Dear sir or ma'am,
As I write this letter, note, manifesto, or whatever you
want to call it, I am about as uneasy and shaken as ever. There are so many emotions racing through my
mind and ravaging my soul that I feel as though I may just fall out and
faint. But that’s not what girls like me
do. We stand. We remain strong. And we come to grips with the reality of
triparte oppression juxtaposed with the benefits of education and socioeconomic
status and abled bodies, and try to
do something about it to make some kind of mark in the sand…if not, at least write out our sorrows.
Today, the topic of respectability politics rocked my conscience,
as I was working on a sermon regarding domestic violence, cancer awareness, and
women’s bodies. I was grappling with the
reality that many of us as Black, female, seminary-trained, ordained, and
actively serving in some semblance of parish ministry find ourselves not
wanting to use our voices to say something in defense of our own bodies, in
fear of retribution and jeapordizing the status we have finally gained
alongside our male counterparts.
Sometimes, we even fade into the backdrop with the men folk and try to
do the same things, in the same ways. Only
later do we realize we get the same results that we have tried so diligently to
fight against, as we were trying to climb up the proverbial and very real
ladder to take our chance at striking a crack into the glass ceiling of
opportunity. We are the malignant cancer
of horizontal violence, and radiation cannot cure it. Yet, I am not one of
those women. I do not want to shame
them, blame them, name them, or claim that they are any less of a woman that I,
because I feel my heart palpitating with the exact same concern…who am I going
to make mad? Who am I going to
upset? What am I going to lose? What
will happen when I hit the publish button???
The only thing that keeps me going is the fact that I know I
will have to answer to my own conscience, my future children, who I wish to
make a better world for when they come, and my God. The Holy Spirit also eases some of my
trepidation in reminding me that I was formed to speak up and speak out;
created to be assertive and bold; and called to say those things that everyone
else thinks, but dares not say…all in the name of being respectable and
politically correct.
While there is some truth in being careful about what you
post, because it will follow you, I also know that I want this note to reach
anyone and everyone that is a parent, grandparent, auntie, uncle, godparent, sister,
brother, cousin, or friend to a Black child, and the officers that will be
appointed over them to protect and serve their communities. Simply,
please don’t kill my child. Please don’t assault my baby. Please give them a chance at due process…not
because they are innocent; not because they are absent of any wrong doing; and
not because they have always thought before they spoke back to an authority
figure…but because they are my baby. Of
course, I plan to train up my children in the way they should go because I want
their days to be long. Certainly, I will
teach them how to respect themselves as much as they respect others. In my house, we believe in spankings. Where I come from, we say no to drugs, lude
and licentious behavior, and bad attitudes.
But they may be at the wrong place, at the wrong time. It may be an unfortunate opportunity for them
to be made into an example, good or bad…please choose the good. What I mean by good, is being an officer that
keeps his/her cool. An officer that sees
past the heteronormative discourse utilized to stigmatize, immobilize, and
traumatize Black, brown, and gendered bodies.
Everyone is someone’s baby.
Everyone is someone’s daughter or son.
No matter how much it may seem this child, teenager, or adult should not
be loved because of the particular situation they may be in, or seem to be in…they
were yet created in the image of God, and also in the image of someone who
loves them.
I ask you, not because I am blazing #blacklivesmatter on my
chest, but because I don’t want to see another child being dragged like a rag
doll out of her school chair; because I do not want to see college kids
accosted at an ATM; because I get tired of being followed around in the mall;
because I have experienced being flipped to my head, and knowing nothing would
be done; because Skittles and sweet tea aren’t worth dying for; because bumping
gangsta rap does something for my Memphis soul, and all I wanted to do was hear
that beat drop one last time; because I want to live and pursue happiness…the
ability to love who I love; live where I want to live; enjoy good food,
laughter, and soul stirring conversation with my friends; talk with my
sweetheart until the sun breaks in the early morning; go to school and get an education;
serve my country and have the time of my life; experience the American dream
and buy a house with a two-car garage; make plans to start a family…wait…I did
all that. But will my children?
Will my children know the joys of young high school
love? Will my children know the fun that
happens at prom? Will my children have
the opportunity to reminisce about the hot light at Krispy Kreme after
cheerleading practice? Will my daughter
know what it feels like to pledge in a sorority? Will my son feel the heat of the “burning
sands”? Will I pack up the mini-van and
set them up for life on their own during graduate school? Will I write them a check for their first and
last month of rent? Will I still defend
them when their boss gives them an unworkable schedule? Will I have the chance to tell let them know
that I will still come and care for them during oral surgery; hold them in my
lap, even though they’re too big; and fix them chicken noodle soup? Will I
stand beside them as they take their wife or husband? Will I see my grandchildren?
Yes sir. Yes ma’am. I know my education, socioeconomic status,
military service, ordination, Gucci loafers, Prada purse, and soccer mom
European car will never save me from detainment, questioning, or simply being
pulled over for no reason. However, I do
keep my military ID on deck at all times.
I am sure you do not care, at first…but will you, at least care for my
child? For him/her to grow? For him/her to have the opportunity to sing
in the Angel choir…here on earth?
Please. It may not be your child,
but he or she belongs to someone. They
belong to me.
I don’t know the answer to these questions, but you do. I know how strange my feminist, womanist,
military, church, and not so close friends will think about such a plea. There are many that do not understand my
radical subjectivity. I sometimes just
figure they are apathetic and lazy.
Maybe they’re not. Whatever the
case, I know someone is going to judge me to hell and back for this note’s lack
of intellectual adroitness; very few definitions; and not even the thought of
making this make sense for the masses. Someone
is going to say be careful. Someone is
going to say you shouldn’t post something like that. Someone isn’t going to understand the anxiety
I have for my future child. But you know
what, I don’t care what they think…I just hope you do.
Sincerely,
An eventual mother at some point, concerned about her future Black children
