“for colored girls”? Nope.

Dr. Mama Esq.24 Comments

I really had/have no intentions of critiquing “for colored girls” by hurling the usual at Tyler Perry. How he hates black women, has mother issues, is a closeted homosexual, etc. Other folks can and have done so. I also really don’t intend to write a review of the movie, which I saw this afternoon. What I do want to do is reflect.

When I first read “for colored girls who have considered suicide/when the rainbow is enuf” I was 16 years old. I wasn’t a lady in blue or red or green or purple or orange but a precocious black girl who

usedta live in the world / now i live in harlem & my universe is six blocks / a tunnel with a train / i can ride anywhere / remaining a stranger

except my harlem was philadelphia and my train was the broad street subway. I’d never left my city, except for a girl scout trip to Savannah, and my knowledge of the world outside were through books like “for colored girls.”

When I read “for colored girls” the first time I cried. At 16, I’d established myself as a singer with a voice. I’d performed in assemblies, choirs, solos. But when, at 16, I had my first major depressive episode, “for colored girls” voiced my

black girl’s song / bring her out / to know herself / to know you / but sing her rhythms/ carin/ struggle/ hard times / sing her song of life / she’s been dead so long / closed in silence so long / she doesn’t know the sound / of her own voice / her infinite beauty

In high school, I was passionate about women’s sexual health issues. I chaired our peer health group, which provided peer counseling and peer sexual education. I remember meeting at a Planned Parenthood downtown for a workshop on sexual violence; all of us teenage girls learning about sexual violence and sharing our stories of sexual violence. At the time, we all learned that

a friend is hard to press charges against / if you know him / you must have wanted it / a misunderstanding / you know / these things happen / are you sure / you didnt suggest / had you been drinkin / a rapist is always to be a stranger / to be legitimate / someone you never saw / a man wit obvious problems

yet that date rape is real and we must protect ourselves and almost all of us in that room in the mid-1990s had been a victim of some form of sexual coercion by someone we knew. I remember that session vividly, for the tears and support, the hugs and the empowerment.

I even remember thinking I was one of a few virgins left in my group of friends, and feeling this pressure to not be a virgin anymore. Sexual tension is so high in high school, it threatens to overwhelm. And it’s not just social pressure – I had a boyfriend for which my body exerted physical pressure. So the summer after high school graduation I was

doin nasty ol tricks i’d been thinkin since may / cuz graduation nite had to be hot /& i waz the only virgin/ so i hadda make like my hips waz inta some business / that way everybody thot whoever was gettin it/ was a older man cdnt run the streets wit youngsters /martin slipped his leg round my thigh / the dells bumped “stay” / up & down—up & down the new carver homes/ WE WAZ GROWN WE WAZ FINALLY GROWN

At 16 I learned about abortions when a friend called in the early morning hours about how she couldn’t go through with the procedure because of the

tubes tables white washed windows / grime from age wiped over once / legs spread / anxious / eyes crawling up on me / eyes rollin in my thighs /metal horses gnawin my womb /…./get them steel rods outta me/this hurts/this hurts me

and while I sat in Planned Parenthood waiting rooms trying to get birth control so the same didn’t happen to me.

While I can’t go through what all the poems taught me and left a lasting imprint on my life, what I can say is this: Ntozake Shange’s original poem was truly “for colored colored girls.” The ladies in their various colors were meant to symbolize the many colors of the diaspora; the namelessness of the characters (with notable exceptions) to symbolize the universality of the experience. The title suggests that the concepts are aimed at colored girls – aimed at telling colored girls stories, from their point to view. For colored girls can be described as a healing safe space to share their pain, without any shame, without any further infliction of pain. For colored girls was for us, by us, in a language that only our souls could understand.

Yet this movie destroys this concept of being a safe, healing space for colored girls to share their pain without having to consider other people’s pain, to be a mother, sister, friend, without having to take care of others without having to consider others without having to take responsibility without having to be the superwomen that others think is a compliment but that is really killing us with the weight of the burden.

Without “giving away” the movie, in typical Tyler Perry style, he wants colored girls to “take responsibility” for their condition, understand the men in their lives and why they do the things they do, to explain some of the complexity of black relationships. And that’s al well and good. But that’s not what “for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow was enuf” was about. Because understanding the complexity of colored girls and their pain is enuf. Its enuf to say that I’m in pain because

i stood by beau in the window/ with naomi reachin
for me/ & kwame screamin mommy mommy from the fifth
story/ but i cd only whisper/ & he dropped em

without having to also “consider” beau’s pain and why as an abused partner and mother she didn’t leave him before. Its enuf to be in pain because I was date raped in my home without also visually suggesting that my clothing was actually suggestive. Its enuf to be in pain because my husband sleeps with men without having to also understand the “plight” of black men on the DL.

Why can’t I have a movie where being and feeling and living as a colored girl in this society is enuf, where I don’t have to consider everyone else’s feelings and being and lifestyle when nobody else is considering my feelings and being and lifestyle?

are we ghouls? / children of horror? /the joke?
don’t tell nobody don’t tell a soul / are we animals? have we gone crazy?

It’s a good thing that

i found god in myself / & i loved her/ i loved her fiercely

before I saw this movie. Because I feel sad for the multitudes of colored girls who will think this is what “for colored girls who have considered suicide when the rainbow is enuf” is about. For unfortunately, this movie is not “for colored girls.” Its just another way for TP to tell us how fucked up our lives are and how we need to take responsibility for it.

But I’m here to tell you that being a colored girl is enuf.  You don’t need to always consider others. Other people are sometimes screwing with you, and its NOT YOUR FAULT. If you’ve been date raped, ITS NOT YOUR FAULT. If your partner is beating you ITS NOT YOUR FAULT. If your partner is cheating on you, ITS NOT YOUR FAULT.

& this is for colored girls who have considered / suicide/ but are movin to the ends of their own / rainbows

All quotes from Ntozake Shange, (1977). “for colored girls who have considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf”

Rainbows, Roses and Ruffians

nazie5 Comments

My daughter is six and she started first grade back in August. To me, she seems so little sometimes, like she’s barely out of her toddler years. She still fits into some of her old smocks which we now pair with tights and call shirts. She is even happy to watch Sesame Street once in a while.

My girl is so excited about school that she bounds out of bed and begins to sing every single morning. I, who am notoriously not a morning person, have to keep myself from telling her to stop. She is enthusiastic about learning. I catch her muttering newly learned words under her breath. She adores her teacher and is eager to please.

And my little girl is being bullied.

I hesitated for a long time to call it that. I mean, bullying does not start in first grade, right? At that age, they are still all hearts and rainbows. Right?

No, not right.

We are living in a whole new world where it can, and does, start that early. I found–and still find–myself ill-prepared to handle it. But at least I am no longer in denial that such a thing can exist in first grade, among sweet, beautiful little girls who look like colorful butterflies flitting about the playground.

The bullying directed at my girl is oddly sophisticated. It is, I’ve observed, reserved strictly for when the child knows adults are not watching. It is a growl with an angry face, and hands waving within inches of my child’s eyes, telling her: “You have to” do whatever the bully is demanding at that moment. It is telling my daughter: “You cannot play” and “You cannot sit with us.” It is threatening to tell the teacher “something bad” if my child complains about the bully’s behavior to an adult. At one point, it was creating a “club” from which my daughter and another little girl were specifically excluded, though the teachers put a quick end to the clubs after several parents complained.

I can tell that it is tough for my girl to process what’s happening. She protests: “But she’s nice to me in the classroom. When she needs my help!” as if the two behaviors could not possibly coexist. And at other times, my daughter says: “When she’s happy, she’s nice. When she’s sad, she’s really really mean.”

I can tell that my girl is developmentally out of her depth. I know this because when I’ve dropped by to surreptitiously watch the goings-on at the playground, I see this little girl spotting me and changing her behavior dramatically for my benefit. She showers me with smiles, even waves sometimes, suddenly angelic. I have even seen her go over to my daughter, who just a moment ago was exiled, and begin a happy, animated conversation, as if they are the best of friends. Which they were at one point and still are, I suppose, when the little girl wishes it.

After a big incident last week that left my child in tears and demanding to go home, the teachers have made the issue a priority. We are supporting our daughter at home by doing role play, and reading a book and watching a DVD we got at the library. We know and love the child’s mother and get the sense that she is no less devastated than us by the bullying behavior. We are all doing what we know to do and hoping for the best.

And, we happened to spot this article in the New York Times about how and why mean-girl bullying has trickled down to grade school: http://nyti.ms/9xkVx3.

The one paragraph in this piece that made my stomach hurt was this:

“The girls who are the victims tend to be raised by parents who encourage them to be more age appropriate,” … “The mean girls are 8 but want to be 14, and their parents play along. They all want to be top dog.” And so the nastiness begins.

After reading this, I seriously considered home-schooling for about an hour. Let’s just say that for us, it’s not an option.

Namaste

Dr. Mama Esq.8 Comments

I’m not even sure I can write a coherent post today. But even I, the founder of this blog, have been late and missing writing because of the things going on in my life, so today I am going to just write what’s in my heart and pray it makes some sense to some body.

There is just so much going on in the world –

mid-term elections, bomb plots from Yemen, cholera in Haiti, Twitter debates about whether MJ or Prince is a better singer (you know who wins that! *looking at Benee*) –

and in my personal life –

my son’s preschool teacher recommending occupational therapy, my waiting to hear if the abnormal cells on my cervix caused by a high risk strain of HPV that I didn’t know I had are something to worry about, the disgraced pastor at my church starting his own ministry 10 months after his announcement of his “moral failure” –

that I am finally starting to not know the difference between up and down, left and right. And this sense of disorientation was made even more salient to me when, on Halloween night, I had a moment of vertigo, lost my sense of space, and fainted into the wall at a friends house after gobbling down some oh so sweet and sour Lemonheads.

I’m tired, beat down, a little broken, a bit shattered, but completely surrendered. They say religion is the opiate of the masses, and I’ve been smoking a lot. A few weeks back, we officially joined the church we’ve been attending for the last few years. Why we hadn’t joined before then, I can’t truthfully say. Something was certainly holding me back, perhaps the lack of political activism at the church, I don’t know. But recently I’ve found that I don’t care about that stuff, as far as the church goes. I go to church because it is the one place where I feel I can be completely unburdened.

Every Sunday morning, during the time where we sing worship songs, there comes a moment where we can come to the altar and pray. Every Sunday, I take that walk, and kneel, placing my hands at what I imagine to be Jesus’s feet. And I pray. Sometimes I follow along with the person praying at the microphone, saying Amen at the appropriate times, or sometimes I am silent, after first asking the Lord to search my heart and mind for He knows what I want and need before I even stepped foot in the sanctuary that morning. Other times I pray aloud, usually through a waterfall of tears, laying each and every thing that has plagued my body, mind, and spirit over the past week, asking him to take it, asking him to remind me that I can’t do it on my own, and could never do it on my own. Asking him to once again take control of my life.

It may be a total placebo effect. While I believe there is a God and a Jesus who loves me with a love that is unfathomable and can carry my burdens so that I don’t have to and that knowledge makes me feel so grateful and so light, I can concede that it might not be true. I don’t care.

Because right now, it gets me through my day. Belief is enough for me. And I’m believing about something happening right now, not something in the future. I can feel the burdens lifting right now, and I’m not waiting for them to be lifted – they already are. I believe that whatever is happening, there is something for my good in it, and I have to be open and surrendered enough to see it.

This is a huge breakthrough for me. For now I am quiet and contemplative. And I’m waiting. Waiting to see what will happen. But not anxiously waiting, more just like…living. And I’m not afraid, although I am tired and hungry, sometimes in pain. I’m sharing this because I’m open.

Not only has Christianity taught me this, but yoga too. My yogi tea said today:

“When ego is lost, limit is lost. You become infinite, kind, beautiful.”

“on the go” mom/”stay-at-home” dad

Tanji4 Comments

My husband is awesome! In a few hours I will board a flight for my first job talk. It’s just a quick trip; I’ll be back by Wednesday afternoon. However, as always, I could not have done this without my right-hand-man. Together, for the last year and a half, we have manufactured a completely non-traditional, “traditional” (read hetero-normative and nuclear) family. He left corporate America when I left for my “dream job” “in-between” job, a postdoc at my alma mater. He also took on the enormous task of caring for our two children under three during the day last year, though the older of those two is now in pre-school. He also supervises homework completion for our oldest son, which can sometimes feel like a full-time job by itself. I am home more than the typical working mom, as I only go into the office an average of about three times a week. However, he bears the heavy load. He is also the better cook, so he cooks, and he dared me to do laundry the other day, that’s how infrequently I do it.

We live in a larger traditional world and I know that our unconventional ways must be making a few silent waves out there in the universe. Though no one has explicitly told us yet that what we’re doing is too out-the-box, I know that the situation as is might leave one wondering about his macho and my . . . . ?domineering?

The other day he told me in the politest way possible that he can not wait until I’m settled (meaning in a tenure-track Assistant Professorship with firm roots planted in a particular location) so that he can pursue his own dreams. I was moved by this. There are ways in which my entire family, and my husband and oldest son in particular, have been left “hanging” by my own intellectual and career pursuits. This has affected my son especially, because he has been my “roll dawg” since Junior year of college. There are ways in which we have all benefited, myself the most, from me putting me first.

I wonder how many men would be willing to sacrifice pursuing their goals for the goals of their partner and/or children?

Can You Handle It?

Salina5 Comments

As I sit, contemplating what to share on the blog, I become more frustrated.

I realize that in this moment I am guilty of expecting myself to ignore the goings on in my head.  I realize I  expect myself to pretend that today was a regular day, like so many others.  I realize I expect myself to ignore the spastic heartbeat and shaking hands, both indications of the anxiety and neurosis threatening to subsume me… Yes. I  expect myself to breathe deep in opposition to the shallow chest heaves that are a portention of violent, tearful sobs that will burst out at any moment.

Ignore it.

Get over it.

Suck it up.

How often do we send our children off to school the morning after?

        a night filled with mom and dad arguing

       a night where we were too tired to check homework, hear about their day, play a game, read them a book, or tuck them in

How often do we send our children off to a school the morning of?

       a day where we hit snooze one time to many –

             and jump up, wrenching our babies from sleep yelling and screaming, fussing and fighting  for them to “hurry up”

             and so we  can’t decide if we have enough time to make breakfast but we do and a mess is made in the house, in the car…

             and we rush out of the house, steady remembering all of these reasons we have to be angry and disappointed with our

                        children, which is really with ourselves and they end up in tears…

Annnd, we send them off into class.

And when asked how are you: they answer “fine”.

And that’s what I’m doing now – for the umpteenth time:  I’m “fine”.

It’s what I learned as a child.

People don’t REALLY want to know how you are.

    They’re just being polite.

People don’t REALLY want to share that with you.

     They’re just being polite.

People don’t REALLY want you to call on them for help.

     Silly girl,they’re JUST BEING POLITE.

And so we teach our kids…   

         to be liars.

         to be actors.

           to be disingenuous.

You’re sick?

You’re sad?

You’re angry?

You’re frustrated?

You’re unsure?

      Keep it to yourself.

     Get over it.

      Suck it up.

    You’re fine.

Save the Drama for Your Mama

Dr. Mama Esq.7 Comments

I’m starting to believe that I must have budding musicians/artists/actors on my hands. Because if I don’t, I’m a little…worried. See, my children have what some may call a flair for the dramatic. EVERYTHING in my home has a taste of drama.

“What’s drama?” asked my almost-five year old. “When you take something that’s a little deal, and make it into a great big deal,” I replied. And for my children, the time it takes to go from “little” to “big” is no time at all.

Take putting on their jackets. Both are adept at this seemingly mundane task. Particularly at holding the sleeve of their shirt in their hand, putting one arm in the jacket sleeve, reaching behind them, and repeating with the other arm. Little deal, right?

Not in my house. As soon as the idea of putting on the jacket has been planted in their heads, the drama begins. “But I don’t know where my jacket IS!” It’s in the same place it always is – either where you left it last, or hanging in the closet. Look for it. “Uhh, ohh, eww, ohh, ohhh, ummm…..I NEED HELP!” Doing what? We do this multiple times a day. Maybe if you weren’t leaned over the couch and actually standing up, the process of getting the jacket on would be easier. And all that moaning and groaning you are doing is wasting energy. *Now in almost perfect unison, but not quite so it’s really just noise* “Mommy, can you zip me up?” Sure. I start with one. Then the other asks the same exact question, standing right next to me. Do they need glasses? Can’t they see that I’m still zipping the other up? “But Mommy, I didn’t want you to zip it ALL THE WAY! Ohhh…..!”

***

The head teacher at the preschool has something new to tell me every week about my almost-five year old, something we need to work on. He sings to himself constantly; he always has a little ditty going. I tell him to be quiet, and he acknowledges he hears me, but the ditty is so unconscious, he’s right back at in in no time flat. He appears to be in his own world, but a world of drama in which other people exist, but as props for him. He wanders aimlessly, bumping into things and people. He touches everyone, leaning his whole body weight into them. “But Mommy…” is his favorite phrase as his head leads his body into my body. A sense of helplessness has overcome him lately.

***

My three year old yells. And yells. And when put in time out for yelling, she yells, “But I won’t do it anymore!” And when she’s not yelling, she’s expressing her undying love for you. Back and forth it goes with this child, who at one moment is crying because she didn’t get to say goodbye to Daddy before he left for work, but at the next moment is yelling about how I shouldn’t tell her to sit and eat her food because she doesn’t like when I say that to her. And after the time out that comes from that, she’s crawling all over me so she can kiss me and say, “Mommy, I love you.”

***

The crazy thing is that a lot of this drama, other people don’t see. I ask their other caregivers if the dramatics are as deep as they are at home, and other people say not quite. It seems the drama is saved for home, for me, and I don’t know what to make of it. Is home where the social experiment of raising children happens, and the only way you know if you are doing right is how they act on the “outside”? Are children supposed to act crazy at home, getting it out of their systems, abusing the ones they know love them most, and putting their best sides forward when out in the street? I certainly hope so, for that’s the only way I will survive this. At least 15 more years? Talk about needing help…

What the Holy Hell?!

AndreaM5 Comments

When should you “know better”? How old is too old to lose innocence? I’ve been thinking about these things and the coercion that I feel was involved with the young men who were involved with Eddie Long of New Birth Missionary Baptist Church. Mostly because I know that those four young men are not the only ones harmed in this manner on a daily basis.

The summer after my freshman year in college my mother thought it would a great idea for me to volunteer at our church, helping out in the office. Since she’d already said I would, what choice did I have? I’d pledged my sorority during the spring of that year and the Sr. Pastor was a member of our brother fraternity. He was delighted with my neophyte self! We also had two junior pastors who were pledging grad chapter of his fraternity. Rev. Sr. took great delight in having my “little brothers” greet me and do little tasks. One of them took his pledging quite seriously; let’s call him Rev. Jr. – the youth minister. He was handsome and not too much older than me, funny and liked to flirt (in a church appropriate way of course). I didn’t take it too seriously but I was flattered and assumed his attention meant he was …interested in me. As a person.

We were in an office on the 2nd floor of the church that had a long countertop with selves above it. He asked me to sit on the countertop and talk to him. So we talked about school, being in the sorority, dating. I was sitting on the counter and he stood up, right in front of me, leaning on my knees. So I sat up straighter. In the movies, this is where the guy kisses the girl. But he didn’t kiss me. He moved my knees apart and grabbed my hips, pulling me forward.

 “What if your boyfriend did this? How would you react?”

I couldn’t move because there were cabinets behind me so I was stuck between him and wooden doors. I didn’t know how to answer his question or where to put my hands. I guess he read the confusion on my face, because he laughed as he let go and took a step back.

“I’m just looking out for you, little Big Sister… letting you know what men think about when they see you. You better get back down to the office.”

And so I was dismissed. And utterly confused. After that he took every opportunity to touch me when he saw me. I tried to make sure that I wasn’t alone with him upstairs anymore but he managed a hug or a squeeze quite frequently. I‘d had one boyfriend in high school, was a nerd to my heart (with great clothes, shoutout to my shopaholic mom) so my experience with dating and men was quite limited. I read a lot into the attention that was paid to me so when he said he wanted to take me to lunch for my birthday of course I accepted.

There was a Red Lobster near the church so we decided to go there. He wanted to stop by his apartment first, to get something. I didn’t want to be trapped there (ha!) so I followed in my car. We got there, he ran in then came right back out.

“Can you come in for a  second? It’s gonna take a minute to do what I need to do but we’ll still have time for lunch”

So I followed him in. He asked me to have a seat, went down the hall and was back a few minutes later. With champagne glasses in one hand and a bottle of something. Did I mention that this was my 18th birthday?

“Surprise! I thought we’d start celebrating here, and then get something to eat later”

“Oh, well…” and I didn’t know what to say. So I reached for the glass that was being offered and got pulled into a hug.

“Happy birthday to you…happy birthday to you…Happy birthday Dear Andrea…Happy birthday to you”, as sung in my ear.

“Let me pour you some bubbly”

I guess I looked at my watch one time too many, or sat too stiffly on the couch. At some point it became apparent that I wasn’t going to lunch and he wasn’t getting what he’d anticipated either. I declined the second glass and made a hasty exit. Now my mind was occupied with going back to work (at the church!) with alcohol on my breath and whether I would still smell like it by the time I saw my mom.

So nothing terrible happened, thankfully. Just some confusion, a little anger, mixed with the hopes of an 18 year old girl thinking she’d being pursued by a handsome older man. I never told anyone about it, went back to work that day, then school later that month. I skipped church for a few years (maybe a decade, don’t judge). But imagine that my relationship had become physical. Imagine that I’d known Rev. Jr. for more than a few months, shared intimate talks of hopes and dreams, fears and wishes. Imagine that he told me how special and chosen I was, showed his concern and support by listening and buying gifts…how devastating would it have been to learn that I was disposable?

This is what I thought of when I saw the young man talking about taking showers for hours, never being able to forget the scent of Long’s cologne. How alone and confused and heartbroken he must have been. Just as I’m confident that others knew of Long’s activities, I’m sure Rev. Jr. showed his “special interest” to other girls. What do you do as a teenager or young adult, charged with making your own decisions, being mature…when those you respect and admire give you terrible choices?

I owe my Twitter BFF @aaw1976 another round of drinks for her editing help 🙂

My Son is Autistic

Tanji6 Comments

My daughter may be as well. I feel like when you have children you operate on a hope ethos that it stronger than the one we empowered in Election season 2008. I see my husband’s hope eclipsing any of his concerns about his daughter’s health. I feel like I have to be hopeful, again, for his sake.

My eldest son is not my husband’s biological child. Therefore, he was not around to watch my son miss the same “milestones” my daughter is now missing. For me, the resemblance is uncanny. I remember this all too well. The other day my son asked me something that I have already forgotten. I remember my answer to him was, “dude I have three children, I don’t remember facts like that.” Whatever it was it was something genuinely trivial. I DO remember however that when he was my daughters age, he wasn’t talking either and he had the same difficulty repeating sounds and had the same stranger anxiety, etc.

When my son was a little older than my daughter, I wanted to have him evaluated. I filled out the Parent evaluations, sent them in, and took the Teacher evaluation to his day care. Ms. Marie, who was positively enamored by my son, thought I was crazy! Thought there was no way anything was “wrong” with him and therefore she changed my mind. Or should I say, she prolonged my hope. As my little black boy child grew he always had one thing in his favor. He is NEVER a disciplinary problem in school. He has mastered the art of staying below the radar and in overcrowded, inner city public schools black boys who are not making waves, make the grade. Adding fuel to the hope you already have, teachers will tell you, “well you know boys . . . ,” and/or “give him time. . . ”

I hope that my children, despite whatever difficulties they may face along the way, grow to live healthy lives overall. I pray that they feel encouraged to surpass any obstacle and generally encourage them to meet and exceed the expectations of others, as well as themselves. I know that a parent’s life is not easy and as always, I HOPE I am doing the right thing.

Mind and Belly in Motion

ORJ5 Comments

Although class is conducted in front of a mirrored wall, my eyes are usually steadily trained on my instructor, not only because I am trying desperately to mimic her dancing, but also because I don’t want to see how awkward I look trying the new movements.  After initial timidity, I embraced the mid-section baring “Is Your Belly in Motion?” T-shirt I had purchased for class.  But it’s still hard to watch.

Sometimes while dancing, my mind wanders.  I think back to the first time I ever wore a bodysuit, those ridiculous snap-at-the-crotch shirts that my friends and I started wearing in the eighth grade.  My first bodysuit was purple, and although I had been excited to wear it to school that morning, I lost my confidence when I walked through the doors of my middle school.  I made a bee-line for my best friend’s locker and said, “do I look like a slut in this?,” suddenly uncomfortable with the small breasts that the top was made to show off.  “No!,” she answered; “you look really nice.”  I was relieved, although it was several class periods until I was comfortable enough to take my jacket off.  For many girls at that age, there is both a sense of shame and pride at burgeoning sexuality; you’re proud that you (finally) have breasts, but you’re also ashamed at the attention they attract.

In contrast, I’ve been more comfortable with my body in athletic settings.  When my high school volleyball team moved to the short, tight, spandex shorts that had become popular for the sport, I didn’t bat an eyelash, even as my teammates bemoaned the way the pants molded to their hips, thighs, and butts.  I was proud of my body on the court.  I was not a natural athlete, but I had long legs and arms that made me a valuable team member despite my difficulty learning new skills.  When I did master a skill, I felt powerful.  There was no shame because the attention I attracted was on account of something I had learned to do, unlike my sexuality, the development of and attraction to which seemed largely out of my control.

This love-hate relationship with my body has continued into adulthood.  I’m not embarrassed to wear tiny tanks and shorts when playing sports; the activity is less about what my body looks like, and more about what my body can do.  In other parts of my life, I’m more conservative.  It’s unlikely that I’ll play up my breasts with a low-cleavage shirt, or highlight my behind with a tight dress.  My preferred skirt length is right at the knee.  A large part of this is just maturity: at my age, I know that some things are best left to the imagination; that classy and sexy are not mutually exclusive.  Admittedly, though, a part of it is still a lingering discomfort with this aspect of my sexuality.  When my shirt is low-cut, or my skirt a little tight, I become that 13-year old girl again, wondering if I “look like a slut,” proud of my figure, but unable to shake the feeling that my sexuality is on display for others and out of my control.  I realize that these conflicting feelings are the result of growing up in a society where women are taught that their bodies normatively belong to men, and the shaming that results when women either fail to perform as expected or choose to control and enjoy their sexuality for themselves.

Bellydancing, however, has been a different experience.  Although it is undeniable that the movements celebrate female sexuality, the performance is not necessarily for men.  Rather, bellydancing is a folk dance passed down from mothers to daughters, learned in the company of women, and often performed for other women.  Bellydancing teaches that a woman’s strength is in her stomach and hips, not because these are the areas that are most attractive to men, but because these are the areas that house miraculous child-bearing abilities possessed only by women.  In learning the dance, I am encouraged to embrace my body in a place other than an athletic court.  Yes, I am baring my stomach, moving my hips, and rolling my body in ways that connote sexuality.  And, people passing by may enjoy it, as the young men who often stop to peer into the classroom on their way to the bathroom do.  But I dance for me, and for the women around me.  I control this display of sexuality, and for the first time, I like it.

The words of my instructor snap me out of my reverie, and my focus returns to the studio.  I steal furtive glances at myself in the mirror, and actually think, “not too bad.”  For a second I see that 13-year  old girl in the mirror as she confidently smiles at me, totally at ease with her body.  Right before my eyes dart back to my instructor, I smile back.

Compassionate Children

Salina5 Comments

Today I was fortunate to attend a talk by his Holiness, the Dalai Lama.

In a giant stadium of thousands, his entrance evoked a cessation of all sound, as we stood to greet him. I was shocked to tears by the immediate silence. A profound peace fell across the space as we watched him walk toward the stage, and turn, hands together at heart center as he bowed in acknowledgement. Way up in the nose bleed we couldn’t hear him, but my sis and I returned the greeting of Namaste…the God in me honors the God in you…

In that moment whatever sorrow, malcontent, and even flippant, casual dialogue evaporated. In that moment I felt stillness, peace, and as odd as it must sound, I felt the love he had for each and everyone of us in that room. A moment of transfiguration…of being seen as more than just flesh and bones.

A glorious moment actually. And again the tears came. They were my exhale. My sigh of relief. My acceptance of the love. In that moment, I wanted to be nice, to sing, to hug, and hold, and comfort perfect strangers.  My soul awash in the KNOWING that we are all ONE. Connected beings interdependent and independent.   I felt invincible, indefatigable, and dare I say BEAUTIFUL!

I couldn’t help but wonder how I greet my son each morning. I couldn’t help but wonder how I greet children I pass on the street- especially those engaging in “inappropriate” behavior…  I shuddered knowing that on a “good” day, I’m radiant and light and loving. On those days, where my heart is burdened, when my mind is cluttered with the stresses and strains of living – my words can be toxic- imbued with anger, frustration, and judgement…

We aspire to raise compassionate Children, even at our most despicable parent moments… I have no doubt. Yet I’m more and more convinced that we must CONSTANTLY and CONSISTENTLY model loving kindness, being free from judgement, speaking in non-violent, kind ways, and being gentle. Our children are watching us. They learn from the example we set- the way we treat them, others, and even ourselves…

Whatever our spiritual, religious, political, or metaphysical proclivity…. I can almost guarantee that there are fundamental tenents that include something about kindness, love, mercy, justice, and patience…

Imagine if we were able to inspire in our children what our venerated leaders, teachers, and guides inspire in us….

Just a thought.