Saturday, October 9, 2010

I have trekked the path…

Friends… this is my final entry for American Motherhood. 
While short-lived, this has been an exhilarating journey, full of revelation, of admission and of spirit for me.  I have examined not only who I am as a woman, but who am I as a mother! 
I have trekked the path of the Caucasian woman, molded by society to be submissive to the man, to be the mother of his children, to put the wants and needs of others in a primary position.  To know the agony of the anger I feel, the need for someone to lift the burden, take the weight from my shoulders.  To suffer the loneliness of raising a family alone, to experience the agony of seeking respite from the stressful responsibility of caring for tiny human beings, to know the ultimate ecstasy of what life is all about through the understanding of the undying, unconditional love for my children.
I have trekked the path of the African-American woman, never afforded a moment of rest.  My body used and abused, solely due to the pigment of my skin.  I have picked cotton until my fingertips bled, endured rape by the white sharecropper’s sons, bore children whose fathers were unknown, served as a housekeeper of those who did not appreciate my service, suffered accusations of theft that were untrue, fought to free my children from a life of crime, discrimination and suppressed education; and battled the foes of society simply because I was born black.
I have trekked the path of the Lesbian mother, never considering my own biological composure.  Longing for the satisfaction of motherhood, yet understanding the unyielding force of nature.  Realizing that no matter my inclination, my body is designed to replicate itself, to bear a child.  To understand that I, yes, the lesbian that I am, am worthy of being a mother.  I have enough love in my heart, in my soul, to bring forth from my body, the greatest gift of life itself – a child.
Dawn - 3 yrs old
I have trekked the path… the path of my real life, Dawn's life.  Not fiction or fairy tale.  I have worked all my life, since the age of 14.  I have strived to be the perfect wife, the steadfast mother, the impeccable employee.  I have struggled far more than my family will ever understand to create a happy home, to give my children the best in life, to create for the world a legacy that will live on far after all that remains of me are ashes in the ocean.  I have tried my damnedest to be Super Woman!
I have trekked the path.  Not a day goes by that I fail to give thanks for my life, which in comparison to others has been relatively easy.  When I complain about all I have on my plate, I pause to consider others and realize that I have been blessed!

Our wedding day - 1977

Not a day goes by that I fail to give thanks for my husband of 33 years, who has never sought the company of another woman since I met him 35 years ago.  The man who understands my challenges at work and at school, prepares me dinner when I work late, shops for all the groceries because I am studying,  does his own laundry because he knows I don't have the time and even washes the dishes while I seclude myself finishing my academic pursuits.  The man who loving takes my hand to dance, almost every weekend; our bodies in sync to the rhythm, our eyes staring at one another, our hearts entwined forever.


My Dad & I at my birthday party

Not a day goes by that I fail to appreciate my Father, who throughout my life taught me what it means to be a loving parent.  To give a little, but love a lot - to communicate where the boundaries lie - to stare into his eyes; and see myself.  The father who worked all his life to fill my world with materials, who was present for every major event in my life, in my children's lives, exemplifying what family truly means.  The man who faithfully stood by my mother's side for every doctor's appointment, every dose of chemo, every radiation treatment.  Who changed the urine soaked sheets, cleaned the carpet after her stomach refused to contain a drop and stopped working for over two years to attend to her needs.  Who spent long sleepless nights by her side until her body could endure no more.  Who, upon her passing at 3:30am, asked my brother and I to hold hands, encircling her still warm, yet graying body as he prayed to commend her spirit to Almighty God, confident in the knowledge that he would see her again.  All the years of planning, of working, of dreaming of the golden years ahead, to be spent with his soul mate, his wife of 46 years, suddenly snuffed out by cancer, leaving him alone to face a new world, full of solitude and reflection.
My daughters circa 1983, Holly in back, Hailly in front
Not a day goes by that I fail to offer the utmost highest gratitude for the blessing of my beloved daughters.  It is for them that I live, that I sojourn on.  For as I gave them life, so they gave me the desire to live.  They are my life’s work, my pride, my passion, my joy.  My sacrifices, my efforts, were all for them.  I continue to live and breathe for them, although they have their own lives and successful careers.  They are my greatest joy.  I feel that I was created to create them.  They have fulfilled me, loved me and continue to sustain me as I approach the end of my days on this earth.  They owe me nothing, as they have given me more affection, more delight, more fulfillment than I ever dreamed possible.  
My beautiful, intelligent daughters: Dr. Hailly - Audiologist on left, Dr. Holly - Cardiologist on right

My husband Rich & I - April 2010
I am a wife.  A Southern wife who was raised to make others comfortable and welcome before looking after myself.  A wife who has been fortunate enough to know the love and dedication of a good husband.  To endure the good times and the bad.  To realize that nothing is worth coming between us except infidelilty - which thankfully we have not experienced.
I am a mother.  I am blessed by being a mother.  My mission on this earth is to be a mother.
My life's greatest reward is being a mother.  Writing the entries in this blog, examining the strife of women throughout the history of America, has caused me to greatly appreciate my heritage, the sacrifices of all women in the US, and develop a greater understanding of the gaps of American History which affords no credit whatsoever to the brave, courageous women who created the great nation we rever today.
Because I am a mother: Love, happiness and gratification surround me eternally!

My wonderful family! left to right: Dr. Hailly, Dawn, Rich, Dr. Holly


I remember....

I remember. 

I remember when people who were not heterosexual were called queers.  When people would physically harm them, even kill them, because they were different.  I remember when, in the name of the Lord, those amongst us whose bodies marched to a different drummer were chastised and banned from the church, from society, to live their secret lives in darkness.   I remember.
I remember. 
I remember when I thought their sexual nature was their choice.  I remember when I realized that their propensity was not optional. I remember when I knew in my heart that my friends were different, yet they longed to be ‘normal.’  I remember when I defended them against the cries of others, professing their integrity against all odds.  I remember the agony, the discomfort of witnessing them living in their bodies.  I remember the alcoholism, the drug abuse, the suicidal nature…. which sometimes won.  I remember the pain, the tragedy of the rejection, alas - the heartache of losing a loved one, witnessing them slowly destroy themselves, simply because the world did not understand them.  I remember the horror, the pain of one unable to tolerate the isolation, the criticism.  I remember their decision to exit this earth.  I remember the agony of wondering why I could not have stopped them.  I remember the guilt. 
I remember…. And I still cry.
I remember. 

I remember when I realized that it was not a choice… that it was biological.  I remember how I vehemently fought their oppressors.  How I loved them for who they were, comforted them, cried with them and for them.  I remember how I gave them my undying love… yet, worried that it would not be enough to sustain them through life.  I remember how I embraced them, shedding tears.  Yet my tears were a mere drop in an ocean of sadness that they had already cried.  I remember rejoicing that the world had become a place of acceptance, of understanding.  I remember when they came out of the proverbial closet.  I remember when life became worth living for them, no longer ashamed, no longer despised, no longer scorned.
I remember. 

I remember.. And finally I rejoiced!
She is a beautiful woman, full of life, love and grace.  So why, tell me, just because her biological chemistry tells her that she is lesbian, should she be deprived of the privilege of becoming a mother? 
It is 2010, and thankfully, we have moved far past the cultural rejection of lesbian mothers and gay dads. 
I must admit to you that as a woman, I felt a calling.  Much like a preacher feels ‘the call,’ for me, it was instinctive, almost animal.  I wanted a baby, I needed a baby, to make my life complete.  Once I was presented with that blessed child, it changed my life forever.  My life’s mission, here to forward, was to craft that being into a productive citizen.  To give the world a gift… the gift of my precious child who could change the world!
So, why, I ask you, should the calling be any different for a woman whose biological propensity is different?  Whose preference in a partner is not one of the male gender?  Are her hormones different than mine?  Are her desires to propagate, to be fruitful and multiply as were mine?  Does she not feel the same motherly desire as I did?
Technology has been the answer for many women who are… OK, I am going to finally say it… lesbian.  Through in vitro fertilization, many lesbian couples are able to bear children, biological children, to complete their families.  While some still opt for the male partner, most turn to artificial insemination to impregnate one of the females in the couple, thereby producing offspring.  Offspring with two Moms. 

Cherrie Moraga

If you have not read the writings of Cherie Moraga, I encourage you to take a peek.  Cherie is a lesbian who became involved with a partner who had a child.  She became extremely attached to the young child and loved him beyond belief.  When the relationship with his biological mother ended, she mourned the loss of his company, of his love, and of her maternal relationship with him.  She realized that, although she was a butch lesbian, she longed for a child of her own.  A being born of herself, crafted in her image, to whom she would never again be parted.  At the age of 40, she bore the child that fulfilled her destiny.  She described her son as “waiting in the wings,” waiting for her to open her heart to him, to give him life… to fulfill her life! 

Welcome to 2010, my friends; when parents are not Ozzie and Harriett. 
When by the grace of technology, what is not humanly possible is possible.  
And yet, I still remember!

Friday, October 8, 2010

Black women have always worked, always

I never really stopped to think about the work of African-American women.  To understand the depth and realization that black women have always worked, always. 
African-American women were originally brought to the US as slaves, enduring a life of hardship and misery.  If she was not suffering under the blistering Southern sun in the fields, she was tending to the house of her Master.  As a female slave, rape and sodomy were commonplace.  African-American women often bore children who were fathered by their Masters or other white men who forced themselves on the slave women.  Family ties were discouraged amongst slave women, as it was too hard to lose someone they loved.  Families were split apart when black children were sold at the slave market.  Husbands and partners were often sold or bartered to another plantation.  The life of a slave woman was only 33.6 years and only two of three black children who were born between 1850 to 1860 survived to age 10.  Black women have always worked, always.
Once emancipation freed the slave women, black women found themselves entrenched in one of two roles, either working the fields or domestic work, both extremely low paying jobs.  As more girls entered into domestic work, so did the threat of sexual harassment, as black women were considered easy marks for all men.  Due to the low wages paid to black men in the late 1800s, black women had to work to support the family.  In most cases, black women were live-in maids, whose services may be called upon 24 hours a day.  Black women have always worked, always.
In the early 1900s, Blacks moved about, some departing the South for the big Northern cities.  The role of the black community changed, as did the distinct areas where blacks congregated: men took to the barber shops, pool halls and sidewalks, while women gathered in household and churches.  Women continued to serve as domestic workers, working days for white families.   The level of respect paid to the black ‘maid’ at the time was virtually nil, as black women were still subject to widespread sexual harassment, were accused of being dishonest, were forced to wear uniforms, suffered inquisitions regarding their personal lives and were not included in the conversation of the whites, even if they were present in the room.  Black women formed tight community bonds with their sisterhood, often caring for one another’s child while the other worked.  This reliance upon each other was deeply rooted in the church and black women thought nothing of housing or raising other women’s children, if it was what needed to be done.   Black women have always worked, always.
After World War II, the life of the black women should have been enhanced, as blacks finally had access to education, housing and jobs that had been restricted under segregation.  Particularly during the 1940s and 1950s, when Caucasian middle class families enjoyed the luxury of the stay-at-home Mom, most had a ‘housekeeper’ who was a kind black lady, who cooked, cleaned and did the laundry.  Often the ‘housekeeper’ would tend to the children and prepare the meals as well.  This was her full-time day job, working for white families.  Black women have always worked, always.
The advent of the 1980s brought about massive change for the black woman.  It was more common to find single mothers bearing the burden of providing a roof over their heads and food on the table for their families.  In large cities, drugs made the black neighborhoods unsafe, and African-American women struggled to provide a life for their children free from violence, drugs and poverty.  Leith Mullings states that “Central Harlem in the early 1990s found 69 percent of all families with children to be headed by women, and 54.3 percent of these families living below the poverty line.”[1] Gone were the black communities that watched out for other women’s children.  In this dog eat dog world, it was up to each single mother to protect her brood and find whatever work she could.  Black women have always worked, always.
Today’s black women work in a variety of roles, from executives to low paid service work.  Patricia Hill Collins groups working class women into two categories: “those with good jobs in industry and the government sector who constitute the core of the Black working class, and those in low-paid, intermittent service work, who often end up among the ‘working poor.’”[2]  Black women have always worked, always.
 Tracing the steps of the African-American women’s short history in the United States, I garnered a complete understanding of why black women look out for their own.  Why these “othermothers” became so important in the lives of so many black children, reliant upon the black neighbors to care for them while their mother worked so diligently to provide for her family. 
I then considered the aura of the white middle class woman, independent and private.  Relying upon an “othermother” to care for the white child would be an admission by the white woman that she was not capable of her motherly duties.  Even for white women who worked full-time outside of the home, the prevailing notion of the pride a white woman possesses makes her incapable of relying upon others to provide any relief from her motherly duties.  Consequently, white women are overly stressed, often unable to cope with the demands of motherhood.  Imagine what a welcome respite just a few hours of peace would be for the mother of infants, yet the white community shuns any such relief. 

Not that African-American mothers don't experience the same over-taxing stress and demands of motherhood, alas through their sense of community and need to have caretakers for their children because they always work, "othermothers" stepped in to help raise black children and care for them while Mom was at work.
I think the Black “othermothers” got it right, as truly “It takes a village to raise a child!”

Works Cited

Collins, Patricia Hill. "Work, Family and Black Women's Oppression." Collins, Patricia Hill. Black Feminist Thought. New York, New York: Routledge, 2000. 335.
Mullings, Leith. "Households Headed by Women." Mullings, Leith. On Our Own Terms: Race, Class and Gender in the Lives of African American Women. New York, NY: Routledge, 1997. 202.





[1] (Mullings)
[2] (Collins)


Thursday, October 7, 2010

The best is yet to come...

It has been nearly a week since I have posted or updated here on my blog.  Trust me, thoughts have been swirling, but my mind has been buried in a term paper that was due today for an ethics class.  I continue to work about 11 hours each day at my full-time job, and I love my sporatic social life which included a wonderful wedding last Saturday. 

My plans are to post a few more blogs by Saturday (10/9).

So, this quick note is to say hold on... the best is yet to come.  And it will arrive within 3 days!