Tag Archives: Woman

Day 7: Losing It, Part 5

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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

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 5: Losing It, Part 3

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“How about a strong black woman who is tired of being strong?” one woman asked me. Her question speaks volumes about the SBW cycle of life: First, you are born into a world with two strikes against you (woman and black). Then you are nurtured in a world that told you to strive beyond the strikes against you by educating yourself and achieving success in a career. And finally, add to all that the responsibility of caring for others and trying to fit in time for yourself. At some point you realize one of the cogs in the cycle has stopped your progress:

Maybe your job hired your white male counterpart and you are in competition for the boss’s recognition. You remember that you have two strikes against you, talk to other black women who nurture you to strive beyond the strikes against you, decide you need to be reeducated (go back for your doctorate) to get a promotion or find another job, all while caring for others and trying to fit in time for yourself. So begins the SBW cycle of life, and your thought is, “Here I go again.” “Here I go again” expresses your being tired of the cycle, but you believe the cycle must continue. This is simply the life of a strong black woman, and if you are one you feel compelled to follow your destiny. I had to challenge this notion when I came to the end of myself, the end of my sanity, and I fell apart.

First, let me say that I am not against the pursuit of excellence or having all God wants for us. I’m not saying that we should not want to be promoted on our jobs, listen to our girlfriends’ advice or return to school. What I am saying is that we have to be careful to examine our motives behind what we do. We must know who is behind our actions. Is God instructing us? Or is the world system, family, the flesh (our misplaced desires) or the devil the motive behind what we do? I am not saying that we shouldn’t go to a counselor or take drugs to help our mental, physical or emotional state when it is medically determined that we need these things. What I am saying is that we must know how we got to the place where we are and figure out the mistakes we made along the way.

God made each of us with the ability to choose. You’ve heard it before: We are free-will agents. Believe it or not, we can do what we want to do. But many of us have become slaves to the world order, our families, our flesh or even the enemy—Satan. God’s hope is that we choose what He wants for us. He has laid out in His word how He wants us to navigate this life. We have a choice: Either we can choose His way, which is found in the word of God, or our way, which is often based on notions we have received from other trusted sources, including our foremothers and other women engaged in the struggle for female equality. When you fall apart you must re-assess your life. I did and found myself at the edge of the cycle, about to climb back on. Then God had me to deeply examine the “truths” about women that I had come to accept from my family and feminists inside and outside the church.

Copyright 2006-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Day 4: Losing It, Part 2

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I am not alone. Life in the 30s for me and most women I know is an ebb and flow of wanting to live and wanting to die. Our conversations are sprinkled with the hope a new project brings and the lament of what a new project means to our lives. We want to live, to carry out the life we have established, but sometimes death seems an easier escape, if not death from this world but death to this life to live another life.

After establishing our personal and career identities in our 20s we are now left trying to gather 30-something identities using 20-something zeal. We plunge into life with a reckless abandon that has wrecked havoc on post-partum bodies and “thinking for everyone” minds. No longer are we free or able to stay on the go. We have children and husbands and ministries and more grown-up ideas and ideals that don’t fit a 20-something paradigm. And God is expecting more from us or has always expected more; we just don’t look to him as much. We have no reason to. We have our career and cars, friends and fun and clothes. We are the closest things we know to stars. And now, we still want to have it all, to be stars, but we realize the great cost that has to be paid to have it all. The price for many of us is therapy or Zoloft, Zanax or Prozac. We spend time on couches and chairs and in a dazed reality to help us deal with the reality that had us crying out for help.

You see, I fell apart because I was striving to be what all strong black women are told to be: everything to everybody, including yourself. You have to be the best you that you can be. So on top of meeting everyone else’s needs we must be highly educated, seek high-paying jobs, be extremely well-groomed, make the right social networks, exercise and eat right. This “truth” is impossible though for years black women have walked this path, only to be afflicted with sugar (diabetes), high blood pressure, cancer, strokes and heart problems (congestive heart failure, heart attacks and angina). I wanted to die because I saw death as my greatest relief to a life I didn’t know how to change. I no longer wanted to do it all to have it all, but that’s all I knew to do. I knew doing it all was killing me, but, like my foremothers, I wanted to be valiant to the end. I wanted people to say something like, “She has always handled things so well. She’ll be okay.” Or “I know she’ll bounce back. She always lands on her feet.” I wanted to be valiant until the end, and if some lifestyle-related illness unexpectedly killed me, I wanted to be known as the greatest martyr. This is all I knew, and this is all so many talented, educated, intelligent, black Christian women know. It’s the life of a strong black woman (SBW).

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