It's All About Control

This year we celebrate the 40^th anniversary of one of the most important decisions in American history, the Roe vs. Wade decision.  January 22, 1973 the Supreme Court decided that “a right to privacy under the due process clause of the 14^th Amendment extended to a woman’s decision to have an abortion.”  What this decision means to me is that the right to control of my body is my own.

I’m sure some of you ladies are thinking that of course, the right to control your body is your own.  Why wouldn’t it be?  Men, of course, never think about this.  They never have to.  The control of women is not only relegated to control of the body.  It is also control of education, economics, legal and political systems.  So let’s just take a moment and go over this control issue in regards to women.

Since the beginning of recorded history, every aspect of being a woman has been controlled by men.  If you believe the words of the Bible, the first sin was committed by a woman.  Ever since then, it has been assumed that women needed controlling.  In continuing that biblical theme, people were conceived by men.  Going through the book of Genesis, there are chapters upon chapter of who begat whom.  None of those myriad of names listed were women.  I grant you that it is the chromosomes in sperm that determine the sex of a child but still it must be birthed by a woman.

Moving further through the Bible, women were the downfall of any number of men.  David, Moses’ daughters, Samson – the list goes on.  There are verses that have been interpreted that tell women how to submit to their husbands, what to wear and how to behave.  Yet there are very few interpretations specifically pertaining to men.

For centuries, women were not allowed to own property except by virtue of marriage.  Daughters were allotted less land than sons if the father died and the daughter was unmarried.  Often the daughter’s share of land was given over to the son for safekeeping.  In some countries of the world, women are still not allowed to own property or have money.  If a wife works outside the home, her wages are the property of the husband.  Wives and children are at the mercy of the husband and his family.  If the husband dies, his wife can be cast out and the children become the property of his family.

Education of women in the early history of the United States was relegated to reading and learning how to tend to a home.  It was thought unnecessary to give a woman access to a high school or college education except as a valuable lesson in obtaining a husband.  This is still the case in many countries.  Last year in Pakistan, a teenage girl was shot in the head for trying to attend school.  Still there is hope.

In the West African countries of Ghana, Benin and Togo, billboards dot the land encouraging people to educate their daughters.  We can only hope this trend will continue to strive and thrive.

Women gained the right to vote here in 1920 after years of protest.  New Zealand gave women the right to vote in 1893 and Kuwait as late as 2005.  Saudi Arabia still does not allow women to vote although this is scheduled to change in 2015.  We can only hope the ruling family does not change its mind again.

Although women lead several Fortune 500 companies, many women’s lives and wellbeing is dependent upon a man.  As late as the 1970’s, women were not allowed to have bank accounts.  One of the many enlightening episodes of the television show “All in the Family” shows a frustrated Edith Bunker attempting to establish an account on her own.  She eventually finds the courage to inform the banker that she is as deserving of respect and service as her husband.   Because of those sexist attitudes, many women found themselves homeless after the death of or divorce from a husband. 

This brings us back to control of one’s body.  Prior to the mid-1970’s marital rape was not a crime in the United States.  Not until 1993 did all 50 states make marital rape a crime.  As with many of the issued mentioned, there are many countries of the world where marital rape is still legal. 

This violation of basic human rights extends to issues of domestic violence as well.  In the US, men who routinely beat their wives were walked around the block to cool off while the wife was advised against pressing charges even as she bled.  It was determined better for a woman to have a beating husband than a cheating husband.  The financial wellbeing of her family was tied to a violent man regardless of the emotional, mental and physical costs.  Women were told satisfying her husband’s desires was her duty no matter what.  Submission in every way was the spoken law of the land.  In other countries, women cannot bring domestic violence charges against their husbands because women are first and foremost the property of her husband.  We have all become aware of the issues of honor killings in some countries.  And the use of rape as instrument of war is widely known and has finally been recognized by the United Nations as such.

As we women in the US breathe a sigh of relief that the we do not have to fear for our lives if we attend school, commit adultery or refuse our husbands, there is still much to be done to obtain and maintain control of our bodies.  Topless beaches are only declared topless if women go without tops.  Men do it all the time.  I don’t know about you but I don’t find every topless male appealing yet that male can go topless without breaking the law.  Movies are rated X only if there is full frontal male nudity for any length of time.  Women, on the other hand, can walk, talk and do any number of things in the nude and the film is only rated R.  A telling example of that is Robert Altman’s film “Short Cuts.”  Julianne Moore has a five minute conversation with Matthew Modine baring her genitals for the entire conversation as he calmly irons her skirt.  Can you imagine the uproar if that had been the reverse?

As someone who is against the death penalty, against the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan and believes in true control (the removal of all guns from everyone including the police), I am stridently pro-choice.  Some of you may find that contradictory but I don’t.  I’m not in favor of late term abortions except in cases where the mother is in danger.  But I don’t believe any woman should have to endure a pregnancy because others believe she should. 

I have the right to control with whom I share my time.  I have the right to determine how I want to be educated.  I have the right to speak, own property, control my finances and cast a vote.  And I will fight to the death to keep control of my body.

If you don’t believe that, try me.

Taking Offense

I am unashamedly politically incorrect.  Blind people are blind.  Deaf people are deaf.  Midgets and dwarfs are midgets and dwarfs.  Retarded people are retarded.  You get the drift.  I don’t have the time or the inclination to deal with the various and sundry euphemisms people use to describe others when words like blind and deaf work perfectly well and are perfectly understood.

This does not mean that I’m insensitive and if so, then so be it.  It is never my intent to harm or insult anyone.  I just don’t buy into the idea that everyone takes offense to words that are not offensive to begin with.  Calling a Mexican a wetback is offensive.  Calling a blind person blind is not.  And if you can’t tell the difference, then the offense is yours.

When did we become a society of people who are so sensitive that one has to monitor every word that comes out of our mouths?  What happened to freedom of speech?  What happed to expressing an opposing opinion?  What happened to opposing ideas? What happened to freedom of speech?

I’ll tell you what happened.  Politically correctness.  We have become so sensitive as a society that everyone is afraid to express a thought, an idea or an opinion for fear of offending someone.  A discussion of ice cream is fraught with thought because we are afraid to state our belief that one flavor might be better than another or that we might like one favor better than another. 

What exacerbates the situation is the quickness in which we receive information or misinformation.  Before a person has the opportunity to address something said, that individual has been identified and crucified in the press.  As a journalist myself, I understand getting the scoop.  But I was trained to get the truth with the scoop.  I was made to verify sources and get the whole story before reporting a story.  It would seem in this plugged in world, we get the story and eventually we get the truth.  By that time, the damage has been done and statements are run in part instead of their entirety.  People are vilified without explaining what was really said and what the context was when the supposed offensive statement was made.  And who decides the statement was offensive?  If the person in the conversation isn’t offended, who are we to decide otherwise? 

We are really hypocritical when it comes to public figures.  Under no circumstances do I believe that everyone in the public eye loves everyone else.  They are people too with prejudices like the rest of us.  Do we honestly believe none of them has an opinion we might find contrary to our own?  Don’t they have the right to express their thoughts or opinions like the rest of us?  Could any of us stand up to the scrutiny of the media if we were in conversation with those we know?  I certainly wouldn’t.  At some time or another, I’ve offended every group that can be identified by race, creed, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion or gender.  I offer no apologies for any of it and I expect no one to apologize to me for doing the same.  I prefer my supposed offenses straight up with no chaser.

People might wonder whether or not I believe anyone has the right to be offended.  Of course I do.  What I question is the why.  I’m not offended when someone calls me short.  I simply answer that I’m fun size.  However I’m aware that I am short.  I’m not offended when someone speaks of my short, natural hair.  My hair is very short and I wear my natural hair.  I’m not offended when someone refers to me as fat.  I am a size 16 and at my height, this is fat.  I haven’t been a size 2 since I was 17.  When I see size 2 again, I’ll be worm food.   I’ve been called arrogant by some and a smart ass by others.  I will not begin to tell all the names I been called because I’m a Black woman.  Not one phrase or word offends me because I know exactly who and what I am.  In order to hurt me or my feelings, you have to know me.  Since so few people really do, I glide through supposed offensives like an Olympic skater on ice.

What offends me?  Stupidity and the various isms that come along with it offends me.  Being rude offends me.  Hatred of any kind offends me.  Living in a country filled with riches and seeing people starving and living homeless offends me.  Politicians waging war in my name offends me.  Unfair laws offend me.  The horrible way children and the elderly are treated in this country.  The current state of our school system and our justice system offends me.  The prison industrial complex offends me.  The fact that health, education, shelter, food and fair wages are not considered basic human rights offends me.  Are you getting the point?

There are a great many things that offend me.  Calling me out of my name or describing me in unpleasant terms will never offend me.  But let me catch you berating a child, kick a dog or hit a senior.  You’ll be able to add another offensive term to your description of me.  Short, fat, bald, Black woman went ghetto on me.  Run and tell that.

Fried Chicken Watermelon Woman

My dearly departed friend, Eyvonne, used to tell the story of being in the grocery store one morning when a man walked up to her and said “Girl, you remind me of fried chicken and watermelon.”  Being the diplomatic woman that she was, she merely smiled and walked away.  From that moment on, when the two of us discussed being big Black women, we referred to ourselves and others as Fried Chicken, Watermelon Women. 

We laughed at this because that man meant it as a compliment.  Fried chicken watermelon women are known for their cooking skills, their mothering skills, their common sense and their strength.  She was a feminist before anyone ever invented the word.

My friend, Carolyn, tells a similar story about going to a karaoke bar.  She was there with several of her large friends.  When they got up to do a song, all the White folks sat up, ready to enjoy the show they were about to witness because they just knew these women could blow.  Carolyn said she even heard a comment or two to that effect.  You see fried chicken watermelon women have got to know how to sing.  Folks have been watching Aretha do it for years.  Unfortunately, my dear friend and her friends can’t sing a lick.  The crowd found that out fairly quickly and that stereotype bit the dust.

.

We all know these women.  Some of us are these women.  Many of them are in your family as well as my own.  These are the big boned, big hipped, big breasted, big bellied women of indiscriminate height and weight who often have several children behind them yelling “Mama” or “Big Mama” or “Ma dear.”  Friday night you can find the young fried chicken watermelon women in a club with her skinny friends who brought her along to hold the purses.  But as Chris Rock notes in his comedy act, she knows she is the sexiest thing walking.  She has her hair done, her sharp black dress on wearing an ankle bracelet holding on for dear life.  She has on those pumps with the pump fat that looks like bread baking in her shoes.  She looks over the strutting cocks that we refer to as men and thinks to herself “Yea, I got a gut but there is damn fine stuff under this gut.” 

This is the woman comedian Gary Owens refers to as Sister Johnson in the Black church.  When asked who invited this pale, White man to the church, he merely answers “Sister Johnson.”  Every Black church has a Sister Johnson and you can bet she is a fried chicken watermelon woman.  If there isn’t a Sister Johnson, there is a Mother Johnson.  She sits in the third pew to the right wearing her Sunday crown, fanning with the paper church fan mounted on a plywood stick, moaning as the pastor works up steam, yelling a hearty “Amen, go head and preach now, sho nuff.”

We know these women as the blessings they are and not the stereotype that has followed them from the days of Gone with the Wind where Mammy reigned supreme.

When Eyvonne and I worked at IBM, we got an earful and an eyeful on fried chicken watermelon women.  IBM must have a factory where they roll out pretty little light skinned Black women especially in the positions where clients are involved.  Eyvonne, me and others like us were relegated to being administrative assistants because we went about our work unseen and unheard.  We ordered and set up food, we made hotel and airline arrangements.  We put together power point presentations.  We typed reports and checked expenses.  We did mailings, filed reports and answered the phone.  But we did not appear in public except to clear tables, fetch coffee and deliver paper. 

Imagine the surprise when they found out Eyvonne actually had a degree in business.  Imagine the shock when they read an article of mine in the Tribune.  You could have bought them cheap.  All of a sudden we were recognized as worthwhile human beings.  Although this realization didn’t change either our work status or our income, it did fill us with a sense of pride.  For the first time at IBM, we were recognized for our brains and not what we brought to lunch.

For me, this was a turning point.  I begin to shop for things at Victoria’s Secret and Frederick’s of Hollywood.  I own bustiers, a leather bra and some absolutely hoochie mama items I would never thought possible before.  I began to strut my stuff and this new found confidence had Hispanic men yelling “Hey Mommy” as I walked down the street.  It had brothers yelling “Damn Girl” and even a White boy or two checked me out on the street. 

But this new found confidence was not about how I looked but how I felt.  I learned to enjoy being the smartest person in the room sometimes.  I learned to not only boldly show my figure but to proudly exhibit my abilities and talents.  And I definitely have some to display.  I paid mightily for my graduate education and use it to the nth degree.  I may not move as fast as the skinnys but the flies still can’t catch me.

Being a fried chicken watermelon woman certainly has its perils but it also has its perks.  To paraphrase that old commercial, I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, eat til I’m full and make him glad he’s a man.  Cause I’m a fried chicken watermelon woman.