Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul (11 page)

Even a Dancing Time

Periods. Depending on who you were and where you were, it could have meant a thousand different things. In English class it meant punctuation. In history it meant a stage, a moment in time. But in my twelve-year-old existence it meant a turn in the road, a rite of passage, entry into a clan. It meant the end of innocence and the beginning of something evil, disappointing and downright tragic. It meant that like my sisters, my aunts, my mother and her mother and all the mothers before her, I was cursed.

Memories seal firmly in the mind. One I know I'll never lose is the image of my mother on the morning I told her that my period had begun. There I was, so excited, the words pressing against my chest, poised on my tongue so urgent and ready. The morning was fresh with the scent of summer, and the sun hovered over dense green trees, casting long bands of yellow light across the floor of my pretty-girl-pink little room. Here it was, what we girls had been whispering about since the fifth grade: who had gotten “it” and what “it” felt like; who owned the special “belt” and who didn't; whose mother had taken them shopping for special panties and Kotex pads and whose hadn't. For one solid year, I was in the “didn't” and “hadn't” column. But that day, in the freshness of summer, I stood beaming and excited to be in the “had” and “did” corner of the world.

“Ma, I think I have my period,” I said, looking to the floor, yet secretly smiling.

I lifted my eyes to check her expression after the words floated from my mouth and wafted along the air to her ears. I imagined her sitting on the edge of my bed, an arm curled around my shoulder. We'd climb into our big yellow Chevy Malibu, just the two of us, and make our way over to Sears where we'd walk hand in hand through the aisles, holding training bras with little pink bows and panties to match. We'd find that special little belt that most of the girls already had and later, at home, I would lower it into my nightstand onto a scented sachet pillow as if it were a treasure made of gold instead of spandex. My little heart felt light and full of song.

It wasn't her arms that curled that day but the corners of her mouth, curling in sheer disgust. Her shoulders slumped. Her eyes were heavy and downcast. The next thing I saw was her back, turning to leave the room and then her words, heavy as bricks, crashing to the floor.

“I guess you'll have to go to the doctor then,” she mumbled. And that was it.

The doctor's visit never came. Neither did the sanitary belt or the discussion about what was happening to my body. All that I wanted to know and understand came as whispered misinformation in the coat closet after lunch recess; information that would later be checked and verified against a book I'd found in my older sisters' room.

“Guess what? I heard if a boy kisses a girl on one of those days she can get a baby,” wrote a friend in a scribbled note, passed from two rows over in sixth grade class.

“No you can't,” I wrote back in big letters.

“Oh, yes you can, too” she insisted, exclamation marks at the end, spikes drawn almost as tall as the paper.

Night after night beneath my covers, guided by a single thread of light from a flashlight no one knew I had, I read.

I snuck peeks at pictures of women's reproductive organs and I snickered at images of babies being born. You would have thought I was reading pornography instead of an educational book about the facts of life in an effort to understand what was happening to my body.

For all that I learned from that book and others, I still, for years, held on to the belief that a woman's body—my body—was sinful. As a young teen, I thought breasts were just objects meant for a boy's ogling, wide hips were the result of some girl being “too grown,” and menstruation, a word we sixth-grade girls could hardly pronounce, was not natural and life-affirming but dirty, vile and just plain disgusting. Those negative images and beliefs about my body led to years and years of shyness, hiding my changing shape beneath bigger clothing and doing what I could to not “give a man a reason” to violate me. It took just as many years and miles away from that pretty-girl-pink little room to realize that I wasn't alone.

Talking to my girlfriends, we shared many similar stories and came to the conclusion that our African American mothers, aunts and grandmothers came from a generation of women who rarely talked about those things that are inherently female: periods, breasts and vaginas. For many of them, unfortunately, a menstruating daughter only meant the inevitable trouble of an unplanned, unwanted pregnancy they could ill afford; the language and love and support we girls needed was simply choked back in fear.

“Girl, when I told my mother that I had my period, she broke down and cried,” one friend said over lunch.

“Hmpf! My mother stopped me from playing with the boys altogether,” added someone else, reaching for the sugar.

“Girl, don't feel bad. I'm
just
now learning how to size myself for a bra,” said another, just three years shy of her thirty-fifth birthday.

In sharing our stories, we share our strengths. Somehow, we discover how ridiculous our beliefs can be. The more I shared my story with my friends, the more I learned and appreciated what I now understand as the sacred feminine. Just as the moon makes its way around the Earth every twenty-eight days in a cycle, so, too, does my body cycle to renew and regenerate itself, and what could be more liberating than that? What could be more spiritually freeing than knowing how connected we are, as women, to the divine plan of the universe? What could be more life-affirming than the body of a woman, so fruitful and packed with seeds of possibilities? What could be greater than the stories and poems and music and paintings and the worlds of new ideas all birthed from the body and heart and soul of a woman?

What I know now as a woman that I didn't know as a girl is that not only is my body beautiful and sacred, it is mine to celebrate in the ways that I choose. That “time of the month” is no time for crying or feeling cursed, but for me at least, a time to go within and a reminder to take good care of myself: sometimes a tea time, sometimes a leave-me-alone-for-a-good-long-bath time, sometimes, even, a dancing time. I am science, and I am spirit, but I am nobody's curse.

One more thing I know is this: when that day arrives for my daughter, I
will
curl my arms around her shoulders and welcome her into the fold—the fold of being a woman. I
will
celebrate that milestone with her, not mourn its coming. There we will be, hand in hand, and this time it won't be my imagination.

Angel V. Shannon

Keeping Faith

A doctor . . . a lawyer . . . an actress . . . a queen! That's what she'll be! I couldn't wait to see what my new daughter would become. As an African American woman, I wanted to adopt children of African American descent and raise them to be well-loved, confident, productive members of society. Finally it was happening. My dream was coming true.

The call came after months of waiting. I was in my office. It had been so long since I had heard from the Department of Children's Services, I had almost given up hope. It seemed as if I was never going to have another daughter. My biological daughter was eight and had been hoping for a sister for more than three years. I sipped my coffee and answered the phone on the third ring. The social worker on the other end told me that there was a little girl with no place to go. She immediately aroused every maternal instinct in my body. Imagine a child not knowing the warm, constant love and support of a parent. I was ready to shower her with affection. At the tender age of three, she had already been in eleven different foster homes. The worker continued to brief me by explaining that the child needed to be placed within the hour.

That didn't leave much time to make a decision. Not only was I short on time, I was short on information about this child as well. The only details available were that she was African American and potty trained and that her name was Faith. The social worker wanted to know if I would be interested. Why, of course I was interested! Faith was coming home.

In preparation for my new daughter's arrival, I ran out to buy things for her room, including a beautiful picture of a black ballerina. There was no time to tell my other four children, who were in school, that their new sister was coming home. Alone, I arranged stuffed toys on the bed and hung the picture on the wall. When I thought that everything was suitable, I washed my face, brushed my hair, and headed to the front room to sit down and catch my breath.

Unable to relax, I stood anxiously in the window awaiting Faith's arrival. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, I saw a white van pull up in front of my house. My brown-skinned angel had arrived. But wait! The worker was carrying a small, chubby child with big blue eyes and curly blond hair. She had puffy cheeks and appeared to be very frightened. I was scared, too. I felt her pain deep in my heart but I was still confused. I thought that the child being brought to me was supposed to be African American.

Her social worker explained that although there was some doubt about her paternity, both parents were listed as being African American. Before paternity tests could be run, the father listed died of a heart attack at the age of thirty-eight. What was I going to do? This child would not blend into my existing family. I could not teach this child about a culture that I was unsure of myself. Yet, when I knelt down and looked deep into her piercing blue eyes, my heart told me that none of that should matter. If I turned her away, who would love and care for Faith? Who would encourage, support and be by her side when life got tough? Who would patiently sit with her, night after night, as she learned to read and write? Where would she build her memories? Who would be her “forever family”?

Maybe it was not meant for me to just raise an African American child to be proud of her culture. Perhaps I was to teach this child, who blended into many cultures, how to love herself and others. Perhaps all she required of me was constant love and stability. Then, out of the blue, Faith made the decision for me by saying, “Hi, Mama.”

The first few days were hard for Faith. Every night she cried uncontrollably and had violent temper tantrums. I understood her frustration because I am sure that she was afraid of what the next day might bring. In fact, every time we left the house she ran to get her yellow toothbrush, just in case she didn't come back. Her only possessions had been the clothes on her back, a pair of small shoes and the yellow toothbrush.

I began to purchase new things for her. How she treasured the new pink house shoes that made her feel special!

She loved the Barbie pillowcase she rested so peacefully on. And she adored the little purple stroller, which allowed her to lavish the affection on her dolls that she had been denied in infancy. One day she came to me and said that she needed more dolls. “Ridiculous,” I told her.

“You have so many dolls.” My three-year-old then explained to me that none of her dolls had social workers.

I knew then that it was time for me to move forward and make this adorable little child a legal and permanent member of my family. Until then, she would not be able to move on with her life. Faith had done nothing to deserve being uprooted whenever it was no longer convenient for her to live with a family. I would be sure that she would never have to move again. Instead of getting a child that I thought I could teach about life, she came into my life and taught me many things about myself, my family and what is really important. Yes, this would be her forever home.

What would she be? She would be my daughter.

Tracy Clausell-Alexander

Handpicked to Nurture

C
hallenges make you discover things about
yourself that you never really knew. They're
what make the instrument stretch—what make
you go beyond the norm.

Cicely Tyson

The fight was on. I was determined to win—determined to hear what the masked figure standing over me had to say. As my eyes focused, my brain connected the dots with what I saw. Bright lights . . . blue scrubs . . . glasses— ah, yes! My doctor.

“Worse case I've ever seen. Stage four.”

Too late . . . it won. Without warning I sank back into the hole of unconsciousness I'd fought so hard to leave. I didn't return to the land of the living until the next day when the anesthesia from my exploratory surgery wore off. It was then that I learned my fate—a fate that would make me feel like less than a woman for many years to come.

“Endo what?” I asked the doctor.

“Endometriosis. It's a noncancerous condition in which pieces of the uterine lining grow outside your uterus and adhere to other pelvic structures, most commonly the ovaries, bowel, fallopian tubes or bladder. It is a common cause of pelvic pain and infertility.”

“So what does that mean?” I asked, even though deep in my heart, I knew.

My doctor looked me dead in the eyes. “It means that you will never have children.”

Just like that, at the age of twenty-three, all hopes of one day being a mother died.

A month later, my marriage was buried in the same coffin when my husband decided that being a father was more important than being my husband. Much to my devastation, within two weeks he was gone.