Remember when O.J. Simpson was acquitted of murder? White folks lost their minds and black folks “high fived” one another. White folks, and perhaps rightfully so, believed O.J. was guilty. There was certainly no shortage of evidence against him including prior domestic abuse and given the legal systems’ historical bias against black men accused of any crime against a white person we all expected O.J. to go down. He didn’t. Years later, we as black folks finally have admitted that in all likelihood O. J. did it though that hasn’t stopped some of us from silently gloating over the not guilty verdict.
Enter R. Kelly and his child pornography case. I saw the tape as did many folks. It was sold as a bootleg videotape by street vendors on every corner from New York’s Boogie Down Bronx to L.A.’s Leimert Park. R. Kelly allegedly engaging in sex acts with several black women including what looks like a very underage black girl. Perhaps the most damning section was R. Kelly allegedly setting up the camera; it was an extreme close up as he took his time setting up the shot just right. But the most disgusting section was this man, who looks just like R. Kelly, urinating on the girl post coitus.
During his trial both sides presented a slew of evidence and witnesses including a former protégé of R. Kelly’s who testified that the young girl on the tape was her niece. The girl and her parents deny it was her. R. Kelly says it isn’t him at all on the tape. In all, Kelly’s defense team poked enough holes in the prosecution’s case that he was found not guilty, acquitted, due to reasonable doubt. One of his defense attorneys said, “She is a 13-year-old girl having raunchy, dirty, nasty sex ... with a superstar who’s won Grammy Awards and she tells no one? You couldn’t keep a 13 year-old girl’s mouth quiet about having Hannah Montana tickets.”
But is he really not guilty? Long before this scandal became a blip on the mainstream news radar black and urban news outlets had reported several incidents involving Kelly and women under the age of 18. Most accusations were settled out of court for undisclosed amounts of money and let’s not forget he married the late R&B singer and actress Aaliyah when she was 15 and he was 27, the marriage was quickly annulled.
Again I ask, not guilty? Hmmm... I have some reasonable doubt. There’s no gloating over his verdict over here.
Now, my mama always made it clear from the time I was a wee little thing that I wasn’t to sit on any man’s lap, “I don’t give a damn who it is.” I was also to be suspicious of any man who wanted to hug me all the time, plant copious kisses on my cheeks, or was always trying to be alone with me. Periodically, she would corner me and ask me point blank if anyone “had tried to touch me,” my answer was always NO. She made me a suspicious and cautious child but I was safe because of her. I knew that men that did “those things” to little girls were sick, perverts, because I was a child, a little girl. That is until I turned 12.
Like most of the women in my family I started my period (menstruation) when I was 11 years old. Overnight the hard knots resembling mosquito bites on my chest blossomed into small, perky breasts. My nickname “Niky,” was replaced by a new one, “Hips,” as my own had begun to rapidly spread away from my narrow waist. By the end of my first year as a young woman I was stacked, perfect women’s size 6… at 12 yrs. old. My mother and aunts cautioned me that boys and grown men were going to start noticing me differently than before, making comments about how pretty I was, the shape of my legs or (God forbid) my hips and butt. I was told to stay away from them and report any transgressions to my parents.
I must admit I always had an eye for talent, a fine man that is. As a prepubescent girl I had a crush on everyone. I would always confide in my aunties who I thought was cute. Everyone laughed and the men, if they found out about my crush, would sort of pat me on my little braided head, thank me and quickly dismiss me for the grown women in the room. After I turned 12, the world changed. Men who previously dismissed me as a little girl let their eyes linger on me a little longer.
That summer a handsome musician in my mom’s band was sitting on my porch with his equally handsome brother who had recently returned from the military. I don’t remember why I was on the porch with them but what I do remember is the brother from the military whispering to the musician then asking me to walk across the porch. The musician told me not to but I did it. I knew what his brother was looking at even without him saying it. I did it because I wanted him to like me. I never told anyone, especially my mother.
Later, in that same summer, I spent the night over my former babysitter’s house. That evening a neighbor, a young girl about 14 or 15, came by and as we sat in the living room talking and watching TV a male friend of my sitter’s also stopped by. He was a light skinned black man with a wicked laugh. I remember that he had a long nail on his pinky that my former sitter said was his “cocaine nail.” They laughed, I laughed too… I’d seen Miami Vice. Then, I remember him saying something about the other girl and asking me to stand up. Smiling, my former babysitter told ME not to do it. I stood up. He inspected me, even asking me to turn around, which I did. He nodded with approval and made some comment I can’t recall now. But, as I recall now, this man was someone she knew well… her young toddler’s father. Again, I never told anyone, including my mom.
My first boyfriend was 19… I was 12! Luckily, nothing ever really happened between us, just a slight kiss. I quickly broke it off. (I knew I wasn’t having sex.) Something else, I never told my mom. There are lots of incidences like these that I could list and I am not alone.
All of these men knew my age. None of these men had any qualms about objectifying me sexually and I let them do it… because I was 12. I never told my mother because I knew what she would say and do (I ain’t even mentioning my daddy!). You see, the fact this young woman (13 at the time of this alleged crime) purportedly didn’t tell anyone, specifically her parents or friends, doesn’t cause me to doubt whether or not the incident happened. I didn’t tell anyone because I knew it was wrong, because I wanted to protect the aggressors (the men), because I didn’t want the reputation of being “fast” (too sexually mature). Besides who’d brag about letting someone urinate on them?
All I’m saying is that just like the O. J. trial is thought of by some as a miscarriage of justice. The R. Kelly trial will also live in infamy. The courts may have acquitted these men but we all have the notion that they are guilty… if not of these crimes then something else. If you doubt what I am saying R. Kelly supporters let your young daughter hang out in the studio with him alone. Yeah, I didn’t think so. There’s your reasonable doubt, choke on it.
Showing posts with label truth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label truth. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Black Like Me... and Leon
I was going to write about love and sex, two of my favorite topics but, instead I am going to write about Leon Walter Tillage. When I saw his book lying on a table with other donated books for my teens (whom I teach dance to) I instantly knew that no one was going to pick the book up but me. The book entitled, “Leon’s Story,” is the coming of age story of Leon Walter Tillage who grew up in the rural segregated South but that’s not the reason why I knew no one would dare pick up his book. It was the cover, his picture, a black and white photograph of a smiling young black boy no more than 11 years old with coffee colored skin much like my own. You see, we are conditioned as black people to reject images of ourselves, anything that shows our blackness or some would say African ancestry and Leon is BLACK (definitely of African descent).
I watched my children, class of teenagers, run eagerly to the table of donated books to make their selections then gleefully choose several books. After they were done I was invited to make my own selections and I did, there was one by H.G. Wells, another one called, “A Fungus among Us,” and still another about African American women. When I saw Leon at first glance I gave it a pass. I thought it was about a child living in rural Africa and I wasn’t interested. I considered myself pretty well informed on the subject and it held no interest for me and, to be quite honest, I thought it was going to be about how (insert bad fake African accent here) he was so poor but happy and how men came to his village to build an irrigation ditch and a school, etc… you know, the typical portrait of a child growing up in rural Africa.
As I was walking away with my selections, my supervisor invited me to take more books that were left over and so I took more books… one about a child growing up in Nazi Germany and a couple more about a young black girl and her mother and finally…, “Leon’s Story.” I picked it up out of guilt and shame because as much as I mentally mocked what I thought this book was about the real reason I didn’t want to pick up this book was because I didn’t want to read the story of the little black boy who so very much looked like me. See, I can dance around the issue all I want but the truth of the matter is that at first glance I saw nothing beautiful in Leon’s photograph. I thought it was average and lacked anything remarkable. Instantly, I felt ashamed because I was passing this book by for the same reason the children were because he is so… BLACK.
Now my friends and other people who know me will probably find my statements shocking because not only do I have an African name (Swahili, to be exact) and practice a traditional African (Yoruba) belief system but I also study traditional African dance. I don’t hide from the sun, I revel in it and can be often overheard saying, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice…” I mean, I am supposed to be the poster child of a healthy African (black) identity but, I am not. I am a product of this society and our culture just like everyone else and my psyche, like yours, has taken a beating.
Growing up dark skinned in America is rough, a hard knock life. Thankfully, I came into the world in the 70’s after we discovered “Black is Beautiful” but, even that had taken a back seat in our consciousness when I was growing up. In the 80’s my skin color was the topic of many conversations and the source of many insults from BLACK FOLKS. A male cousin told me I was too dark to be a cheerleader and another time when I and some other cousins were playing in my aunt’s makeup I was told I looked pretty because the makeup made me “not look so dark.” Neighborhood kids made comments about me playing in the sun, “‘cause I would get too black.” Boys would say “ugh… she’s too black,” then secretly want me to be their girlfriend. And when someone wanted to insult you they merely had to call you black or African. The only way for a dark skinned child, female or male, to escape this cruelty was to have “good hair” (long, straight, wavy or curly hair) or “pretty eyes” (blue, green, gray or hazel would do just fine). I used to stare in the sun, risking blindness, so that when someone walking past saw my eyes they appeared to be hazel.
Our objects of beauty and affection were anyone who was light skinned preferably with “good hair” and “pretty eyes.” It didn’t matter if they were cute or not they had met the basic requirement for beauty if they had any of the aforementioned physical characteristics. Seriously, I have seen some butt ugly folks be called attractive because they were merely light skinned and whatnot. If you were fortunate enough to be dark skinned and thought of as attractive people “qualified” your beauty by saying, “she’s cute to be so black.”
Now, amongst whites I fared no better. My first real interaction with whites came when I was in junior high and before that I mainly experienced them through TV (where girls nee children like me were nearly absent). In junior high I felt invisible to whites so I did my best to impress them. I talked about heavy metal and rock (which I really did love) and chatted them up about anything else I could think of but I still remained largely ignored. I was caught between a rock and hard place so, I developed a pretty healthy case of self loathing. The only way I could think of getting some love from my people was to date (and hopefully marry) a light skinned guy or Puerto Rican (white guys weren’t really “in” in my neighborhood) and boy, did I love some light skinned men though seldom did they love me back.
I carried this love throughout my 20’s as my own black consciousness evolved (separate from the one I’d inherited from two Afro centric revolutionary parents). It had become second nature so much so that I hardly noticed that I almost always chose light skinned men to adore. When my best friend pointed this fact out to me it became my shame and I felt almost powerless to reverse this often undeserved attraction. Then in earnest I began dating and I dated decent looking and some down right handsome brown and black skinned men, though I did and do still find myself drawn to a few light skinned brothers. I tend to believe it is my inner child still seeking validation from my race.
I read “Leon’s Story” and it was wonderful. I felt that the ancestors were talking through him to me, telling me that I cannot forget the cruelty our people endured to live and survive in this country and… how beautiful we are as a people. Now, when I look at Leon’s smiling photograph I am reminded of myself. He kind of looks like my father at this age smiling in a school photo, except with more innocence. I look at Leon now and see exquisite beauty, hope and joy in his photo and I’m ashamed that it has taken so long for me to find my own. I embrace him as I embrace myself and I know that I will never ever feel ashamed again.
4/2/08, 1:03am
I watched my children, class of teenagers, run eagerly to the table of donated books to make their selections then gleefully choose several books. After they were done I was invited to make my own selections and I did, there was one by H.G. Wells, another one called, “A Fungus among Us,” and still another about African American women. When I saw Leon at first glance I gave it a pass. I thought it was about a child living in rural Africa and I wasn’t interested. I considered myself pretty well informed on the subject and it held no interest for me and, to be quite honest, I thought it was going to be about how (insert bad fake African accent here) he was so poor but happy and how men came to his village to build an irrigation ditch and a school, etc… you know, the typical portrait of a child growing up in rural Africa.
As I was walking away with my selections, my supervisor invited me to take more books that were left over and so I took more books… one about a child growing up in Nazi Germany and a couple more about a young black girl and her mother and finally…, “Leon’s Story.” I picked it up out of guilt and shame because as much as I mentally mocked what I thought this book was about the real reason I didn’t want to pick up this book was because I didn’t want to read the story of the little black boy who so very much looked like me. See, I can dance around the issue all I want but the truth of the matter is that at first glance I saw nothing beautiful in Leon’s photograph. I thought it was average and lacked anything remarkable. Instantly, I felt ashamed because I was passing this book by for the same reason the children were because he is so… BLACK.
Now my friends and other people who know me will probably find my statements shocking because not only do I have an African name (Swahili, to be exact) and practice a traditional African (Yoruba) belief system but I also study traditional African dance. I don’t hide from the sun, I revel in it and can be often overheard saying, “the darker the berry, the sweeter the juice…” I mean, I am supposed to be the poster child of a healthy African (black) identity but, I am not. I am a product of this society and our culture just like everyone else and my psyche, like yours, has taken a beating.
Growing up dark skinned in America is rough, a hard knock life. Thankfully, I came into the world in the 70’s after we discovered “Black is Beautiful” but, even that had taken a back seat in our consciousness when I was growing up. In the 80’s my skin color was the topic of many conversations and the source of many insults from BLACK FOLKS. A male cousin told me I was too dark to be a cheerleader and another time when I and some other cousins were playing in my aunt’s makeup I was told I looked pretty because the makeup made me “not look so dark.” Neighborhood kids made comments about me playing in the sun, “‘cause I would get too black.” Boys would say “ugh… she’s too black,” then secretly want me to be their girlfriend. And when someone wanted to insult you they merely had to call you black or African. The only way for a dark skinned child, female or male, to escape this cruelty was to have “good hair” (long, straight, wavy or curly hair) or “pretty eyes” (blue, green, gray or hazel would do just fine). I used to stare in the sun, risking blindness, so that when someone walking past saw my eyes they appeared to be hazel.
Our objects of beauty and affection were anyone who was light skinned preferably with “good hair” and “pretty eyes.” It didn’t matter if they were cute or not they had met the basic requirement for beauty if they had any of the aforementioned physical characteristics. Seriously, I have seen some butt ugly folks be called attractive because they were merely light skinned and whatnot. If you were fortunate enough to be dark skinned and thought of as attractive people “qualified” your beauty by saying, “she’s cute to be so black.”
Now, amongst whites I fared no better. My first real interaction with whites came when I was in junior high and before that I mainly experienced them through TV (where girls nee children like me were nearly absent). In junior high I felt invisible to whites so I did my best to impress them. I talked about heavy metal and rock (which I really did love) and chatted them up about anything else I could think of but I still remained largely ignored. I was caught between a rock and hard place so, I developed a pretty healthy case of self loathing. The only way I could think of getting some love from my people was to date (and hopefully marry) a light skinned guy or Puerto Rican (white guys weren’t really “in” in my neighborhood) and boy, did I love some light skinned men though seldom did they love me back.
I carried this love throughout my 20’s as my own black consciousness evolved (separate from the one I’d inherited from two Afro centric revolutionary parents). It had become second nature so much so that I hardly noticed that I almost always chose light skinned men to adore. When my best friend pointed this fact out to me it became my shame and I felt almost powerless to reverse this often undeserved attraction. Then in earnest I began dating and I dated decent looking and some down right handsome brown and black skinned men, though I did and do still find myself drawn to a few light skinned brothers. I tend to believe it is my inner child still seeking validation from my race.
I read “Leon’s Story” and it was wonderful. I felt that the ancestors were talking through him to me, telling me that I cannot forget the cruelty our people endured to live and survive in this country and… how beautiful we are as a people. Now, when I look at Leon’s smiling photograph I am reminded of myself. He kind of looks like my father at this age smiling in a school photo, except with more innocence. I look at Leon now and see exquisite beauty, hope and joy in his photo and I’m ashamed that it has taken so long for me to find my own. I embrace him as I embrace myself and I know that I will never ever feel ashamed again.
4/2/08, 1:03am
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