The Sable Verity

July 17, 2008

It seems like such a natural stereotype; the angry Black woman. 

I bring up this issue because a lot of people have been asking me in the wake of the James “Jage” Paroline murder, “why are Black women so angry”.  While mulling the complicated answer to that question I stopped over on myspace to check the profiles of the 2 women involved in the initial altercation; one has not been accessed since 2007, but the other, belong to Ebonie Shephard, was logged into today.

On myspace one can pick and display their mood for all to see. What was Ebonie’s mood?

Pissed off.

That of course brought my mind right back to the question, “why are Black women so angry”.

As I said, it’s complicated.

The short answer is that, it’s really easy to get angry and stay angry as a Black woman living in America.  When it comes to the social stratification ladder, we’re at the bottom.

We’re misunderstood and often not in control of our own identity, and we’re being pulled at from every possible direction; family, friends, work, children, self.

We’re the bitch.  Whether it’s Black bitch, or just bitch alone, we’re it.  We’re the welfare queen.  We’re the ho- hell, we’re even the video ho.  We’re the baby mamma.  We’re the maid, and the wash woman, and we’re the cause and solution of everyone else’s problems.

We’re left to handle everything alone.  Oh sure, we might get an encouraging word from friends, but ultimately the weight rests solely on our backs.

It is painful and lonely, and one is constantly feeling that they need to protect themselves.  When you ride the bus, you might bring a book, wear sunglasses or listen to your iPod; all to get folks to get the message “leave me alone”.

Well, the Black woman doesn’t need an iPod, and she damn sure doesn’t need sunglasses.  She has her stoic, even angry facial expressions to convey “get the hell away from me, leave me the hell alone.”

If one is not careful, it can be all consuming and that anger can ultimately block blessings coming our way.  I should know, after all, I am a Black woman, and there are times that I would definately describe myself as an angry Black woman, trying to protect myself from the rest of the world.

That anger can lead to pure, blind, uncontrolable rage, if not checked and checked quickly.

It’s easy for other people to say “get over it”.  Some things we can’t just get over for the sake of getting over.

What I had to realize for myself was that anger was blocking too many other things.

Yeah, so people don’t get what it’s like to be a Black woman here, fine.  But even if I sat down for 100 hours and recounted a million “Black woman” stories, they still wouldn’t get it; so that needs to be moved passed.

We sisters need to support each other more; we need to provide a safe place for the tears, the shouting, the cussing…the anger.  And when that time is over, we need to wipe away our tears, take a deep breath, hold our head high, and walk back out to the world, prepared to give of ourselves, knowing we deserve happiness like anyone else, claiming that happiness, washing ourselves in it every morning and every night.

Black women are phenominal; it’s not just a poem, it is the truth; we are the mother’s of civilization, the cornerstone this country was built on.  We are the riff in jazz and the spice in greens.  We are intellectuals, lovers, dreamers, artists and leaders.  We are the back bone, conscious and soul connection of our men and children.

We have a potential within that once tapped, infiltrates all things, and changes them forever, for the better.

It can be really easy to fall into the mindset that the world is our enemy…but am I an enemy to the world?  No.  I am not.  I am better than that.

It isn’t necessary for me to snap at everyone who crosses my path, who cuts me off with their car on the road, who makes eye contact with me on the street or in the grocery store.  Why feed a tempter?  Why feed anger?  Why immediately assume that all defenses need to be thrown up, when in actuality, they don’t?

I’ve been called a nigger to my face; a Black bitch, right in front of my children, for stupid things like not letting a car force its way into my lane.  The urge to get out of the car and pummel has been there, I’m not going to lie.  The desire to “teach a lesson” flashes before my eyes at times.  The instinct to show that person “I won’t be disrespected” flares.

Depending on what else has hit me that day, the anger may stick around for a while, usually until I get on the phone with someone likeminded and vent it out.

Being the bigger person get’s tiring.  Biting my tongue leaves the taste of blood in my mouth on a regular basis.  But no one ever said that doing the right thing was easy.  So I swollow, and I take it.

When I look at girls like Ebonie Shephard, who are constantly pissed off at the world and expressing that anger with violence, I cringe. 

You are showing the world that you are a dark minded and angry person, and you are showing the world that it should continue to treat you (and by relation, me and every other Black woman) with contempt.  You are feeding the sick cycle of biggotry and hatred.

I learned Joy by watching other joyous women of color in my life; by turning to them, by understanding how they handle the challenges of life as a Black woman.

Now, some may be tempted to think (and submit a comment) or suggest that if we as Black women just “let go” of that who Black woman/color/race thing, maybe it won’t be so tough.

You let go of it. 

It’s just not that easy.  I have said before and will say it again now, I only knew I was a human being until society taught me that I was Black.  I can’t let go of my Blackness anymore than White people can let go of White privilage.  We are who we are.

The question is, how are we going to live the life we’ve been given, as Black women?

Being pissed off all the time?  Being a victim all the time?

Or finding authentic joy for ourselves, and giving it to others. 

The choice is yours.  But rest assured, you are not a victim; you’re angry because you want to be.  When you desire more for yoruself, you’ll find a way to move past that, and people will naturally come into your life to help you with that journey.

Until then, you’ll just be another typical pissed off Black woman, and you’ll be alone.

Peace-

Sable Verity

It’s hard for me to even say that…as a parent I know all too well the desire to protect one’s children, so as a father, I can understand why Obama regrets the fact that his daughters are all over the news after they, along with their famous parents, gave an interview to Access Hollywood.  Trust, no one was more shocked than I, when that breaking news tidbit came across the feed.  Here is a snippet:

So, as I said, I understand, completely that he is taken aback by the fact that Access Hollywood sold that tape to anyone and everyone who could pay the note.  I giggled when you hear Brian Williams say something to the effect of “one of two clips we’ve been given to show you…”

You lie Brian.  NBC paid for that just like eveyrone else.

But I’ve gotten off topic.

Again, just to say it outloud, I understand fully his concern as a father…

…

But as a politician?  That was pure genius.  Everyone was starting to get really, really bored with the lack of anything new in recent weeks, I know I was.

When I watched the first half of the interview my face hurt I was smiling so much.  Seeing the girls and how at ease they were was just brilliant, truly.

He may feel that their privacy as a family took a hit, but he shouldn’t look at it that way.

Instead he should realize the wicked advantage he has over John McCain.  Let’s compare the two families:

Lest we forget, their is the pre POW family for McCain, and the post.  We know that he left his first wife after coming home, and, as it were, after she was in a horrible accident that disfigured her.  She insists her accident had nothing to do with their divorce, but at the same time acknowledges that Johnny boy wanted a newer, fresher model that would remind him of his youth; Cindy “my face never moves”, McCain (Oh, yeah–and she set up a children’s charity to score opiates for her own habit–then cruelly dismissed the director when the story was about to go public).
. 

Calm down, calm down; that wasn’t a mean statement, it was a trutful one.  She me some pictures of video of Cindy McCain’s forehead moving like a normal woman of 54, and I’ll recant that statement.

(But come on, don’t you think it’s strange that at 17 years younger than Johnny, she actually looks as old as him because she’s had so much work done?)

Back to the family comparison: We never see Bridget McCain doing interviews with her dad, like his other daughter, Meghan, who looks like she stepped out of an episode of the Hills.  All Meghan ever talks about is the “best” qualities of her father, and insists he will be a great President.  She never, ever talks about the things Johnny does wrong…like calling Cindy a cunt, for example.

But with the Obama girls, we know that Barack leaves his shit all over the house, that he doesn’t do ice cream, and that he only chews minty gum.

We also learn that the girls like the fact that their parents are in love; while not using that exact verbage, they still made it very clear.  Michelle and Barack cuddle, hold hands, and kiss.  Barack brings his wife flowers regularly (damn good moe there, Barack), and Michelle still sits on her man’s lap every now and then, to hold and be held.

Pump yer breaks.

Close your eyes and picture Cindy on Johnny’s lap.  It’s not happening.  It’s just not happening.  First of all, it’s beneath her and ight wrinkle her clothes.

Second of all, when you have a man that is that verbally abusive to you, that he would call you a cunt and do so when other people are around.

You don’t jump from zero to cunt.  There were some other incidents between them to get there, and I’m not inclined to believe, in general, that their’s is a healthy relationship, I’m just not.

I am not impress by a husband with a temper, a wife with such low self esteem she had to hire Joan Rivers’ plastic surgeon, who are parents of an “adopted daughter” they treat like a token charity case.  That is not the model family.

I want a First Family that is real, and relatable.  When Maria asked Michelle what romantic things she does for her husband, Michelle said “hmmm…(looking to her man), I raise your children”.

You can’t get more real than that.

Confession:

I love sports.  I love competition.  

I am not one of those people that has a sports watching schedule, that’s just not a luxury I have.  But one of my all-time favorite sports to watch is tennis, and I’ve been watching well before there was a Venus or a Serena.  I come from the days of Agassi, and Sampras, folks like that.  I remember when Andre won his first Wimbledon, and I remember the moment he retired.  Tennis, believe it or not, has been a part of my entire life.

I love to watch it because I know how hard it is to play. 

No, I don’t play tennis.  That’s my point.  It’s friggin’ hard.  That little tiny. bouncy, wind-prone ball and that heavy racket.  Running, jumping, serving, returning service…it’s intense.  When you know someone has just smashed a ball at 120 mph in your direction…imagine going through that for a living.  But I’ve gotten off topic a bit.

Wimbledon is something that I will happily awaken at 6:00am on a Sunday to watch.  It’s not a guarantee, but it’s always possible that one will see an epic match.

While I love competition, one must be selective in their sports intake.  There is so much hype, drama and BS in the world of professional sports, that often, I just would rather not watch.  But I am a cynic I suppose; after all, the dumb-ass mayor of the city sixteen miles south of me, just sold our sports team for 45 million dollars, after a coffee billionaire sold it to some out of town strangers, also for millions of dollars.  By the time the city of Seattle opted to fold on fighting for the Sonics basketball team to stay in order to secure some money, hell, I was ready for their whiney, non-winning asses to go.  So when something like the Olympics, or Wimbledon comes on, there really is no BS (shy Tanya Harding).  There is drama, suspense.  But there is also tradition and sportsmanship.  I love it.

I watched the Williams sisters yesterday, and wanted desperately for Serena to win, but it didn’t happen.  Just once, I’d like to see her not play against her older sister, as a little sister, and beat Venus for the Wimbledon title. 

This morning, I arose again, at 6:00, for the mens final: Roger Federer v Raphael (Rafa) Nadal, which put me at a whopping 3 hours of sleep.

But it was oh. so. worth it.

Anyone who appreciates a good, healthy rivalry would have loved this match.  You don’t have to be a tennis fan, per se, to know that what happened today was history in the making.

Epic.

It sounds dramatic, but it’s true.

Now, before I go on, let me give my Federer disclaimer.

Roger Federer is a great tennis player, which is why he’s ranked number 1.  He has talent, skill, judgement, ability beyond belief.

There are things about Federer though, I have to say, turn me off.  First of all, Federer is not “loveable”.

Michael Jordan was loveable.  I could watch MJ and the Bulls stomp everyone else every day of the week and never tire of it.  Those were the days.  Roger doesn’t have the same appeal for me, and I’ve longsince tired of seeing him win everything (aside of course, from the French Open a few years running)

Secondly, and probably what bothers me the most, is that Roger has a habbit of getting really, really, really emotional when he wins.

Not like “I just won!”, emotional.  More like “Oh thank God I won, I would have died, otherwise, just died!!!”

We all know Roger, nor any other athlete will die from losing.  They might cry, but they won’t die.

Not unless they owe the bookie and wind up swimming with the fishes.

But Federer isn’t that kind of person.  He’s much to proper to even entertain such a thing.  The 6 foot 1 inch player from Switzerland, is the essence of…royalty…tennis royalty.  You can tell that he believes that his way of playing tennis is the “right” way to win.

In fact, he’s been winning for so long that, many spectators and sportscasters also began to believe that Federer was unstoppable, and that yes, Roger’s way was “the” way to play and win.

 But they were wrong.

Along came Rafa Nadal.  This young man from Spain is truly, unbelievably talented, and he proved just how much today in the Wimbledon final when he beat Roger Federer in 3 sets to 2.  He and Federer have been chasing each other around the globe for a few years now, but Federer has always denied Rafa a Wimbledon title.

The match, the longest final in Wimbledon history, was something to behold.  It was clear, very early on, that Nadal had what was needed to best Federer.

Then, midway through the match, it appeard the championship was Rafa’s to lose, as Federer stormed back, taking the 3rd and 4th sets.

Set five was instense, I mean intense, white knuckled tennis.  But on the fourth match point, Nadal won, falling to the grass court as the crowd errupted, and I, here at home, screamed as if it were my son on TV.

And of course, Federer cried.

Rafa was the first man in 28 years to win both the French Open and Wimbledon in the same year, and the first man from Spain to win the title in 44 years. 

It was well deserved.  He went into that match and fought until the death.  No one can say that Nadal won because Federer had an off-day. 

No, Rafa Nadal won because , and reminded us all, there is more than one way to play the game and come out a champ.  He played hard, tight, precision tennis for 4 hours and 48 minutes and reminded everyone; players and spectators alike, that the way to win is not to play Federer tennis.  The way to win is to play your own game, to the best of your ability.

These two men could not be more opposite, on and off the court.  What Rafa reminded us is very simple; there’s nothing wrong with doing it differently.

Roger Federer is considered the best tennis player in the world.  I guess that means Rafa Nadal is better than the best tennis player in the world, and I feel lucky to have been able to witness that crowning moment.