Early in my relationship with my wife Debbie, I noticed that while we walked around in New York, she always holds her path. She is not rude about it but she struts down the street with an elegant confidence, an inherent belief that she has as much right as anyone to take up space. She is this immovable force and it is an incredible thing to witness. When I am out and about, I’m always inclined to move out of the way, to try and take up as little space as possible, to try and make myself disappear while knowing full well that I cannot. And, more importantly, I should not.
I have learned a lot from my wife over the past five years even if I haven’t been able to apply those lessons to my own life as much as I would like to. When she speaks, she never says umm or uses other fillers. If her thought isn’t fully formed, she pauses, assembles what she wants to say, trusts that she has the right to take that time, and then when she is ready, she continues. It’s a real skill because often, people try to fill the space of uncertainty with random rambling as if that is an adequate substitute for coherence.
When something is subpar, she lets it be known, always politely but firmly. She doesn’t seem to doubt herself or that she has a right to having standards. She knows how she deserves and expects to be treated and acts accordingly. I watch her and ask myself, “How does she do that?” I would love to have a fraction of her self-possession.
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I recently read an essay by Amber J. Phillips, “Black Capitali$t Coochie,” and I’ve been thinking about it for days. In it, she talks about, among other things, having standards of care for herself—how she expects to be treated, and the level of care she needs and deserves to be whole and happy. She writes about how if someone cannot meet her standard of care, they cannot be a part of her life. It’s that simple. I admired the confidence in Phillips’s words.
This world does not believe Black women deserve care. We are supposed to care for everyone—our families, our coworkers, our friends, our communities, our democracy and ask for nothing in return. We aren’t supposed to expect anything in return and we damn sure aren’t supposed to expect to be cared for and when you internalize this belief for long enough, you start to believe this toxic nonsense, too.
As I read “Black Capitali$t Coochie,” I thought, “I want a standard of care for myself.” Or, more accurately, I have a standard of care and I would like to articulate that standard and enforce boundaries around it when people are unable or unwilling to meet that standard.
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In “Can I Get a Witness,” June Jordan wrote, “Is there no way to interdict and terminate the traditional, abusive loneliness of Black women in this savage country?”
I consider those words often… the abusive loneliness of Black women in this savage country…
The question is rhetorical but also, it isn’t.
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