Jordan Davis: Acceptable Blackness, And Unborn Sons

There’s a gnawing hole in my heart. It’s been enlarging for years. It sits very carefully in the place where “mothering” should be. Many of you, by know, know I have no intention to bear children. It’s not a quiet fact. It affects my life in some marvelous and melancholy ways. It frees up all my future plans, and limits my dating life. But it has always been a part of my story. Until recently. Recently my decision became the story of a young boy named Jordan Davis. A soul laid to rest in a graveyard of brothers. Deaths at the hand of the “if only” statement. “If only he had turned his music down.” “If only he would have announced himself.” These young men, all brothers in arms against the idea that there is a line they must fall into. Their crime? Daring to be human, and respected as humans. Their ghosts haunt me. Loud whispers of “if only” plague my ears every time I look at the boys in my family. They are an army of comrades, lost boys whose only crime was not bowing down. 

Yesterday I sat in the kitchen of a family friend and watched her teenage son, my surrogate “brother” walk in from a date to see Porgy and Bess with his young girlfriend. The idea in it’s entirety was beautiful. Here was this young black couple, full of energy and light, off to partake in a production that bears much weight in Black Theater History. Beautiful.

As I sat in that kitchen, I noticed that he was finally bulking up the way he wanted. He’s an athlete. I asked him what he was doing that worked. “What you told me,” he replied. Great. MY little brother was finally bulking up, becoming stronger, becoming more muscular, because of advice I gave him. He was becoming a strong black boy.

“If only.”

It whispered menacingly in my ear. Did he hear it too? Was this silent brotherhood recruiting my baby? In a second I saw in him the same potential power that led so many others to their graves. I stared at him and wondered if there was anything I could say. Anything I could do to save him from the “if only’s” in the world threatening to take him down. There was nothing. He has a father and a mother who no doubt made sure he knew this world was not safe for black boys. But more importantly, it’s not safe for powerful black boys. And he was surely becoming more and more powerful by the minute. Anything I could offer would sound akin to asking him to peel off his blackness. Or cast aside his burgeoning manhood. I could not ask of him to do either.

It doesn’t matter that he is an athlete with good grades who comes from a two-parent home, and has college plans. It doesn’t matter that he wears his pants where they were cut to be worn, or that he favors bow ties and clean haircuts. He is no more deserving of life than his tatted, weed-smoking, pants-sagging brethren, judged by the mass majority as thugs and no-goods, not because they truly are, but because white privileged America MUST demonize them, or else face the harsh reality that they have been wrong in their treatment of the "negro" for all these centuries. Straight-laced or rebellious. These Black boys all deserve to live their own lives. They all wake up with dreams of being happy, well-fed, and loved for who they are. And my brother's clean, educated demeanor will not save him from the one instance of “if only.” It will not save him or any of my brothers, nephews, or cousins from the one time that someone decides that they are “stepping out of line,” and not playing the good little Nigger.

Maybe I should unload a clip into the next white woman that touches my hair without asking first, physically entering my personal space, as if inspecting my goodness and quality on some invisible auction block, so that she may deem me acceptable for the plantation of her mind. But then I would be subject to “if only.”

So me, my sisters, my brethren; we must do our best to be “acceptable,” and show appreciation for being “allowed” our basic human dignities. Maybe it’s our fault for asking permission in the first place.

My friends P and L are having a baby. And even though I sincerely love my blackness, I kinda worry about this baby looking like it’s black father. L is a strong, and beautiful white woman married to a wonderful and supportive black man. Times like these make me wonder if that will be enough to prepare her for raising a black child in an America that does not love black children. See, black mothers already know what kind of world they were born into. It’s like amniotic fluid. The distilled hint of being unwanted is there with us in the womb. We become painfully aware, at an early age, that this America is built to be better for some, and worse for “others.” And we have always been the “other.” I pray that L’s optimism at a happy future is tinged with real knowledge of the dangers that await her unborn love. This child who comes from outspoken, knowledgeable parents is even more susceptible to “If only” if it is a boy.

Teenagers are very rarely who their parents expect them to be. They often rebel. Now or later. I find myself, at 26, rebelling against much of who I was encouraged to be, not in rage or disobedience, but in pure unadulterated exploration of who I want to be. I didn’t rebel as a teenager. Jordan Davis, in his car, has every right to curse and yell. He has every right to listen to “thug music” as it was dubbed. Dunn was not an officer of the law, maintaining general peace. He was a person with a preference. A preference for white-washed, “clean” negro integration. Anything that affected his sensibilities needed to go. Jordan didn’t threaten his well-being. He threatened his sense of superiority. With his rebellious adolescent response, he threatened this man’s ideals of a perfect, picket-fence America, where diversity meant his neighbors are allowed to differ, but only in skin tone.

Any other difference ought to be stamped out, or kept hidden, or in check.

And there lies my issue. My desire to be child-free was NEVER about any love lost for children. In fact, I have made my career thus far about helping young people. At first my reasons were just about me. My goals and desires. My freedom. Now, I can’t help but add Jordan Davis to my list of reasons. What would I do with a man-child with my grandmother’s deep reddish brown skin? Or even my pale brown skin? 

“Ok son, go out into the world and be a man, but not too much. Be your own man, but make sure he fits the status-quo. Stand up straight but only when it doesn’t offend the sensibilities of white racists. In fact, reject anything that feels unique or powerful in you, because you may very well be gunned down for it.”

 That’s not a speech I am prepared to give. Mary of Bethlehem gave birth to a child she knew had to save his people. Even she wasn’t ready to see him die for it. Neither am I. There is too much of MY mother in me. Essentially, that means I might kill someone, about killing my child. Today I have another reason for being child free. I simply cannot bring myself to bring a black child into this world. Neither a boy or a girl. Neither is safe. Neither is embraced. Neither is truly afforded the true authority of human dignity in this country. Both would be born with balled up fists, having to fight to defend their right to be alive and be black, as soon as they are exposed to the world outside their mother’s arms.

I can’t do it. I’d rather focus on the young comrades who are already here. They need me. Or maybe I need them. You see, I am a volcano. Every day I wonder and question at what keeps me from stampeding my anger through the streets. Its my young people. They keep me from rampaging this constant gnawing anger in my heart. They keep me focused. They keep me submerged in love. Someone has to love them. Someone has to be here to clean them up and hold them when they come in from battle, then send them back out renewed. Someone has to say to them "your blackness needs no apology, but the world is pretty screwed up. Don't ever doubt your majesty. But you were born into a warrior race. Look to each other for the love you seek."

~L

Mrs. Carter and female sexuality

Dear Momma.. I hope this article doesn’t make you blush too much. I hope, instead that you read this and applaud yourself for raising a woman who is empowered and healthy and intelligent enough to respect her WHOLE self- sexuality included. I love you.

Dear Jordan…  Read it as an intellectual, instead of as a father. Or as my very intellectual father that you always are. Love you too.

 I am a Black American Woman. I am also a sexual being. Meaning, I have had, and do thoroughly enjoy sexual intimacy. I have my own opinions about my likes, my dislikes, and I base them on my own experiences, not what any outside source says I should like, or dislike. I am unabashed and not at all shy about expressing these likings to a lover, playing no part of the shy virgin. In this country, for that I might be shamed.

Enter Mrs. Carter. It’s not new, this hyper-sexuality she promotes in her latest album. But of course, there are men and women alike who reject a woman who talks about sex openly and frankly and… sexily; not in dry sterile medical language, or airy philosophic lexicon, but with open liking, open lust, and sincere desire.

Now, I respect that not everyone is openly sexual. Some people, men and women alike, are much more reserved. But to condemn Bey for her frankness is, to me, a step backward in our country’s already molasses-slow progression. In this country, women have been objects and property, then delicate porcelain dolls who had to be protected, then sexual objects. Our sexuality has very rarely been in our hands. This picture is even more imprisoning when looked at from the Black woman’s lens.

We spent a much longer time as objects and property, then as third-class citizen laborers. (No porcelain delicateness for us. They don’t make porcelain in brown I guess.) We became sexual objects the minute our brown and black hues entered the world under shackled oppression. With our first infant cry, mothers worried about keeping us safe from lurking white male eyes, attached to authoritative, unquestionably powerful hands. We were both desired and ugly. Taught to be demure and hate ourselves. We were well-purchased investments in whoredom. Oh to be a black girl in America..

And that’s the issue. We became whores. Meant to simply please men. Our sexuality just wasn’t ours.  Even my lesbian and bisexual sisters have faced this testosterone-driven objectification. Their desire to be with women is “acceptable” while my gay and bisexual brothers' is deemed “unnatural.” Why? Well, in my opinion, because two women are always better than one…. If I was a heterosexual male, that is. They aren’t two people who love each other and express that love sexually. They are a peep show, a burlesque pornographic. Don’t believe me? Read below.

Guy: So… you’re queer

Girl: Yes.

Guy: What does that mean?

Girl: It means I am beyond labels. My sexual desires don’t really fit any one mold.

Guy: But you’re attracted to women too…?

Girl: Yes.

Guy: Do you think I could ever watch you with another woman?

Girl: Would you want another man to watch you and I  having sex?

Guy: No

Girl: exactly. To you its two women. To me, it would be me sharing an intimate moment with another human being.

*lightbulb*

This was an actual conversation, give or take some phrasing, between a guy and a girl who had just started dating. She had to explain to him that her attraction to women was, for her, no different than being attracted to other men. It didn’t mean she was up for a threesome. He didn’t really understand at first… This is just a tiny, real-life moment of women’s sexuality being viewed through a male lens. And I’m in belief that most societal standards of female sexuality are. A sexually confident woman is aggressive. A sexually liberal woman is a whore. A sexually expressive woman is a freak. These labels would suggest that to be anything other than demure, reserved, and quiet is to be unnatural as a woman. And if a man is equally demure, reserved, and quiet, then hey... Y’all be happy together.  But the truth is, we don’t encourage those traits in men. We allow men to mold the ideals of sexuality, and they come out on top every time. (excuse the pun).

I once met a young lady who interpreted her sex life to be all about pleasing her man, with no regard for her own pleasure. She felt this to be what her church pastor was intending in his preaching, and took it to heart. My issue with this? It belittles the woman’s role as a sexual being. Such thinking makes her little more than a life-sized sex toy, devoid of needs and urges. Don’t get me wrong; wanting to please a partner sexually is a very respectable quality to have. Yet, in disregarding one’s own desires and preferences, one might actually be doing their partner a disservice. If you have a healthy, loving sexual relationship, chances are that your partner wants to please you also. Their attempts to do so might be thwarted if you are unwilling to know what that pleasure looks like. And you are missing out on the fulfilling satisfaction that can come from a mutually SHARED experience.

I know many women who leave their sexuality up to others. Women who do not know what their genitals look like up close. Women who never see themselves naked. Women who berate themselves for lusting after their own significant others. This does not suggest some kind of piety or goodness to me. If anything, it suggests a woman who only wants to be “sexual enough” but not too sexual. What the heck is that about? Too sexual? Is that like being “too womanly”? Or “too hungry” for food. Or “too black” for beauty. If it’s really what you want, and it doesn’t break your moral code (ie, pedophiles and rapists), how is it too much? These women are puppets. My poor sisters who leave their identity up to external factors and call themselves empowered are simply unfulfilled. Real empowerment does require that your power comes from you. Its sorta mandatory.

Bey’s album isn’t even my favorite. But I like it enough. However, I do applaud her. She is married to the man that probably took her virginity. She is a mother, a successful business woman, and an artist. And in all those accomplishments, she released an album that reveals what else she is- a sexual being. She will not let her sexuality get swept up in busy schedules, mommy life, or even public opinion. She has not disregarded it as an aspect of her that should shrivel up and die with her thirties. She is embracing it as a natural and important part of her diverse existence. More women could learn from her. Not by necessarily trotting around in scantily clad clothing, (although Bey ain’t never been known for wearing a lot of clothes) but by remembering that they are sexual beings too. And celebrating that sexuality. However it looks. She knows what she likes. And if Jay Z took a dirt nap tomorrow (God forbid), she would still know what she likes, and what makes her body sing. That’s real sexuality. Its not defined by her partner. Its simply expressed to him. And she makes it really clear that its all for Mr. Carter. Really. Clear. She ain’t worried about y’all.

Ok she shakes her butt. And her husband grabs his testes. As do countless other men. But only because she is a woman do we even raise a brow. Because she is “tempting men.” Maybe she’s not just tempting men. Maybe she likes to shake her butt. Besides, are women not tempted by men? I get tempted all the time. I think men are absolutely beautiful. And sexy. And sometimes I think sexual things when I see them. But no one fears me jumping on them and ripping their clothes off. Is it because I’m a woman? Or because as a woman, I was taught to be disciplined and restrained?

IIf we are going to be fair, I need Dwight Howard to wear a 3x tee at all times and never ever get hot and sweaty. Because he makes me think and feel all sorts of things. All. Sorts. Of. Things. Although I’d settle for a date and a long courtship that leads to marriage. Then I could do all those things without making him nervous. (I hear He’s a devout Christian. I’m not going to tempt the man to go against his faith. He probably would want to be married first.)

Anyway….. point is, berating her for tempting men is saying that she should gauge her appropriation by how it affects men. Which is STILL giving them the power and authority over her body and her sexuality. This is the same vein that runs deep in what is commonly referred to as “rape culture.” Somehow the main objective in a woman’s life became to either please men, or do everything possible to prevent them from being tempted and acting on that temptation. Maybe we should simply be raising more disciplined sons. It’s about fairness, people. If we will, as a society, embrace men acting sexual all the time, then in fairness, we must allow Beyonce her chance to do the same. Equality, folks….

I salute Beyonce. For those of us who have our sexuality infused into our everyday existence. Who know that sexuality is in our walks, our beautiful smiles, our lovely imperfectly perfect bodies, our maternal desires (for those that have them), I think we can enjoy her message. I know I did.

Take back your sexuality women. Im not saying burn your bras and high heels are the Devil. Nor am I saying parade around naked and starting grabbing men’s genitals. But Im not “not” saying these things either. What I AM saying, is make up your mind for yourself. Like it because you really, really, deep down, like it. Say no to it, if deep down, it makes you feel like your voice on the matter is quieted, or it just doesn’t feel good. Be with who you want to be with. Don’t let the society tell you that certain sexual desires are unnatural because you’re a woman. Its YOUR nature. Unbox yourselves.

If your goal is to let that man (or woman) know that you want him sexually, don’t let society stop you. You want him to pull your hair? Tell him. Is he touching you wrong, but really into it? Teach him how he can redirect that energy. Want to lay back and enjoy yourself? Do it. Want him to lay back and let you enjoy yourself in another way? Tell him. Love the sight of your own curves that you worked hard for? Then wear things that you are proud of, that make you feel beautiful. Feel like everyone doesn’t deserve to behold your curvy excellence? Then cover up and make them earn it. Does talking “dirty” do it for you? Talk that talk then. Do you love slow romantic touching? Slow that animal down. Don’t leave your lover in the dark, or thinking they are really doing something when they aren’t. You won’t be able to fake it forever.

Sexuality, like sex, like sex organs, like human beings, is not a one-size-fits-all situation. There are so many ways to express ourselves sexually. Some look like breathtaking displays.. Some look like outspoken explosions. Some look like a quiet volcano with hot passion bubbling underneath. Some are powerful, but gentle breezes. There’s brazen public sexuality, and mysterious enigmatic sexuality. It’s more beautiful that they all look different. Don’t box yourself in.

Own it. It only gets better that way.

Good luck.

~L

Who reflects you?

Hey yall!!!

I got a request before I get down to the blogging. 

Scroll on down to the comment box, and answer this question: Which of your friends remind you most of you and why? 

It's Ok if you have more than one amigo that makes you feel like you. I'm open to that. If you want to, you can put their twitter username, I'll tag them for you, because I'm nice like that.

Back to the blogging now. . .

Loren & Lauren. 

I've got quite a laundry list of friends, male and female. The list is comprised of several ages, ethnicities, religions, and other cultural identities. And within those people, I see the best of myself. My friends either remind me of who I am, or reveal to me more of who I want to be. 

But none of them remind me of me so much as Loren and Lauren. And not just because they are both adorable, curvy, yellow-brown girls with natural hair. Although that never hurts either. And neither of them is exactly orange. Loren is more like... Kelly Green. And Lauren? Lauren is like... Pink, but a pastel pink. The kind of pink you'd find in a floral pattern of fabric.

So here's a mini-profile on two of my fantastic friends and what they inspire in me.

My L's.

Loren Davis-Stroud

Age: late twenties *wink*
Location: St. Louis, Missouri
Occupation: Music Artist

I met Loren during freshman week of college. She was this bouncy, bubbly, sassy chick from Chicago. She was the third official girl I met. I don't know what her immediate impression of me was, but I thought she was very urban chic. Not "Apple Bottom Jeans, Boots with the Fur" chic. More like "Rasta scarf and Converse with bodacious earrings" chic. I didn't know her to love her, but I soon would. As a matter of fact, she was one of the last people I saw, leaving college, both at the end of freshman year, and at graduation.

From freshman year to now, Loren and I have become extremely close, fallen out, argued, and borrowed clothing and jewelry like...well... like sisters. We've been adopted into each other's homes and families, calling each other's mothers like our own. We've cried, although rarely together. Usually, me to her, or her to me, but somehow one of us is usually ready when the other needs to let loose a tear. We even got tattoos together! Loren is the only person I can say I share an identical tattoo with. And not to be 'cutesy' either. I designed a tatt, with her help, and we both fell in love with it at the same time. It's like that sometimes.

When I look at Loren, when I'm around her, I feel my artistic self. I feel like making earrings, and penning a poem or ten. She reflects the wild bird in my spirit, which is peculiar, because both she and I can be shy about the weeeeeirdest things. But when we are together, I think we find power in each other to overcome those shy moments. She is my affectionate self, melting me to a warm place whenever she lays her head on my shoulder (I'm taller) and proclaims so very softly "I love you sister." With my sister Loren, the tough-strong person is not necessary, although it is still understood.  I see in her, some of my insecurities, and therefore, a confidant to share them. Loren is independent and a bit stubborn, which I need more of for myself. I look up to her in that way. We share a love for most things Neo-Soul, and all fashions plus-size. And Loren is the cold-truth I give to others. She is not afraid to clock me on the head with her opinion of my 'moments.' Nor am I with her, but this is about her. Loren is a part of me, that wants to experience life indulgently. She is the part of me that I hope to have the strength to fully uncage one day. Right now, I'm still learning to pick the lock.

Here's her facebook page, by the way.

Lauren 'Tele' Kendall
Age: 24
Location: just barely Atlanta, Georgia.
Occupation: Student, and 80 other different things.

When I first think of Lauren, I think of her finite cuteness. Lauren is by far the most adorable person I know. "Pretty" is a natural, applicable description of her. Inside and out, she is a bundle of warmth. Lauren is my Little L. I met her in college as well, and became her "big sister," a colloquialism common to our collegiate culture (alliteration!!) simply referring to someone older than you who is willing to look out for you if you need them to. Now, in our mid twenties, our relationship is less big/little and more 'sister.' She is by far one of the coolest people I know.

 In a bio I wrote for her, I described her as the love child of Tinkerbell, Coltrane, Wonderwoman, and the Godfather. Lauren is the health nut I wish I was. In fact, she is often my inspiration for how to go about being healthier. She battles her problems with cool rationale, often giving me unbiased advice based deeply in logic. She isn't trendy, but always in style, having a sort of a Jackie Kennedy meets Afrocentric hipster chic fashion sense. I like to think of her as Pearls and Cowrie Shells. She is the other side of my fashion sense, and musical preferences. Real  hip-hop and jazz are her specialties. Her work with the SALT newspaper and SALT radio station reflect this gritty sophistication, covered in lace. She is wonderful.

In Lauren, I see my awkwardness, brought on by being a little too advanced. She's a cut-to-the-point lady with a warm smile. This kind of attitude does not appreciate meaningless small talk, and prefers to face problems head on. With Lauren, I am always ready to fully own my mess, not hiding behind excuses or other people's faults. With her, every problem has solutions.

Lauren is also a creative, artsy girl. But with her, it's not so much flavorful poetry and one-of-a-kind jewelry. It's beautiful decorating, and well-chosen musical selections. From the moment Lauren started living on her own, I would experience, while visiting her, that she had a natural mastery of creating Zen environments. Minimalism, sprinkled with delightful art pieces she made, was evident throughout her house. And this is really a reflection of her effect on people. Around Lauren, I feel tranquility. Anything could happen, or nothing could happen, and I will enjoy it either way. She draws people to her with this unbounded magnetism, and sets everyone at ease. This is a trait I wish to aspire to. Soon enough.

Check out Lauren's SALT newpaper profile.


These two L's are the best of who I am, or who I would like to become. Not only do I simply love them, I am literally honored to know them, and excited for who they inspire me to be. One or both of them is probably going to be massively famous, and I'll be glad to have witnessed the process. Check these BAD ladies out. Bet you find yourself impressed. It's like Kanye says. "Ain't nobody messin' wit my CLIQUE"