Sadie Peterson Delaney African Roots Library
"Sadie Peterson Delaney: Pioneer African American Bibliotherapist"
Repost of a Discussion on another site "Is the Strong Black Woman Dead?"
THE STRONG BLAK WOMEN IS DEAD BY.LAINI MATAKA
Posted by YOUNG-GARVEY on 23 February 2009
THE STRONG BLAK WOMEN IS DEAD BY.LAINI MATAKA
while struggling with the reality
of being a human instead of a myth,
the strong black woman passed away.
Medical sources say she died of natural causes,
but those who knew her know she died
from being silent when she should have been screaming,
milling when she should have been raging,
from being sick and not wanting anyone to know
because her pain might inconvenience them.
She died from an overdose
of other people clinging to her
when she didn't even have energy for herself.
She died from loving men who didn't love themselves
and could only offer her a crippled reflection.
She died from raising children alone
and for not being able to do a complete job.
She died from the lies her grandmother
told her mother and her mother told her
about life, men & racism.
She died from being sexually abused as a child
and having to take that truth
everywhere she went every day of her life,
exchanging the humiliation for guilt and back again.
She died from being battered
by someone who claimed to love her
and she allowed the battering to go on
to show she loved him too.
She died from asphyxiation,
coughing up blood from secrets
she kept trying to burn away
instead of allowing herself
the kind of nervous breakdown she was entitled to,
but only white girls could afford.
She died from being responsible,
because she was the last rung on the ladder
and there was no one under her she could dump on.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from the multiple births
of children she never really wanted
but was forced to have
by the strangling morality of those around her.
She died from being a mother at 15
and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45.
She died from being dragged down
and sat upon by UN-evolved women posing as sisters.
She died from pretending
the life she was living
was a Kodak moment instead of a 20th century,
post-slavery nightmare!
She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful,
just to have a man and the house.
She died from lack of orgasms
because she never learned
what made her body happy
and no one took the time to teach her
and sometimes, when she found arms
that were tender, she died
because they belonged to the same gender.
She died from sacrificing herself
for everybody and everything
when what she really wanted to do
was be a singer, a dancer, or some magnificent other.
She died from lies of omission
because she didn't want
to bring the black man down.
She died from race memories
of being snatched and raped
and snatched and sold and snatched
and bred and snatched and
whipped and snatched and worked to death.
She died from tributes
from her counterparts
who should have been matching
her efforts instead of
showering her with
dead words and empty songs.
She died from myths
that would not allow her
to show weakness without
being chastised by the lazy and hazy.
She died from hiding her real feelings
until they became hard
and bitter enough to invade
her womb and breasts like angry tumors.
She died from always lifting something
from heavy boxes to refrigerators.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from the punishments
received from being honest
about life, racism & men.
She died from being called a bitch
for being verbal,
a dyke for being assertive
and a whore for picking her own lovers.
She died from never being enough
of what men wanted,
or being too much for the men she wanted.
She died from being too black
and died again for not being black enough.
She died from castration
every time somebody thought
of her as only a woman,
or treated her like less than a man.
She died from being misinformed
about her mind, her body
and the extent of her royal capabilities.
She died from knees pressed too close together
because respect was never part
of the foreplay that was being shoved at her.
She died from loneliness in birthing rooms
and aloneness in abortion centers.
She died of shock in courtrooms
where she sat, alone,
watching her children being legally lynched.
She died in bathrooms
with her veins busting open
with self-hatred and neglect.
She died in her mind,
fighting life racism, & men,
while her body was carted away
and stashed in a human warehouse
for the spiritually mutilated.
And sometimes when she refused to die,
when she just refused to give in
she was killed by the lethal images
of blonde hair, blue eyes and flat butts,
rejected by the O.J.'s, the Quincy's, & the Poitiers.
Sometimes, she was stomped to death
by racism and sexism, executed
by hi-tech ignorance
while she carried the family in her belly,
the community on her head,
and the race on her back!
The strong silent, talking black woman is dead!
Or is she still alive and kicking?
I know I am still here
Replies to This Discussion
Reply by Ms Carib 2 hours ago
That is so true, but we are still standing and still fighting. The real soldiers.
Reply by Sis Kaya IsesaJah 36 minutes ago
Response by D.S. White:
The Strong Black Woman is Dead! Or is She?No she’s not dead
she’s just experienced a rebirth. Through the memories
of her daughters and granddaughters
who have learned
from her triumphs and failures
and realized
that strength is knowing
when to ask for help
when to cry out
when to be silent;
She’s realized
that what she’s experienced
does not define or confine her
that pride which prohibits healing
is no longer a banner
but a prison;
She’s realized
that she is a word spoken from God
and as such
cannot
will not
return to Him void.
In essence she’s come full circle
in realizing that
servitude was not the problem
just the master she served;
She’s realized
that being proactive
is much more effective than being reactive
so she chooses her battles wisely
knowing when to fight
and when to let it go
her choice of weapons being
an education
proper financial planning
and community involvement
to enrich the next generation;
She’s realized
that it rains on the just and the unjust
so she’s chosen
not to harbor
a sense of injustice;
She’s realized
that comparisons are self-defeating
so she’s chosen
to celebrate her uniqueness
and strive for her personal best;
She’s realized
that loving
not giving up on the black man
is key
so she’s chosen
to start with her brothers
uncles, cousins, nephews
sons and grandsons
for she knows
the viral power of love;
She’s realized
that submission to her mate
does not equate servitude
so she’s chosen
to embrace the peerless system
of checks and balances
as designed by God;
But most of all
she’s chosen…to forgive
live in the present
and love…always love.
Selfless
committed
love
which takes
uncommon strength.
Copyright © 2005 by D.S. White, All Rights Reserved
Black Women Mythology
The myth of the STRONG BLACK WOMAN (SBW) is so simple and so clear that it is somewhat amazing that we are still bamboozled.
By Wambui Mwangi
You see, we - being the black women who are the “johns” of this particular scam - think that being an SBW is something to which one should aspire; we feel complimented when we are included in the category of others similarly valorized; and we blame ourselves for any indication that we are falling below the standards of the SBW.
Is this not the most delicious trick ever played on anyone?
The greatest achievement the rest of the world ever achieved was convincing black women that SBW existed, and that our job was to grow up into one. Black women are raised to be SBW in the most exemplary fashion possible, and faithfully to remain one without pause or rest until the grim reaper relieved us of the burdens of our mortality.
It is really terrifyingly, astonishingly and ineffably well-crafted, this myth. Insofar as, so long as we are kept either desiring, or believing ourselves actually to be, Strong Black Women, there is no amount of pure nonsense, abuse, overwork, ingratitude, exploitation, underappreciation, and just plain shit that we will not put up with.
You see, SBW, of course, can make $10 stretch into meals for a week, clothes for everyone, payment of bills, and school fees, etc.,— this is just a well known and, indeed, required characteristic of SBW.
SBW are, by nature, ready, nay, eager to work five jobs at a time so as to feed and clothe their nearest and dearest without expecting, and more properly, absolutely rejecting any help.
One has, after all, one’s pride as a Strong Black Woman. SBW are also expected to give command performances as free, endlessly sympathetic and reliable therapists, counselors, substitute mothers, and wise women, who willingly provide free emotional and mental labour to everyone else.
You have a problem? Go and cry on an SBW shoulder, which is guaranteed (why else are they SBW?) to be there, to provide cleenex, food and appropriate ego validation and finally, to manage to complete the four hours worth of work interrupted and delayed by your tales of woe.
This function of the SBW is usually taken advantage of by non-Strong Black Women This is because of course non-SBW’s problems are real and agonizing, SBW, it is understood, do not suffer emotionally as much as the other, more fragile and helpless non-SBW population: because they are strong, and thus, better able to endure better.
This is like having a bullet-proof vest when the shooting starts: the unprotected get to scream and wail and run for cover whilst the SBW who are already armoured and thus have no fear, should promptly assume their assigned rescue service, feeding service, administrative, and problem-solving roles.
Whence, in addition to everything else, comes the ugly fact that SBW are granted less time for grieving, assumed to have less sense of loss and suffering and required to have a faster recovery time from trauma than everybody else, so that they can go and take care of the anguish and malaise of others. Well, naturally. It is an SBW thing: you wouldn't understand and are very careful not even to try.
Do you know how much crap that a black woman has had to go through?
Do we ever ask ourselves what sort of toll it took on her, what scars were left, whether she ever needed to lock herself in the bathroom and weep, if she ever thought of giving up and why she didn't?
Do you know what demons plagued her at night whilst the world slept, what private spaces of knowing pain and knowing suffering her poetry comes from?
Whether she ever lost her faith and her certainty in the cause, and if, indeed, by now she is not so tired by all those years of giving, giving and giving--to us?
Many of us who have or have had the kind of mothers or aunts or honorary aunts whom we admire and who make us proud and to whom we owe everything – those we see as Strong Black Women.
Whilst acknowledging all their sacrifices, their struggles overcome and their achievements, have you ever thought that they accomplished then not because of some spurious “extra” strength but despite the weaknesses common to us all?
I’ve thought of my own mother, whom I have idolized my whole life, because she did just amazing things.
She was the first this and the first that. She was the only African woman ever to do x. She left a lasting legacy through her work in y. She also managed to bring me up, protect and shelter me, and mould me into a competent human being.
But what about her life?
How often do I ask myself if she was ever frightened, insecure, confused, lost? How often do I ask if she ever yearned for opportunities lost, regretted decisions made, missed absent friends?
The answer to that would be “once.” Today.
Because before today, she was just absolutely perfect and pristine. Before today I would have reacted to such a suggestion of human failings and fears in my mother with snorting and indignant incredulity—except I realised how wrong that would be. Pedestals do not really give one much room to move or to be.
The problem with the myth of the SBW is this. It falsely supposes that SBW have powers, skills and capacities beyond those of ordinary mortals - sort of like super heroes –
So much so that their achievements are not as difficult to attain as they would be for others and somehow inhere in the very quality of SBW-ness, itself.
When you look at this logic for long enough, it becomes pretty obvious that we don’t need to thank SBW or even to congratulate them.
After all, they have only achieved what their innate SBW-ness allows, nay, compels them to achieve. Where is the agency of these women here? How do we honour them by making their achievements banal by not contextualizing them in human frailty?
If Superman leaps over a tall building at a single bound, well, yawn, stretch and change the channel. If I were ever to leap over a tall building at a single bound, I would expect some serious attention, astonishment, adoration and for everyone to realise that having done all this leaping about, I would fairly obviously need a good long rest.
Conversely, I most certainly would not appreciate having immediately presented to me another building, over which I am also expected to leap without question or hesitation.
Well, that is it for me.
Strong Black Women are permanently off the list of things that I want to be when I grow up. I am going to treasure and revel in and treat tenderly all my weaknesses and mistakes and failures—all of which I have in amazingly copious quantities - because they make my achievements that much more precious to me.
Let the age of the Weak Black Women begin!
Mwangi is an assistant professor of politics at the University of Toronto, Canada. She blogs as madkenyanwoman
Anonymous said...:
She also died for accepting to be called "miss" without asking what she really missed!
She died because through innumerable ways the arrogants got into her sense and sensitivity and she became what Late Bob Marley sang in Pimpers Paradise:
She love to party, have a good time
She looks so hearty, feeling fine
She loves to smoke, sometime shifting coke
She'll be laughing when there ain't no joke
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
Every need got an ego to feed
Every need got an ego to feed
She loves to model, up in the latest fashion
She's in the scramble, and she moves with passion
She's getting high, tring to fly the sky
Now she is bluesing when there ain't no blues
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
Every need got an ego to feed
Every need got an ego to feed
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, I'm sorry for the victim now
A pimper's paradise, soon their heads, soon their
Soon their very heads will bow
Pimper's paradise, don't lose track, don't lose track
Of yourself Oh No!
Pimper's paradise, don't be just a stock, a stock
On the shelf, stock on the shelf
Pimper's paradise, that's all she was
She died because she could not defy what the misogynists, the male chauvinists, the misconcepted virilities, and killers of self awareness and demolishers of personality never wanted her to be like what Late Fela Ransome/Anikulapo Kuti sang in his song Lady:
LADY
If you call woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady o
If you call woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady o
She go say:
*(CHORUS) SHE GO SAY I BE LADY O – [AFTER EACH LINE]
She go say I no be woman
She go say market woman na woman
She go say I be Lady
I want tell you about Lady: (3x)
She go say him equal to man
She go say him get power like man
She go say anything man do
Him self fit do
I never tell you finish… (3x)
I never tell you…
She go want take cigar before anybody
She go want make you open door for am
She go want make man wash plate for her for kitchen
She want salute man she go sit down for chair (2x)
She want sit down for table before anybody (2x)
She want piece of meat before anybody (2x)
Call am for dance, she go dance Lady dance (2x)
African woman go dance she go dance the fire dance (2x)
She know him manna Master
She go cook for am
She go do anything he say
But Lady no be so (4x)
Lady na Master (3x)
Call am for dance, she go dance Lady dance (2x)
African woman go dance she go dance the fire dance (2x)
She know him manna Masster
She go cook for am
She go do anything he say
But Lady no be so (4x)
Lady na Masster (4x)
If you call am woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady
She go say:
*(CHORUS- AFTER EACH LINE) SHE GO SAY I BE LADY O O
She go say I be Lady
She go say I no be woman
She go say market woman na woman
She go say I be Lady
*(repeat indefinitely
F. Mti Mkubwa Tungaraza:
"God damn it! Lucky enough only strong black woman died and not strong black women died because it means many more are still alive! And when I look around I see many of your like and many more others of the like of Bibi Martha Wejjah, Anna Kajumola Tibaijuka, Gertrude Ibengwe Mongellah, Winnie Mandela, Nentumbo Ndeitwa, Angela Davis, Maya Angelou, Kichaa Nina Simone, and many more who are neither heard nor seen but are here and make the greatest impact on all of us.
I salute you, your excellence strong strong black women with much confidence and discipline,
Your son, brother, cousin, father, uncle, boyfriend, husband, etc etc:"
~F MtiMkubwa Tungaraza
Posted by YOUNG-GARVEY on 23 February 2009
THE STRONG BLAK WOMEN IS DEAD BY.LAINI MATAKA
while struggling with the reality
of being a human instead of a myth,
the strong black woman passed away.
Medical sources say she died of natural causes,
but those who knew her know she died
from being silent when she should have been screaming,
milling when she should have been raging,
from being sick and not wanting anyone to know
because her pain might inconvenience them.
She died from an overdose
of other people clinging to her
when she didn't even have energy for herself.
She died from loving men who didn't love themselves
and could only offer her a crippled reflection.
She died from raising children alone
and for not being able to do a complete job.
She died from the lies her grandmother
told her mother and her mother told her
about life, men & racism.
She died from being sexually abused as a child
and having to take that truth
everywhere she went every day of her life,
exchanging the humiliation for guilt and back again.
She died from being battered
by someone who claimed to love her
and she allowed the battering to go on
to show she loved him too.
She died from asphyxiation,
coughing up blood from secrets
she kept trying to burn away
instead of allowing herself
the kind of nervous breakdown she was entitled to,
but only white girls could afford.
She died from being responsible,
because she was the last rung on the ladder
and there was no one under her she could dump on.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from the multiple births
of children she never really wanted
but was forced to have
by the strangling morality of those around her.
She died from being a mother at 15
and a grandmother at 30 and an ancestor at 45.
She died from being dragged down
and sat upon by UN-evolved women posing as sisters.
She died from pretending
the life she was living
was a Kodak moment instead of a 20th century,
post-slavery nightmare!
She died from tolerating Mr. Pitiful,
just to have a man and the house.
She died from lack of orgasms
because she never learned
what made her body happy
and no one took the time to teach her
and sometimes, when she found arms
that were tender, she died
because they belonged to the same gender.
She died from sacrificing herself
for everybody and everything
when what she really wanted to do
was be a singer, a dancer, or some magnificent other.
She died from lies of omission
because she didn't want
to bring the black man down.
She died from race memories
of being snatched and raped
and snatched and sold and snatched
and bred and snatched and
whipped and snatched and worked to death.
She died from tributes
from her counterparts
who should have been matching
her efforts instead of
showering her with
dead words and empty songs.
She died from myths
that would not allow her
to show weakness without
being chastised by the lazy and hazy.
She died from hiding her real feelings
until they became hard
and bitter enough to invade
her womb and breasts like angry tumors.
She died from always lifting something
from heavy boxes to refrigerators.
The strong black woman is dead.
She died from the punishments
received from being honest
about life, racism & men.
She died from being called a bitch
for being verbal,
a dyke for being assertive
and a whore for picking her own lovers.
She died from never being enough
of what men wanted,
or being too much for the men she wanted.
She died from being too black
and died again for not being black enough.
She died from castration
every time somebody thought
of her as only a woman,
or treated her like less than a man.
She died from being misinformed
about her mind, her body
and the extent of her royal capabilities.
She died from knees pressed too close together
because respect was never part
of the foreplay that was being shoved at her.
She died from loneliness in birthing rooms
and aloneness in abortion centers.
She died of shock in courtrooms
where she sat, alone,
watching her children being legally lynched.
She died in bathrooms
with her veins busting open
with self-hatred and neglect.
She died in her mind,
fighting life racism, & men,
while her body was carted away
and stashed in a human warehouse
for the spiritually mutilated.
And sometimes when she refused to die,
when she just refused to give in
she was killed by the lethal images
of blonde hair, blue eyes and flat butts,
rejected by the O.J.'s, the Quincy's, & the Poitiers.
Sometimes, she was stomped to death
by racism and sexism, executed
by hi-tech ignorance
while she carried the family in her belly,
the community on her head,
and the race on her back!
The strong silent, talking black woman is dead!
Or is she still alive and kicking?
I know I am still here
Replies to This Discussion
Reply by Ms Carib 2 hours ago
That is so true, but we are still standing and still fighting. The real soldiers.
Reply by Sis Kaya IsesaJah 36 minutes ago
Response by D.S. White:
The Strong Black Woman is Dead! Or is She?No she’s not dead
she’s just experienced a rebirth. Through the memories
of her daughters and granddaughters
who have learned
from her triumphs and failures
and realized
that strength is knowing
when to ask for help
when to cry out
when to be silent;
She’s realized
that what she’s experienced
does not define or confine her
that pride which prohibits healing
is no longer a banner
but a prison;
She’s realized
that she is a word spoken from God
and as such
cannot
will not
return to Him void.
In essence she’s come full circle
in realizing that
servitude was not the problem
just the master she served;
She’s realized
that being proactive
is much more effective than being reactive
so she chooses her battles wisely
knowing when to fight
and when to let it go
her choice of weapons being
an education
proper financial planning
and community involvement
to enrich the next generation;
She’s realized
that it rains on the just and the unjust
so she’s chosen
not to harbor
a sense of injustice;
She’s realized
that comparisons are self-defeating
so she’s chosen
to celebrate her uniqueness
and strive for her personal best;
She’s realized
that loving
not giving up on the black man
is key
so she’s chosen
to start with her brothers
uncles, cousins, nephews
sons and grandsons
for she knows
the viral power of love;
She’s realized
that submission to her mate
does not equate servitude
so she’s chosen
to embrace the peerless system
of checks and balances
as designed by God;
But most of all
she’s chosen…to forgive
live in the present
and love…always love.
Selfless
committed
love
which takes
uncommon strength.
Copyright © 2005 by D.S. White, All Rights Reserved
Black Women Mythology
The myth of the STRONG BLACK WOMAN (SBW) is so simple and so clear that it is somewhat amazing that we are still bamboozled.
By Wambui Mwangi
You see, we - being the black women who are the “johns” of this particular scam - think that being an SBW is something to which one should aspire; we feel complimented when we are included in the category of others similarly valorized; and we blame ourselves for any indication that we are falling below the standards of the SBW.
Is this not the most delicious trick ever played on anyone?
The greatest achievement the rest of the world ever achieved was convincing black women that SBW existed, and that our job was to grow up into one. Black women are raised to be SBW in the most exemplary fashion possible, and faithfully to remain one without pause or rest until the grim reaper relieved us of the burdens of our mortality.
It is really terrifyingly, astonishingly and ineffably well-crafted, this myth. Insofar as, so long as we are kept either desiring, or believing ourselves actually to be, Strong Black Women, there is no amount of pure nonsense, abuse, overwork, ingratitude, exploitation, underappreciation, and just plain shit that we will not put up with.
You see, SBW, of course, can make $10 stretch into meals for a week, clothes for everyone, payment of bills, and school fees, etc.,— this is just a well known and, indeed, required characteristic of SBW.
SBW are, by nature, ready, nay, eager to work five jobs at a time so as to feed and clothe their nearest and dearest without expecting, and more properly, absolutely rejecting any help.
One has, after all, one’s pride as a Strong Black Woman. SBW are also expected to give command performances as free, endlessly sympathetic and reliable therapists, counselors, substitute mothers, and wise women, who willingly provide free emotional and mental labour to everyone else.
You have a problem? Go and cry on an SBW shoulder, which is guaranteed (why else are they SBW?) to be there, to provide cleenex, food and appropriate ego validation and finally, to manage to complete the four hours worth of work interrupted and delayed by your tales of woe.
This function of the SBW is usually taken advantage of by non-Strong Black Women This is because of course non-SBW’s problems are real and agonizing, SBW, it is understood, do not suffer emotionally as much as the other, more fragile and helpless non-SBW population: because they are strong, and thus, better able to endure better.
This is like having a bullet-proof vest when the shooting starts: the unprotected get to scream and wail and run for cover whilst the SBW who are already armoured and thus have no fear, should promptly assume their assigned rescue service, feeding service, administrative, and problem-solving roles.
Whence, in addition to everything else, comes the ugly fact that SBW are granted less time for grieving, assumed to have less sense of loss and suffering and required to have a faster recovery time from trauma than everybody else, so that they can go and take care of the anguish and malaise of others. Well, naturally. It is an SBW thing: you wouldn't understand and are very careful not even to try.
Do you know how much crap that a black woman has had to go through?
Do we ever ask ourselves what sort of toll it took on her, what scars were left, whether she ever needed to lock herself in the bathroom and weep, if she ever thought of giving up and why she didn't?
Do you know what demons plagued her at night whilst the world slept, what private spaces of knowing pain and knowing suffering her poetry comes from?
Whether she ever lost her faith and her certainty in the cause, and if, indeed, by now she is not so tired by all those years of giving, giving and giving--to us?
Many of us who have or have had the kind of mothers or aunts or honorary aunts whom we admire and who make us proud and to whom we owe everything – those we see as Strong Black Women.
Whilst acknowledging all their sacrifices, their struggles overcome and their achievements, have you ever thought that they accomplished then not because of some spurious “extra” strength but despite the weaknesses common to us all?
I’ve thought of my own mother, whom I have idolized my whole life, because she did just amazing things.
She was the first this and the first that. She was the only African woman ever to do x. She left a lasting legacy through her work in y. She also managed to bring me up, protect and shelter me, and mould me into a competent human being.
But what about her life?
How often do I ask myself if she was ever frightened, insecure, confused, lost? How often do I ask if she ever yearned for opportunities lost, regretted decisions made, missed absent friends?
The answer to that would be “once.” Today.
Because before today, she was just absolutely perfect and pristine. Before today I would have reacted to such a suggestion of human failings and fears in my mother with snorting and indignant incredulity—except I realised how wrong that would be. Pedestals do not really give one much room to move or to be.
The problem with the myth of the SBW is this. It falsely supposes that SBW have powers, skills and capacities beyond those of ordinary mortals - sort of like super heroes –
So much so that their achievements are not as difficult to attain as they would be for others and somehow inhere in the very quality of SBW-ness, itself.
When you look at this logic for long enough, it becomes pretty obvious that we don’t need to thank SBW or even to congratulate them.
After all, they have only achieved what their innate SBW-ness allows, nay, compels them to achieve. Where is the agency of these women here? How do we honour them by making their achievements banal by not contextualizing them in human frailty?
If Superman leaps over a tall building at a single bound, well, yawn, stretch and change the channel. If I were ever to leap over a tall building at a single bound, I would expect some serious attention, astonishment, adoration and for everyone to realise that having done all this leaping about, I would fairly obviously need a good long rest.
Conversely, I most certainly would not appreciate having immediately presented to me another building, over which I am also expected to leap without question or hesitation.
Well, that is it for me.
Strong Black Women are permanently off the list of things that I want to be when I grow up. I am going to treasure and revel in and treat tenderly all my weaknesses and mistakes and failures—all of which I have in amazingly copious quantities - because they make my achievements that much more precious to me.
Let the age of the Weak Black Women begin!
Mwangi is an assistant professor of politics at the University of Toronto, Canada. She blogs as madkenyanwoman
Anonymous said...:
She also died for accepting to be called "miss" without asking what she really missed!
She died because through innumerable ways the arrogants got into her sense and sensitivity and she became what Late Bob Marley sang in Pimpers Paradise:
She love to party, have a good time
She looks so hearty, feeling fine
She loves to smoke, sometime shifting coke
She'll be laughing when there ain't no joke
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
Every need got an ego to feed
Every need got an ego to feed
She loves to model, up in the latest fashion
She's in the scramble, and she moves with passion
She's getting high, tring to fly the sky
Now she is bluesing when there ain't no blues
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
Every need got an ego to feed
Every need got an ego to feed
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was now
A pimper's paradise, that's all she was
A pimper's paradise, I'm sorry for the victim now
A pimper's paradise, soon their heads, soon their
Soon their very heads will bow
Pimper's paradise, don't lose track, don't lose track
Of yourself Oh No!
Pimper's paradise, don't be just a stock, a stock
On the shelf, stock on the shelf
Pimper's paradise, that's all she was
She died because she could not defy what the misogynists, the male chauvinists, the misconcepted virilities, and killers of self awareness and demolishers of personality never wanted her to be like what Late Fela Ransome/Anikulapo Kuti sang in his song Lady:
LADY
If you call woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady o
If you call woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady o
She go say:
*(CHORUS) SHE GO SAY I BE LADY O – [AFTER EACH LINE]
She go say I no be woman
She go say market woman na woman
She go say I be Lady
I want tell you about Lady: (3x)
She go say him equal to man
She go say him get power like man
She go say anything man do
Him self fit do
I never tell you finish… (3x)
I never tell you…
She go want take cigar before anybody
She go want make you open door for am
She go want make man wash plate for her for kitchen
She want salute man she go sit down for chair (2x)
She want sit down for table before anybody (2x)
She want piece of meat before anybody (2x)
Call am for dance, she go dance Lady dance (2x)
African woman go dance she go dance the fire dance (2x)
She know him manna Master
She go cook for am
She go do anything he say
But Lady no be so (4x)
Lady na Master (3x)
Call am for dance, she go dance Lady dance (2x)
African woman go dance she go dance the fire dance (2x)
She know him manna Masster
She go cook for am
She go do anything he say
But Lady no be so (4x)
Lady na Masster (4x)
If you call am woman
African woman no go ‘gree
She go say I be Lady
She go say:
*(CHORUS- AFTER EACH LINE) SHE GO SAY I BE LADY O O
She go say I be Lady
She go say I no be woman
She go say market woman na woman
She go say I be Lady
*(repeat indefinitely
F. Mti Mkubwa Tungaraza:
"God damn it! Lucky enough only strong black woman died and not strong black women died because it means many more are still alive! And when I look around I see many of your like and many more others of the like of Bibi Martha Wejjah, Anna Kajumola Tibaijuka, Gertrude Ibengwe Mongellah, Winnie Mandela, Nentumbo Ndeitwa, Angela Davis, Maya Angelou, Kichaa Nina Simone, and many more who are neither heard nor seen but are here and make the greatest impact on all of us.
I salute you, your excellence strong strong black women with much confidence and discipline,
Your son, brother, cousin, father, uncle, boyfriend, husband, etc etc:"
~F MtiMkubwa Tungaraza
Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Ras Howard Henry on -
The strong black woman cannot die,she is superior to death,she is the opposite of death,She is life for iver and iver more,She is you and all the others that are in you and you in them,trees cannot die unless there is no more trees around,neither can the earth be water none unless there is no water else where..
Ras Howard
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