was enjoyable; the walkway to baggage claim in Hartsfield International currently has an installation of sculptures by Zimbabwean artists. A trip home is always a striking reminder of just how far African Americans have come in the 45 years since the passage of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1964">Civil Rights Act</a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Civil_Rights_Act_of_1964"> of 1964</a>.<br /><br />But during my ride through the city, I noticed something else, a reminder that the struggle is far from over, even for those who have ostensibly "arrived." While traveling down a major thoroughfare on the south (code word for "black") side of town, I realized that I was in the largest collection of beauty supply stores, car accessory shops, and chicken wing shacks that I had ever seen. I had no idea that it was possible for one street to sustain that many beauty supply stores, a large one on every block. And there were rims galore. For rent, no less! And the chicken - the air was permeated with the smells of grease and sauce (okay, I'm exaggerating, but there really were a lot of them).<br /><br />While Atlanta's chicken wings have a special place in my heart and I have many memories of scouring beauty supply shops for the perfect product, the whole scene was mildly depressing. I could almost hear a voice emanating from the shops: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Come to us. There is a hole inside of you that we can fix. You are not enough. Come to us, my daughters, and we will give you hair to cover your insecurities. Come to us, my sons, and we will cover your alienation with rims that you cannot afford. And if that doesn't fill the emptiness, come to us, my children, and we will fill your stomachs. Come to us and we will make you enough."</span><br /><br />I have often heard African Americans say that integration destroyed the fabric of the black community in America. But what has been known as "integration" - the end of legalized segregation and the granting of access to education, housing, and employment - was never meant to be the final destination of the Civil Rights Movement. It was simply a road marker, and an important one, on the journey to beloved community, a society where reconciliation, redemption, love, and justice would be realized. Dr. King envisioned the beloved community as an America where we would adhere to the two greatest commandments: to love the Lord our God with all our heart, our mind, our soul, and our strength; and to love our neighbor as we love ourselves (cf. Matthew 22:34-40).<br /><br />But as we enter the second decade of the 21st century, many African Americans still have a lot of difficulty loving ourselves. Centuries of racism has inculcated within us a sense of self-loathing. Most often it's an unconscious impulse. That is, most of us don't go around thinking, "I don't like being black." Rather, we have a deep, abiding sense that "I am not enough." We try to make up for not being enough by doing more, getting more, and consuming more. We take on superhuman personas, trying to live into the ideologies of the <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2009/10/rethinking-strongblackman.html">StrongBlackMan</a> or <a href="http://lovingblack.blogspot.com/2007/09/burden-of-strong-black-woman.html">StrongBlackWoman</a>. Or we spend a disproportionate amount of our income on visible signs of "enoughness" - hair, nails, clothes, purses, shoes, rims, cars, TVs, bluetooth headsets, cell phones, etc. Or we eat...and we eat...and we eat. Sometimes we do all of the above. And the struggle continues.<br /><br />So as you make your resolutions for 2010, consider the inner revolution that still needs to take place for the liberation of the African American mind. Make resolutions that will help to free you and your family from the vestiges of internalized racism. Sometimes societal change demands marches and legislation. But oftentimes, it needs the decision and determination of individuals to <span style="font-style: italic;">be</span> differently.<br /><br />And just in case you need help, here are a few ideas:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">First, take charge of your health</span>. In 2007, 35.6% of African Americans were obese, according to <a href="http://minorityhealth.hhs.gov/templates/content.aspx?ID=6456">CDC data</a>. For too long, our knee-jerk reaction to such statistics has been to say that the weight charts do not take into account African American "bone structure." That's all well and good, but somebody needs to send that memo to our cardiovascular and endocrine systems, because they seem to think that our bodies can't handle that weight. We have the highest rates of hypertension and Type II diabetes of all ethnic groups, with some rates rivaling those of people in the poorest countries in the world. Who needs Jim Crow and lynch mobs when we are committing slow suicide with overeating and underactivity? Not to mention epidemic rates of HIV/AIDS and homicide. Let this be the year that you develop and sustain healthy diet, exercise, and sexual habits.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Second, regain (and retrain) your righteous mind</span>. A <a href="http://www.nielsenmedia.com/ethnicmeasure/african-american/indexAA.html">2004 Nielsen study</a> shows that, on average, African Americans watch 40% more television than all other ethnic groups, a whopping 11 hours per day! It's bad enough that we spend that much time being physically and mentally inactive. It's even worse when you consider the values and images that are being transmitted by television shows, videos, and commercials. No wonder we continue to believe that we are not enough! In contrast, only <a href="http://www.arts.gov/research/ReadingAtRisk.pdf">37%</a> of Arican Americans read literature. A few years ago, I read a study that showed that by the age of 5, children in white, middle-class homes have an average of 100 books; their black counterparts had only 60, even though the parents had similar levels of income and education. I don't want to underplay the impact of racism and poverty on racial differences in academic and occupational achievement. But let's be honest - we aren't helping the cause by willfully neglecting our intellectual development. Make this the year to increase your reading and decrease your television consumption.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Third, get active for justice</span>. Commit, in at least one tangible way, to striving for justice and equal opportunity for all of God's children. You might volunteer at a food bank or homeless shelter, mentor a child, organize a clothing or book drive in your community, attend vigils against the death penalthy, clean up a neighborhood park, or raise funds for a local nonprofit. Just do something.<br /><br />Maybe if we make a collective attempt to fill the emptiness with health, knowledge, and service, we won't be so inclined to fill it with weaves, wheels, and wings. And then we will know what the Great Spirit has been trying to tell us - we are enough.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-70845243277004923022009-11-09T18:54:00.003-05:002009-11-09T19:38:25.915-05:00On Being an Icon"That's a ghetto name!", he said. I didn't have time to respond. His classmate, another teen court-ordered to participate in an intervention program for juvenile gun offenders, immediately admonished him: "Don't call people's name 'ghetto.' That's rude!"<br /><br />Over the past two decades, I have grown accustomed to my name - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chanequa</span> - becoming the iconic ghetto name - used by comedians, singers (<span style="font-style: italic;">remember Oran "Juice" Jones: "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Shaniquaaaa</span>...ya got me whupped"</span>), and celebrities who mistake themselves as intellectuals (<span style="font-style: italic;">remember Bill Cosby's 2004 speech to the NAACP?</span>). Whenever someone wants to evoke the image of a gum-popping, neck-wagging, eye-rolling, hand-on-hip-placing, lower class African American woman, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Chanequa</span> (and all its variations: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Sheniqua</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Shaniqua</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Shenikwa</span>, etc.) becomes a common target.<br /><br />I was born in 1972. As Lisa Jones would say, I am a movement baby whose Mississippi-born mother reached back to Africa for some sonic inspiration when naming her first-born. She had no book of African baby names to draw upon, just a deep longing to give her baby girl a name that would mark her as special, as touched by the ancestors. Pulling from a rich family heritage of unique names (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Laquitta</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Lunetha</span>, Sarita, and so on), she sat down one day and started putting letters together.<br /><br />I find it ironic that my name has become identified with some of the worst stereotypes of African American women. As far as I know, I am the original <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Chanequa</span>. While the name has become increasingly popular over the past three decades, I have never heard of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Chanequa</span> who is older than me (and trust me, I always ask). So until someone proves otherwise, I am the prototype.<br /><br />And just to be clear about what the prototype looks like: I am a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">highly</span> educated (<span style="font-style: italic;">Mr. Cosby - that's 3 graduate degrees, each of them earned, not honorary</span>), sophisticated, ambitious woman. Happily <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">married</span> for 13 years, I live in the suburbs and drive a mid-sized SUV (the last two are not necessarily points of pride, just counterpoints to the prevailing image). I am a voracious reader of theology, cultural criticism, historical fiction, fantasy, and memoir. <br /><br />I love documentaries and hip-hop. I make my own granola and can cook up a mean pot of greens. I love being among the folk, but I'm also comfortable in environments where I am the first, the only, or the youngest. I am grounded in what I believe to be the best of my culture even as I try to transcend and transform some of its worst elements. And I love seeing the looks on people's faces when they realize that this icon of all things "ghetto" is capable of deconstructing the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">classist</span> and racist assumptions behind the term with minimal intellectual effort.<br /><br />In other words, my name is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Chanequa</span> and I am the <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ish</span></span>. So stop taking my name in vain.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5621635174313218469.post-11152806167928827232009-10-14T17:24:00.010-04:002009-10-14T18:08:25.916-04:00Rethinking the StrongBlackManAbout 2 years into my (now seemingly endless) project on the StrongBlackWoman, I realized that she had a male counterpart. Because I don't presume to be an expert on men's issues, I figured I'd leave writing about the StrongBlackMan to folks who were much better equipped - folks like Mark Anthony Neal (who takes on the subject quite well in <span style="font-style: italic;">New Black Man</span>) and Kevin Powell (who doesn't use the term explicitly but is certainly evoking the concept in <span style="font-style: italic;">Who's Gonna Take the Weight?</span>). But after passing the buck for a few years, I've decided to enter the fray, especially since, as far as I can tell, the fates of the StrongBlackWoman and StrongBlackMan are bound together. Be gentle - it's my first time.<br /><br />If I were in the classroom right now, I'd begin this story on the west coast of Africa, talking about how the circumstances of the European encounter with the African set the foundation for centuris of racist depictions of black men. Then, crossing the Atlantic into the American slaveocracy, I'd narrate how these depictions were further codified into the Tom (the obsequious servant) and the Buck (the violent, aggressive brute). Next, I'd take a leap to the nineteenth century, when newly freed blacks began crafting the archetype of the StrongBlackMan as an ideological response to these negative depictions, using as raw material the inherently flawed icons of the Self-Made Man and the cult of black genius. But I'm not in the classroom so I won't start there.<br /><br />Instead, I'll start by echoing a caveat made by others: being a StrongBlackMan (<span style="font-style: italic;">no spaces</span>) is not the same as being strong, being black and being a man. The StrongBlackMan, like the StrongBlackWoman, refers to a specific way of being in the world - a particular set of psychosocial characteristics that are strongly rooted in racism and sexism. These are not people; they are costumes. Whereas the StrongBlackWoman is characterized by the triumvirate of strength (specifically expressed as the capacity for silent suffering), independence, and caregiving, the StrongBlackMan revolves around the three "cardinal virtues" of dominance, self-control, and pride. These three virtues are interconnected, but I'll try to parse them out as much as possible.<br /><br />The virtue of dominance might be portrayed in terms of three sets of dichotomies: the StrongBlackMan wants to be seen as a master, not a slave; as a leader, and not a follower; as a producer, and not a hired hand. He is not to be owned, ruled, controlled, or influenced by any outside force. He must maintain the appearance of being powerful, tough, and right at all times and at all costs He is competitive, aggressive, and in charge of the resources that he has at his disposal, no matter how meager they may be.<br /><br />The second cardinal virtue, self-control, has to do with the StrongBlackMan's need to be in charge of his self - his emotional, moral, financial, and physical self. Within the constraints of racism and classism, he tries to embody the American masculine ideal of rugged individualism. He is a master of his own fate, allowing no outside person or institution to influence his choices, behaviors, feelings, beliefs, or values. He is an achiever, a doer, a producer, a performer. He is active, not passive; a giver and not a receiver. He can never allow anyone or anything to get the better of him, especially in matters of the heart. Above all else, he must never be punked.<br /><br />The third cardinal virtue, pride, concerns the StrongBlackMan's need to always be seen as responsible, self-confident, successful, and persevering. He takes pride in livign up to the mantle of black manhood and shuns anything that might make him appear weak, vulnerable, or unsure. He takes pride in his accomplishments, his family, and his racial heritage. In his dealings with persons of other races, he strives to be seen as a "credit to the race." One of his greatest fears is embarrassment. He can never appear weak, vulnerable, or unsure.<br /><br />The three cardinal virtues of the StrongBlackMan - dominance, self-control, and pride - are bound by an underlying theme of defensiveness. Ultimately, the StrongBlackMan is not a real persona. It does not reflect the authentic nature - the true thoughts, feelings, personalities - of the men who wear its garb. Rather, it is a defense against a society that deems black men to be unfit as anything other than entertainers, athletes, and criminals.<br /><br />The StrongBlackMan is black men's best effort to stand up straight against the enormous weight pressing down upon them - racism, classism, heterosexism - and to say, "I am a man. I am not a boy, a clown, a body to be exploited for profit. I am not a problem to be solved, re-solved, or locked away. I am capable of greatness that you cannot begin to fathom. And I am part of the same species as you so take me off that endangered species list."<br /><br />At least that's my (very preliminary) analysis. I'd like to say that I get it, that I understand the plight of the StrongBlackMan. But of course, that's not true. Black men and Black women both have issues, but as the saying goes, "Your blues ain't quite like mine." Yet the more that I learn about black men and women - about me - the more I realize just how similar our struggles are. <br /><br />As a black woman, I know a little something about wearing a mask, especially one called "strong." The problem with that mask is that if you wear it enough, you forget that it's not really you. It becomes fused onto your being, twisting your appearance into some exaggerated form of what you were trying to be, just like Jim Carrey's character in the 1990s film, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Mask</span>. No one can get inside the real you, not even your loved ones. And worst yet, you can't get out. Your joy, your pain, your love - it's all tucked deep behind the mask, inaccessible even to you.<br /><br />This is not to say that being strong is bad. It has its place. Dominance, pride, and self-control each have their place. But so, too, do vulnerability, intimacy, openness, receptivity, silliness, and tears. Being whole means having all these things in balance. StrongBlackMen and StrongBlackWomen are way off-balance. We are far from whole. And two half-lives do not make a life.<br /><br />Five years into this project and I still have no clue what the resolution is. But I have come to the place where I understand that the healing of the StrongBlackWoman is dependent upon that of the StrongBlackMan. Perhaps the best way to start is for all of us StrongBlackWomen and StrongBlackMen to show one another our pain, without judgmenet, without criticism, and without trying to prove whose pain is worse. And then maybe...just maybe...we can really get this revolution going.Chanequa Walker-Barneshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11606584679708407755noreply@blogger.com2