The longer I stay cocooned in my she cave (my home), the more relaxed I feel. I would say the safer I feel, but every day I hear on the TV news or directly from the mouth of a friend or acquaintance about something terrible that happened to someone while they were inside (what they thought was) the safety of their home. Just yesterday, I learned from a dear friend that her brother had been shot in his house by a stranger attempting to burglarize the home. Thank God, as I write this, her brother is still alive and recovering in the hospital.
Outside or inside, sometimes it doesn’t matter, does it? Nevertheless, the fewer people I deal with face-to-face, the happier I am. No stress, no mess, I always say. Something that happened this morning is a perfect example of why I think that way.
I decided to go to the store. I didn’t need anything that couldn’t wait until my regular order of groceries is delivered next week, or if I were pressed, like craving fresh fruits as I was doing this morning, I’d order from Instacart. Instead, I called my daughter, and we decided to go together to the store. I picked up a few items. As we were getting in line, a black man, I glimpsed from the corner of my eye and guessed was in his late 20s or early 30s, walked up behind us. I never looked back at him, but I could tell he was talking on the phone. He said to whoever he was talking to, “That’s why I don’t deal with black women. They’re all alike.”
My daughter was standing beside me, and she, too, overheard the man’s conversation. Like me, she purposely ignored him. To further convey our disinterest, lest he was thinking he could lure us into a heated conversation in defense of black women, I began talking to my daughter.
Black people have enough challenges without the acrimony between men and women. And, among other things, I feel that the broadcast and entertainment industry fuels the flame. TV commercials featuring mixed-race families, especially those giving prominence to the coupling of black men and white women, are as popular now as air fryers. I know I am not the only black woman bothered by that, but I’m likely one of the few who would publicly admit it. Love who you want; I don’t care, but why do the commercials display such an unbalanced presentation of mixed-race families? Is it because we – black women – are stereotypically portrayed as angry? Even Michelle Obama could not escape that negative label.
The contempt of the man in the store for black women was evident. He was standing directly behind me and made no effort to lower his voice, giving me no doubt that he wanted us to overhear his conversation. I don’t know if he was actually talking to someone on the phone (He had it to his ear.) or faking it, but I suspected he was baiting a trap either way. My instinct told me that he was hoping my very attractive daughter or I would turn around and give him the how dare you look. That would have been his signal to engage us in a verbal confrontation. I envisioned him saying, “Who you looking at? Yeah, I’m talking about y’all.” And then I imagined that he’d say into the phone, “See, what I mean. Bitches in here all in my business.”
I know the game. I’ve seen it played before. I didn’t take the bait.
Instead, my daughter and I pretended we didn’t hear him. If I’ve learned anything in my life, one sure way to piss-off someone – or invalidate them – is to ignore them. So I turned to my daughter, and we began talking about the high cost of food. Had we reacted to his rant, we would likely have given him the pleasure of loud talking us or reinforcing his point to whoever (if anyone) was on the other end of his phone.
As I walked home, I pretended his conversation didn’t bother me, but it did, and it still does. Disparaging black women will not solve his problem. He has more profound issues troubling him. Perhaps it is self-hatred.
On February 14, 1990, Washington Post Columnist Donna Britt published “For Black Men, One From the Heart.” It was a warm-hearted Valentine’s Day message for Black Men who are often portrayed as criminals, perpetrators of violence, and dead-beat dads. Reportedly, that essay brought Britt dozens of roses, numerous phone calls from people expressing their gratitude, and several awards, including one from the National Association of Black Journalists. She also received high praise from us black women who agreed with her.
Black men do not have to fit the stereotypes. In 1965, in his book Message to the Blackman in America, Elijah Muhammed wrote, “One of the gravest handicaps for the so-called Negro is that there is no love for self, nor love for his or her own kind. This not having love for self is the root cause of hate.”
I still feel the sting of the words of the man who stood behind me in the store, although I think they would have been guided like a verbal missile to any other black woman within the sound of his voice. If I could say some things to him, I’d say this: Like you, black women face the difficulties of trust, baggage from past relationships, and sometimes even economic instability. We know that there are many upstanding, hard-working black men out there. I’ve been with one for over 20 years. We respect you. We’ve got your back. All black women do not lump all black men into the same barrel. Please don’t do it to us.