SHORT STORY: DON'T EVER GROW OLD

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

don’t ever grow old

 

don’t ever grow old, he said.

 

i had stood aside for the lady i assumed was his wife. with a painfully visible effort she haltingly scooted out of the narrow seat. i had told her, “take your time.” and then, with a tenuous grip on the seat back, he excruciatingly  rose and looked up at me, hesitating. i told him to go ahead. he chuckled, his eye twinkled and he advised me, don’t ever grow old. from behind me a middle-aged lady wryly intoned, what other option is there?

 

he slowly shuffled down the aisle, i was behind him, taking half steps so that i would not run up on his heels. once off the plane i darted around the old couple, someday i will be old like that but i hope... what do i hope? concerning growing old what hope is there?

 

i stopped at the kiosk where southwest airlines had complimentary orange juice and donuts. while holding down the tap to fill my cup, this guy approaches, picks up a napkin, and tries to decide what kind of donut he wants.

 

“you ever wonder what your life would be like if you and carol had got together?”

 

what? i look up but this guy is not looking at me and doesn’t even seem to be talking to me, even though i clearly heard him. how did he know about carol, about the crush i had on her in 7th grade?

 

“you know there is a parallel universe, another place where the path you didn’t take continues on. if you want, i can put you on that road.”

 

i almost spit up the juice. this time i’m sure the guy’s lips weren’t moving, yet i’m also sure i’m hearing strange things.

 

“but if you go, you can’t come back. you only get one chance to live again. i know you think this is a joke, but it’s not. it’s real.”

 

at that moment, i thought the strangest thought--what if i could be with any of the women i have ever loved, would i take it?

 

“i can hook you up with carol.”

 

i turned away and said in a low voice, no you can’t. carol died of breast cancer about a year ago.

 

“you’re wrong buddy, what i mean is you could rewind and have a life with carol. it wouldn’t stop her from dying but you would be there until she died and, hey, afterwards, you could marry another love, and...”

 

i walked away. i am on my second go-round already, i don’t have to travel back to get here. bustling forward, i mull over marrying a previous love and am forced to acknowledge donut man has a point: choosing one love over another is disconcerting.

 

like the summer i declined to choose jean kelly. at the time, i didn’t even know i was making a choice or, as it were, ignoring a choice i could have made. i simply basked in the moment, giving no thought to what could be. in fact, as many males do, i thought i was fortunate to be able to enjoy without being forced to choose. but then again, if i was not ready to choose, how ready would i have been to deal with the results had i made that choice? i thought about jean because even now, decades later, the residue of her unerasable tenderness continues to reside in the marrow of my being at an address deeper than bone. why couldn’t i then recognize her permanence...?

 

i guess that guy was trying to offer me a chance to both keep and savor two love cakes from the ingredients of one life time, or..., or maybe i’m being sentimental. i always want every love to be true and lasting; don’t we all? or am i just being male and desiring every woman i’ve every wanted? shit, life is too short and too complex to go back.

 

i hang a right at the newsstand where literally hundreds of glossy magazines are strung out in come-hither displays featuring all the flavors of the month, particularly the female-fleshy variety.

 

a security guard gives me a cursory glance. no matter how individual i believe myself to be, i’m still but one of thousands of travelers she scans every day. and then in a flash i know: the most important life choice is not who we hook up with but rather which route we trod. on the road is where we meet our mates, to go one way is to reject another. boy, i can be a philosophizing fool while walking my ass through an airport!

 

on the down escalator i vainly try to gather up my thoughts. few of the travelers around me look happy. are they scowling in disappointment about dead-ended routes?

 

the terminal doors open automatically. i step into the dallas morning sunshine, gently sit down the black briefcase that contains my laptop, unsling  my carry-on from my shoulder, and lean back against a concrete column, reprising my monthly waiting-for-my-ride routine.

 

mr. donut passes without even a glance in my grey-bearded direction. i’m not surprised. when you’re fixated on the past, you don’t recognize the future. on the other hand, to truly know yourself, you must recognize everything and everyone you’ve rejected or avoided.

 

i probably looked somewhat silly, standing there beaming my crooked-tooth smile at life’s little paradox: all the things we are is also a composite of all the things we chose not to be? is this how it feels to grow old?

 

—kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: RECRUDESCENCE

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

Recrudescence

 

After the last time Shawn stopped talking to me, I told myself I never wanted to see her again. I put all 78 of her pictures in a plastic grocery bag and threw the memories in Thursday’s trash. I avoided hanging out by the Moonwalk. And it was ok, until me and my brother was at a Hornets game. Kenneth, who had forgotten more girls than I will ever know, laughed, punched me on my tattooed bicep, “ah, man look at Shawn. She looking some good!”

 

When I reluctantly peeped up at the monitor, I spied Shawn’s smile, the same smile that first attracted me to her.  Shawn’s eyes—the size, shape and color of unshelled pecans—were sparkling. She sported her favorite shade of shiny, watermelon-red lipstick that made her luscious lips seem even more luscious. Her teeth were never perfect but I used to like sticking the tip of my tongue into her small gap. That was her sister, Monique, sitting on one side and Derrick, who I believe was her cousin, jumping up and down next to her as people cheered #24-Mashburn’s dunk. I didn’t have to guess why they zoomed in for a full-frame close up of Shawn’s coffee-without-cream complexioned face—she’s beautiful.

 

And then the camera focused on the new coach shouting at the team to hustle back on defense. With a mouth full of half-chewed hot dog, Kenneth hunched me and impishly prodded, “Man, why you don’t holla back at Shawn? From what I hear she ain’t even much still talking to old dude from St. Aug.”

 

“Man, shit, they got too many fish in the sea, besides I wasn’t really liking her all that much no ways. You know what I’m saying? She ain’t the only chick that got lips like that.”

 

“Boy, you a fool. Fine as Shawn is, who wouldn’t miss that?”

 

At first I didn’t say anything, but then the truth popped out. “She quit me, I didn’t quit her.”

 

“Man, if you a man, you don’t let no girl quit you.”

 

I didn’t now what to say, so I didn’t say nothing. I don’t make 21 until next month and since I couldn’t hold on to Shawn, was I really a man?

 

Later that night, after I had dropped Kenneth off and was headed back home, it took me four stoplights and two stop signs to screw up my courage and call Shawn.

 

“You need to stop calling me. I told you, I don’t even like you no more.”

 

“Shawn…”

 

“What?”

 

“I…”

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Dang, why you call me then?”

 

She was right, but how do you tell a girl: I called you because I saw you at the game and you was looking good and I started thinking about when we was together, and I was missing you, and… and well, you know, I think I kind of… Plus, I don’t know what to do with my hands, I mean, with my fingers, specifically my pointing finger, the one she sucked one time when we were just sitting around kissing and I was touching her face and she drew my finger into her mouth and made like it was hard candy. That sounds nasty but it felt so nice.

 

Sometimes, especially when I’m eating crayfish and lick my fingers, I find myself missing Shawn, or is it my fingers missing Shawn, specifically the finger she had so tenderly sucked into her mouth?

 

Shawn hung up before I could finish thinking of what I wanted to tell her; but I wasn’t going to punk out this time. So I speed-dialed her back.

 

“Look boy, don’t call me no more if you ain’t got nothing to say. What’s wrong with you? I’m not even much going to answer your calls no more. I used to really care about you.”

 

“Shawn.”

 

“What?”

 

I almost lied to her and said something crazy like, I love you, or some b.s. like that. But I didn’t let the truth make me tell a lie.

 

“What? Just say it. What?”

 

“I want you back. Can we get back together?”

 

“Why you want me back?”

 

I was home now, sitting in the driveway with the phone to my ear and my tongue tied in knots like that time at a party six years ago when I was just starting high school. I’ll never forget the embarrassment. I was bent over trying to peep through a keyhole at the girls in the bathroom and Shawn’s uncle, who was supposed to sort of be watching over us caught me and asked me, “boy, what the fuck you doing? You ain’t never seen no pussy before?” And everybody laughed at me and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say nothing. I was only doing it cause a couple of the other dudes had done it before me and I was just the one who got caught.

 

I hated what Shawn was doing to me, the way she’s so patient like when we studied Trig together or when she would ask me what I wanted to be after telling me she was going to be a registered nurse like her aunt. She would always just quietly wait, and wait, and wait for me to say something even though she knew I didn’t know what to say. Damn, this shit was harder than Algebra 2, which I never would have passed without Shawn’s help.

 

I guess I was supposed to say: because I need you in my life, or because of how much I lo… but I couldn’t make my mouth move. I couldn’t lie. Besides, it wouldn’t sound cool to say: because you’re a burning in my chest that I can’t stop.

 

“Since you ain’t going to say nothing, I’m going to say something. Good night. Good bye. Don’t call me no more.”

 

And that was the night I stopped believing in science because my tears couldn’t put the fire out.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: BUDDY BOLDEN

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

BUDDY BOLDEN

 

a bunch of us were astral traveling, pulsating on the flow of a wicked elvinesque polyrhythmic 6/8 groove. although our physical eyes had disappeared from our faces, we still had wry eyebrows arched like quarter moons or miniature ram's horns. every molecule of our thirsty skin was a sensitive ear drinking in the vibes. at each stroke of sweat-slicked drumstick on skins, our wings moved in syncopated grace. shimmering cymbal vibrations illuminated the night so green bright we could feel the trembling emerald through the soles of our feet. deep red pulsing bass sounds throbbed from our left brain lobes, lifting us and shooting us quickly across the eons. we moved swiftly as comets, quiet as singing starlight.

 

as we neared the motherwomb, firefly angels came out to escort us to the inner sanctum. with eager anticipation i smelled a banquet of hip, growling, intense quarter notes when we entered the compound. a hand carved, coconut shell bowl brimming with hot melodies radiating a tantalizing aroma sat steaming at each place setting, heralding our arrival. whenever i rode this deeply into the music, i would never want to return back to places of broken notes and no natural drums.

 

on my way here i heard nidia who was in a prison in el salvador. she had been shot, captured. her tormentors were torturing her with continuous questions, sleep deprivation, psychological cruelty, and assassination attempts against her family. she sang songs to stay strong. singing in prison, i dug that. 

 

once we made touchdown, we kissed the sweetearth (which tasted like three parts blackstrap molasses and one part chalky starch with a dash of sharply tart orange rind) and smeared red clay in our hair. then lay in the sun for a few days listening to duke ellington every morning before bathing. i was glad to see otis redding flashing his huge carefree smiles and splashing around in the blue lagoon. finally after hugging the baobab tree (the oldest existing life force) for twenty-four hours we were ready to glide inside and hang with the children again. whenever one returned from planet earth, we had to take a lot of precautions. you never know what kinds of human logic you might be infected with. since i had spent most of my last assignment checking out far flung galaxies, on my first examination i was able to dance through the scanner with nary a miscue. my soul was cool.

 

i only had ten centuries to recuperate before returning to active rotation so i was eager to eat. the house was a buzz with vibrations. a hefty-thighed cook came in and tongue kissed each of us seated at the mahogony table, male and female, young and old, whatever. that took about six centuries. she was moving on cp time and when i tasted her kiss i understood why.

 

up close her skin was deeper than a sunken slave ship and glowed with the glitter of golddust pressed across her brow and on the sides of her face just above her cheekline. she wore a plum-sized chunk of orangish-yellow amber as a pendant held in place by a chain braided from the mane of a four hundred pound lion. her head was divided into sixteen sectors each with a ball of threaded hair tied in nubian knots, each knot exactly the same size as the spherical amber perfectly poised in the hollow of her throat. i was so stunned by the beauty force of her haunting entrance, i had to chant to calm myself.

 

"drink deeply the water from an ancient well." was all she said as she spun in slow circles. tiny bells dangled between the top of the curvaceous protrudence of her posterior and the bottom of the concavity of the arch in the small of her back where it met her waist and flared outward to the expanse of her sturdy hips. suspended from a cord she wore around her waist, the hand carved, solid gold bells gave off a tiny but distinctive jingle which rose and fell with each step.

 

emanating a bluegreen aura of contentment, she didn't look like she had ever, in any of her many lifetimes, done anything compromising such as vote for a capitalist (of whatever color) or succumb to the expediency of accepting any system of domination. she didn't say a word, instead she hummed without disrupting the smiling fullness of her lips. she wasn't ashame of her big feet as she stepped flatfootedly around the table, a slender gold ring on the big toe of each foot.

 

her almond shaped, kola nut colored eyes sauntered up to each of our individualities, sight read our diverse memories and swam in the sea of whatever sorrows we had experienced. she silently drank all our bitter tears and became pregnant with our hopes. she looked like she had never ever worn clothes and instead had spent her whole life moving about in the glorious garment of a nudity so natural she seemed like a miracle you had to prepare yourself to witness as she innocently and righteously strode through the sun, moon and star light.

 

when she neared me she effortlessly slinked into a crouched, garden tending posture and, with sharp thrusting arm movements, choreographed an improvised welcome dance (how else, except by improvisation, could her movements mirror everything i was thinking?). placing my ear to her distended stomach, i guessed six months. she arched her back. a ring shout undulated out of her womb. i got so excited i had to sit on my wings to keep still.

 

when she stood up to her full six foot height with her lithe arms akimbo, i coudn't help responding. i got an erection when she placed her hand on the top of my head. she laughed at my arousal.

 

"drink your soup, silly" she teased me and then laughed again, while gently tracing her fingers across my face, down the side of my neck and swiftly brushing my upper torso, briefly petting the hummingbird rapidity of my chest muscle twitches. and then the program began.

 

a few years after monk danced in, coltrane said the blessing in his characteristic slow solemn tone. you know how coltrane talks. as usual, he didn't eat much. but we were filled with wonder anyway. then bob chrisman from the black scholar gave a short speech on one becomes two when the raindrop splits. everybody danced in appreciation of his insights.

 

when we resumed our places, the child next to me reflected aloud, "always remember you are a starchild. you will become any reality that you get with unless you influence that reality to become you. we have no power but osmosis and vibrations. as long as you don't forget your essence, it's alright to live inside something else." the child hugged me while extrapolating chrisman's message.

 

a voice on the intercom was calling for volunteers to help move the mountain. even though i wasn't through with my soup and still had a couple of centuries left, i rose immediately. i had drunk enough to imagine going up against the people who couldn't clap on two and four. "earth is very dangerous" the voice intoned. "the humans have the power to induce both amnesia and psychic dislocation."

 

the child smiled at me and sang "i'll wait for you where human eyes have never seen." we only had time to sing 7,685 choruses because i had to hurry to earth. our spirits there were up against some mighty powerful forces and the ngoma badly needed reinforcements. but i took a couple of months to thank the chef for sitting me next to the child.

 

"no thanx needed. i simply gave back to you what you gave to me." then in a divine gesture she lovingly touched each of my four sacred drums: head, heart, gut and groin. cupping them warmly in both her hands, she slow kissed an eternal rhythm into each. before i could say anything she was gone, humming the child's song "...where human eyes have never seen, i'll wait for you. i'll wait for you."

 

i got to earth shortly after 1947 started. people were still making music then. back in 1999 machines manufactured music. real singing was against the law.

 

walking down the street one day i saw what i assumed was a soul sister. she was humming a simple song. i sensed she was possibly one of us. she looked like a chef except with chemically altered hair on her mind instead of black puffs of natural nubianity. i spoke anyway. she walked right through me.

 

i turned around to see where she had gone. but she was gone. i looked up and i was on the bandstand. i was billie holiday. every pain i ever felt  was sobbing out of my throat. i looked at my black and blue face. the fist splotches from where my man had hit me.

 

"I'd rather

for my man

to hit me,

 

            then

            for him

 

to jump

            up

and quit me." i sang through the pain of a broken jaw.

 

"have you ever loved somebody who didn't know how to love you?" i asked the audience. in what must have been some kind of american ritual, everyone held up small, round hand mirrors and intently peered into their looking glass. the music stopped momentarily as if i had stumbled into a bucket of moonlit blood. my left leg started trembling. every word felt like it was ripped from my throat with pieces of my flesh hanging off each note. i almost fainted from the pain, but i couldn't stop singing because whenever i paused, even if only for a moment, the thought of suicide pressed me to the canvas. and you know i couldn't lay there waiting for the eight count, knocked out like some chump. i was stronger than these earthlings. i had to get up and keep on singing, but to keep on making music took so much energy. i was almost exhausted. and when i stopped the pain was deafening. exhausting to sing. painful to stop. this was a far heavier experience than i had foreseen.

 

i kept singing but i also felt myself growing weaker. drained. "i say have you ever given your love to a rascal that didn't give a damn about you?" this was insane. when would i be able to stop? there was so much money being exchanged that i was having a hard time breathing. i could feel my soul growing dimmer, the pain beginning to creep through even while i was singing. so this is what the angels meant by "hell is being silenced by commerce." legal tender was choking me.

 

for a moment i felt human, but luckily the band started playing again. some lame colored cat had crawled up on the stage and was thawing out frozen conservatory school cliches. made my bunions groan. but i guess when you're human you got to go through a lot of trial and error. especially when you're young in earth years. the whole time i was on that scene i felt sorry for the children. most of them had never seen their parents make love.

 

humans spend a lot of their early years playing all kinds of games to prepare themselves to play all kinds of games when they grow up. the childrearing atmosphere was so dense the only thing little people could do was lie awake naked under the covers and play with themselves but only whenever the adults weren't watching cause if those poor kids got caught touching each other, they were beaten. can you imagine that?

 

damn, i thought smelly horn wasn't ever going to stop, prez had to pull his coat, "hey shorty, don't take so long to say so little."

 

as soon as the cat paused, i jumped in "have you ever loved somebody..." yes, i had volunteered, but i had no idea making music on earth would be this taxing.

 

when our set ended, i stumbled from the stand totally disoriented. by now i almost needed to constantly make music in order to twirl my gyroscope and keep it spinning. after the set, i found it very difficult to act like a human and sit still while talking to the customers. i kept wanting to hover and hum. but i went through the changes, even did an interview.

 

"the only way out is to go through it all" i found myself saying to an english reporter who was looking at me with insane eyes.

 

he did his best to sing. "you've been hurt by white people in america and i want to let you know that there are white people who love and respect you." i could hear his eyes as clear as sid catlett's drum. i appreciated his attempts but those were some stiff-assed paradiddles he was beating. the youngster was still in his teens and offered me a handkerchief to wipe the pain off my face. i waved it away, that little bandana wouldn't even dry up so much as one teardrop of my sadness. at that moment what i really needed was a lift cause the scene was a drag.

 

"the only way to go through it all is to go through it all. yaknow. survive it and sing about it." i said holding the side of my head in the cup of my hand and speaking with my eyes half closed and focused on nothing in particular.

 

"why sing about it?" he said eager as a pig snouting around for truffles (even though he wasn't french, i could see he had sex on his mind).

 

"cause if you keep the pain within you'll explode." he reached for his wallet about to offer me money. for sure he was a hopeless case. once i dug he didn't understand creativity, i switched to sociology. "millions of people been molested as children." he had been there, done that. he was starting to catch my drift. "men been beating on women. you know i was a slave. that means i was violated. that means i was broke down. that means i would lay there and take it. in and out. lay there. still. i have heard reports that i was a prostitute. but i never sold myself just for money, i lay down because there was no room to stand up. in and out. in and out. til finally, they ejaculated. and finished. for the moment, for the night... til... whenever." i looked up and his mind was on the other side of the room; i had lost him again.

 

poor child doesn't have a clue. that's why he's looking all pitiful at me. i couldn't find a way to unfold the whole to him. i wanted to say more but their language couldn't make the changes. he will probably write a treatise on the downtrodden negro in tomorrow's paper.

 

sho-nuff, next day--quote:

 

So-and-so is an incredibly gifted Black American animal. People were actually crying in the audience when she howled "No Body's Bizness" in the voice of a neutered dog. This reporter is a registered theorist on why White people are fascinated by listening to the sounds of their victims' pathetic crying. I had the rare opportunity to interview the jazzy chick.  Although she was not very familiar with the basic principles of grammar, I managed to get a few words from her illiterateness once she took some dope which I had been advised to offer her.

I asked her what harmonic system she employed? My publisher had authorized me to offer her music lessons. I quote her answer verbatim.

"I sing because, like the Funky Butt Brass Band used to holler, you got to open up the window and let the bad air out."

That was it. When I turned off my voice stealing machine, she said "I got a lot of s--t in me. If I don't get it out, I'll die."

If she doesn't die first, there will be a concert tonight. Cheeri-O. 

 

unquote.

 

i couldn't wait to get back to the motherwomb...

 

But, just as I was about to fly, I woke up. I was cuddled next to Nia's nakedness, her back to me, my arm embracing her breasts, and my leg thrown up in touch with the arc of her thighs.

 

I stared into the deep acorn brown of her braided hair. I couldn't see anything in the unlighted room except the contours of the coiled beautiful darkness of her braids. After a few seconds the sweet familar scent of the hair oil she used began lulling me back to sleep.

 

Unfortunately, I didn't have enough sleep time left to continue my flight dreams. And I spent the rest of the day trying to decide... no, not decide, but remember. I spent the rest of the day trying to remember whether I was a human who dreamed he was something else or was indeed something else doing a temporary duty assignment here on planet earth.

 

 —kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: WHERE DO DREAMS COME FROM?

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

WHERE DO DREAMS COME FROM?

 

 

1.

Henry Jackson, Jr., BKA "Rabbit," Does What He Got To Do.

Death Dance.

Early Evening. 

 

            Some people say that there is nothing you can do and some people are afraid to do what they know needs to be done. Others don't even think about life at all, just wallow along, bearing the pains of survival as best they can and snatching, as often as they can, whatever little pleasures the circumstances of their life offers them.

            Joyce and I were about to walk out the door of convention onto paths of our own choosing. As my hand was steady on the emotional chains of my past ready to rip them off, as I stepped firmly pass whatever fears were tugging at me like the scent of danger silently but abruptly jerking a startled deer's head out of the water, as we moved slowly toward the river of experience through which we would splash our runaway, I suddenly felt heady. I mean I felt good about what I had resolved to do.

            It was not like voting and getting the wrong man in office even after the politician you voted for has won. It was not like joining a pick-up-the-gun organization only to find plenty of guns and no organization. It was not like none of that. This was like fucking, it felt good, it was real and it meant something.

            "Rabbit, did you hear me? What are you thinking?"

            "What am I thinking? What does it matter what I'm thinking? What I'm doing, that's what counts right now."

            "What makes you think, what you feel, that determines what you do and some times the only way you can understand what someone does is to know what they think and how they feel."

            "You're afraid for me or something, huh?"

            Joyce looked away from me, but, at the same time, drew closer to me, holding my arm. I tried to explain, "It's like once you really decide on something and then discipline yourself to do it, then like, there's nothing anyone can do to you, ya know? All they can do is kill me now." I felt her body involuntarily stiffen, "but that's nothing cause they can't reach me."

            We were near the park now, crossing the street. The dark here was deep because the lights were infrequent and there weren't many cars passing this way. A white boy was coming our way. Now was the time. Joyce saw him and turned to me, pleading with the pressure of her body.

            "Rabbit, no. You don't have to. I believe in yo..."

            "Joyce," I whispered, almost in a rage. Her emotions, her perceptions, her fears were not going to mess this up. "You wanted to come, remember? You wanted to see, remember? You wanted to be with me. Now remember your promise."

            The white boy was closer. Joyce looked at me and started to blank out. Started to make this moment disappear if she could. Started talking nonsense. Started to cry. Started to try to convince me to stop. Shook her hands, rubbed her dark brown hair. Looked at the approaching Caucasian. Looked at me. Balled her small fists. Bit her lower lip. Looked away like a frightened thrush desperately fighting to avoid the deadly hypnotism of a snake's gaze. Sniffled. Let a brief hurt whelp break from her throat. Felt her bladder full and wanted to make urine to release the tension of this confrontation. Thought about my hand under her butt when we made love, an action as sharp as this second but far less dangerous, far more pleasurable. Silently prayed for some god to understand, to save us, us who were not now in need of salvation from without because salvation was about to come from within.

            I smiled. I knew that finding freedom is dangerous. Only those who conquer the restraint of the fear of dying can ever really live.

            Just as the white boy was about ten feet from us she kissed me, kissed me with her whole body, her arms around my arms, her heart pounding so hard I felt it through the elastic of her brassiere, the nylon of her purple blouse, the orlon of her black sweater. She kissed as if this were the last kiss, but her eyes, shiny with a thin film of tears, were wide open looking at me.

            I kept my lips closed and smiled. Absolutely nothing was going to stop me. I had tasted her love before. This was destiny.

            I went for my gun but her hold was harder than I thought it ever could be. The white boy was past us now. I pulled my head back and looked at her. Sensing my resolve and the futility of opposing me, Joyce dropped her arms. I pulled the gun out.

            There is nothing like being in control. No matter the reality, there is nothing like this. As I pointed the weapon at the enemy's back I was conscious of every breath I took. I could see everything: the arc of light flashing off the gun's barrel as I brought it up. The white boy's shadow stair-stepping off the curb in the vague early night moonlight. The steadiness of my hand holding this piece. A bird flying toward a tree out of my line of sight. God's eye watching me, waiting to see how much man I was. My brilliant uncle, who had janitored all his life, laughing at last from deep in his bowels without having to stifle the satisfaction, his hand covering his mouth. My mother who domestically worked and worked and worked for so many, too many, other people's families and never complaining to or around us, never told us children or even my old man about being forced in the den on the couch of one of those houses on one of those Christmas Eves. My drunken old man rolling home with empty pockets. I could see me up against the wall one time and this cop looking me in the eye and putting his revolver between my legs and jiggling it up and down and asking me how hot was my sister's pussy. I could see all the things that people stereotypically saw about us without seeing what such scenes mean to us, all the things kind of hard to look at when you looking at them from the inside, from the perspective of having lived it. I was a seer about to fulfill prophesy.

            I even saw Joyce move in back of me, about to try and stop me. But the squeeze had already started.

            "Rabbit, aw baby, Rabbit , it's alright."

            I raised my free hand and swung it slowly back around me, touched Joyce and pushed her gently back. I could see a mosquito dancing around the barrel. "Joyce, don't touch me!"

            I knew instantly that shooting him in the back would have been wrong. He had to know. "Hey!" I hollered. He turned. I advanced with my arm extended in front of me. Soon I was close to him. All of my steps were echoed by Joyce's just behind me. The white boy waited. I stopped. Joyce stopped. We stood there a human chain strung out along a sidewalk.

            "What... what are you going to do? I don't have any money. See." He pitifully pulled his pockets inside out and had his wallet in his hand offering it to me.

            I said nothing. I could hear Joyce breathing behind me. I could hear him breathing in front of me. I held my breath. He came tentatively closer, fascinated with fear, looking at my face. "I've seen you before."

            Joyce came up to my side. He looked at her. He talked at her. "Is he crazy? Why me? Why you want to pick on me? You don't even know me, do you? I've never done you anything. Why me?" He was about to run but the explosion had happened half a second ago as my finger had pulled the final fraction of an inch.

            The pistol had jumped this early evening as three people stood knotted on a sidewalk waiting. He had become so very pale even before the bullet shattered the bone above his left eye. I had concentrated my aim and was exhaling slowly as the blood pushed out in a great spurt. I think, as his hands flew up, his head snapped back, his balance was knocked askew and he twisted and fell, I think it was then that we all knew that this was the moment. This was everything. This was all those yesterdays that I had been thinking on that I think I don't have to think about anymore.

            The shot's sound rang out. The white boy crashed to the sidewalk, crumpled and dead. "I didn't have to know you." I went to the corpse, squatted beside him. "Not too long ago I would be scared and running now." I stood up, calmly put the gun in my pocket and walked away.

            Everything was louder now, I could see better. The gun felt warm in my pocket. Joyce felt warm on my arm. I smiled. Back there, after carefully exhaling, I had calmly drawn my first free breath. I felt good.

 

2.

After Killing

After Making Love

Joyce Jones Sleeps Beside Rabbit And Dreams.

She Sees The Other Side Of The Slaughter

And Wakes Up Screaming. 

 

            Sweat was popping off his forehead, pouring out of his pores, but he handled the rusty machete with a deft precision, lopping the heads off with only two or three whacks, four at the most on a particularly stubborn redneck. At another station Rabbit and himself hung the white men up, slipping a noose around the left leg and pulling the lever which operated the crane that hoisted the carcasses which then moved slowly from station to station. Further down at the next station Rabbit stood with a butcher knife slitting the stomach open, severing the testicles, halfing the penis. At another station he came pushing a big cart. He had an old hammer in his right hand, picked up a head, plunk, plunk, knocked out the eyes and tossed the heads into the cart. He had a black apron on and was splattered with blood, flying bone fragments and pieces of cadaverous flesh.

            Outside on the sidewalk a dancing Rabbit tommed and shuffled, hat in hand, inviting them in. He had paint on his face to look harmless and dumb, and he had pictures of me, naked, posed in gapped leg ways, my genitals pulsing and painted red, my face always covered, white hands pasted on my breasts. Pictures of me bigger than life size, and little pictures on cards in his hand. On one I lay on my back upside down and a big white dick was coming from the top of the picture showering me, and Rabbit was dancing, barking promises of more and more to come inside for only five bucks.

            Inside the first room was dark. The second room lit with church candles and fifteen Joyces dressed in white lace smocks that barely covered our waists, our behinds sticking out inviting, we stood bent over, slashing smiles at the men who sat in the pews choosing us. Rabbit was in the pulpit collecting money.

            Rabbit was pimping me.

            I was putting on my clothes and walking quickly away from all of that. I was driving down the street. I was running on the expressway. Fast. I wasn't hitch-hiking. I was leaving. Against the traffic. My lights were on. I didn't mind being seen. I knew where I was going. I had to leave.

            You know I want a man and to be married. I want to make love, have babies. I want to cook sweet food and have music in my house. I want to be in love and share my love. But I don't need this kind of action. I can't deal with this weird shit.

            Rabbit kept pushing at me with his dick in his hand, talking about being a man. Rabbit would hit me when I didn't cry about our conditions, when I wasn't ashamed or something, when I didn't act weak nor innocent. He busted what he thought was my virginity and laughed every chance he could. His eyes turned blue.

            I didn't want to kill nobody just cause of what done happened. I wanted to love someone, to be able to live.

            He'd be throwing his money at me, money from the slaughterhouse, ten dollar bills, twenties, fifties, loudly floating downward toward my feet cause I wouldn't grab at that. I'd just let it drop.

            He pushed me out his bed. A thousand white men were standing on the spread. There was no more sunlight in our house. And he wouldn't mop up or nothing.

            "So what that prove, man?" Now he was fucking me. Now he was kicking the shit out of one of them thousand white men. And every time he would shoot one, another one would laugh. Another one would rise up. And he was fucking me, he was hurting me. "Rabbit, what's happening? This shit isn't real. We real. What about us?"

            One of our children came running into the room. Rabbit hit the child and told it to shut up. Everybody had a gun now. So what?

            "What killing a white man gon prove? Anybody can kill. What that gon win us? The past is gone."

            "The past is here," he snarled.

            I could see myself visiting him in jail for the rest of my days. My youth gone. After you cook for them and sleep with them, what is left? They don't listen to nothing you say. They treat you like a woman. I wasn't crying anymore.

            My mother was slowly rocking in a chair in the front room. My daddy was cutting her hair off. He went round bald head and said she did that to him. "I'm dat man's strength and he too fool to know it. I'm his blood."

            Suddenly there I sat. I saw that I was my mama. All us Black women are somebody mama. Somebody strength even when they too fool to know it. I was rocking and tired. Tired niggers telling me how hard it is. Tired being so soft with them, so hard with the world. Tired standing stone-eyed dry. Tired crying. Tired giving my love away. Tired being raped. Tired talking. Tired being silent in the face of some obviously false shit.

            "Nigger, pleeze!" Rabbit and I stood face to face at the leaving station, my packed bags standing between us, a sentinel of my seriousness to resolve this conflict or book up. I wasn't going for the okee-doke no more.

            "Alright, we've been slaves together. Together. Not just you, but both us. And the hurt to your manhood ain't no worse than what I feel. But doing the crazy don't change nothing.

            "We don't need to be hurting nobody. But Rabbit, you be coming home everyday now from that slaughterhouse smiling and whistling. You like that job.

            "And it don't never get us no where. Don't even get to own the slaughterhouse." Rabbit hadn't said nothing. I wasn't screaming or nothing, just stone calmly for real.

            Now a crowd had gathered and it was all men and they were all looking at me strange. Laughing at me. Telling me to can it. Telling me to stop thinking. To stop stopping Rabbit from doing all his weird shit. To let the man be a man.

            At that moment I heard the long moan of the train whistle blowing. I told the conductor, "But being a man ain't got nothing to do with being the way most men be. Rabbit don't understand that although we might have to kill to survive, killing is no way to live."

            "Joyce, watch me do this. Watch the white man die."

            Rabbit put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. Everytime his head came off, he'd put it back on again. But blood was coming out of the little holes. And he was laughing. "Joyce, watch me save us." Ka-bamn. Blood and bone.

            "Rabbit, Rabbit!" I was shaking him. "Stop!"

            When I woke up screaming, he held me close. "Hey, baby, come on. Come on. It's alright. I'm here. It's cool. Joyce."

            I was shaking, not with fright but rage. He pressed close to me trying to be protective. "You must have had a bad dream, a nightmare or something."

            "I dreamed that I could not stop you from killing."

            He looked at me.

            "But either we'll be strong together, or I'll be strong alone..."

            "Joyce, baby, what're you talking...?"

            Outside, it was already beginning to be morning.

 

###

 —kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: I SING BECAUSE...

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

I Sing Because...

 

         Amid the weariness of work day's end, Sarah-Bell savored the quiet of oncoming twilight. At last, she could momentarily take it easy, unhurried. And she was grateful for small blessings.

         Lilting into the breezeless amber of the October evening, a mesmerizing wordless song flowed from Sarah-Bell's full, plum-colored lips as she plodded down the dusty lane. Her ankle-length, thorn-tattered, sweat-soiled skirt swished with each step.

         Six-foot-four-and-a-half-inch, one hundred-eighty-seven pound Jim One-Toe, deftly dragging his maimed left foot, hobbled beside Sarah-Bell. He had a pretty fair voice himself.

         One-Toe smiled in admiration of the way Sarah-Bell made each phrase of her improvised reel end on a little upward swoop that just naturally made a man feel good.

         "Sarah-Bell, you sing so pretty. Can I be your man?"

         Sarah-Bell furtively peeked over at One-Toe, smiled and immediately refocused her gaze on the last visible tip of the orange sun swiftly falling behind the nearly clean-picked field of cotton plants.

         "One-Toe, you know I got a man."

         "But he don't come to you all the time," One-Toe retorted. A quick grin of near perfect white teeth flashed across the dimpled midnight of his handsome blue-black face.

         Almost two good moons had passed since anybody had seen Mule-Boy visiting Sarah-Bell. Gathering was most over, Mule coulda been sold off by now—everybody knowed Master Gilmore over to the nearby plantation was good for sending you down the river at the drop of a hat.

         Sarah-Bell scrutinized the squinting sincerity of One-Toe’s slender eyes. “It ain’t that he don’t. He can’t co…”

         Suddenly interrupting herself, Sarah-Bell deftly hiked-up her skirt as she stepped around a fresh pile of smelly horse droppings. Then, while shooing away a fat, green and black, fly with a quick fan of her much-pricked, field-toughened hand, Sarah-Bell continued her conversation, "...and you couldn't be with me every night neither, that is, if'n I was to even let you come by at all."

         One-Toe was encouraged that Sarah-Bell was at least considering the merits of being with him. He spyed a brief glimmer of interest smoldering in her eyes as she announced her decision, "Naw. I don't think so, One-Toe. I thinks I can wait."

         "Yes, m'am." One-Toe was disappointed, but not discouraged. He had plenty mo' days to blow gently on the spark he glimpsed in Sarah-Bell's pecan-shaped eyes. He reckoned harvesting the love of a woman like this was worth a long season of planting and weeding.

         "But if you was to get tired a waiting. I would come. You know I would. Like a bird to the nest. I would come to you every night I could."

         "Which make you no different from my far-away man who come to me every night he can."

         "Well, don't forget I'm closer to the nest. I can get to you quicker than him, even if'n I ain't got but one good foots," One-Toe joked. Sarah-Bell grinned as One-Toe made fun of his own infirmity.

         She liked his gentle humor but she didn't feel a need for another man climbing on her just now, even a fine man like One-Toe.

         For a few seconds they exchanged knowing glances and allowed their eyes to speak for them. Then, while holding her hand palm side out, Sarah-Bell gracefully waved to One-Toe and spoke in a husky half-whisper as she strolled on, "Good night, brotha One-Toe."

         One-Toe peered longingly at the broadness of Sarah-Bell's back and the ampleness of her hips. He looked til his imagination was as full as it could stand to be. One-Toe wanted that pretty-singing woman. He had seen a bunch of women who was face-prettier, but he had never heard no one or nothing, neither woman, man, child or bird, what sang prettier than Sarah-Bell.

         One-Toe had been thinking so hard about holding Sarah-Bell in his huge arms he missed catching sight of Chester Browne squatting nearby Sarah-Bell's door. When her singing faltered and then abruptly fell silent, One-Toe quickly surveyed the area to see what disturbance had stilled Sarah-Bell's song. One-Toe glared at Chester. Everybody knowed what a driverman in the lane after hours waiting by a woman's door meant.

         One-Toe spit into the dust, turned and drug himself into the bitter barreness of his resting room. Shortly thereafter One-Toe heard the thudding shuffle of Chester's horse moseying past the open doorway as Chester and Sarah-Bell rode out the lane. A high-pitched whinny from the horse taunted One-Toe, but One-Toe refused to look at the too-familiar abduction.

         Chester wasn't talking, and Sarah-Bell wasn't singing.

         The chomp chomp chomp chomp of the sorrel's hooves echoed against the mud-caked wall of One-Toe's sleep space and reverberated inside One-Toe's skull.

         One-Toe forcefully buried his face into the gritty dirt floor and stifled an urge to say something, to say anything; a word, a sound, call her name, something.

         Sarah-Bell's silence tormented One-Toe. He would gladly let them ax-chop his good right foot if-in he could visit Sarah-Bell; Chester or no Chester. Naw, if-in he had a cooing dove like Sarah-Bell to share nights with, he wouldn't even dream of running again. He would stay and comfort her.

         It was nearly an hour later before Chester had finished his business. Chester never kept any washing-water in his cabin, and Sarah-Bell had not even dared think about going down to the master's well, so all she could do was wipe herself with her skirt tail before she set off to walking back.

         Despite her general habit of immediately forgetting the weight of an overseer hovering over her and thrashing into her, Sarah-Bell found herself mulling over her plight. Her thoughts were accompanied by the stark crunch of her footfalls on the loamy trail.

         Maybe, if-in it proved necessary and she didn't wait too long, maybe Sarah-Bell could brave a trek over to Gilmore's and plead with Mama Zulie for some womb-cleaning chawing roots. Sarah-Bell paused and fleetingly hugged herself. I sure hope nothing that drastic is needed. Probably not. Her regular bleeding had just stopped a day or so ago.

         As Sarah-Bell pushed determinedly on a trivial worriation nagged at her. Even though she was aware that Chester's drool could do her no harm, it sure was a mighty aggravation the way the taste of Chester's nasty kiss sometimes seemed to stay in her mouth for days. Luckily, on this particular night, he had mostly wanted to suck at her nipples rather than her lips.

         Plus, he had come quickly enough. It hadn't been too long fore a spent and drowsy Chester dozed off and Sarah-Bell had been able to scoot from under him, slip off his pallet and proceed to walking the three-quarters a mile back to the lane.

         By the time she was most halfway there Sarah-Bell had managed to bury Chester's assault and summon up a plaintive song to soften the knot of jumbled sorrow resting heavy in the bottom of her stomach.

         Shortly, for the second time, the soles of Sarah-Bell's thickly-callused feet felt the well-worn familiarity of the lane's path. Sarah-Bell was welcomed back by the sleeping-sounds of her people. Snores. Whistles. Sobs. Groans. A few moans from someone sick, or was it from someone really tired, or maybe both.

         Sarah-Bell was too exhausted to stumble fifty more yards down to the creek for to wash herself. She would do that in the morning. And though she was hungry, she was also too fatigued to gnaw on the piece of hardtack secreted deep in the pocket of her skirt. Right now she needed to lay down by herself and seek the solace of sleep so she could disremember the dog-odor of Chester's hair she had endured when he had been slobbering on her breasts. It was funny how that foul smell lingered in her consciousness. Seems like smell and taste had mo staying power than the abuse of touch.

         Sarah-Bell's sharp ears caught the faint sound of some animal moving in the woods. Judging from the swift lightness of the rustling coming from the bushes, she guessed it must be a rabbit. An owl hooted. Sarah-Bell wordlessly empathized with the prey--run brother rabbit, less you be somebody supper.

         Times like this Sarah-Bell wished she was brave enough to hightail it like One-Toe had done. Maybe she would make it to Mexico, which is where One-Toe said he had been headed. Sarah-Bell thought of what One-Toe had declared when they brought him back: Some gets away, some don't. Getting free was worth the risk, worth losing some of a foot.

         She flinched at the thought of so permanent a loss. Even though she had survived more than her share of suffering, Sarah-Bell still didn't know if she could stand one of her limbs being mutilated or cut away.

         Sarah-Bell was too tuckered out and emotionally drained to do anything more than collaspe into her doorway. She didn't even crawl over to check on her children balled together in slumber beneath a patchwork spread of sackcloth and shirt pieces. No sooner her dark-haired head nestled onto the curved comfort of her pillow-stone, a weary Sarah-Bell was dead asleep.

         The next day in the pale dim of half-dawn morning light only one child sat where two usually fidgeted. Sarah-Bell's heart dropped. "Where Suzee-Bell?"

         "Them took her," Johnny-Bell replied.

         Was no need to say who "them" was. Was no need to ask "where" they took her.

         We ain't got nothing but each other, and they won't let us hold on to that, Sarah-Bell's insides roiled with anger. Both man and God was unfair. Man for what he was doing. And God for allowing men to act the low down way they did. Sarah-Bell knew Johnny-Bell would be next. She knew it just as sure as she knew a snake would eat an unprotected egg.

         Johnny-Bell was her fifth child.

         "What's yo name, boy?"

         "Johnny..." the child stuttered frightened by the hissed intensity of his mother's question.

         "Naw. Yo name Johnny-Bell. BELL. You Johnny-Bell. Yo brothers is Robert-Bell and Joe-Bell. Your sisters is Urzie-Bell and Suzee-Bell. No matter where they cart you off to, no matter what they call you by, you remember the name yo mama give you. And if you ever hear tell of yo brothers or yo sisters, you go find 'em if you can. But you remember 'em even if you can't find 'em. You remember yo people. You hear me?"

         "Yes, mam."

         "Say, yes, Sarah-Bell. Don't mam me. Call me by my name. Sarah-Bell."

         The confused four year old wet himself. He had never heard his mother speak so harshly to him; but he didn't cry.

         When she realized how hard she was shaking him, Sarah-Bell softened her grip on Johnny-Bell's shoulder. He was just a scared little boy, and her rage wasn't making this crisis any easier for him. She could feel currents of fear in the heavy trembling racking his little body, which was twitching like a throat-cut calf at slaughtering time.

         Within seconds Sarah-Bell reigned in her emotions, mustered up her fortitude, and tenderly enfolded Johnny-Bell into the comforting shelter of her bosom. They swayed in mutual anguish as she sought to rock away both his fear and her grief.

         Instinctively she handled her perdicament as best she knew how. Within seconds of hugging Johnny-Bell, Sarah-Bell was breathing out a long-toned lullaby and anointing the reddish-brown hair of her son's head with song-embellished kisses.

         And she didn't loosen her embrace until she heard the rooster crow for day. After emerging into the muted shine of daybreak, hand-in-hand, mother and child marched down to the water to bathe themselves.

         The word about Suzee-Bell buzzed through the small community. Just before departing for the fields, glassy-eyed and scowling, Sarah-Bell stood in the middle of the lane sullenly declaiming her determination.

         "Yalls, hear me. Every time I have one, they take and sell 'em away. Sarah-Bell is through birthing babies. No matter who lay down with me, ain't no mo babies coming out of me. I'm done. Done, you hear me. Done."

         And with the finality of her words resounding in everyone's ears, Sarah-Bell whirled and commenced to trudging off to the field. One-Toe scrambled to catch up to Sarah-Bell.

         Without breaking stride, Sarah-Bell closely examined One-Toe's unblinking gaze. Satisfied with what she saw, Sarah-Bell gave a quick nod and gratefully accepted the respectful silence of One-Toe's company.

         She started singing, quietly at first but more forcefully as they sauntered on. The irresible refrain of Sarah-Bell's song syncopated their gait. Together, they would face another day.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: ALL MY LIFE

photo by Alex Lear 

 

 

 

 

ALL MY LIFE

 

 

 

“Joshua, you’re laying here wounded in a hospital bed and you’re worrying about what’s happening in Fallujah?”

 

Joshua looked at Vivian, a pained tenderness clouding her usually clear dark brown eyes.

 

“No, I’m worrying about humanity, about the species, and about my own personal humanity. If I can’t feel their pain, how human am I?”

 

Vivian bit her lower lip. Joshua momentarily paused when he saw the signature sign that she disagreed with something he said.

 

“Vi, they’re killing women and children, dropping 500 pound bombs. Those people, all they’ve got is rifles and grenade launchers, and a will to resist. They’re burying their dead in a soccer field cause the Marines won’t let them get to a cemetery. And why? What for? Cause four mercenaries got killed? Cause, to quote president Chavez, that ‘asshole’ Bush...”

 

It wasn’t good for his healing when Joshua got so agitated. Closing her eyes to dam the beginnings of tears welling up, Vivian softly kissed Joshua in an intimate attempt to halt his ranting. Joshua did not return her kiss.

 

Ignoring her unvoiced plea, Joshua raised the remote and clicked on the TV. Since the play-offs hadn’t started yet, all he watched was the news for as long as he could stand it, which was usually twenty-some minutes at the max. If his brain was a computer, TV was a virus. What was he to do: the radio was worthless, filled with twenty songs in constant rotation on the pop stations, right wing toro-poopoo on the talk stations, and liberal drivel from NPR?

 

Vivian took the remote from Joshua’s hand; he did not resist. She clicked the mute on. The surrealness of Joshua watching war reports from his hospital bed was too much. Thankfully, the efficient hum of medical equipment provided an unobtrusive aural wallpaper.

 

“They doing that mess in our name, baby. You know?”

 

“I know.”

 

“I don’t want my silence co-signing that.”

 

She was faring worse than he was. Even with bullet wounds in his lower right leg, in his right side and in his left foot, Joshua was still feisty; his inability to sleep peacefully did not seem to too adversely affect him.

 

When you have shared a bed with a person for over thirty years, you know their breathing, how they toss when troubled, which way they turn when upset, moreover, inevitably you know that person’s slumbering self better than the person knows that part of their own self. Almost two whole weeks of keeping watch over Joshua’s fitful, sometimes nightmarish sleep had exacted a heavy toll, and now here he was all wrapped up in this Iraq thing...

 

In the pastel gloaming of the sun setting in the distance on the other side of the city, panoramic as a postcard when viewed from this seventh floor room, Vivian searched for something safe to say.

 

“Jamal’ll be here tomorrow.”

 

“I told that boy he didn’t have to spend that money to come out here. I’m alright. He’s just stubborn.”

 

“I wonder where he gets it from?” Vivian chided Joshua.

 

“Probably from his mama.”

 

Joshua returned his attention to the cool, color images flickering on the screen mounted on the wall facing his bed. What was Rev. Sharpton protesting now Joshua wondered without much interest. Then Kobe Bryant appeared. Josh reached for the remote. Vivian handed him the controller. The clipped but breathy tones of a female anchor gushed forth, “...charge that police did not read Bryant his Miranda rights.”

 

“Ain’t that something?”

 

“Joshua, please.”

 

“Ok. Ok.” Joshua clicked the TV off. “I’m just saying...”

 

“Joshua, we had this discussion already. Just because the police were wrong doesn’t make what Kobe did right.”

 

“You don’t even know what he did, Vi.”

 

“He admitted he committed adultery.”

 

“Yeah, ok.”

 

“Ok, nothing. He shouldn’t have never had that girl up in his room.”

 

“You’re right.”

 

Joshua looked up at the ugly ceiling. After twelve days of laying in bed, it seemed like he knew every inch of the room. In the corners, the wall, which once had been a sort of dark teal, now looked more like a putrid dish of lentil soup crusted over, molded and gone to some shade of brownish-green between tequila-laced, guacamole vomit, and the dirty brown of two week old road kill. Although he didn’t know what the name for that color was, he was sure there was a name and equally sure it was clearly delineated on Vi’s mental color wheel.

 

Joshua smiled grimly and then looked at Vi standing beside his bed, her left arm held across her paunch-less stomach and her slender right hand curled over her mouth--as usual, she was not wearing lipstick.

 

He really liked that she was not self-conscious about the faint, but unmistakable, sexy, facial hair above her full lips--at least he thought the ecru-colored, wisp of a moustache highlighting the plum dark fullness of Vi’s luscious lips was sexy as hell.

 

Funny, he had been able to resist the enticement of Vi’s kiss a minute ago, but now here he was, entranced by the tantalizing sight of her negroidal profile silhouetted by the twilight glowing through the two, large windows directly behind her. He was especially mesmerized by the way she pursed her mouth into a fleshy pout, and though it was concealed in the darkness covering her profile, he vividly imagined the deep dimple two thirds the way up her jaw. Even in her fifth decade there were no hanging folds of flesh marring the elegant line that curved from chin to jaw to throat. Vi could have been the perfect model for a Dogon mask.

 

Vivian saw Joshua lick his lips and slowly work his jaw muscles, producing saliva which he casually swallowed.

 

“Here.” Vivian held a straw to Joshua’s mouth so he could suck a small sip of cool water. As the liquid trickled down his esophagus, Joshua closed his eyes, wondering how it was that this wonderful woman always anticipated his desires. There was a slight click when she sat the plastic cup on the Formica tabletop; then the unmistakable sound of a visitor in the hall--it had to be a visitor because of the click of hard-soled high heels on the linoleum (all of the nurses were stealthy in their rubber-soled sneakers); and finally there was the distinctive, hushed, musical jangle of Vi’s bangles quietly clanging.

 

“Hmmmm,” Joshua half-audibly hummed as Vivian rubbed his chest. Vivian was leaning against the bed, the head of which was elevated at a gentle twenty-degree angle. She had slipped her right hand between the top and the third button of Joshua’s pajama top after deftly unsecuring the second button to give a wider range of motion.

 

“That feels good.”

 

Vivian playfully pinched his left nipple.

 

“Yeahhhh.”

 

A nurse walked in.

 

Vivian did not move her hand.

 

The nurse said nothing, peered at the equipment connected to the patient, picked up the chart and made a few quick notations. “Do you need anything, Mr. Gibson?”

 

“He’s Ok.”

 

Joshua glanced from Vivian to the young, white nurse--well, at least she had reason to be in his room. Vivian continued lightly scratching her fingertips through his chest hairs, maybe scratching was not the word for it, perhaps tingle-touching was a better way to put it; whatever, it felt good. When the nurse left, Vivian withdrew her hand. Oh, so Vi’s touches had been a marking of territory, a sign to other females: hands off.

 

“What’re you smiling about?”

 

“Why yall always got to want to know what a man is thinking?”

 

“Why are you men so reluctant to share your thoughts?”

 

“Just like yall got secrets...”

 

“Ok. Whatever.”

 

The lamp’s florescent glare masking its departure, daylight was near completely gone from the room.

 

“Mr. Tucker called.”

 

Josh knew where this was headed. Thirty-three years and counting. “I told that fool I don’t work cause I got to, I teach cause I want to. The kids need me.”

 

“I need you.”

 

“Just wait til they let me out of here, I’ll give you all you can handle.”

 

“Joshua, I’m serious. You know you could volunteer in a community program. You don’t need the pressure of teaching every day.”

 

“Vi, haven’t we crossed and re-crossed this bridge?” Hadn’t they talked about why he wouldn’t retire until he did thirty-five years? Thirty-five--just like his mother. It hadn’t mattered that it was safer when his mother taught, much less stressful, the schools better. Actually there was nothing sacred about thirty-five years. It was just something Joshua wanted to do.

 

He had started when he was twenty-three. In two more years he wouldn’t even be sixty yet--he had plenty enough years left to enjoy retirement.

 

Vi kicked off her comfortable red-suede mules and half sat on the side of the bed, cozying beside her husband. She drew her knees up, careful not to touch his side, and lightly rested her head on his collarbone while smoothly slipping her right hand down his arm, that sensual motion culminating with her fingers intertwining his as she clasped his hand.

 

Joshua had felt a twinge of discomfort when Vi climbed aboard but that was quickly replaced by the pleasure of her softness: soft touch caressing, soft voice humming, soft spirit nurturing.

 

Joshua half-turned his face towards the crown of her head. The peach-flavored fragrance of the shampoo in Vi’s salt-and-pepper un-cut, longer-than-shoulder-length, natural hair delightfully tickled Josh’s nose. Once out of high school, Vi had never again permed her hair and after she retired from the Post Office in ‘98, she said she’d let her finger-snap-short afro grow until 2000. By the time 2000 arrived, Joshua had gotten so used to burying his face in the luxurious pillow of her black and silver mane that he begged her to keep letting it grow, like, what was her name, Sonia Braga, yes, Sonia, that gorgeous Brazilian mama with the flowing, au-natural hair. Vivian preferred to believe that her auburn hair and skin shade resembled Alice Coltrane like on the cover of Alice’s Transformation album, but she knew Brazilian beauties was Joshua’s thing and had long ago come to understand that Joshua’s fantasies and movie-fueled infatuations were no threat to their marriage.

 

***

 

“Aaahhhh.”

 

Even though Joshua’s cry had not been very loud, Vivian woke instantly. The nightmare was back; this time after only two nights absence.

 

For the first week it had been very rough and then it got rougher--some inexplicable signal would rouse Vivian and she’d know immediately, Joshua was... was... well, was... what was it Robert Johnson sang? Hellhounds on his trail. Yes, that was it, Joshua would have that terrified look, the look of a runaway flailing through the swamps, vicious dogs about to leap on his back.

 

The first time Vivian saw Joshua cry she shrank back involuntarily for a moment before gathering her self and going to him. “Ssssshhhhh, ssssshhhh. It’s all right. I’m here.”

 

Joshua had shook.

 

“Ssssshhhh.” Badly as she wanted to, she had been afraid to hold him less she harm his wounds. She could only think to dab his forehead with a cool towel and to coo to him until he eventually quit shaking.

 

And, my God, that first time he hollered out, she was sure it was physical, probably his side or something like that. He wouldn’t talk. She rang for the nurse. They ended up sedating him. But it happened again a few nights later.

 

“Tell me. Joshua, tell me. What is it? Joshua?”

 

When he had turned to face her, his eye sockets were twin grottos, each filled with a glistening pool of tears. Vivian’s heart had raced at that point. She had never before seen him cry.

 

He didn’t have to say anything. She knew, from that first night when the police called, when they told her as near as they could figure it, some young thugs tried to car jack Joshua and a battle ensued over a gun and two people were shot, one was dead and “your husband is in the hospital. He’s wounded but the doctors say, it looks like he’ll pull through ok.”

 

Vivian had known the healing would be difficult but she was anxiously confident he would overcome. She remembered decades ago his struggle to master martial arts, how long it took him to get to black belt, how many times he damaged his hand trying to break wooden planks, but he kept at it...

 

“Vi, you know I been loving you since I met you...”

 

Vivian snapped out of her momentary hypnosis. It had only been three and a half seconds before she gathered herself and bent to minister to Joshua, but during that long interval, Vivian had remembered encountering this anguish for the first time.

 

“Sssshhhh, sssshhhh. Joshua’s it’s ok...”

 

She had also remembered Joshua apologizing for loosing the new, forest green, Toyota Prius that was found two days afterwards, burned out. The irony of getting jacked for an environmentally safe car and that car subsequently getting trashed; were it not so serious, it would have been laughable.

 

“...don’t try to talk. It’s ok.”

 

When Vivian bowed to rub Joshua’s brow, he turned his head away. She began humming Naima, Joshua loved her singing.

 

Vivian knew, neither the car nor his wounds was the issue, it was...

 

“Vi, you know, it’s like, I don’t see how we’re going to survive.” He spoke while looking at the wall. “What can we do? The shit has gotten so bad. All my life... well, you know.” Joshua paused, turned to face Vivian and then continued in a firm voice, “The sit-ins, the going to jail, the African liberation support stuff  in Tanzania and hanging in the bush with the Frelimo guerillas in Mozambique, right down to supporting the Sandanistas in Nicaragua in the eighties, and, all that. You know?”

 

Joshua stared helplessly at Vivian, she closed her eyes, bent low and whispered in his ear: “this too shall pass.” But even as she said it, she knew that neither she nor Joshua would ever reconcile themselves to the horrible guilt that Joshua felt for killing that boy.

 

“He told me to run. I said, take the car, man. He said, ‘run, nigga.’ Vi, I ain’t never run from nobody in my life, and I wasn’t about to start that night. I was already mad cause I had bought this car for your birthday and...”

 

“It’s ok, it’s ok.”

 

“Naw it ain’t. When he shot me in the foot, I knew I had to do something or at least die trying, even though it was two of them. I would’ve been alright, but the other one started shooting...”

 

Joshua stopped.

 

It was early, early, ‘fore day in the morning. The silence was awful. The sinister mechanical chirp of the medical equipment, awful. Joshua squeezed the morphine pump. Vivian blinked to keep her own tears from spilling as she bent low and slow-kissed away Joshua’s tears.

 

-end-

 

—kalamu ya salaam

SHORT STORY: THE ROSES ARE BEAUTIFUL, BUT THE THORNS ARE SO SHARP

photo by Alex Lear 

 

 

 

 

THE ROSES ARE BEAUTIFUL,

BUT THE THORNS ARE SO SHARP 

 

1.

 

         Blood didn't know why he wanted to kiss her private lips. Didn't know why the sharp energy of her smell made the large muscles on the inside of his thigh twitch.  Didn't smell like sex. Didn't even smell human.  Undomesticated, wild, maybe a pine-needle bed where a deer had rested.  A fragrance born by the wind from whence only the wind knows where.  Didn't know why, but he liked the memory of his slow kiss-rub-lick-suck of the cleaved dark of her.  And he liked that she liked it.

         Theodore sucked the caramel colored coke through a straw, drawing out gurgling sounds as the last of the liquid, mixed with air, cascaded upward through the crushed ice.  He shook the cup once, tore the plastic top off with the straw still in it and threw it into the litter receptacle; swirled the cup, tilted it upward shaking shards of ice into his mouth, sucked on the ice and thought of her moan as he nodded hello to a co-worker on his way back to his desk from his ten minute break.

 

***

 

         I close my eyes.  I am crazy.  I open my eyes.  I am crazy.  I do my work and when I finish working, every time, I am crazy. Obsession.  The need for every day to be night.  I tape the evening news using the timer on my VCR and later look at her over and over.  Her eyes.  I know looks that the tv camera never sees.  Sometimes I watch with the sound turned down.  Read her body language.  The motion of her jaw as she talks.  Count how many times I see her tongue on screen.  How often they show her hands.  The feel of her nails on my neck.  The rhythm of her voice reciting my three syllables: "The-o-dore" except she enunciates "Thee-I-ADORE."  "That's the news.  This is Ann Turner.  See you tomorrow."  SEE YOU TONIGHT.  BABY. TONIGHT!

 

***

 

         The bronze point of her breast cutting a curvature in his consciousness.  Why continue, he thought as he continued.  A man shouldn't be consumed by desire.  His imagination saw the inside of her thigh flash quick as the picture of the contents of a darkened room momentarily lit by five milliseconds of lightening flashing during a summer night storm when you are standing near the window sipping something mildly intoxicating and a "Quiet Storm" format radio station unfurls aural ribbons.

         He drank her features even when only his computer was in front of his eyes.  Drank and drank, and was never quenched.

         One day he refused to call her.  The whole day. Concentrated on not calling her.

***

 

         She doesn't own my fingers.  My feet are my feet.  I have business.  I wear a suit and tie.  I drive a car -- red, sleek. Here is my off-ramp. I like the feel of taking it at 40mph, leaning into the curve. It's like when I ease into her. I'm gripping the wheel firmly but lightly like I do her breasts, and I brake a little, back off the clutch, let the engine slow us down, and hit the accelerator slightly at the top of the curve, pushing through faster now. Through the steering wheel I can feel the car's power surging and responsive to my every expert move, like Ann.

         I smoke cigarettes.  I urinate at break time and wish, in the middle of the men's room, Joey to the right of me, Harold on my left, Amos at the sink talking shit about what he made his bitches do, I urinate and as I shake myself, wish it were her fingers shaking me.  I will not call.  The boys see me zipping my pants.  They don't sense her.  I look into the mirror at my reflection, scratch my jaw, dry my hands, and, leaning forward, balancing my weight between the sink ledge and the balls of my feet, careful to pretend I am examining my razor bumps, I search deep into my eyes: her profile.

         "The roses are very nice."

         Thirty-eight dollars is more than very nice.  Forty-one dollars, forty-two cents.

         "But, I can't accept them."

         I've bought corsages for proms.  I've bought flowers on mother's day.  I've even given my aunt a plant for her anniversary.  This is the first time, the first time I've ever bought roses.  And they are only "very nice."     

         What about when you kissed me?  What about that great dinner we cooked together in your kitchen trading culinary tips, and ate in the after glow; I fed you desert.  A fruit salad first from my fork, then the grapes from my hand, and that last strawberry we shared lip to lip as I kissed you with the succulent deep red meat poised between my teeth and letting it fall into your mouth as you sucked my lips and you slipped your fingers into the bowl and one by one inserted your fingers into my mouth and l sucked the juice off, cleaned each finger with the sweep of my tongue.  And the night we spent the night drinking coffee in the French Quarter, walking around waiting on the sun, delirious, delicious and crazy in each other's eyes?  The first time.  The second time.  That Saturday evening in the thunder storm with all the lights out and a very good bottle of moderately expensive wine.  My comforter on the carpeted floor, the sound of rain on the pane accompanied our rhythms.  The third, fourth.  Damn it, last Monday, two days ago.  "My legs are wide open," you said.  I almost cried in your arms I felt so happy.  I pick you up just about every day from work -- every day you allow me to.  We even sometimes make groceries together.  That linen jacket, the pink one.  The surprise manicure and facial treatment certificate.  The health spa six month membership.  "My legs are wide open."  That's more than nice.

 

***

 

         "I said, I can't accept them. I... No, don't come in.  Please."

 

***

 

         Then I forced myself past the three-quarters-opened door. I didn't mean to knock her down when I pushed my way inside. But she fell. And then something happened. Looking down at her I saw the shock on her face. "You see it doesn't feel good getting pushed around, does it?" is what I thought to myself. "Now you know how I feel sometimes the way you treat me," I continued thinking while silently observing her. The beginnings of a smirk unconsciously edging itself onto my face. It was as if I rose up above myself and was outside of my body watching myself stand there.  I could see everything.  I knew everything.  I knew she was surprised by how hard I shoved the door. Even so, I could see she wasn't hurt sprawled there on the floor. Embarrassed but not hurt. And afterwards when I left I knew when I slammed the door shut hard behind me, I knew the sound cut the silence.  She didn't know I had it in me. I knew.  The way she looked up at me.

 

***

 

         As she fell backward, slammed into the way and fell, he closed the door quickly. And then, as though she had misunderstood him the first time, he held out the roses to her again.  She had one knee slightly up. Her straight, woolen, beige skirt with the deep split in the front had ridden up high on her legs, falling away from above her knees.

         Anger and the beginnings of fear overpowered her perfume. She didn't smell pleasant anymore.

         The red, red roses swinging before her face.

         Nothing.

         "I am more than nice," he thought to himself.

         The phone rang.

         She covered her face with both hands. Then lowered one hand to the floor. Began pushing up, to stand.  Theodore stepped forward and planted himself, blocking what would have been her path of ascendancy.  She stopped.  He saw that she knew she would never make the phone.  Let her machine answer the intruding call. Four rings and the noisy interruption stopped.

         After the chirp of the phone stopped, he bent slightly and pushed the roses at her again.

         She batted them away. She does not want to be distracted. He pushed them forward again.

         Her hand moved slowly.  She pushed gently, tried to move the flowers out of her face.  Why was he insisting?  Why were the flowers thrust at her like a gun?

         What?

         He had unbuttoned his trousers. They slid down at his feet.  He stepped out of them. "My legs are wide open," she had said just two days ago. The goodness of his dick hadn't changed any in the time between the last time and now.  She wanted it then.  She gave it up then.  Now was then.  In his mind.  He eased his jockey briefs off.  Now, he still had his shirt and tie on. And his jacket.  And the roses in his hand.

         What?

         That was her only real reaction.  What?

         Sometimes shit be happening to you and it be so far out the box you can't believe it be happening. 

         Theodore was standing there with his penis erect.  His jacket on the floor now behind his trousers.  He knelt slowly. Placed the flowers down beside him.  Pushed her skirt up.  She closed her eyes.  Her flesh was cool beneath the nylon of the panty hose.  Then she moved, slightly.  Her head shook slowly from side to side.  She covered his hand with her left hand.  A momentary halt.

         She tried reasoning with an unreasonable man, "Are you going to use something?  I'm ovulating now."

         Theodore ignored her.  She saw him ignore her.  Theodore began pulling at her panty hose.

         "I'm not going to let you do this." 

         She started to struggle silently.  She surprised him with her strength as she tussled with him. The thrust of her arms rocked him backward. He admired that she didn't hit like a girl. Now she was on one knee. He pushed her again.  Harder.  She sprawled backward. Her shoe slipped and her legs flew from beneath her. As she lay disheveled on the floor trying to decide whether to kick him or to try and run from him, he pushed the roses aside and knelt resolutely in front of her. He looked between her legs which were awkwardly gapped open.  What was it "there" that had him crazed on the floor.  The reddest rose.  The petals of her vagina flower.  The thorns of her refusal to receive him. 

         Then suddenly she pushed him harder than he had pushed her.  He fell back on the flowers.  The thorns bit deeply into the palm of his left hand.

         He picked the flowers up and threw them at her.  Hurled them into her face.  Hard.  A thorn cut her cheek.  She felt a faint sting.  When her hand came down from her jaw, a long bloody smear had creased the light hand side like a crimson life line burnt into her palm.

         He expected her to cry. But she made no sound. Did not even whimper. But stared at him with an undisguised hatred. The force of her stare stunned him. He stood up. She bolted up without hesitation. Balled her fist and stood rigidly upright, silently daring him to touch her again. He backed off slowly. Retrieved his clothing. Dressed. Every time he glanced at her she was still glaring unblinking at him. Her blouse rose and fell as she took deep, soundless breathes. He turned and walked briskly out of the door, slamming it behind him. She stepped over the flowers and quickly locked the door behind him.

 

2.

 

         They were in a movie and he cheered when the hero smacked the actress portraying the wife.  Ann froze, intuitively knew for sure that Theodore Roosevelt Stevens, III was wrong for her.  All the little signs she had ignored because she was tired of searching for someone with whom to share her life and had settled for someone with whom to have a little fun.  After applauding the hero's response to his wife's cinematic betrayal with a short clap -- actually Theodore was celebrating the hero's refusal to be suckered more than applauding the guy for hitting the woman, it's much harder to see through how a woman is using you than it is to smack her once you figure out that you've been used, and Theodore admired anyone with insight into the feminine species -- his right hand had pawed the air seeking Ann's hand to hold again, but her arms were folded.

         "What's wrong?"

         "What's right?"

         "What you mean?"

         He caught the tone, the cut, the coldness.  The sharp point contained within all her soft curves.  Theodore knew this was fire he could not walk through with his bare feet.

         "What?"

         She bit her bottom lip but not to keep from talking, the biting was just a habit of preparation when she had to fight a battle which she did not choose, but which she would wage without quarter.

         Walking up the aisle after the movie's over, "Let's go for a drink; we need to talk."

         "Sure.  Where?"

         "Anywhere."  Clipped tone.  The claws were still showing.

         Anywhere was near by, but the silence riding over was long.  "What's up?"

         "This is the last, I mean I don't think..."  She swung her head quickly.  They were at a stop light.  Right before the turn onto Causeway Blvd.  He looked over during the pause for the light.  Her unblinking eyes focused directly on him.  She read him the news -- that's how it felt, all the emotion was calculated although unforced and rendered in well modulated tones, "I thought about your question about us living together, and the answer is no.  And I think we ought to break this off."

         The light was green.  Theodore pulled through the moment.  Said nothing.  While moving through the traffic.  He said nothing.  Circled onto the expressway.  She hates games. He heard her.  Into the expressway traffic.  Then he pulled over to the side.  Slowed.  Emergency lights flashing.  He looked over at her as the car coasted to an easy stop.  He turned the tape deck off.  He turned the key.  The engine stopped.  The stick shift loose in neutral, rocked back and forth beneath the easy side to side push of his hand.  Then he pulled the emergency brake handle.  She has not stopped looking at him.  This was Tuesday.

         Wednesday morning into the third mile her breathing is even and her stride is smooth.  She will kick the fourth mile.  She is ready.  Suddenly she stops.  A crow caws, breaking the silence of the morning cool.  Two cars pass along the generally deserted stretch of road.  The light is soft.  Her face is soft.  Her eyes are hard.  She begins walking and in a few seconds builds up to a trot and then is running again. 

         Thursday he will bring roses and apologize.

 

***

 

         Everybody thinks it's easy to be me.  To be the model of charm and poise on the weekday evening news.  A face recognized.  Gwendolyn Ann Turner.  Actually, Gwendolyn Ann Turner is me, and most of the world -- I shouldn't exaggerate, most of the city -- knows: "This is Ann Turner, your evening anchor, sharing the news of New Orleans with you."  Most of the world knows so small a part of my real persona and yet people think because they see a small part of me so frequently, they think they know "me."

         I was so fat as a child, so "Gwenie."  Overweight, intelligent, gifted with a lean, hard mind -- too hard.  Up to the middle of college I was always the "brain," never the beauty and even when my birthright beauty began to exert itself in college -- it's like it's hard to judge just how beautiful the flower will be when all you see is the beginning bud.  I had to run in P.E. and found myself liking the loneliness and the challenge of the long runs, figuring out how to run without wearing myself out, how to swing my arms, how to set my pace, how to breath, how to use my body, yes, how to use "my body" and I pushed it and enjoyed pushing it. The more I ran, the more the physical side of me came out, but it was all because I enjoyed the meditation part of running. At the same time I was trying to figure out how to meet the physical challenges rather than because I wanted to become "fine" or "thin" or something, but the more I ran and enjoyed running, the more I found beauty came within my reach and required just a little work to enhance it.  But the thorn on the flower was that becoming attractive just made being me more difficult, more demanding.  I split in two.  It became so easy to be pretty, to be wined and dined because my body shape was what it had become, or more accurately was what I had made it become, my skin color was what it was, my voice, my hair, my eyes, my slender fingers, my beige bottom firm, round and protruding.

 

***

 

         The thought stopped her: "I hated being fat and I'll never be fat again."  She stopped at the road side, put her hands atop her head, fingers interlaced, breathed deeply, looked up into the dawning sky and summoned strength -- she was beginning to resent the deference given to her for all the wrong reasons.  Well not so much "wrong reasons," for all the "Ann Turner reasons" and none of the Gwendolyn Ann Turner reasons.

 

***

 

         Here I am 28 years old, sexually active, so far away from any kind of serious relationship that it doesn't even hurt anymore. I'm never alone unless I want to be and I've never met anyone with whom I always want to be. Being so popular as a media personality just makes being alone as a private person inevitable.

 

***

 

         Ann took a deep breath.  She had volunteered the decision to drop "Gwendolyn" because Ann is so much easier to articulate cleanly into a lapel microphone or an overhead boom, no consonant blend obstacles to negotiate.

 

***

 

         If I hate being beautiful, why do I run everyday, stick to my diet, groom myself immaculately?  Wear complementary colors. Procures pedicures.  Manicures.  Facials.  Ann runs everyday and Gwen waits. Waits for what?

         Huh.

 

***

 

         Gwen waits in a desk drawer, in a diary, in five completed stories, 79 completed poems, and 34 incomplete sketches, outlines and ideas for stories.  And in the drawing pad.  The monthly self portraits drawn with soft lead pencil while looking into the dressing table mirror.  That had started in college. During the first week of every month Gwen sketched Ann, and afterwards Ann would stare at the drawing, looking for Gwen. Gwendolyn had gone to college certain that writing was her destiny but the motion of circumstances had sidetracked her. The path from Gwen to Ann had started not from her own volition but rather began because of her physical presence and personality; the transfiguration wasn't the result of will, but rather it was physiological and sociological chance. 

         As the new Gwen started to blossom, Gwen "hated" the attention even though some small part of her loved it, fed off it and grew more confident, stronger week after week.  That's how she had eased into broadcasting.  In college journalism even those who only wanted to write were "counseled" into taking at least two broadcast courses "in order to be well rounded," and, of course, even though she never sought the behind the mike position, of course once she was there, once people saw how effective she was (even if she was a little overweight), then her instructors steered her that way: "the camera loves you / your voice soothes and exudes sincerity / I know you want to write but I think it's apparent your future is in announcing." Meanwhile, Gwen the writer patiently waited for release.  Now, years later, a professional broadcasting career confidently established, writing as a career option is not possible, not to mention being economically unfeasible.  Gwen rarely spoke but when she did...

         "Ann you do television because it's easy for you.  There's no challenge staying in shape.  Reading news copy is so easy. We always liked to read.  Ann, you like to read, and I have to read; that's one of the only ways I can even exist.  All other times I'm shoved deep into the background."

 

***

 

         These two people in me.  Gwen wants to be a writer, a deep thinker, and Ann, well, Ann pays all the bills and acquires all the frills.  Or something.  What does Ann want?  Ann is not a want, Ann is a thing, a procurer.  Ann's ultimate job really ought to be to create a space for Gwen.

         Huh.

 

***

 

         She begins walking and in a few seconds builds up to a trot and then is running again.

 

3.

 

         I was already in the shower.  Theodore was behind me at the toilet, urinating and the "morning deep yellow" of his streaming urine refracting early daylight made it easy for me to see the splashes flying out of the bowl.  I hate it.  I hate the sloppiness of the way men piss.  I hate it.  I step out of the shower.

         "Theodore."

         "What?"

 

***

 

         He swung his head, tremendously pleased with himself. Happy about his manliness.  His sexiness and skill as a lover.  His good fortune: he was fucking Ann Turner and she was liking it. Everything was in order.  At the office his commissions were bounding upward.  When a client saw him, they were impressed by the smooth, articulate, fastidiously groomed, intelligent, business savvy, young Black man fashionably attired in tastefully muted burgundy suspenders over ice blue crisply starched dress shirt with a white collar -- these days Theodore was always impressive, so impressive that clients flocked to him the way those chickens used to do at his grandmother's farm in the summertimes when he was sent to spend a few weeks and would wake early, jump out of bed, get dress quickly and run into the back yard with a cap full of feed, throwing the kernels on the ground and calling out in his young baritone (he remembered that even as a teen-ager he had a heavy voice): "cluck-cluck cluckity-cluck, come here chickens, yall in luck, cluck-cluck cluckity cluck."  Because he was looking at himself, his external eyes focused on the stream of piss, the splash of water, the diffuse light from the skylight as well as the rainbow shimmering in the toilet bowl cast there by the prismed light of the cut glass mobile hanging from the skylight latch, in his head the beauty of her big round booty moved beneath the knead of his firm hands, because of all of that he neither saw the seriousness in her eyes nor heard the coldness in her voice as he perfunctorily answered, "What?"

         "I realize this might sound a bit strange to you but I've got a thing about hygiene.  When you use the toilet, please sit."

         "What?"

         "Put the seat down and sit.  Urinate sitting down.  When you stand, your urine splashes, and it's unhygenic."

 

***

 

         Much head as she gives, she's worried about a little urine on the toilet seat.  She swallows.  She loves it.  She licks me clean.  And she's worried about me standing up pissing.

 

***

 

         Theodore stood there, naked, his member held nimbly in his left hand.  He was just about to shake the drops off the tip with a vigorous motion.  How would he shake it if he were sitting on the toilet seat?  This was a trip.

 

***

 

         I knew he wouldn't understand.

 

***

 

         Theodore didn't understand what was going on.

         Ann turned back into the shower, almost regretting that she had brought it up.  Almost.  Gwen had decided long ago that Theodore was just a momentary thing, even before he overestimated himself and made the major faux pas of popping the question about living together.

         Ann was slower to decide.  There was a lot she liked about Theodore.  The lovemaking for one.  And, well, the lovemaking for two.  His humor, he was sort of witty.  No, really he was convenient.  Although right for a fling, he definitely was not living together material.  And unhygenic and far too possessive.

         "Theodore, I don't need you to pick me up after work. Yes, I know it's late when I get off, and I know I could save the cab fare, but it's easier.  I have two cab drivers who are regulars.  I call when I'm close to ready and they're outside the door waiting for me.  I get in, we come straight here, they wait until I'm inside and everything is safe.  Theo, I know you don't mind but you don't have to wait around for me.

         "I'm staying late.  ...  No.  I'm not sure exactly what time I'll be finished.  ...  I'll just catch a cab.  No, Theo, I won't call you.  I'll catch a cab, and I'll talk to you in the morning.  ... You'll be sleeping when I get in.  I'll call you in the morning.   ... Theodore don't call me at one a.m.  ...  What do you mean where will I be?  ...  What do you mean what do I mean?  I mean I can take care of myself.  ...  Obviously, you don't know it.

         Gwen had peeped all of that weeks ago.  The shower door opened.  Theodore stepped in.

         "You mean when I urinate, you want me to sit down like when I uh, defecate?"

 

4.

 

         "When I saw you bleeding, I knew I had messed up real bad.  I don't know what got into me.  I mean you know me, I'm not really like that.  I mean, I was crazy or something.  Ann?  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  You want me to beg?  You want me to crawl? What?  I've sent you letters, I've called every day.  This hurts me too.  I don't know what else to say.  I mean I know I did something really, really wrong.  And I know it will be hard for you to ever trust me again, but I love you.  I really love you.  I mean I'm serious.  You make me feel like a man..."

 

5.

 

         Ann didn't even listen to the whole tape.  He talked to her machine for twenty, sometimes thirty minutes or more, sometimes.  Sometimes he just said, "I'm gon keep calling until you talk to me."  This went on for over two weeks.

         Fortunately, the erase mechanism was fast.

 

6.

 

         This is about a year and a half later.  Theodore is married (yes, he sent Ann an invitation—she didn't go; he wasn't surprised).

         When Ann got the invitation she felt sad for Theodore's intended. He had wanted a wife but he wasn't prepared to deal with a woman.  She left the invitation in the hallway, on the table, the table that held the telephone / answering machine, beneath the mirror.  The invitation pushed half way back into the envelope.  Ann did not even wonder why it had been sent.  Gwen didn't care.  A casual toss and the invitation landed with a slight rustle atop a small stack of junk mail.  Ann didn't mean Theodore's invitation was junk mail, but she knew she wasn't going.

         Later that day she sat sketching herself. Clarity.  In the mirror was Gwendolyn Ann Turner, a thirty-year old, unmarried Black woman.  Ann didn't frown.  Ann didn't cry.  She knew, she knew she would never marry.  And she could live with that, was content to live with that. But Gwen smiled, she smiled because she appreciated that Ann Turner was becoming increasingly less interested in Ann Turner and more interested in developing Gwendolyn Ann Turner.

         Never marry.  God, what a thought.  But not really.  Even though she had been raised to marry. Even though it seemed like the whole world was wondering when she would marry. And have children. In a flash both Ann and Gwen realized -- neither one of them had every really wanted to be married--not once they were mature enough to honestly face themselves.  Ann just didn't want to be alone.  Although sharing board was just about out of the question, Ann could and would always find someone with whom to share bed.  Ann accepted the cost.  She could pay the bills.  No problem.  An inconvenience sometimes, but no problem.  And Gwen.  Gwen was happy, she gave thanks to be alive and thriving. And writing -- her new novel was almost finished.

         A spray of roses sat elangantly arranged in a bright black vase. "Our vase" -- Gwen had found it while wondering through the French Quarter. She was drawn to the pear-shaped container without even knowing why or how she would use it. As she walked along with the trendy shopping bag which held the vase swaddled in newspaper, she passed a florist. Roses were on sale: $9.99 a dozen, and thus began the floral addition to the sketching ritual. The fragrance of the flowers would radiate through the room while the young woman deftly drew her monthly self portrait. And as was usually the case within the last few months, Gwen would be smiling a generous smile. To her beautiful self. Clearer than she had ever been and glad that she understood the necessity of thorns on roses--everything beautiful must protect itself.

 

—kalamu ya salaam

ESSAY: WOMEN'S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

Women's Rights Are Human Rights

My position, succinctly stated, is simply this: any discussion of the issue of human rights should include a discussion of women's rights. 

The reason for my statement, while complex in its subtleties, is simple in its substance. Simply said, women are human beings.

Our struggle for human rights must be grounded in a rejection of the oppression of any identifiable segment or stratum of human societies, regardless of the criterion of differentiation or discrimination, e.g. race, class or sex.

Based on my study and analysis of my own experiences and environment, as well as study and analysis of the experiences and environments of other peoples, in other places and other periods of time, I draw the conclusion that the issue of women's rights has and continues to be a central concern of millions of women who daily suffer the degradations and deprivations of sexual chauvinism in its institutionalized and individual forms. The suffering of women in general, third world women in particular, and especially the suffering of the Afrikan-american woman, hurts me in ways too numerous to delineate. Yet beyond the personal pain, there is a social reality which must be recognized, namely, that sexism is a means, used by our enemies, to help maintain our subjugation as a people.

Perhaps some are wondering why should an Afrikan-american man be concerned with an issue like women's rights, an issue which is often erroneously identified with "bored, middle class white women" who are tired of staying home. My response to that question is a query of my own: is there any reason why I shouldn't be concerned with women's rights, after all am I not born of woman, aren't we all born of woman?

I am concerned about the issue of women's rights because I understand that women's rights is a political issue and I am a political person. I understand that the oppression and exploitation of women is an integral aspect of every reactionary social system which ever existed and I am struggling to be a progressive. I understand that women, like land, are primary to life, and I am a living being.

I am concerned about the issue of women's rights because I am striving to be a revolutionary, and without the eradication of sexism there will be no true and thorough going revolution.

At this moment in history, asserting a position which I feel is my revolutionary responsibility to put forward, I hear the echoes of our heritage urging me to be firm. I hear Frederick Douglas, who also spoke out strongly in support of women's rights. Douglas was vilified and shunned by former friends who could not understand his concern for the rights of women. I hear Douglas being called an "hermaphrodite" and other terms which questioned his sexuality because of his stand on sexism. But in the spirit of Frederick Douglas, I do declare that I too should rather be called "hermaphrodite" and other names because of my support for women's rights, than have women continually referred to as "bitch," and "broad" in everyday ameican speech.

There are those who argue that raising the issue of women's liberation is divisive of Black unity. They argue that, in reality, the women's movement drives a "wedge" between Black women and Black men in our social relationships. They argue that the promotion of women in the work force cuts down on the employment opportunities for men and effectively throws Black men out of work. They argue that Black women don't want to be lesbians and live with other women but rather that they want to be united with Black men in peace and harmony. Some even argue that women should not work outside of the home is one of the most important tasks of nation-building or socialization. These are some of the arguments sincerely and seriously raised against our full and active involvement in the struggle for women's rights.

But the profound truth of the matter is that all of these arguments deny women the option to exercise their rights, to control their lives in whatever manner they see fit. Full rights for women does not ipso facto mean that women will all have to conform to some mythical "liberated norm." It means, instead, that women will decide for themselves their social lifestyles and social relationships.

Women's liberation has not driven a wedge between women and men. Firstly, women do not control this society. This society is controlled by a ruthless, racist, sexist, and capitalist patriarchy. if we would look past the propaganda pushed in the establishment press, we should clearly recognize whose hand is on the hammer attempting to beat us into submission, we would see who actually wields the wedge of division . To divide and conquer has always been a tactic of a minority who are oppressing and exploiting a majority.

Secondly, issues such as "women's lib is denying or stopping Black men from getting jobs" is not true. We must understand that women do not do most of the hiring and firing in America. Women do not run the major or minor corporations. With very few exceptions, it is a man or some group of men, and usually white, who make those kinds of decisions.

We are all for the unity of our women with our men, but not if that unity is to be male superior / female inferior. The emotional crux of most of the arguments against women's liberation is, when mouthed by men, actually a fear of independent women, a hatred of independent women, an ideological opposition to any women being independent of  man's control. When espoused by women, most of these arguments simply amount to the attempts by an insecure woman, whose sense of self is that of an inferior entity, to maintain the certainties of a slavery she "thinks' she understands and to one degree or another has learned to cope with, rather than face a challenging liberation which she finds difficult to envision.

Cabral has noted that within the context of liberation struggle, the emancipation of women is a difficult issue. ".  . . during the fight the important thing is the political role of women . . . It is all a part of the process of transformation, of change in the material conditions of the existence of our people, but also in the minds of the women, because sometimes the greatest difficulty is not only in the men but in the women too."1

In all of the contemporary national liberation movements in the Third World, whether in Africa, Asia, Latin America, Oceania or the Caribbean, great attention is always paid to the eradication of sexism and the development of women. Why is this the case?

Is sexism a universal constant? Is it true, as we have been taught, that beginning with Adam and Eve there has been a battle of the sexes going on, that one sex has , is and, in a all probability, will continue to try to dominate the other sex? Do we really believe these fairy tales, these rationalizations? Do we really believe that men and women are "naturally" antagonistic to each other?

Sexism is not a biological necessity, it is rather the reflection of reactionary ideas, particularly "bourgeois individualism." In a bourgeois society, private ownership is the basic goal of most endeavors, whether it is to own land and material wealth, hence private property; or to own labor and industry, hence private enterprise in the form of capitalism; or to ultimately own other human beings, hence slavery and sexism. Couple this type of thinking with the belief that the individual is supreme, and what will result will be a society peopled by selfish and self-centered human beings who have no true concern for those around them or those who will follow them.

The roots of modern day sexism are to be found in "prehistoric" Europe and the trunk of sexism is a patriarchy watered by capitalism and imperialism. Understand that sexism is the systematic oppression and / or exploitation of a group of people based on the criterion of sex. In america today, and everywhere else where capitalism and imperialism have gone unchecked, unchallenged and unchanged, sexism is deeply entrenched into the social fabric. Indeed, in self-proclaimed socialist societies, also, remnants of sexism remain to be rooted out.

We do not have the time to analyze in detail my assertion that the roots of modern day sexism are found in prehistoric Europe. However, the statement, I am sure, is too provocative to most of us to be accepted simply at face value. So for purposes of brevity I cite a reference. The reference is The Cultural Unity of Black Africa, by Cheikh Anta Diop, published in America by Third World Press.2

Diop's book traces and analyzes the development of patriarchy and matriarchy, the class characteristics and clashes of the two social systems, the merging of the two, and the domination of patriarchy over matriarchy. At the risk of oversimplifying a complex topic, we summarize Diop's findings to include the positing of a two cradle concept. These two cradles are Aryan and African, northern and southern, patriarchal and matriarchal. According to Diop's analysis, which contests that of other social scientists, including Marx and Engles, matriarchy is not universal.. The history of human development in its progressive movement did not go from matriarchy to patriarchy, for in fact, there never was a matriarchy in Europe. "As far as we can go back into the Indo-European past, even so far back as the Eurasian steppes, there is only to be found the patrilineal genos with the system of consanguinity which at the present day still characterized their descendants."

What is matriarchy? Is matriarchy the domination of women over men? Is matriarchy amazonism? Is matriarchy lesbianism? Is matriarchy strong women and weak men? No. Matriarchy is a social system within which blood relationships are traced through the maternal line and within which women enjoy equal political and economic rights.

Why should a wife and child assume the husband/father's name? Traditionally this was done for the purposes of the protection of property rights, namely, the identification of property and the succession of property.

Today, we continue using this patriarchal form of naming allegedly in order to identify the parents of children and vice versa. How unscientific to trace parentage via the father, when there is no known conclusive proof of male parentage. How much more scientific and simple it is to trace parentage via the mother, because regardless of whether the actual father of the child is known or unknown, the mother of the child is identified conclusively by the fact of giving birth to that child.

In a patriarchal society, the concern is not with identifying parents but rather with identifying property, hence children born so-called "out of wedlock."  This is just one small example of the pervasiveness and perverseness of the patriarchal social system. However, let us return to our central concern. Regardless of the roots of sexism, it should be clear that sexism is a real and reactionary way of life that must be eradicated.

Today, women continue to get less pay for equal work, and lack equal access to both educational and employment opportunities. Today, women continue to be regarded as the sexual toys of powerful men, men whose social relationships with women are controlled more by the heads of their penises than the heads on their shoulders, men whose main modes of reasoning conditions them to think that they can either buy or take a woman's body. Today, rape continues to be one of the most common and unreported crimes in America. Today, childcare continues to be virtually nonexistent and/or exorbitantly priced.

One sure sign of sexism is the objectification of women's bodies, the turning of women into commodities to be bought, sold, bartered for or stolen. The gains in women's rights, just as the gains in civil rights for African-Americans, are seemingly becoming little more than paper formalities and highly touted token adjustments.

African-American women are still the most exploited stratum of american society. In fact, throughout the world, the lower class woman of color is on the bottom of nearly every society within which she is found.

Virtually every indicator of social inequality proves this to be the case,, whether we are discusiing employment or illness, educational development or access to leadership and decison-making positions.

In conclusion, I urge that we open our eyes to the reality of sexism and fight it. I urge everyone, particularly men, to speak out against sexism and support the struggles of women to defend and develop themselves. I urge greater attention to be paid to the social and material conditions which lead to an reinforce sexism, a deeper and more accurate analysis needs to be done, and resolute and uncompromising action needs to be taken.

The denial of any human right is always based in the political repression of one group by another group. Sexism does not exist because women are "unclean during their monthly periods," nor because women are weaker than men, nor because "god' was unhappy with the behavior of women. Sexism exists because men have organized themselves to oppress and exploit women.

Sexism will be eradicated only through organized resistance and struggle. Women's rights will be won only when we consciously overturn all vestiges of patriarchy and "bourgeois" right. No person has the right to either own, oppress, enslave, or exploit another person. Sexism is not a right--it is a wrong.

We must stand for what is right and fight against what is wrong.

My attempt has not been to analyze in detail the denial of human rights for women, rather I had a more modest goal in mid. I seek to place on the agenda of human rights the question of women's rights as a top priority item.

I hope that this topic has shown "Pandora's box" to be a myth created by men who want to keep "women, coloreds, and other inferiors" hidden in the dank caves of injustice and reaction as a top priority item.

I hope that I have broadened the view on what human rights is, and indeed, on who human beings are. It is so easy in america to forget that women are human beings, to forget that women have rights. Hopefully, this presentation will stir up opposition to sexism, will bring women and men out of their shells of self-denial and isolation, and into the light of truth and justice.

It will not be easy to win rights for women, just as it will not be easy to defeat South Africa, just as it will not be easy to stop nuclear power, to clean up the environment, to end economic exploitation, to plan and control the economy, or to win national liberation for  African-Americans. But it can be done. Sexism can be smashed.

My hope is that from this day forward we will not hesitate to stand for women's rights, to place it on any and every agenda of progressive social development. Know that when you stand for women's rights you stand beside the most courageous and progressive people who have ever lived. You stand next to men and women who are not afraid of the future because they are willing to struggle in the present to correct historical wrongs.

A great woman by the name of Sojourner Truth once gave a brilliant speech which included the famous phrase "ain't I a woman!" This is continuance of that woman's work. In the spirit of Sojourner Truth, I urge you to join in the struggle for women's rights, whether you are woman or man. If Sojourner were here today she would challenge you in the same way. Sojourner is not here, but her spirit is. Although I ain't a woman, I say without hesitation that women's rights are human rights. I am committed to and call for the smashing of sexism and the securing of women's rights. I believe that we will win women's rights.

1Cabral, Amilcar. "Return to the Source." Monthly Review, 1973, p. 85.

2Diop, Cheikh A. The Cultural Unity of Africa. (Chicago: Third World Press, 1959), p. 45

"Women's Rights Are Human Rights" was first presented at an international Human Rights Conference that was held during November 1978 at Xavier University in New Orleans; later, it was published in BLACK SCHOLAR (Vol.10, Nos. 6,7).

This essay is contained in the book: Our Women Keep Our Skies From Falling

Cover Drawing by Douglass Redd  copyright July 1980 By Kalamu ya Salaam

ESSAY: RAPE: A RADICAL ANALYSIS FROM AN AFRICAN-AMERICAN PERSPECTIVE

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

[This essay was originally published in 1980 as part of the book Our Women Keep Our Skies From Falling. The essays from the book are available onlline >http://www.nathanielturner.com/raperadicalanalysis.htm]

 

RAPE: A RADICAL ANALYSIS 

from an African-American Perspective

 

The struggle to eradicate sexism and develop African-american women is, in our opinion, a key and critical aspect of our people's struggle for a better and more beautiful life.

Sexism is the systematic repression and exploitation of one group of people by another group of people based on the criterion of sex. Sexism, as institutionalized in America today, manifests itself as the social and material male domination of women.

Sexism, like capitalism and racism, is a pervasive evil that must be rooted out and eradicated through conscious, uncompromising and consistent struggle. But smashing sexism will not be easy.

First, we must fight against the myth that sexism is not a major problem in the African-american community. Second, we must deepen our theoretical and analytical understanding of sexism so that we can know precisely how to proceed.

Our purpose in this presentation is to offer an analysis and theory of the phenomenon of rape, one of the most blatant and violent forms of sexual oppression. Hopefully this presentation will inspire women to fight back, will inspire men to be self-critical, and will inspire each reader to reassess their own thoughts and actions with respect to woman/man relationships in general and the sexist practice of rape in particular.

The Need for a Radical Analysis

From an African-American Perspective

Throughout this country and particularly in the south, rape has been a controversial and emotion-drenched crime. Both the myths that surround rape as well as the societal responses to specific and alleged cases of rape have been fraught with ulterior motives which generally have done little if anything to assist the victim of rape, to rehabilitate (or even punish) the person who rapes, and to identify and remove the social causes and support mechanisms of rape.

Those who have heretofore addressed the issue of rape have generally done so from a narrow perspective which limits both analysis of. as well as proposed solutions to, the rape crisis. They have been divided by a culturally induced parochialism that causes one group to deny or depreciate the relevance and importance of another group's experiences and analysis.

Like the proverbial five blind people describing an elephant, groups with different orientations have latched onto different aspects of the rape problem and proclaimed their position the most important or relevant. However, just as an elephant is more than a tusk, trunk, torso, toenail or tail, rape is more than an excuse to lynch African-american men, a crime that happens to one out of twenty women in this country, an expression of macho manhood, a crime of violence, or an inherent and inevitable aspect of man/woman social relations in this society.

Without an analysis which starts with an assessment of the material and social reality of rape in its various manifestations, and then places those findings in a cultural and chronological context, there can be no overall coherent and relevant understanding and solution to the problem of rape.

Rape a Malignant Cancer in Our Community

Rape is rarely thought of as a major problem in the African-american community. But the statistics present a different picture. (At this point, it is important to note that statistics are skimpy and in many cases nonexistent on a detailed basis. There is still a great deal of data gathering to be done.)

Magaret 0. Hyde, writing in her book Speak Out On Rape!, reveals this most startling statistic:

 

large numbers of people believe that black men are more likely to attack white women than they are likely to attact black women. Many people believe that poor men typically attack rich women. Yet studies show that the rapist and his victim tend to be of the same race and class. According to the leading study by Menachem Amir, Patterns in Forcible Rape, 77 percent of all rapes have been committed by black men raping black women.

 

Before Amir's study in 1971 there was no major study of rape per se. Amir's pioneering study was based on reported rapes in Philadelphia. Other studies have collaborated that rape is primarily intra-racial and intra-class.

Susan Brownmiller, in her influential book Against Our Will, digs into Amir's study and into his background. Brownmiller then offers an analysis that puts the high incidence of Black men committing rape into a fuller perspective. Her analysis is based on the work of Marvin Wolfgang, the professor who taught Amir.

An understanding of the subculture of violence is critical to an understanding of the forcible rapist. "Social class, "wrote Wolfgang, "looms large in all studies of violent crime." Wolfgang's theory, and I must oversimplify, is that within the dominant value system of our culture there exists a subculture formed of those from the lower classes, the poor, the disenfranchised, the black, whose values often run counter to those of the dominant culture, the people in charge. The dominant culture can operate within the laws of civility because it has little need to resort to violence to get what it wants. The subculture, thwarted, inarticulate and angry, is quick to resort to violence; indeed, violence and physical aggression become a common way of life. Particularly for young males.. .there is no getting around the fact that most of those who engage in antisocial, criminal violence (murder, assault, rape and robbery) come from the lower socioeconomic classes and contribute to crimes of violence in numbers disproportionate to their population ration in the census figures but not disproportionate to their position on the economic ladder.

Rape is a sexist crime of violence. It should not be surprising then that the general African-american community is plagued by high rates of rape.

But beyond BrownmilIer there is a more important truth. In the African-american community there seems, at first glance, to be more violence. But really that violence is puny when compared to the violence of the larger white community. Among our people, violence is primarily directed by one member of our community against another member of our community. Whereas, in the larger white society, violence is directed against other ethnic groups, against other nations and cultures, against different classes but rarely against each other; except, and not surprisingly so, among poor whites.

The violence of African-american men is deplored and fought against. The violence of white men is legitimized and celebrated.

White male violence is called big business, good government, law and order. Priests and ministers bless the violence of white men. Movies make heroes out of white macho men.

Yes, crimes of violence are high in the African-american community, but it is not because our people are violent by nature. In the absence of liberation theory. organization and practice, petty violence of self-aggrandizement often seems the only way to get ahead. But our petty violence pales in comparison to that of the majority of the whites who created and continue to perpetuate the American ideals. We've dropped no atomic bombs, we've never stolen whole continents, nor committed genocide against the Native American, nor enslaved millions of people. The truth is that violence, to quote Brother Rap Brown, is as American as "cherry pie."

All of America is violent, even though the violence of the dominant society is often disguised, externalized and legitimized. The violence of sexism, specifically rape, is, in its institutionalized forms, distinctly a phenomenon imposed on us by the dominant society.

The number of people annually killed in factory "accidents," many of them due to faulty equipment or unsafe working conditions, is a violence which rivals the infamous homicide rate in African-american communities. But, such violences are rarely compared because this would expose precisely where the violence originates and who benefits from the perpetuation of violence. Joe Brown is frustrated and confused when he shoots his best friend over an argument about a bottle of beer. J. P. Stevens is thoroughly clear and conscious when he creates the conditions which lead to death under his employ.

In the same way, the rich, generally are not thought of as rapists. Those statistics which do exist will show the rich as a small percentage of rapists, yet further investigation will reveal that the rich generally do not show up in crime statistics because the laws were made to protect them.

For example, if you are rich enough to get an excellent lawyer, you can be acquitted on most cases which go to court, and can generally get out of even having to go to court. -In capital offenses and other major cases, you can plea bargain for a lesser charge, get light and/or suspended sentences, and achieve a parole much quicker than the poor charged for the same crime.

This note of caution is necessary less we be mislead by the available statistics. While our concern is with the high rates of Black on Black rape, it is at the same time necessary that we place this concern into the proper context. Otherwise, we will fall head long into the racist mythology about rape, namely that African-american men are rapists by nature.

It is bur contention that the class and racist nature of America conspires to render white rapists invisible and simultaneously, shines the spotlight on African-american rapists.

Nevertheless, the greater violence of the white world which victimizes us can in no way be used to excuse or condone the violence we commit against each other, and particularly the sexist violence we African-american men wage against African-american women.

Rape: An American Way of Life

Ellen Bernstein and Brandy Rommel, writing in the October 1975 edition of Today's Health magazine, present an overview of the frequency of rape in America. "In 1973 there were 51,000 reported rapes in the United States - 1 every 10 minutes. While this represents a 55 percent increase in reported rapes since 1968, according to the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), rape is still one of the most underreported crimes in the nation."

If it is true, and we firmly believe that it is, that rape is the most underreported crime in America, then one can easily imagine the pervasiveness of rape in the African-american community.

In America, both past and present, it has been the African-american woman who has been the leading victim of rape. During slavery the rape of the African-american woman by her master and other men (particularly if they were white) was both legal (or covertly condoned) and common. After slavery, the rape of the African-american woman is technically illegal but, in fact, as the statistics show, rape is an everyday occurrence that happens disproportionately to African-american women. The depressing truth is that the problems of African-american women have always been ignored by both our own community and the larger white society.

Brownmiller notes that while Fanon (in Black Skins, White Masks), for example, wrote extensively on woman/man relationships and specifically spoke of the rape of the white woman by the Black man, Fanon had literally nothing to say about the Black woman.

 

Purely and simply, this radical theorist of third-world liberation was a hater of women. With an arrogance rarely matched by other radical male writers, Fanon goes on, "Those who grant our conclusions on the psychosexuality of the white woman may ask what we have to say about the woman of color. I know nothing about her."

 

Tragically, in that respect, Fanon is not the only Black man who knows "nothing" about Black women. For the most part, the literature of the Black liberation movement speaks seldom of the particular concerns of Black women, or of the Black woman as a human being whose existence is not necessarily tied to that of a particular man. However, this is not something peculiar to the Black liberation movement, but rather is reflective of the general misogynism of western civilizations. Misogynism is often unconsciously mirrored and advocated by men and women of color in their attempts to be accepted by the west. Hence, we understand why Fanon makes such a statement in Black Skins. White Masks.

One of the most shameful aspects of the aftermaths of slavery is that we Black men have, for the most part, in practice if not in theory, internalized American sexism. As a result, we treat women as objects to possess rather than as co-equal human beings with whom we should share our lives, loves and struggles.

The African-american woman has been the least understood person In American history. It is no wonder then that the alarming high frequency of African-american women being raped can be so easily

ignored. The rape of African-american women is not seen as a major problem precisely because the victim is both Black and female in a racist and sexist society.

Rape: The Historical Context

Rape is a violent form of male domination of women. Initially, in the European tradition and before that in the Judeo-christian tradition, rape was defined primarily as a property crime, i.e. the stealing of one man's property by another man. This led to the "legal" position on rape which denied that a man could rape his wife because she was de jure (in law) "his property."

As western society developed into modern American society, rape began to be defined as "unlawful carnal knowledge (sexual intercourse) with a woman without her consent." The law did not, just as in earlier history, apply to man and wife. In most states, to prove rape (unless, of course, it was a Black rapist and a white victim) it was necessary to prove both that force had been used and that there was penetration of the vagina by the rapist using his penis.

Needless to say, this was difficult to prove and often led to the humiliation of many women who sought legal redress. Rape victims, having already suffered rape, were then further subjected to "legal humiliation" on the witness stand as the lawyer for the rapist would question the victim's sexual history, question the specifics of the "alleged rape," and often, perversely, charge that the victim of the rape through her own actions caused the whole incident to' happen. Although, there has been some reform of the law in the area of question which are permissible to ask of a rape victim in court, there is still a great deal of psychological warfare waged against the rape victim when she attempts to seek legal redress.

But, whether viewed as strictly a property crime or as sexual assault (force), in the final analysis, the reality of rape was, and generally continues to be, determined predominately by men who are either the "owner" (i.e. the husband) or the legal authorities (i.e. male judge and juries). In its historical context, rape is a crime which adversely effects women but which is generally adjudicated by men.

Although rape disproportionately affects African-american women, she is seldom thought of as the prime victim of rape. Yet the authorities and the sociology experts know this. They have statistics and interviews which give them the data base to make the correct determination about who is most affected by rape. Instead the rape issue is used as one more club to beat African-americans into submission.

The objective result of rape and the societal reactions to rape is that it is used as a means to keep African-american men and women terrorized. While it is important to note that all women are victimized by rape, it is critical to note how the reality of rape is manipulated when it comes to the African-american woman as victim and the African-american man as rapist.

As Nathan Hare and others have noted, the white woman hollers but it's the African-american woman who suffers the highest percentage of rape and the African-american man who is stereotypically pictured and prosecuted as the number one rapist. This is the reality which colors African-american responses to rape. Unfortunately, this reality has led too many of us to dismiss the realness of rape as a major issue.

Rape: A Sexual Crime of Coercion

Rape is any sexual intimacy forced on one person by another! This definition is sufficiently broad as to cover forced acts of a sexual nature which do not necessarily include sexual intercourse per se, and is sufficiently specific so as to provide a reliable index to determine when rape has actually occurred. While this definition admits the possibility of women raping men or raping other women, the conditions under which we live, determine that, in the vast majority of cases, we are dealing with men raping women.

In America today, rape is the most violent form of sexual imperialism, i.e. the act of rape is an act of denying women authority/autonomy or self-rule in the same way that political imperialism usurps the sovereignty of colonized nations and peoples.

Rape is a specific reflection of a social system. Depending on who the victim and who the rapist are, rape becomes a very precise expression of the ideologies of capitalism, racism and sexism. If rape is artificially divorced from this context than it can not be fully understood and dealt with.

In their book Against Rape, Andra Medea and Kathleen Thompson offer a culture-bound view of rape in America:

 

...to talk about rape we are obviously going to have to talk about a lot of other things as well. We are going to have to talk about how men think of women in this society, how they therefore relate to them, and what they do to them. Correspondingly, we are going to have to talk about what women think about men. We are going to have to talk about what it is in our society that not only fails to prevent rape but actively, if covertly, encourages it.

Rape is not a special, isolated act. It is not an aberration, a deviation from the norms of sexual and social behavior in this country. Rape is simply at the end of the continuum of male-aggressive, female passive patterns, and an arbitrary line has been drawn to mark it off from the rest of such relationships.

 

In America women are seen and projected as sexual objects, objects which are pliable, mindless and almost of another species. Women as sexual objects may be bought (prostitution and marriage) or stole (rape). By extension, sex becomes a possession that men consume rather than a social relationship that women and men share. The objectification of women, the obliteration of women as human beings and their projection as sexual objects, is inextricably woven into the total fabric of American culture. This wrong is not a simple rip or tear which can be mended but rather is a defect which demands the development of another culture/another society in order to reestablish human relationships between women and men.

Upon even a cursory investigation of America it becomes clear that nearly every popular image of manhood includes "owning a woman, whether it be "the successful man with a good woman behind him" or the hollywood lover who "always gets his woman." The television commercials make clear both overtly and subliminally, and the billboards flash the message bigger than life, material acquisition means and includes acquiring women. Buy a new car, you get a woman. Buy a pack of cigarettes, you get a woman. Buy anything and a woman is thrown in. This is the image projected by advertising in America.

In this context, sex becomes something you buy directly or indirectly. Lacking the money or the desire to buy sex, sex then becomes something that men take from women. If at first the woman is reluctant, just apply a little forceful persuasion and everything will be all right. The point is that, due to the capitalist, racist and sexist basis of American society, every sexual contact between the average woman and man is, to one degree or another, heavily influenced, if not outright determined, by a male dominating and female degrading frame of reference.

The society at large encourages and condones macho behavior, a behavior which includes: 1. the active exploitation of women as sexual objects, 2. the institutionalizing of male chauvinism, and, 3. if the man is African-american, the attempt to deny that African-american women are significantly affected by the sexism of American men of all races. The society, also forces women to exhibit a passive behavior which includes: 1. their submission to the sexual objectification of a woman's body by capitalism, 2. submission to the sexual imperialism of sexism, and, 3. if the woman is African-american, the special oppression of racism which denies not only that a woman is equal to a man but also denies that an African-american woman is equal to any other woman.

In a society such as this one, rape becomes the rule rather than the exception. In this society, women are systematically , coerced against their wills to act Out a sexual behavior that completely denies them sexual self-determination, or, worse yet, their thinking is manipulated so that they seemingly voluntarily act out in sexist determined modes of behavior.

Rape: the Four Forms

Rape covers a broad range of activities. We have identified four broad categories of rape. They are 1. brutal rape, 2. bogart rape, 3. business rape and 4. bed rape.

When men talk about rape they generally only refer to one type, brutal rape. Brutal (or forcible) rape is the only rape universally recognized by law. But the three other types of rape are also rape in that sexual intimacy is forced on one human being by another. Understanding rape requires that we understand all forms of rape.

BRUTAL RAPE is an act of rape accomplished simply by the use of actual, threatened or implied physical force. It usually involves a rapist and a victim who either do not know each other at all or who have met only as passing acquaintances, although the rapist may and often does "stake Out" the prospective victim. This is the rape we read about in newspapers, hear about on the radio and watch reports of on television. Unlike, the other forms of rape, this act of rape is usually perceived to be rape from the perspective of both the rapist and the victim.

BOGART RAPE is an act of rape accomplished by persistent demands, physical pressure, threats of reprisals, and appeals to the maintenance of an on-going relationship. Examples of bogart rape include 1. "either give it up or start walking" said to a woman when parked at night five miles in the middle of nowhere, 2. men requiring that a woman be sexually submissive in order for her to "get and keep him." The latter is a devastatingly effective technique when you consider that there are many more "available women" than "available men.

Bogart rape usually involves a rapist and a victim who know each other. This type of rape generally takes place within the context of and as a normal part of woman/man relationships in america. In dating, most of we Black men will try a woman at least once and most women  expect to be tried. This is the sexist etiquette of dating.

BUSINESS RAPE is an act of rape accomplished by threat of the termination of employment, or the promise of employment, a raise, a better score on a test, a better grade in school, a promotion or some other form of material or social "compensation" or "payment." This type of rape takes place between the woman worker/student/applicant and her male employer/professor/supervisor.

This is a type of rape that is seldom specifically talked about between women and men because of a number of factors. Perhaps, chief among these factors are, one, the woman often needs the job/grade, and two, the woman is afraid to reveal the rape to the men she is close to as she knows that there is little they, or anyone, can do about it and revealing it would only hurt the men close to her. Besides, she could never prove it was rape as the rapist seldom physically threatened her. Yet, it is rape nonetheless.

The pervasiveness of business rape is most sharp and deep among African-american women in the lower economic stratum, many of whom are single and have children for whom they are the sole source of support. These women, in particular, have learned to take "approaches" and business rape attempts as a normal part and prerequisite of obtaining a diploma or employment in America.

BED RAPE is an act of rape accomplished by force and legitimized by the legal marriage contract. In this type of rape the force is rarely physical. Bed rape is the most subtle (and perhaps the most common) type of rape. Many married women, often being materially and emotionally dependent on their husbands to one degree or another, decide that it is easier to submit sexually than suffer the consequences of not submitting.

In this context, from the American perspective, the marriage contract is seen as a guarantee of sex on demand for the husband. Many women are unable to say no to their husbands without fear of some form of reprisal, so they grin, bear it, and fake sexual satisfaction. But often, not only don't such women enjoy the sexual encounter but, more importantly, they were either not prepared or did not want to engage in sex.

By far, it is social pressures brought to bear that makes bed rape a reality. Women feel forced to engage in sex, not because they enjoy it or desire it, or even because they fear a beating if they don't, but rather many women engage in sex with their husbands because they know that this is what the man wants and they have been taught to serve men.

Unsaid, in this form of rape, is the implied assessment of the woman's worth. Sex on demand is not only something that men want, but indeed, according to the norms of this society, sex on demand is what a husband is suppose to get. When he doesn't get it then something must be wrong with the woman. A woman's feelings of guilt, frustration and dependency thusly become the effective forms of coercion.

These forces are made maddeningly effective by the fact that the individual man does not have to do or say anything, indeed, does not have to even be aware that the sexist forces are at work on his wife when he demands sex. The society within which we are raised brings the pressures to bear. This pressure is constant and thorough. The whole of christian education on sunday, and American tradition on the

other six days have prepared women to passively accept this type of rape. In this context, revolt becomes an act which induces feelings of shame and guilt. Many women can not tell their husbands that they don't desire to have sex at a given time without feeling some degree of shame or guilt.

Added together, these four broad categories of rape cover an exceedingly wide range of sexual encounters between women and men in America.

Rape: Understanding the Victim and the Rapist

One of the worse aspects of the crime of rape is that it is a common and ordinary crime. As we have previously documented, rape happens to women everyday in America and, proportionate to the population, the majority of these women victims of rape are African-americans. They are the chief victims.

Because of our own acceptance, admittedly often unconscious, of sexism, few men attempt to understand the devastating impact of rape on the victim. Few men can appreciate how much the rape victim is dehumanized. Few men can comprehend the psychological terror and its long lasting aftermath of fear that accompanies the act of rape. For example, even male rape victims are often not as traumatized. No man has ever been left with the fear of pregnancy as the result of being raped.

Perhaps the crushing blow is the social stigma attached to the "victim" of rape by the society. A female victim of rape does not receive the same immediate concern, particularly if we were not close to the victim, as does a male victim of rape. The male victim is viewed as a person whose "essence," whose very being, i.e. his manhood, has been assaulted and breached. Some sexist go so far as to suggest that rape is worse when it is a male on male rape. Even in the context of rape victimization, women are treated less than equal.

A female victim of rape must often answer a long string of challenges to her womanhood and morality. We want to know the details, we want to know was it her fault, we want to know was it really rape or did she "tease" the man or lead him on, or perhaps she just got caught "doing it" and decided to scream rape. Too often it is assumed that there was something that the woman did or did not do that contributed to the rape taking place. In other words, a woman is seen as a consenting partner in her rape. Such thinking displays an incredible misunderstanding of the reality of rape.

Women do not rape themselves. Women do not like to be raped. Men rape women, and the majority of rape cases are not of the brutal, stranger in the dark, type. Rather, the majority of rape cases are perpetrated on women by men who know or are acquainted with their victims.

Frederic Storaska, Executive Director of the National Organization for the Prevention of Rape and Assualt (NOPRA), writing in his book, How to Say No to a Rapist - and Survive, based on his study and experience, makes this statement:

 

Contrary to popular opinion, most of the time rapists and their victims aren't even strangers. Over the years, I've found that in about 35 percent of the rape cases the woman was assaulted by her own date, in the dating environment. Very few rapes of this type are reported. Most women (or men) have an emotional stake of their own in portraying their dates as acceptable, even desirable, human beings. About 35 percent of the time the rapist is someone else you know - a friend, neighbor, boss, co-worker, relative, friend of a friend - in other words, someone you thought you could trust, someone you never dreamed presented any sort of a threat to you. Rape in these cases often goes unreported, too, for a variety of reasons, including the embarrassment of innocent parties, perhaps those through whom you know the rapist. Finally, about 30 percent of the time the rapist will be a total stranger, someone the woman didn't know at all, though he may have known who she was or seen her several times prior to the attack. More rapes of this type are reported to the police than of any other kind.

 

In collaboration with Storaska, Meda and Thompson find that, "If a woman is raped, according to statistics from the study by Menachim Amir and according to the results of our questionnaire, the chances are better than 50 percent that her attacker will be someone she knows,"

The point is that in the majority of the cases the victim of rape is a woman (or child) who the rapist knows. This combines with another factor to drive home the fact that rape is, at root a common occurrence in this society, an activity that the American society culturally condones and propagates. The other factor is that the average rapist is, by psychological standards, a "normal man."

The average man in America fits the profile of the rapist. Writing in the September 1971 issue of Ramparts, Susan Griffin, in her article entitled "RAPE: The All-American Crime," noted that "According to Amir's study of forcible rape, on a statistical average the man who has been convicted of rape was found to have a normal sexual personality, tended to be different from the normal, well-adjusted male only in having a greater tendency to express violence and rage.. Alan Taylor, a parole officer who has worked with rapists in the prison facilities at San Luis Obispo, California, stated the question in plainer language, 'Those men were the most normal men there. They had a lot of hang-ups, but they were the same hang-ups as men walking out on the street'."

The reality of the victim and the rapist is exactly the opposite of what most people believe. Most victims do not desire to be raped and did not do anything to bring it on. Most victims knew who raped them. Most rapists are, psychologically, normal men.

Perhaps, the worse aspect of rape in America is that it is not a crime of uncontrollable passion but rather a cruel and calculated domination of women. Medea and Thompson report that "In Patterns in Forcible Rape, Menachim Amir revealed that the majority of the rapes in his study were premeditated. Of all the rapes, single and group, 82.1 percent were wholly or partially planned in advance."

If we are to deal with rape, we must begin to understand that we are dealing with a phenomenon which is often planned on the part of the rapist, often resigned to on the part of the victim, and often covertly encouraged by this society at large.

Rape: Facing the Reality

We believe that there are two major reasons that men generally don't deal with rape except to commit the act. First, most men are not concerned with women as women and are only concerned about "their" women, i.e. "their" mother, wife, daughter, lover and sometimes their sister. Second, most men have either committed, attempted to commit or seriously considered committing an act of forcing sexual intimacy (i.e., rape) on a woman, and therefore, feel either callous, guilty or defensive on the subject of rape. By rape, we must remember, we mean sexual intimacy based on coercion.

Due to the sexism of the society within which we are raised and whose values we usually unconsciously adopt and practice, the vast majority of we men are backward in our social relationships with even those women who are close to us. We generally are making no active and consciously serious attempt to struggle against sexism which oppresses those "special individuals" whom we love, nor are we struggling to help "our women" develop themselves.

What most of us do is go along with the general view of women. We may treat "our women" a little better or nicer but beneath it all, most of us consider women lower than men, i.e. less intelligent, innately less politically advanced, less capable of making sound decisions and taking charge of situations. Of course, there are many women to point to as examples of this alleged inferiority of women to men, but the crucial question is, are women this way because of their nature as women or are women this way because of the nature of this society?

Our sexist view of women requires we men to praise women who fit our stereotypes and persecute those who do not. This leads us to slander strong women. Don't we say of strong women 'the broad/bitch trying to act like a man," "she too mannish/manly," "she must be a bulldyke," "she need a man?"

What is really happening is that a strong woman, just by being strong, contradicts our backward concept of women. Thusly, in the interest of maintaining our own backward views and in the interest of maintaining the over riding sexist social structure which is both the nurturing environment and rewarder of male chauvanism, we men beat down and/or deny and depreciate the "womaness" of strong women.

Given this American society. unless we men are consciously and actively fighting sexism, then without a doubt, at the very least we are unconsciously committed to being backward in our personal and political dealings with women!

This backwardness is a reflection of our own general sexism vis-a-vis all women and is in no way lessened by how we treat or feel about individual women to whom we are emotionally close.

It is this sexism which blinds us to the understanding of the cruelly of rape and other forms of male domination of women, and also causes us to consider rape a far away crime of isolated and infrequent incident until it happens to someone very close to us. For the most part we men seldom give rape a second thought and sometimes we even slyly smile inside, wondering, as we visualize the rape victim, was it "good."

Which brings us to the second cause for a general lack of concern among men about rape. Cold and extreme as it may sound, most men have been involved in a rape, an attempt at rape or the serious consideration of committing rape. Think a minute. Rape, as we define it, is forced sexual intimacy. The force could be physical pressure, emotional feelings of guilt, social reprisals or any number of other forms of coercion. Of course, we realize that to understand rape in this way means that we must painfully reevaluate our entire theory and practice of woman/man relationships, but that is the whole point. We must scrap the present sexist modes of woman/man relationships. They are despicable and must be changed.

To rape a woman, a man invariably must see that woman as less than human or at least less than his co-equal. Rape requires that a man become an oppressor, and in the case of we African-american men, rape means that we become not only oppressor but also traitor. We betray not only part but all of our people when we rape our women. But, as the statistics and continuing cases of rape attest, we men keep on raping our women.

Incredible as it may seem, many men rape women without considering what they are doing as an act of rape. Using either physical or social force and coercion to consummate sexual intimacy is so generally accepted in this society that most men are not even conscious of the fact that they often resort to the use of force in their interrelationships with women. Because of the extreme negative connotations associated with the word rape and the corresponding general acceptance of using force in everyday woman/man relationships, "rape" is reserved to describe the most violent forms of brutal rape, such as the knife at the throat of a stranger, but is not applied to the everyday, although more subtle but nonetheless coercive, uses of threats or intimidations to make women sexually submissive.

While we do not and would not suggest that all four types of rape employ the same degree of violence or have the same traumatic effect on their victims, certainly there are degrees and differences, but still the critical element remains, i.e. the coercive use of force in sexual relations.

One indication of the pervasiveness of the use of force is the many rationalizations of force that we men use to justify battering down a woman's resistance to our sexual advances: "you know you really want it," "you can't fight the feeling." To a man seeking sex, when a woman says "no" he interprets her answer to mean "she's playing hard to get." In other words, we believe that "she wants to, but she wants me to take it," i.e. be a man! Of course, we men usually rise to the challenge and force the woman to say "yes," force the woman to engage in sex.

After having consummated the sex act, no one can convince us that she meant no. Our successful use of force blinds us to the reality that we used force. Our chauvinistically inflated male egos blind us to the reality that women do not enjoy forced sex even though they may fake or pretend satisfaction and enjoyment. The subtleness and pervasiveness of the use of force not only blinds we men to the fact that we have just committed rape when we use force, but indeed, tragically, sexism also sometimes blinds some of our women to the fact that they have been raped. Many women, after years of sexist indoctrination, have learned to expect the use of force. Women in general don't even consider "ordinary sexual aggression" by men as unusual. Women expect sexual assaults.

We men must begin to understand that it is not the degree of violence employed, nor is it a question of whether or not the woman is a stranger that determines whether or not rape has taken place, but rather it is the use of force, whether consciously or unconsciously, that is the dividing line which determines the difference between consensual sexual intimacy and rape. When we men refuse to recognize as rape the various ways in which we force or coerce women to sexually submit to us; when we men deny, even in the face of evidence to the contrary, that rape is a serious problem which traumatically affects its victims; when we men deny that a man can rape "his" wife, reductively what we are doing is reinforcing the sexist practice of non-brutal forms of rape.

The bottom line on the rape question has, in fact, nothing to do with what men think about their relations to women. Regardless of what we men think, if a woman feels forced to submit and we have done nothing in practical terms to make clear that we will respect her right to say no without some form of reprisal, then we have raped that woman.

Rape is real. Rape is a dominate feature of woman/man relationships in America today. A correct appraisal of the entrenched pervasiveness of rape is a necessary first step toward eradicating rape.

It is also important to recognize that among the many reasons that men in general rape women and that African-american men specifically rape African-american women, two of the leading reasons are that 1. men can get away with raping women and 2. the rape/domination of women becomes a surrogate exercise in power and social control which are uniformly and without question denied to African-american men in the society at large.

Lynda L. Holmstrom and Ann W. Burgess writing in The Victim of Rape specify how the judicial system is skewed against African-american women:

 

Race of the victim makes a great difference. The conviction rate when the victim was white was 6 of 60(10%), compared to only 2 of 48 (4.2%) when the victim was non- white. The conviction rate was even lower when one looks at black female victims, only 1 of 43 cases (2.3%) led to a conviction for rape. The one case was that of a five-year old girl. Thus not one black adolescent or adult woman was able to take her case to the criminal justice system and have her definition of the situation sustained.

 

This was a study of Boston rape cases which made it to court and does not deal with the many cases which never go to court, and which, in fact, are seldom even reported. Punishment for rape is spotty and seldom at best, and in the cases where the victim is an African-american woman, punishment is virtually non-existent.

When this lack of social restraints is combined with a frustrated male seeking to exert himself, the resultant social situation is one which not only condones but indeed encourages African-american men to rape African-american women in order to maintain a macho-defined and depressingly counterproductive sense and definition of manhood.

Of course the white, male ruling class recognizes that it is in their own interest to allow rape to exist as a surrogate to access to real power, which power this white, male ruling class wishes to maintain in total. So, on the one hand, rape is a general palliative used to soothe over the frustrations of men who, because of race and/or class, are not allowed to be men as men are commonly defined in America. On the other hand, rape is the ultimate boogeyman in the racist nightmare. It is the ultimate theft of the white, male ruling class' property.

Thus, as Alison Edwards points out in her polemic pamphlet Rape, Racism, and the White Women's Movement: An Answer to Susan Brownmiller, "although the rape laws did not specify 'for blacks only' that is what they meant. Out of 455 executions for rape in the last forty years, 405 have been of black men... .No white man has ever been executed for raping a black woman." So, while the white, male ruling class is not overly concerned with intra-racial rapes, or with white men raping African-american women, the mere mention or suggestion of an African-american man raping a white woman is met with a pavolian, frothing at the mouth response watered by the tumor racist glands of the white body-politic of America. It is not the sexual assault of a woman which is really at question in such cases, but rather the "black" theft of "white" property.

With all of these dynamics happening, it does not take a genius to figure out that the safest and most accessible manifestation of "macho" manhood available to African-american men is the sexual domination of African-american women. No understanding of rape in America is complete without an understanding of the racist and economic, as well as sexist, scenario that is being played out in the act of rape.

Understanding Rape

Understanding rape in total is not merely a case of sympathizing with a victim but rather is a necessary element of our liberation struggle. Understanding rape requires not crying with women who have been victimized but fighting men who rape women and helping to arm women with the theory and practice necessary to smash sexism and repulse rape. Above all, understanding rape requires that we men actively fight the theories and practices of sexism within a capitalist and racist society.

This means that we men must fight our own weaknesses, must fight those negative aspects of ourselves and other men which are reflections of sexist thoughts and practices. Understanding rape requires that we change our own thinking not only about women, but indeed, about our ownselves as men, about what defines manhood, about our social relationships. Understanding rape requires new and necessarily rectifying revolutionary behavior.

While few of we men will openly admit that we have raped, attempted to rape, or seriously considered raping a woman, at the same time very few of us have not tried at one time or another, in one form or another, to force or coerce a woman to submit to our sexual desires. Think about it, brothers. How many of us can honestly say that we have never forced or coerced, through using either physical or social pressure, or attempted to force or coerce a woman to submit to us sexually? Very few of us, very few

The fact that many men have been routinely involved in acts of sexual coercion (rape) makes it doubly difficult for we men to confront and understand rape. Most of we men will admit that rape is wrong and if pressed, many of us will admit, at least to ourselves if not to others, that we have forced or coerced a woman. But the probability is high, that few of us would admit that what we have done is rape, even though our actions effectively suppressed the sexual self-determination of those women whom we coerced.

Understanding rape requires not only that we understand how it affects a woman but also that we understand and deal with why we men commit and continue to commit acts of sexual coercion.

Within the context of American society, rape is, in the final analysis, purely and simply an act of male domination. Rape is a "force connection" (See Beyond Connections: Liberation In Love And Struggle, Dr. M. Ron Karenga, AHIDIANA Publications) that in most cases has nothing to do with establishing a consensual sexual relationship. Instead, rape has, as an inherent objective, the forcible consumption of a sexual object (the woman) by the master (the man). This forcible consumption requires the domination of women in order to turn them from active human beings into passive sexual objects.

Rape is an aggressive act intended to bring a woman completely under a man's control. Rape denies the woman any significant decision making powers within a social relationship.

Rape is wrong. Rape runs completely counter to what we are trying to achieve in building a better and more beautiful future for ourselves and generations to come. But rape is what we men do and will continue to do until we consciously understand rape and are organized to stop rape.

Rape: Organizing to Stop It

As for stopping rape, women can and should defend themselves and fight back, both physically and politically.

While individual women can and should learn self-defense and the use of weapons, the priority of self-defense work should be on organizing the communities in which women live and work. People must be recruited to be part of an anti-rape militia. The active intervention of politicized third parties is a most effective means of helping to stop rape - particularly brutal rape.

However, the political education of women and men on the issue of rape is of the utmost importance. Politically women must begin speaking out on the evils and realities of rape. Silence and shame must cease being the chief characteristic of the rape victim. We must share struggle. Women must speak to each other and to men. Women must link rape to the overall sexism of American society and show how the sexist link interlocks in the chain of capitalist and racist oppression and exploitation.

Not only must women fight back, indeed, until women revolt against sexism as a whole, business will continue as usual.

Nevertheless, in the overwhelming majority of cases, women do not rape women. No matter how much or how well women fight back, rape will not be completely eradicated as a social disease until men stop routinely raping women. This means that men must be organized to stop rape!

The organizing of men to fight sexism and end rape will essentially come about thorough the efforts of women struggling for their own self-determination. Men, as a whole, will not voluntarily give up the male dominant position in this society.

For some men, political persuasion and political education will be sufficient in organizing them to join the ranks of those struggling to smash sexism. Other men will require political action in the form of contact with women who refuse to be dominated and who can articulate, theoretically and where necessary, physically, their opposition to manifestations of sexism. This politicization process will surely also include contact with fellow men who are actively and willfully standing up as men in opposing male chauvinism and sexism.

The key element in stopping rape will be organizing all who can be organized to improve Black woman/man relationships. We must be both patient and persistent in our efforts to overturn an entrenched social system that is rooted in our past experiences, daily lives and future aspirations. This struggle will necessarily include intense self-criticism and unity-criticism-unity sessions which are free and frank in their exchanges and yet not vindictive or petty. Feelings will be hurt and egos damaged, but the struggle will make us stronger and make us better. Social struggles are never easy.

Conclusion

As long as male domination exists rape will exist.

This does not mean that rape is eternal, nor does it mean that until we change every man rape will continue to exist. This means instead that the eradication of rape will be a serious and protracted struggle that will involve much more than increasing so-called "police protection" for women. This means, also, that we are confident that we can transform ourselves and the society within which we live, struggle and die.

Rapists will not voluntarily stop raping women, but women revolting and men made conscious of their responsibility to fight sexism will collectively stop rape. Such women and men will stop all forms of exploitation and domination among themselves, and simultaneously attempt to stop others from exploiting and dominating anyone.

The first place to stop rape is, of course, at home and within our organizations. In the process of accomplishing that task, we will become physically and politically strong enough to challenge and change this capitalist, racist and sexist society.

Perhaps the analysis sounds harsh and extreme but look around. Is it not true that the state of relations between African-american women and men is at a depressing low point? Is it not true that sexism, as a social system and every day actuality, weighs very hard on the lives of African-american women?

If we concede that these are the conditions, then we should concurrently concede that drastic steps are needed to halt the deterioration of African-american female/male social relationships. A radical analysis, an analysis which goes to the root, is not afraid to expose wrongs, regardless of how near to us the wrongs may reside. We believe that through revolutionary practice we can transform our weaknesses into strengths and build to higher levels based on the strengths we already have and will acquire in the heat of the struggle to improve and beautify.

A revolutionary practice, which calls for and institutes the overturning of backward ideas and behavior and the establishment of progressive ideas and behavior, is what is needed.

Our purpose has been to call into question our present conditions and theoretical assumptions vis-a-vis male domination in the form of rape. This is, from our perspective, a prerequisite in preparation for the development of a new and necessary way of African-american women and men viewing and working with each other and other human beings.

We believe that fighting sexism and developing the productive and creative capacities of our women is a key link in our struggle of national liberation. We believe that rape is one of the main cogs in the sexist machine of male, white ruling class domination. We believe, and have attempted to prove, that rape is a particularly pressing problem in our communities that must be openly confronted.

Rape can be stopped. Sexism can be smashed. Some of us have vowed that we will fight it until it is finished. Won't you help us grasp a key link in our struggle?

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—kalamu ya salaam

 

SHORT STORY: COULD YOU WEAR MY EYES?

photo by Alex Lear

 

 

 

 

Could You Wear My Eyes?

 

At first Reggie wearing my eyes after I expired was beautiful; a sensitive romantic gesture and an exhilarating experience. For him there was the awe of seeing the familiar world turned new when viewed through my gaze, and through observing him I vicariously experienced the rich sweetness of visualizing and savoring the significance of the recent past.

I'm a newcomer to the spirit world, so occasionally I miss the experience of earth feelings, the sensations that came through my body when I had a body. I can't describe the all encompassing intricate interweave of spirit reality -- "reality" is such a funny word to use in talking about what many people believe is so unreal. I can't really convey to you the richness of the spirit world nor what missing human feelings is like. I'm told eventually we permanently forget earth ways, sort of like when we were born and forgot all those pre-birth months we spent gestating in our mother's womb, in fact, most of us even forget what it feels like to be a baby. Well the spirit world is something like always being a baby, constant wonder and exploration.

Reggie must have had an inkling of the immensity of the fourth dimension --which is as good a name as any for the spirit world--or maybe Reggie guessed that there was a meta-reality, or intuited that there was more to eyes than simply seeing in the physical sense. But then again, he probably didn't intuit that this realm exists because, like most men, centering on his intuition was difficult for Reggie, as difficult as lighting a match in a storm or imagining being a woman. In fact, his inability to adapt to and cope with woman-sight is why he's blind now.

I was in his head and I don't mean his memories. I mean literally checking his thoughts, each one existing with the briefness of a mayfly as Reg weighed the rationality of switching eyes. This was immediately following those four and a half anesthetized days I hung-on while in the hospital after getting blindsided by a drunk driver a few blocks beyond Chinese Kitchen where I had stopped to get some of their sweet and sour shrimp for our dinner. Through the whole ordeal Reggie never wavered. Two days after my death and one day before the operation, Reginald woke up that Monday morning confident as a tree planted by the water. Reggie felt that if he took on my eyes then he would be able to have at least a part of me back in his life.

He assumed that with my eyes he maybe could stop seeing me when he brushed, combed and plaited Aiesha's thick hair or sat for over an hour daydreaming at her bedside while she slept, looking at our daughter but thinking of me; or maybe once my chestnut colored pupils were in his head then my demise wouldn't upset him so much he'd have to bow his head like he was reverently praying when a woman jumps up in church to testify--like sister Carol had done the day before--and has on a dress the same color as the one I often wore.

Reginald was so eager to make good as a husband and father, to redeem whatever he thought was lost because of the way he came up. I am convinced he didn't really know me. He had this image, this ideal and he wanted that in the worse way. Wanted a family, a home. And I was the first woman he ever loved and who ever loved him. All the rest had been girls still discovering themselves. We married. I had his child. And for him everything was just the way it was supposed to be. For me, well, let us just say, some of us want more out of life without ever really identifying what that more is and certainly without ever attaining that more. So, in a sense, I settled -- that's the woman Reginald married. And in another sense, there was a part of me that remained restless. I hid that part from Reginald. But I always knew. I always, always knew me and yes, that was what really disoriented Reginald. He loved me and I could live with his love, but until he wore my eyes he never got a glimpse of the other me.

I used to think there was something wrong with me. I should have been totally happy. Of course, I loved our daughter. I loved my husband. I could live with the life we had, but... But this is not about me. This is about the man whom I married. I married Reginald more because he loved me so much than because I loved him back like that--I mean I loved him and all but I would never have put his eyes into my head if he had been killed and I had been the one still alive.

After we went through all the organ donation legal rigmarole, we actually celebrated with a late night seafood dinner; that was about eight and a half months before Aiesha was born. Just like getting married, the celebration was his idea, an idea I went along with because I had no good reason not to even though I had a vague distaste, a sort of uneasiness about the seriousness that Reginald invested into his blind alliegance to me. You know the discomfort you experience when you have two or three forkfulls left on your plate and you don't feel like eating anymore, but you have always been taught not to waste food so you eat that little bit more. Eating a few more mosels is no big thing but nonetheless forcing yourself leaves you feeling uneasy the rest of the evening. I can see how I was, how I hid some major parts of myself from Reginald and how difficult I must have been to live with precisely because he didn't really know the whole person he was living with, and he would be so sincerely worshiping the part of me that he envisioned as his wife, while inside I cringed and he never knew that despite my smiles how sad I sometimes felt because I knew he didn't know and I knew I was concealing myself from him. Besides, what right did I have not to eat two little pieces of chicken or not to go celebrate my husband's decision to dedicate his life to me?

In hindsight I came to realize I shouldn't have let him give me things I didn't want. Reginald would have died if he had known that having or not having a baby didn't really make that much difference to me. He wanted... You know, this is really not about me. When we went to celebrate our signing of the donation papers, I didn't know then that I was pregnant but even if I had, we wouldn't have done anything differently; stubborn Reginald had his mind made up and, at the time, I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the sincerity and dedication of Reg's declaration--my husband's pledge to wear my eyes was unmatched by anything I had previously imagined or heard of. When somebody loves you like that you're supposed to be happy and if you aren't well then you just smile and, well, I think when he saw the world through my eyes he saw both me and the world in ways he never imagined.

The doctors told Reginald there usually weren't any negative side effects, although in a rare case or two there were some unexplained hallucinations but, even for those patients, counseling smoothed out the transition. The first week after the operation went ok and then the intermittent double visions started. For Reggie it was like he had second sight. He saw what was there but then he also saw something else.

Sometimes he would go places he never knew I went and get a disorienting image flash from a source about which he previously would never have given a second thought, like the svelte look of a waiter at a cafe, a guy whose sleek build I really admired. Reginald never envisioned me desiring some other man. I don't know why, but he just never thought of me fantasizing sex with someone else and now suddenly Reginald looks up from a menu and finds himself staring at a man's behind. Needless to say, such sightings were disconcerting. Or like how the night I got drunk on Tequila would flash back every time I saw limes. Reginald is in a supermarket buying apples and imagines himself retching, well, he thinks he's imagining dry heaves but he's really seeing the association of being drunk with those tart green, lemon-shaped fruit. And on and on, til Reggie's afraid to go anywhere new, afraid he'll run into another man I had made love to that he never knew about, like this person he saw in a bookstore one day, a bookstore Reginald never went in but which I used to frequent. That's how I had met Rahsaan. Reggie just happened to be passing the place, looked inside the big picture window and immediately peeped Rahsaan. When he looked into the handsome obsidian of Rahsaan's face with it's angular lines that resembled an elegant African mask, Reginald got the shock of his naive life. He didn't sleep for two whole days after that one.

And when he closes our eyes to sleep, it's worse. A man should never know a woman's secret life; men can not stand so much reality. Their fragile ego's can't cope. It's like they say in Zimbabwe: men are children and women are mothers. Being a child is about innocence, about not knowing the realities that adults deal with every day. Men just don't know the world of women. So after Reginald adopted my eyes, you can just imagine how often he found himself laying awake at night, staring into the dark trying to make sense out of the complex of images he was occasionally seeing: awakened by the terror of a particularly vivid dream in which he saw how he had treated me, sometimes abusing me when he actually thought he was loving me--like when we would make mad love and he wanted me to suck him, he would never say anything, just shove my head down to his genitals. Sex didn't feel so exquisitely good to him to see his dick up close, the curl of his pubic hair.

Although the major episodes kept him awake and eventually drove him down to the riverside, it was the unrelenting grind of daily life's thousands of tiny tortures that propelled poor Reg over the edge. Looked like every time he turned around in public he felt unsafe, felt vulnerable to assault from men he previously would never have bothered to notice. Seemed like my eyeball radar spotted potential invaders everywhere Reg looked: how to dodge that one, don't get on an elevator with this one, make sure there's always another person nearby when you're in a room with so-and-so. And even though as a man Reg was immune to much of the usual harassment, it became a real drag having to expend a ton of precautionary emotional energy in the course of taking a casual stroll down the block to buy some potato chips. The strain of always being on guard was too much for Reg; he became outraged: nobody should have to live like this is the conclusion he came to.

He never knew when the second sight would kick in and the visioning never lasted too long but the incidents were always so viscerally jolting that they emotionally disoriented him. In less than two weeks it had reached the point that just looking at make-up made Reg sick. He unconsciously reacted to seeing some shades of lipstick by wetting his lips with his tongue, like there was something inappropriate about him having unpainted lips--a vague but powerful feeling that he was wrong for being like he was started to consume him. And he couldn't bear to watch cable anymore.

The morning Reginald blinded himself, he stood on the levee staring into the sun without squinting. Silent tears poured profusely down his cheeks. He kept saying he had always thought our life together was beautiful, and he never knew I had suffered so. And then he threw a twelve ounce glass, three-quarters full of battery acid onto his face, directly into our unblinking eyes. A jogger that morning found Reginald on his knees, shrieking. The runner ran to a house and begged the people who lived there to call an ambulance for a Black guy folded over on the levee screaming about he didn't want to see anymore, couldn't stand to see anything else.

—kalamu ya salaam