She came with me
My trusted friend, guide by my side, with me ’til the end until things changed.
She wanted to be left alone to handle things on her own for me.
Didn’t want no talks or help, she could do it all by herself.
She crafted the plan
Listen to no man
And God, well, “He made me smart so I know He’ll be all right with what I start.” Continue reading
Clearly when we look at the history of our families we get an understanding of why we act the way we do. I know I have the tendency to OVER-administrate because my grandmother, mother and my aunt did this. And I know that I gravitate toward the intellectual and cultural arts because my daddy was an intellectual genius and loved the arts. Family, of course, is just one influencing factor on our thoughts and behaviors. As a (recovering) strong black woman, I realize that I exerted my own strength based on what I saw my foremothers doing, but there were other factors, too. Continue reading
In later chapters I talk about the media’s role in shaping the strong black woman. I also talk some more about my life, and streams of feminism flow through, but I suggest that you read “Feminine Mystique or Mistake” by Diane Passno for a full treatment of feminism’s detriment to the Christian woman. But now, consider this: When I began living my life as a Christian, asking questions of my faith and seeking to please Jesus, I became a thinking Christian. I tested my notions through the lens of a Christian worldview and was forced to reexamine my beliefs.
I found that 1) women and men are not created equal in all ways (Gen. 2:7, 21-22); 2) women should allow their husbands to provide for and protect them (Eph. 5:22-33); 3) because men and women are created different and have different roles, it’s impossible to split everything 50/50 in marriage (Eph. 5:22-23; Gal. 6:1-2); 4) a Christian woman’s body is not her own and she doesn’t have a right to alter its natural function by killing life (1 Cor. 6:19-20); and 5) many people may be attracted to you, including other women, but we must choose according to God’s standards (Matt. 19:4-5; 2 Cor. 6:14).
I believe there has been a perpetual, systematic presentation of the strong black woman that has been used to dupe us. The strong black woman presented over the years does not draw real strength from old wives’ tales, media images or feminism. In fact I believe these three areas, with sin at their root, are the reasons black women who consider themselves strong black women have been walking in their own strength, many times not even knowing this. The bottom line is our strength vs. God’s strength and it is up to us to choose.
Romans 8:1 says, “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, who walk not after the flesh, but after the Spirit.” God does not condemn us, black Christian women, if we seek after his Spirit. We must be armed and equipped, able to critique the culture and ourselves so we can seek his Spirit and not walk after the flesh, down the road of the strong black woman.
Copyright 2006-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith
As a sorority member in the 1960s she and her sisters promoted Sickle Cell awareness when no one had (and many still have not) heard of Sickle Cell. They had political rallies and gave more than lip service to caring about each other’s welfare. Though some of those women were not active in the sorority after they graduated, they remained active in each other’s lives. I always remember my mom being a part of the phone chain, or calling everyone herself, to let ‘the sorors’ know when another was in need: funeral arrangements, bills paid, groceries, prayer, etc. They were there for each other like no man, in their estimation, ever was.
Along with her sorority my mom was involved in politics. She was a strategist on some campaigns, a general volunteer on others, an election worker, a Democratic Party committee contributor and a precinct delegate. Most times she worked for women. She shared her heartbeat for protecting women when she taught my sister and me that we didn’t have to let the right hand (my daddy/husbands) know what the left hand (my mama/wives) was doing.
I never sought to be a feminist. I simply repeated my mothers’ behavior and allowed the culture to further influence me with little critique of larger implications. I want you to consider some of the notions that I had, and that you might have, that are feminist thoughts: 1) Men and women are equal in all ways; 2) I don’t need a man to provide for or protect me; 3) We will split everything 50/50 in my marriage (bills, our roles, etc.); 4) I’m not in favor of abortion for me, but I believe women should have a choice to decide what they want to do with their own bodies; and 5) As an adult, you should be able to love whoever, man or woman, finds you loveable.
In short, feminism means giving priority to womanhood, considering your existence through giving preference to female desires with little or no regard to the negative effects on men or children. In this extreme version feminism is matriarchy on crack, especially for the Christian and more specifically for the one calling herself a strong black woman.
Copyright 2006-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith
In my family I watched my grandmother juggle her many lives: part-time domestic or cook; full-time homemaker; block club secretary; church missionary, Sunday school teacher and trustee; wife; mother; and friend. She did all with pizzazz, I thought. She was the tower of strength that we all leaned on. But the day my sister witnessed her “breakdown,” I knew that the pressure from being all things to all people, particularly her husband, had worn her out. During a usual moment of historical pride about providing for his family and never having to go on welfare he mentioned being “the head” of the house. Like a mother scolding her child for the umpteenth time for the same offense, my grandmother uncharacteristically cursed my grandfather and told him she was the head. She was unapologetic, self-satisfied, for claiming her place, one she believed she walked in without the proper recognition.
But my sister and I were in shock. She called me right after she left their house. We talked about all the years my grandmother, then in their early 80s, had given service with a smile, submission with gladness, yet subversively had been hiding her true feelings. We reflected on the clues of her marital dissatisfaction: the whispered conversations about his ineptness, the hidden stash of money, and the short silent treatments when she was annoyed.
I believe my aunt and mother saw all these clues of her misery through the smiles and pledged to live domestic life differently. My aunt was vocal about her role as a wife. “I’m not doing like Mama. She worked herself to the bone and served Daddy. Unh, unh. Not me.” My mother’s actions said the same. She did not clean; my daddy cooked; and she was always involved outside the home, rallying for women. Her love for women really began as an undergraduate student.
Copyright 2006-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith