A Rose by Any Other Name….

What’s in a name? that which we call a rose                                                                                                                    

By any other name would smell as sweet;                                                                                                                       

Romeo and Juliet

William Shakespeare

This post almost didn’t make it. The subject matter I know all too well and is not easy for me to visit. But helping to educate others about domestic violence and shed light on its profound impact is my passion and purpose so here goes.

Earlier this week I read an article by Jacque Reid on The Root.com titled, Domestic Violence Can Happen on a First Date. Since I have chosen to thrive, not just survive, the abuse I experienced both as a child and as a spouse, anything that has to do with domestic violence grabs my attention. So I “Liked” the article and posted a link to it on my Facebook profile.

In the article, Ms. Reid shares how she was abused on a first date but didn’t cry, press charges, or consider her experience “domestic abuse.”

As it turned out, neither did many I shared the article with. I even got a Facebook comment that admonished me to be careful what I label domestic abuse. To the FB Friend, this was assault on a first date, not domestic abuse.

I felt a kind of righteous indignation at the comment but decided that since it stung so much, I must need to take a step back and meditate, write, ponder, something before responding.

Prior to going inside, however, I deleted the post and the article for fear that I had done “something wrong” or exaggerated a “minor” incident.

I responded with the same panic and dread that reminded me of a very dark place I know all too well but we’ll get to that later.

Just yesterday I saw a news story about a woman viciously attacked by her soon-to-be former husband in a judge’s chambers at her divorce hearing (see Divorce Court Attack, news.yahoo.com).  The response to this post was the polar opposite.

There was outrage (rightly so) at such a disturbing assault and outcries at how our judicial system does not protect the most vulnerable.

These responses – different as they were - brought it all back for me.

What qualifies as valid abuse?

I don’t know if I’m missing something but I feel like it’s so difficult for women to speak out when any violence against them occurs that it is incumbent upon us as listeners to be careful how we respond.

The reason I was drawn by the Jacque Reid article was her recollection of her response to her attacker. When this man literally threw her out of his apartment building, she picked herself up off the ground with scrapes and bruises and hailed a cab. She even greeted her doorman with a smile as she entered her own apartment building. 

She didn’t define it as domestic violence because, as she notes, “what happened to me didn't compare to the severity of the abuse that women like Rihanna [of Chris Brown fame] are subjected to in their relationships.”

So what’s the threshold? Marriage? Cohabitation? A relationship longer than two months? One bruise or two?

I know at one time, my definition of “valid” domestic abuse only included an Ike-style ass-whuppin’. Everything else was negligible.

So when I was faced with naming the torment I experienced, I was stuck. Surely this isn’t abuse, I reasoned.

I will spare you the gory details but it took the facilitator of a domestic abuse support group at a local family crisis center six weeks to convince me that yes, Allison, this is abuse and, no, you don’t have to stay. Every week I would listen to the other women share horrific stories (most of whom were married to pastors or some kind of church leader but I’ll leave that alone for now) and say, “So do y’all think this is abuse?”

It takes so much strength to acknowledge and admit that violence has occurred because so many of us blame ourselves. As though we were the cause of someone hurting us. It’s all in our pretty-little heads.  

 I certainly heard and read a plethora of well-meaning advice in how I could “save” my marriage. I would describe situations that were making me crazy and they would reply, “That can’t be true! You must have misunderstood.” Or, worse of all, “Maybe this is your cross to bear so you must endure hardness like a good soldier. After all, look at what Jesus did for you.”

SMH

The reason I mentioned the severe physical abuse reported in the Yahoo news story earlier is because it usually takes an episode this dramatic for us to take domestic abuse seriously.

 While my FB Friend does have a point that we have to be careful what we label as abuse, arguing the nuances of what actually qualifies as domestic abuse and questioning whether or not a particular instance or form of violence “counts” reminds me of my own pain at being minimized as well as countless other women who have also been dismissed.

One of the best gifts I received in the 12-week support group mentioned above was validation. I thought verbal, emotional, and spiritual abuse paled in comparison to the physical abuse they had endured. They would say, “I was seven weeks pregnant and he pushed me down the steps and stepped on my stomach.” I was sitting there like, “They are so gonna laugh at me.” But when I described what I’d been through, they nodded and said, “Oh no, girl! It’s one and the same. ”

A rose by any other name…

While my abuse wasn’t physical, there is a form of that terrorism that lives in me every day. It’s a fear and self-doubt that haunts me. But I practice exchanging fear for love, and surrounding myself with those who are loving and affirming. I choose different thoughts and grow stronger.

So regardless of your opinion of this subject or the victims noted in this article, I hope you will consider the following:

Abuse has a profound effect on its victims. It strips the soul of its worth and balance and results in a measure of trauma. It’s not something that has to define one’s life but it does require management. It is an injury – psychic or physical – that takes time and love and gentleness and kindness to heal. Not subtle undermining and hair-splitting as to whether or not it justifies attention.

To be sure there are abusers who abuse this issue. But I humbly recommend avoiding the minimizing of those who do come forward and are victims because of the idiocy of those who are mainly the exception, not the rule.   

I would also ask that you be mindful of the considerable bravery and courage it takes to come forth and vocalize this experience. Give it a name so you can reclaim yourself and let the world know this is NOT OK. Not unlike rape victims, many domestic abuse survivors would rather not go through the ridicule that tends to come when this issue is raised.

So to quote Otis Redding, try a little tenderness.

Middle Passage Part Two: The Talented Tenth vs. Bebe's Kids

Last week I spent a great deal of real estate weighing the pros and cons of elite White private schools for African American children.  (See Middle Passage, March 31, 2011). What I didn’t have the space to tackle – but was nipping at my heels – was the other side of the coin: the elitism of the so-called Black Upper Class.

Now if there’s anything that fries my shorts crispier than elitism in general, it’s this illusory and absurd caste and class system we have in the African American community.

Now to be fair, let me be the first to share my experience at being caught between this rock and very hard place.

I have the appearance of an original Philadelphia Negro. I am light-skinned, used to have long hair, and went to the Philadelphia High School for Girls.

What I didn’t have was  all the right accoutrements and connections. I lived in East Mount Airy instead of West. My parents were just a teacher and civil servant (not doctors, lawyers, and soul power chiefs).

While my Inner Rebel didn’t want any parts of this world, my outer cowardice wanted to conform and be accepted.

Growing up, all I knew about the elite is AKA Fashion Shows that my aunts always guilted my mother into attending. I also remember hearing people say you weren’t a proper Philadelphia Negro Woman unless you had a fur.

In spite of the fact that I did try to get every color Ralph Lauren or Izod polo shirt I could, along with every pocket design of Jordache jeans available, there were some things I just wasn’t gonna do, namely pledge AKA. I became (and remain) the only Delta in my family and - let the record reflect - Deltas have Fashion Shows, too.

Of course, I went on to cement my fate of guilt-by-association with the Upper Echelon by attending Howard University. Thus began my global exposure to the Talented Tenth. I was in the Land of the Philadelphia Negro times 10!

There were generations of pedigree I had no clue about. And for four years, I just fit in by default.

What I didn’t realize is that striving to fit in with “Their” Kind of People in undergrad was for amateurs compared to when we had children. That level of social climbing was strictly for professionals. (Little did I know that until I read Lawrence Otis Graham's Our Kind of People, I hadn't a prayer anyway.)

I once again felt the familiar sting of being an outsider but this was my child we’re talking about. I’m not talking about me making line or getting invited to someone’s summer cottage. This is my future, my legacy.

So the games began.

“Am I providing enough exposure?” I begin to wonder.  Do I have an Action Plan for the Middle School / High School / Power College Tract? I would hear, “So and so’s child is at Dartmouth, you know, because they spent summers at Sag Harbor with so and so’s family and went on to graduate Sidwell.” 

I was frankly out of my league.  I would see some of my Howard friends participating in all of this stuff and wonder why my six degrees seemed so separated. They were not all bourgeois but their kids had access. You know – Jack and Jill. Martha’s Vineyard. At least a Cotillion.

But I was not a part of “them” and I genuinely did not know what to do.

Mind you all of this is sorely against my constitution but still.

Well, my constitution got its chance to shine last spring when we left Anne Arundel County and the School of N-words and Spitting for Baltimore for a lot of reasons, fiscal challenges being chief among them.   

Once I decided where to live, I checked out the neighborhood school.

According to the Internet and my unofficial poll, there was nothing, I mean NOTHING, good said about this school! It did not meet the No Child Left Behind standards and was being taken over by the state. That meant a whole new regime was on its way. In addition, the students who did bother to show up scored in the low 20^th percentile in the state assessments measuring basic proficiencies.

I was not happy or comfortable but it truly was the best I could do given my circumstances.

So I take Drew out of Shangri-La for half a day for a field trip to see exactly what we are getting ourselves into.

I followed the directions from Google maps and felt my jaw drop when I saw it. It was small and old and quite non-descript. Not the winding roads and lush campuses of the previous year’s search, that’s for sure. Drew and I looked at each other with blank stares and broke out into cold sweats.

After we composed ourselves I said, “OK – if we walk through those doors and it’s the Lean On Me school with Joe Clark, a bull horn, and metal detectors, we scram, capisce?” She said, “OK!”

So in we go.

While its cinder block walls are painted a very 1960’s institution mint green, it is quiet, calm, and pleasant. We meet the principal, who seems nice enough, and I share the results of my research noted above. In response to my assessment, she smiles and says, “Yes, I know my school is just awful! Don’t you see the blood splattered on the walls and the students swinging from the ceilings?”

We both laughed but that wasn’t too far from the zoo I was expecting.

I’m like, I don’t see Bebe’s Kids but I know they’re around here somewhere.

She went on to explain the complicated world of No Child Left Behind and neighborhood schools and lack of support and every other social ill we hear about on the evening news. I really felt for her. I also felt like while I want what’s best for my child, what about the others who aren’t blessed with the options I have had in the past?

I think part of me was rationalizing my gnawing sense of failure (what would my Philadelphia Negro family and friends think is they saw this?!) but I did genuinely feel a sense of humility and awakening. What makes me think I shouldn’t be subject to the challenges most American families are faced with?

Well, I wish I could say the school has done a miraculous 180 and Drew’s public school experience in a predominantly Black environment was not as difficult as that of her predominantly white private school.

While I genuinely hope no one is offended, this was my daughter’s First Day of School Report:

“Mom! I made all new friends just like you said I would and they are so cool! I can’t wait until you meet DaQuan, Dayja, Marquis, Sade, Jai, Nazaraha, and Cortez.”

“I’m so glad, honey,” I reply.

Around week number three, Drew had a young man pull a knife on her on the school bus because she wouldn't kiss him and let her know he meant business by ripping the seat cushion in front of her. The next day her father and I were up at the school filing charges while the principal and the county police assured us they would review the surveillance camera on the bus for suspects and examine the bus for evidence.

Then there is this notion of her being accepted among her own.

I’ve had to watch her navigate a very different kind of peer pressure.

Drew, like her Mama, is light-skinned but she is unmistakably and unashamedly Black. But that didn’t help. Here’s a sample:

What the f*** kinda name is Drew?

Are you Mexican?

Is that your real hair?

Why don’t you wear track?

(An aside – Drew: “Mom, can I get track?” Mom: “Hell, no.”)

I suppose the most disheartening aspect of all of this is the academic reality.

We were told by the eighth grade principal that the county curriculum just isn’t robust enough for where Drew is academically no matter what school she attends.

Now contrary to popular opinion, neither Drew or her classmates are stupid. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, they simply learn early on that the world is politics. Teachers have to each to a test to maintain their jobs (and in this case, keep the school open). Teachers are also frustrated with students “acting out” but the students don’t feel like many of the teachers have any expectations of them, let alone high ones. (I’m not even scratching the surface of all that goes on so public school educators and administrators please forgive me!)

In spite of all of these factors, however, we have learned exactly what I've heard most parents say: by and large, if a teacher sees potential in a student and the parents stay engaged, he or she will look out for your child. While Drew may not have gotten all of what she needs, she has gotten the best this school has to offer. And she has learned some very necessary life lessons along the way.

So the conclusion of my meandering for the past two weeks is I’ve decided to follow my proverbial first mind. Success is 150% an inside job. Who and how we are primarily determines where we will go and how far. Sure, environment plays a role but remember to keep the main thing the main thing. And sometimes what seems like a negative on the surface is all part of the Master Plan.

I’d like to end with this quote:

“We believe we’re all so different, but we’re not. We cover ourselves in customs and costumes of aspiration, struggle, and victory, sacrifice and loss – and soon forget who we really are….I want to make sure I never lose sight of the truth of my existence. I am a ripple in the ocean of God and I want to be able to see my reflection in the face of everyone I meet, to understand that even people I will never know are reflections of my undisguised self.”

Here Oprah tells us what she knows for sure and for me, particularly in this context, it resonates. If you can get THIS, I don’t care if you go to Phillips Exeter or the Round-the-Way School, you will succeed, however success is defined for you.

What I Know for Sure

O, the Oprah Magazine, April 2011