And Your Daughters...

Although there is a shift in progress, in some places ministerial leadership is still an all boys club. I can recall my first semester at Drew. I heard the rumblings and grumblings from women whose ministerial gifts and graces were ignored, devalued, and outright rejected because they did not posses the correct genitalia that qualifies one for ministry. They were hurt. They were angry. They were silenced. They were confused. Most of these stories were voiced by women in historically and predominantly Black Baptist Churches—the very place where God has called me to serve. I must admit, I was frightened by these stories. I also must admit, I tried to make these stories my own. As much as their stories were true for them, their stories were not my story.

I am grateful to be under the leadership of a Spirit-filled and Spirit-led man, the Rev. Dr. Allen Paul Weaver, Jr., who recognizes that God has called women and men to proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ. His recognition goes beyond the surface. He is not simply pleasant to women preachers; He demonstrates his understanding of Scripture by nurturing and training both women and men in the ministry. He was the first Pastor in Bethesda's 122 year history to license women to preach, to ordain women to the Gospel ministry, and to ordain female deacons (not deaconesses). He has catechized a host of women from churches in the Metropolitan New York area as they prepared to be ordained into the Gospel ministry. I am the second woman clergy person to serve in the role of Assistant to the Pastor. Currently, our ministerial staff is equally balanced female and male. He invites gifted and powerful women into our pulpit to preach beyond Women's Day and Mission Sunday. Dr. Weaver understands that gender and genetalia do not make one more (or less) fit for ministry. He understands that it is the indwelling of the Holy Spirit, obedience to a call from God, being a student of the Word, and a love for God's church that makes one fit for ministry.

The prophet Joel uttered these words—from the mouth of God—to the people of Israel:

“ And it shall come to pass afterward
That I will pour out My Spirit on all flesh;
Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy,
Your old men shall dream dreams,
Your young men shall see visions.
And also on My menservants and on My maidservants
I will pour out My Spirit in those days." (Joel 2:28-29 NKJV)

Lest we think these words are part of the old covenant, the Apostle Peter, on the day of Pentecost when the Holy Spirit came upon the people, used these words as fodder for his sermonic message. The Spirit of God can, does, and will use men, women, boys, and girls to proclaim what thus saith the Lord.

And your daughters...

I have had the pleasure, two weeks in a row, to witness an amazing move of God in ministry in predominantly Black Baptist churches. These events let me know that God is still on the throne, God is still moving, and that eventually people will catch God's vision...

Last Sunday we attended an ordination of deacons service at the Calvary Baptist Church in White Plains, NY. This was no ordinary ordination service. This was the first time in Calvary's 75 year history that they were ordaining women to the diaconate ministry. I felt chills as Dr. Weaver preached a word of challenge and blessing over the church and the women being ordained. I felt joy for the church and for those girls and boys who will grow in the church seeing women and men servings as leaders. I felt the Spirit as authority was conferred upon these four women.

Last night, after a marathon day at church, Pastor and I traveled down to St. John's Baptist Church in Harlem for an ordination service. The ordinand was a women that Pastor had catechized and prepared for ministry. She was also a women who went before council for examination the same night that I did. Although we were strangers on that night, as we waited for our turn before council, we affirmed each other, prayed with each other and encouraged each other in the Lord. She is now my sister and a co-laborer in the Gospel ministry. I was blessed to be counted in the number of those laying hands on her as God elevated her from Minister to Reverend. I was blessed to be able to extend to her the right hand of fellowship, welcoming her into this beautiful and strange vocation. If that wasn't enough, I found out in between the laying on of hands and extending the right hand of fellowship that she was the first woman ordained to the Gospel ministry in St. John's history. In that moment, I heard the shouts of that great cloud of witnesses—voices of those Daughters of Thunder—Jarena Lee, Amanda Berry Smith, Sojourner truth, Florence Spearing Randolph, Pauli Murray echoing in my heart.

One of the most poignant moments in the ordination service was during the charge to the ordinand delivered by Dr. Weaver. He charged the ordinand to be a preacher. A preacher—nothing more and nothing less. He challenged her to be mindful of the nomenclature used to describe her ministry. He noted that when we mark ourselves—and are marked—as female preachers, we mark a distinction (which some might read as an inferiority). He called her attention—our attention—that in Christ there is neither male nor female, Greek nor Jew, bond nor free (Galatians 3:28). He reiterated the fact that it is her Spirit given gifts that will make room for her in ministry, not her gender. Although his charge was for this particular ordinand, I must admit that I kept his words and have been pondering them in my heart (Luke 2:19).

Amen and so be it.

image of Florence Spearing Randolph taken from http://ptoday.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html

Just Fine...

Some months ago, I posted something about finally being comfortable in my curvy, fleshy, womanly body. I have to admit, this is nothing short of a miracle. I have been aware of the size of my body since I was in kindergarten. My weight, my thick thighs, my round belly had always been a source of consternation. I can honestly admit that for much of my life I did not like me--the outer me, that is. In my twenties and early thirties I fought with my body. I treated her unkindly. I starved her and worked her out mercilessly only to, a few months later, gorge her and give her permission to sit and do nothing for months and months on end. As a result, my weight went up and down and up and down and, well, you get the picture. My closet reflected this change. I had skinny clothes and fat clothes and really fat clothes on hangers and in bins just waiting until it was their time.

But this is a new day...

I am good with me. And, my husband is good with me. And, my doctors are good with me. But it seems there are some folk who haven't quite gotten with the program. I went to the gym today and decided to take them up on the one free personal training session. Well my trainer after pleasantries and required, but not authentic, compliments, asked me my height and weight. She then asked me my goals. I told her that I wanted get fit and lose about 5 pounds (picked up in the hustle and bustle after the wedding). She then ignored my goals and tried to persuade me that I needed to get to 125lbs and that she could get me there. I bucked. She bucked back throwing out numbers and words like dangerous and types of fat that she couldn't pronounce, let alone explain. But I stood my ground. First of all, I am quite healthy. Second of all, I am not my fittest, but I am no slouch. Thirdly, my head alone weighs 115lbs! Plus, and most importantly, I am good with my body. No one, especially not a stranger who is trying to milk me for 40 bucks a session, is going to lead me to believe that I need to be a size 4 to be healthy. I have been in this body for 34 years. I have been aware of her size for about 29 of those years. I am tired of hating her, hating me. I am tired of obsessing over every bite of food and every calorie burned. In fact, I had an aha! moment today while on the treadmill: Working out is much more liberating when you aren't obsessed with the results. These days, and for the rest of my days, I will be working out for self-care, not to be skinny....

So my goals, the ones I will share with ole girl when I meet with her on Monday morning are:
1)To have fun when I work out...
(I've already gotten back into my Bellydancing...next up, Zumba!)

2)To establish a routine...
(I want working out to be part of what I do like eating, sleeping, worshiping, etc.)

3)To build up my arm strength and my confidence enough to make that cartwheel happen...
(See an earlier post from January, I think)

If her harassment wasn't enough, I was accosted in the elevator of my mother's building a few hours ago. I was talking with a woman who has lived in the building all of my life. Apparently she had been literally watching me grow. She said, "You're gaining weight since I saw you last." First of all, grammar lady, grammar! Second of all, I saw you last week but you were too scattered to notice. And thirdly (what actually came out of my mouth), no I'm not gaining weight. She then tried to clean it up, put her foot in her mouth again, and thanks be to God, the elevator reached the seventh floor, our stop.

Why do people feel the need to comment on your weight? The audacity! What she didn't realize was that I am good with me and that I was feeling especially dynamite in my leopard print dress and knee high boots.

I was reminded of a comment my grandma made about my weight last November. At that time I was just getting on the road to where I am now. As always, my grandma made some comment about me gaining weight--this time used the word stout. What woman wants to be called stout? Huh? Anyway, I usually stay quiet when she brings up my weight, but I guess I had had enough. I politely said, "Grandma, are you trying to lower my self-esteem?" (I couldn't believe it had actually come out of my mouth.) She replied, "huh?" I knew she had heard me, I guess she wanted to know if she heard what she though she heard. I may have been an adult, but I still had no business sassing her. I boldly repeated the question. Instead of saying something harsh, she said, "I reckon not." That was the end of our exchange. That was also the last time my grandma said anything to me about my weight/body.

This is kind of random, but also related. I am moving to a place where I am refusing to participate in conversations when my girlfriends obsess over and speak negatively about their weight/body. There are so many productive things to talk about. We are too beautiful to wate our time on such chatter. Plus, it does more harm than good. Just as I am (finally) just fine, I want my friends--and all women in general--to be just fine with who they are, inside and out.

So, with that, I leave you with the wonderful words of Mary J. Blige. If I am not mistaken, this song is on every one of my workout playlists. It reminds me that I am good with me. It reminds me not to compare myself with others. It reminds me not to internalize the insecurities of others. Also, this particular video shows just how much of the joint this song is. Peep the news guy getting his groove on.




I like what I see when I'm looking at me when I'm walking past the mirror...

Beautiful Feet (Part III)...

This was written in March of 2009 for my Sacred Feet: Pathways to the Soul class. I am grateful for the women who shared their feet stories with me...

My fascination with feet, and the relationship with black women and their feet was prompted by the following quotation from bell hooks’ 1993 book Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self Recovery:

Another area of the black female body that receives little or no focus, but usually indicates the degree of body self-esteem, is the fact. Recent studies on women and shoes reveal that the majority of women in this society stuff their feet into shoes that are at least one size too small. Many black women have large feet and again find it difficult to find reasonably priced shoes. Yet even the black females among us who wear regular sizes also abuse our feet by stuffing them into shoes that are uncomfortable or too little. Since many black females have learned if we are to acknowledge that the happiness and comfort of one’s feet in daily life are crucial to well-being. This unlearning can begin when we pay attention to our feet. (hooks 92)

If care of our feet speaks to care of our whole selves, I wanted to know if hooks’ findings about care of feet, care of self, and shoe selection were still true 16 years later. I interviewed 25 African-American women, whose ages range from 18-73 (avg. 39 ), occupations range from student to anesthesiologist, and shoe sizes range from 6.5-12W (avg. 9). I asked the following questions: Age; Occupation; Shoe Size; How do you feel about your feet?; Do you care for your feet? If so how?; When it comes to shoes do you opt for comfort, style, or both?; What is your shoe of choice?; What is one word that describes your feet?; How many hours a day do you spend on your feet?; What is your most memorable feet memory?; and How do you feel about yourself?

My limited research speaks volumes about the nature of reeducation and self-care among African-American women. In fact, JW (73) cited her best feet memory as the healing of the gangrene in her toe as a result of a blocked artery. Since the healing she has not only cared more for herself, but she “diligently” cares for her feet.

On the subject of self-care, eighty-eight percent of women surveyed, do care for their feet. BS, a wise twenty year old, noted, “Of course I care for my feet. When your feet hurt, your whole body hurts.” 60% of the women surveyed get regular professional pedicures. The students I surveyed get professional pedicures when funds allow, but in this economy they have taken to caring for their own feet. All of the women who care for their feet mentioned a daily routine of drying in between the toes and slathering with cream. Other care includes foot massages and reflexology. For some the self-care is year round, while for others the idea of baring their toes in flip-flops or sandals in the summer months increases the likelihood that they will get a pedicure.

Speaking of flip-flops (the shoe of choice for summer months), the women I surveyed have an equal love for sneakers and stilettos! The sneaker is an obvious choice—32% of the women surveyed spend between 2-10 hours/day on their feet, and 28% spend more than 10 hours/day on their feet. Younger women (under 30) cited sneakers or flats as their shoe of choice. The thirty and forty-somethings are the stiletto lovers. Not surprisingly, the women over fifty cited flats as their shoe of choice. DS (56) even cited being barefoot as her shoe of choice!

While hooks’ observation that “ Many black women have large feet and again find it difficult to find reasonably priced shoes” still rings somewhat true today, the women I spoke with overwhelmingly choose shoes, regardless of kind, based on comfort first and style second. Gone are the days, especially for women 35 and older, of stuffing feet into uncomfortable or cheap shoes. In fact three women specifically mentioned purchasing well-fitting, good-quality shoes as part of their care for their feet. And while BT (21) may sacrifice style for comfort for a night on the town, and TC (33) cannot resist a “bad” pair of stilettos despite comfort level, comfort is important to 92% of the women I surveyed. In terms of shoe selection, retail stores have left much to be desired. KS (34) cites the difficulty in finding shoes that she likes to fit her size 11 feet. DT (56) used to despise her feet because they limited her style selection, but she grown to be “grateful for the large feet that carry this body.”

A large majority of the women I surveyed were, indeed, grateful to their feet, although some were not. The women described their feet in the following ways: beautiful, ten, long, flat, boney, skinny, supportive, deceptive, unpredictable, cute, big, durable, appealing, small, strong, important, painful, friends, sturdy, tired, and functional. While most women love their feet and love themselves, many are learning to love and care for both themselves and their feet. I believe this learning will further elevate the level of self-esteem among African-American women.

Among the most memorable feet stories, were beautiful experiences of digging one’s toes in the pink Bermuda sand, “standing knee deep in mud after a good rain in Mississippi,” using one’s long toes to pick up things off the floor, and a woman who learned to dance while standing on her father’s feet at her aunt and uncle’s wedding. BT (18) loves the way that her feet help her to praise God through dance. DW (31) and LS (32) have fond memories of their mothers playing with their toes as girls, however TR’s (32) mother was so obsessed with her daughter having pretty feet that she pedicured T while she slept. T recalls, “While not pleasant, it brings back fond memories of my mother teaching me the importance of self-care and upkeep.” Two women have feet memories that they cannot “share out loud.” Both women hinted at their feet memories being part of a pleasurable sexual experience. Perhaps they are like KB (43) who was told after a pedicure that she had “suckable toes.” BS (20) is pregnant and cannot wait to “resume unswollen feet.” Perhaps she will shout Hallelujah like Rev. DS (39) who “only had to wait 4 months [after giving birth] to wear a perfect pair of shoes that were absolutely gorgeous.”

What have I learned. Well, we have come a long way since hooks wrote Sisters of the Yam in 1993, but there is still a ways to go. There is certainly a correlation between foot care and self-care/esteem, however, based on my limited research, foot care (and self-care) among black women is on the rise. African-American women who care for their feet and speak positively about their feet, also engage in life affirming behavior and speak like affirming words about their whole selves. At a later time, I hope to continue this research in a more formal way. I believe there is much to be learned about the state of mental, physical, emotional, and spiritual health of African-American women from this kind of query. In the meantime, I’m caring for my feet more, loving myself more, and I just purchased two new pairs of good-quality, well-fitting shoes!

Beautiful Feet (Part II)...

This was written in February of 2009. As vulnerable as our feet are, this letter is equally as vulnerable.

Dear Tootsies (and Pinky, too),

Where do I begin? We haven’t talked much. I apologize, let me rephrase that. I’ve been talking all of my life, but rarely have I taken the time to actually listen to you. I’ve heard you, but I haven’t listened, heeded, or considered what you have been saying to me. In the almost thirty-three years that we have been together, I have only paid attention to you when Pinky bumped up against a wall, bed post, or some other large object whose presence my eyes failed to recognized. Pinky would yell, scream, holler, bawl—so loud that I couldn’t ignore her. Otherwise, I haven’t listened, and for that I am sorry. In fact, it wasn’t until I reread Sisters of the Yam by bell hooks, in 2004, that I even recognized that you need me to pay attention to you. In a chapter entitled “Dreaming Ourselves Dark and Deep: Back Beauty,” hooks wrote:

“Another area of the black female body that receives little or no focus, but usually indicates the degree of body self-esteem, is the fact. Recent studies on women and shoes reveal that the majority of women in this society stuff their feet into shoes that are at least one size too small. Many black women have large feet and again find it difficult to find reasonably priced shoes. Yet even the black females among us who wear regular sizes also abuse our feet by stuffing them into shoes that are uncomfortable or too little. Since many black females have learned if we are to acknowledge that the happiness and comfort of one’s feet in daily life are crucial to well-being. This unlearning can begin when we pay attention to our feet.” (hooks 92)

In few words, hooks spoke volumes about the way in which women in general, and black women specifically, relate to their feet. If I can be honest, when I reread the text, it was as if hooks was writing to me, about me, for me, on your behalf.

In many ways, your presence has always troubled me. Imean, with me being 5’2” and you being a size 10W or 11, you have always had a presence. I’m a short girl. That being said, you should be a size 7 or 8. But you are not, and we are an odd couple of sorts I was always told that from the knees down that I resemble Beaulah Powell, my maternal grandmother. Truthfully, if you take a photograph of both she and I from the ankles down, we are identical twins. That doesn’t sit well with me. My grandmother has never struck me as a glamourous woman. Strong, yes, but never glamourous. Her feet, my feet, are the same-strong, but not glamorous. Her feet walked cotton-fields—thick skinned, rough, spread wide like the fields.

I grew up listening to my momma playing jazz and blues on Saturday mornings while we cleaned the house. Well, Fats Waller’s tune, Your Feet’s Too Big, always touched a nerve:

Say, up in Harlem,
At a table for two,
There were four of us,
Me, your big feet and you!
From your ankles up, I say you sure are sweet,
From there down, there's just too much feet!
Yas!

Your feet's too big!
Don't want ya 'cause your feet's too big!
Can't use ya 'cause your feet's too big!
I really hate ya 'cause your feet's too big!
Yeah!”

All of my friend’s feet cooperate with them, but not you. It’s really hard to be nice when your presence makes me feel mannish, old-ladyish, hard-laborish. I cannot say I’ve ever dated a guy whose feet were much bigger than you are. In fact, I remember being so embarrassed when I found out that Esteban’s feet were not only smaller than you, but much smaller than you. I often wonder if your size contributed to our problems, or maybe it was my brooding over your size than caused issue between us.

Admittedly, I haven’t always treated you right. To guise the fact of your size, I often bought and wore shoes that were too short, too narrow, and too cheap. When I was partying, I wanted to be like Aloma, Stacy, and Kim and wear fiercely high-heeled shoes while dancing the night away. When I started going to church, I wanted to be like Minister L’Judie and Minister Nicola and wear fiercely high-heeled shoes while praising and preaching. And I did, but you suffered. Oh, how you suffered—ingrown toenails, bunions, and rough spots galore. But its not just high-heels that do us in. When ballerina shoes and flats became trendy, I followed along, and quickly learned that flats give Pinky corns and make your instep throb. I wish I could say that the pain made me buy more sensible shoes, but they didn’t. I’ve always been a good dresser—some would even say fashionable—and all I wanted was for you to match my style. To that end, I abused you, and I am sorry.

But your size wasn’t my only source of consternation. In recent years, I’ve come to know that you (and hands, too) suffer from hyperhidrosis. As a child, all I knew was that my feet were always sweaty and smelly. Again, not ladylike if you ask me. Not only were you big, but you were smelly. I feared changing for gym class, because it always meant taking off my shoes. I feared going to someone’s home that required me to take my shoes off. I resent the security checks at airports because it means being outed as a smelly-feet lady. You know I’ve tried everything—creams, powders, special socks, prayer. Just a few months ago I was traveling from Chicago after an exciting trip to the American Academy of Religion conference. I was on an intellectual and spiritual high until I passed through the security check at O’Hare airport. Not only were my shoes smelly, but the TSA officers made faces and said awful things about the smell. I wanted to run away, fast. It was like I was in high-school gym class all over again.

When I began to grow in my relationship with Christ, and was actively engaging in Bible study, my eyes were opened to truths about you. The psalmist wrote, “For You formed my inward parts; You covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well” (Psalm 139:14). For so long, I hated and abused you. I did not recognize, that you, in all of your large and sweaty glory, were part of my inward parts that were made by God. I did not recognize that you had been covered in my mother’s womb. I didn’t recognize that you, like every other part of me, is a marvelous work of God. Even when my eyes were opened to that truth, I failed to act on it, for it mean forgoing stylish shoes for ones made by Easy Spirit and Naturalizer. I failed to act on it, for it meant not being able spend quality time at Nine-West with my girlfriends.

But more than that, when I answered my call to ministry, you had a totally new significance to me. The Apostle Paul, quoting the prophet Isaiah, spoke about the importance on the feet in the preaching of the Gospel. He wrote:

“How then shall they call on Him in whom they have not believed? And how shall they believe in Him of whom they have not heard? And how shall they hear without a preacher?And how shall they preach unless they are sent? As it is written:

“ How beautiful are the feet of those who preach the gospel of peace,

Who bring glad tidings of good things!”” (Romans 10:14-15).

The most significant piece of this writing is the naming of the feet of preachers as beautiful. I’ve never thought of you as beautiful before, but you are. Even your size is a blessing. You are my foundation, you keep me from toppling over, you keep me standing tall. You may look like Beaulah’s feet, but you are mine, and I love you. You may not look be glamoroust, but you are mine, and I love you. I love you because God made you, and gave you to me. I love you because you have anchored me for so long. I don’t have to wear fiercely high-heeled shoes for you to be attractive. I don’t have to be ashamed of your smell (although waking a few minutes early and taking to time to carefully dry every inch of you has alleviated the stink). God says that you are marvelous, beautiful, and who am I to argue that point! So, even now, I vow to treat you like the marvelous and beautiful works of God that you are. I want to be well, wholly well, so I vow to begin with you.

Love,

Donna

Works Cited

hooks, bell. Sisters of the Yam: Black Women and Self-Recovery. Boston: South End Press, 1993.

`

Unless otherwise noted, All Scripture references are taken from The Holy Bible New King JamesVersion.

Beautiful Feet (Part I)...

(I thought about changing the name of my blog as I was thinking about writing this posting. Then I started to think about an entire blog makeover. I am still in a time of new beginnings, and since I have a new name, a new look would be fitting. We'll see. Stay tuned)

Speaking of new looks, I have been trying to get my big girl on in my shoe game. Because my mother wasn't a frou-frou, girly-girl heel wearer when I was growing up, I was never that girl who wore heels. OK, maybe not never. I tried for about 2.5 hours, but after the pain and the realization that I didn't know how to walk in the things hit me, I stopped trying. I was older and wiser when I went to Howard, so I didn't worry about fitting in with the girls on the yard as they strutted across campus in their 3 inch heels. But I must admit, as I spend more and more time in the church, I am always amazed by the sistahs who have on a bad pair of heels while getting their praise on! And don't let it be a preaching woman delivering a mighty word while standing tall in her shoes!

But the truth is I have special feet. I have my grandma Beaulah's feet. I have strong feet that hold me up. They are long and wide. And they usually have a hard time finding shoes that they like that like them back. They go for comfort over style because comfort is all they can find. But, this is a new day...

On Wednesday I went into Lane Bryant to buy a gift card. On my way to the register I saw them. They beckoned me, not interested in the fact that I had a task at hand and was on a schedule. They were not alone; there were many. All beautiful. All calling my name. So not to be rude, I answered. There were shoes and booties and boots with calf shafts wide enough to fit my legs. I played with them for a while, but decided I would leave them in the store. That was Wednesday.

On Saturday I still heard them calling. Plus, I needed a pair of shoes for worship on Sunday (long story, not important). So I made my way to to store, picked them up, and left with new shoes, who would become new friends.

Why do I call them friends? I put them on just before 7:00 a.m. yesterday morning and I did not take them off until after 8:00 p.m. last night. They were with me, on my feet, for not one, not two, but three services. I led worship in them. I praised in them. I walked in them. And they felt good. And they were FIERCE! Praise be to God!

At first I felt silly blogging about my shoes, especially after an awesome day of worship. However, this is part of who I am. Plus, I am convinced that my comfortable feet made it possible for my heart, mind, and spirit to be open for worship. There is not greater distraction in the world than to have your feet hurting!

So with that, I will end this post. But look out for part two (and three). As I wrote this I was reminded of papers I wrote for my Sacred Feet class in 2008.

Circle of Sistahs...

I am keenly aware that everyone your color ain't your kind, and everyone your kind ain't your color, but I have to admit that I find special comfort in the company of Black women. I also must admit that I have feeling a bit isolated in my new neighborhood. Edison, and especially our complex, is heavily populated by Indians and Indian-Americans. While I am pleasant to my neighbors, I find that not everyone responds to my cheerful "good mornings." My prayer is that I get to know some of the women in my complex, to form bonds that transgress the borders of race, ethnicity, and culture. But even then, there is something, for me, about connecting with Black women.

So begins my story. On Monday I was meeting a seminarian friend, Jameel, for coffee at Panera Bread. He was my ace at Drew, a fellow thinker and preacher, and it just so happens that we kind of live in the same neighborhood. Anyway, I got there early to do some work. When I walked in there was a group of Black women—beautiful, I might add—who were walking away from the counter with trays in their hands. One of the women smiled at me and softly said, "Good morning." I didn't know her, but I felt at home in her presence.

That fleeting moment was followed by me ordering coffee and finding a seat, which just happened to be across the room from these women. They were in my direct line of sight. Even though they were sitting in regular ole chairs at regular ole tables in Panera Bread talking and laughing and such, in my mind they looked like this Chester Higgins photograph:

I felt silly, but I wanted to know them. In fact, I was g-mail chatting with girlfriend extraordinaire, Courtney, and I told her that there was a group of FABULOUS Black women in Panera and I wanted to be their friend. Deep in my heart I was serious. There was something about this women. Don't get me wrong, I have wonderful sistah/girl/friends that are near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, they are geographically far away, and I sure could use some sistah/girl/friends in geographical proximity. And here they were...

But how does a grown woman go about making new friends, other grown women, in a coffee shop. Cheesy pick-up lines? Crashing their table? Complementing their outfits? How about a connection that only God could provide.

So as I schemed, Jameel came into the spot. He sat down and we began to talk life, theology, and preaching. But something about this group of women held my attention. So I fessed up. I went through the whole I feel silly thing, but there is a group of fabulous women over there and I really want to be their friend. Well, wouldn't you know it...Jameel turned his head and it turned out he knew two of the women (one of which was the woman who said good morning) from his previous church. He spoke very highly of them: they were God-fearing women; they were smart women; they were family women; they were beautiful women; they were resilient women. He offered to introduce me, but I declined; I felt stupid. We moved on in our conversation. They were still in my sight, but for the moment they were out of mind.

As it would happen, as they were leaving the two women that Jameel knew came over to greet him. And then it happened...he introduced us and told them that I was over at the table admiring them. We talked a bit and exchanged numbers. I was grateful and excited to have some women—Christian women—in my neck of the woods to talk with, laugh with, to glean from, and to offer my gifts to. I am looking forward to joining their circle.

Untitled...

This entry isn't really untitled. It has many titles. I couldn't decide on just one.

Here are but a few:

Tell 'em why You Mad Son...

or, No/bodies, Some/bodies...

or, For Real MoMa? You're Kidding, Right...

or, Where is Lorna?

I feverishly typed most of this entry on my Blackberry while sitting on the top floor of the Museum of Metropolitan Art. I had not been to the new location (which isn't so new anymore) and I was excited to get out and be inspired. Instead I felt like my life/breath was being choked out of me. Here is my story:

As I traveled up yet another escalator, I realized that I paid twenty bucks to get mad. I could feel the heat rising in my body like steam coming out from a NYC manhole cover. I could have gotten mad for free (like I did in the Bolton's fitting room earlier), but no, I paid to be angered.

I should have expected it. I should have known better. But I walked in blindly and got smacked upside the head pretty hard. I felt like Wily Coyote getting hit by a ton of Acme bricks. What hit me? It was the reality that many are still content with ignoring the bodies and the bodies of work of African-American women.

Let me begin with our bodies. I am no small girl. In fact, I was reminded of this in the fitting room of Bolton's earlier today. I may not be tall, but I am certainly not lacking presence. Except, of course, in places where white folks and a few others aren't expecting my presence. I was bumped and brushed one too many times for my taste. It was like I wasn't there. It was like they didn't see me. I am grateful that I have been set aside for Christian ministry because there is no telling what I may have otherwise said and done. What happens when your body has become so devalued in society that folks treat you like you have no body at all? No body. Nobody.

As for the bodies of work of African-American women artists, MoMa gets the gas face. Minutes before going to the women in photography exhibit, I snapped this picture and sent it to a friend. She and I had just been talking about the Guerilla Girls.

My delight by the inclusion of work by the Geurilla girls, and their creative commentary on African-American/Black woman artists, was dampened by the exclusion of African-American women photographers in an exhibit that "encompassed the vitality and richness of photography's many creative traditions and demonstrates the medium's accessibility to women from its inception."
Accessible? To whom? By whom? What women? How could MoMa have an exhibition of women photographers that contains only one Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe print? Where is Lorna? Where is Clarissa? Where is Deborah? Where is Adrian? Where?

MoMa, what are you saying? Are we nobodies with no bodies of work?

In an act of resistance I slipped quietly in the corner on the sixth floor of MoMa, slipped my iPod out of my purple bag, slipped on my headphones and listened to Jill Scott's "I'm Still Here," and then I left.

I am a boisterous river
I am a mountains story
I am a quiet feeling
I am a fragrant flower
I am a moonlit evening
I am a peaceful night
I am a writers thinking
I am a wealth unfathomed
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize me, I am here

I am a source of power
I am excited journey
I am the rock of patience
I am a whisper singing
I am unbridled freedom
I am the thought from thinking
I am a love unshattered
I am the great orgasm

And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me, I am, oh, I’m still here

Even if you don’t recognize me, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here

To add insult to injury, I walked past (and doubled back to) a painted image in the window of the really swanky bar, Modern, that is doors down from MoMa. Here is a detail. There was too much of a glare to get the entire display. What you don't see in this image are the other two women and the ways in which their bodies are postured, layered on each other, baring flesh.

Here were black women's bodies. On display. In a window. They were teasing, titillating, tempting. I felt like I was at the intersection of a slave auction block and Q-Tip's video for Vivrant Thang instead of at 53rd Street and 5th Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

It is acceptable for our bodies bodies to be sexual, used to invoke or evoke pleasure for others. It is alright for our bodies to be used in service to others, laboring for the well being of others whether as a domestic worker, nanny, or factory worker. But folks don't know what to do with our bodies when we are just being. Though I haven't talked about Erykah Badu's video for "Window Seat" on the blog, I think that is precisely the issue. What do we do with the body of a black woman when she isn't shaking her a**?

Black women have strong bodies. Black women have beautiful bodies. Black women have intelligent bodies. Black women have resilient bodies. Sadly, Black women have bodies that are only recognized when we are sexual or working.

I don't know how to end this blog. Truth is, I am still angry. I thought writing would help. Maybe it did a little. There is more to be done to right these wrongs...

Perfectly Coifed Hair? Healthy Body?

...how about both? For years I put my hair above my health...trying to adapt my workout schedule around hairdos. Well, no more! Some might think this a frivolous post, but truth is there are lots of things that perfectly coifed hair hinders Black women from doing--working out, swimming, and sometimes (so I've heard) having sex. Black women are also disproportionately suffering from disease—hypertension, heart disease, high cholesterol, breast cancer, stress, depression, etc., etc.—most of which could be abated with regular exercise. So, hair I go...

Thanks and praise be to God, I found a way to work out my body (hard) and have not-so-perfectly coifed hair (that still looks great). The secret is a good cut. Many people associate long hair with beauty. Thankfully, I have never been that woman. I associate healthy hair with beauty. So, whether it is long or short, relaxed or natural, etc., etc., as long as it is healthy and it makes you look and feel good, then I think it is beautiful!

Admittedly, the most hair ease I felt when working out was when my hair was locked and when I used to wear it short and natural. I would be in the gym and on the track getting it in. When I relaxed my hair, my gym routine suffered. For a while, when I started running three years ago, I became the ponytail woman. For one, ponytails, especially when working out, put unnecessary tension on the hair. Secondly, and more important to me, ponytails—daily ponytails—are boooooring. And, well, I am far from boring (especially as it concerns my appearance).

When I entered Seminary I felt the pounds packing on, so I braided it up and hit the gym. Well, the reality of homework set in and my routine got jacked up. Fast forward 2 years and 40 pounds later... I made a commitment to my health, whether my hair liked it or not (btw, I'm 20 pounds lighter than I was in September). I also wanted to maintain my relaxed style, not because I have a hang-up about straight hair and beauty, but because right now I'm feeling it. In early October I went to a new stylist on a friends recommendation. This stylist is known for her wisdom, her insistence on healthy hair, and her skills with a pair of scissors. I told her I wanted my hair to be able to work while I work out. Away she went. What emerged was a cut that looks good when I do nothing to it, looks better when I do something to it, and still manages to look great when I work out.

When my workout consisted of walking only, I would wrap my hair at night, comb it down in the morning, pop on a headband, and hit the pavement. When I returned home I would let it air dry as I got ready for the day and roll out. These days, I've taken to pin curling it. Talk about a gift from God; Five days and three intense workouts after getting my hair done I have yet to use a curling iron or any other "tool of destruction" (a term my friend Shanee Yvette coined).

Here are some pics...before (aka when the hair was perfect), pin curled (my style of choice during a run), and after (letting the pin curl loose):

(Before before...aka after leaving the salon...Tuesday)

(Before...pin curled and ready to hit the pavement...Saturday)

(After...Post working out, air drying, and taking the curls out...Saturday, again)

(After after...wrapped overnight, ready to go to praise God...Sunday)