Treasure in Jars of Clay: The Unconquerable Soul of Black Women

Definition of Limit:

1.)    [noun] a point or level beyond which something does not or may not extend or pass.

2.)    [noun] a restriction on the size or amount of something permissible or possible.

3.)    [verb] set or serve as a limit to.

4.)    [math] a point or value that a sequence, function, or sum of a series can be made to approach progressively, until it is as close to the point or value as desired.

In noun and verb form, the concept of the word limit can be described briefly as a boundary meant to keep something contained. In Calculus, when a mathematical function cannot be solved directly, a limit is used to describe its solution. The limit simply refers to a place the function approaches. In some instances, a function approaches infinity – therefore, the equation is limitless. In other instances, limits can be found at a definite location bounding the function to a specific number. In others, the limit is deemed DNE, or does not exist. In a hierarchical viewpoint, the functions that are limitless seem undeservingly lucky. The functions that have a confined limit seem depressingly sad. And the functions that have limits that DNE seem defiantly indestructible. This is how one must view the plight of a Black woman in America. She sees the limitless nature of the White male institution – and he is undeservingly lucky. Wherever he wills to go, whoever he wills to be, whatever he wills to do, he is able to perform it with no sign of censure. She sees the confines of all other races and genders and she is saddened. She knows that a White woman’s world is more privileged than that of herself and her Black counterpart. But she is more deeply effected with the knowledge that she is on the bottom of the proverbial totem pole; for just under the White man is the White woman. Under her is the Black man. Lastly, under him is the Black woman. She is triangulated by ‘isms – by racism, by sexism, and by classism. Despite this reality of the limitations placed on her, ones that attempt to minimalize her personhood and forge a template of who she can be, she is expected to live and move and have her being as the caretaker of Black culture and the nurturer of Black traditions while never making her White and Black constituents uncomfortable at her presence.

The Black woman’s moral situation, as Katie G. Cannon refers to it in her work Black Womanist Ethics, is a result of several factors. The institution of slavery had already stripped her of her family, diminished her to the role of ‘brood-sow,’ violently assaulted her physically and sexually, and relegated her to not only working in the field with other Black males but also working as a domestic inside the houses of her White owner. In the antebellum period, she then became further imperiled to subhuman treatment.

The theme of objectification inherent in the domestic servitude of the Black woman continued to permeate her life. Bereft of formal education and advanced skills, the Black woman as a domestic worker was usually at the white employer’s mercy. Her employment arrangements had few, if any, demands that white people were obligated to meet… Sexual harassment became the women under slavery. As a vestige of slavery, white male heads of households assumed the sexual accessibility of the female domestic worker[1].

The Black woman, even after slavery had ended, was left in a hopeless, barren place – in which she was still forced to live and bring forth life. She was never wanted, but always needed. She was a child violently reprimanded when she spoke for herself, yet she was a woman when a man wanted to violate her body with his sex. She fought to live while living to fight. The weight of the Black woman’s burden had cast an imprint upon her that left an ungodly mark on her body and disfigured her to the root of her soul.

How does one live when given a death sentence? Is there any hope of living within the lifetime limits placed upon a life that cannot even be classified as one’s own? Can there be any navigation between the wiles of triple discrimination – racism, sexism, and classism – by the Black woman? It is the Black woman’s prerogative to answer these existential questions compliantly in the negative. Then, she could learn to merely exist in a world that despises her and never say a mumbling word. However, that would essentially feature the Black woman as a major role in her own dramatic demise. Yet, if she dares to answer these questions defiantly in the affirmative, then she must piece together her own format for how to transcend a proscribed life of limitation. It is that Black woman’s supreme goal to successfully find a function in her life that affirms that the limit society has tried to force upon her simply does not exist, or DNE. It is her duty to see to it that she makes a name and a way of life for herself despite of her diverse trials. Though “[she is] afflicted in every way, but not crushed; [she is] perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed[2]. She must find the unmitigated gall to live life in the folds of an anyway mindset, not dependent on submission to the status quo.

For this Black woman, she who is bludgeoned yet unbowed, she must construct an ethic that would empower her in the midst of struggle, energize her despite the truth of lack, and ennoble her with an inner truth that no man could put asunder. Yet, an authentic self-actualization that exists above and outside the White man’s gaze is more than a protracted process. Frankly, without a methodology or model, the possibility for success is grim. In Alice Walker’s The Color Purple, Mister strips main character Celie of her beloved sister Nettie. Celie has birthed two children, fathered by her own step-father, who are swiftly taken away from her. Her mother dead, Nettie is the only symbol of love and sanity that Celie has ever known. As she comes to the realization that she must let Nettie go, Celie screams out, “write! Write!” Nettie answers, “nothin’ but death can keep me from it!” Alice Walker points to the life-saving value found in the power of a Black woman’s pen.

Black women have used their creativity to carve out “living space” within the intricate web of multilayered oppression. From the beginning, they had to contend with the ethical ambiguity of racism, sexism and other sources of fragmentation in this acclaimed land of freedom, justice and equality. The Black woman’s literary tradition delineates many ways that ordinary Black women have fashioned value patterns and ethical procedures in their own terms, as well as mastering, transcending, radicalizing and sometimes destroying pervasive, negative orientations imposed by the mores of the larger society[3].

A Black woman must have a canon of her own that will instruct and inspire her with permission to be a part of a world that loves, values, and cherishes her body, soul, and mind even though everything surrounding her tells her that her worth is menial at best.

The triple standard that Black women face has staggering implications with notable footprints left in the last several years (on top of hundreds of years of inhumane treatment). For instance, in 2007 Don Imus nationally declared the Rutgers University Women’s Basketball team, comprised of mostly Black women, as “nappy headed hoes.” He goes on to say that the team they played against, University of Tennessee, were all cute – but the Rutgers girls were just ugly[4]. To make matters far worse, a very popular Black comedian D. L. Hughley appeared on Jay Leno’s show weeks later and sides WITH Don Imus saying that though the women may not have been hoes, they were still “nappy headed” and some of “ugliest women [he’s] ever seen in [his] whole life[5].” In the recent and highly publicized Trayvon Martin case, the media, America, and the Black community had a rouse blaspheming the name of Rachel Jeantel. While she was not on trial, the judgment of her character was nothing short of the blatantly critical ridicule that Anita Hill faced back in the 1990s when she testified against Clarence Thomas in a sexual harassment case. In August of 2013, buzzworthy rapper Juicy J went on the record as publicly offering (and later revoking) a $50,000 scholarship to the “best chick who can twerk[6].” These examples are more publicized because of the nature in which they surfaced – via mass media. However, these examples are mere minutia in comparison to what lies beneath the media frenzy. Black women are still suffering in substandard conditions, where nearly 26% are living at the poverty rate. In addition, Black women continue to make only 64 cents to the White man’s dollar according to the National Women’s Law Center[7]. According to research conducted by the Sentencing Project in 2005, Black women are 3 times more likely to go to jail or prison than White women[8]. This is compared to data found in the National Survey of Family Growth completed in 2012 in which 51% of White women were married versus only 26% of Black women[9]. There is no need for the burden of proof in the plight of Black women because the writing is on the wall. One in four Black women are living in poverty. Out of four Black women, only one is getting married. Black women are three times more likely to be incarcerated than their White counterparts. And Black women are earning two-thirds the salary that White men make. Black women are the diminished because of appearance. Black women are the butt of jokes. Black women are smeared in a national campaign of defamation.

Reflecting retrospectively, it occurs to me now that I never played by the rules as a little girl, teenager, or young adult. I consistently broke them all the time. Not in a rebellious way, rather it was very subversive. For instance, the way my Mother loathed the fact that I always played blacktop basketball with the boys. I played with girls too, but Mama wanted me to be dainty and delicate. I wanted to be dangerous on the court (a skill which I still have), so I played with boys anyway. Or the way that my 3^rd grade teacher, Mrs. Greene, told me that I would never be able to spell the word ‘tomorrow’ because I missed it on a spelling test. She was the same teacher that never gave me any excellent marks on my report card and continually complained that I was over-talkative and non-engaged in learning. She tried to give me a death sentence and steal my God given joy. Yet, I ended up doing exceptionally well the next year of elementary school anyway and earning advanced placement standing. Or when people tried to tell me to enter into college with an open mind about my major (my grandparents and parents were both educators) because they thought engineering would be very rigorous, I majored in engineering anyway. Or when my undergraduate engineering advisor adamantly told me that graduate school would not be a feasible option for me, seeing that I had a below stellar GPA – I received full funding and a fellowship/stipend and WENT TO GRADUATE SCHOOL FOR ROBOTICS ANYWAY. My whole life as a Black woman had and has always been a series of ‘anyway’s’.

But, what about when there is no anyway? Anyway amounts to DNE in your world because there is nobody to show you the way to anyway? Maybe your mother is MTV jams. Maybe your teacher is Real Housewives of Atlanta. Or maybe you don’t have a place to even lay your head, let alone watch a television series. How does an anyway mentality become a lifestyle when the learning curve is invisible? In my home, my Mother raised my Brother and me as a single parent for quite some time. She worked two jobs, kept a roof over our heads, food in our bellies, clothes on our backs, and educated us like nobody’s business. She managed to have us in church every Wednesday and Sunday and involved us into her non-profit work in providing resources for high-risk and impoverished youth. Those kids that I would see – when we went to deliver them Christmas presents (some of which were our own hand-me-downs) – I could see the look in their eye of malnourishment. It wasn’t that they weren’t eating, even though they probably only ate once at school. It was more that they lacked fulfillment in their little souls. I never noticed it then, but I know now why Mama tried so hard to affirm us, to affirm me.  She never wanted us to be a statistic when society said we were doomed to fail. And, she never wanted me, as her only daughter, to feel empty because she was a struggling single mother. Instead, she wanted me to feel empowered because she was a struggling single mother. So, she acknowledged the bold and brilliant woman in me every day. Whether it was her coming in my room to kiss me, say I love you, and put me to bed every night. Or how she never missed a game – never, not one. Even to this very day, she still calls to tell me she’s very proud of me and encourage me to keep going when school or work gets heavy. She mothered me and raised me with continual words of affirmation. That is the key to my anyway.

As I alluded to this fact earlier, I know every little girl does not grow up with a caring mother, or motherly figure, that can call out the womanist in her. A few years ago, I read the book The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. He outlines five different ways to give and receive love. For me, the best way of understanding love is with Words of Affirmation which can be attributed to my upbringing. I would be interested to perform a case study on the effects of love languages in young adolescent females to see how they cope with or without them in their environment. When Celie finally finds her voice after reading the letters from Nettie that Mister hid away for so many years, she talks about how vastly painful life was without the one person who truly loved her. There are so many young Black girls out there who are lost simply because they have no contact with anyone who truly loves them. They are treasure in jars of clay. They are unconquerable souls. They can make a world where limits do not exist. But someone has to tell them that. And that someone is she who has already learned it for herself.

I’m poor. Black. I may even be ugly. But, dear God – I’m here. I’m here.

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[1] Katie G. Cannon, Black Womanist Ethics (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2006), 47.

[2] 2 Corinthians 4:8-9 (New Revised Standard Version).

[3] Katie G. Cannon, Black Womanist Ethics (Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 2006), 76.

[4] “Don Imus and Nappy Headed Hos,” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RF9BjB7Bzr0

[5] “DL Hughley ATTACKS Rutgers Women,” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tIqD1GCvedw

[6] “Rapper Juicy J offers, then revokes, 50k twerk scholarship,” August 22, 2013 http://www.rollingstone.com/music/news/juicy-j-offers-then-revokes-50-000-twerk-scholarship-20130822

[7] “Women’s poverty rate stabilizes, remains historically high,” September 12, 2012 http://www.nwlc.org/press-release/women%E2%80%99s-poverty-rate-stabilizes-remains-historically-high

[8] “Women in the Criminal Justice System, “ May 2007 http://www.sentencingproject.org/doc/publications/womenincj_total.pdf

[9] “Marriage Statistics,” September 2012, http://www.statisticbrain.com/marriage-statistics/