“Feminism is for everybody!” that’s what bell hooks insisted in her book by the same title. Men and women, young and old, regardless of race. Everybody. But I am not a feminist. It is not that I eschew the feminist ideal as much as the label itself. Still, I was a little more than irked when I read that single moms of color need to be more “feminine” in order to date and, presumably, “complete their families.” If such an ideal had been written anywhere else, loud Palin-esque cries of racism and sexism would’ve radiated throughout the internet. These words, though, were written by a mothering, single Black woman on a blog for moms, single and married, of color. And that alone is painful.
The mother who typed those words is a mother of a son. She insisted that, prior to having a son, she thought the ability to run a household, to make her own decisions and be in charge was admirable. In fact, she chided the men who wanted women to be “more feminine in conduct and action.” Having a son changed all that for her. Not because she realized, in raising a son, that being able to decide is a quality of life that is not gender-bound. Neither did she conclude, in rearing a boy, that relationships should be mutual, with neither partner “in charge.” Instead, this sista, in charge of her own household, being the mama and the daddy, looked at her son and worried that he may just choose someone like her. She concluded she needed to be more feminine. (Don't believe me? Here's the link: http://www.momsofhue.com/2009/09/single-moms-embrace-your-femininity/)
I have a friend who has been a single mother for less than a year, though her son is almost school age. She has devoted at least half of that year to finding a partner, a replacement for her ex-husband. Recently, I spotted her in the grocery store with a teenager who had given birth to her own son less than a month ago. My friend was trying to convince the teenager to let her introduce her to a man. “He’s not that much older than you!” The teenager gave birth halfway through her senior year in high school, and dropped out. She’ll never attend prom. She’ll never have a chance to enjoy senior skip-day or walk across the stage for graduation. Fully in the midst of post-partum baby daddy mess, the last thing this child needed was to be introduced to a man. But there she was, standing in the check-out line, being prodded by an older, shoulda-been-wiser, mom to find herself a man.
Both of these situations perplex me equally. I thought, at first, that I couldn’t understand because I did not conceive my son lying beneath a quivering, sweaty body. Or, perhaps, I was confused because I wasn’t simultaneously trying to teach a child and heal a broken heart. Being a single mom by choice affords me a few privileges. But I’m still a single mom. And I’m still raising a son. And I’m still a Black woman. Superficially, then, I am in the same predicament as all three of the women with whom I could not disagree more. What gives?
Maybe I’m a feminist after all. See, I thought long and hard about it. I concluded that being able to handle my own business, take care of my own family and concede the decisions to no one is not a masculine trait. It is a myth, to be sure, that a strong, independent Black woman is masculine in character. Back in the day, Eldridge Cleaver wrote about the Self-Reliant Amazon. She was so strong, mentally, that she had no use for the Super-Masculine Menial, the strong body. Cleaver, and the Black Panther Party that picked up on this ideal, identified Black women with the Self-Reliant Amazon and Black men with the Super-Masculine Menial. The self-reliance, the mental fortitude of the Amazon, they rationalized, was at the heart of the oppression and was counter to the revolution. Having a body, to be more explicit, was to be feminine; having a mind masculine. (I, quite obviously, venerate the Self-Reliant Amazon. Not just because of her iconic status as mental strength, but because of her resilience, her determination, her history as vanguard for freedom, justice, peace and her role as giver and protector of life. It goes without saying that I think Cleaver, (my beloved!) Huey Newton and the Black Panthers were misogynists. But I came into womanhood reading and loving them – with the exception of Cleaver – precisely because of their ideas about personhood and revolution. The day I realized that I was not included in their rhetoric for freedom was a sad day, indeed!)
This dualism is typical of Western society but, in the Black community, it turned into a call for women to abandon their strength for the sake of liberty. Boo.
Not only do I reject that dualism, I reject the notion that women who think too much are assisting in the oppression of their communities. Moreover, I fully refuse to accept the false dichotomy between thinking, deciding, choosing and being a woman. Not to mention what this says about being a man. To paraphrase President Obama, I reject that choice as false! No, I will not give up my agency – my personhood – for the sake of a partner in the sack. Not a chance. And neither will I teach my son that being a man means he expects that of a woman. Not a chance.
But what, then, do I teach my son of manhood, of maleness? And how do I, as single mom of color, deal with men and dating?
It is my considerable estimation that I will not raise my son to “be a man”. I’m teaching my son to be comfortable in his own skin. I’m teaching my son to think for himself. I’m teaching my son to stand on his own two feet. I’m teaching my son to speak the truth, to work for justice, to serve the people. I’m teaching my son to do right by people – even if they’re different from him, even if he disagrees with them. I’m teaching my son to walk gently upon the earth, to be careful of his footprint. I’m teaching him to treat those in his life with care – both physically and emotionally. I’m teaching my son to be compassionate and full of empathy. I’m teaching him to value himself. I have to teach my son to use the bathroom, one day standing up, and how to not get a girl pregnant. Those are the only sex specific lessons I’ll teach him. Not a single one of these ideals are reserved for men. Moreover, if my son chooses, as his life progresses, that he is in fact, genetically male but an engendered woman, none of these lessons will be lost to him. I’m raising a person not a stereotype.
Nothing about the way I’m raising my son, the values I pray he’s getting from me, or our family structure causes me to worry about the type of woman he’d choose (assuming his sexual orientation is such). Entreating single moms to rid themselves of their “masculinity”, their self-reliance, for the sake of their sons’ future relationships, I think, is proof positive for self-hate. Why wouldn’t you want your son to end up with someone just like you: strong, independent with a mind of their own? The alternative is far more frightening. But, then, maybe I am a feminist. Is feminism for single moms?

Loving it!

Furloughed, a four day weekend. Thrilled to be in it but dreading what the check at the end of the month will look like.
I'm supposed to be finishing up a paper on Black Intellectuals. That's why Salahaldin is at his grandmother's house, playing with her dog and with his aunt. But I'm taking these few moments of freedom to clean house, to bake and to ponder.

I lost a friend. Well, she was more like an acquaintance. A close acquaintance. She defriended me. I called myself hurt, then angry, then annoyed. Then I got over it. She took issue with the decisions I made for my family. Every decision. Every time. In reality, though, her biggest issue was that I had a family. By myself. She's a single mom, too. But it's nothing she would've chosen. She had a hard transition. And mine was just too simple. I was thinking about her: her words, her spitefulness, her problems.
My dog ran away. On a work day. As I was running late. She got out. She was picked up by the cops. They took her to doggy jail. They called me. They want more money than I have - or for me to go to court - to get her out. To me, that choice looks like: Feed my son or get my dog from the pound. Miss a day of work to get my dog from the pound or be able to pay my rent. So, for me, the choice is simple. But I miss her. And I was thinking about her: her spirit, her problems.

I decided that this past year was the roughest year of my life. And I would do it all again. I would change some things, if I could. Like my dad dying before my son was born. The timing of when I moved home. But, for the most part, every minute of it has been worth it. I love my life. Bills are overdue. Notices placed on doors. But I love it. I have an amazingly brilliant, sweetheart of a son. I wouldn't change a thing about his life. I have never in my life had so much fun. Sure, there's plenty of stress - more than enough to share. Sure, there's plenty of disappointments. But my son has made living a thrill.

Question is... do I want to share that thrill?????

Back and Forth

Can't. Keep. The. House. Clean.

I woke up this morning and decided that whatever plans I had needed to be forsaken for the sake of cleaning the house. First step? Putting away all the dang matchbox cars. The damn cars are everywhere, rolling away when you least expect it - at 5am, in the semi-dark - and some of them are creepy enough to even make noise. So, I collected the ones I could see (and, yes, there's at least 5 more unseen for every one you see)and unceremoniously threw them in the "car box".
"Dooba? Dooba?"I hear, coming from behind me.
"Hey!" with excitement as he realizes that all of his little cars are in one place. Before I could return with the hard-paged books that have swarmed my house, the car box is emptied.

HIGHCHAIR TIME! Of course, that's my solution to the go-behind-Mommy-and-make-a-mess events. Of course, I am deluded enough to think it'll work. Of course it doesn't.
Little boys in highchairs eating baked goldfish should not be a problem... in theory. But, of course, this child discovers that EVERYTHING can be thrown off the tray and does so. I can't be mad at him for cleaning his tray. And I wasn't. Until I saw the school of tiny, baked goldfish on my newly vaccuumed floor!

When the heck is nap time?!?!

Big Girls Don't Cry. We weep.

36 weeks, 2 days.

That's how long they claim I've been pregnant.

38 weeks, 5 days.

That's how long I've been praying for and crying over my baby.

66 weeks.

That's how long I've been planning for this child.

312 weeks... 6 long years.

That's how long I've been begging God for motherhood.

They say you measure a year in love. But how do you measure love?

Today, we had our final ultrasound. My darling still-growing infant and I woke up sooner than either of us wanted, and almost made it on time to the appointment. We got there just as he decided it was time to brace against my ribs and push downward. That hurts. He's long, but we knew that. He's not as heavy as we expected. That's news. His kidneys. Well. Big girls do weep. My little boy's kidneys are still overly full, overly dialated, not working properly at all. And he, my love, is crammed into my abdomen on his way out. Nothing's ideal.

What I didn't expect, in becoming a single mom, is how people would respond to me ... scratch that, how male mechanics would respond to me. My truck needs a battery. One attempted to talk me into an alternator... $200 more than a battery. The next into an alternator AND a battery... add $300 to that last one. I get it. I'm a chick. I'm not supposed to know anything about cars. And I don't. But I do know that I need a battery. That's all I'm willing to pay for. So I drove around town for 3 hours trying to find someone who would be willing to do that which I requested: GIVE ME A BATTERY! Still didn't find it. Still need a battery.

There are still so many things I need to do to prepare for the birth of my child. Papers to write. Art to paint. Clothes to wash. Classes to attend. Furniture to move. Anxiety to release.

I want my son.

I want my dad.

The latter is gone; I can only long for his presence and mourn in his absence.

The former... Patience, apparently, is a requirement.

So... here I am. I'm constantly reminding me that I'm about to be someone's mother. I'm constantly reminding me that I'm a big girl. And moms and big girls have one thing in common: We don't cry. So what happens when we're overwhelmed? What happens when we have those types of days that Mama said would exist? What do we do then? What do we do when our backbones just aren't strong enough to carry the weight? What do we do when our minds just are fast enough to come up with the answers? What do we do when our resource for our faith, the source of our hope, is ignoring us? If we don't weep, what on earth do we do? What are our options?

I guess we weep.

Manna means "What Is It?"

Anxiety comes natural to me. I am, after all, my mother's child... just as she was her mother's child. I have never in my life been so anxious as I am now. The "what if"s the "how will I"s, the "what am I going to do"s ...the questions pague me. And I... I must admit I am completely at a loss. The next step seems to have me befuddled much of the time. Counting, planning, organizing... knowing the next step: not so much my forte. But I'm growing and learning. Theoretically. Somehow, my child will have everything he needs. Seems his name is appropo.

He's dropped. That's good news...and scary news. He's preparing to be born and, as much as I'm ready to not be pregnant, I'm not ready for his arrival. Not in the least bit. Even as I'm sitting here, there is work I should be doing, words I should be writing (other than these) and, clearly, it's not exactly happening. Pulling it together, yeah, that's the goal. Knowing HOW to do that... yeah, that's the problem. It seems that growing up and becoming an adult -- in faith and in general -- aren't as easy as it seems. Getting my act together...geesh!

But time is winding up. And I really need to get ready! I'm just rather at a loss for what exactly that means.

TO THE WRITING ITSELF!