In several states in this country, the question posed above has been answered. In those states, it is easier to purchase and use a gun than it is to exercise your right to vote. In these states, guns may be purchased WITHOUT government-issued photo identification. In some places no identification of any kind is required to purchase a gun. In addition, it is lawful to carry these guns anywhere you go, including schools and movie theaters.
However, in many states, if you want to vote, you must have a copy of your birth certificate, social security card, marriage license and whatever other items the state requires to issue you a photo ID. In other words, obtaining a voter ID is inconvenient, costly and time consuming, but buying a gun is simple and easy. That includes assault rifles with clips carrying multiple rounds so you can
kill and maim lots of people quickly without having to re-load.
What do such laws say about the "land of the free and the home of the brave"?
Friday, July 20, 2012
Friday, May 11, 2012
Admitting My Own Racism
Today, when I walked into the locker room at the Y after my exercise, I entered a tense scene. A Y staffer had just admonished a woman for spanking her daughter. The staffer said another woman in the locker room had been upset by the spanking and reported her to the staff. The little girl (who looked to be about five years old) was sniffling. Her mother was outraged that someone had reported her for disciplining her child and she loudly demanded of the woman who reported her.
"Are you telling me how I should discipline my child when she's misbehaving and talking back?"
The other woman quietly responded, "Perhaps you should not do it in a public place. There are other children here and they were upset by it."
"I have to punish her when she does something, not wait two hours and say, 'Now I'm going to punish you for what you did earlier.'"
The conversation went on in this vein for a couple of minutes. I did not get involved, although my heart was engaged. Why? Because the mother defending her actions was definitely not white; she wasn't African-American, but her skin was as brown as mine. The woman who reported her was white. I wanted to tell the brown woman that she did not have to explain herself to that nosy white woman who was undoubtedly acting out of her perceived white privilege and authority. Would she have reported a white woman for spanking her child, I asked myself indignantly.
After I gathered my things and left. I thought about my reaction.
My first thought was that I don't believe in disciplining children in front of others. I did spank my child when he was very young, largely because that's how I was reared, except that we got whippings with belts and switches. However, I never did it in front of anyone. I was interested in teaching him, not humiliating him.
Because I changed my mind about corporeal punishment a long time ago, my second thought was, "I'm not sure how I would have reacted if I had seen the mother hitting her child." By the time my son was a tall, sturdy six-year-old, it occurred to me that in order for my spankings to have any meaning, any force, I'd have to hit him really hard with something other than my hand. Once in a rage, I hit him with my umbrella. He looked so hurt by my anger that I was flooded with shame. It occurred to me that using physical force on a child is an attempt to break the child's spirit. That was not my intent. I wanted my son to reach his full potential, so I never hit him again. Instead, I figured out what meant the most to him and deprived him of that when I felt discipline was necessary. Fortunately, I was blessed with an extraordinary child who rarely required restraints, even as a teenager.
My next thought was that if I had seen the mother spanking her child and been disturbed by it, I would not have interfered unless I thought the child's limbs or life were in danger. Why? Because the relationship between a parent and child is unique (even siblings have distinct relationships with each parent) and it is built from birth forward, not on one incident. I wouldn't think of telling someone else how to discipline their child even if I knew all the details of their relationship, which of course, you never do.
Finally, I did not witness the actual spanking, so I have no idea of the severity of it, or how long it went on. I walked in just in time to receive a lesson about my knee-jerk racist thoughts. My initial reaction was based solely on the skin color of the participants. Thankfully, I am conscious enough to check myself when I have racist thoughts, and more important, not to act on them.
"Are you telling me how I should discipline my child when she's misbehaving and talking back?"
The other woman quietly responded, "Perhaps you should not do it in a public place. There are other children here and they were upset by it."
"I have to punish her when she does something, not wait two hours and say, 'Now I'm going to punish you for what you did earlier.'"
The conversation went on in this vein for a couple of minutes. I did not get involved, although my heart was engaged. Why? Because the mother defending her actions was definitely not white; she wasn't African-American, but her skin was as brown as mine. The woman who reported her was white. I wanted to tell the brown woman that she did not have to explain herself to that nosy white woman who was undoubtedly acting out of her perceived white privilege and authority. Would she have reported a white woman for spanking her child, I asked myself indignantly.
After I gathered my things and left. I thought about my reaction.
My first thought was that I don't believe in disciplining children in front of others. I did spank my child when he was very young, largely because that's how I was reared, except that we got whippings with belts and switches. However, I never did it in front of anyone. I was interested in teaching him, not humiliating him.
Because I changed my mind about corporeal punishment a long time ago, my second thought was, "I'm not sure how I would have reacted if I had seen the mother hitting her child." By the time my son was a tall, sturdy six-year-old, it occurred to me that in order for my spankings to have any meaning, any force, I'd have to hit him really hard with something other than my hand. Once in a rage, I hit him with my umbrella. He looked so hurt by my anger that I was flooded with shame. It occurred to me that using physical force on a child is an attempt to break the child's spirit. That was not my intent. I wanted my son to reach his full potential, so I never hit him again. Instead, I figured out what meant the most to him and deprived him of that when I felt discipline was necessary. Fortunately, I was blessed with an extraordinary child who rarely required restraints, even as a teenager.
My next thought was that if I had seen the mother spanking her child and been disturbed by it, I would not have interfered unless I thought the child's limbs or life were in danger. Why? Because the relationship between a parent and child is unique (even siblings have distinct relationships with each parent) and it is built from birth forward, not on one incident. I wouldn't think of telling someone else how to discipline their child even if I knew all the details of their relationship, which of course, you never do.
Finally, I did not witness the actual spanking, so I have no idea of the severity of it, or how long it went on. I walked in just in time to receive a lesson about my knee-jerk racist thoughts. My initial reaction was based solely on the skin color of the participants. Thankfully, I am conscious enough to check myself when I have racist thoughts, and more important, not to act on them.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
The White Side: Entitlement Run Amuck
Some whites, well actually quite a few of them, believe they know more about the racism I've encountered than I do! To my face they dispute the accuracy of MY experiences. I've run into this a lot since I wrote a memoir about coming of age in Indianapolis back in the day when being racist was standard operating procedure. In the book I describe the daily humiliating incidences of racism I had to live with, and tell how they shaped my outlook. I grew up during the 1940s and 1950s BEFORE the Civil Rights Movement displayed racism in action on the nightly news. The horror of attack dogs chasing children and city water hoses nailing demonstrators to the side of buildings made some whites think that maybe racism was not such a good thing after all.
I spoke to a book club whose members were all white and had read my book. One woman said she was "about my age" and had also grown up in Indianapolis. She belligerently insisted that she had never witnessed any of the racism I wrote about. I responded, "That doesn't surprise me since you're not black." But, she persisted, "There was a black family in our neighborhood and everybody was nice to them." That was her "side" of my story; "proof" that what I had experienced was not true!
I wrote about what happened in the newly desegregated high school I attended. Other blacks who attended the same school while I was there told me about similar, though not identical incidents. (Though a few were actually identical.) Some schoolmates encountered less racial hostility than I, some more or about the same. But, not one of them said, "I don't believe you because nothing like that ever happened to me." There were also white former classmates who didn't deny my experience, but commiserated with me because they had no idea at the time what the black students were going through.
One white male classmate, however (who went on to become a well-connected, prosperous lawyer), was offended by what I wrote. He never saw any of the things I wrote about and couldn't understand how I, who was reared with basically the same values he was, could have come up with such skewed ideas about our high school and home town. I repeat: he's a white male; I'm a black female, both of us born in the 1930s.
Someone I once worked for emailed me that reading my book "creates an immediate urge to tell...your own story, or your side, or whatever." Of course he should tell his own story, but I wrote back that, "There are no sides in my story. It is an account of how I experienced the events of my life at that time." He also wrote that he would send me something to read that, "You probably will not like it...is somewhat autobiographical so I may get back at you." I don't understand his need to "get back" at me, but I asked him to send it. "It will either confirm or contradict my expectations and I welcome either outcome."
It occurred to me that the people who want to tell their "side" are submerged in their whiteness and the belief that their view of the world is not just the right one, but the ONLY one. It's impossible for them to grasp that an experience that doesn't match theirs can be valid.
Either that or they're hopelessly racist.
I spoke to a book club whose members were all white and had read my book. One woman said she was "about my age" and had also grown up in Indianapolis. She belligerently insisted that she had never witnessed any of the racism I wrote about. I responded, "That doesn't surprise me since you're not black." But, she persisted, "There was a black family in our neighborhood and everybody was nice to them." That was her "side" of my story; "proof" that what I had experienced was not true!
I wrote about what happened in the newly desegregated high school I attended. Other blacks who attended the same school while I was there told me about similar, though not identical incidents. (Though a few were actually identical.) Some schoolmates encountered less racial hostility than I, some more or about the same. But, not one of them said, "I don't believe you because nothing like that ever happened to me." There were also white former classmates who didn't deny my experience, but commiserated with me because they had no idea at the time what the black students were going through.
One white male classmate, however (who went on to become a well-connected, prosperous lawyer), was offended by what I wrote. He never saw any of the things I wrote about and couldn't understand how I, who was reared with basically the same values he was, could have come up with such skewed ideas about our high school and home town. I repeat: he's a white male; I'm a black female, both of us born in the 1930s.
Someone I once worked for emailed me that reading my book "creates an immediate urge to tell...your own story, or your side, or whatever." Of course he should tell his own story, but I wrote back that, "There are no sides in my story. It is an account of how I experienced the events of my life at that time." He also wrote that he would send me something to read that, "You probably will not like it...is somewhat autobiographical so I may get back at you." I don't understand his need to "get back" at me, but I asked him to send it. "It will either confirm or contradict my expectations and I welcome either outcome."
It occurred to me that the people who want to tell their "side" are submerged in their whiteness and the belief that their view of the world is not just the right one, but the ONLY one. It's impossible for them to grasp that an experience that doesn't match theirs can be valid.
Either that or they're hopelessly racist.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Real Tragedy Never Ends...Part 2
In Sanford, Florida, a seventeen-year-old black boy, Trayvon Martin, was visiting his dad when he decided to walk to a convenience store. He was sauntering down the street when the captain of the local neighborhood watch, a man named George Zimmerman, decided that Trayvon looked "suspicious." (No one has ever said what was suspicious about Trayvon, so I am assuming it was his African ancestry.)
Zimmerman called police to report the suspicious character soiling his neighborhood. The police instructed him to do nothing and wait until they could come and investigate. Apparently, Trayvon look so dangerous, Zimmerman couldn't wait for the police. In his car he followed the boy, confronted him, then killed him with the 9 mm concealed gun he had a permit to carry. When the police arrived, Zimmerman said he shot Trayvon in "self-defense."
Trayvon was not armed and probably didn't even understand that the color of his skin could get him killed. Zimmerman, who is white, was not arrested.
As soon as I heard this story, I knew immediately that the young man was black and the killer was white. How did I know this? Because it happens regularly somewhere in America and the white killer usually gets away with it.
These kinds of stories remind me of two things I find despicable: America's love affair with guns and America's refusal to acknowledge and confront racism. I am sick of both of these issues. How many people will have to die before the racist monster is satiated?
I am working hard to keep an open, loving heart, but stories like this infuriate me so that I know I have more work to do.
Zimmerman called police to report the suspicious character soiling his neighborhood. The police instructed him to do nothing and wait until they could come and investigate. Apparently, Trayvon look so dangerous, Zimmerman couldn't wait for the police. In his car he followed the boy, confronted him, then killed him with the 9 mm concealed gun he had a permit to carry. When the police arrived, Zimmerman said he shot Trayvon in "self-defense."
Trayvon was not armed and probably didn't even understand that the color of his skin could get him killed. Zimmerman, who is white, was not arrested.
As soon as I heard this story, I knew immediately that the young man was black and the killer was white. How did I know this? Because it happens regularly somewhere in America and the white killer usually gets away with it.
These kinds of stories remind me of two things I find despicable: America's love affair with guns and America's refusal to acknowledge and confront racism. I am sick of both of these issues. How many people will have to die before the racist monster is satiated?
I am working hard to keep an open, loving heart, but stories like this infuriate me so that I know I have more work to do.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Real Tragedy Never Ends...
In his novel, No Longer at Ease, Chinua Achebe, the Nigerian writer said, "Real tragedy never ends; it goes on hopelessly forever. Achebe was referring to a situation in Nigeria, but he could as easily been talking about racism in the U.S.
In a Black History Month special, I spoke to the Bartholomew County Library in Columbus, Indiana. My talk was promoted as "From The Help's Point of View." (For my thoughts on The Help, see another blog entry.) I am writing here about a discussion on race, that perennially taboo subject, in a "mixed" group--meaning blacks and whites in the same room. I am actually weary of talking about The Help, but the book/movie has obviously hit a nerve in America; two nerves, actually, one black, one white. Despite enormous progress, the U.S. is still a racially divided nation. It's just that the division is now no longer socially acceptable or legally viable.
Most blacks know that the vast majority of whites never want to talk about racism, so like them, I have often tiptoed around racial issues or broached them in a way designed not to offend delicate white sensibilities. In the words of one audience member, "We have swept racism under the rug for so long that the carpet has become too lumpy to walk on."
I decided to do a little cleaning under the rug; to invite a candid discussion. The audience was small enough (about fifty people) and mixed enough (about ten blacks, one self-identified gay man, a Hispanic family and the remainder white) so that we could have a discussion and easily see who was speaking.
I began by declaring that we are all the same, but perceive things differently because of the circumstances of our births and our particular experiences. I then asked how many people there had worked as domestic help--about four hands went up, one of them white. I asked how many had employed domestic help—about twenty hands went up, two of them black.
I shared with the audience that most blacks saw The Help, both novel and movie as a sanitized version of what actually happened in Mississippi in the 1960s. At the time, blacks were being killed and mercilessly beaten for trying to register to vote, among other things. I also pointed out that despite the title, the book was Skeeter’s story, not the story of the help. Skeeter is the one who triumphs in the end. We don’t know what happens to the black women she leaves behind, yet the tremendous popularity of this book is an indication that most readers find this storyline quite satisfying. Several members of last night’s audience agreed that it was an inspiring book because Skeeter had helped the black women fight back.
I discovered that many whites felt that by reading and enjoying The Help, they now better understand blacks and have taken a step toward improved race relations. They did not want to hear that this “lovely, moving story” is barely credible. In their keen disappointment that I did not see it the same way, they accused me of making “too much” of a work of fiction; after all, one woman said, “It’s not a documentary.” My response was that millions of book sales and a popular movie had made much of The Help. I am merely trying to understand why this not-particularly-profound work of fiction has struck such a chord. The discussion went on from there even including the “N” words—nigger and Negro.
I don't expect that any hearts or minds were changed, but we talked openly about racial misconceptions and the world did not explode. A bit of dust was cleared from under the carpet, but it's still plenty lumpy.
Here are some of the memorable exchanges.
A woman expressed her disappointment in my talk because she had come expecting to hear an "uplifting" story about how I went from being a maid to a successful writer.
Another woman thought I was exceptionally brave to speak the truth about racism to a largely white audience, although she lamented she could tell it didn't do any good.
When I was asked what Indiana was like while I was growing up in the forties and fifties, I responded, "It was as racist and segregated as anyplace below the Mason-Dixon line, except that there were no signs that said White and Colored." A woman on the front row who appeared younger than I am, felt privileged to interrupt me by shouting, "That's not true!" I asked if she was disputing the accuracy of my experience. She said I was misrepresenting Indiana. In order to disprove what I'd said, she told us a story. When she was a child her parents took the family to a Howard Johnsons somewhere in Indiana. There was a sign on the door that said No Negroes Allowed. When her parents saw the sign, they put the family back in the car and drove away. This should have been an ironically funny story, except that she was using it to "prove" that not all whites were racists because her parents weren't. Such are the distorted lenses through which race is viewed in America.
Another exchange occurred when someone admonished me for talking about racism when things are so much better now. Then another member of the audience shared his experience of a month ago. He is a corporate exec who was calling on a client in Martinsville, Indiana when the building in which they were meeting was surrounded by Klan members in full regalia.
The fact that he lived to tell the tale is an indication that things are indeed better now.
In a Black History Month special, I spoke to the Bartholomew County Library in Columbus, Indiana. My talk was promoted as "From The Help's Point of View." (For my thoughts on The Help, see another blog entry.) I am writing here about a discussion on race, that perennially taboo subject, in a "mixed" group--meaning blacks and whites in the same room. I am actually weary of talking about The Help, but the book/movie has obviously hit a nerve in America; two nerves, actually, one black, one white. Despite enormous progress, the U.S. is still a racially divided nation. It's just that the division is now no longer socially acceptable or legally viable.
Most blacks know that the vast majority of whites never want to talk about racism, so like them, I have often tiptoed around racial issues or broached them in a way designed not to offend delicate white sensibilities. In the words of one audience member, "We have swept racism under the rug for so long that the carpet has become too lumpy to walk on."
I decided to do a little cleaning under the rug; to invite a candid discussion. The audience was small enough (about fifty people) and mixed enough (about ten blacks, one self-identified gay man, a Hispanic family and the remainder white) so that we could have a discussion and easily see who was speaking.
I began by declaring that we are all the same, but perceive things differently because of the circumstances of our births and our particular experiences. I then asked how many people there had worked as domestic help--about four hands went up, one of them white. I asked how many had employed domestic help—about twenty hands went up, two of them black.
I shared with the audience that most blacks saw The Help, both novel and movie as a sanitized version of what actually happened in Mississippi in the 1960s. At the time, blacks were being killed and mercilessly beaten for trying to register to vote, among other things. I also pointed out that despite the title, the book was Skeeter’s story, not the story of the help. Skeeter is the one who triumphs in the end. We don’t know what happens to the black women she leaves behind, yet the tremendous popularity of this book is an indication that most readers find this storyline quite satisfying. Several members of last night’s audience agreed that it was an inspiring book because Skeeter had helped the black women fight back.
I discovered that many whites felt that by reading and enjoying The Help, they now better understand blacks and have taken a step toward improved race relations. They did not want to hear that this “lovely, moving story” is barely credible. In their keen disappointment that I did not see it the same way, they accused me of making “too much” of a work of fiction; after all, one woman said, “It’s not a documentary.” My response was that millions of book sales and a popular movie had made much of The Help. I am merely trying to understand why this not-particularly-profound work of fiction has struck such a chord. The discussion went on from there even including the “N” words—nigger and Negro.
I don't expect that any hearts or minds were changed, but we talked openly about racial misconceptions and the world did not explode. A bit of dust was cleared from under the carpet, but it's still plenty lumpy.
Here are some of the memorable exchanges.
A woman expressed her disappointment in my talk because she had come expecting to hear an "uplifting" story about how I went from being a maid to a successful writer.
Another woman thought I was exceptionally brave to speak the truth about racism to a largely white audience, although she lamented she could tell it didn't do any good.
When I was asked what Indiana was like while I was growing up in the forties and fifties, I responded, "It was as racist and segregated as anyplace below the Mason-Dixon line, except that there were no signs that said White and Colored." A woman on the front row who appeared younger than I am, felt privileged to interrupt me by shouting, "That's not true!" I asked if she was disputing the accuracy of my experience. She said I was misrepresenting Indiana. In order to disprove what I'd said, she told us a story. When she was a child her parents took the family to a Howard Johnsons somewhere in Indiana. There was a sign on the door that said No Negroes Allowed. When her parents saw the sign, they put the family back in the car and drove away. This should have been an ironically funny story, except that she was using it to "prove" that not all whites were racists because her parents weren't. Such are the distorted lenses through which race is viewed in America.
Another exchange occurred when someone admonished me for talking about racism when things are so much better now. Then another member of the audience shared his experience of a month ago. He is a corporate exec who was calling on a client in Martinsville, Indiana when the building in which they were meeting was surrounded by Klan members in full regalia.
The fact that he lived to tell the tale is an indication that things are indeed better now.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
WRITING FOR MYSELF AND HOPING
Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self. Cyril Connolly
A response to “Would the Bard Have Survived the Web?”
by SCOTT TUROW, PAUL AIKEN and JAMES SHAPIRO
I am a member and admirer of the Authors Guild, and I understand why the Guild is challenging the new technology changing the book publishing industry as we have known it. In my opinion, however, this change is for the better.
I write for two reasons: to discover who I am and then to share what I’ve discovered with as many people as are interested. In the words of my favorite writer, James Baldwin, my writing may hurt or offend my readers, “but in order for me to do it, it had to hurt me first. I can only tell you about yourself as much as I can face about myself.” I’d also like to think that my writing does what Baldwin says it should: “excavate the experience of the people who produced [me].”
I have had twelve books published; most of which are now out of print. I intend to republish some of my titles because a market still exists for them, just not enough of a market to matter to my New York publishers. By using the new technology to print copies as they are requested (Print-on-Demand), I can sell books via my website so long as I want. Or sell them as downloads to e-readers. My first book was self-published in 1986 when established publishers were not interested in my material for other reasons. Even then, without the Internet and POD, I sold more copies of the book I published myself than any major publisher sold of the titles they brought out. From that experience, I concluded that no other producer of my work will put as much effort into promoting my books as I will. Now that technological advances have made it easier for me to access potential customers, I am delighted.
Amazon and Google don’t frighten me because I am not a profit-making corporation. I see those two greedy behemoths as hatchets chopping away at the icebergs that have controlled the passage between creative artists and their audiences. I am happier for the greater exposure Amazon and Google provide for my work than I am concerned about abuses of copyright law. I know I live in a capitalist culture where “property” is nearly as sacred as life itself, but I want my “property” to reach as many eyes as possible. Major publishers’ need to satisfy stockholders and burnish bottom lines and that has always left “midlist” writers like me starving for attention and royalties. We “midlisters” don’t have much to lose from changes in the industry. Who knows, this may be the best thing that’s happened for us in a long time.
I do understand why the best selling authors are disturbed; they actually get rich from their books—by sales to readers and/or from movie options. They stand to lose significant income. However, some of us are writing more for satisfaction than remuneration—writing primarily for the love of it because the money has not been forthcoming. Consequently, we are not panicked that someone may copy a passage from one of our books and share it with other readers. In fact, I welcome it. The more people who find what I write compelling enough to share, the better I like it.
I predict that the new technology will open more opportunities for the majority of writers, just as the digital era has increased opportunities for musicians, news broadcasters, and political dissenters. In an experiment, Louis CK, a comedian, put out a brand new standup special, made it easy as possible to buy, download and enjoy, free of any restrictions. He wondered if, “Everyone [would] just go and steal it? Will they pay for it? And how much money can be made by an individual in this manner?” According to his web site, within a few days, Louis had sold enough downloads to recover his production costs plus.
The first people to feel the pinch as technology creates these new openings are not the creative artists, but the people in the middle who have controlled the artists’ access to their audiences. Eventually (and that could mean within the coming decade), most writers will create their work and sell it directly to their audiences either via the Internet or as they speak and/or perform before live groups. Sounds promising to me.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
SISTER CITIZEN: SHAME, STEREOTYPES AND BLACK WOMEN IN AMERICA by Melissa V. Harris-Perry
First of all, you’ve got to love a scholarly book that opens with a poem to set the tone, Kate Rushin’s “Bridge Poem.” I haven’t been in academia for a long while, so maybe this is how they roll now, but still I’m impressed!
This sister can write! Melissa Harris-Perry has written a textbook-worthy tome that is an engaging and compelling read. Sister Citizen has all the footnotes, tables and graphs you’d expect from an academician, but they don’t get in the way of the story.
I thought I knew all about the stereotypes of black women Harris-Perry covers, but then I’d never read a thoroughly researched documentation of them. I also thought at my age I was beyond being shocked, but Sister Citizen describes some atrocities that actually stunned me. Along with other works on black life by young scholars, this kind of research on a neglected topic exonerates my long-ago decision. I dropped out of graduate studies decades ago because my dissertation topic on African American literature was deemed “academically invalid.” This was near the beginning of the bitter struggle to get universities to accept Black/African American Studies as credible. Apparently, however, according to an incident at Duke University that Harris-Perry writes about, that legitimacy is still being questioned in some places.
If anything makes reading this work difficult, it is the subject matter, especially for a black woman. As I read the chapter on “Myths” discussing the prevailing images that have been cultivated about black women, I relived painful memories of my own experiences. I escaped being expected to be a Mammy, but many times I’ve been perceived as the Angry Black Woman, usually because I refused to submit to someone else’s idea of who I should be. Admittedly, there have also been occasions I’ve relished the role and played it for all it was worth to clear space for myself in antagonistic environments. My mother was so frightened by the myth of promiscuity that she verbally shoved me into marriage long before I was ready. She was terrified that her twenty-something daughter would be seen as a “loose” woman.
As Harris-Perry says, “These myths make black women feel ashamed—and shame has sweeping consequences for black women’s lives and politics.” (“Shame” deserves and gets a whole chapter.) It is disappointing to learn just how debilitating these stereotypes remain for black women fifty years after the civil rights movement. At the time we were involved in that struggle, I thought we were unraveling the misinformation. Of course, it was naïve of me to think a few years of passionate activism would repeal hundreds of years of profitable (for some) American traditions. Harris-Perry doesn’t just reiterate and document the impact of these myths on black women, but also shows how the myths work to shape public policy.
What I possibly love most about this book is how the author uses classic literature like Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Bluest Eye (two of my favorite novels) to explicate her narrative. And the motif of the crooked room is a brilliant and efficient description of black women’s effort to be themselves in American society.
Harris-Perry presents splendid examples of times when black women did not find a soft place to fall within the African American community. She also examines the depictions and roles of women in Katrina and other disasters. And she explains how Tyler Perry’s film interpretation of For Colored Girls Who Considered Suicide When the Rainbow Is Enuf subverted Ntozake Shange’s original message. Sister Citizen closes with stories of well-known black women who battled powerful forces to stand firmly straight in the crooked room, including the country’s highest profile black woman, Michelle Obama.
This is a nutritive book including so much more than I’ve indicated here. Sister Citizen would be instructive for every American, but in particular, I wish every black woman would read it. This book examines and reveals reflexive behaviors we’ve engaged in and accepted for a long time, but that do not always serve us well. In particular, I saw myself in the chapter on “Strength.” It took many years for me to understand that being the proverbial “strong black woman” was draining me physically and emotionally. I had crafted such an impervious self-image that I felt deep shame when I needed to ask for help. Harris-Perry delineates the ways in which the laudable characteristic of strength can be counter-productive; something I had to learn the hard way.
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