“Females can be ___________,”

When a woman says, “Females can be ___________,” and the blank is filled in with some sort of negative comment that indicates that women tend to be naturally backstabbing, disloyal, manipulative, deceptive, devious, bitchy, etc., etc., etc., that is one of the most blatant forms of self-hatred possible.  To assert that women are somehow genetically prone to being inherently evil, bad, and/or wrong, WHEN IN FACT YOU ARE A WOMAN YOURSELF, is essentially saying that you are inherently those negative traits, that you are not capable of behaviors that are any better than those stank behaviors.

Black culture has handicapped young Black women.  Having been fed nothing but constant media images that represent Black women as constantly fighting, constantly competing for men, constantly needing to prove their worth with their clothes and shoes and fake hair, Black women have no concept of what it means to be a woman.  To be a “female” is to be some negative, reprehensible thing.  We have not taught Black women how to love themselves, let alone love their sistas as friends.   We have not taught them how to be friends let alone how to honor their friendships.   We have not shown them how to form bonds and unions with other women that are truly loving because we teach girls to be self-centered and narcissistic.

People think that self-hatred means literally saying, “I hate myself,” or at the very least saying, “I think I’m ugly.”   They don’t grasp that disliking the things that are inherent in you, natural to you, your core identity is what self-hatred really means.  Conversely, people also are delusionally convinced that being egotistical and making proclamations of, “I love myself,” is a sign of self-love.   Self-love is, in actuality, loving the skin you are in, being self-aware and not needing to conform to anyone else’s definition or standard. 

The inferiority complex that has been bred into Africans born in AmeriKKKa is the very definition of self-hatred. We hate our natural, nappy hair, we think it’s unmanageable, ugly, bad, and wrong.  We hate our natural features.  Our own Black hair isn’t good enough, we need blond hair, we need blue contacts, we need thin lips and light skin and a little tiny nose because our natural black skin is ugly, our natural big lips and noses are grotesque.  And extending that out, when women say “Females can be . . . ,” their subconscious mind says, “Yeah, females are all those bad things.  Hey!  You’re a female so, VOILA’, you are those things as well.”   That is the very definition of self-hatred.

Ladies, let’s start affirming that females are strong, resilient, that we are supportive and nurturing, and that we are capable of boundless, unconditional love.  More importantly, let’s strive to be those traits ourselves; let’s make it our mission to walk in integrity, let’s aspire to not do anything for which we have to apologize.  Let’s be amazing women so that we might attract amazing women into our lives. 

Having a Pussy is NOT a Job

There seems to be this thought process, this commonly-held belief that being a woman, that having a pussy is some sort of form of employment, that a vagina is a commodity men must purchase in order to be able to enjoy it, that sex is a business.  I’m here to say that while that’s what a pussy might have become in this patriarchal, misogynist, sexist, oppressive society, I’m here to boldly declare that having a pussy is not a job. 

I’ve heard and witnessed several conversations, exchanges, diatribes, monologues, and debates as of late where this notion that women who are not “selling it” are disadvantaged.  Supposedly, the poor, unfortunate women who not selling pussy are bitter and angry because they are not getting paid for what other women are profiting from.  There seems to be this deluded notion that a woman’s role in life is to please a man and that he must pay for that right.  When you have a society based on the concept that God is a man and he created woman for man, you will forever had a warped perception of what a woman is supposed to be.  People will even tell you that selling pussy is the oldest profession, that women were selling pussy long before any other sorts of business transactions were being made.  That is absurd.  Sex was for procreation.  Sex was for recreation.  Sex was for meditative, transcendent pleasure.  Sex was not for purchase until men decided that they needed to find a way to control women, to harness women’s power, to deny them pleasure.  Let me tell you something here and now, as long as men and women believe this lie, as long as women are seeing their pussies as something of value that men can purchase, intimate, healthy relationships are going to suffer the consequences of such warped beliefs. 

A woman’s body was not ever intended to be something to be purchased.  I’m here to boldly declare that having a pussy is a privilege, an awesome responsibility, at times a burden, but it is not now, nor was it ever intended to be way to make money.  Women give birth; we are the victims of rape, molestation, and abuse. We are used for no other reason than we can provide men carnal pleasure. Capitalism, money, business are all man-made concepts, and rather warped concepts spiritually.  When you pay for something you own it and no man should ever be able to say that he owns a woman’s most sacred space.  Women who sell pussy are not empowered, they are pawns in the game that men control.  Ultimately, it’s men who determine their worth.  Women have to meet the impossibly high standards of men’s tiny definition of beauty and femininity to be considered valuable.  Women who sell pussy are dependent upon men for their sense of self worth.  When the men stop paying for it, where does she turn to find her value?  Caring for a man and pleasing him is not a woman’s responsibility in life, it’s her choice to do so when she finds a partner who values and pleases her. 

I’m here to say that as a woman who has NEVER sold her pussy, not once, not for a car note, not for a rent payment, not for any dollar amount, I don’t feel bitter or angry at the women who are selling it.  I have never had sex unless it was for love or lust and I’m perfectly fine with that.  I know that my mind and my heart are my greatest assets, that I don’t need a man to validate my worth.  I know that I’m not an object to be purchased and replaced by some man who is going to buy me like he buys the next woman who gets his dick hard.  I know that I was not created to serve a man, to cater to his whims, I know that my job as wife/lover is not to “make it hot for my husband.”  My job as a partner and lover and spouse is to support my husband as he supports me.  It’s not a one-sided transaction where he fills his lust because he’s been out all day making money and I’m supposed to be at home fixing dinner and cleaning the house to keep him happy.  Sex, either in marriage or without, should never be about money.  It cheapens the value of women when they sell it and it warps the minds of men who pay for it because they think that women are items to be bought and sold.  Sex should be about intimacy, passion, lust, pleasure, communication, prayer.  Sex should be about sharing time and energy with the person you love.  When sex becomes a bargaining chip, a service rendered for a payment, a chore or duty for which compensation is required, then sex itself becomes vulgar.  And as hard as it is for some men to believe, every woman does not sell her pussy, whether it’s for dinner or in marriage.  Many do.  Maybe most have been conditioned to think of their pussies as for sale. 

Women, empower yourself.  Redefine yourself.  You are not worth whatever a man will pay for you, you are priceless.  Your value is not in the number of designer shoes you own or the car you drive or being able to pay your bills because you can give great head.  You were not put on earth to be the mistress, maid, or cook for men.  Your role as a woman is not to stand behind a man but to stand beside him, to build with him, not do his bidding.  Ask yourself how much a man is willing to pay for your goods and services and then multiply that times a number so large you can’t comprehend it to know your true worth.  Men, you will forever be emotionally stunted and immature as long as you think pussy has a price tag.  See a woman’s value in her integrity, her character, her intellect, not in the fat, wetness between her legs.  You are perpetrators of the most heinous behavior when you pay for that which is supposed to be sacred and worshipped. 

Copyright 2012 Scottie Lowe AfroerotiK

The Culture of Rape

The abuse of women’s bodies, our spirits, is so accepted, so ingrained in our society that rape isn’t even seen as anything abnormal.  Black women’s bodies especially are seen as objects to be used and abused by men.  We’re supposed to take it, like it even.  If we as a culture, society, and community don’t do something to stop this NOW it will be the end of us. 

Fate is a mother fucker.  I get into an argument on Facebook today, on someone else’s page mind you, and someone else, an “innocent bystander” as it were, starts fanning the flames, trying to provoke the disagreement.  The instigator sends me a friend request.  I accept, not thinking anything about it more than he’s someone who likes what I have to say.  He sends me a private message, asking me if I used to live in the apartments in downtown Atlanta.  In that first few seconds, I couldn’t imagine how he would know me like that.  I didn’t really think anything about it, but I didn’t panic or anything, I just responded, “How do you know me?”  He responded by saying, “You probably don’t remember me.  We met in the summer of ‘99.  You took me to your apartment. Wow, small world. LMBAO.” 

My home is sacred to me.  I’m very cautious of the people I invite into my home.  When he said, “You took me to your apartment,” I think I knew who it was before I even went to his profile.  At this point, time is moving in slow motion.  Going to his page, pulling up his pictures, opening the albums that show his face . . . everything is taking light years.  Sure enough, it was the face of the man who raped me, whose name I hadn’t previously known.  Jason Mass is his name as it turns out.  I confront him.  I say that I do in fact remember him, that you are the man who raped me. 

He wasn’t even a man at the time, he was 19 or 20.  I was in my early thirties. I was not attracted to him in the least even though I shouldn’t even have to mention that fact.  We met at Atlanta’s Underground Mall outside the Haagen Dazs store.  I saw him there a few times.  I’m guessing he was a student at Georgia State.  He could have just been hanging out there, I don’t know.  I didn’t really inquire too much, he was far too young for me and I was not at all interested in him.  I was nice to him; we might have even had lunch in the food court once.  I’m not sure. 

One day, he asked me to come to my apartment.  I told him no.  He kept asking, saying he just wanted to hang out with me.  I told him that we could hang out in the club room of my apartment building but that we couldn’t go to my apartment.  We watched TV for a while and I told him that I was not interested in him, he was far too young for me.  He wasn’t my type at all.  He said that didn’t matter, he just wanted to hang out with me, he wanted to see what sort of music I listened to, he said he thought he could learn from me.  He wouldn’t take no for an answer and I really thought I had made myself clear that I wasn’t interested in him. 

Finally, I told him that we could go to my apartment to check out my music.  I didn’t own a TV at the time so I had a super duper extensive music collection.  I honestly believed he saw me as a mentor or semi-mother figure.  There was nothing remotely sexual or romantic between us and I thought he was a harmless kid.  We went to my apartment and he was impressed by the Black art, all the books; I wasn’t a kid and I wasn’t ghetto so he probably hadn’t been exposed to very many homes that were like mine.  I showed him my balcony and that’s when things started to go terribly wrong.  We came back inside and he started to try to kiss me, grab me, hold me.  I started pushing him away.  He took out his dick.  I remember it so clearly, like a movie in my head.  It was almost like he was in a trance.  He was stroking it, telling me, “I love my big dick, I’m in love with my big dick.  I have such a big dick, don’t I?” It was like he was hypnotized by his own penis.    I told him to get out, I was trying to make it to the front door and he pulled me to the floor and we fought.  We fought and fought and fought.  We fought until I couldn’t fight any more.  I cried out, I said no, stop, NO.  We fought until I had no more strength in my body.  I lay there, in tears, while he raped me, unable to fight any more. 

So, here I am, on Facebook, and I’ve just accepted a friend request from the man who raped me.  I’ve written about him before, years ago, in my efforts to reclaim my own personal power.  I didn’t know his name but I would identify him whenever I spoke of the instance when men have violated me.  I confront him, in my haze of confusion, anger, and disbelief.  I say, “You raped me.”

He responds by saying, “Rape?  Don’t say that.  It didn’t go down like that.  We didn’t even get a chance to finish because you said stop.” 

Finish?  Finish?  Perhaps he wanted a second or third time to rape me but I most certainly had finished.  I informed him that we had fought, that I didn’t want him, that I said no, and he had raped me.  At that point, he gets an attitude with me, like I’ve offended him, saying, “Are u fuckin' kiddin' me?!  om fuckin' g!!!”  At this point, I’m scrambling to block him before I explode in anger and outrage. 

This wasn’t my first time to meet up with him.  The first time was as FunkJazzKafe, one of Atlanta’s premiere music events, a few years later.  We were both going in the backstage door in a dark, not heavily traffic parking lot.  He said something to the effect of, “You probably don’t remember me but . . .”  I turned around and looked at him and I knew him immediately.  I think I said, “You’re the guy who raped me,” but I’m not sure.  I got so scared I just turned around and ran away, shaking and crying and terrified.  The second time, I had my hands full of groceries and I was coming home and he was coming out of my neighbor’s apartment two doors down.  It was all I could do to open the door and get inside and I was terrified.  He took my sense of safety.  He took my sense of peace in the world.  He took something from me that was no his to take.  He stole a piece of my soul.  He’s walking around, not a care in the world, no remorse, no guilt, seemingly no consciousness at all that he RAPED me.  I think I knew that if I ever did have a chance to meet him again, he would deny it but I didn’t think he would send me a friend request, like I was going to be happy to talk about old times.  There’s something delusional about a person who doesn’t even realize the hurt that they’ve caused. 

I can’t describe to a man the fear that consumes you when you come face to face with your rapist and you know he could do it again.  Most men will never know that sensation.  He felt justified in violating my body.  He felt he had a right to take it without my permission.  We fought.  Not a tussle, not slap and grab, but I’m yelling NO and pushing and kicking and trying to punch and bite and do anything I can to get away and somehow, in his head, he thought that was foreplay.  He somehow interpreted that as perfectly acceptable to force himself inside me as long as it felt good to him. 

This god damn obsession society has with dick size, specifically black men’s dick size, is breeding rapists.  Objectifying women and this willingness to see us as things to be used by men, for men’s pleasure is manufacturing rapists.  Mothers raising their sons not to take responsibility for their actions is creating a nation of rapists.  Fathers teaching their sons to measure their manhood by the number of women they fuck is Rape 101.  This shit has to stop.  IT HAS TO STOP.  I don’t want another black girl to endure what I did.  I don’t want another black woman to know the sort of fear I felt.  There is a culture of rape that let him think that without any foreplay, romance, no attraction whatsoever, that he had the go ahead to force himself on me and that I would like it. 

I’m going to speak truth to power.  I’m going to continue to address the pathologies of this diseased and sick society that treats women like things to be used and thrown away.  Don’t feel sorry for me and tell me how you wish you could take the pain away.  Do something.  Confront men when they talk about women like things.  Confront the men you know are rapists, make them admit what they did.  Don’t waste your empathy on me, I’m going to be okay.