Category Archives: Motherhood

What If Rashida ‘Black Beauty’ Is Exactly What Her Parents Raised Her To Be?

The topic of Rashida’s sudden and meteoric rise to Internet fame is not something I’d planned to discuss, but a handful of people reached out to me and asked me for my thoughts privately and asked when I’d share those thoughts publicly, so here it is. I beg you not to take this as the final word on the issue, as there are 1001 ways to discuss Rashida’s rise (some people think that it will be her eventual demise) and it’s good that we listen to all points of view….Or at least to those views coming from persons who honestly have Rashida’s best interest at heart.

For those unfamiliar with the 15-year-old Internet sensation, she’s a junior high school graduate who made a diss video dedicated to her ex-boyfriend, Kushman. She describes – in graphic detail – how she got him open, as Kushman was apparently a sexual novice, while she served as his skillful tutor for however long they were dating. As fate would have it, he took that newfound skill and began to apply it to his latest paramour, Abigail.

imagesArmed with only her cellphone and a data bundle, Rashida responded in one of the myriad ways that the gender does when faced with heartbreak. Clad in all black and a pair of blinged out flip-flops, Rashida stood in a compound with her camera raised above her head so that Kushman – and anyone else watching – could get a glimpse of what he had stupidly let go of. Judging from the number of kwasia’s (translation: foolish/idiot/stupid) dropped during her tirade, Rashida surmised Kushman to be the worst deadhead dolt she’d ever met indeed. After all, she is THE Rashida ‘Black Beauty’.

Let me remind you, she’s 15 and only has the equivalent of a 7th grade education.

Her videos were so widely watched that some area boys seized on the momentum and sampled a portion of her tirade, turning it into the background for a new song called “Malafaka.” (Yes, I’m aware of the close resemblance it bears to my name, thank you very much.) It’s a mispronunciation of the English words “mother” and “shut yo’ mouth.” In fact, Rashida’s videos were viewed so many times they earned her a Jigwe Award… which is equivalent to The Onion handing out plaques to those who made their most outrageous headlines possible.

For that, Ghanaians – specifically the Moral Middle Class – are furious. That’s right: The very people responsible for her rise to fame are incensed that she is being recognized for the very same fame they facilitated. The working poor – who vastly outnumber this class – can’t afford the apparatus needed to stream these videos, so it’s down to the offended ones to look to themselves for making Rashida relevant. But they have yet to.

“Why don’t we reward true artists who spend time, effort and energy to honing their craft with these awards?” they wonder.

Why indeed. Obviously, there is a limited appetite for whatever form of art and enlightenment this group seeks to peddle to their peers, and that’s not Rashida’s fault: That’s society’s.

You might be reading this thinking that this is an African issue. Not so. Even if you don’t know our Rashida personally, you’ve known a Rashida at some point of your life. If you live within 3 miles of Any Hood, you’ve seen her getting on the bus, meandering down the grocery aisle in the top ramen section, or talking too loudly on the phone on a corner. Rashida has served you a cool drink at a local dive. There are millions of Black Beauties all over America, the UK and Africa. The problem with Rashida’s rise to fame isn’t with Rashida: It’s with the millions of other people who found so much glee in a young girl’s visible pain that their fingers couldn’t wait to hit the share button. The problem is that the communities that churn out one Rashida after another go ignored and unaffected by focused investment until an outlier shines the spotlight on the community. In this case, that spotlight was Rashida’s video diary. She put on a brave face, but any girl or woman who has been unceremoniously dumped by a guy they truly cared for or felt betrayed by recognizes that tinge to her voice, colored by disappointment and fury. Whether you’re familiar with the language she speaks or not, you get the spirit of what she’s experienced, and it connects us all.

One of the favorite pastimes of the Moral Middle Class (MMC), populated with its patriarchal princesses and ethical earls, is pretending. This group of people loves to pretend that the world and everyone else in it operates by the same rules that govern their existence. They think all children ought to be raised the same way, all women need to dress a certain way, there’s ONE way to achieve success in this world and all behavior ought to be guided by the mores of this class. These are generally the people who begin sentences with “It is unAfrican to….” before denouncing whatever behavior they find intolerable in the moment. To them, Rashida is a disgrace who ought to be silenced before she pollutes the mind of a vulnerable youth who may find themselves seduced into emulating her behavior.

The Moral Middle Class preaches responsibility, but manages to eschew it where they are concerned. There is no greater influence on a child’s life than that of their parents and family nucleus. If you abdicate responsibility for raising and inspiring your child, then you have cause to worry. Only THEN does a Rashida become “dangerous”. If not, your children will understand that like the Wallaba You?! girl, Rashida is a fad and a passing fancy.

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The MMC does not understand the types of environments girls like Rashida come from. I lived but a five-minute walk from the hood, and I barely understand it. The things my neighbors confided in me were unimaginable. The things that children – girls in particular – have to do to survive and cope will make your head spin; be that getting a meal, affording school fees or navigating matters of a broken heart. We who are privileged have our blogs and our forums and international conferences to discuss and make sense of these things. We get to hit the club a pair of expensive heels with the girls to get over a painful breakup. All these moments will be documented on Instagram under #NewLifeNewMe #LiveItUp #150lbLighter #HeThoughtHeCouldBuryMe #YASSSS. This is an acceptable, “classy” way to mourn. You’ll earn no mockery there. But a girl from a humble background speaking undiluted Twi is a novelty and one too good not to make fun of. Even the recently heartbroken socialite can’t pass up the opportunity to watch Rashida and laugh.

About that background: With this level of sexual experience and confidence, you have to wonder with whom and under what circumstances Rashida was introduced to sex. There’s no way that she’s having sex in a vacuum, and this should raise a red flag to the people who work in public health. But again, no one thinks about these communities until a girl like Black Beauty ends up with a viral video that betrays “good Ghanaian morals”. The folk wringing their hands are too concerned with the symptom (Rashida) rather than the causes (failed communal sex/health education).

Given that her parents could only afford a JSS education, I don’t doubt that they’ve laid out what her future might look like for her. She is likely destined to become a petty trader turning tricks for a few extra cedis on weekends. This is not uncommon in the class she comes from. Of the thousands of Rashidas that populate the nation, how many become the Minister of Finance? None. If they’re really lucky, one of the two major parties will bankroll them in the position of a serial radio caller whose sole job is to hurl insults at the ruling government. THIS is the world she comes from. This is the world her mother, father, and everyone she’s grown up with come from. To them, Rashida – and her rant – is probably quite normal. I’m sure she’s seen her fair share of women chasing philandering men down the street, calling them every name in the book. Is anyone willing to consider that Rashida is the way she is because this is the way she was raised?

So when I hear people saying things like “She’ll regret it in 10-20 years time because it will preclude her from future opportunities”, I have to laugh. What opportunities has a country like Ghana provided for a girl like Rashida that should cause her to worry about the effects of social shame? Very few, if any at all. There is no Harvard ending for Rashida, unless Aseshi or some charitable organization comes calling first. And even if they do, so what? What about all the other Rashidas we walk by on a daily basis?

I think Rashida’s parents have raised her to be tough. Given how fierce her tongue is, I don’t think she’s been instructed to hold it. I imagine she’s respectful to her elders, but fierce with her peers. She would have to be in order to navigate her world, which is not genteel and comfortable. You’ll get eaten alive if you’re soft.

There are some people who have said privately that they want to fund her education, since she’s expressed an interest in completing high school. They want to “mentor” her. That’s wonderful. However, mentorship can’t be done over the phone. If you want to change a person’s life, you have to take them OUT of the environment that shaped them. Your once a week chats – when you remember to call – are not going to be effective. This is not some grand experiment, like My Fair Lady. This is a young girl’s life. Anyone with designs of “saving” Rashida will also have to bear in mind that this is a girl whose sexual appetite has been awakened quite early, which presents itself with a whole host of challenges that extend beyond the cessation of making diss videos and rap tracks.

As we do in such cases, we implore people to be guided by empathy with hopes that doing so will persuade the empathizer to support our view of an issue. I’m not asking you to support my position on the matter, which is that everyone needs to let Rashida and her family alone. They didn’t beg anyone to watch her videos.

I have a daughter who just turned 12 and has started to develop little crushes and who also likes to publish YouTube videos, so if we were truly a ratchet family, I could see this happening in my house, unpleasant as it is. If Rashida were my kid, I’d say:

My dear. My beautiful little girl. I’m sorry that this boy hurt you. I hate to say it, but he’s not going to be the last man to break your heart. At 15, you still have two more heartbreaks to go before you learn to guard that thing beating in your chest. You will continue to trust men until you learn that trust is something to be earned, not offered freely.

It is unfortunate that you didn’t feel like you could come and talk to me about this, but I understand that too. Sometimes, young people forget that we older ones were once young too. Sometimes, we get so wrapped up in ourselves that we forget the days of our youth and the wild things that we did.

There are going to be those that claim that this video is going to signal the end of you. Don’t listen. In a year, no one will remember. Wisa whipped out his penis on stage and no one thinks about the event with any real angst anymore. It’s sad, but it’s fortunate for you. You have a chance to build your life on a new foundation. People are offering to help you. Take that help, but take it on your own terms. Don’t let your poverty and lack shame you into doing anything that you’re not comfortable with or that betrays your true self.

Image source: Viasat 1

Image source: Viasat 1

Above all else, I want you to live a healthy and happy life. Define success for yourself and enjoy these fleeting moments. I see you have a Jigwe Award? We’ll treat it like it’s a MOBO until you earn one.

Now… come and help me pound this fufu. We still gotta eat.

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I’m Supposed to be Writing about Frederick Douglas, But Here’s My Audio Book Instead.

I’m not doing a year end review this year. 2016 SUCKED, and there’s nothing more to add. I don’t understand how one year – not even 365 days as yet – could harvest the souls (and minds, in some cases) of so many favored creatives, artists, thinkers and healers. I mean, really. Take Mos Def, for instance. Mos Def ain’t dead, but 2016 decided to sacrifice his craft on its bloody, brazen altar for no apparent reason at all. Lets just be DONE with 2016, already.

Now that that’s out of the way…

I just finished reading Frederick Douglas’ Narrative of an American Slave 4 days ago. It was phenomenal. Have you read it? Douglas’ Narrative was not required reading for me in school, and it was one of those books that slipped through my bibliographic net after I aged out of the classroom. There are so many parallels between the world he describes and the one we inhabit today – few of them good –  and my hope is to finish writing the piece and to publish it on this side of 2016. However if I don’t, there is something else I had on my to-do list (read: overdue) that I am pleased to announce that has been crossed off the itinerary at long last.

TADAAA!!!

After a long struggle, I have finally put my second children’s book on video format! This is great for several reasons; reasons which I am sure that a handful of people will allude to in the comments section. *strong hint*

‘Close to Home’ was released in print earlier this year, and if you have early readers who need a guide to read along with/to them, the book-on-video provides an amazing companion for that purpose. It’s available on Amazon.com. *strong hint part 2*

'Close to Home' is available on Amazon

‘Close to Home’ is available on Amazon today!

No, but seriously: I hope you, your little ones or someone else’s little ones you’ve co-opted enjoy the images and identify with the story. ‘Close to Home’ is about finding courage and I pray that it inspires compassion for children who are adventurous in spirit but may be a little more timid in person.

Reviews are welcome, likes are appreciated. 🙂

A Lesson About Success

My son’s class conducted a life skills practical in their fourth term. Each student was given a bean, a shallow metal dish and some moist cotton in which to plant the seed. The goal was to connect the bean’s growth to the story of Jan en die boontjierank (Jack and the Beanstalk). Stone is a born botanist, and has loved plants since he was a toddler. He brought his bean home and made sure the cotton was kept moist and frequently moved it all around the house in an effort to always keep it in the sun.

In time, a shoot broke through the bean’s outer shell and a fragile root system began to develop. Stone kept watering and moving the plant.

One weekend after his bean turned into a seedling, we had to go out of town. The seedling had no water, too much exposure to the elements and appeared brown and dead by the time we got home three days later. Stone quickly took it over to the sink and moistened the cotton, and his father advised that now might be a good time to put the seedling in some soil. I advised that he stop moving it from place to place all around the house and allow it to get adjusted to one spot and the conditions in that particular area. That’s how the bean ended up on the ledge of our front porch, where it rebounded. The old, dry leaves dropped off and new green shoots began to emerge from its tiny stalk.

“Isn’t it cool how new life can emerge from something you assumed was once dead?” I mused to my husband.

A man of many words, he replied, “Mmm hmmm.”

My conversations with Marshall are so deep…

It’s now been two months since Stone’s bean was planted, and it’s about 3.5cm high. Ecstatic that his seedling had achieved some semblance of an actual, viable plant, he asked if he could take it out of the tin and plant it in the garden bed next to the garage. He dug a hole, tipped the plant out and dropped it in. The next morning when he came to check on his plant, it was dead…Really dead this time.

The summer sun and gale force winds that gust around our house at this elevation killed it in 24 hours. Distraught and disappointed, Stone dug up his seedling and put it back in its makeshift pot to see if he could revive it. It’s been over a week now, and it doesn’t show signs of recovering. We are still holding out hope, however.

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Come back to us, bean plant!

Why do I mention this story to you? All of us has a dream; some sort of ambition that we harbor deep within ourselves. The bravest (or more foolhardy) of us will sometimes take the step to put flesh to that dream. It may be a business idea, or a talent, or a philosophy you’d like to see incorporated into the culture. If it’s a particularly unique or good idea, or if you have people who support you because YOU are unique and think you are particularly a good person, you may find yourself pressured to put your idea, talent or skill in the sun before it’s had a chance to develop deep roots.

The function of the sun is to sustain life, but the sun’s rays can also be fatal, as we learned from the demise of Stone’s tender plant. You may be looking at other people in your field of interest and ponder over their achievements. Their success must surely come from full exposure to the sun, whereas your growth has only been gradual because you’ve gotten those rays in smaller measure. This may inspire you to think you’re ready to launch yourself into the same atmosphere, but if your gift is not developed, it will kill not only the gift, but its potential as well. When the winds of criticism, negativity and hostility come, your potential will be shaken loose from its roots. There is nothing wrong with a little caution.

This is written to encourage those who are looking around at your circumstances after putting in whatever effort and asking yourself “Why am I not further along?” The answer may simply be as simple as it’s not your time. Your growth – or lack thereof – is not for lack of trying: It’s because everything and everyone develops at his or her own pace.

We live in such an exhibitionist culture nowadays that people expose their talent in its infancy and the culture consumes and disposes of it quickly. The music industry provides the most visible manifestation of this. We cycle through more rappers and crooners annually than Rob Ford did needles and pipes. (RIP, Mayor.)

Take the time and care to hone your craft and build your core. Sure, there are times when you can drop a seed in a harsh environment and it will not only anchor, but dominate that environment as well, crushing all in its wake. Those are called anomalies…like Beyoncé. Most of us are not anomalies. Most of us are Solanges; or at least we should be trying to be. There’s only room for one Beyoncé in the world at a time, maybe two. However there are plenty of seats at the table for a dozen Solanges or more. (See how I just did that? You like that? Of course you do.)

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Be encouraged. Be glad for other people who have established their roots and have found their place in the sun. When your turn comes, you’ll want others to be glad for you too. Don’t give up, but more importantly, don’t force your success. Build upon yourself, and it will come.

 

 

Birthday Con(ned), 2016

“Sigh…”

I looked up from my phone, irritated. It seems like Nadjah is always sighing about one thing or another these days.

“What? What is it?” I demanded. I was in no mood for her mercurial tween angst. Her episodes had been a burden on my nerves for weeks.

“Well… It’s just that my birthday is coming up, and I think it’s going to be pretty lame because we’re not in Atlanta any more.”

I softened a bit. It just so happened that in that very moment, I was missing Atlanta as well. I missed the blending of cultures; the hundreds of venues and events from which to choose for entertainment; and Chick-Fil-A. We always miss Chick-Fil-A. And DragonCon. The painful memory of its omission from our social calendar was still fresh in my and the children’s minds. We’ve been attending the Con as a family since Aya was in a stroller. I put my hand on Nadjah’s cheek and sighed with her.

Now I understand completely what happened, of course. Hindsight is always 20/20. It is because she caught me snacking on roasted peanuts and raisins instead of waffle fries and thick ketchup that I found myself beholden to the ridiculous idea that I proffered. The torment I have experienced over the previous two weeks is of no one’s making but my own – for it was with my own lips and through my own face that I said:

“You know what? Since we didn’t get to go to DragonCon this year, why don’t we have ‘NadjahCon’ for your birthday?”

“What?”

“Yeah! You and all your friends dress up in cosplay, we’ll have some games…”

“…and a photo booth, and prizes!”

“Ok… Sure.”

“I’m going to be Hatsune Miku blah, blah, blah, blah, blahhhh….”

I had no idea who or what this Hatsune Miku person was, but knowing my child as I do, I knew that creating this entity was going to cost me a pretty penny. *Spoiler alert: It has.*

For the next 4 days, every conversation we had was about the invitations I was promised to design and make.

Put me on an invitation!

Put me on an invitation!

“Mommy, I drew Hatsune like I said I would. Are the invitations done yet?”

“Mommy, did you do them yet?”

“Mommy…the invitations!”

 

Mind you, we have no functioning printer in our house, so I have to run to a local joint called The Print Shop and give them 60 cents per page anytime I need to fulfill an order. 60 cents doesn’t sound like a lot, until you multiply it by a billion. Because guess who didn’t line up her images correctly? Yes. This chick… this chick right here. And guess who had to pay The Print Shop a nice little grip to re-print the cards? You know don’t how much I wish the answer to that question was Your momma!

Sigh.

At this point, it’s all gotten completely out of hand. I’m making pterodactyl eggs, commissioning a local seamstress to make superhero capes for the kids who are SURE to show up without a costume and scattering money all over town for props. I am behaving like a Nigerian mother but operating without an Oga’s budget. You think my husband is in support of this foolishness?

“Why can’t she just have a couple of friends over, have some pizza, and have a sleepover?”

I would have (possibly) been in favor of that plan if Pastor Grant hadn’t done that thing when he bends his body at the knees, widens his eyes and speaks in slow, deliberate terms. Like he’s talking to someone in the process of making a series of poor, regrettable decisions and he’s trying desperately to get through to them with reason.

Naturally, I rebuffed his suggestion with a counterpoint of my own.

“That’s LAME, Marshall!”

And that’s how your craftily challenged blogger friend here ended up making a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shell out of papier-mâché and several “indestructible” shields out of cardboard and hot glue.

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As I was mulling over my self-inflicted wounds, the eldest of my loin fruit joined me in the living room and settled herself on the sofa across from me.

“Yes?”

“You know what, Mommy? I was thinking. Instead of calling it ‘NadjahCon’, can we just call it ‘BDayCon’?”

NadjahCon sounded too self-absorbed, apparently. I just looked at her, grunted my approval and redesigned the invitations…again.

Yesterday, after I’d gotten back from Home Express (the US equivalent of Dollar Tree), where I had dropped the same obscene amount of money that every woman leaves in any discount store where she walks in with the intention of getting ‘one thing’, a thought occurred to me.

Maybe…maybe Nadjah could’ve gotten her best buddies together and just gone OUT for dinner. Maybe…maybe milkshakes with her friends could have been good enough. Perhaps – and I was just standing there in the sun thinking out loud, mind you – but perhaps we all could’ve just watched the highlights of DragonCon 2016 on YouTube instead of trying to live out a counterfeit version in the middle of South Africa with a bunch of kids who have no idea what cosplay is or how it works or might not find it interesting in the least.

Oh well. We’ll never know, will we? Tomorrow I go in search of PVC pipe so that I can construct a frame for the steampunk inspired photo booth. Like I said, I’ve gone too far to turn back now.

I’m glad we changed the name of the party to BDayCon 2016. It’s totally apt. Not only did I get conned into producing a major party, but I played myself.

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*This isn’t one of the worst mistakes I’ve made in my parenting journey, but it certainly isn’t one of my finest hours. Have you ever parented out of guilt? At what point did you decide this point was far enough and decide to pull back? Or are you like me – just riding all the way into the Danger Zone with no decorum nor common sense? Discuss! 

 

 

 

The Religious Right Has Ignored Its Role in Propagating Abortion. That Ends Now.

Q: “Serious question: Evangelicals, how could you do it? How could you support Trump?”

A: “We did it to protect the most vulnerable amongst us. We did it to protect the unborn.”

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“So excited! I took my daughter in the booth with me to vote today. I asked her if we should vote for the candidate who wants to save unborn babies, or the one who doesn’t. We voted to save babies.”

 

This is just a small sample of the conversations I’ve seen online from those who have been brave (or nonchalant) enough to voice for their support for Donald Trump.

Pastors routinely encourage their congregations to vote for the candidate that’s going to protect life, support Israel and defend heterosexual marriage. There is rarely any critical examination of a candidate beyond these three mandates, the logic being that believers are in this world, but not of it. (Ref John 17:16) Over time as the Evangelical Movement has become mainstream and the most recognized form of Christianity after Catholicism, and abortion and gay marriage have become THE voter issue(s) that Christians care about. I know my pastor couldn’t stop talking about it. It’s a narrow way to view the world, and it is unhelpful, as it takes into no consideration why women often feel compelled to seek an abortion in the first place. In order to do that, the church (and all who follow the tenants of any Abrahamic religion, really) would have to look itself in the mirror and accept blame.

Being a single-issue voter is not a trait that inspires admiration; however, it has been a luxury that the American voter has enjoyed ever since Civil Rights had been achieved and Roe v Wade was enacted. In terms of core values, there is nothing that truly separates Democrats from Republicans. The difference is only in the approach to achieving their goals. This is why no matter who wins a presidential election, Americans have been able to work together to achieve those core values. That is not the case with the election of Donald Trump, a man who has vowed a complete shut down on Muslims entering the country, vowed to impose “law and order” (read police harassment) in inner cities, encouraged his supporters to physically assault protestors at his rallies, promised to hire a special prosecutor to jail his political opponent, advanced ideas about jailing/punishing women who carry out abortions and preyed on women sexually, just to name a few. Oh, and he has some casinos that feature nice restaurants. I wouldn’t want to be accused of being biased in my assessment of Donald Trump.

I’m not here to discuss with my Bible believing friends and readers how for support for a Trump presidency is inconsistent with calling yourself a holder of Christian values. How do you justify electing a man who completely embodies the opposite of all the values you say you hold dear? I won’t discuss today how hurt I am to discover that your latent white supremacist biases would allow you to vote for a man who has the endorsement of the KKK precisely because his rhetoric has been racist and because his proposals would adversely affect marginalized groups. You’ve convinced yourselves that God is white and/or holds Republican values, and any conversation on the topic would be futile. I see where we stand.

Today, I want to talk to you about your ‘one’ issue…the issue you said would preclude you from supporting Hillary Clinton due to her stand: Abortion.

Do you recognize the part you have historically played in making abortions not only necessary, but desirable? You probably don’t, but that obliviousness is also a luxury privileged groups enjoy. And yes, Christians have been the privileged majority in America since its inception.

Abortion has its roots in shame and guilt, two emotions that paternal societies and religions have used to manipulate the multitudes for centuries. Let’s consider Mary, who was chosen as a vessel to carry God’s Son and fulfill His word. What did Joseph have to do when she informed him of her divine pregnancy? He took her away, not wanting to make an example of her. Being with child outside of the bonds of marriage was a grievous (and punishable) sin. Societal attitudes towards unwed mothers haven’t change in over a thousand years. In the 1940s and 50s, we saw how unwed mothers in Europe and America were forced to either give up their babies for adoption (or sale), or uprooted from their family life completely in order to cover the shame of getting pregnant out of wedlock. How many couples have been forced into shotgun weddings to cover the humiliation of getting pregnant out of wedlock? How many lives have been completely destroyed as a result of those forced unions? The conservative/Abrahamic religious mind and attitude toward women and pregnancy has wreaked havoc across the world for generations.

In West Africa amongst the Akans, there was a saying that ‘a baby was for us all’. A baby, no matter the circumstances of its birth was something to be celebrated. Everyone played a part in that child’s success. It takes a village to raise a child is a concept Hillary Clinton – and others – coopted from Africa. But what have we seen with the spread of Judeo Christian values in Africa? The tyranny of shame surrounding pregnancy and childbirth. Just as it is in America, there is only one right time to have a baby, and if a child is conceived outside of those confines, it’s cause for humiliation, not celebration. Most of the time, women and girls are made to shoulder the burden of that humiliation, while men are spared any torment. In the face of this, an abortion looks like a more attractive option.

The Church is not really pro-life. The modern Church is merely anti-abortion. If the Church was pro-life, it would have put structures in place to support young women and girls as they prepare to bring life into this world. Pastors would not spit hateful words to make these women feel like criminal delinquents. Unwed or not, women would feel more confident in announcing their condition. This is not the case.

After a yearlong tryst with Douche Bag, I found myself pregnant. We had already ended things prior to this discovery, so I had no intention of marrying him. He took the news poorly, as was to be expected. However when I told by a select number of Christian counterparts, I was told I needed to “go see Pastor XXX and pray and ask God’s forgiveness!”

When a friend of mine got pregnant and decided to keep the baby, her paramour – who was a deacon in the church and later became her husband – was stripped of his duties while she was whispered about behind her back and made to feel like a pariah.

My South African housekeeper’s daughter got pregnant at 17. I’ve known her since she was 13. When I hugged her and told her I couldn’t wait to meet her baby, her mother said, “Get down on your knees! Tell Malaka that this was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made in your life!” This is a church going woman.

These stories are not unique. These are the norm. So when I hear Christians claim that they voted and supported a violent fascist for their presidential candidate because he’s going to protect the “innocence of life”, I call bull. What about the innocent men that populate America’s overflowing prisons? What about the law abiding same sex couple that gets hateful words hurled at them? What about the immigrant who really wants a path to legal citizenship, but finds his/her path blocked at every turn by unnavigable legislation and is forced deeper underground just to survive? Not everyone can emigrate from Slovakia and find their path to citizenship by marrying a septuagenarian billionaire. These lives are innocent and worthy of protection as well. You do yourself and the God you serve a grave disservice when you refuse to be nuanced in your advocacy. God doesn’t just care about one group of people, and neither should you.

To the degree that your cause and preaching has participated in making a woman feel uncomfortable/ashamed/desperate in her state of pregnancy is the degree to which you’ve driven her to have an abortion, the very procedure that you find so repugnant. We shame women for getting pregnant, we shame them for seeking public assistance to bring a healthy baby into the world, we shame them for terminating a pregnancy that nobody – maybe not even herself – seems to want. Again, this is not being pro-life.

Evangelicals who overwhelmingly supported Trump will have to take a hard look at themselves over the course of the next 4 years, when they watch their neighbors battle severe illnesses with Ibuprofen because they no longer have access to healthcare, or when their children come home to report how their friends have taken to shouting “Go back to Mexico/Africa! Build that wall!” in the lunchroom. When the chaos that has ensued over the last 48 hours has not fizzled out but only heightened and expanded in other unanticipated areas. You will have to tell us all then if criminalizing and blocking a woman’s access to abortion was all worth it.

*I’ve focused on Christianity in this piece because it’s what I’m most familiar with. What does your religion or worldview say about pregnancy and life? Does it support women, or does it force, punish and dictate how their bring life into the Earth?

Why I Am Very Happy With My Children’s South African Education

One of the tenants of being a Good African Mother is to make sure that your children have a quality education that will ultimately prepare them for one of three respectable professions – those being: Doctor, Lawyer and Engineer. (Engineer usurped ‘Banker’ about 15 years ego, coinciding with the rise of the proliferation of social media, a tool African Parents employ to spy on their African Children.) With Chimamanda’s rise to prominence and influence, we may be able to add “author” as a fourth option to this coveted list, but I suspect that any foray into the world of professional writing will have to be preceded by an attempt – at least – at one of the previously mentioned professions. On second thought, that wouldn’t be advisable. The shame of being forever known as the African Child who dropped out of medical/law/engineering school would be too much to bear…unless you’re Chimamanda.

The lesson is, just become Ms. Adichie if you harbor no plans of becoming a proper professional.

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Whatever career track my children decide to follow, it’s my job to prepare them for it. Some people have expressed concern about the quality of education that the Grant kids will be receiving in South Africa, a concern that I carried with me coming from the US as well. South Africa’s educational statistics are pretty grim. There’s no denying that. Only 71.2% of grade six level South African children are literate (source: Unesco), this despite the $1, 225 South Africa spends on primary education per pupil, one of the highest investment amounts on the continent. The legacy of apartheid in education is still very real, and effects policy today. Students who live in townships are routinely bussed into more affluent school districts where there are better teachers, better facilities and better chances at networking with who will become colleagues and leaders in the future. If you’re reading this and it sounds eerily familiar – say, the way education and opportunity works in America – you’re not too far off. Affluence works the same way globally.

While we are not as wealthy as the average Plettonian, we still find ourselves in an income bracket that is above what the average person of color earns in this corner of the country. The education that our kids are benefiting from comes at a premium, and I have no delusions about that. We pay R1000 per child per month. The average domestic worker or day laborer can reasonably expect to earn R3000-4000 a month for their labor, earnings which must be spread over rent, feeding, transportation and other living expenses. I spoke to a Zimbabwean art dealer who wanted to get his son into Plett Primary where my kids attend school, and he lamented that it was really “difficult” to get the boy in. Without saying as much, I knew he was talking about affordability.

Good and quality education should not come with a steep price tag, but it often does. South Africa is no exception to this. Since we have found ourselves in this fortunate position, I will take the time to say that I do appreciate what and how my kids are being taught here. The pace is much faster than what they were accustomed to in the States, and they are being taught fundamentals that are being lost in Western education… fundamentals as basic as handwriting.

My eldest child is very much like her mother and has abysmal handwriting. Because very little schoolwork is computer based in this country, it is essential to have neat and legible handwriting, something that her teachers emphasis with every project she turns in. Developing this skill will only go on to assist her with the visual art career she claims she has decided to pursue.

I believe my children are getting a more rounded approach to education. In addition to core subjects like math, language and science, they are taught life skills and ballroom dancing. Sports is considered equally important as any other subject on the time table, and after leading a largely sedentary school life in the States, it’s great to see my children take an interest in clubs that are physically demanding. And the best part? They are free. I don’t have to pay a bunch of money in dues, fees or extra equipment that would likely go unused. Every term, they are given a chance to explore a new sport club, including surfing. Our teachers are generally willing to help our kids after school to get them caught up in the subjects they are struggling in; but I can’t say for certain that this is the sort of dedication you could expect from a township teacher who might show up to work drunk, if at all.

Everything sounds rosy, right? Up until 7th grade, everything will be. That’s when it pretty much goes to crap.

Primary education in South Africa provides a solid foundation for learning, but high school is much trickier. Our options for high school are very limited in this area. There are three schools from which to choose: Plett Sec, which is the equivalent of East Side High pre-Joe ‘Batman’ Clark; Wittedrift which is a’ight; and Greenbay College, which is non-accredited. There are just no good choices for high school to prepare one to compete globally…unless you live in a larger city like Johannesburg or Cape Town where education is more likely to be privatized, for profit and accessible to those who can afford it. This same trend follows through to university, which has had students protesting and toi toi-ing on campuses across the nation to needle the government to keep its promise to provide free tertiary education.

What to do about preparing for university is a problem We will probably have to home-school our kids once it’s time for high school, a prospect no one in this house is looking forward to. If I thought they could bear it, I’d send them to Ghana to attend HGIC, but I don’t think that they qualify as academic enough. I’m raising a visual artist, remember? HGIC only graduates future Doctors, Lawyers and Engineers.

I might have better luck with this African Mothering thing with the younger children.

 

*Do you home school your kids? Would you ever consider it? Did your parents home school you – and if they did, do you feel it prepared you for life? I really want to know!

 

 

How Do White Men Feel When White Women Pass Them Over For Black Men?

I like to imagine the guys over at Men’s Health/GQ/Esquire/Popular White Male magazine tossing around a mini foam football to each other as they pitch ideas for an upcoming issue.

“How about testicular cancer?”

“Nah. We did that last issue. Exposés on cancer cycle every 4 months. Don’t want to alarm the readership.”

“Right…right.”

“Five foods to feed your muscles?”

“Nice play with alliteration, Josh, but we’re looking for something edgy…something we’ve never done before.”

A shadowy figure emerges from the back of the room. The Ping-Pong table once occupied that space, before it was unceremoniously replaced with the communal keg following HR’s approval, of course. It was Ryan. Ryan was a rogue…and one of the most respected minds at Pop White Male Mag. He’d clearly been guzzling from the keg.

“What if…and this is crazy, but hear me out… What if we did a story about how rejected white men feel whenever we see a white chick dating or married to a Black guy.”

Gasps erupt all over the room.

“Ohmigod. Like, we could talk about how Black Dude probably has this enormous cock.”

“Or how he shoots a basketball really good!”

“Dude! Or how he’s probably amazing in bed…!”

“Thanks, Will. I think we covered that already.”

Photo credit: major league dating

I’m just going to sit here by this still water and contemplate my abysmal life because white women keep leaving me for Black men! Photo credit: major league dating

Soon the room is buzzing with chatter and ideas about all the reasons why white men would suffer from apoplectic feelings of rejection just knowing that there was a white woman – famous or not – who’d chosen to wed herself to a Black guy.

“Guys, guys. We can take this even further. What if we had a double feature and talk about how white-on-white crime is destroying the white community?”

More gasps.

“Jeeezus! That’s brilliant!”

“All those meth moms neglecting their kids…”

“And the baskets of deplorables who rape their step kids…”

“Or traffic little blond girls during football season…”

“Ohio would be a GREAT place to gather special interest stories on white-on-white crime…”

“All we have to do is pitch it to the guys upstairs.”

A hush falls over the room.

“They’ll never go for it.”

“I know. MAN! It would’ve been such a good feature. It’s not fair! All the Black magazines get to do it.”

“Right. But that’s because we don’t have to portray the same image they. We’re heterosexual WASP men…we have a different standard, y’know?”

“Can’t be seen rolling around in the gutter, fishing for ideas…”

“So! Five Foods to Feed Your Muscles it is?”

Everyone agrees and gets to work.

 

******

 

Can I tell you how desperately I wish the men and women who run these “progressive & enlightened” Black blogs, online forums and infotainment spaces would come to the same conclusions about interracial dating, particularly where the feelings of Black women are concerned? Because it really is akin to lobster diving in the gutter for story ideas. Just like there are no edible lobsters in a sewer near you, there is no story about Black women and feeling some kind of way about Black men who have “passed us over”.

I honestly don’t think we’ve cared as a group since Waiting to Exhale.

Nevertheless, in the previous 24 hours alone, I’ve seen two articles about successful Black men who have chosen to marry white women (Damon Dash and Luke Cage’s Mike Colter). Both articles relied on old tropes to advance the idea that there are hoards of bitter Black women who stew at home in rollers and satin caps, furious that aforementioned famous Black Man had the gall not to choose a woman that looked like them. This woman does not exist, or rather; she does not represent the majority of Black women’s feelings on the matter. The average Black woman doesn’t care who you date/procreate with. You know why? Because most of us – the vast majority of us – understand that most of these men exist in realms outside of our daily existence. Our chances of interacting are slim to nil. Secondly, a Black man’s choice to date outside of the race isn’t a personal slight or a rejection. That choice only translates into rejection when Black men actively do things like this:

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(You can peruse the rest of Vibe’s tawdry list on here http://www.vibe.com/2012/07/10-reasons-black-guys-prefer-white-girls/)

You know what? If I was a white woman reading this I’d be offended beyond belief. This is ignorant trash, feeding on equally tired ideas about white female fragility and subservience. I’m here to tell you that a white woman will absolutely destroy your world and set your body on fire if you cross her.

As for Black women?

We don’t care, we don’t care, WE DON’T CARE if Black men prefer white women. All that we ask is that you not disparage us in the process of exercising your right to choose your companion. I don’t know of any other race that so proudly speaks ill of their women for teehee’s and retweets or a cheap coin or two. You can legitimately talk about an appreciation for Kate Upton’s wavy hair without expressing a disdain for Janelle Monae’s luscious locks. If you happen to prefer Gwyneth Kate Paltrow’s flat bottom over Serena William’s plump rump, so be it! Both are beautiful in their own right. Black women honestly don’t care. What’s hurtful is when you feel a need to insult us, our features, our experiences, our existence itself to justify your dating preferences. If we’re “angry, bitter and mouthy”, it’s because we constantly have to defend ourselves from a verbal onslaught.

Lots of successful (and just as many futureless) Black men are married to white women. However, many more men who pursue marriage are married to Black women.

Overall, statistics show that the percentage of Black women getting married is actually on the rise. The U.S. Census Bureau is also shutting down rumors that Black men are not marrying Black women. Nearly 90 percent of Black men had Black wives in 2010, compared to only 9 percent that were married to white women.

The entertainment and sports industries are not reflective of reality. A Black man like Kanye needs to live in the Kardashian’s parallel universe, because he’s not equipped to deal with the realities that most Black people have to deal with. So yes, in that sense, he was very fortunate that Kim passed over a legion of white men to marry him.

But then that brings me to my original point. Why has no publication ever dedicated as much time to investigating how white men feel about being overlooked in favor of Black men? Are they not a part of this equation too, or are hurt feelings the domain of Black women alone? I mean, I know why this question has never been asked, just as well as you do. The perception is that white men are paragons of virtue and gallantry. He is Hercules; Socrates; Caesar. Even his faults provide models for instruction, which is why men like Bill O’Reilly and Donald Trump can maintain positions of power. Redemption is for white men. If a white woman would pass all of that over in pursuit of a Black male who represents the antithesis of all these things, then she must be a defective, irredeemable model.

And this is why you will never hear the words ‘And when she get on, she’ll leave you’re a** for a black boy’ written into a Top 40 song anywhere, any time, in the history of anything. Because power dynamics.

In conclusion, I would like to speak on behalf of the Black Women’s Delegation and assure we are not jealous and we don’t care. We care about rent. We care about getting the A/C fixed before next summer. We’re focused on making sure our sons and daughters live to a ripe old age and survive this here police state. All these imputed hurt feelings about being ‘passed over’ for white women is nothing more than white noise.

 

Any white guys reading this today? How do you feel when you see white women with Black men? Does it hurt? Do you feel rejected? Do white women make you feel inferior/inadequate for not having coarse, curly hair or jet black skin? I’m here to listen…