Monday, June 11, 2012

The Truth: My Soul Has Returned So I call it a Lesson Learned


I am sitting, here listening to Mrs. Keys sing about heartbreak and recovery.  It is ironic, the ways in which mainstream music and media tends to focus on one of two things, sex or heartbreak.  Very few outlets focus on rebuilding.  This, I believe, is very representative of larger gender and relationship trends of our society. As a Black woman, I am speaking from my position with my lens; however, these reflections are applicable to broader patterns.

A few months back I posted a blog entitled It Takes Work, in which I discussed how, in a society of instant gratification, we do not feel that relationships take work. Instead, we want things to be effortless.  Although I still adhere to this, to a certain extent, I feel that there is a fine line.  The difference lies in foundation. A sturdy foundation may give a little under pressure, but can be saved, mended, and possibly made even stronger.  Whereas, a weak foundation completely crumbles under pressure, regardless of how much work you put in to preventing its destruction or preserving the wreckage.  In other words, some relationships will survive, while others are Babylon.  Enough said.

Getting out of Babylon, in the knick of time, I look back on why people, specifically women, choose to stay in bad relationships.   “Western” society tends to condition women to be self-sacrificing, people pleasers.  I’ll give you an example.  One evening I picked up my now ex to spend some quality time together. He had different ideas on how the night would go however. We get to the house and he goes straight to the front room and turns on the game. I have AT&T U-Verse, so I can watch up to three HD shows at a time. However, if you are taping two things on DVR, you can only watch HD on one receiver.  I had been watching a show and I must have had a recording scheduled that blocked my front room television. 

My now ex comes in to the room upset, exclaiming that there is something wrong with the TV.  Not wanting to have to explain things and ultimately feeling guilty, for who knows why, I simply responded, fine I will turn my TV off and sit in here in the dark.  I thought he would hear how crazy that sounds, especially since this is my house, I pay my bills, and used my gas to get him from his house in the first place, but you know what they say happens when you assume… He looks at me, says ok and goes back into the front room to watch the game. This example is just one of the many as to a missing or unstable foundation. One member of a relationship cannot be more invested than the other, if this is the case, one person is trying to make it work, while the other is reaping the benefits, creating a false hierarchy.  

I am not going to go into extreme details on the deterioration of a relationship, turn on the radio or TV at any given time and you have a plethora of examples of this.  I want to, instead, focus on rebuilding, a process I am currently in.  As I said in the opening, we are fixated on sex or heartbreak in this society, but no one focuses on the in between. I cannot help but to wonder if this is because we do not take the time to heal in between.  Although scars can never completely reconcile, they can be studied and nurtured.  Are we encouraging this or are we jumping from one relationship to the next without reflection and self-evaluation?

Chrisette Michele has a song called Goodbye Game.  In this song she narrates a break up and epiphany of a woman, asserting words of strength and wisdom, such as:

What's up with this game?
Why am I so forgiving?
Why am I always checking for these fools?
If he aint hearing none of home girl's rules.
Why do I play?
I’d rather play alone.

This reads as a woman who is realizing that the foundation is unstable; it truly takes two to make a relationship work, but just one to break it.  These types of questions, as illustrated by Michele, are essential for the rebuilding process.  Although Michele does provide context, the purpose of the prose is not to dog a man, but to reflect on the woman’s own actions by learning to love herself and her own company, as illustrated in the line “I’d rather play alone.” 




  I’ve come to realize, through conversations with friends, family, and colleagues that women often date someone just to be in a relationship.  I am, likewise, guilty of this.  I find myself staying with men in hopes of love, affection, and the emotions I never received from a male figure growing up.  My father was absent and my brother, although very close as young children, was in and out of the house by the time I was eleven.  Because of this, I didn’t have an example, so I made my own through media representations and my peers.  This landed me in relationships with men who never recognized my worth, so I, therefore, concluded I was lacking. However, I love how Michele takes the time to realize her worth and love her own company, explaining how she is no longer going to play the fool, and instead she is going to “play my [her] hero, you gon be a zero.” In a society where the damsel in distress narrative is pervasive, it is nice to have a woman being her own hero. 

None of these lessons can be learned without reflection.  If we take our scars and baggage to the next, we still wince at phantom pains in the chest and fears of distress that may actually push the next guy away. There is nothing wrong with being alone, if we weren’t so terrified of loneliness, we may realize the power and strength in it.  It may be cliché, but you honestly can’t love someone else until you love yourself.  So take some time, lick your wounds, and learn to love yourself.  As Alicia Keys said, “my soul has returned, so I call it a lesson learned.” It is time for us to truly learn these lessons.  

Friday, June 8, 2012

Biting My Tongue Off: Vulnerability Due to Intersecting Identities in Academia


Biting My Tongue Off: 

Vulnerability Due to Intersecting Identities in Academia





     I remember discussing with a mentor the position of people of color in academia, especially at a predominantly white research institution and discipline, and the expectation to always play politics, manipulate professionalism, and constantly self-censor.  When someone questions my credential instead of my paper I bite my tongue.  When someone makes me the subject, as opposed to the researcher, I bite my tongue.  When I’m constantly expected to represent diversity, as the ONLY Black person in my department, I bite my tongue.  I want to say, “no I cannot, contrary to your racist ideologies, I do not represent everything Black, please just let me do my research,” but then I’m the angry Black woman, so I bite my tongue. 

     It always amazes me how one can have a 28-hour day and still harvest extreme feelings of emptiness and exhaustion from the simple, yet often essential, act of biting ones tongue. When I have to read the “theory” of the discipline, frequented with adjectives such as “long-faced negroes,” I bite my tongue. When I read something that offends me so much I hold back tears, I bite my tongue. When I want to scream from the rooftops, “NO MY HAIR IS NOT A TOPIC OF DISCUSSION AND YOU CANNOT TOUCH IT,” I bite my tongue and smile with, as Smokey Robinson said, tears from a clown.

     I remember an episode of A Different World, Mammy Dearest, where Whitley Gilbert wanted to highlight the complexities of the Mammy caricature.  Kim vehemently opposed, however, Mr. Gaines told Kim, and I’m paraphrasing, she [mammy] is not smiling because she is happy.  In reality, she is smiling because she knows how valuable she is on inside.  This is her secret and gift.  The show ended with a beautiful performance elaborating this concept. My question is when does this gift stop being a secret? I bite my tongue.

     As a Black woman in academia, disciplined by a field dominated by white folks who gaze and “other,” I often become the subject in gatherings. This leads me to self-isolate and then I am seen as not being serious about my work, when in reality I’m trying, often unsuccessfully, not to go insane. I bite my tongue. I constantly censor my thoughts, to the point that I do not realize that I am performing in such a way until my mouth starts to bleed. My tongue is a thread from being bitten off and permanently silencing me. I choke. The blood starts to gush and I know, if not handled, I will not need to bite my tongue. I will, instead, become a representation, a museum artifact, seen and not heard, but there when needed to show “diversity.”

     Being a forced representative makes me a statistic. Inclusion inherently excludes.  I remember seeing Zora Neale Hurston posing as a museum exhibit, and the significance didn’t sink in until I realized, and lived, many of the things that forced my sister (in my head) out of academia. I am forced to ignore my other needs, and my life is placed on hold. I wait to love, wait to live, wait to be me and with every growing day, I am anticipating tomorrow, next month, next year. I bite my tongue. 

      In the exam stage, I’m now expected to produce “stuff,” as one of my committee members calls it. This stuff requires a “voice,” but where does this voice come from when I barely have a tongue. A muscle that I have ignored, neglected, and damaged to the extent of almost losing it. One of my committee members said to me, “I can tell from your work what you like, but what do not you like? There’s no critique.” I would have responded, but my tongue, from its damaged state, would not form words.  The blood was too heavy and I choked back tears. It’s hard to critique when the overt policing in the academy disciplined me to self-police,  losing the ability to respond.  

     Tis the game of academia, the first three years we tell you what the politics of the discipline are, in this case, being the majority and “othering” the field population.  If you cannot become white, try your best to conform, but the consequences of such lead you to be voiceless, soul-less, lifeless, and numb until you don ot even remember what it was you want to do with this discipline, and I mean that in the literal sense, in the first place.

     I have to take my agency back and live by the words of the often forgotten Zora Neale Hurston, “sometimes, I feel discriminated against, but it does not make me angry. It merely astonishes me. How can any deny themselves the pleasure of my company? It’s beyond me.” 


     At the end of the day, I have to heal my tongue, find my voice, and reclaim my worth because Queen Latifah said it best when she said, “it’s just another day.”  I will never stop being oppressed, silenced, and disciplined, but I can start exerting my agency, voice, and choice. I mend my tongue. I heal my tongue. I love my tongue. I reclaim my voice.