Certain circumstances have compelled me to think about
the image of the black woman. The circumstances, though recent, are like the
stale lyrics of song whose relentless repetition has worn out its welcome
in my subconscious. And the only remedy for relief is to confront
its banality with careful and renewed interest.
Behold the image of the black woman. Is she delicate? Innocent? Vulnerable
in a way that arouses feelings of concern in those who observe her? Does
she warrant empathy and compassion? When in difficulty, is she
to be rescued or best left to her own devices? Is she excused
when weak, applauded when strong? In search of answers, one has only
to look as deep as the general perception of her.
According to the image, the black woman is limited to
a few distinct yet relentless aspects of being. She is strong, resilient, resourceful,
and self-reliant. The preeminent caretaker of others. Physically
sturdy, exotic even in strength that could easily match a man’s. At
a distance often intimidating, slightly threatening and cold. If
she’s sweet then she’s silly and firmly grounded in her
place to please others. In some instances she is solemn and reserved
in others defiant and loud – with unaccounted for possibilities
of disposition in between. Her complexity is portrayed in caricatures
of polar extremes. But, whether stoic or hysterical in form, the substance
that flows beneath her surface remains uncharted by most. Because
the solidity that she is known and often revered for fuels her neglect.
Consideration for the black woman is undermined by the
unyielding image that accompanies her in every step. Her wholeness is condensed
to a simple reduction: one part strength, two parts resilience,
the rest evaporating into what others perceive as her fortunate ability
to keep-on-keeping-on. The fortune, it seems, belongs only to those
who escape the burden of her care. For, in this state of
hardiness and force of will she is abandoned, isolated in all that
ostensible strength. Let in a little sunlight to illuminate the
black woman’s day and the havoc reaped by the image is immeasurable.
The image can overwhelm or, worse, “underwhelm” us with
feeling. Is she worth my empathy? Does she deserve my compassion?
Image imposes answers to these questions before they’re even
asked. It fights to gain permanency in our hearts and minds, staking
claim in our subconscious. And it blocks a deeper exploration
into her true condition, dulling even the most basic human response
to signs of trouble. When her children die do we weep and pause
with her? Or is her loss too commonplace to mourn? Why then should
we watch in wonder as she wails and pounds on the tiny of coffin of
the only one who considered her precious?
A friend once shared stories of traveling with his girlfriend
in Southeast Asia. She stormed from their hotel room during one of their countless
arguments and as pissed as he was (and as stubborn as he still is)
he walked for hours in search of her. I believe his exact words
were “I couldn’t let blondie run all over Thailand by herself.” The
implication being that she wouldn’t be safe. “Blondie” is
the quintessential damsel in distress. And despite the caustic storm
brewing beneath this particular blondie’s surface, he was compelled
to save her. His was a visceral response to the “blondie” image: an
innocent in need, bordering on fragile. I’ve always wondered
if his response would have been the same had “blondie” been
black. Of course, this man would deny any variance in his desire
to rescue a woman in danger. To do so would concede to some
twisted form of discrimination among budding knights in shining armor.
But the question is would he perceive the black woman as being in any
real danger? Even the most gallant souls are susceptible to
the power of the image. Unfortunately, the secret to deprogramming
ourselves still eludes us.
Most tragically, the black girl grows to the woman who
believes in and dutifully becomes the image. She personifies the image
that confines her to a predicament of “inherently strong”, hijacking
her sense of being entitled to need. And she sinks under the
heavy expectations it presses on her. She’s forgotten how to
ask for help if she ever knew. And should she remember, who would
answer her call? Asking for help when the world in delicate
balance depends on your not asking is, well, too much to ask. So,
when a black woman ”acts out” is she angry or is she depressed?
The stability of the image lies in all that’s at stake in sustaining
it, in continuing to imagine that the black woman is exactly what we
need her to be. Who will nurse our children, pick our crops,
cook our food, clean our toilets, lead her people to “freedom” in
North, march through our streets, boycott our buses, desegregate our
lunch counters, deliver our mail, heal the sick, run our small businesses,
help meet our corporate quotas, become the first black woman to…,
and raise the sons of fathers incessantly plucked to serve time in
our jails or kill time on death row? All at once she is both
devalued and overrated. And in the end it’s just best to assume
that she will accept what’s heaped upon her as inherited birthright.
The black woman remains isolated by a world that, pardoned by the image,
has decided that for her “everything will be all right.” The
truth is, those words spoken in tender reassurance rather than sanctioned
neglect could be her salvation.
Viewed as an asset, even those close to her can assume
that the black woman’s tenacity somehow diminishes her need for love and nurturing. I
explored the image with a young, enlightened brother and blew his mind. He
wondered aloud about the trappings of the image and how his own perceptions
of the women he held in highest esteem may have led him to underestimate
their need to be coddled. He questioned whether the effects
of the image, and his unwitting allegiance to it, could be reversed.
His awareness coupled with an earnest desire to act with intention
suggests, at least among black folk, a beginning to the end of the
image.
Even in lust, she is distant. She is the other. Not made
up of the same stuff – no shared bits or pieces. As the
other, she falls away from the “we-ness” that bonds us
in feelings of empathy and sameness. Hers is not the image we
protect and hold dear. It is not the image of sugar, spice, and
everything nice. And I begin to comprehend the enormity of any
effort to alter our collective ability to imagine her any other way. Image
is everything.
The Danish philosopher Søren Kierkegaard once said that to
label someone is to negate them. Image is an unimaginative and
careless concoction of labels. It dampens curiosity and arrests
any inclination to look beyond what little we think we already know.
But even in my concession to the power and persistence
of the image of the black woman, I’ve devised an escape – a
possible way around or through it.
Close your eyes.
Open your ears to her sound.
Extend your reach to her texture rendering what you “see” as
a truer reflection of she.
And in this moment of belated benevolence, take her hand
and gently whisper in her ear “everything is going to be all
right.”
Ericka Smith has a career in politics,
union organizing, and environmental justice. She is a freelance
writer living in Pasadena, CA.
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