the myth of the strong black woman

I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been called a strong black woman. It’s a lot of times. Like, so many times that if people handed my five dollar bills every time they said it I wouldn’t have to buy my own coffee for year - and I always order a venti with soy milk. I know that people generally mean it as a compliment, so I grin and bear it and say thank you, and quickly try and change the conversation. The fact of the matter is, calling myself a strong black woman feels like fraud. The strong black woman is a myth. She’s a stereotype. She’s an immeasurable goal. She’s something that was created and is now used in the oppression of myself and my sisters, and as I write this I am becoming more convinced I am done accepting her as a compliment. 

The strong black woman ideal has been used for centuries to strip the black woman of her femininity, her humanity, and ultimately her empathy. The strong black woman has replaced the myth of the mammy. Mammy was a poisonous rhetorical/ideological/archetypical device previously used to control black women. Mammy was not used to build up the black community, but to bolster the white one. She was a maternal ideal who cared and gave her emotional labor to white women and their children. She was patient, devoted, and comfortable in her inferiority to whites. Furthermore, she was infinitely desexualized and hostile towards towards men, in order to keep her that way. This stereotype allowed the belief that black female bodies are less than human and ultimately unattractive. The mammy was the yin to the Jezebel stereotype’s yang. The Jezebel was the young, promiscuous, and conniving black woman. Because of societal changes mammy and Jezebel can no longer hold the same culture relevance and have been amalgamated and replaced by the strong black woman. The strong black woman is capable and independent. She doesn’t need your or anyone else’s help. She doesn’t need support. She supports (mammies) for anyone and everyone else. She can make the best of her unfair circumstances. She is the ultimate. This woman does all of this and extra, and ultimately ends up becoming the angry black woman, the shrew, the harpy, the woman who is the least desirable dating match because she’s too much. The strong black woman who Steve Harvey said is scaring men away because having your own means there’s no need for a man to come around. The strong black woman that Dylann Roof murdered six of, because black people were taking his country and raping his women, even though black women are more likely to be victims of sexual violence and domestic homicidal violence (because their bodies are sexualized if they’re seen as desirable at all) and least likely to report because they’re so strong. The strong black woman who was really just a 14 year old girl trying to enjoy a pool on a hot summer day and was manhandled by a white police officer and then further brutalized by the media for being defiant. 

I am not this woman. I am so not this woman. I am a hot mess at best. Yes, I am educated. Yes, I work hard. Yes, I’ve dealt with more than my fair share of bullshit over the 27 times I’ve circled the sun. And because of all of that I am fragile, I am sensitive, and I am not your stereotype. I have struggled with depression and anxiety since I hit puberty (The anxiety probably started before then. I have always been a ‘worst-case-scenario’ person, and I literally threw up the morning before a math test in the third grade. My mom took me to Six Flags Magic Mountain instead of school that day and spent the day explaining to me about how I needed to chill the eff out or I was in for a long haul). I was suicidal at 15. I was a regular in my counselor’s office or an empty kind teacher’s class room in high school. I was so depressed at 20 that I stopped eating. Because I stopped eating, I developed a protein deficiency. That made me even more depressed, and eventually, I wound up being pumped with fluids in the emergency room. I was sent home with prescription for I-don't-even-know-what to even out my system and that was that. I had special post graduation depression after receiving both of my degrees. I entered weekly therapy at 24 because I was having a complete quarter-life crisis breakdown. I have mistaken abuse for love, attention for friendship, and the only reason I wasn’t shamelessly bullied in school is because I know how to throw a nice right hook. 

The myth of the strong black woman and her intersection with the angry black woman has haunted me my whole life. I have always chased the idea that I had to do more, be more, and never complain about it. I have always been told I was too loud, too opinionated, and just plain too much. The acting coach who told me never to believe a man when he said I was “too ____”, because he was trying to control me, was the same acting coach who told me I’d have a hard time directing because no one would take me seriously as a black woman in charge. In my former career as a computer technician, any time I disagreed with a customer or tried to assert my rights as a human (customers are the worst!), my manager was asked to come over because of my 'bad attitude'. Meanwhile, my white male counterparts got away with saying the most ridiculous bullshit every day." (Sidebar; as Amandla Stenberg tweeted, the “angry black girl” narrative needs to be ended as well. “It's just another attempt to undermine certain perspectives. I have strong opinions. I am not angry.”) This is why when I ended up crying in the bathroom because a customer had been particularly nasty to me, my coworkers were shocked. I was such a strong black woman. I’ve been active in my local queer community for over ten years and I know first hand that the strong black woman has become the spirit animal of gay men. I just want to shake them and scream “She’s not real! It’s a fucking trap!” It’s seen as a powerful image to be emulated, however it’s a horrifically damaging narrative when it’s not a narrative you can choose. Black women don’t have our white male privilege to hide behind when people laugh at our use of African-American Vernacular English and call us uneducated. We can’t stop being black when someone points out our neck rolling and finger waving. 

This compliment is one that hinges on politically correct racism and sexism. It denies black women the ability to be multi-faceted and unique human beings. It is destructive and dangerous. Women are more prone to depression than men, and blacks seek treatment at half the rate that whites do. Are you following my math? Black women are suffering, silently, because they are being strong. Because this awful stereotype - which is guised as a compliment while functioning as oppression - is fooling people, including black women.  Following the suicide of Karyn Washington, the brilliant founder of ForBrownGirls and #DarkSkinRedLip Project, combined with the recent study done by JAMA Psychiatry about black women denying their depression, a five second dialogue started. Then it got pushed aside for something else more hashtagable. This dialogue can’t end. I can’t afford for this dialogue to end. I know that I am not the only one. I can hold my own, I can stand up for myself, I can walk through fire. But, that shouldn’t be the expectation for me. I should be able to break. I should be able to ask for help. I should be able to cry openly. I should be considered desirable and dateable, not in spite of my success, but because of it. I cried during Jurassic World, if I pay my bills on time it’s worth texting my friends to celebrate, and if I disappeared I would deserve just as much news coverage as my white sisters. I have the capability of being strong, but that doesn’t have to be default and I’m done diminishing myself because of it. There is a national conversation surrounding the importance of black lives, of course. As we fight for black lives—especially the lives of black women—we must remember to fight not merely for existence, but for quality.

I will no longer accept the strong black woman as a compliment. Compliment my fragility, my vulnerability, my humor, my fashion sense. Call me out if I could have done something better, I can live with that. I implore you though, whether you’re complimenting or criticizing, make sure that you’re talking to me. Not a stereotype and not an ideal. I also implore that you do the same for all of the other women in your life. 

Hey, for less personality based preaching and more science and fact, look at this awesome info graph!

https://thenib.com/the-myth-of-the-strong-black-woman-d8e6c4492053

Other resources I checked out before writing this are found below! 

http://everydayfeminism.com/2014/01/strong-black-women-2/

http://www.thenewblackmagazine.com/view.aspx?index=50

http://bitchmagazine.org/article/precious-mettle-myth-strong-black-woman

http://gorgeousingrey.com/founder-of-for-brown-girls-karyn-washington-commits-suicide/

http://www.ebony.com/wellness-empowerment/is-strong-black-womanhood-killing-our-sisters-405#ixzz3eaUzouli 

http://www.buzzfeed.com/anitabadejo/carefree-black-girl#.rbDDnM33r

xo 

Just Keep Swimming...

I turned 25 without knowing how to swim or ride a bike. I went so long without doing either that they had become boogeyman, obstacles that could not be overcome. It wasn't until I was on a date being teased for not knowing how to do either, that I decided to learn how to do both. I really don’t like being teased, especially by men. It hits a button in my psyche that makes me see red. I guess growing up with older brothers will do that to you. Making the decision that night may be bit of an exaggeration, but it sure did strengthen my resolve. I was 26 years old. I was going to learn how to ride a bike. I was going to learn how to swim. My life would be dramatically changed. 

I had already dropped a strong hint with my best friend that I wanted a beach cruiser for my birthday. He was well aware I didn’t know how to ride a bike. I told him if he spent the money on it, I wasn’t just going to let it collect dust in my house. I’d learn how to ride it. He relented as long as he wasn’t tasked with teaching me. A week after my 26th birthday, the bike arrived. My mom and I listened to Queen while we put it together. She was surprised I didn’t know how to ride; she thought I had gotten it down during childhood. My brothers were always bike riding and skateboarding. That phase had missed me completely. The bike was assembled, the sun was starting to set, kids in my neighborhood were out on their bikes. I had no clue what the fuck I was doing. My mom literally ran along the side with me. I fell anyway. The kids in the neighborhood told me I could do it if I didn’t give up. The old men on their porches raised their beers at me. Two hours later and I was slightly annoyed that I hadn’t mastered bike riding, but I wasn’t going to give up. My mom tried. My friends sent my encouraging texts. I went out alone. I watched tutorials on youtube and pinned on pinterest. I am a fast learner, I am wicked smart, not being able to do something I want to do drives me up a wall, because I usually pick on things quickly. I fell of the bike more times than I can remember. It took three weeks. My older brother asked if I wanted him to help me. In a fit of desperation I said yes. He came over on a hot July morning, we went outside to biking trail near my mom’s apartment. Twenty minutes later I was a bike rider. And of course I experienced the worst fall I have ever had on a bike, and got a rad two inch scar on my left elbow to show for it. Oh, and the guy from the date? We didn’t go bike riding together, as I had imagined. He told me he didn’t want to see me again via text message the day after I learned how to ride said bicycle. 

I had already learned how to ride a bike, and I had another eight weeks or so of summer. Why not learn how to swim? Because swimming fucking terrified me. I almost drowned as a child. I have a lot of memories of my early childhood, but that is one of the most vivid. I was three years old. I was at a party with my family in Pasadena and it was blazing hot that day. I had on a bright blue bathing suit with sparkly gems sewn onto it. My mom was going in the house for a few minutes and I was not to get in the pool without her. Following directions? I’ve never been so good at that. Of course I thought I could go in the pool without her and be okay. I sank like a fucking stone. My life literally flashed before my eyes and it only took two seconds because I was three. I remember thinking I was dying, but I barely had the words for what that meant. And then my oldest brother saw me and yanked me out of the pool. I coughed up a shit ton of water and then my mom proceeded to yell at me for almost dying. For years I was plagued by nightmares of drowning. Drowning is my go-to metaphor for emotional distress in my writing. The shitty part about not knowing how to swim, was that I love the water. The beach is my happy place. I loved putting my feet in the pool. Hell, I’d even hang out in the shallow end for hours. I longed to go surfing. I wanted to go spear fishing. I had never been to a water park. I had to learn how to swim.

I got lucky with swimming. One of my little sisters in Sigma Kappa is not only a lifeguard, but a swim instructor, and her apartment building has a pool. I showed up at her place at the end of summer with my bathing suit, a borrowed swim cap, and my resolve. She knew I didn’t know how to swim. She knew I had almost drowned. She basically knows everything about me, being my little. She was patient with me, and kind, but also stern. I freaked the fuck out. I’m not even going to try and pretend that I was like a duck and took to the water like a prodigy. I didn’t even want to get my face wet. I refused to bob under the water because I was so frightened. We took our time, we went slowly. We spent all fucking day at her pool; from 10am to 7pm. I was floating my 12pm. I was kicking by 1pm. I fucking learned how to swim that day. I still cannot back stroke. I fell into the pool backwards as a kid and I start hyperventilating every time I try to back stroke. 

I thought that learning how to ride a bike and swim would lead to tons of zany adventures and I’d meet brilliant and sexy people while diving off of rocks into the ocean below.  My life would be dramatically changed. I figured I’d be going to farmer’s markets with friends and carrying bouquets of peonies home in the basket on my bike. My bike doesn’t even have a basket. More often then not, I’m riding to the beach early in the morning by myself to make sure the ocean is still there and then going back home before it’s too hot. The few pool parties I’ve been to since learning how to swim have been fun and carefree. That is not to say that my life was not dramatically changed. Bike riding taught me that it is never too late to do something that I want to do. Other kids learn how to bike ride at 6. I did it at 26. I can do what I want to, in my time. When I learned how to swim, I legitimately looked my biggest fear in the face, and said fuck you. I remind myself of that all of the time. There is nothing that I should be afraid of anymore, and when I do feel scared, does it really matter? I’ve already conquered my worst fear.

I’m 27 years old. Who wants to go for a bike ride or a swim? I’m ready.

xo

I'm sure I have hundreds of selfies in my photo library and not one of them is me at the beach OR riding my bike. In my defense, have you tried taking a selfie on a moving bicycle? Not the business and I already have one bike induced scar.

Dear Boy In Store

I had another really good weekend. It was a standout two days in a month that has really sucked. Quick Disneyland trip, coffee with my BFFL, first meeting as a sorority advisor, and the train wreck that was the VMA’s. (I did a lot of side eyeing my television last night, that’s for sure). The funny part is, all of that happened on just Sunday! On Saturday (yes, I realize this is backwards), I went to an in store performance by one of my favorite bands, Dear Boy.

According to their Facebook page, Dear Boy (Ben Grey, Keith Cooper, Austin Hayman, and Nils Bue) is bitter-sweet alternative rock with roots in both post-punk and 90‘s British guitar pop. They are based out of Los Angeles and recorded their first EP in London. They’ve built a devoted live following through their shows and you will generally find me somewhere in the crowd if they’re playing in Los Angeles. 

I met Ben in July of 2006, during a rather low period in my life. His previous outfit, Scarlet Grey, was opening for Nico Vega at The Troubadour. I was aware of them, as they had opened for AFI (basically my favorite band of all time), the previous fall. They were great. I stopped by the merch table after the show to express my thanks for their work and tell them I’d be at their next LA show. Fast forward a few months; I’ve kept my promise, Ben spots after they’re done playing, and thanks me for that. We become friends. Ben Grey is one of the most gracious, talented, kind people I have ever met in my life. Even if I’ve already gotten a Facebook notification about a show and RSVP’d, he will still personally message me to invite me, ask me how I’m doing, and listen if the answer is not so great. He is a great person who also makes really great fucking music, and I urge you to check out Dear Boy. (And this is not to shit on Austin, Keith, or Nils…because they’re also amazing men who are ridiculously talented, and equally kind. Shout out to Nils for sharing his beer with me on Saturday).

The in store was awesome. It was held at Vacation Vinyl in Silverlake. If you like record stores, give it a whirl. They had some really good rare stuff, including Jimmy Fallon’s Tebowie 7”. We celebrated the release of Dear Boy’s first 7” by packing a fire code’s violation worth of people into the store on a day when it was already 91,000 degrees and dancing our butts off to 6 song set. I made a few new friends, I got my 7” signed, and I had the pleasure of talking to some old friends. 

Here’s Dear Boy’s Spotify… 

In other news…quitting my day job to follow my dreams is the scariest thing I’ve ever done and I don’t know if I’m handling it well. 

What the fuck is Miley Cyrus’s new album?

I'm in love with emo Bieber. 

When will summer end?

Until next time.

xo <3

Shakespeare by the Sea

I went to a production of The Tempest put on by Shakespeare By the Sea last night, and I really wish I had done it earlier in the season to tell ya’ll about it, because it was so dope! Shakespeare By The Sea (http://www.shakespearebythesea.org/wp/) is a non-profit that puts on free Shakespeare productions all over Los Angeles County and Orange County during the summer. I’ve been going with my mom since I was a kid. It’s been a while since I went to a performance, and I decided to go last night, because I love The Tempest.

The Tempest is my second favorite by the bard, only after A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s a comedy, so you don’t have to worry about your favorite characters dying. So, basically, this dude named Prospero should be the Duke of Milan, but his a-hole brother, Antonio, and the king, Alonzo, decide that they’re not having it and they strand Prospero and his daughter, Miranda on an island. Prospero and Miranda only have the water sprite, Ariel, and a half-human half-something monster, Calaban to keep them company. Prospero is pissed, so he has Ariel conjure a storm and shipwreck Antonio, Alonzo, Alonzo’s son and heir to the throne Ferdinand, and some other randoms on the island in order to get his revenge. Of course the plot can’t be that simple, and Calaban wants to kill Prospero, and two guys who got shipwrecked want to kill Alonzo, and Miranda and Ferdinand fall in love (which was part of Prospero’s plan, but still pisses him off for some reason). I’m not gonna give away the ending, but trust me, it’s a fun ride.

SBTS’s production was AMAZING. They worked a minimal set, the costumes were gorgeous and sparkly, and the acting was TOP NOTCH. They gender bent Alonzo to Queen Alonza, which made me so happy, because Shakespeare is always light on the female representation. The actress playing Alonza had a serious set of pipes and a magical timbre, too. Their depiction of Ariel was brilliant and utilized multiple actors working together. The Calaban was hilarious. I literally was sitting on the edge of my seat during the first act. It was THAT GOOD.

Sadly, this post comes way too late, because last night was closing night. However, because of the great time I had tonight, I’m certain I’ll be catching whatever they do next summer. You should too! 

xo