———————

On Wednesday, The Department of Women’s Studies and American Studies–along with African-American Studies and TRIOTA–hosted approximately 100 students, faculty, and staff from across campus to discuss the meaning of the Trayvon Martin tragedy and its aftermath. Together, a UMD Theatre Ensemble,  Dr. Jo Paoletti, Dr. Damion Thomas, Fareed Hayat, JD (The People’s Law Firm), Dr. Sheri Parks, Gabriel Peoples, Dr. Jo Richardson, and myself gave rousing remarks that facilitated a larger discussion–which was complex, rich, emotional, powerful, and even tense at points. Students asked rich questions and gave personal and political responses which kept the event grounded in the material aspects of racial profiling, racial injustice, and the complex workings of race and gender, sexuality, and class. This was a successful event and as the organizer, I am grateful to all who supported and participated. The event was taped by the College of ARHU videographer and will be available soon for pedagogical uses and our departmental archives.

After the event, there was a Vigil held at Nyumburu Cultural Center. THIS is where the power of performance was most on display. The national “1000 Campus Vigil for Trayvon” collective was invited to campus to organize the vigil. With the vigil, also came a collective of men from various religious and political backgrounds to speak to the significance of this tragedy. Unfortunately, there was a range of bodies, but not a range of perspectives.  I stood–with several colleagues and students–at this makeshift campus rally, where men from the Nation of Islam, New Black Panther Party, and other entities lamented the loss of Trayvon Martin as the loss of another black man from the household. One man suggested that such losses, left young boys to be raised by their mothers, teaching them how to be more like women than men. As if no alternative outcomes were available; or, to say that being like mommy was somehow marked more problematic than being like daddy. I looked over at one of my students almost in tears and seeing others ready to walk away.  Feeling as if I was swimming in a sea of something akin to black masculine truculence, I HAD TO DO SOMETHING!!

I moved from within the crowd toward the front of the “rally,” where I saw Dr. Ron Ziegler who is the Director of the Nyumburu Cultural Center. I asked him, “what are you going to do to salvage what was just said to our young women, to these young people?” He gestured for me to speak to the guy who had spewed such rhetorical venom. Before I could say “umm,” he had gestured for him to come over. Quickly, I postured–knowing that my queer affect may be read as unworthy of his respect, attention, etc. Like clockwork, I turned on my performance of masculine bravado–learned largely while in the field talking to traditionally masculine men who practiced sexual discretion– and asked him if I could speak. “Yeah brotha, whats your name?” I reply, “Professor McCune.” And of course, he would then introduce me as “Professor McCOON.” The name I love to hate.

As I walked up to the mic I knew that I would have to call on the baptist preacher in me–as that rhetorical style would be the only one that these men were going to listen to. You know the style… the same voice that probably instilled these “nuclear” family politics and secured this framework that policing black women’s bodies was the only way to have black (male)community progress. So I began to affirm their anger and angst, echoing “It is true that Trayvon Martin is dead today because his body was being read as black and male and deemed suspicious; It is true that justice has not been served.” And from there, I departed from where they may have thought I was going to go….

The rest of this intervention was surprisingly recorded, by a student who happened to be in the audience. 

Indeed, Lorde’s famous words speak precisely to this experience, “When I dare to be powerful – to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.”

 ———————

GO DR. MCCUNE!! What a powerful intervention in an overly common script in black radical communities. 

The Power of Performance -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

I hurt myself today. I was on Twitter talking about rape culture & this triggering victim blaming post at VSB. And it triggered the hell out of me so I’m just going to say up front that this is coming from that place. See, I said the things I needed to say, but now I have to say something else & it is too long for twitter. And although I am directing this specifically to black men, overall this is something I feel needs to be said to everyone. Black women (like me) are more likely to be victims of domestic violence and sexual assault than almost any other group (the numbers are also incredibly high for NDN women), and we are out here on the front lines every day. Black men expect us to have their backs in battles with institutionalized racism. And mostly we do. But, we’re not seeing a whole lot of return on that investment when it comes to institutionalized racialized misogyny. And that fucking hurts.

Yes, on an individual level some of you are right there in the trenches with us. But some of you? Man look, I know life is hard for everyone of color on some level, but we shouldn’t have to worry about being safe from men in our communities as well as men outside our communities. And yes, men are victimized too. I know that, but I’m a woman and I’m going to speak from my experience in this post. Because here’s the thing, it’s easy to say that women should know better, do better at staying away from bad guys. But, it’s not like they’re wearing a sign around their necks. And often those guys have friends who are decent dudes. So we assume that they are decent too until they show us something different.

Sometimes they show us early enough & lightly enough that we get out of the situation basically unscathed. But sometimes? Sometimes your boy that you know ain’t shit that’s been dogging some broad out? Yeah, he proceeds to fuck that broad up the first time she catches wind of a problem. And instead of jumping bad at him, too many of you start blaming her. That’s a terrible thing to do. And you know it. Because your boy has already told enough jokes, or said enough off shit that you wouldn’t let him near your sister, your baby cousin, or your best friend. So, why is he still your boy?

Real talk, I have some female friends that are messy who don’t do half the shit I see some dudes out here doing, and I keep them away from my guy friends. Because they’re messy & I don’t want anyone I care about to get hurt. If I could I’d warn off some other folks too. But my friends aren’t rapists or abusers. People like that don’t get to stay in my life. Some of you are friends with dudes who are both. Hell, some of you reading this (whether you admit it to yourself or not) are guilty of those behaviors. And while I’m all for redemption or whatever, I really need to know how much shit has to happen to black women at the hands of black men, before y’all start checking each other? What does it take for men of color to really collectively dig into confronting their privilege & misogyny? We know some of you hate us, now we want to know what those of you who don’t hate us are going to do about it?

An Open Letter From A Black Woman -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

First, state your credentials. It’s okay to be a woman, but not a black woman. Their lived experiences are immaterial and can be dismissed as merely anecdotal. Make it clear that you are not racist or sexist, you are merely concerned about their plight. What plight? Well, pick one. Or several. Marriage, children, lack of the above, too much education, not enough education, welfare, whatever you think will sell. It only matters that you highlight their troublesome natures. Whatever it is, you must be sure to make it clear that they aren’t like other women. They are failing to perform in some way that affects the whole of society, even if you can’t quite explain how or why their personal lives are public property. Further, rely heavily on the idea of research that shows the problem is a problem. Never mention exactly when that research was done, or who were the subjects of it. Too much context may unnecessarily complicate the conversation.

Utilize stereotypes whenever possible, preferably ones that tie into the Mammy, Jezebel, or Sapphire tropes. Describe black women in ways that play up their sexuality and remove their humanity. After all they are Other, so their skin is a food stuff, the space between their thighs is mysterious, and they have never ever been innocent. No need to mention virginity or purity, even when speaking of black female infants, your focus must be on their sexuality. If you are speaking of black mothers make it clear that they need guidance, financial support, or salvation. What salvation? Well that all depends on whether they work too little and thus are on welfare, or work too much and thus are neglecting their children. There is no point at which they can balance work and family, because again they are Other and that is not possible for them. They are emasculating and thus unworthy of relationships, or the key to being masculine with their all knowing sexuality that is present from birth. Unrapeable, they can be trusted to raise any children but their own, and are sexually available until they become sexless.

They exist to be support systems, whether for men of all colors or women of every color but black. No need to mention their needs, hopes, dreams, or concerns. They have none, even if they do occasionally speak of themselves as real people with feelings. Their voices are too loud, too uneducated, or simply too aggressive. They are always angry about something, but their feelings aren’t real so they don’t matter. Be sure to specify how reasonable you are in the face of their unreasonable behavior. Write of how you studied them at a safe distance, while proclaiming that some of your closest friends are black women. No need to know anything about those close friends, but their names since all that matters is that you have them as proof that you know your subject, and are not racist or sexist.

Contrast them with women of other races, always making sure to highlight that other women are real women, while black women are simply black. Feel free to make blanket statements about their religious beliefs, educational levels, income levels, and family dynamics. All of it is true because you say it is, and you are the expert in black women, not any actual black women. If they are offended by your words, remind them of your credentials and refuse to engage in a conversation with them until they can be less emotional. Point to their tone as a reason to doubt the veracity of their experiences. After all they are only black women and thus they know nothing, own nothing, and are worth nothing but what you say they are.

How To Write About Black Women -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

Back in 2009, I wrote a post about race & self-identification and how being Black & X is treated differently than any other form of being multiracial. (The comments were special & filled with wank from someone determined to insist that being multiracial in America is just one overarching experience.) At the time I was specifically discussing being Black & White, but really that whole thing about the One Drop Rule & being visibly of African descent applies to being Black & Anything. Case in point this discussion of the Freedmen, the Dawes Roll, & why so many activists are rushing to insist that Freedmen = All Black with no Cherokee ties because somehow the blood of black slaves nullifies any Cherokee blood that would have been present. There were plenty of people born from the same set of parents, who found themselves sorted onto a different list from their siblings after slavery was over.

Want to guess who was most likely to be sorted onto the Freedmen list regardless of parentage? If you said the people who looked Black? Chances are excellent that you’re right. Now, a basic biology lesson about phenotypes vs. genotypes could be inserted here, but I’m going to assume my readers already know that appearance doesn’t really indicate ancestry. After all, being able to pass or not doesn’t nullify mixed race parentage. Really, you can have a white parent and still be darker than a paper bag. My great grandmother (listed as Blackfoot, but given that she was in Arkansas probably Choctaw) passed as a light skinned black woman to her neighbors. It’s anyone’s guess what she was running from when she married my great grandfather, but the reality is that her children didn’t lose that NDN blood just because they came out darker than a paper bag.

To deny heritage based on phenotype is already offensive as fuck, without then turning around and pretending history didn’t happen. It’s past time the cultural & social baggage of imbibed racism was addressed. Everyone wants to call black activists (especially black female activists) on the carpet for being too loud & not being inclusive enough to be silent. Welp, pretending that you get to turn to us for support, and then engage in bigotry against us and it is a-okay isn’t going to work out. We see you, we know this dance (we’ve already done it with white feminists, LGBT folks, black men etc.), and we’re not going to have our humanity or our heritage denied because you still want to act like blackness taints. And yes, I know you have a cousin, a nephew, a niece, or even a child that is of black heritage so you can’t be racist. That’s what makes this whole argument a sin and a shame. You’ve decided that modern black blood is okay (maybe), but the blood of slave women is not. The history of slavery is uncomfortable for everyone (after all there were some black slave owners too), but coming to terms with it won’t happen as long as people try to pretend that it didn’t have an impact on every aspect of this country.

Race, Heritage, & Reality -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

A thing I’m noticing in pop culture is this idea that black women can’t be traumatized by anything that happens to them. Usually when a female character is sexually assaulted/kidnapped/abused it works to make the audience sympathetic to that character. We certainly see that trope enough in books/movies/TV shows with white characters. In fact such traumatic moments are often used to “redeem” bad girls in popular fiction ranging from soap operas to suspense shows. Yet Tara, Martha, etc are some of the most reviled characters in fandom & are often blamed for the bad things that happen to them.

Tara’s treatment by True Blood fandom is a particularly egregious example of this phenomenon. Fans of the show seem to *hate* her for everything she has ever done, ever might do, or ever had done to her. But as written she has every reason to be the flawed angry woman that is on display because awful things are happening to her & around her. So, why isn’t that ever acknowledged? Why are there still weekly posts filled with Martha hate despite the fact that she isn’t even on the show as a regular?

There’s graveyard humor around R. Kelly’s ability to get away with his serial predation on young black women. We make jokes about it to push away the pain at seeing it writ large that black girls are worthless in the face of fame & money. But, if art reflects life & life reflects art then what does that say about the way black women are being presented and treated? We know we’re human, but does anyone else?

What Price A Black Girl’s Life? -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

Just started reading a new Tumblr called Boobs Don’t Work That Way (thanks Amal!), which is just image after image of badly drawn female anatomy, mostly from comics. Looking at the way male artists depict women, particularly in the breast area, gives the impression that they’re drawing with one hand and playing with their dicks with the other. That’s really the only explanation for this type of bullshit. Why in the world would I want to look at something like that?

Granted, the image of the X-Men’s Rogue above is well drawn and pretty except for the random, unrealistic boobage in the middle. Ugh and Ugh again, people.

I Don’t Read Comics Much, And Here’s The Reason Why -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

The Media vs. Women 

Or: Sexist Assholes Get On TV Way Too Often

somerset:

stfuconservatives:

stfusexists:

This is one of my favorite Youtube videos, I love the Women’s Media Center. Thanks to -ravenclaw to sending it my way and reminding me of it!

This is an incredible video. Anchors and commentators from every major news network have derided women as nagging, mood-swinging, PMS-prone, ball-busting harpies. Watch this video and tell me women are equal in America.

You should watch this if you ever thought to yourself, “I wonder what hypertension feels like.”

From The Angry Black Tumblr | Comment below or Reblog @ Tumblr

So, I’m looking at some of the comments and emails that are flooding my inbox demanding to know all the inner workings of my life when I had the abortion that saved my life. And I know I don’t owe anyone an explanation, but there seems to be an ongoing assumption that I had tons of family support, disposable income in abundance, and that my two kids were self sufficient. At the time my oldest was 8 and my youngest was 1 1/2. My friends are supportive, and one of them stepped in to take care of my kids that night but I’ve never had the kind of family of origin that will pitch in to help me (or each other) with more than the most basic things most of the time. It was better before my grandmother passed away, but she’s been gone a while now and without her we’re not a close family by any stretch of the imagination.

When I say my family will help, I’m mostly referring to my aunts or my husband’s family. My parents? They aren’t helpful. They got the phone call that I was in trouble while they were en route to St Louis for a televangelist’s convention. They suggested I call someone else to come get my kids, and then they continued their drive to St. Louis. I did get a phone call from my mother the night after the surgery. She was more concerned with me interrupting her weekend away than anything else as far as I could tell from the conversation. Admittedly I stopped listening after she launched into her latest version of ” This would be shocking, but this is the same woman that didn’t bother to name me and then got mad when I was 13 and filled out my own birth certificate with the name I’d been using at school instead of the moniker she’d always planned to saddle me with so I wasn’t shocked. It was the last straw for our already tenuous relationship, but that’s a story for another blog.

On the disposable income front…at that point we were a one income family and just barely getting by on that one income. It was cheaper for me to stay home with our two kids (childcare costs in Chicago are astronomical), but that also meant we had very little wiggle room financially. So, there was no question of my husband taking off work for weeks on end to allow me to stay in bed all day every day. And while his family will help to their best abilities, they have their own households to run and must go to their jobs too if they want to pay their bills. Same thing with our friends. I don’t know where people live that folks can just stop working and keep living, but I don’t live there.

Someone else asked why I didn’t take my kids with me to the hospital. Aside from not wanting to traumatize them, there was also the part where my oldest was at school. We lived close enough to his school that he could walk home, but having him come home to an empty house was not an option. Nor was waiting for him to get home since you know, I was bleeding profusely and all. My friend cleaned my blood off the walls and hid my sheets so that my son wouldn’t be scared. As for the demands that I have a c-section just in case a micro-preemie could have survived? You should go look at the survival rates for 20 week preemies again. Death wasn’t going to be averted, it was just a question of whether we both died. There seems to be this assumption that major surgery was a better idea than a less invasive procedure. Umm..no. The first thing discussed when I got to the hospital was the lack of viability for a child born at that point, then there was the part where I was in active labor & had no amniotic fluid when they did the ultrasound. But hey, go ahead and assume you know every detail of what was going on in my life so you can pass judgment on the decisions made by the person actually living it.

Lastly, no I wasn’t paid by Salon or anyone else to write that post. It’s not fiction, and the title of my blog isn’t an indication that my nonfiction should be taken with a grain of salt. It is an indication that I’m a published author of fiction and non fiction. The idea that this was a publicity stunt is laughable. I don’t know what planet some of the folks making that comment are on, but on no planet that I work on is having a blog post about a tragedy a way to boost attention for a closed company. Yes, I said closed. Verb Noire is defunct and has been for some time. My writing career has been developing for years and really, I know enough people to have a good chance at selling the book I’m working on.

Mind you, I wrote that post after an argument on Facebook with someone who insisted (as many people do) that abortion is not a medical procedure and that no one ever needs one. I posted it on my personal blogs & on a blog that I co write with several other angry black women. Most of my posts are made in a similar fashion. Most do not go particularly viral. This one has, and yes I did put myself out there when I agreed to let Salon re-post it. Not for an agenda, but simply to write what happened to me and talk about the fallacy in “No abortion is ever necessary” arguments. Did we file a lawsuit? No. I had a lot of other things to do (like mourn and heal) and the hospital staff that did eventually treat me encouraged me to go through internal channels so that patient care would be improved. I did that, and then for the sake of my sanity and my family I put away what happened to me and got on with the business of living my life.

Some say I should name and shame the doctor that refused to do the procedure. If I knew why he refused I might have done just that, but since I know that there are many possible reasons that he did not do it? I’ve left him to deal with the internal procedures in place. Same thing with the hospital where this happened. I could name it (funnily enough many people have correctly guessed and more than a few remember me naming it when it happened), but I didn’t write this post to shame the hospital any more than I wrote it to shame the doctor. Hard concept to grasp for some, but this post wasn’t about revenge or money. It was about me coming to terms with what happened and about my disdain for a particular pro-life argument. Believe it, don’t believe it. That’s up to you. My life will go on either way.

My life is not your life -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

So, there’s this lawmaker out of Kansas who has lots to say about abortion. He’s currently best known for saying that women should plan ahead in case of rape and not expect their regular insurance to cover an abortion if they want one after being assaulted. And we could spend a lot of time going around about the flaws in his logic, or even hashing out when life begins, but really this post isn’t about any of that. This post is about the idea that anyone besides the pregnant woman should get a vote in what she does with her body after finding out about a pregnancy. For a host of reasons we as a society seem incapable of accepting bodily autonomy in women. This is reflected in the existence of street harassment, rape culture, and the million efforts to dictate whether or not women can control their own reproductive health. This attitude that women are shirking responsibility by opting out of having unwanted children has always boggled my mind.

But then I’m a mom, and I would never want my kids to grow up an unwanted child like I did. I love my kids more than I could ever explain & I do my best to give them the childhood I never had. Because I love them I had an abortion at 20 weeks. It was my 5th pregnancy (I had two miscarriages while I was trying to conceive my sons), and as it turned out my last. It was troubled from the start, I didn’t experience any of the normal indicators of pregnancy, so I found out when I was already 10 weeks along. No missed periods, in fact I was seeing an OB/GYN who specializes in treating fibroids and endometriosis in part because of the increased heaviness of my cycle. When we found out (that standard pregnancy test before surgery is necessary after all) I talked it out with my husband and we debated aborting (I got as far as the clinic), before ultimately deciding that we would try to make it work. My doctor advised me right off the bat that she wasn’t certain of a good outcome and that my pregnancy would be very high risk. I did exactly what she said in terms of taking it easy, because I wanted to give that child the best possible chance.  But the intermittent bleeding wouldn’t stop and I knew that there was a high chance that I would not be able to carry to term.

I was taking an afternoon nap when the hemorrhaging started. Laying in bed with my toddler napping in his room, and waking up to find blood gushing up my body is an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. The placental abruption that my doctor had listed as a possibility was happening and I was going to have to do my best to take care of both of us. Mind you, my husband was at work and my not quite 2 year old sure couldn’t dial 911 for me so I had to make it to the phone & make arrangements for the sleeping toddler as well as his older brother before I could leave the house. I’ll spare you the gory details of my personal splatter flick, but suffice to say by the time I got to the hospital I probably needed a transfusion.

We all knew the pregnancy wasn’t viable, couldn’t be viable with the amount of blood I was losing, but it still took them hours to do anything, because the doctor on call didn’t do abortions. At all. Ever. No one on call that night did them in fact. A very kind nurse risked her job to call a doctor from the Reproductive Health Clinic who was not on call, and asked her to come in to save my life. Fortunately she was home, and even more fortunately she was able to get there relatively quickly. But by the time she got there I was in bad shape. Blood loss had rendered me borderline incoherent, an incredibly ignorant batch of students were fascinated by my case and more interested in studying me than treating me (one had the audacity to show me the ultrasound of our dying child while asking me if it was a planned pregnancy), and then there was the fact that I was on the L & D floor listening to other women have healthy babies while I bled out and the baby I had been trying to save died in my womb.

When the other doctor got there she had me moved to a different wing, got me painkillers (we were many hours into my hospital stay, and no one had bothered to give me anything for the pain despite my screams every time they decided to push on my abdomen or examine me for student edification), and then after checking my labs told us that I would need two bags of blood before she could do anything. Her team (a cadre of students who should all go on to run their own clinics) took turns coming in to check on me and my husband. They all kept assuring me that soon it would be over, and I would feel much better. My husband had to sign the consent for surgery (there was no question of me being competent enough to make decisions), and they took me away along with a third bag of blood to be administered during surgery.

What I didn’t know until much later was that the doctor took my husband aside while they were taking me back. She promised him she would do her best to save me, and then she warned him about the distinct possibility that she would fail. See, that doctor who didn’t do abortions was supposed to have contacted her (or someone else) immediately. He didn’t. His students didn’t either. Because I was their case and they weren’t done with me yet. Or something. Ostensibly there was a communication breakdown and they thought she had been notified, but given the talk about writing a paper on me that I do remember happening over my head? I doubt it. I don’t know if his objections were religious or not, all I know is that when a bleeding woman was brought to him for treatment he refused to do the only thing that could stop the bleeding. Because he didn’t do abortions. Ever.

My two kids at home were going to lose their mother because someone decided that my life was worth less than that of a fetus that wasn’t going to survive any way. Mind you, my husband told them exactly what my regular doctor had said, and the ER doctor had already warned us what would need to happen. But, none of that mattered in the face of this idea that no one needs an abortion. You don’t know what a woman who decides to abort needs, and you shouldn’t need to know in order to trust her to make the best decision for herself.  I don’t care why a woman aborts, all I care is that she has access to safe affordable healthcare. I don’t regret my abortion, and I will never extrapolate my situation to mean that the only time other women should abort is when their life is at stake. Why? Well after the news hit my family that I’d aborted I got a phone call from a cousin who felt the need to tell me that I was wrong to have interfered with God’s plan. In that moment I understood that the kind of people who will judge a woman’s reproductive choices are the kind of people that I don’t want to be.

Abortion Saved My Life -- Originally posted at The Angry Black Woman

“Our findings demonstrate that sexist humor is not simply benign amusement. For men who have sexist attitudes it can create a perceived social norm of tolerance of discrimination against women, and as a result, increase personal tolerance of discrimination against women and even increase willingness to engage in sexist behavior without fears of disapproval.”

—

Humor Research « Social Psychology Lab (via tabularasae)

This should be completely fucking obvious to everyone but for some reason it isn’t.

(via theshyretirer)

I’ll reblog this every time it shows up on my dash.

(via splatterdick)

From The Angry Black Tumblr | Comment below or Reblog @ Tumblr