Tag Archives: Friendship

Women Like Me

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From the womb I was determined to be some of what God intended for me but mostly what I thought I should be.

I had a steely demeanor, they tell me, crying till no end until my grandma let me gum at 7 months chicken and cornbread smashed up in pot liquor from collard greens. I was satisfied, had cried till I got what I wanted, and sometimes I just sat until I got ready to do what I wanted. That’s what happened when I walked. I never crawled. Just sat around and watched my sister walk and one day decided I, too, should do that.

At 2, I hid food behind the couch so I could curb late night munchies when the kitchen was closed. At 5, I befriended my now oldest friend. Throughout primary school I protected her till no end when people would tease her for her proper ways and wearing party dresses on school days. In elementary school I fought Ronnie, Aisha and Tonya ’cause I wasn’t gon’ let them run me. I didn’t let them copy my work and punk me out because I was smart, sharp and short. I was determined to be me, some of what God intended for me but mostly what I thought I should be.

So in junior high I didn’t grovel when my 7th and 8th grade friends became my nemeses. I kept my head high when I wanted to cry at being left out and talked about, the butt of all the jokes. Still I pressed on and made it through, went to high school where I developed a new crew of friends, even my 8th grade nemesis. But as you know, that group didn’t last, but I found where I belonged. Yes, the friends came and are still here, but I gained an understanding of me.

Unshakable and unstoppable, I plug away at problems, involving others to help me solve them. Even with this I now give more than lip service to saying “God is the head of my life.” He challenges me, helping me to see what’s wrong and right in my life and how I need to improve and help others to smooth their rough spots. And I can do this because He put it in me to spur, and inspire, to assist without being hired. From God’s love I have learned not to physically fight and stand up for my rights like I want to. He’s taught me and kept me focused, even by sending me women who have wanted my best.

These women are my mommas and teachers, my sisters and friends who all have played a part in shaping my heart. So this Women’s History Month I pay tribute to these wonder women who have helped me evaluate who I think I should be and lovingly encourage me to become what God intended for me to be.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

My First White Friend, Again

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My God sister, Gracie, has always been a prophetess in my life. We don’t talk much, but this woman, 15 years my senior, has always been connected to me in the spirit. Recently she sent me a journal right after I had just given one away. Then she sent me a book on prayer when I had just committed to more in-depth prayer. Only the Lord could have led her like that. Years ago, when I was steeped in rebellion, her prophetic voice through a letter warned me of the consequences of selling certain greeting cards in my company’s We Dare to Go There line. And then there was the more subtle admonition about me not having any white friends; she sent me the book My First White Friend: Confessions on Race, Love, and Forgiveness by Patricia Raybon.

Raybon talks about her journey to forgive whites and her father because of his “[r]ules about always being better than the white people, so they couldn’t find anything wrong with you even if they tried hard.” These rules caused her to seek perfection and to please others and these unrealistic expectations eventually made her feel less than enough. But instead of remaining mad at her father, at her first white friend who befriended her despite others’ expectations and all white people in general, Raybon chose to forgive so she could love herself and others, regardless of their race or shortcomings. Her awakening had me ready to meet my first white friend, again. That was about 15 years ago, and my contact with white people was limited. There were a few at work, but they mostly kept to themselves. And the ones in grad school ignored me outside of colloquiums and group projects. I never reached out to them because I remember how my relationship with Stephie ended and I didn’t want to chance that again until I met Natalia.

Natalia and I are members of the same church. She and her family started attending and eventually joined last year after hearing our pastor on the radio. God has called her and her husband, Bill, to plant a multicultural church in an Arab American community. They believe God led them to Evangel to prepare them for their call. When I found this out during our brief talks in the nursery as we cared for our children, I believed their call is from God. See, she’s not the typical “white girl” that I usually find in a black community. You know the ones who get their hair done at black salons, date black guys and walk and talk in ways that “out black you.” Natalia is effervescent, yet soft spoken, and on first glance may appear to be the typical liberal, “we are the world” white woman. But I watched her and noticed that she didn’t try to stand out or fit in. She just was, is, a woman who is confident in her white skin and comfortable with me in my black skin. I found this to be true outside the pleasantries of church.

During our first phone conversation we talked about motherhood, marriage, feminism, Biblical womanhood, writing, college, spiritual gifts, and a lot more, including race. I told her my Stephie story, and she apologized, not on behalf of whites who had wronged blacks but because of the pain of rejection that I felt. “No one should have to go through that because of who they are,” she said. It was that comment, her framing her thoughts based on a Biblical worldview, and the overall spiritual and intellectual tone and comfort of our conversation that I knew Natalia was my sister. Not just because Jesus Christ is both of our Savior but because she knows who she is, she flows in who she is and freely embraces others with the love of Christ. Natalia is my first white friend, again, but I believe she will be my last. I don’t see any need for a do over because I believe this first white friendship will last.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

My First White Friend

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My bookshelf is peppered with them: dusty books on racial reconciliation that often scream for me to clean and read them. They sit among my favorites: books on spiritual warfare and women’s discipleship, Nikki Giovanni poetry and all things James Baldwin. But the racial reconciliation books sit there, tucked away with little chance of speaking to me and helping me to integrate my life. They remind me of my relationships with the non-black women that I have known: With Stephie, Denise, Gina, Laura Kim, and Laila, I was excited about the connection, but then something happened and the newness became a thing of the past. My relationship with Stephie is the best example of this.

We met during a rehearsal for the Saks Fifth Avenue Teen Board fashion show we were in. She just started talking to me, and we hit it off. Stephie was funny and fashion conscious and our conversations flowed freely. To be honest, I thought she was a light-skinned black girl because she had dark curly hair and a deep tan. I don’t remember when I found out she was white, but it didn’t matter to me. We had bonded and Stephie became my first white friend. This was the summer of 1984.

For the next few months, we talked for hours on the phone and made plans for a sleepover that winter. Her mom agreed that I would spend the night at their home, but the elder’s conversations with me revealed a change of heart. She warned me that I would be the only black person at Stephie’s high school basketball game and told me that I would probably be uncomfortable. And she wanted to know what “special foods” I ate, expressing her inability to cook something other than what she was used to cooking. In spite of her attempts to deter me, I went to her home in her nearly all-white town.

The basketball game was snowed out, so Stephie and I hung out in her room and chatted like we did on the phone. This time she occasionally included her mom in the conversations. “Mom, look at her Guess Jeans. Aren’t they nice?” “Mom, she has a Coach purse.” I felt uncomfortable being on display, and that discomfort continued when at dinner her mom asked me what my parents did for a living and a host of other questions about my family and lifestyle. Breakfast the next morning was comfortable, but I felt antsy again when Stephie blurted out “You have a big house” as they pulled into my driveway after bringing me home. They met my family, glanced around the house and then went on their way. That was the last time I saw Stephie in a social setting. After our sleepover she would sneak to call me because “my mother said I couldn’t be your friend.” When her mother caught her sneaking to call me, all our contact ended, and though I have my suspicions, I am not quite sure why.

So like my books, for years I have shelved any potential relationships with non-black women. The pain of rejection has been too great. But those books have been screaming to be cleaned and read. And because I met Natalia Powers I might just do that. You’ll have to read the next post to find out who she is.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Pride is a Mother

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Pride is a mother, and if you don’t disown her you will forever be a momma’s girl with “no ugly friends.” This is the conclusion I came to years after one of my closest friends reported to us, her girls, that she told a relative “I don’t have no ugly friends.” This was about 15 years ago when we were young, fly and high on ourselves. Though I wasn’t the one to say it, the glory of having attractive friends remained in my heart. I thought of what made them cute: genetics played a big part, and then their hair, clothes, makeup and other assets added to their beauty. And they were fun to be around, but I never attributed this to their beauty. Nor did I count their wit, intelligence, kindheartedness or “breaking their back” for you style to their beauty. Now, I always recognized my sisters’ internal qualities, but these weren’t foremost in my mind. I never considered myself shallow. But after my friend made the “no ugly friends” comment, I found myself internalizing it when I was with them. When we went out, I found myself smiling a bit more, sticking my chest out and looking around to see who was looking at us. We had careers, cars, clothes, and nice homes, and we looked good. I was proud.

As I reflect on how I felt, I realize that I was being shallow, though never blatantly so. But does it matter that my friendship pride wasn’t blatant? Isn’t what matters is that I was prideful at all? I thank God that He transformed me to look more at people’s inner beauty that seemed to give them so much outer beauty. I don’t remember exactly when this began in me, but about 10 years ago I met a stay-at-home mom, with a crisp and clean outdated dress, neat home-styled hair and a peaceful smile that said “I am content.” She may not have looked the strong black woman part, but she walked it because she was sure about herself, and it wasn’t because of her outward appearance. She knew that she was beautiful and she beamed it so (1 Peter 3:3-5).

After meeting her was when I knew I wanted to be different, not dress or wear my hair like hers, but to act like her in spite of my clothes and hair. I wanted to greater emphasize the eternal and not the external and get my friends to do the same. The road is still a challenge as I seek to disown pride, become a Daddy’s girl and rejoice in my friends no matter how they look. The big switch truly is easier as I seek to let Christ reign in and shine through me.