Surviving the Love of Patriarchy

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Art by: https://www.dacre8iveone.com/

For over a month now I have been working on a documentary focusing on the cycle of sexual assault and abuse that has taken residence in the Black community. Originally I wanted the piece to shed light on the impact this type of trauma has had on the Black family. I hoped to peel back the rug and clean up the years of silenced guilt and grime in order to begin healing. Admittedly, this started as most of my projects do very personal and I was uncomfortable by the thought of it. I even pitched it to another director hoping they would take it on but they too were apprehensive. I ended up going for it. It was my hope to start this process with my own family first, using their stories as the base case study. Upon pitching it to my family I received support from some while others, within their right, refused to participate or support it. 

One of my closest friends recognized this same cyclical pattern of sexual trauma in her family and immediately stepped up and shared her truth. She too received criticism from her loved ones but remained dedicated to hope of healing as well as all of the other women I have interviewed thus far.

So when I heard about Surviving R Kelly being released after what I read was years of production, network shopping, and threats and sabotage from Robert’s camp I was extremely interested to see it for a few different reasons. As a filmmaker, I wanted to gain insight on the finalized structure of the docuseries which I knew had a wealth of information. Having a deep interest in activism, I was eager to hear #MuteRKelly co-founder Oronike Odeleye’s insight on the launching of her movement. Oronike also agreed to be a part of my documentary as well. As a friend, I felt like watching further showed support to friends who too experienced traumatic interactions with R Kelly as young girls growing up in Chicago. What I had not anticipated however, was how I would be sucked into the contents of this documentary so much so that I found myself re-watching it in the wee hours of the morning when I should have been asleep for work and got lost in Google searches. There is so much information packed into this docuseries that if you aren’t focused on what is being said you will miss key parts of the storyline.

“I can’t watch it,” one of my friends confided as I sought to unpack the viewing aftermath and the disheartening social media commentary with her. “At least right now - my attacker said, R Kelly had the perfect song, and put it on the recorder and I was assaulted to it - if that says anything at all...” In fact my dear friend, it says it all. At the heart of those who defend Robert lies their “love of the music.” People are unable to separate the man from the music. They are unable to see how he painted the truth of his own predatory and abusive nature in the lyrics of his songs. They can’t wrap their minds around the very fact that every song or album or concert ticket they bought or streamed aided in his ability to pay off victims and their families. I don’t think people are able to fully digest the power mainstream media and entertainment has over the human psyche. Exploitation of Black women and girls in our society, whether in entertainment or everyday life, has the ability to ignite and justify predatory behaviors in others. I understand why we gravitate in very emotional ways to celebrities we “love.” It stems from the “they made it” school of thought because, to be frank, systematically it’s hardest for Black folks to “make it” and when we do it is generally cherished. I, myself, had a hard time separating Bill Cosby from Heathcliff Huxtable but just like the rest of us Bill Cosby and Robert Kelly are ordinary humans too.

They are not GOD.

They are not invincible.

They have faults.

They are not above the law.

They should be held accountable.

There are so many issues I have post viewing the six part docuseries from the responses justifying Robert’s behavior and re-victimizing the survivors to the sexual abuse being a damn near fortune 500 company operation, fully staffed, at the expense of Black women and girls. I think what’s most infuriating for me is how patriarchy knows no race. People don’t just “love” the music but they LOVE patriarchy. They crave it. So not only are Black women and girls surviving R Kelly we have to fight to survive patriarchy.  At the core of Black Lives Matter, Me Too, Mute R Kelly are Black women organizing and fighting for men and women and whenever the moment presents itself for it to be reciprocated the truth rears its ugly head time and time again. Black women and girls aren’t valued. Yet we are the ones who will stand up and fight for everyone else. Leading the charge politically and spiritually. There has never been any inconsistency in the support and rally of Black women for justice in our community but we are still deemed irrelevant.

It’s a waste of time to sulk in this realization and allow it stop the work and healing that needs to be done in our community. Robert has committed heinous acts. He should be jailed and in jail receive the treatment he needs to confront and heal his own trauma. As a community we must take a deeper look into the childhood sexual trauma of our Black boys. I commend Dream Hampton and her production team for forging through with this body of work. It’s time to heal ourselves, confront our traumas, call out our abusers by name, and have these tough conversations in our families. There’s not one ounce of white acceptance or reparations that’s going to heal our community. Only WE can heal our community!

Black women and girls:

WE BELIEVE YOU!

It’s never too late to tell your truth.

Take charge of your healing.

Fight for yourself.

Fight for one another.

You deserve to be respected.

You deserve to protected.

You are viable.

You are loved.

You are necessary.

You are necessary.

You are necessary.

Silenced By Perception and End Up Dead

Panting By: Beverly McIver

One evening my brother who is frequently, though unintentionally, the bearer of bad news came heavy footed in the house. He said, "Cindy..." I knew it was bad news because he has this specific way of saying my name when something is wrong. His voice echoes despair and whispers angst. The sound of his voice that night reminded me of the time that he bore the news that our father had died. 18 years later that echo has never subsided. I knew immediately what my brother would say next. 

My brother and I are both so very different. He is very forthcoming with his sentiments in many situations. I on the other hand try my hardest to bury sentiments that require the expansion of what I consider "extreme" emotion. As a result, my sentiments get backed up and I end up exploding emotionally at very odd times. Anxiety. Looking at how my mother handles emotion I believe we are very similar. But my mother has the gift of control, very Claire Huxtable-Beth Pearson-esq. I should insert "but I digress" here but l'm just going to keep it pushing.

I admire my brother for being able to be openly emotional but as he began to bring the news all I could think was please don't start crying. "What's going on?" I said in my typical anxious way having already anticipated that something bad had happened. "You know Mariah's cousin the one you met last Thanksgiving? The one with the 3 boys? She died today." My feet started hurting. Which is normal for me in moments of anxiety. The young woman was only 25 years old and leaves to mourn 3 adolescent boys. 3 adolescent Black boys! My brother wasn't sure the exact cause of death but her story is similar to many Black women who go in to the doctor with concerns about something and the maltreatment leaves them fighting for their lives.

I started writing this blog post to talk about this young woman. To tell her story. I wanted to share how beautiful her boys are whom I affectionately call "my chocolate babies." However, although you are reading this post today, I started writing it earlier last month and couldn't find the words to finish it. I couldn't just and allow this be another R.I.P. "everything gonna be aight" post. 

I can't find the peace in hoping. I don't find that peace in the hope. 

I don't trust that "everything will be aight." 

In fact it is NOT "aight!" 

There are too many fatal stories of Black women due to faux paus medical practices that have left me infuriated and frankly petrified. With every breath taken we, Black women, are fighting even harder to protect ourselves. Ourselves and everyone else. 

Bringing new life into the world. End up dead. 

Go into the doctor with upper respiratory concerns, end up dead. 

Arrested. End up dead. 

This is a crisis! But because we are Black and female we are silenced by perception and end up being a number added to a statistic or a boost for the pharmaceutical agenda. 


The fight is falling on deaf ears and hollow souls.

The term ally and equity all breed blanket statements disguised as empathy.

The harsh reality is that demise is seemingly inevitable.

I Am Only A Threat to Your Demons: Thank You Universal Standard!

On October 8th clothing company, Universal Standard, posted this photo to their IG account with the caption:

ALL OF US. AS WE ARE.  FOUNDATION. SIZES 00-40 COMING SOON.

I screamed! 

This photo of revolt model La'Shaunae standing confidently posing on top of the camera angle speaks for itself. Her melanin infused skin perfectly accentuates the blanc undergarments. She stares chin to shoulder, hand on hip, with her eyes glazed in purpose. Soul baring. Game annihilating. 

I screamed because I have NEVER seen my likeness modeling in mainstream media! EVER.

"Thank you Universal Standard!" I yelled so loudly at my phone that I accidentally summoned British Siri. Who responded, "No sweat." British Siri is so vain.

After staring at the ad for a bit I made the decision that I would buy something, anything, from Universal Standard. A company that takes the initiative to think of every consumer no matter race, size, age, gender, or religion deserves all the coins coming their way.

A few days later I was scrolling through Facebook and saw LaShaunae's Universal Standard ad on my timeline. This time it had been shared in a Natural Hair group I belong to. I wasn't surprised because this group rarely has posts about natural haircare anymore. I clicked on the image and saw that a member of the group posted it with the caption:

HERE WE GO GLORIFYING OBESITY AGAIN!

I screamed!

"What the #%$!?" I yelled so loudly at my phone that I accidentally summoned British Siri again. She responded, "I don't know how to respond to that." "I wasn't talking to you British Siri!"

This term "glorifying obesity" pisses me off! Society, much like British Siri, is so self absorbed that whenever you have to look difference in the face you attribute that difference to being wrong or abnormal. There are over 7 billion people on earth. Everyone doesn't look like you and they don't have to. Having a fat woman as a model in an ad disturbs the human psyche so much that people actually become offended by the audacity. When a skinny model is on the cover of every publication known to man no one says, "here we go glorifying bulimia again." Why? Because who are we to label this woman bulimic? And most importantly, a woman no matter her size, deserves has the right to exist in the world and see other women who look like her existing, loving, dreaming, striving, working, believing, and succeeding! Furthermore, the ad is promoting clothing for women sizes 00-40. The woman who reposted the ad with her moronic sentiments didn't even realize that the ad was inclusive (another one of society's buzz words) to her simple minded ass too.

See how sick people are?

No one "glorifies obesity" in this society. In fact many women no matter their weight are doing everything in their power to change their bodies. Giving a fat woman a word encouragement, hiring her to be a model in your shoot or act in your film is simply acknowledging that she is just as apart of this world as you are. I was even more flabbergasted that the negative and disrespectful comments were fueled by women experiencing their own set of discriminatory practices that women with black skin and natural hair most commonly face.

See how desperately people need healing?

We all need healing.

As a Black woman who has been labeled as "obese" and witnessing daily how much hate and disdain people have towards fat people is astonishing to me. I can't speak for all women who have been labeled obese before being labeled viable, but I will say this, whether you hate my fat body or love my fat body is your personal choice.

I am not asking for your permission to live my life.
I am not asking for your diagnosis or predictions of life expectancy.
I am not asking for your opinions or labels.
I am not asking for anything.
I am here.
I exist in the very same world you are in.
Every pound.
All of me.
So whenever you see me walking down the street, out to eat, shopping, in the gym, in ads, on screen, in the classroom or the boardroom my fatness doesn't diminish my humanity.
Stop trying to shrink me, hide me, break me, silence me.
I am only a threat to your demons.
Please get well soon.

October: Where Do I Start?

Painting by Hannah Whitman

October is off to an interesting start ain't she?

The elected good ole boys and girls just confirmed and swore in the second sexual predator (that we know of) to the highest court in the land. That "and girls" part of the statement adds even more infuriation into the mix.

Political party outweighs humanity year 242. 

And still we have to gather and rally to encourage folks to vote? After the incredulous 1 year and 261 days we've had under this current administration? No one should have to beg anyone who can vote to vote. PERIOD.

Though I love a good opinion piece, this disease of ataxia that continues to permeate the nation isn't my idea of my personal literary worth. Therefore I will conclude my brief rant with the age old adage, "you reap what you sow." Be ye prepared dear geriatric purebreds.



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October also brings a day off with free time to write on this rightfully warm Indigenous Peoples' Day. I know this could easily transition into another well-deserved rant but I will not succumb.

In the first week of October I've also had the opportunity to meet with my new therapist. Now, if you've been following my blog you know that I really liked my previous therapist. That's rare for me because even though I can write down my feelings generally well, talking about them with other people is always a struggle. I decided to transition to another therapist because I felt a shift in my goals for therapy and felt I needed a therapist who used different holistic approaches to their therapeutic practice. To make it plain and simple I'm changing and so are my needs. I have to admit it does feel like a break up.

Apprehensively, I sought out a new therapist which believe it or not isn't an easy feat. This particular therapist was referred to me by my insurance care coordinator and she is apart of the Therapy for Black Girls network. I felt like it was meant to be. Before the confidentiality speech she started our session by saying, "you have to excuse me, but I have adult acne..." I wanted to plug the dry lotion by Mario Badescu but the last thing I wanted to do was project my non esthetician product junkie habits on to her so I just smiled. Real human interaction is always great right? So often talking to a therapist can feel like talking to a robot.

Prior to our appointment she had me complete several intake forms to see if we'd be a good fit. Imagine if we did this in our romantic relationships too? During the visit she went back over the form and asked me to elaborate on each question. My one word/one sentence answers were no longer acceptable.

I was in the trenches.

The battleground of personal thoughts and life events.

Forced to regurgitate feelings and shit.

Cue the eye sweat amidst looking for the nearest exit.

She listened, looked, and occasionally took notes. Towards the end of the session she had organized my thoughts into categories and said, "here are 5 categories we are going to work on but we can only work on one at a time. Which one would you like to start with first?"

I couldn't answer.

I knew why I sought therapy.

I knew what I hoped to gain by seeking therapy.

I thought my start was having the courage to walk into her office.

I thought that if I made it to her office she'd handle the rest.

"You are in the driver's seat of your life, Cynthia. I'm just a passenger. You tell me where you want to go and I will go with you as you drive us there."

Where should I drive first?

Every Table Ain't Meant For Sitting

So ok it happened and I can't just not write about it.

Let me preface this by saying, my blog really doesn't deserve any mention of 45 or his antics but here we are. I write solely to unload the thoughts held captive by my brain and since I would prefer not to keep rehashing recent events in my mind, I'm gonna gone head and just state my peace and move on.

By now you've all heard about 45's most recent meeting with "inner city" pastors. Seated around the large refurbished Kittinger table were what some media outlets have helmed the "most influential religious leaders" in America. All of whom were Black and or Hispanic, male and female. 45 has met with random athletes, celebrities, and opportunists of color before so it wasn't shocking to me. The meeting agenda was said to be an opportunity for these men and women of GOD to discuss prison reform and reentry efforts with the current administration. The same topic of discussion Kim Kardashian was said to have with 45 in May. 

I watched the 30 minute White House streaming of the meeting and while I could easily go in on Ohio pastor Darrell Scott's personal annunciation that 45 is "the most pro-black president that we've had in our lifetime" while simultaneously defaming Obama's name and advertising hair dye for aging men I won't. My typing fingers have not the energy to entertain his delusions of grandeur. 

I couldn't however let the day go by without discussing the pastor sitting to the right of 45. Pastor John Gray of Relentless Church in Greenville, South Carolina. Gray strategically placed next to 45 because of all the pastors in the room he is the most socially notable. He's known to have made some very interesting commentary about the relationship between men and women that frequently have gone viral. His most recent relationship discussion he had "a seat the table" of the Sister Circle talk show. He also was seen on this season's episode of Basketball Wives as Tami Roman's spiritual advisor and he was also apart of the cast of The Preachers talk show on FOX, which I enjoyed. Pastor Gray seems to have incorporated mainstream media to push forth his mission in ministry. 

Since America is currently living in a long disheartening reality show taping its not odd that the top billing cast member, 45, wanted Gray sitting right next to him during the live streaming of this meeting. 45 even asked Gray to open with prayer which he did eloquently as most Black pastors do. IMDb credit worthy I'm sure in 45's eyes. During the portion of the meeting that viewers were privy to Gray thanked 45 for the opportunity to have "a seat at the table."

After the meeting Gray had "a seat at the table" with Don Lemon who asked what we all are thinking. WHY? Gray, strongly told Lemon, "I believe the Lord sent me." Gray also said upon agreeing to attend the meeting he told whomever that he did not want to be photographed. During the conversation with Lemon, Gray again mentions "a seat at the table" as a place where you have the opportunity to discuss pertinent issues.

I can not challenge what GOD tells anyone to do. The conversation Pastor Gray had with GOD is a personal one. I strongly believe that GOD will indeed send us places we never thought we'd ever go. However, the lesson in this for me is that every table ain't meant for you to sit at especially when the table itself is the most sensible entity in the room. In fact as evident in the Bible sometimes GOD commands us to stand not sit. 

Pastor Gray its time for take two of your conversation with GOD. 

Be blessed.

The Year of 35: Am I Enough?

My 35th birthday was this past Sunday, June 10th!

I was very excited about seeing 35 because I am extremely proud of the woman I have become. That's a major acknowledgement coming from me because I am extremely critical of myself and don't often see the praises of others as truth. I often feel like goals I've set for myself are unattainable dreams that won't really manifest themselves. I realize self-doubt isn't uncommon but in the age of social media announcements of wins one can only question:

Am I enough?

 It's not easy balancing where you are and where you think you should be. With the rise of suicide amongst children and adults I've made it a priority in these last couple years to take care of my mental state. One way I've done this is by reading my old journal entries as proof of how far I've come in this thing we call life.

As my birthday approached, I found a list in my old journal of things I wanted to accomplish by the time I turned 35. I am not really sure the exact age I wrote this list but the journal had notes in it from a peace studies lecture. "Ooooh peace studies class," I thought. I knew this list had to be written when I was liberally zen-ing through my undergraduate years in ChiTown. So I probably was around 19 or 20.

Here's what was on my list:

1. I want to be successful. Not to be confused with famous because I don't want people all up in my face like that! Just plain successful with a nice car.
2. I want lots of stamps on my passport.
3. I want a child. Not a husband but a child.
4. I want my own business.
5. I want to be an actor. Like a good one.
6. I want to be a writer. Like a good one.
7. I want to see the world. 
8. I want to be happy. Like not superficially happy but genuinely happy.
9. I want to build strong friendships.
10. I want to help women and children.
11. I want to move to Africa.
12. I want to make my parents proud.

Looking at the list I thought, damn, I have accomplished 10 out of the 12 wants from my 19/20 year old desires. I don't have a child, although I have amazing god children, and I haven't moved to Africa. Not too shabby. I immediately felt immense gratitude and calming assurance.

I have decided to leave behind in my year of 34 this constant desire to beat the clock and use of comparing tactics to self shame and down play my achievements.

I enter the year of 35 the happiest I've been in years. It is my number one goal to live my life on purpose and I affirm myself in the belief that:

I have nothing to prove to anyone other than myself.

Purpose knows no competition. 

Fear is temporary and best remedied by action. 

I am more than enough.

I am more than capable.

Even my most lavish dreams are attainable. 

I'm excited for this year of 35 and I am ready to see what I do next!

Even in Your Silence Your Eyes Will Tell Your Truth

In grad school I had the privilege of studying abroad in Paris, France.

Of course while in Paris I did all of the touristy things like a photo under the Arc de Triumph and going to the top of the Eiffel Tower. But the unique part of my studies was exploring Black Paris. A typical day at the Louvre wasn't just standing amongst droves of people trying to get pictures of the The Last Supper or Mona Lisa, I was tasked to explore art from across the diaspora in the infamous museum.

Of the many paintings I saw one forever stands out to me,  Portrait d'une négresse, by Marie-Guillemine Benoist. I loved this painting so much that I bought a printed copy of it which still hangs in my bedroom 12 years later. This past Sunday as I was focused on throwing the whole room away, I looked up and saw the woman in the painting staring back at me.

Now, Louvre art historians will have one to believe that this piece, painted six years after the abolition of slavery in France, became a symbol of the emancipation of Black women. However, if you look at this woman staring directly at the artist with one breast exposed her eyes tell a different story. She doesn't look emancipated, she doesn't look free, she doesn't look happy, and she damn sure doesn't look like she wanted to be in that space and moment in time. I do not claim to be an art historian but her eyes (nor mine) are not playing tricks on me.

Let's pause here for a brief history break. I know, I know, but I couldn't write this piece without some facts. Post the abolition of slavery in France Black women were in fact not "free." They became minor class citizens lower than their Black male counterpart. Though legislation had changed gender relations had not. Race and social relations had not either as we are fully aware of 170 years later. So needless to say the delusions of some historians, art and otherwise, romanticize slavery, emancipation, and gender relations in the world far too often than not. It's repulsive. Reminds me of the time I was visited Robert E. Lee's plantation and the guide told my tour group (full of Black folk) that Lee paid his slaves and slaves wrote Lee letters thanking him for enslaving them. I was there the day before the white supremacist tiki torch death rally in Charlottesville refuting the removal of Lee's statue. Again, repulsive.

With historical context enlightened I proudly stare back at the woman in the painting that graces my bedroom wall. She was not where she wanted to be, internally in pain, and externally tired. The years of constipated tears stain her sclera. Adorned with borrowed cloth she exposes one of her two breasts clearly not by choice but demand. Who exactly is she being painted for? The skeptics? The stakeholders? The white women who chastise her to her face yet secretly admire her body's shape and her mahogany skin that they cant seem to recreate with their cosmetic blends of beeswax and cochineal? The white men who love to control every ounce of her mind and body but can't ever tap into her soul by violating her temple?

None of the later deserve this painting and since I can't rip this painting from the Louvre walls, I'll do the next best thing and attempt to tell her truth.

This painting is in fact for you Black girl as a reminder that you are not defined by the perception of others.

No matter the pain and hurt you may experience throughout the years hold your head steady upon your shoulders and stare your tribulations right in the eye.

Learn to love yourself unwaveringly.

A smile is not a requirement to remedy the discomfort of others.

Find your rightful place and space.

Take charge of your healing.

You are love.

You are hope.

You are art.

You are emancipation.

You shape the discourse past, present, and future.

& even in your silence your eyes will tell your truth.