The Roots & Strength of Black Womanhood by Phumuzile Mabasha

Looking from the outside in one would believe that all Black women do is fight, gossip or basically hate each other. This is a narrative that is perpetuated on mainstream TV with shows like Real Housewives of Atlanta, Basketball Wives, the Love and Hip Hop franchise. In some cases this is also perpetuated in some television shows. Shows that I am ashamed to watch and enjoy.

One of the biggest lies I have been told is that black women and women in general just can’t get along or support each other. My father recently passed away and at the funeral it was my mother’s friends, sisters, aunts and even acquaintance that stepped up and helped us through the funeral process which is known as “rufu” in my mother tongue. I was in awe at how everyone came together. Friends and family members that she had even fallen out with. They paid for everything and made sure my mother and I ate. They decorated the vigil area for my father’s coffin. All my family paid for was the flowers and food for the catering after the funeral service.  I felt that there was deep understanding that each woman had for my mother that she had lost her husband. One of her friends even went as far as saying she will not call my mother a widow.

As someone who had believed the lie that as black women we don’t get along or support each other, I was greatly touched by this and saw the strength of black women. The roots that help us move forward in our struggles and successes. This made believe that even though my mother had lost her husband of 38 years, she will be looked after and supported through this and whatever happens in this new chapter of her life.

Additionally, I also felt that I will be looked after and supported during this time by my mother’s community and by mine. I grew up with men and they were the ones that always were my pillar of support but I don’t think they can comfort me the way my friends have and the way my mother’s friends have done for her. There are some things that men just do not get and that’s the beauty of female friendships and interactions.

The Dalai Lama once said that “A tree with strong roots can withstand the most violent storm” and that is something that is true in black womanhood. The roots of our relationships with other black women will help through anything, and it should not just be through our struggles but our triumphs as well.

They Want You To Be Yourself Within a Society That's Telling You Not To Be By Tamara Jackson

I had to be about eleven or twelve years old, watching TV with my grandmother when I blurted out “wow she needs a perm”. We were watching “Girlfriends” and the woman who I believed was in deep need of a perm was Tracee Ellis Ross, star of the show who is still this day known for her voluminous and glorious fro (which I now idolize). But about fifteen years ago within that moment, with my grandmother, that fro in my mind needed more than a few strokes of the almighty, trusty hot comb.

My grandmother reacted to my comment with confusion “Why does she need a perm?" I replied, “because her hair is very nappy.” My grandmother attempted to correct and teach “No, her hair is not nappy, it's within its natural state. Her hair is beautiful”. Her attempt at correction fell upon deaf ears. Now looking back upon this exact situation, I had obtained a brainwashed mindset. My final reply in this conversation was “It’s not beautiful grandma it has to be straight."

A child’s first initial reaction to society occurs at school. Whether it’s day care, pre-k etc. Anywhere children are around other children in a close environment, children begin to explore, observe and experiment. Kids are around other kids, some that look like them, whether it’s ethnicity, race, religion, height, and body structure. There are other kids within the same environment that don't look like them. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with differences, but from a realistic standpoint, where differences are present, comparing and contrasting will also occur.

It begins once children are in a setting that's beyond their immediate family. Perception plays a major role and at a young age, the way you perceive things is immensely simple. My little sister had to be about five years old when she came home from school crying hysterically uttering the words “I want straight long hair; why can’t I have good hair? I hate my hair”. ‘Good Hair’? What is Go- never mind, we will definitely come back to that. But that’s where it begins, kids believe an ideology whether it's right or wrong, and carry it throughout their lives within themselves. That ideology is directly correlated to society.

As I grew older, I slowly but surely deemed that the world was cruel and diminutive within its infrastructure of standards it abides by. Certain elements of life depicted how cruel the world could actually be. I knew that but I didn’t understand or directly feel the intensity of society’s standards until I decided to go natural. I was twenty-three when I realized I just couldn’t take it, braids, twists, weaves, any of it. The rotation of hairstyles and expenses of each trip to the salon was driving me closer and closer to the edge until I finally leaped off.

‘I’m cutting this crap out and cutting my hair short” I screamed into the phone to my boyfriend. He agreed with any decision or direction I decided to make with my hair but always slipped into any conversation pertaining to my hair “It’s beautiful. But your natural hair is just as beautiful”.  To my boyfriend as well as myself, being “Natural ‘meant wearing your natural hair with no add-on extensions or weaves. Little did I know being natural opened up a whole new realm of life for me.

When I decided to go natural, I did what any other woman does: go to Target and spend hundreds of dollars on ‘Shea Moisture’ and other natural hair care products. I quickly came to the conclusion that I had absolutely no idea what I had gotten myself into. There were so many methods and techniques of styling affiliated with precise products to get the “perfect look”. There was a variation of occurrences where I literally had to give myself a pep talk not to revert back to relaxed hair. Then I fell upon all of these blogs that embraced natural hair newbies.

The natural hair community is beautiful within complexity, consisting of women with luxurious long healthy locks of hair sprouting from their heads. In all honesty, I felt a bit apprehensive because of immediate thoughts within my head occurred “These ladies have such long hair, they have good hair. We are not in the same lane”. ‘Good Hair’ once again…

Practice definitely makes perfect. I displayed my afro proudly on a daily basis. I felt so closely connected with my culture. I felt powerful within myself and the most beautiful and carefree I ever felt in my life. My boyfriend was very receptive of my hair and loved it as much as I did. But with every beauty there's ugly.  Contrary to belief, Caucasian men loved my hair and complimented me upon it numerous times throughout the day. Caucasian women stared at, distasteful stares, uncomfortable stares.

There would be so many times I would be on the train traveling from The Bronx to downtown Manhattan and I could feel the difference within the population of the energy towards me. What surprised me most and always left me completely compelled with astonishment was my own people’s perception of natural hair. They were anything less than embracing. The majority of black men were literally not here for it, they would look and then quickly look away. Black women had more than a few things to say, which were more bad than good within those instances.

The only people who “got it”, who understood were women who were traveling the same natural hair journey. Some woman cheered me on, some thought they were being uplifting, but were bashing me in the same breath.

“Oh no I could never do this, it’s too much.” 

“It’s just not for me.”

“It just doesn’t go with different outfits.”

“If I had good hair I would do it, but I am nappy and I hate the nappy look.”

Then they'd have the audacity to ask “can I touch your hair?” Well, I hate the word ‘nappy’. I once had a male scream in front of a crowded train at the top of his lungs because I wasn’t receptive to his pickup line “GET YA NAPPY ASS HAIR DONE”. I was shocked, I thought my Bantu knot afro looked pretty bomb that day! Actually, there are many situations of that caliber that I endured and began to break me down.

Nappy is often referenced to black men and woman hair textures. We have kinky hair which goes back to our ancestors. In Africa, our kinky hair protects our heads from the sun frying our scalps. Know your history before you label an entire ethnicity and people. The good hair that people so often refer to as “not nappy” is loose curly, long hair that most people believe a black male or female can only obtain if they are mixed with another ethnicity. All of this derives from universal thoughts within an unwritten rule book to life that we as a society feed off of, and whisper amongst ourselves. No! let’s speak upon these wrongs loudly and proudly! Let’s speak these truths in front of people so they can feel as uncomfortable as we have to live every day. Things have to change, it is imperative! Society needs it!                 

Not many of us will admit it, the world’s perception of us can immensely devalue how we view ourselves. Some will consider it weak, I consider it truthful. I felt broken down to an extremely low point when people would stare at me as if I were some wild, filthy animal because my hair differed from theirs. I consistently told myself ‘it’s okay, they just don’t understand. Watch when it grows”. Understand. Understand what? Why should my difference in features consistently be compared to the idolized beauty protocol that America has been so enticed with affect anyone? Why would people think that it is of any type of normalcy to stare at another human being and leave that individual feeling comfortable? Why was my hair not considered “Good”? Because it wasn’t long? Because it wasn’t straight? Because my curls were tight and not loose and flowing? I wanted to know why.

Corporate America didn’t make me feel any better about my natural hair either. How many women would honestly go to a job interview with their hair in a fro? No matter how beautiful you, yourself or significant other deemed it to be, “it’s not professional or presentable.” I have fallen upon numerous articles exemplifying this heinous ideology. I would feel as if I was a walking display case of discomfort very often, unable to make eye contact. Why? Because I allowed them to make me feel as if I wasn't beautiful. Because embracing my blackness made society feel uncomfortable and their energy was surpassed to me…

Society has lied to me as a black woman within the undeclared notion that black women are not naturally beautiful. Society has amplified the notion that black women need the add-ons to resonate as beautiful. Society has amplified the notion that there is some sort of protocol or standard of beauty that black women don’t measure up to. Well, we are beautiful. Society’s fabrication of what beauty is doesn’t measure up to our beauty as a whole. That our melanin endowed skin and our own thick kinky coiled hair does not measure up to society’s standard of beauty.

No one dares to ever say it, but it's indirectly displayed everywhere. You must have lighter skin and softer hair to be deemed beautiful. For instance, Blue Ivy Carter is about five years old and has already been verbally abused by society let alone the media since birth.

“Her parents should be ashamed of themselves, all of that money and they can’t find someone to do her hair.” 

“Blue’s hair is so nappy.”

“Blue is ugly & that hair…”

 Sadly, I’ve heard these exact sentiments from other races but the majority from my own race. We all must have a different set of eyes, I see a little girl, from day one that has always been beautiful. Her parents want her to wear her hair in its natural state. “I like my baby hair, with baby hair and afros”. (2 snaps for Beyoncé). I hate to display a comparison but it’s necessary. North West hair is very often displayed within its natural state, just like Blue. North West hair is usually in an afro, just like Blue. North West usually has little ponytails, just like Blue. But North West is repeatedly displayed as a beautiful little girl, but why not Blue?

My truth as a black woman is I am beautiful. I have luscious melanin skin and thick natural healthy kinky hair to match. I am not only a beautiful black woman; I am a beautiful woman over all. I remember going on vacations to other countries or even anywhere within the US me and my friends would often say “I want to look good; I want to go for the exotic look”. Which in our eyes meant, long Brazilian hair sewn into ours. When all along we didn’t cope with the fact that we already look exotic. We have rich skin and almond shaped eyes; we look damn good already. Natural, organic beauty no preservatives added!

But I will never bash anyone for wearing weaves, extensions, makeup or anything. None of those elements can make or break a woman who is fully aware of who she is. Society’s standard of beauty is idiotic, demeaning and hazardous. Cruel amplifications of black women or black little girls can shatter their interior and cause them to harm themselves. We as humans are responsible as individuals and as a whole for the energy we give off not only in society but the universe as well.

All women are beautiful, every single one of us. Don’t categorize us or belittle us because we differ in appearance. It’s disgusting and immoral. My truth is that I didn’t have to find myself within society, I created myself. I am a strong minded, well-rounded beautiful woman inside and out. No standard of lighter skin or softer, longer hair could ever shatter my self-image of beauty. I wake up full every day, full with the abundance of life. I have ultimately come to terms that I shall not let fear or any form of ideology shame me for being in love with my culture. It’s my birthright as a human. I am now ready to live in all ways possible as a black woman, society can’t take that from me anymore…

Follow Tamara @deartamara_

The power of representation

I often wonder about my place this world — where and if I, with all of my weirdness, fit in. Keenly aware of America’s “complicated” history with women and people of color, I have always been a quiet observer as I examine the throughline connecting the present with the past. It’s like assembling a gigantic puzzle with harsh and painful pictures that all fit together, and sometimes I need a break.

Film and television have been my refuge as I’ve navigated the sometimes tricky terrain from childhood to young adulthood and finally, adulthood. It is within fiction where I can escape and find solace from reality that is often relentlessly bleak.

As a black girl growing up in America, I experienced the micro-aggressions as I ventured into traditionally white spaces. There, I was met with kindness, some genuine and some only to my face, but I learned that not all white people are bad. It was reinforced through lessons at school, home and the images I saw on-screen. I was bombarded by portraits of white professionals, saviors, artists and people with varying degrees of success. I saw them as human beings not to be feared or demonized because they were unfamiliar.

Conversely, I was exposed to fictional brown folks of very specific stereotypes. They were the opposite of people I knew. Rather, they were characters conjured up by people who seemingly had little contact with ethnic and religious minorities. They were who we were thought to be rather than who we were. And even though I knew differently, I fell victim to the stereotypes of black personhood as I was conditioned to expect and prepare for the worst.

I viewed black success as the exception. Perfect grammar as an anomaly. Achievement as something radical. The characters I saw shaped my perception even though I am black and I knew better. If what I saw on film and television had such a great impact of how I saw black life, how did it impact the way white America saw me? Not favorably, I’m sure.

The power of film, of television, of art is in its ability to encourage and even challenge viewers to examine themselves and their own beliefs — their own prejudices. As Reza Aslan recently explained, “What changed people’s minds was Will and Grace, was Modern Family, was watching people who were gay on television being, you know, ‘normal,’.” He continued, “Stories have the power to break through the walls that separate us into different ethnicities, different cultures, different nationalities, different races, different religions because they hit us at the human level.” I could not agree more. Representation and how marginalized groups are represented matters.

I was much older when I acknowledged the subconscious impact the lack of representation had on me. I had supportive parents and a mother who stressed I could be anything I wanted to be. Then, there was that beautiful letter from Oprah who affirmed my mother’s faith in my ability to achieve. If Oprah says it, it must be so. I truly believed there was nothing I could not do. I was lucky.

There are many people whose scope of what is possible is narrowed because of lack of access to resources, hope and a dearth of images that limit their dreams. If you never see black women as mathematicians, how can you see yourself as one? If you see brown people succeeding as professional athletes only, how can you dream of being a front office executive? Just as film and television show young, brown people what is possible, it shows Caucasians that black life, dreams and love are not so different from their own. There just aren’t enough of those works.

When I wrote the first draft of “No Lies Told Then” all those years ago, I wanted to tell the story of a woman, “Sandra,” who went through some things. I wasn’t sure what those things were until I started writing and rewriting and rewriting some more. Her story became clearer to me and she became a living being.

Then, I left her alone for awhile so I could write other things. “Sandra” was pushy and refused to remain silent because she had more story to tell. I had to give in and get to know her better.

It’s been years. Some of you have been along for the ride from the beginning and I thank you for that. It’s been a frustrating, exhilarating, challenging journey, but I have always believed everything happens for a reason.

Let’s be real: 2016 was brutal. Absolutely brutal! But, on the heels of #OscarsSoWhite, there were some wonderful films starring people of color. My favorite film of the year, “Moonlight” is poised to receive multiple Oscar nominations. People of color are being cast in starring roles in films big and small, and shining in front of the camera and behind. There are more opportunities than ever for artists to create and distribute their work.

If we’d made “No Lies Told Then” when I first dreamed of it, it likely would have come and gone without much of a whimper. There was/is a belief that if you make films for and about people of color, there will be no one to fill the seats. 2016 proved the rule, not the exception, that people of color and non-people of color will flock to theaters to see good films. #TeamNLTT has given everything to this project and there is no doubt that what we are creating will be one of those films that people will see.

Yet, Hollywood is still reticent to “take a chance” on films created by and starring people of color. Instead of producing films for a criminally underserved audience, they comb the festival circuit for completed works to distributed. Which leaves filmmakers like #TeamNLTT tapping friends, family and fans for dollars. It’s a grind, but we are determined!

As Mr. Aslan said, we have to create and support works that capture the human experience. It is in theaters, music and television that we can begin the break down the walls of fear and build bridges to acceptance and love. #TeamNLTT doesn’t seek to make a film for the sake of accomplishing a goal. We want to make a film beautiful film that embodies part of the African-American experience and fosters a conversation about lies, truth, empowerment and change.

To borrow a phrase by President Obama, “Yes we can!” And we will! Onward!

Navigating Black Womanhood by Melissa Mickens

In all honesty, when it comes to lies and truths as it relates to my black womanhood, I am at a loss. Simply because at this moment in time, I'm finally beginning to understand what "womanhood" means to me. Ideas like this one are so large in scope when you have to magnify something that is instinctual to you.

So when it comes to the biggest lie, I guess it has to be what society equates with "black womanhood." I'm not strong, large, urban, or loud, but I do see myself as a young woman who has something important to say and has the talents, gifts and wonderful support system (strong family and friendships) to try to get them out into the world. 

The biggest truth, therein, lies with relationships. It is very hard to have the strength and courage to explore, learn and grow as a woman without strong relationships. People who will call you out on your bull****, but who you also know you can call in times of trouble, self-doubt, or fear. 

my black womanhood by Erika Watson

The biggest lie that I was told about black womanhood is that being a strong black woman requires that I treat as de minimis self-care. I was told and internalized a very narrow and idealized archetype of strong Black womanhood. To be a strong black woman I had to develop a stony exterior that was impenetrable to assaults on my womanhood and disavowed those parts of my feminine identity that were soft, emotive, or focused on self. The standard of the strong black woman as the provider and nurturer of everybody but herself, the single-handed world conqueror, the I am every woman without a hair out of place imagery is the greatest lie ever told about what a strong black woman must be. 

In August, I packed my car and drove from Brooklyn, NY to Cincinnati, OH leaving my carefully curated life frozen in time heading toward my childhood home to intercede on my mother’s behalf. The increasingly frequent phone calls from the 513-area code about my mom’s forgetfulness and strange behavior had culminated in my mother getting lost one Sunday after church for several hours. She left church driving herself per usual and should have ended up at my cousin’s house for a family dinner about 10-minutes later. When she didn’t show up after 30-minutes my family went out looking for her, circling the 2-mile radius between the church and my cousin’s home. 60-minutes later I received a panicked phone call, “we lost your mom…”and 3-hours later my mom finally answered the phone at her house as if nothing had happened, “I couldn’t remember how to get to Judy’s house so I just came home.”

I am the only daughter of a single mother who has been She-Ra in my eyes for as long as I can remember. Everything I know I learned from studying her example. My mother set high standards for me and for herself. She wouldn’t accept anything less than overachieving and she seemingly did it all in heels with perfectly quaffed hair smelling like Chanel No. 5. She took care of me, her mother, and everybody else in our family. I never heard her say no to a person in need and I never saw her put herself first. What I saw in my mother was the typical model of the strong black woman. Given the heroines that populate my life, it is no wonder that it has taken me 42-years to realize there is more to the story of being a strong black woman. I got my first glimpse through the crack in the veneer after 8-weeks of putting my life on hold to become my mother’s advocate and caretaker. 

Returning to Cincinnati felt like dropping off of a cliff into a sketch of somebody else’s life. My old life in New York did not matter, left suspended in mid-air, it seemed too far away to be of any concern. Endless doctor appointments, chauffeuring my mother from one place to the next to keep her occupied, distracting her when she started to ask questions about why she couldn’t drive herself, trying to maintain a level of calm and compassion when she asked for the hundredth-time what day it was and what she was supposed to be doing, this was my life now. On September 21st this strange thing that was causing my prototype of a strong black woman to fall apart was given a name, Alzheimer’s disease.

As my mother’s neurologist explained the disease and the test results that led her to this diagnosis, I was vibrating with fear and trying to maintain my composure; Ask intelligent questions, engage the social worker that had been called into the room respectfully, remain stoic, wear the mask, and play the part of the strong black woman. My mother, did the same as if we were talking about the dire prognosis of a stranger. For the next several weeks, it was more of the same I just kept moving through the days holding my mother’s life together providing support on her bad days and disappearing into the background on her good days. 

On October 2nd, a full 8-weeks after I abruptly put my life on hold, I went back to my apartment in Brooklyn. My flight landed on a beautifully clear night. As the lights of New York came into view the weight of being a full-time caretaker began to fall away; the armor of being a strong black woman is heavy and makes it impossible to touch and heal the tender places on the heart and the wounds of the soul. When I walked into my apartment, it felt like a diver breaking the surface of the water for the first time. Almost reflexively I drew my first lung filling breath in weeks. I dissolved into a heap of tears alone in the stillness of a space that for years had been my home. The feeling came rushing back to my body with a new awareness. I matter, checking in with myself frequently is essential to my survival, I need people to help hold me up, and there is strength and beauty in every human emotion.

We are familiar with the archetype of the strong black woman being the mighty oak tree but that is a one-dimensional understanding of the complex intersectionality of womanhood and blackness. Sometimes the strong black woman is the weeping willow. Like the root system of the willow, the strong black woman feels deeply and her strength is often hidden beneath the surface.

I am learning that I cannot be a strong black woman if I do not prioritize self-care. What I feel is as important as what I think and I should not suppress either. Perhaps most importantly, I am learning that I cannot be a strong black woman in isolation. I give myself permission to explore the fullness of all my identities and accept that even in my human fragility, I am a strong black woman.