By Marlene L. Johnson
4/15/07
“Hey, aren’t you the cabbie that used drive columnist Bill Raspberry around a lot before he retired from The Washington Post?” I asked as I entered the taxicab.
“Could be,” the cabbie said as I settled in. “Why you wanna know? Cab won’t be no cheaper.”
I know, I said. I just wondered because you used to give him a lot of wisdom.
He gave me a wry smile and said, “Yea, but that don’t come free. I paid a lot for it in drivin’ around town and hearin’ folk bad mouth each other. Blacks talk bad about whites. Whites talk REAL bad about blacks. Funny thing, though, they don’t talk to each other, just about each other… Like that Cowboy Imus, talkin’ about those girls and don’t even know them. He thought what he said was funny. Said he was jokin’. But he ain’t laughin’ now. Got hisself in big trouble.”
You’re right, I said. Calling the Scarlet Knight players “nappy headed hos” was like painting a scarlet letter on them. It was public humiliation. But some folks say that’s Ok because rappers do the same thing, call black women vicious, vile names just to sell CDs. And Imus has insulted lots of people and didn’t lose his job over it. He called Colin Powell, the first black secretary of state a “weasel.” He called former New Mexico governor Bill Richardson a “fat sissy,” and he called black journalist Gwen Ifill a cleaning lady. Now Imus spewed his venomous remarks at a group of innocent young college women and tried to hide behind the excuse that he learned it from rappers.
“He was right about one thing, though,” he said turning to me. “TRUTH BE KNOWN, black women do have Nappy Heads. N-A-P-P-Y !! Well, unless they use hot combs, perms or buy those mega-weaves and extensions. The man ain’t blind, just not as smart as he thought he was. Nothin’ wrong with him telling the truth. But there’s somethin’ wrong with callin’ black women hos. And that radio jockey says he didn’t mean nothin’ by callin’ them hos. Claims he’s a good man who done a bad thing. Wants us to forgive him,” the cabbie said scowling.
Yes, but with forgiveness comes consequences, I said. Forgiveness doesn’t mean he should just go on his merry way without repenting and suffering the consequences of his actions. He blames rappers, claiming he got the language from them, but white men have been calling black women hos and treating them like that since slavery days.
“It’s kinda funny him blamin’ rappers. Far as I knows this the first time a white man readily give a black man credit for anything. B’sides he shudda asked somebody if he don’t know what he’s doin’, like one a them well spoken black professors,” he said.
Yes, I don’t even know the hip-hop and rap culture all that well. To me ho is a five letter word that begins with and w and ends with re so I was thrown off by the rappers spelling. But I do know they were disrespecting black women.
“Yea, I don’t think those rappers shud be doin’ it either, disrespectin’ they mommas and sistahs on them CDs and videos,” he said.
Maybe they’re just trying to make a living the only way they know how. But that’s no excuse for degrading black women in their music. It sets a poor example for our youth, and as we found out, gives other folks license to do the same.
“What I say is that rappers are pimpin’ off black women. Sellin’ them out just to make money. Just like street pimps. They’re pimpin’ black women for white record labels,” the cabbie said.
Maybe it’s time we get serious about the issue of degrading black women and using derogatory language like the N word against our own folks. We shouldn’t allow anybody to do that, black or white.
“Right. If we don’t respect our women and ourselves, nobody else will. White guys already think all black women are loose. We gotta get those young rappers to stop putting dollars before good sense,” he said as he pulled up to my stop.
Imus has paid the price. He lost both of his gigs, radio and TV. Now maybe it’s time for the name calling rappers, and those who give them big bucks to do it, to pay the same price. Maybe that’s the only way to get them to stop spewing vile language about black women. Then maybe the females will start acting like ladies again.
“Yea, man, I agree, it’s time,” the cabbie said.
Catch you later man. Thanks.
Monday, August 20, 2007
A SEAT AT THE TABLE
By Marlene L. Johnson
Remember those family meals when you were a kid and had to sit at the “kids table” when company came? Remember how you kept “fighting for a seat at the table” with the grown ups, so you would be as important as they were and share in the camaraderie?
I remember those days. And in remembering, I know that race, poverty and gender can keep you from having a seat at the “company” table. I wore three of those labels. I worked hard to overcome being labeled as poor. Because the other two labels are God-given and innate, my life has been one long fight for a seat at the table.
My first memorable struggle was to be just like the other kids, even though as a foster child I was taunted by for being a “welfare” kid and seen as different by the other kids and adults saw me as a child to be pitied because I would grow up to be worthless.
That’s how too many whites still see all African Americans.
African Americans have been fighting for a seat at the table ever since we were brought to America and enslaved. After building this country, African American men had to prove they were worthy of defending it. The Tuskegee Airmen proved it as did other black military men. Black soldiers returning from the wars still had to “fight for a seat at the table” of equality for themselves and their families. They had to march in the streets for the right to vote, for the right to send their children to public schools, to protect their families from hooded white terrorists who hung them with impunity, dosed and destroyed their homes and churches with fire, and white farmers who stole their labor by underpaying them or paying them in pig guts and overripe vegetables from the fields.
But getting to the table may have been the easiest part. Once you got a seat at the adult table you were seen as a nuisance to be put up with and still were not part of the camaraderie. When the food was passed, you didn’t get to help yourself, someone gave you a scoop of this or a spoonful of that, as if you couldn’t do it yourself. And they watched for you to “mess up” saying ‘Don’t spill your food, wipe your face with the napkin,’ as if you they didn’t have food around their own mouths.
It’s like finally landing a job for which you have studied hard to educate yourself and finding that as an African American and as a woman you are undervalued, underestimated and marginalized. But we still go to that hard-won job where we are grudgingly dolled out this assignment by folks who don’t really want us to be there, who believe our skin color or gender means we are not up to the responsibilities of the job, and who don’t value our work unless someone wants to go on vacation, then we get to do their jobs as well.
The best assignments are deemed to be beyond the realm of our capabilities and are given to others, although we know full well we could handle them. We are either intentionally given more work than any one person can do and are scolded for “messing up” or are stripped of all but “make coffee” type duties that make it hardly worth getting out of bed to go to our jobs. But we do.
It’s time America sets the table for all of us. African Americans and women have earned a place at that table, so say the blessing and pass the potatoes please!
Remember those family meals when you were a kid and had to sit at the “kids table” when company came? Remember how you kept “fighting for a seat at the table” with the grown ups, so you would be as important as they were and share in the camaraderie?
I remember those days. And in remembering, I know that race, poverty and gender can keep you from having a seat at the “company” table. I wore three of those labels. I worked hard to overcome being labeled as poor. Because the other two labels are God-given and innate, my life has been one long fight for a seat at the table.
My first memorable struggle was to be just like the other kids, even though as a foster child I was taunted by for being a “welfare” kid and seen as different by the other kids and adults saw me as a child to be pitied because I would grow up to be worthless.
That’s how too many whites still see all African Americans.
African Americans have been fighting for a seat at the table ever since we were brought to America and enslaved. After building this country, African American men had to prove they were worthy of defending it. The Tuskegee Airmen proved it as did other black military men. Black soldiers returning from the wars still had to “fight for a seat at the table” of equality for themselves and their families. They had to march in the streets for the right to vote, for the right to send their children to public schools, to protect their families from hooded white terrorists who hung them with impunity, dosed and destroyed their homes and churches with fire, and white farmers who stole their labor by underpaying them or paying them in pig guts and overripe vegetables from the fields.
But getting to the table may have been the easiest part. Once you got a seat at the adult table you were seen as a nuisance to be put up with and still were not part of the camaraderie. When the food was passed, you didn’t get to help yourself, someone gave you a scoop of this or a spoonful of that, as if you couldn’t do it yourself. And they watched for you to “mess up” saying ‘Don’t spill your food, wipe your face with the napkin,’ as if you they didn’t have food around their own mouths.
It’s like finally landing a job for which you have studied hard to educate yourself and finding that as an African American and as a woman you are undervalued, underestimated and marginalized. But we still go to that hard-won job where we are grudgingly dolled out this assignment by folks who don’t really want us to be there, who believe our skin color or gender means we are not up to the responsibilities of the job, and who don’t value our work unless someone wants to go on vacation, then we get to do their jobs as well.
The best assignments are deemed to be beyond the realm of our capabilities and are given to others, although we know full well we could handle them. We are either intentionally given more work than any one person can do and are scolded for “messing up” or are stripped of all but “make coffee” type duties that make it hardly worth getting out of bed to go to our jobs. But we do.
It’s time America sets the table for all of us. African Americans and women have earned a place at that table, so say the blessing and pass the potatoes please!
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