There’s a whole lot of noise about Critical Race Theory right now, and frankly it’s crazy. First, CRT has been around for decades without anyone uttering a peep about it. Second, it has never been taught in grade schools. Or high schools. Or most college classrooms.

All this hell raising about CRT being taught to kids is subterfuge and stupidity. What they’re trying to block is the teaching of truth.

the five TENETS of CRT

So, what is it exactly? There’s a great explanation of it in The First Amendment Encyclopedia. Why there? Because it was developed as a LEGAL theory, in the late ’70s and early ’80s, primarily in response to the backtracking of the Civil Rights Movement. Kinda like now.

Critical race theory can be broken down into five tenets:

However, critical race theory damn sure can unmask those white-sheeted racists. CRT can explain how their past and present machinations have and continue to perpetuate systemic racism. CRT can draw the connections between them and people like Cruz who pretend to disagree while working actively to further their work. So, I understand why Cruz doesn’t like CRT. It tells the truth.

CRT in action

Simply stated, CRT does three things:

• Explains systemic racism and questions if the law can deliver social and economic justice as a result.
• Elevates the equality principles of the Fourteenth Amendment above the liberty principles of the First Amendment.
• Establishes intersectionality as the convergence of race and gender–specifically Black and female–only.

What they’re trying to block is the teaching of truth. What they’re trying to do is write another chapter of The Lost Cause Narrative. What they’re hoping to do is gaslight everyone into believing slavery is over, America is post-racial, and Black and Brown people just need to do better.

Deconstruct the name and it tells you everything scaring and emboldening those trying to block CRT: It’s critical; it’s focused on race; and it’s theoretical, so it can be denied. My solution? Change the name. Let’s just call it Actual Race Facts.

Or simply: The truth.

The last post I made to this site before today was in January 2017. I was running my own business, working on my master’s and trying to take care of my mama. I just didn’t have time to write anything I wasn’t getting paid for. Plus, my posts were way too long.

Then, in May of 2017, I went to work for UPS. I decided I probably should tone things down a bit. So, I stopped writing on this platform altogether. Life got busier – TED, an expanded role at UPS, a new side hustle, and mama got sicker.

Then, the other day, I got a notice that my domain name was expiring. I thought about just letting it go — why spend $100 on something I didn’t even use? But when I went to the site and saw my last post was in January 2017, I thought about all that’s happened since then…George Floyd and so many more, murdered. Trump. BLM. People in the streets. The pandemic. New job. Expanded side hustle. January 6. And mama, gone.

I renewed my subscription. I’ll focus on frequency over length. I’ll stay unapologetically Black. I’ll write and shout as loud and long as I’m able. Because nothing changes unless we change it. And I owe it to my mama.

Trump said it. The media went crazy with it. Women were pissed! Insulted. How dare he be so vulgar. How dare he reduce us to our genitalia. Nasty bastard. But then, something changed. Women started using it. Making signs about it. Making hats. I have to admit I was a little taken by surprise.

Maybe it’s a little like Black people using the ‘N’ word. Reclaiming and recasting. Maybe. But let me offer some insight on that: it doesn’t always work. It can be divisive. Just ask Black people. Whenever you take a pejorative and try to make it a slogan, you can never quite shake the negative. That’s why it was a pejorative in the first place. Remember where it came from.

There are various theories of the “P” word’s origin, but we didn’t have anything to do with any of the definitions, almost none of them good. It reduces us to our genitalia. It can be dangerous. When men started calling our vaginas the “P” word, it wasn’t because they respected us.

Look, I like my pussy as much as anyone else. I want my daughters to have access to birth control if they want it, abortion if they choose it. But let’s consider the things Trump and his minions are planning and poised to screw up  — public education, foreign policy, housing, the environment, income, jobs, healthcare (in general, and for women, specifically). It’s all about priorities, and in the grand scheme of things, where does pussy fall in the triage?

It depends on who you are. If your kids are in public school, you live in public housing, you have federal job or your skin is anything but White, there’s a whole bunch of stuff that’s coming that’s going to hurt you — not potentially but for damn sure. If you don’t have those problems, pussy comes first. If you do, well, pussy has to get in line.

When Trump called Mexicans rapists and murderers, said a judge would be biased because “he’s a Mexican” and championed the wall, where were you? He wasn’t talking about you. When Black women, men and children were being shot, shackled, dragged, tazed…where were you? Wasn’t your tribe. While Black women are fighting to get jobs to earn 65 cents on the dollar and Latina women 58 cents, where are you? Mad about 78 cents.

Of all the platforms you could choose, you chose to focus on pussy. Truth is, it’s your womb they’re after. But once again, even when you called yourself marching against them, as White women you followed right in White men’s footsteps. But who did they go after first? Underprivileged women around the world. Who will be hurt most when they go after Planned Parenthood? Poor women. If you’re going to scream about pussy, consider whose pussy is really at stake. Then ask what we really care about.

As a Black woman, I don’t like to talk about pussy in public. Because you see, that’s all I’ve been to White America anyway. My sex. As an archetype, I’m either sexless Mammy, oversexed Jezebel or  sexually emasculating Sapphire. Yes, Black women care about reproductive rights, but we’re less concerned about someone grabbing our pussies than we are being able to afford the healthcare to take care of them. We’re more afraid we’ll lose education, housing, protection from the police. Honestly? Our pussies are the least of what we’re worried about.

That’s ok. We know this is your movement. You can talk all you want about it being intersectional, but when pussy is the central theme, it really has nothing to do with us. Just look at those hats. How seriously, really, do you think White men are going to take someone wearing a pink knitted cap with ears? I’m sorry, but you may well have played yourselves. I’m sure there were some, but think hard — of the few women of color you saw at the marches, how many were wearing pink pussy hats? More likely, they were wearing headwraps, hoodies, baseball caps or hijab. Wonder why?

If you’re looking for revolutionary head gear, there are better options. You could have chosen any of them, and if this were truly an intersectional movement you would have. Consider…

The Phrygian cap. A soft, conical cap with the top pulled forward, associated in antiquity with people from Eastern Europe and Anatolia, including Phrygia, Dacia and the Balkans. Because it looks kinda like the pileus, a felt cap worn by emancipated slaves in ancient Rome, it stands for freedom and the pursuit of liberty.

Hijab. Some might argue this headwrap embodies male domination, and they might be right. However,  many women wear it willingly as a symbol of their culture. Considering the anti-Islamic sentiment in America and the real danger it poses for women for wearing hijab (even if they opt for baseball caps), White women wearing hijab would have been a true show of solidarity. It would have made a real statement about intersectionality. Hijab got a poster. I don’t think the pussy hat will.

Headwrap: You probably thought Black women just wore headwraps to slay despite bad hair days. For most of us it means a lot more. Culturally, African women wear head scarves to ward off evil spirits. In slavery, Black women wore headwraps while they worked. In Louisiana, the obligation to have African women cover their hair rose all the way to legislation with Tignon law. But instead of being embarrassed, Black women wore head scarves as a sign of courage and unity. The unique way an African woman wrapped her head scarf was a way of holding on to her individual identity. We turned an object of oppression into one of empowerment. My daughter wraps her hair. I wrap mine. Warding off evil spirits? Simultaneously demanding respect for individuality and recognition of a unified community? I don’t know, but that sounds right for what you say you stand for.

Rebozo: Mexican women wear this long, flat garment many ways, but usually folded or
wrapped around the head and/or upper body. They use them to block the sun, keep warm, carry babies and bundles. Soldaderas, women fighters who kicked ass in the Mexican Revolution used them to smuggle guns, ammunition and supplies.  That sounds pretty fierce, don’t you think?

Just picture it: millions of White women wearing African headwraps, hijab or rebozo. With respect (i.e., no embroidered labia or Hello Kitty versions). The police might not have been quite as accommodating, but that would have been a statement. That would have cast the protest in a different light. That would have scared the living hell out of some people. That is what intersectionality looks like. Instead, you chose pink pussy hats. Don’t be surprised if they don’t take you as seriously as you’d like.

I know I just posted all the reasons I wasn’t going to be marching, but I must say — again — I’m so glad all of you who are, are. What we face now is different in so many ways, one of which is the very thing I struggle with — the intersectionality. I’m trying to get there. It’s hard for me to say I’m not. Yet. But I’m working on it.

 

By now, I’m sure most of you have heard about Pantsuit Nation, the “secret”  Facebook group. With 3,757,861 at last count, I don’t know that it’s much of a secret anymore, but one of the rules is we protect other members’ privacy.

So, I won’t post the post that led me to write this post, but I’ll just say it was a woman of color frustrated with some of the posts she’s reading from White women. I daresay many of you who have read my blog and/or survived my frequent Facebook friend purges are members of Pantsuit Nation. If so, forgive me for subjecting you to this twice. If not, it took me a minute to write this, so I’m sharing it here.

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It has been very difficult to stand firm and push back against White women friends — and that’s plural — who have, despite their best intentions to circle the edge of the pit, slipped into the quicksand of White privilege in the wake of this disaster. So, please allow me to offer a few more thoughts to White women allies (at least to mine):

1. If a woman of color – and I don’t speak for all WOC or all Black women – is engaging in serious discussion with you at this point, consider it the pat on the back you may be seeking. Most of us are tired and many of us gave up on these conversations a long time ago. When you meet one of us vociferously expressing her truths, know she may have been doing that for years and she may be weary of saying the same things with the same results. This election may have been the proverbial straw that broke her back and gave her cultural laryngitis. On the other hand, she may be one for whom this election was the kick in the ass that made her yell for the first time. If so, her voice had to claw its way out and her throat is raw. Either way, what now energizes and inspires you, saps and frustrates us. This isn’t new for us. The passion doesn’t mount with every indignity, because we’re used to more and we’re used to worse. So, no, we won’t give you pats on the back. Those of us with enough voice left will continue to speak. Sometimes, our words may be harsh. Woman up. Dismantling privilege means tearing it apart – one microaggression, assumption and entitlement at a time. Pat yourself on the back for doing it. Just don’t expect anyone else to. This ain’t that kind of party.
2. I don’t speak for all WOC or all Black women. When we say something, we speak for ourselves. Please stop seeing us monolithically. Please respect the experience from which we speak. If you understood, we wouldn’t need this group. If you want to understand, you have to listen. It would be easy to take one voice and scale it up to all WOC. To discuss and argue with one person and get all the perspective you need. That ain’t the way it works. Yes, you’ll get frustrated – are safety pins in or out? Do I call you Black or African American? Can I say [insert touchy statement, question, word here] without getting my ass handed to me? The answer always is: It depends. It depends on whom you ask, on what day, after which fresh new hell. Sometimes we lose it, too. Remember you’re just getting to the place we’ve been since before we were born. I don’t – personally – think it’s helpful to be rude, but it’s damn important to be honest, and benevolent brutality has its place. Maybe we’ll apologize, maybe we won’t. But if we do and you can’t understand the anger and accept the apology, well, you’re doing exactly the kinds of things we get angry about and you say you don’t want to do. Woman up. This ain’t gonna be easy.
3. Know we know this is hard. And we expect you to give up. I’m sorry; I know that’s not what you want to hear. But we’ve been through this with you before. From suffragettes to bra burning feminists, you were preaching to us about the importance of intersectionality long before you co-opted the term a Black woman created. It isn’t a new thing for us. We wouldn’t be alive if we hadn’t figured out how to navigate all the selves we are. But every time we’ve let you tell us being a woman comes first, all our other selves get their asses kicked. You see, as White, straight women you stand at the vertex of the intersectionality. You don’t have to choose a path, so you stand there, directing the flow of identity. And you invariably send us all down the road most traveled – womanhood. But when it’s time for you to walk a different path – like this past election – either you stand still and direct or you head down that same well-worn path. So why should we assume this time is going to be any different? We want to believe you. We hope the rising tide of your own self-interest, fear and anger will sustain this movement and maybe lift us, too. But don’t expect us to take you at your word. Don’t ask us to understand the White middle class or rural class. One, we don’t care and two, they weren’t alone in making this mess. We did our job, and though we’ll suffer, too, this is the mess you made. So while it’s ok to ask for our help, please don’t assume you deserve it. Prove me wrong instead. Woman up. This ain’t the time for whining.

I kicked a whole lot of people to the curb during this election, especially toward the end. For all the Lord of the Rings geeks, remember the Battle of the Pelennor Fields when the dead men of Dunharrow showed up and cleaned house? There’s this scene at the very end of this clip (like 4:10) where they’re just wiping out whatever orcs and oliphants are left. That pretty much illustrates where I am with any Trump supporters still on my ‘Friends’ list.

And yes, I deleted them because they’re racist. And while that would have been — and was — reason enough, there actually are a few more reasons I Dunharrowed them. If you voted for Trump and are reading this, I just haven’t outed you yet. Not that you care, but please know it’s not just because you’re a racist, there are four other reasons I’ll unfriend you:

1. You’re a racist. I know I already said that. But since it’s such a big part of my disavowal, it bears repeating. In case you’re confused, Trump is a racist. He didn’t ‘say those things just to get elected’. As far back as 1989, he was trying to incite a judicial lynch mob with newspaper ads against the Central Park Five. And he didn’t back down even when DNA proved he was wrong. Then there’s that wall (Mexicans), the screening (Muslims), and all us poor, rejected, uneducated, homeless  Black people. If you voted for him, you’re ok with that, which, by default, means you are that.
2. You’re a misogynist. How does Trump abuse women? Let me count the ways. Actually, I won’t. There are too many. But that whole grabbing the P thing? Rape thing? Sufficient. If you voted for him, you’re ok with that, which, by default, means you are that.
3. You’re anti-intellectual.  Your candidate is proud of the fact he doesn’t read books, but takes his own counsel because he has “a very good brain” and “has said a lot of things.”  Climate change? Not real. Vocabulary? Trump, 200 words. Koko the gorilla, 1,000. That’s about the vocabulary of a three-year old, which means Trump’s vocabulary is about that of a seven-month-six-day year old.  That doesn’t work for me. It’s ok to be stupid. It’s not ok to embrace being stupid. Ignorance is a condition. Stupidity is a choice. And I don’t play well with stupid. If you voted for him, you’re ok with that, which, by default, means you are that.
4. You’re childish. Trump tweets. He’s whiney, he’s mean, he’s defensive. He’s two! Wait. No, he’s seven-months-six-days.  If you voted for him, you’re ok with that, which, by default, means you are that.

In a normal election, I would simply suggest we agree to disagree. But this election was no parts of normal. That’s actually our mistake: we keep trying to normalize this insanity. If you normalize crazy, crazy becomes the norm.

Intellectually, I know I should choose understanding over unfriending. I should try to keep a dialogue going because the one hope we have for change is people connecting and communicating. But, well, no. Like I said in my last post, trying to deal with people who think it’s ok to give America’s highest office to a racist mysogynist who is happy to be stupid because he’s two, is a waste of time, energy and sanity. And Goddess knows, I’m gonna need all three to get through the next four.

Forgive the vernacular. At times like this, it just comes out.

I should be writing a speech. I could be doing my homework. I would be working on my cure for racism. But I’m not, I won’t, I can’t.

I feel like Sisyphus today. Like nothing we say or do matters. It didn’t matter that Terence Crutcher had his hands up. He’s dead. It didn’t matter that Keith Lamont Scott was carrying in an open carry state. He’s still dead.

Remember: “God gave Noah the rainbow sign; no more water, the fire next time.” Charlotte is on fire; Tulsa might soon be again. I need to be doing my homework and job work, but right now, I’m doing this.

But let me tell you what I’m NOT fiddin’ ta do:

1. Waste my time arguing with racists.  I should keep countering ignorance with knowledge. Refuse to let any racist say any thing that’s racist. I’ve done it for decades, and Facebook’s certainly a lot faster than writing editorials for The Davidsonian. But I’m not as young as I used to be. I don’t just have homework, I have pay-the-bills work. So, I don’t have time or energy to deal with people who, if they didn’t think racism was real before cell cams and dash cams proved otherwise, should now know  it is. Ignorant is not knowing. Stupid is ignoring what you know. And I don’t play well with stupid.
2. Be civil. If I happen to break what-I’m-NOT-fiddin’-ta-do rule #1 (and I shall) I won’t be nice to you. Nice and mad as hell really don’t go together. Nice gets Black people killed. If you step out there with racist bullshit, I won’t hold back. I really did before.
3. Try to see your side. There’s only one side. Ours. Why? Because it’s the only true one.  When Black cops, angry Black men and Black vigilantes start killing White people, White traffic victims and White children — and getting away with it — then you’ll have a story. I still won’t listen but I might at least be interested. Death trumps dialogue.
4. Try to make you feel better. See what-I’m-NOT-fiddin’-ta-do rule #3.
5. Bless your heart or wish you well. I did that recently. But I really didn’t mean it. In fact I never do. You have no heart.  If you’re doing well, somebody Black died at some point so you could. I’m unapologetically Black.
6. Teach you what you need to teach yourself. Smarter people than me have written really good books that do a really good job of explaining why we riot, why we make everything about race, why we don’t want to hear about all lives mattering. One of these days, I’ll make a list. In the meantime, Google works really well.
7. Stop making everything about race. You started it. I will when you do.
8. Consider you my friend. You never were. You’re not now. You’re not going to be. And I’m not just unfriending you on Facebook. I’m unfriending you for life.
9. Stop answering real questions from real friends. I have Black friends who disagree. And I get it, I really do. Some days I feel the same way. On those days, you won’t get answers from me. But you won’t get what-I’m-NOT-fiddin’-ta-do rule #2, either. Because if you’re still my friend on Facebook, if you’ve been my friend since I started this fight or decided to be in medias res, you’re trying to get it, even if you sometimes don’t. I understand you can’t. But I love and respect you for trying. You can ask me. You may not like my answers, but as long as you’re willing to listen and learn, I’m willing to tell and teach.
10. STFU. Nikki Giovanni wrote this about writers: I know this profession does not easily lend itself to friendships. Our friends are either deathly afraid we will write about them or terribly bored at hearing the same subject discussed from all possible points of view. It’s what writers do — talk. So, to those I’ve written about or bored with my constant discussions about race, I’m sorry. Like Nikki, …if I was looking for somebody to hang out with I’d be the last person I’d choose. Everything is about race. If you don’t want to hear it, unfriend me and enjoy your head hole in the sand.

I saw a video today. An unarmed Black teen shot, his body stomped as he was dying by cops who were pissed because he ran. He ran. They shot him in the back. But he was stealing a car.

Tell the truth…How many times have you seen a Black person shot or beat or arrested and thought to yourself, “Well, he/she was probably doing something illegal or suspicious or disrespectful.” And then, you thought about the Black people you know, compared them and thought, “Not like [insert well-bred Black friend’s name here], who would never be doing anything like that, anything to get stopped by the police.”

Know this: [insert well-bred Black friend’s name here], who you think has never and would never be stopped, shot or harassed, probably has been.

I have been.

In Davidson, one of the country’s most idyllic towns surrounding one of the country’s most highly selective colleges, I was confronted  – in a store – and asked to show ID, simply because I was shopping. The cop didn’t see my backpack, so he didn’t immediately know I was a student. In Davidson, that made a difference. Another time, I was stopped – walking down Main Street – simply because I was walking down Main Street. I don’t think I look suspicious. But do know I look Black. And that’s really all it takes.

I know men running whole companies and divisions today who were stopped by the police back then. Who are stopped even now. Just for walking and being. I have a friend who lives in a $2 million home and drives a luxury car but says he has to think about what he wears on Saturdays and how he drives through his own neighborhood. All my friends with sons – young men that will go or are going to some of the best schools in the country, who are straight A students, who speak multiple languages – tell them how to deal with the police if they are stopped. Hands at 10:00 and 2:00. Never reach for anything. Be deferential. Not even your license and registration, even if they ask. Not just polite but obsequoius. Because compliance can get you killed. Noncompliance, too. 

Being Black can get you killed. 

When I was stopped in college, I was rightfully, righteously indignant. I told the cop he was wrong. Refused to show my ID. Dared him to insist I do so. The fact that I talked back in a town where Black people who weren’t students and Black men who could have been dared not, is proof that I was clueless. Today, I tell my daughters – who are going to two of the top colleges in America, who are brilliant, who are gracious and kind, who are women — Hands at 10:00 and 2:00. Never reach for anything. Be deferential. Don’t let them take you anywhere isolated. Compliance can get you killed. Noncompliance, too. 

Being Black can get you killed. 

What do you tell your children when they go out? Don’t text and drive? Don’t drink and drive? I tell my daughters that, too. Right after I tell them this: Hands at 10:00 and 2:00. Never reach for anything. Be deferential. Compliance can get you killed. Noncompliance, too. 

Being Black can get you killed. 

So, when you see the next video of a Black person being shot in the back or at point blank range, kicked, pulled by the hair, slammed on the ground, tazed…don’t assume they’re doing anything more wrong than you have done.  Or that your children have done. Or that [insert well-bred Black friend’s name here] has done. Assume they were compliant. Or assume they were noncompliant. Just know that if they were Black, there’s a chance it got them killed.

This morning, I woke up tired.

I do that a lot these days.

The problem’s not too little sleep.

The problem is being too woke.

 

I’m just tired.

Tired of Black people dying when policeman fear for their lives.

Tired of policemen dying when Black people fear for ours.

Tired of explaining privilege to those who deny it exists.

Tired of existing beneath it with frustrations I can’t explain.

Tired of war and warmongers.

Tired of fighting and hate.

Tired of the lies and the liars.

Tired of political pap.

Tired of “American dream” myths.

Tired of the nightmare truths.

Tired of “real change is coming.”

Tired of hoping it will.

Tired of gun rights being religion.

Tired of no rights to my own womb.

Tired of “Let’s Make America great.”

Tired ’cause we already did.

I’m just tired.