Journey to Empowerment (9 page)

V
ALERIE
A
YRES

S
he sings off-key. But wears her voice like the beautiful family quilt her grandmother stitched one corner at a time. It was an heirloom pattern; colorful but never out of style…loud but not overbearing. Stitched beside the wood stove that the family used for heat and cooking everyday meals. Her granddaddy named that stove Betsy. It was black, potbellied, short and heavy, but don't let looks fool you 'cause it could heat up the whole house in a matter of minutes with a little help and simmer up meals that had you licking each finger twice. “Just like Miss Betsy,” the menfolks whispered to each other. Her voice not one to gossip with such foolishness, instead sings chords full of life in radiant spring hues like her family quilt to family, friends and neighbors alike…always in key.

 

She sings off-key. But wears a piano like a second skin and plays like she's been taking lessons since birth; plays by ear with a gift only God could have given her. After hearing the first stanza of a song, she will pick it apart key by key and make it her own. She first will stroke the ivories like brushing a baby's head and, by midsong, she will bam out the chords as if they are being twirled toward the welcoming sun all the way from her soul. You, the listener, will walk away feeling the heat, shaking your head wondering where she hid the sheet music and how someone with all that class could hit those church keys that hard with so much rhythm, find all that soul in such an angelic place and conjure up all that power from such a petite package. You smile as you walk away a little lighter realizing how blessed she just made you feel and how good God is…all the time.

 

She sings off-key. But wears the beauty of a note like a lost soul that has just found joy on its way home. A note that you hold for a long time as it relishes on your tongue and after it has left your soul, you try to hit it again…and again…and find pleasure in knowing that once you hit it, it will come back, sometimes more forceful and longer than before. It will bring passion and beauty like a ballad with words written just for you and a melody played so sweetly with so much profoundness it brings satisfaction to your heart and tears to your eyes. She takes that note every first Sunday and sings front and center as a member of the seniors' choir, soprano section. Even though her voice leans more toward alto or tenor depending on whom you ask and what note she is trying to hit at that given moment…she still sings. With so much wisdom, she goes where the spirit leads her and where she feels her voice is needed the most…amazing grace…. She sings, to us all.

 

She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

—Proverbs 31:26

G
EQUETA
V
ALENTINE

A
fter twenty-two long hours, she lay stretched out on a bulky metal hospital bed, exhausted and disoriented, her body soaked with the perspiration of hard labor.

“It's a girl,” the white nurse said, without enthusiasm, moments after the child, kicking urgently against her loins, emerged from her womb. After checking the baby's vital signs, the disdainful nurse cleaned and wrapped her tightly in starched white hospital linen and hurriedly handed the bundle to her without speaking another word. Protectively, she held the child in her trembling arms, while the newborn flexed her young vocal chords with a deafening cry, announcing her presence to a world that did not want her.

She stared at the small, black body, pressed closely against her bosom, silently mourning the inevitable. For all of the joys she would experience through motherhood, she knew that the baby girl would suffer much more sorrow than even
she
could ever imagine. But the woman could not allow those thoughts to stifle her spirits. What she had done was give life to yet another yearning, black child and for that she was proud, even content, and that was what she needed to remain focused on; not the fact that far too soon she would be forced to reconcile her emotions and confront the reality that this very child would be yanked from her care, just like all of the others, into a world that refused to understand her. She would be thrust into a world already set in motion, entrenched in its own ideologies about who or what she could and could not be.

Why had the woman been chosen to bear such a burden? Wasn't it enough that she'd survived the same? To teach another was harder to do. No matter how much she'd prepared them all, it just wasn't enough to soften the blow to the barrier she'd erected, always broken by a single word or action.

Her daughters would run to her like their lives depended upon it, shocked and amazed that she already knew and felt their pain, even before they had arrived. She consoled and encouraged, all in the same breath, her smile never wavering, while her insides were ripped to shreds at the rejection her children suffered. Each time, more dreadful than the last, having given each child a portion of her own heart for her healing, to cover the scar that the scorn of others had left. Even now as she gazed into the deep brown eyes of the child she held, she felt as if she had nothing left to give.

Her eyes trailed the room to the open window, for a glimpse of the great big world outside, a world that had changed, but not enough that she could allow her children to play in it without questioning the age-old adage that “every man is created equal.”

“Run faster.”

“Try harder.”

“You have to be better,” she would exhort them while they stared at her, eyes filled with naiveté, never understanding why they were held to a higher standard in the first place. But they were and would continue to be, by no fault of their own. It was just their plight, as it was hers to nurture and strengthen them for endurance. Without it, there would be no way they could survive.

For that reason alone, she knew there was no point in continuing to tussle with her thoughts. No sense in debating what was already determined. She had been chosen, appointed to bear such a burden, and she could not shirk the responsibility, no matter how daunting. Heartache and agony, never far away, peeked at her from every corner, always prepared to stop and pay a visit. But if she dwelt on what was always a possibility, she would never remember the rewards garnered by her dutiful service.

The familiar sounds of hunger erupting from her child's mouth brought her back to her surroundings. Looking down, she smiled, gently nudging the squirming infant, guiding its mouth to her darkened nipple. As it nestled and suckled her, she was happy for the job that she'd been given, of being her mother, and the mother to the entire nation of children she'd borne before her. It was her job and hers alone. To ask someone else to do it would have been unfair. The task rested upon her shoulders. And yes, the weight of it bent her frame every now and then, but who was better suited to raise her daughters to be proud, black women—to love and believe in themselves in the midst of a world that whispers their inferiority, but her…

A black woman.

B
Y
L
YNDON
H
ARRISON

I look upon thee as a flower looks upon the sun, You…are my heavenly body.

I rise to meet you at the dawn of each new day, Looking forward into the light that your vision brings.

I see all of creation in a single of your gestures. No greater honor can I hold than the touch of your divinity.

Angelic being, as your heavenly essence descends deep into my soul, I am blessed.

Our energy motions attract like the elements of an atom.

Deep in our emotions…we feel our way home. We are on a crystal-clear path…traveling through the darkness and the light.

But no diamond could lure me from the perfect gems hidden in just one of your tears. For only we, the stars and our Creator can know the truth about our homeland.

A place of profound beauty…where we were once one.

Separated by an age to test our love.

Unified in this way to complete the ultimate love story.

Light of the world…our union is indeed.

 

Your repose makes me sigh the secret breath of bliss. The most essential acknowledgement of love and respect.

As I open and close the lens of my central eye your image is captured forever.

On full display in my private gallery—the holy of holies.

Only you may enter this highest height altar.

Now your view of my entire being is unrestricted—I am yours.

 

Signs of the times…we are icons of fertility and stability.

Heavenly bodies decorated with the blueprints of raw life,

Our orbits are free in form.

The first binary star of a new universe of galaxies…of worlds to be born.

Through the twilight eye light of our beloved ancient guardians

Our creator honors our ascension.

They prepare the way as the debris of universal construction implodes.

Our explosive union is visible to the naked eye.

 

Blessed is the place where we live.

Constantly moving in prayer, I give thanks…constantly.

Angelic woman…my heavenly body.

Only the most divine word can truly express our love.

A sacred word hidden in the spirit of our bodacious dancing and stillness.

Born wild and free…we have…returned.

My sweetest, mother of the purest creation, I love you.

B
Y
P
ATRICIA
W
ILSON
-C
ONE

T
he dictionary tells us that menopause is the cessation of menstruation. My first concern is, why do we call this phase of women's lives
menopause?
Since we are talking about a pause—stop—a halt in the lives of women, it would seem to me we would change the name to “Womenopause.”

We, women of color, have learned since slavery the importance of pausing and stopping during the various stages of our lives in order to survive. We had to pause and stop when we saw our black men being castrated; we paused and stopped when we gave birth to the master's child; we paused and stopped when our husbands left us in order for him to survive in a land of freedom. And now we journey into this biological phase of our lives and realize that a change is coming over us. Once again, we find ourselves pausing and stopping to embrace menopause, or what I have termed “Womenopause.”

I want to define menopause—“Womenopause”—from a spiritual perspective. This is the time in women's lives when we should pause to reflect, revisit and reshape our thinking; refine what we are feeling; remember where we have come from and where we are going as strong women of color, womanist creatures of God. This is a time when we want to be sensitive to the change that is occurring in our lives, and to realize and affirm that God is right there. It is the essence of Psalm 139:7–10. “Womenopause” might cause you to feel that God is not there with you. However, God is right there in the midst of our change.

This is the time to reflect on some of the outstanding African-American women of our lives and what they have offered us to enhance our spirituality. For example, what is Renita Weems saying to us at this time in our lives as we read her book
For Such a Time as This
? What does it mean to pause and reflect on Susan Taylor's book,
Living in the Spirit
? When we feel melancholic during this “Womenopause” experience, dare we spend time revisiting Maya Angelou's poem “And Still I Rise.”

It would seem to me that “Womenopause” would afford us the opportunity to reflect on the importance of what God says: “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). This is the time for women to just “BE.” Be the woman God has created you to be. This is the time to “BE” the mother to your children at a slower pace now; “BE” the wife to your husband, and reflect on how you can creatively reshape your marriage. If you are single, “BE” the single woman, “BE” the single mother, “BE” attuned to the single selfhood, as you move in new directions with a newfound soulness. There may be times during “Womenopause” when you may feel down and out, all alone or lonely. This is the time to call that woman or women in your life, so that they may build a circle around you and empower you with the spiritual light of perseverance. In this circle, experience God in the center of the circle. The circle concept is not strange to us, women of color. We know that the women in Africa encircle themselves as they listen and tell stories to one another. This is the time to come together with women in the church, on the job, in the sorority, in the community, in the shopping center, in the family and so on, and talk about the menopause, “Womenopause,” experience. When we tell our stories, we women can become more liberated. Yes, there is a balm in Gilead, and it makes me whole as I journey through “Womenopause.”

This is also the time to pause and name what is going on inside, then call out these various experiences to God and invite God to hear our prayer. During “Womenopause,” we thirst for water; we find ourselves thirsty and sweaty about our brows. And, in the midst of darkness, we find ourselves changing our bed linens and night garments. But, there is another kind of thirst; we find it in Psalm 42:2: “My soul thirsts for God, the living God.” Praying or crying out to God in the midst of our distress can fulfill this thirst.

We can pause, stop, reflect, revisit and reshape our relationship with God by praying. Prayer causes us to develop a higher relationship with God; in prayer, we rethink some of our petitions and intercessions with God; prayer causes us to thank and praise God for our womanist experiences. This prayerful relationship with God affirms that, yes, our bodies are experiencing a biological cessation according to our developmental stages as women. But the good news: God never ceases in our lives, no matter what our “Womenopause” experiences are.