Words From a Wicked Woman

There have been no new posts here in over two months, however, those months have been extremely active. I only wish I could report that the activity was positive in the whole, but that is not the case. I initially left this space on February 17, just one day prior to spinal surgery that I hoped would spare me a great deal of physical pain and preserve my ability to walk. Although I realized the surgery itself and its aftermath would be quite painful, I was still very hopeful. Unfortunately, my Internet service chose that day to malfunction and I was unable to tell readers what was going on and that I’d planned to be away for, at that time, about two weeks.

The surgery was far more complex than anyone had imagined and I ran into trouble while still on the operating table. Fortunately, I had a very skilled surgeon who valiantly kept me from dying. I thank God for his hands and his skill because I was in danger of bleeding out as he and his team worked as quickly as possible to get the job done. Unfortunately, the complications didn’t stop there. I developed a persistent leak of spinal fluid that kept me in the hospital twice as long as the average patient who undergoes the same procedure. In addition, the pain was more than I’d imagined–and I’m very used to being in constant pain.

I couldn’t get into either my first or second choices for rehabilitation and so I chose a third. One of the criteria for whatever rehab facility I chose was the ability to bring my dogs in for visits. I didn’t realize at the time how terribly important my time with them would be. Those visits served as some of the last “good times” I would spend with my much beloved baby girl, my Airedale Terrier, Lola, about whom I first wrote last October in the post Closed for the Season.

A great deal happened while I was in rehab. It was a facility more appropriate for those whose families had left them there to die. The physician in charge of my case was scary in his unwillingness to follow my surgeon’s instructions and in his motivation for profit. Some of the equipment was in need of repair and resulted in me taking a bad fall from which I have yet to recover. Getting out of that place fast and with his consent was paramount if I didn’t want to be stuck with the entire bill myself. Fortunately for me, the test he’d set thinking I wouldn’t pass was a challenge I was determined to meet. And it was just in time. Lola, unknown to me then, was getting much sicker. She was not alone. My dear great uncle–more grandfather than anything else–was also getting sicker. Neither had long for this world.

I wasn’t home more than 10 days before Lola stopped eating. We knew that she had a benign, slow-growing tumor in her liver that was diagnosed last December. I’d postponed my own surgery twice due to concerns about her health, but proceeded this time because I thought she was stable and, frankly, I was bed-ridden and couldn’t continue as I was. We took her an hour away to a veterinary hospital similar to the Cleveland Clinic, (substitute the Mayo Clinic if that is more familiar), only for dogs and cats, Akron Veterinary Referral and Emergency Center. The vets treated animals not only from across the state, but across the country. Lola was in need of their surgeons to perform the exploratory surgery we’d known she needed from the time she was first diagnosed. Although we knew of the benign liver growth, there was some suspicion that there may be other, malignant, growths that didn’t show up on ultrasound. The fact that Lola had stopped eating meant that things had taken a definite turn for the worst.

I wanted to bring my baby home, sensing that it may be the last time I could do so. Unfortunately, I was strongly advised against it because she needed the constant IV support she was getting prior to surgery. The vets weren’t even sure she’d make it through surgery, but she’d have the best chance if she remained where she was. I knew she’d make it through. Lola had the characteristic stubbornness of the breed in spades. I was right. She did make it through. Furthermore, the surgeon thought he’d gotten most of the cancerous tissue even though he couldn’t get it all. The problem, though, was getting the liver to bounce back.

My Uncle Herbert was, by far, my favorite relative. He and his mother–my great grandmother–rescued my mother and her brother when they were virtually abandoned by their own parents and raised them until my grandmother could reasonably take them back. Even then, Uncle Herbert sent money home to my mother from his Army wages during World War II so that she could have a little bit of spending money while in her freshman year of college and continued to look after her throughout his life. Her own father was an alcoholic, though he was never without a job, even during the Great Depression.

Uncle Herbert was an attorney of some renown. Sometimes, I’d go to the county courthouse just to watch him and hang out. He taught me to love the law and I thought I’d follow him into what had become the family business–practicing law. However, my body had other ideas. I developed fibromyalgia while in law school before full implementation of the Americans with Disabilities Act. Therefore, the law school I attended was unwilling to make any accommodations. Had this happened a mere two years later, I could have forced them to do so. The fact that a law school would refuse to follow the law is one of the greatest ironies of my life.

My uncle practiced until he was in his late-80s. By that time, his body had begun to show its age even though his mind was still quite sharp. Retiring gave him time to spend with his family; and, if there was anything Herb loved more than the law it was his family. He was the oldest surviving sibling of six children who, along with their mother, had been run out of rural Georgia by nightriders after their father died in a flu epidemic. He was just a small child when they moved to Cleveland, but he periodically went back and kept in touch with relatives there. I learned a great deal of my family history from him and I will be forever grateful for his presence in my mother’s life and in my own.

My cousin, Marie, his daughter, phoned me while Lola was in surgery to tell me that her father was going into hospice in the next day or so. She’d phoned because I’d been very firm in letting her know that my mother and I did not appreciate being left out of the loop when he went into the hospital, even though he did so frequently. This hospital visit was supposed to be routine. It wasn’t.

Uncle Herbert had been trying to prepare those closest to him for his death. He’d developed a slow-growing cancer in his chest and, at 92-years-old, knew that his time was limited. My uncle was a man of few words, even though he was a litigator. When he spoke, it was to say something important. We didn’t always talk when I went to see him. I didn’t have to. It was enough just to share space. I’d wanted to interview him about some family history the last time I saw him, but he’d seemed tired and I didn’t want to disturb him. That was just before I went into the hospital myself in February. I had a feeling that compelled me to visit him then.

My mother and I picked up and moved to Akron about 48 hours after Lola was admitted to the hospital. Being so far away from her was not working for us in any way. Nevertheless, we were only about a half hour away from the hospital where Uncle Herbert lay and thought that we had a day or so to get back to town to say our goodbyes. In reality, Herb had decided months ago that he was ready to leave this plane of existence. We’d talked about it several times. He and his immediate family had decided to try radiation treatments, but they’d taken their toll. His quality of life wasn’t what he wanted and caring for him was extremely hard on my Aunt Ethel, his deeply, deeply loved wife. She, too, had wanted to bring him home for his final days, but she never had the chance. He took a turn for the worst and died before he could take a last look out of the big bay window he loved so much. My mother and I never had a chance to say goodbye because no one called to tell us his condition at deteriorated. We could have, and would have, been there for him. My aunt, in her grief, didn’t think to call our cell phones to tell us her husband had died. I found out when I called the nurses’ station to find out where he’d been moved. I was sitting in the waiting room of the veterinary hospital waiting to visit with Lola. I don’t remember much after that except being put in an exam room where we could have some privacy to grieve.

There was nothing else we could do for Uncle Herbert and Lola still needed us. My mother and I decided to stay with her, hoping she’d bounce back. I asked her daily if she was ready to give up. Her eyes told me that she still wanted to live. We pushed on. Finally, two or three days after surgery, she did rally, even though the pathology report confirmed that she had liver cancer. She began to drink water and that was an extremely positive sign. Furthermore, she was holding on to the proteins she’d gotten from a blood transfusion that her own liver was having a hard time making itself. Even the most pessimistic vet began to think she might be able to spend her final days at home. Unfortunately, her rally didn’t last. The next day, her liver began to show signs of failing and things were about to get very ugly. I made the decision to euthanize her. I didn’t want to do it. I cannot find the words to explain how much I did not want to kill my baby. On the other hand, we had to go back home, she wouldn’t eat and it was clear that she was in much worse shape than she’d been the previous day. The vet on duty wasn’t sure she’d last the night and I would not allow her to die alone. I signed the consent form so that she could finally rest after her long fight to live.

Lola didn’t want to die any more than I wanted to euthanize her. She sensed that that was exactly what was about to happen and tried her best to show me that she could do what I wanted. She tried, but didn’t have the strength, to stand for the first time since her surgery; she tried to eat, but only got nauseous; she drank, but only vomited the water along with more bile. Her body was dying and she wanted so badly to live. My heart was broken. My heart is still broken.

I held Lola in my lap and told her how very proud I was of her courage and her grit. She’d endured months of pills, procedures and different vets, not to mention living through surgery. She had surpassed all expectations anyone could reasonably have had for her and my heart swelled with grief, enduring love and intense pride. She battled to live until her last breath on April 4, 2008–only 15 days shy of her 10th birthday. She is home now–forever. As the inscription on her urn reads, “Always Our Baby Girl.”

Uncle Herbert’s funeral was enormous. He’d served his community both professionally and as a civic leader. There were proclamations from everywhere and there was a large police escort for the funeral as a courtesy from the city. Funerals, as a rule, cannot be called “beautiful,” but his was. For some unknown reason, I noticed everything. He went out of this world the way he’d lived: with a great deal of class and muted style.

There is one thing that happened toward the end of his life I’d like to share with the political junkies who read this blog. Uncle Herbert was an active, life-long Republican. I don’t mean that he just voted Republican; he was a precinct captain and advisor to Republican officials. Nevertheless, he changed his registration to become a Democrat so that he could vote for Barack Obama. As I mentioned, he was 92-years-old. Imagine the things he’d seen in his lifetime, including other black presidential candidates. But he saw Obama and took his measure. He knew that, for the first time in his life, and very unexpectedly, he was looking at the next president of the United States and it was a black man. Barack was the real deal, he told me. Proudly, he voted as a Democrat for the first time–and the last time–in his life. Well done, Uncle Herb. Well done.

I would like to close with this poem. It seems appropriate on many levels today. It is only this week that I am beginning to get back to my life, although with an incredibly heavy heart. Lola’s death will be senseless unless I can make something positive come from it. I’ve decided to resume my involvement in the national breed club, the Airedale Terrier Club of America, where Airedale fanciers can, and have, combined their resources to work toward making the breed healthier. Cancer is the leading cause of death for Airedales and we need to learn why. They are working on it. In addition, although I can never replace Lola in a million years, I can open my heart to another Airedale puppy. I need time to heal, but I know this house–a house that hasn’t been without an Airedale since I was a child–will have a crazy, happy Airedale youngster once again. We are ‘dale folk (and I include in this my little Dachshund-Mini Schnauzer mix). It’s who we are.

Invictus

by William Ernest Henley; 1849-1903

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.

Technorati Tags: airedale terriers, blogging, death, dogs, health, animals

It’s been almost three months since my last post and that one was on one of my more periphery topics–Apple Computer. It’s been even longer since I’ve been able to bring readers news and comment on LGBT, POC or religious issues. I have truly missed doing so, however, I have been very busy taking care of my health. I learned in May that I’d contracted reactive arthritis. It is a type of arthritis that can develop due to an infection in another part of the body. In this case, it was traced to an earlier sinus infection. At around the same time, I began to have difficulty with another part of my body that drained me of any energy that wasn’t already being drained due to fibromyalgia and back and leg pain. All of these conditions are still present, although it seems as though the reactive arthritis has abated.

Last month I learned that the pain I’ve had in my back and leg since early 2006 is due to something called a synovial cyst that is sitting on my spinal cord. In fact, there are two of them, one on each side of the cord. The pain has been such that I haven’t been able to get out in the world and the pain medication tended to leave me a bit on the foggy side. Therefore, I’ve been completely unable to write. After attempting an alternative to the fairly heavy medication I’ve been on, it seems that my only real relief will come from spinal surgery that I will have on November 2. This surgery will fuse my spine to keep the cysts from returning in the future. However, spinal surgery is a serious business. It involves a great deal of pain and quite a lot of rehabilitation. The fusion itself will take a year or more to heal completely and it is probably safe to say that I will spend a great deal of time in bed in the beginning of that process. It occurs to me that I may be able to write then if my pain is controlled.

For reasons that are completely unknown to me, even though I’ve switched to stronger pain medication, the fog I’ve been under seems to have lifted somewhat and enabled my brain to function more normally. It was never my intent to abandon this blog and it is my wish to continue writing leading up to my spinal surgery. However, it is safe to say that the content of the blog may change a bit. While I will continue to write on subjects similar to those of the past, I will do so from a more personal perspective. Everyone and her brother has an opinion on their subject(s) of choice. Words From a Wicked Woman has tended more toward passing along information with, perhaps, a smattering of opinion as opposed to 500 to 800 words of opinionated prose. What I’d like to do now is take a more balanced approach by presenting opinion based on research and observation, thereby providing readers with a more informed view of what I think.

When all is said and done, I am a journalist. Theoretically, journalism is supposed to be unbiased. In truth, it rarely is. That does not mean journalism is unfair as long as both sides are presented. Think MSNBC versus Fox News. One tends to lean to the political Left and the other way over to the political Right. Forget for the moment that only one is a “real” news organization and pretend that they are both equally respected. If both news organizations present each side of a controversial topic, then it is appropriate to say that both are fair in their coverage, even though they each have a different perspective. Just think of me as the darker-skinned, ovarially-gifted, somewhat humor-challenged version of Keith Olbermann, host of MSNBC’s Countdown. Olbermann never fails to deliver the news, but he does so with thought-provoking, often sarcastic, informed commentary. More often than not, he is right on the mark–in my opinion.

It is my wish to get back to doing that which I love: writing and researching. Ah, but if wishes were horses I’d have a whole stable of jumpers. Hmm, perhaps it’s time for me to get out my jodhpurs.

Technorati Tags: blogging, health

You may have noticed that there have been no new postings to this blog in almost two weeks. That is due to both personal and medical issues back-to-back. Although I do not post about my personal life, it is not unknown for me to keep readers abreast of whatever medical difficulties I am having if they interfere with the writing of this blog. Sorry, but that simply isn’t possible in this instance. This one has the potential to be very serious and is definitely very personal.

The medical issue befell me as I was working on an intriguing issue: the objection of some to the inclusion of transgender people in federal hate crimes legislation. Ironically, the piece was almost finished but for a comment or two from official sources when I became ill. I am still working on getting those sources to speak on the record even as I’m laying in bed wishing that I had the mental and physical energy to get back to that thing I love–writing. I do anticipate being back at some point next week, but, as much as I don’t want to admit it, that date could change also.

So, until I can get back to you, be well; be safe, and; continue to think critically.

Technorati Tags: blogging, hate crimes, health, transgender

I previewed a six-segment series of articles about what it means to be a beautiful black woman in my April 26, 2007 post The Beauty of Imus: Talking About Sex & Race. All of us are bombarded with standards of beauty that could make any woman of color feel as though she is almost irreparably defective, dreamed up by advertising agencies in New York, Los Angeles, London, Paris, Buenos Aires, Johannesburg and Tokyo. Although many of these cities are not in Europe, it is a European standard they purvey. The women are tall, skinny to the point of anorexia, lighter-skinned and often blonde, even in those countries where blonde is anything but a natural hair color. What message does this send to those of us who don’t fit the European mode? Certainly, it is nothing healthy.

Anorexia is a growing problem among black American women. According to the article Dying to be Thin: Minority Women: The Untold Story on NOVA Online, “Much research is now focused on identifying factors that affect the onset of eating disorders among African-American women. It seems that eating disorders may relate to the degree to which African-American women have assimilated into the dominant American social milieu — that is, how much they have adopted the values and behaviors of the prevailing culture.” NOVA Online is the Internet outlet for the outstanding NOVA series aired on public broadcasting stations around the U.S. If authors Marian Fitzgibbon and Melinda Stolley are correct, it is reasonable to assume that this adaptation of prevailing culture is hurting our girls and young women in other ways as well.

Every black woman born after 1900 knows that the one physical characteristic that causes us the greatest stress is our hair. A black woman will spend eight hours or more in a beauty parlor at least one Saturday of every month so that she can feel as though she looks fabulous. For many of us, a weekly visit to our favorite stylist is a must. Our grandmothers did it, our mothers did it, we do it and we’ve bullied our daughters into doing the same thing. Our goal is to emerge from that place of pain, sweat and tears with bone-straight, appropriately curled or waved hair by any means necessary.

An article in the September 2006 issue of Black Enterprise Magazine states that one black-owned Fantastic Sam’s franchise in Matteson, Illinois expected revenues of $450,000 by the end of that year. Johnny Williams, the franchisee, said, “The typical African American female gets her hair done weekly . . . Weekly clients generate a lot of revenue for a hair salon.” It would seem so. Black Enterprise estimates total industry sales at $55 billion and that figure is expected to grow, “driven by both the youth market, with its disposable income, and image-conscious baby boomers wanting to keep their look current,” Williams adds.

This habit is further fueled by magazines like Sophisticate’s Black Hair Styles and Care Guide, Hype Hair, Black Beauty & Hair, the British magazine BlackHair and the Dutch-language publication Black Expressions.

The Internet has entered the game on a very strong footing as well. In addition to online sites for print media, there are also sites with no tactile complement. These include Jazma.com, Internet presence of one of the world’s best black salons, Jazma Hair, Inc. in Toronto, Canada; a very robust section on black hair care at iVillage.com; famed Florida stylist Dwayne Pressley; the black hair care catch-all-and-everything site, BlackHairMedia.com, and; two sections on About.com about black hair care–one for whites who adopt black and mixed-race children and another for black women.

Both black hair care magazines and web sites promote an image of black women who have long, straight hair, even if that means gluing synthetic or human hair strands to their own, shorter, hair. A case in point is the May 2007 23rd Anniversary issue of Sophisticate’s Black Hair Styles where the editors have chosen “The 10 Best Styled Women of 2007.” The winner is singer Mary J. Blige who sports long, light brown hair with blonde tinting. Fellow singers Beyoncé and Kellis, one of only two in the list with short hair, round out the top three. Also making the list are the usual suspects: actress Gabrielle Union; media mogul Oprah Winfrey; talk show host/former supermodel Tyra Banks, and; Oscar-winning actress Halle Berry. Singer/actress/American Idol winner Fantasia is the only other woman with short hair. With the exception of Oprah, none of the women could be considered what we in American black culture like to call “thick” or “heavy.” Where is Oscar-winner/American Idol loser Jennifer Hudson’s “Effy” to Beyoncé’s “Deena,” their respective characters from the 2006 Oscar-winning movie Dreamgirls? If ever there was a real woman’s “It” girl, Hudson is the one!

There is a very small glimmer of hope for those of us who choose to wear short and/or natural hair. Almost all black hair care magazines and web sites have a small section for us. They are usually pretty thin on content, but at least they are there. The exception is the web site Nappturality.com geared specifically toward women who wear their hair naturally and love it–or are learning to. According to the home page, “Here you will find photos of all natural styles, comb coils, two-strand twists, afro puffs, afros, dredlocks (dreadlocks), locs and many other natural styles. Styled by napptural-haired women on their own hair. . . Nappturality is all about embracing your NAPPtural, natural hair. Many, many thousands of African American women and women of African descent all over the world have stopped relaxing their hair and are wearing their natural hair proudly. All have different reasons for doing it — damage, scalp problems, illness, hair loss, finances, curiosity or maybe simply being tired of wasting all day Saturday waiting in a salon. Others saw someone on the train wearing a fierce set of locs, coils or twists and started to rethink their choices.” Members write of their journeys to natural hair, there are hair maintenance tips, product suggestions and, yes, lots of photos, particularly in the forums. Most of all, this is a site where women can get affirmation for their decision to go natural. In a world choking with long-haired, straight-haired blondes of African-descent, Nappturality.com is a breath of very fresh air.

A site of interest for those of us curious about the meanings and origins of our fascination with all things hair can be found at Dickinson College in Pennsylvania. The American Mosaic Project–a field study research program in American multicultural studies–hosts “a collection of verbal and visual representations of African American women’s styles” under the banner Sunday Morning Celebration. The representations include articles about church; hats and fashion; music, and, of particular interest; hair.

“African American women’s search for societal acceptance often encompasses struggle between natural and socially constructed ideas of beauty. As an essential component in traditional African societies, cosmetic modification is ritualized to emphasize natural features of blackness. Defined by social occasion such as childhood development to maturity, indicators of marital status or the group to which you belong, beautification of the hair and body play an essential role. In our racially conscious society, presenting a physical image and being accepted is a complex negotiation between two different worlds,” begins the section about black hair.

It seems evident that black women are searching–longing–for acceptance, but from whom? The majority European-descendant population in the U.S. and Europe have a distinct need to see themselves even if that “self” has a black face. DiversityInc.com suggests that it may be very necessary for future and current employees to adopt straight hair in order to get and keep a job in some instances in the succinctly-titled article “Your Hair or Your Job?.”

“Many black people have grown more comfortable with embracing hairstyles that emphasize the characteristics of their hair, and corporate America increasingly is more accepting of braids and short afros. But traditionally conservative industries such as banking and law still may turn you down if you don’t look like what they perceive as executive material. Wearing braids or dreadlocks could be the deciding factor in whether you get the job—and, if you do get hired, getting promoted,” says the article. That is racism.

The United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission published a new Compliance Manual in April 2006 based on Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Under the new rules, Section 15 defines racial discrimination to encompass: ancestry; physical characteristics; race-linked illness; culture (emphasis added); perception; association; subgroup or “race plus” (see the link for a definition), and; reverse.

Furthermore, the Manual states that appearance and grooming standards “generally must be neutral, adopted for nondiscriminatory reasons, consistently applied to persons of all racial and ethnic groups, and, if the standard has a disparate impact, it must be job-related and consistent with business necessity.” In elucidating this requirement, the Manual specifically mentions hair.

“Employers can impose neutral hairstyle rules – e.g., that hair be neat, clean, and well-groomed–as long as the rules respect racial differences in hair textures and are applied evenhandedly. For example, Title VII prohibits employers from preventing African American women from wearing their hair in a natural, unpermed “afro” style that complies with the neutral hairstyle rule. Title VII also prohibits employers from applying neutral hairstyle rules more restrictively to hairstyles worn by African Americans.” (EEOC Compliance Manual, April 19, 2006. Viewed 05/14/2007.)

An article about the new rules on a web site belonging to defendants’ law firm Ford & Harrison, LLC analyzes the rules and reminds its clients, “[W]hile employers may establish policies regulating hairstyles, such policies must be equitably enforced and should acknowledge differences in hair textures.” In other words, companies cannot refuse to hire black folks because they don’t like hair worn naturally and expect no repercussions.

The reasons for choosing to wear one’s hair in a particular style are complex. Many of us have been brainwashed to believe that anything that resembles whites must be the way toward all good things in life. Others enjoy their masochistic journeys into beauty salon hell every week and don’t mind the burning, dry, itchy scalp and damaged hair they will inevitably suffer as a result of chemical straighteners. Where else can we get someone to pamper us for hours on end, even if we do have to sit and wait and wait and wait until our favorite operator finishes gabbing with her quadruple-booked other favorite client to get to us? I have abandonment issues, balance problems and a short fuse. For me, the entire lonely and unsure obstacle course of hair dryers, hydraulic lift chairs, sinks, curling irons, hair rollers and the like would be like watching paint dry on a beige wall. Therefore, like Aulelia, our guest columnist, I wear my hair in a natural, although very short, style that is more indicative of who I am.

To those who choose to have their hair straightened so that they hatch from their salon incubators looking like somewhat more curvy white women, have at it. Add to the revenues of a black business owner! But, for goodness sakes, think about what you’re doing, why you’re doing it and what you’d like your style to convey about you. Everyone’s style is, ultimately, unique and you don’t have to justify your actions or apologize to anyone. Nevertheless, before you commit to a signature look, maybe it’s best to decide for yourself if black beauty is kinky or straight.

Technorati Tags: african-american, celebrities, discrimination, hair

I learned of radio personality Don Imus’ filthy remarks (link requires NY Times TimeSelect subscription) about the conference-winning Rutgers University women’s basketball team while laying in a hospital bed three days after they were made on his WFAN-FM morning show simulcast on cable’s MSNBC and the CBS radio network. In calling the Rutgers women “nappy-headed ho’s” he unleashed a firestorm of denunciations that ended in his firing from both broadcast outlets. For once, big media did the right thing. Frankly, I was shocked, though extremely pleased. In one fell swoop, Imus had turned what should have been a celebratory moment into one of hurt, confusion and anger. Not being an athlete on any level, nor particularly being a sports fan, I cannot say whether it was worse for those young women to get to the NCAA women’s basketball championships and lose or to then be denigrated by a sexist bigot with a national audience. I only know that these beautiful, talented young women–someone’s daughters, sisters, girlfriends–did not in any way deserve to be diminished by a man with a malfunctioning brain. In the end, they were not diminished. They were held up as examples of grace and maturity in the face of ugliness, meeting with Imus and his wife at the New Jersey governor’s mansion, respectfully expressing their pain and, ultimately, accepting his apology. Brava, Rutgers women! Brava!

Don Imus is symptomatic of an illness in America. We live in a society that does not value women or people who are not white, no matter their accomplishments. In effect, it is a society that causes people of color to devalue themselves. This is especially true for women of color in general and black women in particular. Young black women are bombarded by images of singers like Beyoncé, Alicia Keys, Mariah Carey and Rihanna–ligher-skinned, long-haired and slender (though, in Beyoncé’s case, with curves), or; actresses like Halle Berry, Gina Torres and Thandi Newton, if there are any black actresses at all. If I am nothing else, I am a black woman. However, I don’t look like any of the above-named celebrities and neither do most black women. Yet, the message we receive from various media is that we are all supposed to have long, luxurious, straight hair and lighter skin. The idea is that the closer one is to being white, the more acceptable one becomes. Anything less and that person is easily discarded. In black society, this takes the form of “colorism,” the idea that lighter-skinned blacks with “good” hair are more valued than their darker, kinkier-haired kin. Colorism was born during the slave era when mulattos were allowed to live and work in the master’s house and not out in hot, often dangerous, fields. It was a way for slave owners to keep their property in line, turning them against each other. The effects were devastating and can be felt even to this day.

The celebrated 2005 documentary short A Girl Like Me from then-16-year-old New York City filmmaker Kiri Davis is a powerful modern introduction into the minds of the black female teens who were interviewed for the film. They speak of being devalued in their communities because they have darker skin and/or kinkier hair when the ideal is lighter skin and chemically-processed or naturally straight hair. In other words, these are the “nappy-headed” young women of Imus’ comments. They don’t stop there, however, the young women touch on what it means to be black in general. One particularly heart-breaking portion comes near the end when Davis reproduces the “doll experiment” originally performed by Dr. Kenneth Clark and used in the historic United State Supreme Court case Brown v. Bd. of Education, argued by future Supreme Court associate justice Thurgood Marshall. Clark’s experiment placed two dolls on a table and asked young children various questions relating to likeability and beauty. The same questions asked more recently resulted in an eye-opening and disheartening look at the deleterious effects of racism on the self-esteem of black children.

I am extremely fortunate to have been raised in an environment that eschewed images of white skin and long hair as the only examples of beauty and intelligence. My mother was an educator and educated. (Believe me, there is a difference.) She taught me to love black American history as well as the history of Africans on the continent and in the diaspora. It is a love I carry and feed to this day as it carries and feeds me. I grew up in the 1960s and 1970s when black really was beautiful and old practices of bleaching skin and straightening hair were on the wane. It was the days of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Malcom X and Huey P. Newton. Women young and old were encouraged to wear their hair naturally and the darker skinned the more “authentic” was one’s blackness. Music actually said something to listeners not only about love, but about politics and the wrongs being done in our name. To be a black child in a black neighborhood with supportive and accomplished black adults around to guide young people was to be in an enriching soup. Times do change.

By any sane person’s measure of decency, Imus’s remarks were despicable and he deserved to have his cowboy hat handed to him on the way out. However, no one can doubt that his actions began a conversation in America about the intersection of race and sex that is a long time coming; and so it will be here at Words From A Wicked Woman. For the next six weeks, this blog will focus almost exclusively on race and sex in its varied forms, but I need your help in doing so. I would like to include personal stories of women, especially, who have been adversely effected by discrimination based on sex, gender expression, race, skin color or grade of hair. While I include workplace discrimination, I am particularly interested in discrimination from peers and social groups. Members of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender communities are specifically encouraged to write. I’d also like to know of the joys of being who and what you are. Do you adore being a woman? Do you like having “nappy” hair and darker skin? Do you feel comfortable in your lighter skin and straight hair? Tell us what you think. Feel free to write to me at thewickedwoman at adelphia dot net. Yours may be the story I tell next.

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