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.

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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.