Tag Archives: Control

Day 15: Don't Call Me That!

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Years ago I dated this guy who called me Jezebel. He wasn’t angry with me; he thought he was giving me a compliment.
“Miss Jezebel,” he said.
“What did you call me?”
“I said your name is Jezebel.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“People think that that name is bad, but really it’s good. She had a lot of power.”

I fell silent, trying to figure out how what I knew about this woman could ever be a good thing. I had never even read her story. I knew that she was associated with evil, and I always thought that evil was her being a whore. I definitely thought my guy believed Jezebel to be a whore, some sex goddess, because after talking about whether or not Jezebel was good or bad he started stroking my cheeks and hair, and I just stared in the distance. I didn’t feel empowered. I felt like a whore, and no amount of caressing could undo what the power of that name had done to me. Names are important and we need to know their meanings so we can decide whether to accept or reject them.

Jezebel has come to be associated with being promiscuous, but her origin is the biblical queen and wife of King Ahab in the Bible. She didn’t use sex but her own initiative to control her husband’s affairs. I should have been upset that my “friend” called me Jezebel not because she was a whore but because she was disrespectful. Unfortunately, any display of strength may have people calling black women Jezebel or any of the following names that we would probably reject, but when we consider the characteristics we may find that the terms—though stereotypes—may fit us:
Aunt Jemima, sometimes known as mammy, is depicted as a large, asexual woman who cares for everyone more than she does herself and to her detriment. Her job is usually in the service industry, cooking, cleaning or taking care of children.
Sapphire is a sharp-tongued, quick-witted woman who usually hurls insults at the man in her life. Her name comes from the wife in the Amos and Andy radio and television series who regularly put her husband, Kingfish, down.

Media executives created these stereotypes to control the black race. Some of us perpetuate these stereotypes to take control of our situations and others. As a result, we don’t recognize what we are causing to happen in the spiritual realm. As physical and spiritual beings what we do affects what happens in the physical and spiritual worlds. This is why we have to recognize when we are being strong outside of God’s parameters. We can’t just engage in behavior that meets our end goal and then proudly proclaim “I’m a strong black woman” or have others calling us a Jezebel or Sapphire. Surely, we are effectuating power but more than we could probably imagine or ever want to. Look for more about the spiritual effects of our behavior in upcoming posts.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Day 11: One of Those Days

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I kept hearing another tune about her, one that would prompt me to compose a poem but the rhythm was stilted; it just wouldn’t come. There would be ebbs and flows and then I had to let go because the poem about the strong black woman just wouldn’t come. I was examining her history, seeing how she came to be, even be me, but the words wouldn’t come. Maybe they stayed away because they didn’t want to add to my already crowded day. As I kept inviting them in, their refusal helped me to see that my day is what I should share. Yeah, it’s been one of those days. Continue reading →

Day 6: Losing It, Part 4

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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

Day 3: Losing It, Part 1

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Photo Credit: Miss Hag, flickr.com

I fell apart.

I was driving on the freeway and an 18-wheeler speeding next to me lost control of his rig and headed toward me. I kept driving. I didn’t slam on my brakes or turn away from the truck. I kept driving straight in my lane as the 18-wheeler was coming into my lane.

I fell apart.

I didn’t think about my baby, my husband, my mother. Not my father, my sister, nor my brother. I didn’t wonder about friends, my students, my church. I just wanted the truck to hit me, to kill me. I just wanted to be with Jesus.
This wasn’t the first time I fell apart. There was the time when I snapped at my husband for turning the light on so I could see. Then there were the times of bursting in tears and staring in space with periodic screams to fill the silence. I would rock back and forth while sitting on the edge of my bed or walk aimlessly around the house.

I fell apart.

I fell apart at these times, but the 18-wheeler time was different. This time I was beyond despair. My depression had gone from tears to tainted thoughts of a different life, the afterlife, one away from the pressures of life. One with Jesus.

I had never been suicidal before, at least not since my teen years. After the 18-wheeler regained control of his truck I returned to normal: I burst into tears, stared into space and screamed periodically. I wondered how I—a Christian, wife, mother, college professor, church leader, daughter, sister, friend, counselor, had gotten here. How had I gone so far as to want to kill myself?

I had a “perfect” life: A wonderful husband, a precocious little boy, a tenured job, leadership positions at my church and lots of friends. I was a writer who enjoyed scripting and presenting poetry. How had I gone so far? I had a wonderful, full life. Why did I want to kill myself?

Maybe the answer seems clear: My life was too full, weighing me down until I felt I could no longer go on. I had too much going on in my life; I was trying to be too much for too many people. I was taking on assignments and not completing them well. I was forgetting appointments, staying up late and getting up early. I was driving all over town to meet obligations and had a host of stress-related issues to tend to. The pressure was tough, but I felt I had to do it. This was my life. This was my lot. I was falling apart from the pressure of being a strong black woman.

Copyright 2006-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith