Showing posts with label anti-racist. Show all posts
Showing posts with label anti-racist. Show all posts

Monday, June 6, 2011

"What Can the White Man Say to the Black Woman?"

O RLY? How about, "Every __ minutes, our next possible leader is incarcerated, gunned down, flunked, raped, given a black eye, impregnated, refused a job, denied benefits, evicted, exposed to industrial waste from next door, and otherwise cut down by the society that presumes to tell her, or tell his/her mother, what to do"? 

It seems we have not yet finished with the ludicrous gaggle of racist billboards, springing up from coast to coast, which chastise black women for "endangering" their own race (well, they use the creepy word "species") or for depriving the world of "our next possible leader" (weirdly, they say this although Obama's mother was white). Since this gaggle refuses to fade from our visual diet just yet, I wanted to at least offer you the following as a sort of curricular complement to it* (with thanks to NNAF who pointed it out to us).

One last thing: notice the date this speech was given. Yes, 1989. "Black women endanger their unborn children" is not a new insult, and the fact that black women's challenges to it have been consistent over time and remain unsatisfied to this day speaks volumes about the intentions of those who would tell them what to do about their pregnancies.


What Can the White Man Say to the Black Woman?
By Alice Walker, address in support of the National March for Women’s Equality and Women’s Lives in Washington D.C., 22 May 1989


What is of use in these words I offer in memory of our common mother. And to my daughter.

What can the white man say to the black woman?

For four hundred years he ruled over the black woman’s womb.

Let us be clear. In the barracoons and along the slave shipping coasts of Africa, for more than twenty generations, it was he who dashed our babies brains out against the rocks.

What can the white man say to the black woman?

For four hundred years he determined which black woman’s children would live or die.

Let it be remembered. It was he who placed our children on the auction block in cities all across the eastern half of what is now the United States, and listened to and watched them beg for their mothers’ arms, before being sold to the highest bidder and dragged away.

What can the white man say to the black woman?

We remember that Fannie Lou Hamer, a poor sharecropper on a Mississippi plantation, was one of twenty-one children; and that on plantations across the South black women often had twelve, fifteen, twenty children. Like their enslaved mothers and grandmothers before them, these black women were sacrificed to the profit the white man could make from harnessing their bodies and their children’s bodies to the cotton gin.

What can the white man say to the black woman?

We see him lined up on Saturday nights, century after century, to make the black mother, who must sell her body to feed her children, go down on her knees to him.

Let us take note:

He has not cared for a single one of the dark children in his midst, over hundreds of years.

Where are the children of the Cherokee, my great grandmother’s people?

Gone.

Where are the children of the Blackfoot?

Gone.

Where are the children of the Lakota?

Gone.

Of the Cheyenne?

Of the Chippewa?

Of the Iroquois?

Of the Sioux?

Of the Mandinka?

Of the Ibo?

Of the Ashanti?

Where are the children of the Slave Coast and Wounded Knee?

We do not forget the forced sterilizations and forced starvations on the reservations, here as in South Africa. Nor do we forget the smallpox-infested blankets Indian children were given by the Great White Fathers of the United States government.

What has the white man to say to the black woman?

When we have children you do everything in your power to make them feel unwanted from the moment they are born. You send them to fight and kill other dark mothers’ children around the world. You shove them onto public highways in the path of oncoming cars. You shove their heads through plate glass windows. You string them up and you string them out.

What has the white man to say to the black woman?

From the beginning, you have treated all dark children with absolute hatred.

Thirty million African children died on the way to the Americas, where nothing awaited them but endless toil and the crack of a bullwhip. They died of a lack of food, of lack of movement in the holds of ships. Of lack of friends and relatives. They died of depression, bewilderment and fear.

What has the white man to say to the black woman?

Let us look around us: Let us look at the world the white man has made for the black woman and her children.

It is a world in which the black woman is still forced to provide cheap labor, in the form of children, for the factories and on the assembly lines of the white man.

It is a world into which the white man dumps every foul, person-annulling drug he smuggles into creation.

It is a world where many of our babies die at birth, or later of malnutrition, and where many more grow up to live lives of such misery they are forced to choose death by their own hands.

What has the white man to say to the black woman, and to all women and children everywhere?

Let us consider the depletion of the ozone; let us consider homelessness and the nuclear peril; let us consider the destruction of the rain forests_in the name of the almighty hamburger. Let us consider the poisoned apples and the poisoned water and the poisoned air and the poisoned earth.

And that all of our children, because of the white man’s assault on the planet, have a possibility of death by cancer in their almost immediate future.

What has the white, male lawgiver to say to any of us? To those of us who love life too much to willingly bring more children into a world saturated with death?

Abortion, for many women, is more than an experience of suffering beyond anything most men will ever know; it is an act of mercy, and an act of self-defense.

To make abortion illegal again is to sentence millions of women and children to miserable lives and even more miserable deaths.

Given his history, in relation to us, I think the white man should be ashamed to attempt to speak for the unborn children of the black woman. To force us to have children for him to ridicule, drug and turn into killers and homeless wanderers is a testament to his hypocrisy.

What can the white man say to the black woman?

Only one thing that the black woman might hear.

Yes, indeed, the white man can say, Your children have the right to life. Therefore I will call back from the dead those 30 million who were tossed overboard during the centuries of the slave trade. And the other millions who died in my cotton fields and hanging from trees.

I will recall all those who died of broken hearts and broken spirits, under the insult of segregation.

I will raise up all the mothers who died exhausted after birthing twenty-one children to work sunup to sundown on my plantation. I will restore to full health all those who perished for lack of food, shelter, sunlight, and love; and from my inability to see them as human beings.

But I will go even further:

I will tell you, black woman, that I wish to be forgiven the sins I commit daily against you and your children. For I know that until I treat your chil dren with love, I can never be trusted by my own. Nor can I respect myself.

And I will free your children from insultingly high infant mortality rates, short life spans, horrible housing, lack of food, rampant ill health. I will liberate them from the ghetto. I will open wide the doors of all the schools and hospitals and businesses of society to your children. I will look at your children and see not a threat but a joy.

I will remove myself as an obstacle in the path that your children, against all odds, are making toward the light. I will not assassinate them for dreaming dreams and offering new visions of how to live. I will cease trying to lead your children, for I can see I have never understood where I was going. I will agree to sit quietly for a century or so, and meditate on this.

This is what the white man can say to the black woman.

We are listening.


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Sunday, April 10, 2011

Stripped



I went to a strip club this weekend. I don't go to strip clubs often but on occasion, typically at another friend's request I end up in a strip club. I rarely have an amazing time in strip clubs but this weekend was especially disturbing. I walked into an all black strip club located in a a area with a several other multiracial strip clubs and a few predominately white clubs. In the club I entered there were at least 30 women working in a one large room, with one stage. One woman danced on stage while the others lounged or tried to work the audience. I had no money and I was with a group of 4 other people, one of those people and I were the only white people in the bar.

I felt guilty for being in that space without money to give the women dancing. I had not planned to end up in a strip club. The women were not turning me on, really I had no desire to tip them beyond a sense of obligation because I was in the bar. Tipping is the point of being in a strip bar. I grew very uncomfortable, here I was with over 2 dozen black women working their bodies because that is how they make money. It would be very rude to go into a restaurant, sit down, and proceed not to order anything. In fact I would be asked to leave. As a white person I knew I took up space that no one else in the bar took up. Lots of people were tipping the women a dollar here or there, way less than any of the women's worth. When I say I took up space that no one else did its for me to explain. White people are privileged in this country. So there is an assumption that I have access to resources such as money. I don't think any one should go to a strip club unless they are ready to tip the dancers. Due to systemic racism, as I white person I most likely have access to certain resources that a black woman may not have access to. Thus making it even more important that as a white person in an all black strip bar I go ready to tip.

There were dozens of black men in the bar who were not tipping. For me, this did not justify my inability to tip. I did not want to do what those men were doing and I have no idea if the same men who were not tipping the woman on stage had at least paid for a "lap dance" in the back. My discomfort was about my relationship to that space. It felt reminiscent of a slave auction block, and yet I did not even have money to justify my voyeurism or participation. I did not want to participate in that kind of exploitation of black women's bodies. I am not against strip bars, sometimes I even have a good time. I think the thing that bothered me most is that I had no money to tip and the people I was with had very limited money to tip. Essentially the money my friends had was not enough to justify a group of 5 people inhabiting that space. Strippers don't strip for fun generally, they strip to earn $$$.

I voiced my discomfort to my friends, including the other white person. I was not heard by my friends and we stayed for a while before we left. I woke up thinking well if nothing else at least I have something to blog about. I definitely felt disappointed my friends are OK with being in that space with little money to compensate the women for their work. I was in a group of both people of color and white people, as well as straight people and queer people. So for each of us the space we take up in this particular situation varies and I cannot speak to whether they should have been in that space or not but I knew that personally I did not have any reason to be there without money. Had I been in a group of people who had big $ and could "make it rain", maybe the dynamic would have changed. For me it was not right to be in this strip club with a group of people who had little to no money to tip the dancers.

Someone I know is making a documentary about black strippers in gay communities who strip for gay people. Once she said part of what her documentary looks at is "how work shapes identity". I think about this statement partly because she was referring to how work as a stripper and entertainer helped shape the identity of the people she followed in her documentary. For me working in abortion has shaped my identity. I did not know I had so much feminism hiding in me until this weekend. I identify as a feminist but I have never had this kind of anger arise as a result of the objectification of women's bodies, at least not that I could really identify in real time.

I can not disconnect my work in an abortion clinic from experiences like this one. I kept on thinking of the stripper I got into a conversation with at work a few weeks ago. I kept hoping none of these women would end up in the clinic and remember my face because I watched and did not tip. My work has informed my identity as a feminist and anti-racist woman.