Response to Emily Guthrie's post

Dear Emily,

Your words mean so much me. Although my rape happened almost sixty years ago, it breaks my heart to know that black women are still victims of sexual assault at the hands of police officers and other men, in positions of power and otherwise. However, it was the necessity to create a language for the psychological terrorism white men have afflicted upon black women since we were brought to this country that gave me the courage to testify in the first place. Had I not done so, I fear that this violence would continue to go unrecognized by society at large.

I like to think that I still would have testified even if there had not been a massive outrage supporting me, but I honestly am not sure. Back then, we did not have the understanding your generation does of "re-traumatization" during the cross examination process for sexual assault cases. I often broke down back home with my family or all alone late at night, when the emotional barrier I was able to keep up during the trial shattered. I had the same experience when I heard about that poor woman's murder, and my recurring nightmares came back full force. The mass outrage that I had during the trial had dissipated at that point, which made this point in my life especially difficult. However, I did find moral support in the other black woman and black femme activists I surrounded myself with, who reaffirmed the inherent value of my life.

As far as advice goes, I believe the movement for justice for black women is already in good hands. I was moved to tears the first time I heard about #SayHerName. And that encapsulates so much of how I would answer your question: never forget about black women and the fullness of our humanity.

Sincerely,
Betty Jean Owens

Views from the Balcony

Anybody who saw her could tell she'd been dragged through hell and back. Even from the balcony I couldn't miss the tremble in every limb as she approached the witness stand. When she opened her mouth to state her name for the record, the cadence of her voice carried an unmistakably profound sense of pain and fear. I wanted so badly to hold her shaking hands in mine and tell her she was safe now, that what happened wasn't her fault, that justice would prevail in the face of institutionalized white supremacy.

I have never felt at the same time such intense pride and acute fury as I did during the cross examination of Betty Jean Owens. She remained unbelievably composed under circumstances that would have driven even the most serene women I know into complete hysteria. The questions posed by the defense counsel were illogical at best and unapologetically malicious at worst. These white men are so deluded by their own sense of self-importance that the notion of a nigger woman wanting nothing to do with them is inconceivable.

"Didn't you derive any pleasure from that? Didn't you?" I wanted to reach my bony black fingers into the mouth that spoke these disgusting words and rip Hopkins' tongue from his mouth so as to eliminate the prospect of him ever again uttering such a distasteful sentiment.

What exactly is "that" from which she would have derived pleasure? From being forced at gunpoint to allow these animals entry into her beautiful, black temple of a body? From having a knife held to her throat as she was mercilessly ravaged by one pathetic excuse for a man after another? From being slapped and pushed? Used and discarded as if she were a piece of lifeless flesh rather than a human being?

Never have I realized the extent and depth of racial animosity in the United States as I have in this courtroom today. I cannot imagine the riots that would follow this attempt to protect the interests of self-described assailants had they been negro men. White southerners would burn America as we know it into the ground, which, now that I think about it, may not be such a bad thing.

A Letter from Edna to Betty

Dear Betty,

Why didn't you run that night! Oh how I wished you would have run.

Not a day has gone by where I didn't feel guilty about leaving you there with those white boys that night. It's just, I couldn't allow my body to become a vehicle for continual oppression by the white man. So, when I got the opportunity to run, to run for my virtue, my voice, and my right to exist as a black woman, I ran!

Yet, my sister, I recognize that you didn't have that opportunity. You stood there with a knife to your throat, caught in the clutches of a centuries old war between us and them. After I ran, I didn't know what had become of you. I didn't know whether you were dead or not. All I knew was that the Betty I had ran away from would never be the same Betty again.

And I was right. When we found you, you were bruised, broken and violated. You had been through one of the worst crimes imaginable; yet you had something different than some of our sisters, aunts, mothers, and grandmothers who came before us. You had a fire to break the culture that tries to quell our voice and invalidate us as sexually impure and provocative creatures without dignity.

As I write this letter to you, I don't mean to remind you of the pain you experienced, but I want to tell you how much I admire your strength. From your resilient stance on the witness stand against the attempts to invalidate your character to your mission you break the counterproductive and stifling politics that come from both inside and outside of our community, you represent all that I want future black women to be.

Even though I ran away then, I will never run away from the cause and story that you represent. I will not allow your suffering to become a tool in the argument between white and black patriarchy. I, along with all of my fellow black brothers and sisters, will support you to ensure that you as well as our entire community receives justice.

Love,
Edna

Liza Bramlett about her children

My first baby boy was not mine, forced on me by a white man. I did not know what to do. He did not care about the child, and even less me. I was a mother, but I could not love the child.

My second child was with a man I loved. She was so beautiful. When she smiled, everyone in the room couldn't help but be happy. I could love her. But could not love shat she would become a woman with a body that she could not control.

My third child was with the same man I loved. A boy this time. He was strong, even at a young age. He wanted to be just like his big brother. I didn't want him to be.

My fourth child, another boy. My third and last child of my choosing. He was full of mischief, and never listened to me. His head always in the clouds. He cried a lot, but I loved to comfort him. To hold him in my arms, my last memory of the man I loved.

My fifth and sixth children were twins, two girls with caramel skin. The light brown that so many moms told me was beautiful I hated. Everyone thought these two girls were my most beautiful children. I didn't want my girls to be beautiful.

My seventh child, another girl. Each girl I had never made sense to me. Their fathers hated their existence. Attacked their mother's soul to create a smaller version of her.

My eighth child, a boy, was my lightest child. Looked too much like his dad. Every day he got older I was more scared to look at him.

My ninth child, another boy. So close to his just older brother. Looked like him too. Their dad's beastly face. They look so much like him, yet their lives are so different.

My tenth child weighed the most when he came out. It had become routine. Children I prayed every day I wouldn't have, that I had to feed.

My eleventh child, a girl, almost as dark as me. Everyone always told me how much we looked alike, which always made me sad for her.

My twelfth child was a star in everyone's eyes. I felt God every time she sang. I cried every time she sang.

My thirteenth child had the brightest smile in town. He was funny. His dad's evil laugh still rings in my ears.

My fourteenth and fifteenth, twins, one boy and one girl, were inseparable. They never left each other's side. He did alright, but I never knew how to raise a daughter without helplessness.

My sixteenth child was another girl, another creation that I did not know how to love or how to hate. I only knew how to feed, how to make them stop crying. But they couldn't stop my tears.

My seventeenth child was my darkest child. All of her siblings teased her. All I could do was hug her tight, but how do I love her when I never wanted her.

My eighteenth and nineteenth were my third set of twins. This time two boys so fast I couldn't try to chase. By now I had no energy to chase. No energy to run or to play.

My twentieth child everyone thought was white. Her hair was almost straight. I was always hopeful she wouldn't have my fate. Maybe she could just leave and pretend to be white.

My twenty-first child almost died at first. I would not have been sad. I had been praying ever since the first one for them all to die before they could feel the pain of this world.

My twenty-second child never stopped eating. She would always ask for food, even 30 minutes after dinner. I wanted my kids to be strong, because I did feel I had any more strength to give.

My last child was calm. Even though I prayed the hardest for her to never come, she did. But god made her calm. The last of the children I never asked for and never wanted. Who controlled my body while my soul was in pieces.

I wanted to talk about all of them, because they all were people in this sad world, and the pain kept piling on with each child. But I was a mother to all of them.

-Liza

Betty's LIfe

“Go out and get a nigger girl,” is what they said that Friday night. 

“Are you going to believe this nigger wench over these four boys?,” the defense lawyer said in court. 

“You must remember it wasn’t just one Negro girl that was raped—it was all of Negro womanhood in the South,” they petitioned on a national stage.

“It could have been YOUR sister, wife, or mother,” they especially said to the men. 

“Just happy that the jury upheld my daughter’s womanhood,” said momma when the beginning was over.  

***

That night my sister Betty had just had the time of her life.

She looked like a dream in her gold and white, a black beauty like all black beauties that fateful night. She was a college girl representing the family at Florida’s A&M University. Momma taught her how to look presentable, talk sharp, and act like somebody raised her for the world to see.

She might have had a crush or two, I don’t know, she would never tell me. All I know is that she was my big sister, and she was everything I was supposed to be. 

She was smart, liked jokes, loved to dance, and could put you in your place if you got out of line. She got in trouble from time to time for talking to boys, but she never missed Sunday school. She was complicated, full, and my sister.

When those men tried to steal her soul by invading her body that night, I wanted to extinguish them myself. I wanted to show them my rage and their inferiority. I wanted to slice their eyes, and drown the devil out of them. They hurt my sister in a way I will never know, and I wanted to bring pain to their dead lives. 

For Betty.

For Betty’s smile, for Betty’s laugh, for Betty’s lips, for Betty’s chest, for Betty’s thighs, for Betty’s back, for Betty’s entire being.

She existed fully before that night, and it is my hope that she may exist fully after.

***

Some wept for Betty with me. Some wanted to fight for Betty. Some wanted revenge for every Black woman on this soil who had ever been raped, dehumanized, or degraded.  We could see the intimate violence that has declared war on the Black woman’s body. Some of us know it too well.

When the terrible happened, many people came to Betty’s defense. They claimed it was as if they all had been raped, men and women alike. They shouted that Betty’s womanhood should be protected and upheld, just as white womanhood was.

But some just wanted her recognition solely because it was tied to our brothers, fathers, uncles. Said this was an attack on the Black man. My sister became a political symbol as the world watched on. She was the middle-class, respectable, college-educated Black woman whose virginity was stolen by aberrant or standard “white devils.” For some, she became collateral in this fight between patriarchies, and was defended because she was worth saving. 

Response to McGuire

Dear Ms. McGuire,

Words cannot describe my reaction to your exposé on the hidden history of the sexual violation of black women by white men.

I am horrified.

I am disgusted.

I am disappointed.

There were literally points in the writing where I thought I could not physically keep reading this because I could not stomach anymore. However, I kept reading. I kept reading because I felt that it was my responsible to know; to become more aware of how far society has come from even 70 years--less than a century--ago, to become more aware of what people like me--Black American women--have had to deal with by living here.

It is the hidden secrets of our nation’s past like this, the epidemic of sexually assaulted black women, that need to be acknowledged and for which atoned. When we think and talk about women being sexually assaulted by men, it is the suppression of information like this that makes too many people automatically assume the discussion is about the victimization of some white middle-class girl.

When I heard about the recent rape case involving Stanford students, I immediately assumed the girl was white. Why? Because those are who society has manipulated the general public into thinking are the only ones facing this issue when involving white men. And when we hear that a black woman has been raped, many of us automatically assume it was by a black man, because why on Earth would a white man rape a black girl. *sarcasm* God forbid such a thing. I think it’s hard enough for the general public to truly accept interracial relationships between black women and white men as normal, rather than an anomaly. The thought of a white man raping a black woman, is just not readily accepted in the general public’s perception.

I am honestly saddened and horrified by this article, and by that I mean it--and you--are amazing for bringing this to light.

Sincerely,

Ruthie Lewis

Respectability in the Fight for Rights

Dear Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.,

Claudette Colvin. Nine months prior to Rosa Park’s arrest for refusing to give up her bus seat, an empowered 15-year-old delivered her refusal. Yet, we don’t know her name. At least, I didn’t until this past summer when I visited the Center for Civil and Human Rights in Atlanta. Upon a wall with a collage of photos of Rosa Parks and other key figures in the Montgomery Bus Boycotts, was a small black plaque depicting Colvin and her story. I was shocked as I (squinted and) read how Colvin’s case, similar to Parks’ in refusing to comply with a white bus driver, was swept under the rug. Why? Colvin was from a lower-class family, dark skinned, too young, and months after the bus incident became pregnant. Civil Rights leaders, as McGuire points out, perpetuated the “culture of dissemblance:” faced by black women and engaged in “respectability politics” and decided Colvin was “not fit” to be the face of a campaign that would later spark bus boycotts throughout the South. Colvin would not be fit. Her morals and background were questionable.

Months later, a light-skinned middle aged woman, also a family friend of the Colvin’s, makes headlines. Now, we have found the perfect face for a movement! As you put it, Dr. King, “[no one] can doubt… [Parks’] character...or the depth of her Christian commitment.” It’s great that of all people the bus driver tried, it as Rosa, right? Wrong. Women, young and old, even before Colvin, refused their seats, but were deemed “unfit” to carry a movement. Learning of Colvin’s story opened my eyes to even more of the strategy and politics within Civil Rights Movement. Who deserves to be the face of revolution, of justice, when all face hardship? I understand that clean appearances and strategy are key when appealing to the oppressor, but when can we reach a point when injustice upon an “unfit” person is just as much of an injustice upon someone who is deemed respectable and pure? Will we ever acknowledge injustice as injustice no matter who it is brought upon?

 
Sincerely,

Sydney

Dear Ms. Owens,

I read your story, as explained by Danielle McGuire. I am so sorry for what happened to you. How you responded with courage and composure is incredible. I don't know if I would have had the strength to do the same. I know from my own experience that having to retell a story so traumatic is difficult, to say the least. Plus, you were cross-examined and attacked in so many ways. It must have took immense strength to persevere through the whole process, and I hope you felt at least some satisfaction when they were convicted, especially after how flippantly they treated the charges. Do you think you would have testified if there was not mass outrage and mass support? I can of course understand if you wouldn't have wanted to.

I was also wondering if you experienced backlash after the trial was over. I read that one of your attackers got out of prison after only six years and then four years after that, murdered a Black woman he thought was you. That must have been terrifying for you. Did you experience other threats or attacks, or did you feel relatively supported and protected by the mass support you received? If you had to do everything over again, would you do it the same way?

Finally, I was wondering if you had any advice of how to use your experiences to inform the ways we fight for justice today. Similar to in your day, police lynchings of Black men are much more publicised than violence against Black women, sexual or otherwise. How can we bring Black women and their stories to the forefront of the struggle, especially given the culture of dissemblance and the lack of mass knowledge about what happens. Please let me know if you have any thoughts about my questions or anything else. I really want to learn from you and bring your story and courage to the movement today.

Best,
Emily

Conflicted

Dear Ella Baker,

They raped her not once not twice but seven times. They slapped her and forced her to her knees. She felt the knife pressed to her throat and she felt them turn her into a tool for their own pleasure.They didn't rape her because she was promiscuous but because she was a black women. They raped her to proved their white supremacy. They raped her like she wasn't a human but someone they own. Her name was Betty Jean Owens. Her experience was not just a special but it was one faced by many African-American women then and now. I know one of your most famous quotes was that in  order for poor oppressed people to become a part of society in a meaningful way they must first think radically and change their current system but sometimes I wonder if that way of thinking is to late. I mean like today and before many African-American women started to speak out about this experience of being rape by the white men and even though it did make some progress it did not seem to do much because of deep the culture of dissemblance is within our society. Our silence before allowed for a whole world to ignore our struggles and seemed to silence every Black women in society in some form of way even when we attempt to speak out on these injustices. To me it just seems like there is no hope in a making a huge change for our gender and race unless this history is not only rediscover but talked about to the point where it no longer for African-American women to hide their rapes or sexuality today. I also do not know how I can make that change or the steps. I wish you around today to help with the taking of the steps but I also know that the foundation you have laid out so far for my generation is strong enough that with time we will figure out the right the method to make this change.

A conflicted student,

Tamara 

Letter to Danielle McGuire

Dear Danielle McGuire,

I found your essay interesting and informative, but also, of course, deeply disturbing. Your thorough examination of sexual violence against Black women is vitally important, but this doesn’t make it any more difficult to read.

I was particularly interested in your point that white men’s concern about rape was (is?) nothing but a political tool. White men only cared about protecting white women from rape to the extent that their care helped uphold their social power through white supremacy. They did not care about sexual violence against women of color, particularly Black women. Significantly, they did not care about sexual violence perpetrated by white men against white women. Only sexual violence by men of color (particularly Black men) against white women led to any amount of concern or protection for rape victims. Sexual violence against women of all races is a prevalent and gravely serious issue, and when white men use sexual violence against white women as an excuse to uphold white supremacy, it trivializes this problem.

This is clearly still an issue – whether or not rape victims are “believed” still depends heavily on whether or not it is politically or personally expedient for white men to believe them. And I see a similarly offensive strategy used by conservatives who want to restrict bathroom access to transgender individuals. Once again, sexual assault against women (almost always inherently framed as “nice white ladies”) is used as a tool to restrict the rights of a marginalized group. These same men do not seem to care about sexual assault against, say, trans individuals. When the idea of rape is used as a political tool against minority and marginalized groups, it delegitimizes an extremely serious issue. Until concern about sexual violence crosses racial, class, and gender lines, the fight against assault will be at best skin deep and at worst a tool of oppression.

Thank you for your perspective!

Sincerely,

Molly Culhane

Dear Jane Edna Hunter

Dear Ms. Hunter,

I am extremely grateful to have come across your help, and to have had the chance to live in the Phyllis Wheatley house. I know how everything is stacked against us out there, and having spaces like that for us run by one of us is something that I recognize is necessary for our safety.  However, I also feel restrained by this specific environment. I have friends that live elsewhere that you sometimes look down upon. They dance, sing, spend time out, and I am in here and unable to fully explore the aspects of life that I have not yet experienced. I can only dance in my room when no one else is there, behind a closed door. But dancing is what brings a smile to my face. And I don't want to do it just to find a man or to show off. Its just for me. And because I want to dance and to move around, and because I am in this city and still haven't done it yet, I have to take the time now before its too late.

With love,
Lauren

A letter to Mrs. Kellor from a black prostitute

Police me? Institutionalize me? Narrow my educational opportunities to what you think is right? I know that your pedestal allows you to sit high and mighty above my troubles and spit contempt and judgement my way but how, how Mrs. Kellor, are you so damned out of touch? Do you think that I want all the men and the incessant groping and prodding of their grimy hands? If only you knew. If only you knew how I battle through the sweat-drenched night terrors and how I scald my skin with a cocktail of boiling water and brine soap hoping to feel clean again. I am not lazy, I am not a sex-crazed fiend. What I do is the hardest job I will ever do. Waking up day after wretched day, that takes persistence, determination, and grit. Oh! Give me a plow, give me hours of back-breaking scrubbing and toil, give me anything but this life! I've searched high and low but job offerings seem to vanish as soon as a "woman of my background" comes to call. Everywhere I turn, doors slam in my face with a jarring crack. The alley is the only place through which I can tread and tread through it I must. I need the roof over my head, the food in my belly, and the shoes on my feet. I have family depending on me, I cannot let them down. Each morning as the sun rises, I wipe away the dried salt from my cheeks and grit my teeth to face the day. If only you knew, Mrs. Kellor. If only you knew.

6 Tips for Survival for Girls with "Negro Blood"

1. Never say the f word
2. If you do the f word, never admit that you do the f word
3. When you get called “fast-tailed” or “fresh” smile and deny it
4. Don’t dance in front of the church folks
5. Work hard and never admit you do anything else
6. Smile when the old men tell you to smile

How dare you: a response to the white preacher --Tate Burwell

How dare you. How dare you enter a space meant to educate black folk and then patronizingly tell them to stay in their place? How dare you credit the advancements made by black people DESPITE the hostile environment to the aggressor? Black people succeeding in the South does not mean that Southerners treat them well, but rather that despite the odds, we managed to do well for ourselves. Furthermore, after lauding the accomplishments of Naxos, how dare you sit in that institution and tell those students to strive no further? To take the education that was "better even than a great many schools for white children" and use it to hew wood and draw water? Are we not all Americans? Do we not all have the same duty to make our country proud by advancing as much as we can? Why would you want to rob our shared country of the talents of so many, simply because of your own prejudices? Prejudices rooted in nothing more than a difference in skin color. Why? Because you're selfish. You don't want to lose the illegitimate power bestowed on you by blood-thirsty, God-less, and savage ancestors. You inherited their greed, their need to consume, and there is no room in your world-view for black people to have equal opportunities. You know you haven't earned what you have, and you're terrified that will catch up with you. You showed your hand, though. You acknowledged how far we have come as a race in such a short time-- you betrayed your fear, and I see right through you. Our progress despite the odds is miraculous, awe-inspiring. You're trying your hardest to keep us down and you are not succeeding. You are losing. You have lost. You know that and you're holding on to your privilege for dear life, white-knuckled, praying to a God who is not on your side to keep "the Negro" down, misquoting His words for your own use, a transgression which you will answer for in time. I will not be satisfied, I will not sit still. I will not consume the words you are trying to force-feed me. I will not accept the status-quo you are scrambling so hard to impose. You're right--we have come so far in so little time. But we are just getting started. You think you can stop our momentum with a few misused quotes? That's like expecting to stop a freight train with your bare hands. Matter of fact, go ahead, try it. Step on the tracks. Scream at the oncoming train. Stand in the way. That train couldn't stop even it wanted to; the momentum is so great. On the journey there have been mishaps, sure-- pieces of track missing, low fuel at points, but the train has never stopped. And it will not stop. Not for you. Not for anyone. Not until the passengers have reached their destination, and at this point in time there are many more miles to travel. The train is picking up steam, and it will run you right over if you insist on standing in it's path. So go ahead, stand on the tracks: I dare you.

From Helga to Mother

Mother,
why did you have to fall in love with a lying hollow man, one that left
my skin to be slightly darker than desirable.  Why did you leave me alone in
a world where i will never belong, where i will never be claimed, one where
hatred is afflicted on individuals solely the color of ones' skin. Why couldn't you have fallen in love
with someone of your ranking, of your race, someone that didn't leave you broken. Mother did you  die of a broke heart? I wonder what caused you to go against your family, to willing lie with someone so different from yourself. We live in a world that has no sympathy for the weak; a world that hates difference. Mother, what courage did you posses? What posses you to think that love
transcends the thin line between races. What made you love a man that would never return your affections, a man that would leave us to survive on our own. Now you are gone, and i have to pay for your mistake: A family that will never accept me and would rather see me die than acknowledge that i share their blood. Mother, what selfishness possessed you to never think of the consequences of lying down with a hollow man, one that left my skin to be slightly darker than desirable.

Washington to Hunter

Dear Ms. Jane Edna Hunter,


I must say, I greatly admire your rhetoric for the most egoistical of reasons... your observations of the Phillis Wheatley Association preserve exactly what I meant when I told our people to "Cast Their Buckets Down." Thank you for preserving my legacy.

For I have always said, if we do not satisfy our white employers, how are we, as Negroes, to expect any gains in our social position or favorability? I adore your writing that "the most important factor in successful domestic service is a happy and human relation between the lady of the house and the maid." Observations and practices like these are integral to the Negro's well-being, his flourishing.

Because, although W.E.B. Du Bois argues that the Negro needs to be intellectualized, he does not provide concrete, completable tasks for the Negro, but imagines an alternative, likely unattainable universe. I grew up a slave, and the Negro who wants to and needs to survive and operate, must learn how to go about surviving now. Thank you for explicating how these rules may apply to our dear sisters.

Kindly,
Booker T. Washington

Dear Ms. Kellor,

I found your three recommendations to make Black women more respectable very...interesting. Why did you choose to focus on Black women? I was also wondering how you came up with these proposals in particular. I have a couple questions and suggestions:

First, I was a little confused by what you meant by the "practical and sympathetic women" on Ellis Island. I thought many immigrants who came through Ellis Island were subjected to terrible conditions, unsafe and humiliating medical examinations, and eugenics-based sorting and deportation. Is this what you meant by practical? Maybe we also have different definitions of sympathetic. After all, I was born quite a bit later than you, so our English could be different. Perhaps you can come up with an alternative suggestion, one that allows Black women to empower themselves. Perhaps Black women who have already established themselves in the North can give input on what they think would be a helpful program for welcoming in new migrants.

For your second proposal, I was wondering why you chose to regulate Black women to prevent improper sexual relations and miscegenation. If we really want to create an effective policy, I think that white men, who often frequent brothels, should also be under house arrest between the hours of 9 pm and 6 am. Regulating both parties seems to make much more sense; there are bound to be people who slip through the cracks, so regulating both sides seems to have a much higher chance of success. What do you think?

Finally, for your third proposal of fixing the problem that Black women have of wanting to avoid hard work, I'm wondering what you see as the difference between Black and white women. I mean, white women seem pretty lazy to me. They don't work, they hire people to take care of their house and kids, and I'm not really sure what else they do. Maybe they should also take a class in efficiency, because it seems they don't really know how to use their time wisely either. Please correct me if you have some information I'm not considering, but I really think there are policies that would be more effective than the ones you suggested.

Please look over my suggestions and I look forward to hearing your comments. I'm sure you want to improve the lives of all people, Black, white, man, and woman, just as much as I do.

A letter to Mrs. Hayes-Rore

Dear Mrs. Hayes-Rore,

I was wondering why it is so difficult to talk about issues of race, intermingling, and adultery. What makes these topics forbidden? It's not inherent to their nature--it's only the culture that dictates these rules. My mother was a young immigrant, blind to these issues. But she's not the one who has to live with the consequences of her actions.

As I somewhat petulantly told you about my family, I was afraid. I watched your face harden as I felt mine stiffen in embarrassment, shame, and defense. The tension in both our faces is a sign that these are issues that beg attention. Whenever we feel defensive, we must ask why. These issues will not resolve themselves through suppression, through burial, and through a sweeping subject-change. It's like the shadow that looms on the wall--do we avoid the shadow or the object that casts the shadow? Just because we "cannot" talk about things does not mean that they are not there. They just are.

Sincerely,
Helga Crane

Letter to Hazel Carby

Dear Hazel Carby,

I enjoyed reading your article, “Policing the Black Woman’s Body in an Urban Context,” and I was particularly interested in your analysis of the Phillis Wheatley Association. You bring up a very important point: that efforts toward “racial uplift” so often were focused not on improving people’s lives, but on improving people’s images. People like Phillis Wheatley cared little for the happiness or material comfort of her subjects, so long as they “conform[ed] to middle-class norms of acceptable sexual behavior” (747). It seems that this directly fed the culture of dissemblance – when outward appearances mattered more than personal well-being, the path of least resistance for Black migrant women was to put on a brave face, adhere to middle-class norms, and accept that which was socially difficult and inexpedient to change.

I think this plays into today’s respectability politics, too. Too often, discourse around racial uplift centers on shaming and curtailing behaviors associated with poor or working-class Black Americans. As in the era of the Great Migration, the lives of impoverished people do not improve by adopting middle-class norms, and yet, the adoption of these norms is seen as both a means to an end and the end in itself. As you point out, this is a dangerous and unhelpful view. When appearances are prioritized over people’s lives, people’s lives cannot improve. Instead of shaming and blaming victims of an oppressive system, we must fight to undermine and change the system.

Sincerely,

Molly Culhane

This Here Is Mine

Ma Janie tried to take my man from me.

Crept through the shadows with that policeman on her arm,

I saw her go after my sisters’ before.

Ma Janie’s took a lot of stuff from me before.

I handed her the slack in my spine,

Didn’t need it to walk around no ways.

Let her paint a new smile on my face for the lady of the house,

It looked like they could both use a nice one nowadays.

I even repented for sins I never committed,

The things she wanted to do but never could.

All of us girls are always being redeemed for what we’ve never done.

Washing invisible stains from our souls like the ones in those pearly white sheets.

But if the Lady and Ma Janie

Can see remnants of the lives they never led,

Then every single one of us

Has to pour out our blood that should’ve bled red.

No more red life essence,

Maybe yellow because dainty is as a woman does.

All the “right” things they teach us,

And I’ve never learned about how to have love for myself.

I found a man to care about me

And I found him all on my own.

Finally got something that I know is mine,

Mine and mine alone.

I don’t need his love to feel like me,

But it sure feels nice to know that I have it.

So, Ma Janie and the Lady can take my walk, my talk, my smile, and my job.

But this man here is mine.

You can’t have ‘im Ma Janie.

You can’t have ‘im.