Coretta Scott KingI have been thinking about self-hatred a lot for a few weeks and I’d love to hear your thoughts about it. If you’ve been following this blog at all you can imagine that my musings have stemmed from the dialogue generated by my post Brothers (in the other sense of the word) in which I kick around the idea of inter-racial dating.
The comments evoked by that post have really caused me to want to dig deeper into an examination of my perspectives on race on tons of levels. And, there seems to be no more logical place to start than an examination of my thoughts about my own. Let me give you some background.
By any reasonable persons phenotypic assessment of me, I am Black. Call me African-American if you like, but that’s where things start to get problematic for me. I contain healthy doses of Black, Irish and Native American. And while I can give you the names of my Irish and Native American ancestors, I’d have a far tougher time distilling out the “pure” Blacks, or Africans, “pure” African Americans (if ever there were an oxymoron). I’ve always been frustrated by that term because it says so little about who we really are as a people, or better yet as peoples, and still there are so many stereotypes that resonate with its utterance. I prefer Black. That's me.
Despite anyone else’s assessment of me, I can honestly say that I am at a place in my life where I love me. I believe I am beautiful. I wouldn’t trade my hips, hair, breasts, lips, thighs or nose for anyone’s (though I am committed to shedding these pounds I’ve packed on over the last few years….another post all together). I love being a Black woman. I love the rhythm of our music, the soul in our essence, the bond that makes the only two Black people in a room talk to each other like they’ve grown up together. I love our beauty, our diversity, our tremendous determination to survive…and more than survive, to thrive. I love that Black female preemies have the highest survival rate of any premature babies. We’re fighters. We’re survivors. And I love that.
I hate that there are aspects of our history and of our very real present that have forced us into survival mode. I fear that much our potential as a people and as individuals has been squandered because we’ve learned to live in survival mode and we think it’s normal, we think it’s all there is. I hate seeing our people living life on the defensive, carrying chips on our shoulders that weigh us down, hold us back. I grieve for those of us who have no other option than survival. I am frustrated with those who choose not to exhaust all available options to thrive.
And it’s precisely this frustration that has me thinking about self-hatred. So, I looked it up and here’s what I found. The quote is from Wikipedia, “the encyclopedia anyone can edit”. But I thought, what better definition than the one that resonates with the culture. Here’s what I found. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
You may be visiting this blog and identify as something other than Black. Please don’t hesitate to post your comments. You are safe here. Your voice is welcome.
Self-hatred literally refers to an extreme dislike of oneself, or being angry at oneself. The term is also used to designate a dislike or hatred of a group to which one belongs. For instance, 'ethnic self-hatred' is the extreme dislike of one's ethnic group. Accusations of self-hatred are often used as an ad hominem attack.
The term 'self-hatred' is used infrequently by psychologists and psychiatrists, who would usually describe people who hate themselves as 'persons with low self-esteem'. Some people think that self-hatred and shame are important factors in some or many mental disorders, especially disorders that involve a perceived defect of oneself (e.g. body dysmorphic disorder). "Ethnic self-hatred" is considered by some people as being a cultural issue, to which psychological theories have limited relevance.
Black self-hatred
Black self-hatred is generally defined as a Black person who hates his Black racial identity and may try to distance himself from this identity. Like Jewish self-hate, there is some disagreement as to what it means to be Black. Some Black people feel that those who demonstrate a preference for clothing styles, music choices, etc. that have been predominantly associated with white culture are self-hating. Thus for them being Black is more just one’s skin color. Some, such as journalist John Carlson, have suggested that gangsta rap is a form of Black Self-hatred. In his view, when Black rappers portray Black women as "bitches" and "whores" and Black men as "worthy of respect only in relation to their capacity to kill or maim others" they are essentially expressing a form of self-hate with basically buying into and propagating, through their music, racist stereotypes about Black people. This term has been used by Black supremacist groups to defend racism.
Black self hatred can show itself in the form of embarassment or shame in those things that are culturally identified with African heritage. It is ingrained in subtle ways from childhood. A person becomes reluctant to share or perpetuate activities or traditions that have in the past cause them pain. They come to hate those things and in extention themselves.
What do you guys think? What is self-hatred? What does it look like in any form? How easy is it to spot in others? In ourselves?
Les deseo Self-Love!
Lexi
Did anyone see the Dr. Phil where his guest was a black woman who refused to date black men because she thought they were uncultured and would never take her anyplace nice, like (her example)...the Getty! Turned out that she turned down a guy who had just taken his date to the Getty the week before.
So I decided that since I'm here in L.A. I should check out a little more than Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles and In and Out Burger.
Yesterday, I went to the Getty and here are the pics:
As you can tell, I was much more impressed with the building and the gardens than anything inside.
How about that sunset!
Stay tuned.
Lexi
Ok. The friend I am traveling with is from L.A. She decided that for me to get a real feel for L.A. I needed to visit Venice Beach...Put it like this, there was no capturing still images (without being chased down and beaten) of all that makes Venice, Venice. But here are some of the shots I got.
For everyone who commented on Brothers (other), what do you think of Mr. America? Prospect?
OK, I’m in LA on business and naturally I’ve gotten a little distracted by the water and mountains. The beach is really not my thing; I prefer mountains and lakes. But the west coast does have so much more to offer in terms of nature than back East. A friend from Cali once commented in Maryland that you can’t get up high enough to see anything. Our mountains are foothills in comparison to these. Los Andes did this to me!
You can have L.A., though. It’s like San Diego after someone set off a smog bomb. Yuck! I have seen some interesting stuff…and people.
I’ve yet to check out Santa Monica, which is my true destination. The conference starts Monday, so hopefully I’ll get to see Beverly Hills just to say I was there. I'll post some pics of my day at Venice Beach when I'm somewhere with a faster connection.
Until Later!
Yesterday the annual March for Life converged upon Washington, DC and it has caused me to give God and politics a second thought. I am Christian. I identify most closely with evangelicals, but hesitate greatly (now) about using the label 'evangelical Christian'. I used to think this was a term that characterized one's doctrinal beliefs, but it seems to have morphed into a description of one's political platform. I'm beyond disturbed about this on many fronts, but today I'll just address the abortion issue.
I have a huge problem with the mainline Christian assumption that GOD is Republican. Without addressing any other characteristics implied by the term, He most certainly is not conservative. The dictionary defines conservative as, "Favoring traditional views and values; tending to oppose change. Moderate; cautious." Now, at the risk of sounding blasphemous, does this really sound like the God of the Bible to you? The God in my Bible knocked up a virgin, sacrificed his innocent son, and...hold on to your seats...commanded his people to kill women, children and, yes, infants!! (Oh, and men too although we all too easily dismiss the lives of men as casualties of war and move on.) God is not safe. He is not cautious. He is wild. He is unconventional. His ways and his purposes and reasoning are far beyond human comprehension and we kid ourselves if we think we can stuff him neatly into this box called conservatism!
I have always had a very difficult time, personally, with the issue of abortion. While I have never had to face that choice myself, I have been alongside many women who have either been contemplating the decision or who were dealing with the aftermath of a decision to terminate a pregnancy. One thing rings true for all of them, (and arguably for any woman who finds herself at this place) it is not, was not and will never be an easy decision to make. The truth is that despite her strongest convictions, nowoman can predict her ultimate choice until the time comes to make it.
There are so many factors that play a part in making that choice. I could try to examine what some of them might be, but there is no way I can be exhaustive and do justice to all of the possibilities. And besides, once you start making arguments for, or exploring the merits of arguments in favor of any issue, you run the risk of constructing the very walls of the box you're hoping to break out of . And the last thing I want to do is to communicate that I have determined the list of factors that are "acceptable" for deciding to have an abortion.
What I do know, to my core, is that I do not serve a one-size-fits-all God. The same God who said, "thou shalt not kill" turns around and says, "Now go, attack the Amalekites and totally destroy everything that belongs to them. Do not spare them; put to death men and women, children and infants, cattle and sheep, camels and donkeys.' " (1 Samuel 15:3). Yet, He is good. I don't presume to be able to reconcile these two statements. And, I am frustrated with those who attempt to because to me, what they are attempting to do is make a wild God safe and cozy by rationalizing away his ferocity. I am not suggesting that God would say, "thou shalt abort." But, what I am saying is that to each woman who makes that choice, He does say, "I love you." And to the woman who is on her 8th abortion and seems callous, flippant, and irresponsible, I'm sure He says, "I love you and I'm more concerned about the why than the what." Even for her, the choice is not easy and callousness is survival. I'm quite familiar with survival.
This is from an article in today's Washington Post:
On the Mall at Seventh Street, tens of thousands of antiabortion activists were listening to the Rev. James Nesbit, whose invocation was so passionate that his voice cracked and warbled as he delivered the jeremiad.
"It has been told by the prophets in the land that there is a president coming out of Texas, a Burning Bush," Nesbit prayed. "He will deal with abortion in the land. We ask you to give him an executive order and mantle him and give him a mandate with the fear of the Lord."
I'll let it speak for itself.
You can't legislate morality. God calls us into relationship with him. That relationship is individual and personal. What's sin for one man may be perfectly permissible for another. That's not relativism. That's Bible. Romans 14 to be precise. I believe in moral standards and principles to guide our decisions. But God has shown us in scripture time and time again that neither of these is rigid. He wants us to depend on him when it comes to making choices for our lives, not on the legislature. Maybe it's just me.
I'll take my God without politics, thank you.
Peace!
I don't have a sister, technically. But there are definitely some awesome women in my life who have more than made up the difference. Here are a few of them.
The thing I love most about sister-friends is that you can be at the top of your game or a total jerk and they still love you, laugh with you, cry with you...and call you out when you know you have completely bumped your head!
When you've surrounded yourself with the right ones, you've got a safe space to learn who you are and to just be in the process.
There are quite a few of you missing from this shot. Send me pics so I can show you off to the world.
You girls rock!!
(Who needs men? LMBO!)
Aww! The boat’s gonna start rockin’ now! Hold on!
I started this blog by sounding off about my frustration about the boxes that we (all of us) seem to want so desperately cram one another into. Well, today I’m daring to publicize a very real, complex, and personal struggle I’m engaged in regarding inter-racial relationships. I know this path is laden with controversy and as much as I may want to play this safe and tread lightly, I’m not inclined to do that. So, please hear me, respond freely, and consider this but one place along a journey that’s barely begun.
At one point (not very long ago) I’d decided that were I ever to consider entering another relationship it would definitely not be with a brother. I was poised to find a Birkenstock-wearing, hockey-playing, co-op- working, vegan-neo-hippie, because to me this spelled: SAFE! And, of course I know I’m kidding myself. There are no guarantees with anyone and despite my best efforts to do what I do best to those things that cause me pain (amputate them), I know I can not eliminate enough humans from my life to ensure pain-free living from here on out. And I’m left having to make choices about the risks I’m willing to take. I’d decided that black men were entirely too risky and that although there are risks with anyone, my experience has taught me that I was more likely to get burned badly by this group than not.
Have you ever seen Along Came Polly with Ben Stiller and Jen Aniston? Ben’s character was a risk analyst. Besides the OCD thing he had going on, I saw a lot of me in what he was hoping to accomplish. He had to choose between two women: one who had already betrayed him, crushed him and another who just inherently went against everything he considered safe or acceptable. What a choice! The head vs. heart thing was not concrete enough for him, so he input the characteristics of each woman into his risk-calculator. His reasoning was that naturally he should go with the woman with the lowest risk threshold. Insane? But I can so relate. (And, besides, what is talking about guys with your girlfriends if not risk management?)
On one hand I have the 'known:' brothers (and I make a reasonable argument on my behalf for knowing brothers well—the majority of my contact with men for 32 years) and on the other hand the' unknown': Birkenstock Man or any derivative thereof. For so many reasons, the unknown has come up more favorable time and time again as I’ve processed the perceived risk. Am I jaded? Perhaps. Probably. Ok, granted. But what good is experience if we don’t learn from it and avoid making the same mistakes again? And, I’m not thinking of just my own experiences. I keep hearing the same stories over and over again with the same themes, same abuses, same addictions and deceptions over and over and over again. I can’t help but ask myself, “Are you crazy? Why not consider trying something different should you do it again?” The answer: the box!
I wish I felt like I was free to move on with my life and expand my net. But the truth is that I feel the pressure, tremendous pressure that is primarily unspoken to keep it real, not sell out, or stand by our brothers. The truth for me is that not one or two but a lot of brothers have hurt me, terribly, and I am afraid to trust them. But I’m also angry with a community that ostracizes any of us (male or female) who dare to consider relationships outside of our race. Shared experience does not have to breed perpetual limited experience and repeated experience. I don’t think I should be expected to bare the load of the black man’s plight and accept the unacceptable just because I’m a black woman. That devalues me as a person and I am, above all else, a person.
Does this mean that I think all brothers are awful? No, not at all. A handful of the most precious, good, faithful, respectable guys I know are brothers. Each with his own set of issues, but good, decent men who love God, themselves and the women in their lives (and treat them well). I love them dearly and they know who they are. And honestly, it’s this group of fellas that is the impetus for me even bothering to get a dialogue going about my struggle. I want to be careful not to dishonor them. I know they are in my life, in my face to force me to challenge my instinct to go to the chopping block and try to rid my life of pain, to throw the baby out with the bathwater. They are the thorn in my side on the days I want to run. They are my hope for standing still and learning to trust.
So here I am. Struggling with a doozie.
Bring it on! I'd love to hear from you.
Peace.
At 12 they tease you, scare you, throw pitchers of ice cold water on you in Mexican restaurants.
At 35 they move you into your new place at the crack of dawn, let you cry and snot all over their shoulders, share their lives with you and give you the most incredible support in the midst of incredible pain.
Mine's the greatest!
I love you, Rick.
I used to hate water chestnuts more than any veggie I could think of when I was little. I would literally plan how long I could sit at the table and refuse to clean my plate because they we're not going in my mouth. But now, miraculously, they're not that bad. I still gag if they're cut too thick. And I approach each one with much caution because I'm scared that any moment that which I once hated will suddenly re-occur to me.
I'm still not touching cauliflower. Reminds me of the white blood cells that collect in the back of your throat when you have some kind of infection (strep or something). No thanks!
Eat your veggies!
This week has been craaazy! I'm in the middle of moving into my own place after 8 months of trying to find what felt like home in the midst of an emotional cyclone. I was hoping to feel excitement and peace, but I just feel uuugggghhh!
I'll try to be a bit more articulate. This is a good move for me. A beginning (and an end). A clean slate of sorts. Solitude. Rest. But, I'm having to dig through so much death to get there. I'm having to pack up my old place that I've spent barely any time in over the last 8 months and the process feels like taking a shower in rusty water. (Yeah, you may have to sit with that one for a minute...I've done it, so the association was a snap for me :-)) Bottom line, this is not fun! It's supposed to be an exciting time but I'm just being constantly reminded of all the pain that has gotten me to this place of freedom. Is this the thorn that keeps you humble? Will I always have to look the death square in the face? Is this the trade-off for freedom, for joy?
I've been telling people who stuggle for what to say to me at this time in my life to tell me, "congratulations", since this is a good thing for me. But today I'm giving that a second thought. Congratulations aren't in order when so much has been lost, hurt, broken and crushed. Thank you to all of you who feel sorry and wish things were different. I too wish things were different. But they aren't. And since they are what they are, this is the best I have and it is awful and it does hurt and suck! Thanks, Unc, for calling me on this one tonight.
I'm learning that I don't have to be ok and hold it all together and put on a brave face for others to accept what's going on in my life. Accept it or not, it's awful and it's good, at the same time. I don't want to feel like I have to choose or pretend.
The cross was awful, bloody, painful and terrible; and it was good. I don't have to pretend like Christ was having the time of his life to accept the glory of his sacrifice. Despite his suffering, we rejoice in the cross. Death, the price for life.
But I also thank all of you who know quite well the depth of my pain, who do rejoice with me as you watch me and walk with me as I come alive. What a ride!
So, instead of "weeping with those who weep" and "rejoicing with those who rejoice" (like they're different people), I appreciate all who are weeping and rejoicing with me all at the same time.
Rusty showers: refreshingly tainted.
I long for home.
Peace!
