Why Black Women Need a Better PR Campaign
Helena Andrews
Contributor
Posted:
07/12/10
Saturday morning I spent an hour trying to convince a local radio host that I wasn't an ABW -- angry black woman (an acronym I'd never heard before and won't be using with any frequency). I don't know how well I did, because these days it's nearly impossible to prove my positive side amid a flurry of articles, books and movies about how very mad I am. Fine, fine: I did write a book called "Bitch Is the New Black." And, to be honest, I am mad, but not for the reasons Tyler Perry thinks.
What gets my blood boiling (and my fingers typing) is the fact that it's 2010 and the line on black women is still stuck on "strong," which too often devolves into "angry," "independent" and, of course, "single." But for the new clique of young black women ripping into adulthood, there's a total disconnect between how strangers perceive us, how we perceive ourselves and who we actually are. Call it the Clair conundrum or the Michelle microscope, but for the later part of this decade, black women (and their supposed superpowers) have been blamed for the dwindling numbers in our community's marriage rates, which seems the height of injustice given that the definition of marriage is a union between two people.
Blame television. We little brown girls were breastfed by "The Cosby Show's" romantic idealism, then hastily weaned on militant black girl power with "Living Single" and "Waiting to Exhale." We thought marriage and master's degrees were in our future and then were taught that being single and independent was just as satisfying. The world according to ABC's "Nightline" sees us this way: single but loving it, strong and never vulnerable, angry and rarely sweet. The worst part is sometimes we see ourselves that way too.
Really, how could we not? According to "the statistics," black men are more likely to go to prison than college. Black women head more households alone. Marriage is for white people! There's a shortage of good black men! Black men all want to date someone with the last name Kardashian! Black men are all "on the DL." Tyler Perry is the ringleader of some secret cabal that wants us paired off with mechanics and bus drivers. A fertile Clair Huxtable is our pin-up. But the childless Oprah is our muse.
Whew, all that's enough to give even the strongest neck whiplash.
The twist is we're finally fighting it. Those of us standing on the precipice of 30 are starting to ask some obvious questions: How did I get here? When did I sign on for this? Who decided I had to be the strong one? And: How do I get out of the phone booth?
Unfortunately, the answers aren't simple, nor are they the same for every single lady out there. But we can start with public relations and perhaps a little self-reflection.
Once, when I was 13, I came home to an empty house. My mother was gone and there was no note. After sitting on the couch for an hour watching afternoon reruns, totally unfazed, I heard my grandmother knock on our front door. "Your mother's in jail," she said. "You're gonna stay over at my house." I got up, walked silently to my room, packed a few things and stomped my way to Grandmommy's smoke-filled '92 Nissan. Frances, my mother, called later that day (I'm assuming I was her one phone call). "Lena Dana, don't worry about it, baby. You're strong. You can handle this." I answered in a few whispered "mmmkays" and hung up, studied for AP English, sat on the MTA for an extra hour each way, and waited for this woman to come home.
At 29, I barely think about that kind of stuff anymore (well, aside from writing an entire book about it). Before sitting down to suss out my life so far, I rarely considered how always being strong shaped me -- or whether it did at all. Frances and I laughed about it a few Mother's Days ago while driving past a county detention center that overlooked the highway. I still have no clue why she sat in jail for more than a week or how she finally got out. I've never asked. All I know is that I was strong before she left, while she was gone and after she came back. I blame her almost as much as I thank her.
See, the problem with the term "strong black woman" is that its poison is odorless. Being the "angry black woman" is obviously not a good look. You can't get a job or a man with a stinking attitude, a liquid neck or a wavy finger. But who doesn't want to be strong? Who doesn't want to be endlessly dependable and independent? Me, that's who! I want to be more. Heck, I want to be less. And I'm sure there are other (single) (black) women who feel the same way. But so bent are our minds around the virtues of strength and independence that simply contemplating the opposite seems heretical, dangerous even. If we're not strong, then what are we?
I'd say we're human with a host of desirable and undesirable adjectives meant to describe us beyond strong, angry, independent and successful. There are plenty of happy black women (I believe one lives in the White House) who don't always smile or sing or shout. But perhaps we should do more of that, if only to start our own grassroots campaign against the ABW most of us would argue doesn't exist.
What gets my blood boiling (and my fingers typing) is the fact that it's 2010 and the line on black women is still stuck on "strong," which too often devolves into "angry," "independent" and, of course, "single." But for the new clique of young black women ripping into adulthood, there's a total disconnect between how strangers perceive us, how we perceive ourselves and who we actually are. Call it the Clair conundrum or the Michelle microscope, but for the later part of this decade, black women (and their supposed superpowers) have been blamed for the dwindling numbers in our community's marriage rates, which seems the height of injustice given that the definition of marriage is a union between two people.
Blame television. We little brown girls were breastfed by "The Cosby Show's" romantic idealism, then hastily weaned on militant black girl power with "Living Single" and "Waiting to Exhale." We thought marriage and master's degrees were in our future and then were taught that being single and independent was just as satisfying. The world according to ABC's "Nightline" sees us this way: single but loving it, strong and never vulnerable, angry and rarely sweet. The worst part is sometimes we see ourselves that way too.Really, how could we not? According to "the statistics," black men are more likely to go to prison than college. Black women head more households alone. Marriage is for white people! There's a shortage of good black men! Black men all want to date someone with the last name Kardashian! Black men are all "on the DL." Tyler Perry is the ringleader of some secret cabal that wants us paired off with mechanics and bus drivers. A fertile Clair Huxtable is our pin-up. But the childless Oprah is our muse.
Whew, all that's enough to give even the strongest neck whiplash.
The twist is we're finally fighting it. Those of us standing on the precipice of 30 are starting to ask some obvious questions: How did I get here? When did I sign on for this? Who decided I had to be the strong one? And: How do I get out of the phone booth?
Unfortunately, the answers aren't simple, nor are they the same for every single lady out there. But we can start with public relations and perhaps a little self-reflection.
Once, when I was 13, I came home to an empty house. My mother was gone and there was no note. After sitting on the couch for an hour watching afternoon reruns, totally unfazed, I heard my grandmother knock on our front door. "Your mother's in jail," she said. "You're gonna stay over at my house." I got up, walked silently to my room, packed a few things and stomped my way to Grandmommy's smoke-filled '92 Nissan. Frances, my mother, called later that day (I'm assuming I was her one phone call). "Lena Dana, don't worry about it, baby. You're strong. You can handle this." I answered in a few whispered "mmmkays" and hung up, studied for AP English, sat on the MTA for an extra hour each way, and waited for this woman to come home.
At 29, I barely think about that kind of stuff anymore (well, aside from writing an entire book about it). Before sitting down to suss out my life so far, I rarely considered how always being strong shaped me -- or whether it did at all. Frances and I laughed about it a few Mother's Days ago while driving past a county detention center that overlooked the highway. I still have no clue why she sat in jail for more than a week or how she finally got out. I've never asked. All I know is that I was strong before she left, while she was gone and after she came back. I blame her almost as much as I thank her.
See, the problem with the term "strong black woman" is that its poison is odorless. Being the "angry black woman" is obviously not a good look. You can't get a job or a man with a stinking attitude, a liquid neck or a wavy finger. But who doesn't want to be strong? Who doesn't want to be endlessly dependable and independent? Me, that's who! I want to be more. Heck, I want to be less. And I'm sure there are other (single) (black) women who feel the same way. But so bent are our minds around the virtues of strength and independence that simply contemplating the opposite seems heretical, dangerous even. If we're not strong, then what are we?
I'd say we're human with a host of desirable and undesirable adjectives meant to describe us beyond strong, angry, independent and successful. There are plenty of happy black women (I believe one lives in the White House) who don't always smile or sing or shout. But perhaps we should do more of that, if only to start our own grassroots campaign against the ABW most of us would argue doesn't exist.