“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?

Valentine's Day

There were no flowers for me.
No benevolent family members to teach my son thoughtfulness.
No card.
No chocolate.
Just my son
hugging, cuddling,
laying his head on mine,
tolerating a cousin,
sharing his toys
and his food.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Hurried footsteps up the stairs
a 3 year old in a panic.
"Can someone take me poopy?"
I asked my Daddy but he was too busy.
"My booty hurts."
Half way through a diaper change
a naked butt staring up at me from the bed.
Can you find your gramma?
"Sit on the potty,
I'll go get your Daddy."
Daddy, I don't like my aunty anymore.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

"I want Salahaldin's toy."
Gramma, give me Salahaldin's toy
Salahaldin's food
Salahaldin.
It's MINE.
Okay, baby, we'll go get you your own.
No. I don't want my own.
I want HIS
His is better
His is nicer
His is his
I want his.
Bruises shaped like 3 year old fingers
taunt me from my baby's arms.
Why do you let him play with me?
"ENOUGH!
I told you no more pushing, no more snatching,
no more. Time out."
Screams.
Fake tears.
Hugs and kisses.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Sick stomach.
Hurting head.
Pounding sinuses.
Running noses.
Coughing toddler.
"Raisins, Mama!"
No. More. Raisins.
"Wah der?
Kah kee?
Milk?
A cup?"
Sleep before the diaper's closed.
No hug. No kiss.
That was my Valentine's Day.

Little girls in grown up bodies

I moved in with my mom. That meant moving in with my sister, too. I don't like my sister. She's selfish, spoiled and very immature. Just talking to her is a challenge. Even the most benign conversations turn into arguments. Why? Hellifiknow. She's very, very bossy and ignorant at the same time. I hate having her around my son. It's just hard.

When we were smaller, we were friends. Then we were on and off again as teenagers, depending on the hormone level. Then, for a minute there, we were friends again. But the person she has decided to be is just intolerable. I keep making excuses for her. She's not used to change. She's still getting used to us living here and is behaving in response to that. But she's almost 30 years old. It makes no sense that she's still behaving like an upset teenager. I honestly wonder if she has Aspberger's Syndrome - she's that resistant to change and becomes that angry when you tell her no. We have the same argument every other week. The food I cook on Sunday night is for my child. No, you can't have any. Yes, it is fair. You are a grown woman, you can make your own food. He's a toddler, he can't. No, it's not selfish for me to prepare food only for my son. He's a toddler. He needs to eat. I don't have time to cook during the week so I cook it all on Sunday night. No, you can't have any. I can't understand why she can't understand that. She can't understand why she can't get what she wants.

My son eats a banana every third day. In any given week, we may eat 3 bananas between the two of us. Little sis eats 3 in a sitting. She's incensed that she has to buy bunches of bananas every week. "It's time for someone else to buy bananas." Responds Mom, "I just bought $8 worth of bananas." They were $.49 a pound. That's a lot of bananas. She ate 6 a day. "Not you, the other someone else." Why? Because you feel the need to have someone take care of your needs? If your pocketbook can't support the outrageous amount of food you eat, that's not my problem.

She has a sense of entitlement that I cannot begin to understand. It would make perfect sense for a 15 year old. But once you're over 25, it's nonsense. On the outside, she's grown. But...internally...not so much.

Oh Boy!

A few days ago, on a SMC weblist, a mom-to-be posted her disappointment upon learning that her growing child may be male. She claimed to be depressed, she really didn't want a boy. She had paid extra to gender select for a girl. (GENDER select? I don't know why it's called that and not SEX select. Seriously, there is no telling what gender your child will be - even if you're clear about their sex. But that's a tangent.) The moms and wanna be moms flamed her. Some concluded that she would abuse her baby. In their defense, she did say that she would look at her son with disappointment that he wasn't a girl. They insisted that she should give her son up for adoption, that she was insensitive to the women who were still trying to get pregnant. One mom chided her that motherhood is about flexibility, her attempts to control her family were contradictory to reality.

*SIGH*

While all of this was going on, my son became ill. Very ill. In retrospect, his temperature was never dangerously high. It just wouldn't break. And he couldn't keep anything down. So, for the second time in his life, he was given an IV. I missed days upon days of work. I removed vomitty sheets and replaced them with clean ones. Then I removed those. And again. I thought we were out of the woods. We weren't. Diapers blew out through the onsie, down the leg of his pajamas into his socks. Flexibility? Being a mother is about adapting. Adapting to new symptoms, adapting to new events, adapting to news. Adaptation, though, is not an easy process. It can't always be met with joy and glee. That's not reasonable. But newness, the introduction of the unknown unknown, is met. That's motherhood. Being able to say, "Oh what the hell now!", accept it and keep it moving.

The hormonal poster insisted that her vision of her child included purple bows and white dresses. How could she accept anything less? *sigh* We get no say.

While I sat up, taking temperatures, force feeding pedialyte, I watched reruns of RuPaul's Dragrace. These beautiful drag queens, born to their mothers as boys, wrapped themselves in dresses, slathered on more makeup than a little bit and looked better than I ever could. As mothers, our job is to help our children be the best they can be - who and whatever they are. We don't get to decide, we don't get to mold, we don't get to determine. That's what pregnancy is supposed to teach us. And if it doesn't, well, those first 3 weeks will.

Earning my Stripes

I can’t write. I would love to write. All I want is to write. I can’t write. I’m afraid. There are so many things I’m trying to keep from saying. Like, this isn’t the way I imagined my life. None of this was part of the plan. Sitting at a desk in a state office, 5 stories up, 5 miles away from the closest institution of higher learning, 50 miles away from completing my degree, spending 5 days a week doing work that is meaningless, buried under 500 times the amount of paper that I generate alone, getting paid 5 times less than what I should. Hair short, waist thick. Nope. None of this was part of my plan.
What happened to my figure? What happened to the jet-setting, play date planning, patience having, degree holding woman I was supposed to be?
No. I can’t write that. I can’t write the pain that I keep in my heart and head. I can’t write that I’m frustrated with where I am and what I’m doing; that I’d like to take the time to write, to work on what I love, to finish what I started but I spend so much time doing inconsequential stuff for people who don’t matter that, by the end of the day, I’m too tired to think. I can’t write how much pain it causes me to not be able to focus enough to read. I can’t write that. I can’t write that my frustrations increase when my son won’t go to sleep on schedule. Go to sleep EARLY, so I can do something for me. Attention grabbing. Needy. Toddler. I can’t write that. I can’t write that I want to cry because I’m so far away from revealing the truth about Black theology’s lack of revelation that I can’t remember what it was. I can’t write that my baby isn’t the center of my universe, that my books were and that, without them, I don’t know who I am.
I can’t write that.
I can’t write that I created the icon of Self-Reliant Amazon to make sense of my Being only to be left without being, without the Courage to Be because I’m so focused on giving Being.
No.
Not when I said the point of Being is to share the Self with the Other, to empty yourself of the Self so that the Other can be a self. I can’t complain that I’ve lost myself.
Apparently, Kenosis isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Apparently, Kenosis is better left to those who can maintain their selves even in the midst of losing their Self. Apparently, Kenosis is saved for the Divine.
Yet, here I sit: too big for my britches, too many feet off the ground, too far away from every where I want to be; looking at files that aren’t mine, full of data that I don’t understand. I can pretend to be happy.
But I can’t write. Writing requires a connection with your own reality. It mandates the truth. And, to tell the truth, I’m miserable.
But I can’t write that.

I just want my Self back: That Self-Reliant self who stood apart and stood out, whose words carried meaning because she understood the value of words because, to her, words were everything. Yeah, I want that ME back. That Amazon who loved her fullness and her roundness and didn’t care who saw her or how they perceived her because all that she could be was precisely who she was. That Self-Reliant Amazon had so much to say, so much to pass on, so much to share. So full – of ideas, of hope, of dreams, of plans – that the fullness of her waist was irrelevant and the heaviness of her load immaterial. Yeah. That chick. I miss her. I miss me.

Truth, she said, is what writing requires. Words that carry honesty carry meaning. She didn’t say, though, that words full of falseness are toxic. She didn’t say that there’s no point to writing if you won’t write the truth – that it’s self-defeating, self-impeding to self-mislead. She didn’t mention that to the tens of listeners that hung off her every word wondering what they must do to write words for a living. She certainly didn’t respond that writing is a burden when they asked her if it is a gift or a skill. She failed to mention that writing means revealing, that it’s all consuming, self-divulging and selfishly so. No. She said that writing requires commitment. She forgot to say that words are jealous, commanding full attention, holding the pen hostage until they’ve had their say. Just write. And write with intention and strategy! That was her advice. And it was good advice, too, to those whose hearts aren’t bound by words, whose mind can force the words to take whatever form they desire. But for those of us who are captivated by capitals and punctuation, letter forms and sentence structure, whose pages seem to fill themselves because the words effortlessly ease from our fingers – out of our control, without our permission – intention and strategy are impossibilities. Write. Right.

Le mot. Dabar. Wort. The thing itself. The word. Il n’y a pas de chose autre. There is only the word. The word and nothing else. “In the beginning was the word,” he wrote, “the word and nothing else.” All being comes from the word. There is no meaning without it. The word is powerful; more mighty, it seems, than the sword. That’s the word. It’s all consuming, all powerful. It is. It is all that is. This word. The word. The thing itself.

Two days ago, two blocks away, two people lost their lives to two bullets and my pastor has yet to say two words about it. The earth shook and rumbled. The buildings fell. The mountains were tossed into the sea. All around, the earth gave way. The people cried out for help, they screamed for mercy. 40+ thousand lost their lives. My pastor spent his 400+ words describing his mood changes. He won’t ask for money for aid. But he will ask for help to get his name on the front page. Burn the mortgage, cut through the crisis so that the world will know his name. His fame is certainly his claim of service but for the publicity not for the needy. Surely, his glory will be cut as short as his stature. And the imagination of the nation held by someone more deserving whose need to be seen is less pressing than his ability to see those in need.

The lady in the cube next to me, in this suite of state employees, is racist. I wish I could say it better. I hate having to play the race card. But it is what it is. I hear her talking about her boss, a man of color. Wish he’d stay away. Wish he’d be more like me. Wish he’d lose that accent. And to her children: you’re pure. No mixing in our family. Your grandmother’s grandmother came over the same way you are today. You’re pure. So I really don’t mind that she doesn’t speak to me, it causes me no angst. I’ve heard how she thinks of me: young, Black, single mother, me. And I’m sure that it vexes her that I know what she does not. And I laugh as she and her sidekick try to figure out how to be where I already am. I could help. And I have offered. But I am, afterall, a woman of color. Impure.

Stripes. Tiger stripes. Zebra stripes. I can’t make up my mind which they resemble more. I do know, though, that my belly is covered in stripes. Stretch marks, technically. But they look like stripes to me. They’re evidence that my body stretched beyond its limits, into a strange shape and foreign form. They’re evidence that I carried a child – a big child, a strong child. That same child sees my belly and roars. Stripes. Tiger stripes, he thinks. My self has been bent out of form, stretched so far beyond its abilities, shifted, transformed, lost. Perhaps my soul bears the marks of this stretching. Perhaps, when my Self returns, my mind will be striped. Not plain, not solid. Stripes. But for now, I look for long shirts, high waisted pants. My stripes must stay hidden. Dark stripes on a round belly are hardly a sign of beauty. They are indicative of a choice, a child, a long hard 38 weeks and thin skin. When I see my stripes, I wish I could roar. I wish I saw them as a symbol of strength, a tigress, and hold myself in the same esteem. But I see only what used to be: skin that used to be tight, a belly that used to be flat, a navel that used to be pierced. Nostalgia. Is it possible to regain what you had and keep what you have? 9.5lbs of person lived and grew beneath these stripes, within these rolls. Can I keep him and be rid of the stripes? Or is there strength in admitting that, by these stripes, he is here? I’m unclear. Part of me sees the need to adjust to my reality as it is given. The rest of me longs for a me that ceased to be long ago. Stripes are evidence that change is constant. Too tight pants are evidence of resistance to change.
In a perfect world, with perfectly happy endings, I would raise up my hip-length sweater – too short to effectively cover my stripped gut – and marvel in awe and appreciation. Instead, I pull the tail of my sweater, hoping that it will stretch out of shape, become just a little longer, stretch over my greatly exaggerated hips and hide my stripes.
I tell my son, “You’re wonderful just the way you are.” But I can’t accept that for my self. If children learn what they live and I can’t live with my stripes, my child won’t learn to love himself – striped or plain. Perhaps, I’ll just buy longer shirts.

Dialogue

"I know you need a break
and your son needs a man
to show him how to be a man
so he doesn't begin to pretend
and imitate you, his mother.
It's my job. I'm your brother.
No. I haven't yet asked my wife
so give me a little time once you decide
to send him 200 miles
away
for a couple of days."

"Not a chance. No way in the world. So afraid are you of my son turning into a little girl - which is quite impossible - that you'd harm his psyche just to spite me. Or teach him to fight instead of play, to value his body more than his mind to devalue everything feminine. That's not the child I thought I'd raise. That wasn't my plan, that's not how I've ever defined a "man". So, I have to pass. I'll come up with a lame excuse, hoping you don't ever ask again. But no. YOU cannot have my son. Not for a few days, not even for one. No.
"Yes, I know I stay tired and my hands are always full. And I do realize that I don't get to do for myself what I would. But I do not need to take a break from the child that I chose to birth. My job is to teach him, I can think of nothing worse than to allow ignorance to reach him."

Damn. I shoulda said that.

Again

Who cares about Fredrich Schleiermacher
when your rent is due
and it looks like you may have to find another place to live.
Again.
When you're working but
it's not enough to pay the bills
and your brakes are shot
and your kid is sick.
AGAIN.

You want me to write what?
About what?
Who cares?

Next week is my snack week.
When is payday?
When will the state benefits come through?
Rent is due.
Daycare bill too.
Count the pennies.
Count the days.
Can we make it?
Again?


Down to that last drop of oil.
Can I borrow a jar?
I need to see how far this stretches.
Seems like it won't go too far.
Did I choose this life?
Is this the life I sought?
Worry
chases
dread
chases
fear
chases
sigh.

I'd like 2
but if my ends are still strangers with 1
how
can
I
AGAIN?

Gotta write.
Gotta get it finished.
Can't live this way forever.
Need to be in my field of choice.

Karl...
I think his name was Barth.
Barf.
Is that a cough?
He's still not sleep.
Focus.
Barth said...
or was it Kierkegaard?
Soren.
The philosopher.
Not the pediatrician.
I should e-mail her about his rash.
Right.
Write.

DuBois
Due bills.
bell hooks
Facebook: Is this normal? Should he be...?
C. West
I need rest.
Anna Julia Cooper
That was the dryer.

Focus.
This wasn't in the "Idiots Guide to Single Motherhood"
I checked.
It doesn't say your life will be great
until
all your bills arrive marked final notice
and your paycheck arrives with less and you notice
the kid's cough is getting worse
the refrigerator is getting empty
the laundry is piling up
the floor is filthy.
(Whatever happened to the dog?
Right.
Didn't have enough cash to bail out her escaping ass.)
No one wrote
that you'll choose a daycare that will teach your child
but you will go broke.
(Excellence costs cash
but sub par is more costly.)
I think I would remember if I read,
"all of those thoughts and ideas in your head
take second place to troubleshooting diaper rash
and travel snacks."
Even the "I-And-Thou" takes on a different meaning
when I am struggling solely for thou.
It could be profound
if I had time to stop and think about it.

Great band.
One time event.
On a weeknight?
Not a chance.
Our lives are so different.

Maybe if I
didn't do this alone
or had a partner
or child support
or didn't care about his mind
or lived in a different home
or had a different life
maybe
maybe
maybe

I could care about theories of pain
and neo-orthodox claims
and Schleiermacher's name
and Black Intellectual fame
and theology and race's game...
again.