They Wear it Like a Badge of Honor

This past Sunday we shared a moment, Awa and I.

We weren’t looking each other in the eye when this happened.  It was a collective ‘then why!’ that we screamed out at the exact same moment that we shared.

While she corn rowed my hair we watched an African movie.  The movie was about a brothel and the African equivalent to Heidi Fleiss who had the police down on lock.  One of the clients was a rich man who refused to give his young daughter money for her school fees.  She was on the verge of being kicked out of school for non-payment.  Of course the movie had much drama besides the brothel but Awa and I’s moment came when this father asks ‘the madam’ for a young fresh girl and it just so happens that the young daughter is finally fed up of her father’s antics and decides she needs to make the money herself and the ‘madam’ is money hungry and happy to receive a new client that fits the bill.  Cut to the hotel room where sugar daddy is in the bathroom when the girl enters the room.  The look of horror on both the father and daughter’s faces as they realize what has happened garnered the collective ‘why’ from Awa and I.

My experience growing up was that Zambian men wore infidelity like a badge of honor.  And women simply looked the other way.  I could only speak for Zambian men that I saw but now that I am older I know that this is a common theme in Africa.  Awa is from Mali.  I’m by no means saying infidelity is reserved for the African continent.  I am simply stating that in Africa infidelity isn’t done in the dark with elaborate schemes for wives to never find out.  Husbands simply don’t come home with no good excuse or proudly bring their children born out of wedlock into their homes for the ‘main wife’ to see and in some cases raise.  Women in America may suspect something and do some investigations or end up on an episode of Cheaters ready to box.  Of course there are women here who turn the other way too.

Another thing this movie brought up for me was the power of sexuality and the lure of easy money.  A common theme here in America is that young boys are usually lost to the streets because of the promise of ‘family’ from gangs and the lure of easy money.  Making a $1000 a day out hustling is such an easy option for someone who sees their mother and other relatives ‘slaving’ for $250 a week.  It is the same in Africa for young girls.  Having a sugar daddy ready to pay you for simply spreading your legs is such an easy option and so many young girls fall prey.

This little silly movie reminded Awa and I of the crazy childhoods we witnessed.  It is a wonder we aren’t out here doing what we saw growing up.  Maybe it is because we related to our Mothers and saw their pain daily and vowed to NEVER be treated in such a way by our mates.  We daughters of Africa are in constant conflict because we love our fathers and think the world of them but we find it hard to understand why they put us through this kind of pain with their infidelity.

So the question remains, why Daddy, why?  One day I’ll have enough courage to ask.

How Different Are we Really?

I remember reading an article in Essence years ago about the different faces we wear on a daily basis. At home we act a certain way; laid-back and carefree. We may even talk differently. On the drive to work the transformation begins – our conservative selves emerge in order to fit in with our workplace. The reason is clear – we feel more comfortable around our ‘people’. Some friends and I talked about the article in depth and agreed that if we acted the same at home and at work, we’d be unemployed. The article focused on home and work.

I find myself wearing different faces when it comes to my race. With my African-American friends I am the sista-girl talking about issues in the news, deconstructing television shows, and feigning for some good spoken word. Things get uncomfortable when talk turns to African men and why they continually pick white women over sistas. With my African friends I am the woman reminiscing about home, sharing a new African find, and speaking of corrupt politicians back home. Things get uncomfortable when talk turns to how loud and domineering African-Americans are. I choose to NOT stick with only group.

I am Zambian but both Elaine Brown and Winnie Mandela make my shero list. I have lived in Lexington, Kentucky for twelve years now. My teenage years were spent in Zambia and my young adult years in the United States. It is only right that the woman I am draws from both rich cultures equally. Many people I know don’t agree. They choose to stick with one group and shut the other out. I often feel as though I am walking a tight rope between these two groups.

My freshman year at Jewel Hall on the University of Kentucky was a confusing time for me. The African-American students on campus avoided me and when they did speak they mostly asked me why I was so proper. The general consensus was that I was stuck up because I dressed and talked differently.  Half the time, I was terrified of pronouncing something TOO properly so I kept quiet. What kept me sane was the sista-girl Resident Advisor named Cheryl who saw, felt, and knew me from the moment we said hello.  

I remember the collective groups gasp when it was announced that O.J. Simpson had been accused of killing his ex wife and I innocently asked who O.J. Simpson was. I was definitely not the black girl they had grown accustomed to. My white room mate hailed from Winchester and after a few months of getting as acquainted as we could she announced that I was ‘different’ and therefore worthy of her company. I had noticed her interaction with other black people in our floor and it was nowhere close to pleasant.  What her simple three word statement ‘You are different’ said to me was ‘even though when I look at you, I see someone black, where you’re from makes you not so black.’ My nineteen year old self refused to acknowledge her ignorance but so many Africans choose to believe the hype.

There were other instances of Professors and Bosses treating me differently. And then of course there are those others who see Black even before you speak and act accordingly. I thank these people because this is reality. Did the officers that fired forty-one shots into Amadou Diallo stop to think that he was different? All they saw was a black man. I cannot remember one incident of direct racism when I was growing up in Zambia.  I often tell people that white people were in the minority so they didn’t have any power to make our lives miserable.  I see now that there were cases my young eyes could not see.  In talking with my mother now she recalls a school play where all the black kids always had background insignificant parts and the few white kids always had the leads.  I attended a copper mine run school that could be considered a private school and most of the teachers and headmasters/headmistresses were white.

My first head on collision with racism came at the boarding school I attended in the 12th grade.  A girl named Danielle who was the most popular girl in the whole school sought me out and became my room mate.  She had been kicked out of the school before I ever got there and the day she returned it was like a pop star had come to visit.  It started with whispers all over the hallways that ‘Danielle was back’.  Everyone said Danielle looked like Madonna and well, Danielle believed them and acted accordingly.  As soon as she saw me she announced that I was her new best friend and pulled some strings and became my room mate.  I later found out that Danielle enjoyed dating black boys back in her home town and her parents had sent her to this boarding school to ‘cure’ her ways.  Little did her parents know that many black boys were sent to this very school.  Eventually I let my guard down and I got close to Danielle.  Parents Day approached and Danielle politely asked me, the lone black girl in our 4 person room to kindly move out just for the day so her mother would not know that she had a black room mate.  I was so hurt and our friendship was never the same after that.

That same year the Public Speaking and Quick Recall team traveled to Louisville to attend the Kentucky United Nations Assembly.  I was handing out flyers and one white boy in particular refused to take one.  Now many people didn’t take the flyer or if they did, they immediately threw it away but it was the disgusted glare in this boy’s eyes that let me know that I was black and he didn’t want anything to do with what I had.

More recently the question of Black/African versus African-American has risen again with the remarks made by Alan Keyes, the black Republican challenger for the Senate seat in Illinois who questioned whether Barack Obama, the black man he is running against should claim an African-American identity. “Barack Obama and I have the same race—that is physical characteristics. We are not from the same heritage. My ancestors toiled in slavery in this country. My consciousness, who I am as a person, has been shaped by my struggle, deeply emotional and deeply painful, with the reality of that heritage.”  Barack Obama was born to a Kenyan father and an American mother. My beef with Mr.Keyes’ comments are that he disregards Barack’s blackness because he is African and because he is of biracial heritage. Does the ‘one drop of black blood makes you black’ argument magically disappear in this case? Do things change when the drop is of African decent?

Regarding Barack’s father, does his African-ness make him exempt from feelings of struggle and pain? Have we forgotten that colonialism existed? Have we forgotten that many Africans lost their lives in the struggle to rule their own countries from their colonialists? My sons are born to an African mother and an American father who happens to black – does this not make them American enough? If they choose to run for office years from now, will this same issue come up? Will they be discounted because only one half of their ancestors toiled in slavery?

At first glance we are all black but we choose to believe that we are so very different than we are.  All of us have encountered racism in some capacity.  As different as we like to think we are, we’re very much the same. We discipline our children in the same way, we enjoy the same foods, the same music, dance the same, and mostly laugh at the same jokes. Our accents may be a little different but when it comes down to it, it is about time that we embraced the few differences we have and learn from each other.  

Jokes have been made that Africans didn’t come and get their relatives that were stolen away and brought to America and bring them back home.  It is a joke but I truly think it is a basis of much of the animosity between us.  One group feels like they have been failed while the other feels betrayed that not enough is done for the African continent.  We are all in this together.  Africans embrace your African-American brothers and sisters and African-Americans make friends with Africans.  We are not only here to braid your hair and sell you bootleg CDs – we have so much more to offer you.  

Africa Mississippi

At first glance they are the same
could have shared a womb
one faces right, the other left
both moving their hands in unison
as they relay messages to their friends
both have birthmarks in between their shoulder blades
that lovers have often mistook as tattoos
one tattoo takes on the shape of Africa and the other Mississippi state

Now I have known a family of nine to each have
a different shade of brown
but when you look at these two
it is like the perfect blend
2 parts Kaluha
1 part toffee
delicately applied onto their frames
both naturally top heavy accompanied by thick thighs
most men dream of being between

Yes at first glance they are the same
But a closer look reveals the truth

Mississippi tattoo born and raised in Africa
running bare foot and care free along Lake Tanganyika
raised on corn meal, mangos and avacados as big as a newborn's head
the grasshoppers that she and her friends would catch were a delicious snack

Africa tattoo born and raised in Mississippi
running bare foot and care free along the mighty Mississippi river
raised on collard greens and sweet potato pie
she kept the grasshoppers she kept in a jar as her pet

These 2 sistas look the same
but Africa born calls Mississippi born a slave and believes that she will never be whole
Mississippi born calls Africa born dumb and stuck up
Africa born refuses to come down to Mississippi born level
choosing to believe that all she has to offer is ghetto
Mississippi born refuses to think of Africa born as a rich cultural mecca
vital to her development
instead opting to believe television images of pot bellied children with flies swarming

Mississippi and Africa - so much to learn from each other
Mississippi and Africa - refusing to acknowledge each other

Yes
At first glance
they are the same
could have shared a womb

Save The Hoops for Jordan

There are those that see drama and step in it like long awaited sling backs
others see confrontation and hug it like their long lost sister

that ain't me

I see drama and kindly request that it leaves me be
I see confrontation and hug my own damn self

I'm not asking for what is not available
you are entitled to not give it to me

but please do yourself a favor
and take your drama and confrontation elsewhere

When has anyone ever known me
to jump through hoops?

Take that shit far away
and save the hoops for Jordan.

When Did We get Reduced to This?

When did love turn into being bought?
He bought me this and that so I muct love him
When did marriage turn into convenience?
Two salaries in one household is better than one
When did romance become sex?
He sexes me up and down when we're together
When did respect become him paying for three abortions?
He only paid for them because he respects me
When did we start believing that our sexuality could buy us power?
All I gotta do is shake my ass and I'll get whatever I want
When did love songs turn from ones that brought tears to our eyes
to ones that make us shake our heads in disbelief?
I believe you are my angel.....I think you better leave me alone, got the hell on, get gone
When did love for a man become more important than loving our children?
I'll have to miss your game tonight baby doll cause I have a hot date
When did we, the same ones whose grandmothers cleaned homes, took care of the family, and ran some kind of business on the side, stop doing for ourselves and become so materialistic?
He has to take care of all my bills if he wants to be with me
When did things change from I want a man who puts me on a pedestal and has a good heart to wanting one that has a phat whip and makes six figures
How he treats me doesn't matter if he has the right job and car
When did love for ourselves take the backseat to love for a man?
If he leaves me I will have nothing to live for
When did we stop taking a stand for lyrics that were right and be the first ones in line to buy demeaning and violent lyrics?
Who is he calling a bitch....girl thats my song!
When did we become so negative and judgmental against our own gender?
She thinks she's so bad because she's running her own business, she's not even cute!
WHERE DID SISTA LOVE GO?

Hurt

You made me feel small
you hurt my heart
With each breath I took
I felt my heart disintegrate
And when my breaths once more
became regular
and my heart didn't hurt as much
I wondered...
where would I keep this hurt?

Gotta Read This

I could just post the link but I need this article for inspiration down the line.

Their Eyes Were Reading Smut

By NICK CHILES
Published: January 4, 2006


LAST month I happened to go into the Borders Books store at the Stonecrest mall in Lithonia, Ga., about a half-hour from my house here. To my surprise, it had one of the largest collections of books by black authors that I've ever seen outside an independent black bookstore, rows and rows of bookcases. This is the sort of discovery that makes the pulse quicken, evidence of a population I've spent most of my professional life seeking: African-American readers. What a thrill to have so much space in a major chain store devoted to this country's black writers.

With an extra spring in my step, I walked into the "African-American Literature" section - and what I saw there thoroughly embarrassed and disgusted me.

On shelf after shelf, in bookcase after bookcase, all that I could see was lurid book jackets displaying all forms of brown flesh, usually half-naked and in some erotic pose, often accompanied by guns and other symbols of criminal life. I felt as if I was walking into a pornography shop, except in this case the smut is being produced by and for my people, and it is called "literature."

As a black author, I had certainly become familiar with the sexualization and degradation of black fiction. Over the last several years, I had watched the shelves of black bookstores around the country and the tables of street vendors, particularly in New York City, become overrun with novels that seemed to appeal exclusively to our most prurient natures - as if these nasty books were pairing off back in the stockrooms like little paperback rabbits and churning out even more graphic offspring that make Ralph Ellison books cringe into a dusty corner.

Early last year I walked into a B. Dalton bookstore in a New Jersey mall where the manager had always proudly told me how well my books were selling. This time, I was introduced to a new manager who was just as proud to show me an enhanced black books section teeming with this new black erotica. I've also noticed much more of this oversexed genre in Barnes & Noble bookstores over the past few months, although it's harder to see there since the chain doesn't appear to have separate black fiction sections.

But up until that visit to Borders in Lithonia, I had thought this mostly a phenomenon of the black retail world, where the black bookstore owners and street vendors say they have to stock what sells, and increasingly what sells are stories that glorify and glamorize black criminals. The genre has been described by different names; "ghetto fiction" and "street lit" are two I've heard most often. Apparently, what we are now seeing is the crossover of this genre to mainstream bookstores.

But the placard above this section of Borders in Lithonia didn't say "Street Lit," it said "African-American Literature." We were all represented under that placard, the whole community of black authors - from me to Terry McMillan and Toni Morrison, from Yolanda Joe and Benilde Little to Edward P. Jones and Kuwana Haulsey - surrounded and swallowed whole on the shelves by an overwhelming wave of titles and jackets that I wouldn't want my 13-year-old son to see: "Hustlin' Backwards." "Legit Baller." "A Hustler's Wife." "Chocolate Flava."

I've heard defenders say that the main buyers of these books, young black women, have simply found something that speaks to them, and that it's great that they're reading something. I'd agree if these books were a starting point, and that readers ultimately turned to works inspired by the best that's in us, not the worst.

But we're not seeing evidence of that. On Essence magazine's list of best sellers at black bookstores, for example, authors of street lit now dominate, driving out serious writers. Under the heading "African-American Literature," what's available is almost exclusively pornography for black women.

As I stood there in Borders, I had two sensations: I was ashamed and mortified to see my books sitting on the same shelves as these titles; and secondly, as someone who makes a living as a writer I felt I had no way to compete with these purveyors of crassness.

That leaves me wondering where we - writers, publishers, readers, the black community - go from here. Is street fiction some passing fad, or does it represent our future? It's depressing that this noble profession, one that I aspired to as a child from the moment I first cracked open James Baldwin and Gabriel García Márquez about 30 years ago, has been reduced by the greed of the publishing industry and the ways of the American marketplace to a tasteless collection of pornography.

I realize that publishing is a business, but publishers also have a responsibility to balance street lit with more quality writing. After all, how are we going to explain ourselves to the next generation of writers and readers who will wonder why they have so little to read of import and value produced in the early 21st century, why their founts of inspiration are so parched?

At times, I push myself away from the computer in anger. I don't want to compete with "Legit Baller." But then I come across something like "The Known World" by Edward P. Jones and again I am inspired.

But I must say that I retain very little of the hope and excitement and enthusiasm that I had when my first book was published eight years ago. I feel defeated, disrespected and troubled about the future of my community and my little subsection of this carnivorous, unforgiving industry.

Nick Chiles, the editor in chief of Odyssey Couleur magazine, is the co-author, with Denene Millner, of "A Love Story."

Lets Do This

I've had this idea to write short stories incorporating my life in Zambia and my life here for the longest.

I wrote a short story 3 years ago that got good response.

I'm 29 and lived in Zambia till I was 17 so I feel that I have had 2 very important life experiences in 2 continents.

The only story I saw that incorporated both cultures to my liking was 'Love Noire'. So the need is there.

I realized today that fear has kept me from doing this.

Fear because I haven't been back home to Zambia for 12 years now. I somehow convinced myself that I wouldn't accurately portray what I wanted since I was 17 when I left.

Guess what? My experiences there may have ended at 17 as a teen but that right there is 17 years worth of things I know and I have plenty of resources to go from.

So here is to new beginnings......first short stories, I'm giving myself 2 years to see these stories put together in a book available everywhere.

Fear of the unknown in no longer an option!