My heart grieves not only for the seven year old black girl who was gang raped, but also for her 15 year old sister who sold her body and her sister’s body for money. Yes, my heart grieves even though many people are angry with the older sister for not protecting her little sister calling for “the book to be thrown at her.” To say the least, the big sister is going to jail for a very long time. But yet, my heart weeps for her as it wept for Precious’ mother, Mary. It weeps because it says something about the level of sexual abuse she herself must have experienced to make the idea of being complicit in her sister’s rape plausible. My heart moans because she like other girls knows that they can make a living by selling their bodies. It wails and weeps because no one stepped in to stop her first sexual abuse. My heart grieves.
The question is: Can we really be angry with the 15 year old sister for what she did? And I am having a hard time answering this question because a part of me wants to be angry at her for not protecting her little sister. However, I have to assess how much of my sadness and anger is in response to the crime of rape and how much of it is in response to her not being a good big sister. You know the type of big sister my older sister was forced to be completely responsible for raising me when she was only a girl herself because . . . momma had to work late . . . momma did not like being tied down . . . daycare is expensive . . . momma had a second job . . . momma was gone . . . momma had to party . . . daddy was gone . . . so she became responsible for raising and protecting “us” her younger siblings.
A few years ago, I took on the unbelievably complex and daunting task of constructing the maternal branches of my family tree. My first step was to sit down with my grandmother and listen as she recounted the names of her grandparents and their parents. Granny relayed some wonderful, albeit slightly inaccurate information.
My Great-Great Grandparents
Beyond my great-great grandparents, I had no names. Most importantly at a certain point in history, Black people in this country didn’t technically have distinguishable last names, or really any last names. I was frustrated and the last thing I wanted to do was turn to government records but that’s just what I did.
I read the New York Times article titled “Food Stamps Usage Soars, Stigma Fades.” The article is about the lessening of stigma regarding the use of food stamps. What comes to mind when you think of the U.S. welfare system, specifically food stamps or the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP)?
For me, I remember seeing black single mothers with multiple children (read: more than 3) in the grocery store handing multi-colored slips of paper across the counter to the cashier. Others, like President Ronald Reagan, associate with this program certain women, like Linda Taylor, Barbara Williams, Arlens Otis, and Dorothy Woods. As defrauders of government sponsored welfare programs, these women’s public “transgressions” aided Ronald Reagan to stir the public imagination and create the “welfare queen. ” In his most famous of quotes regarding the welfare queen, He said:
“She has 80 names, 30 addresses, 12 Social Security cards and is collecting veteran’s benefits on four non-existing deceased husband. She’s got Medicaid, getting food-stamps, and she is collecting welfare under each of her names.”
Like most people who do not live in the same city with their biological family I look forward to the Christmas’ holiday with sheer delight and seethed dread. Yes, I use the five letter word dread because it seems as if all the unfinished family’s drama from the previous year is dysfunctionally packed away in the basement only to be reopened the morning of the following Christmas’ day. SURPRISE . . . mom is getting another divorce . . . SURPRISE . . . aunt is asking are you gay because you won’t to fix your uncle’s plate because he got two hands . . . SURPRISE . . . your fifteen year old male cousin is having a baby . . . SURPRISE . . . your older brother is taking grandmother to court because he wants to control her will . . . SURPRISE. All of these surprises make you want to grumble in your best Scrooge’s impersonation—bah hum bug. In a nutshell, my family makes Tyler Perry’s familial antics look pretty pedestrian and normal which is why I’ve developed some bullet points on how to survive the holidays with the family using Tiger Wood’s related news stories as well as other news worthy stories. To begin:
Don’t model Tiger Woods’ infidelity. Holiday Translation: Don’t buy the same cheap gift from Target and give it to each family member expecting them not to find out you gave everyone the same gift.
Don’t make stupid statements like Al Sharpton. Holiday Translation: Don’t tell the stupid person above that he should have only given the cheap Target gifts to black women in the family unless you want Christmas dinner in the dog house.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, I swear I saw commercials for the movie The Blind Side more times than I caught the ads of those cats singing the free credit report jingle. (F-R-E-E that spells free/credit report dot com, baby…) Environmentalists could learn a lot from Hollywood; that place recycles scenarios more often than a tree hugger sneers at Hummer drivers.
The trailers for the movie indicate that The Blind Side is yet another addition to that long list of white savior movies. I haven’t seen it and don’t plan to (In grad school, we call this not being bound by the text.), but it seems that Sandra “I’m doing this movie to make up for playing a racist in Crash” Bullock saves a big black kid from the perils of blackness. (Crabs in a barrel. You know the deal.) I guess the Based on a true story tagline wants to goad me into not being critical of the movie, the genre. Whatever. The movie has provided an occasion to address the white savior film. Since I’ve seen every episode of Webster and Diff’rent Strokes and Dangerous Minds (twice), I’m going to provide a primer for Negro saving for any and all white folks with plenty of money and love in their hearts to adopt a hapless black kid. And for you black youth out there, pay attention. You might find something useful here to make yourself more marketable. Read more »
The homosexuality controversy in black faith communities has reached a feverish pitch, especially with Tonéx’s and Donnie McClurkin’s recent admissions. Probably most renowned for the rumors regarding their sexuality, these two black gospel singers have become the centerpiece to the debate of the role homosexuals should play in black faith communities. Unfortunately both men’s livelihood as pastors of their respective church has led them to depend financially on a community that by and large forces/prefers silence on same-sex desires and human rights. Yet, both these men have carved a space in gospel music to openly acknowledge their desires. Tonéx by stating that his preference is for the same sex; Donnie by (abstaining and) persecuting other homosexuals as not being willing to be delivered from “the perversion of homosexuality.”
I have not known rivers. I have never experienced rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins. I am not as lucky as Langston, even in the context of metaphors and similes. But my soul has grown deep with sadness.
I am the artistic director for a community service group at University of Chicago called P.A.E.C.E. (Performing Art for Effective Civic Education). This past weekend we had our first performance at a community center on the south side of Chicago (Gary Comer Youth Center). The student’s performance—titled Don’t Shoot , I wanna grow up—went well, it was a selection of original poems, skits, and stories that presented the desensitization of violence amongst youth in the black community.
After the performance was over half the students went home with their parents, and all but one took public transportation home. Which left Marcus (I have changed his name for his privacy). Shortly after everyone left, Marcus explained that he couldn’t go home tonight. When asked why, he gave an anecdote about him and his mother getting into a fight earlier that day. “It wasn’t the first time” he explained while lifting up his shirt and revealing to us the teeth marks that that dug into his skin, leaving a stapled ring of scabs around his shoulder. Marcus made my soul grow deep like a river—with sadness. At the end of the night some of the other PAECE mentors and I took Marcus to McDonalds and dropped him off to spend the night with his uncle.
Oprah Winfrey and Tyler Perry said Precious was awesome and that everyone should go see it. Since I am the most obedient of Negroes, I saw it last Friday. If Flavor Flav is the world’s greatest hype man, this duo is officially the world’s greatest hype machine. I found Precious slightly underwhelming, uninspiring, and lacking much of what makes the novel, Push by Sapphire, so powerful. Sorry, Ms. Winfrey. I had no “A-ha!” moment. Read more »
When I was a child, I lived with my grandmother for 6 years of my life. I had to deal with the old traditionalist methods of coming inside when the streets lights came on or only listening to gospel music on Sundays. Yesterday my grandmother turned 78, and she is still as lively as ever, living in Tupelo, Mississippi.
What would you do if you had living, breathing history right in front of you? If someone could tell you first hand what the great depression was like from an eight-year-olds perspective. Or if you could hear about old people fighting for equality when they were teenagers, when risk was higher and safety was not just a “ride home” away. What if someone could give you anecdotes about a time before I-pods and XM radio, an instant before HD flat screen television and movies being watched on blue-ray disc? What if you could hear about race riots, corruption, and struggle?
What If you could listen to history from the voices of the oppressed, instead of the perpetrators who are usually in power? What if? Would you listen? Would you pause your busy life and take the time to hear these stories. Is it more important than your Friday night movie, your Saturday night club, your weekly outing?
If you could, would you?
Well, you can. You can experience a primary source of history through our grandparents and great grandparents, through volunteering at nursing homes, and talking to the church elders. There are so many people around us everyday of our lives that are eager to talk about the past and their perspective on how society has arrived to where we are today.
Just as youth struggle to be heard, I believe that our senior citizens have an equal struggle also. If they are not being condescended, than they are only being listened to out of respect for their age. I think we miss great opportunities to better ourselves by not using these stories to learn from the past.
A week before I returned to University of Chicago for my second year of college, I encountered what I like to call “an incident.” My brother, on this particular day followed his normal pattern of entering the basement room of my mother’s house in a drunken state. His drinking problem is one thing, but his homophobia mixed with intoxication is not a good combination. My brother chose to make comments about my friend and I, as we passed him on the way to my room.
“Why are these fucking fags in my house!?! Maybe if I bash their heads in they will stop coming! I hate these gay ass niggas, its nasty, and they’re nasty!!” (My brothers actual words)
He went on for 30 minutes in a nearby room, yelling every homophobic obscenity his slurred vocabulary could muster. Read more »
people are angry with the older sister for not protecting her little sister calling for “the book to be thrown at her.” To say the least, the big sister is going to jail for a very long time. But yet, my heart weeps for her as it wept for Precious’ mother, Mary. It weeps because it says something about the level of sexual abuse she herself must have experienced to make the idea of being complicit in her sister’s rape plausible. My heart moans because she like other girls knows that they can make a living by selling their bodies. It wails and weeps because no one stepped in to stop her first sexual abuse. My heart grieves.
I read the New York Times article titled “
“She has 80 names, 30 addresses, 12 Social Security cards and is collecting veteran’s benefits on four non-existing deceased husband. She’s got Medicaid, getting food-stamps, and she is collecting welfare under each of her names.”
Like most people who do not live in the same city with their biological family I look forward to the Christmas’ holiday with sheer delight and seethed dread. Yes, I use the five letter word dread because it seems as if all the unfinished family’s drama from the previous year is dysfunctionally packed away in the basement only to be reopened the morning of the following Christmas’ day. SURPRISE . . . mom is getting another divorce . . . SURPRISE . . . aunt is asking are you gay because you won’t to fix your uncle’s plate because he got two hands . . . SURPRISE . . . your fifteen year old male cousin is having a baby . . . SURPRISE . . . your older brother is taking grandmother to court because he wants to control her will . . . SURPRISE. All of these surprises make you want to grumble in your best Scrooge’s impersonation—bah hum bug. In a nutshell, my family makes Tyler Perry’s familial antics look pretty pedestrian and normal which is why I’ve developed some bullet points on how to survive the holidays with the family using Tiger Wood’s related news stories as well as other news worthy stories. To begin:
