Tag: stereotypes

Relationships | Black, Female & Dating…Or Trying To? According to the Statistics, Why Bother?

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Disclaimer:  All images used in this post are from the “Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism” by Rebelle Magazine. The images are a part of the “I Am, Too, Harvard” campaign, revealing the experiences faced by Black students at Harvard.

Please, visit both Rebelle Magazine and the campaign sites by clicking on the highlighted links! By the way, almost all of the pictures relate to my experience while at Stanford–I hope the students there will do something like this as well.

Also, I use the word “we” often, not to say all Black women are in agreement with me, but to express my solidarity with those who do have shared similar views.

 

 Now, on to the post!

Image from Rebelle Mag: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

 

Today, I came across the 2011 article “Why black women are justifiably bitter: The bleak relationship picture for African-American females” today.  While the article was far from shocking, it really laid out in a clear and undeniable manner the reality that many Black women face in trying to make gains in the dating market.  

Plus, the article was far more favourable than the now-withdrawn 2011 Psychology Today “Why Black Women Are Less Physically Attractive Than Other Women” (links to a Psychology Today rebuttal of the argument).

The article follows on the 2009 blog post by OkCupid, “How Your Race Affects the Messages You Get,” that indicates that Black women were, for the most part, shut out of the online dating world, being the users who sent the most messages while receiving the least replies.  Black women were also the most likely to respond to messages.  Black men as well as other races, OkCupid’s statics showed, do not consider Black women as relationship material.

Feeling depressed yet?

Image from Rebelle Mag: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

Well, it gets worse.  It follows that if Black women are not considered relationship material, then surely marriage is out of the question.  That is where the article comes in and eloquently explains why Black women have every right to be angry/bitter in general.  Because although we are not considered for marriage, we are surely considered for sex.  As the article points out that “7 in 10 black children are born to unmarried parents.”

Oh?  Really?

I am not surprised given the dating statistics. Of course, given the grim statistics on incarceration and African-American men, it makes sense that marriage would seem unlikely.  Nothing wrong with having had a bad moment in life and having had to go to jail/prison, but it does make getting married more problematic.

Image from Rebelle Magazine: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

So, why I am writing about this?

Well, because I am frankly tired of reading the negative online commentary about Black women, whether it is about our hair, our skin colour, or weight, or our strength of character and fearlessness (a.k.a. our masculinity).

Men who have a problem with strong women, ought to avoid dating Black women, in my opinion.  Black women are not raised to be cowed by anyone.  We understand clearly where the dominant society has decided to relegate us and how some (apparently a majority) of our male counterparts view us.  (Let me not get into this statement: “black men who, according to social science data, are more likely than any other group of men to maintain relationships with multiple women.”)

 

Image from Rebelle Magazine: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

We understand clearly that a good portion of our male counterparts are eager to mobilize themselves by marrying up and thus marrying light. We get it.  We get it that the kinkier and nappier our hair, the broader our thighs, the bigger our lips, bottoms and hips, the louder our voices, the more likely others will to try to shut us down or shut us up.  We get it.

The thing is…

We don’t give two cents about it.

Image from Rebelle Magazine: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

Unworthy men and women (for our LGBTQ population), please continue to ignore us.  Please, continue not to respond to messages. Trust me, it’s much better this way, because we won’t be wasting our time on you.  And who would want to?  I am beginning to feel really sorry for those who do.

You see, while some people may see Black women as available (sending so many messages) and desperate (responding to so many messages), the fact is some Black women simply won’t do two things:

  1. Wait for permission to say what we want, and
  2. Be impolite to someone just because we don’t like them.

Have you ever thought about that?  Have you thought about the fact that some Black women simply own our sexuality and are polite?

Image from Rebelle Magazine: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

Can people get beyond the need to assign to us the roles of either

  1. the gold-digging concubine or
  2. the food stamp baby-making mammy?

Can we get beyond this already?  

What? No, we can’t? It’s far too important for maintaining the status quo?

Oh, well, forgive me.  I thought it was okay to be seen as human.

Image from Rebelle Magazine: Black Voices at Harvard Share Their Experiences with Racism

Of course, this is all just my personal opinion.

 

Secrets…Being a therapist…Why I blog…

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INSANITY copy

INSANITY copy (Photo credit: Inspiredhomefitness)

The other day my sister, Michelle, posted the following to my Facebook page:

“Why are you skinny people doing this to yourselves??? I thought insanity was designed for overweight individuals???”

As you might imagine, the “insanity” to which she referred is the Insanity Workout exercise program by Beachbody and led by Shaun T.  Nine days ago, I decided to take the 8 week challenge and have been reporting my progress to friends and family via Facebook.  I am happy to say that I have completed each day thus far and intend to continue so doing.

Now, back to my sister’s comment.

You see, she is right.  I am not overweight and thus it would seem that I would have no just cause to take on such a workout program.  Right?

FIBROMYALGIA

FIBROMYALGIA (Photo credit: *SHESHELL*)

Wrong.

I decided to take on the Insanity Challenge, because I wanted to prove two points to myself:

  1. 1. I can achieve a high level of fitness as a person with fibromyalgia; and
  2. 2. I can take care of my body as I choose to without fearing input from others.

——

A world of secrets…

Back in 2008 when I was first diagnosed with fibromyalgia, my body had been changing rapidly.  As I wrote in my recent posts, I had gain a significant amount of weight in only a couple of years.  You see, before I started graduate school, I worked as a personal trainer and fitness instructor from 2002 to 2004. That period of my life was one in which I experienced a high boost to my body image.  I was strong and healthy.

My weight then was higher than what it is now, but it was never a concern to me.  My major concerns:  strength and endurance.  And if there is one thing that I have lamented greatly since having fibromyalgia was the loss of my physical strength and endurance.

With my weight gain came real health concerns, such as being warned about my blood pressure and having some other health issues being labeled as “due to excess weight.”

"If you had 5 minutes...," collage with magazine and cardstock by Diedré M. Blake, (2010)

“If you had 5 minutes…,” collage with magazine and cardstock by Diedré M. Blake, (2010)

It was frustrating to find myself in that state and feeling that I couldn’t do anything physically about it…like exercise in the way that I had in the past.  I was too tired.  I felt too much pain.  There was a bigger issue though…

Work.  

As many of you know, I am an art therapist and counselor.  I specialize in the treatment of eating disorders.  This area of specialization developed from my second year internship and subsequent job.   So, why would working within this area create a problem for me?  Simply this…

How does a therapist embark upon a health improvement that would mean significant weight loss while reinforcing to her clients that their desire to lose weight was unhealthy?

For a long time, I did not have an answer.  I worked in a place where there were strict rules on how food could be discussed and what foods could be eaten.  Discussion of weight loss, weight loss programs, and diets was forbidden.  This is not to say that these rules were always followed.

The reality was that a majority of the staff was female, White and American; and the fact is that a majority of White American females struggle with body image and disordered eating.   This is not to say that women of colour are immuned to such an experience.  So, as the saying goes, don’t get it twisted.     

—–

 

Being a therapist…

Also, there seems to be a very strange expectation, i.e. that all Black women are happy with being overweight.  I write this because of various experiences I had while trying to manage my weight issues.  The most memorable of these was an experience I had with an older White female nutritionist who worked at a local hospital.

I was given a referral to visit this nutritionist because both myself and my doctor believed that it would be good for me to have professional advice on how to safely and slowly lose my excess weight through diet, since exercise was proving difficult for me.  At that time I was about 50 pounds overweight.

I sat with the lady and stated my reasons for coming to see her.  From her lips came the following response:

“But you’re Black!  Why would you want to lose weight?  Aren’t all Black women a bit fatter that everyone else?  Aren’t you people use to being like that?”

Now, some may believe that I am exaggerating…but I kid you not.  Those were her  exact words that are engraved upon my heart and mind.  I was in disbelief.

There I was seeking help to lose the weight that was causing me severe health problems…and there was that lady telling me that I didn’t need to lose the weight because of my skin colour.  Huh?

——

So, I realized that I had to do it on my own.  I decided to take matters into my own hands as I wrote in my previous post.   The thing was that at work, although I had explained to some that I was planning to lose weight, there was apparently discomfort that I had made such a choice.

Moreover, I did not discuss just how much weight I intended to lose, because that was no one else’s business except for me and my doctor.  Looking back, perhaps it would have been better if I had simply stated a number, even though I did not have a number in mind.

The world in which I worked during that time became closed.  I watched as people stared at me with curious and suspicious eyes.  I listened as people made side comments about me.  I answered as people kept asking me, “haven’t you lost enough now?” or “why are you still losing weight?”

And then there were the painful rumours regarding eating disorders and even my sexuality.  It was a truly discouraging time.  I often felt alone; and between having fibromyalgia and being the only Black clinician on staff as well as the only art therapist, I often felt misunderstood.

My studio space became a place of refuge during the last year of my weight loss.  I watched as people, who were once willing to speak with me or were friendly with me, stop interacting with me.  And, in all honesty, the decision to move to Italy came at the right time as who I had been no longer was.  The new person did not fit in with my old world.

So, why have I written about this or about anything else?

Because it was time.  Especially as a counselor specializing in eating disorders.  You see, even counselors are human. 😉  Even we struggle with our bodies, including food concerns, weight and body image.

It is a strange paradox about the world of psychology.  As a counselor you are expected to help others in overcoming their problems.  At the same time, however, it is seemingly frowned upon by peers if you have problems of your own.

This Cold Hard Floor: II, watercolour and ink painting by Diedré M. Blake, 2006

This Cold Hard Floor: II, watercolour and ink painting by Diedré M. Blake, 2006

There is a reason why…

research has looked into the suicidal tendencies of psychologists (counselors/therapists/social workers, etc.).

There is a reason why….

some of us feel that there is a need to be invincible.  That there is a need to hide what hurts us, to hide our struggles, to hide our true selves.  We walk about attempting to be the tabula rasa (blank slate) for everyone, including our peers…and it just doesn’t work.

There is a reason why…

many of us, who were once bright and shining candles, finally burnout.

There is always a reason why…

I write about this, as well as the previous blog post, to write the truth about a topic for which I held tremendous fear: my weight loss.

I write because I believe that it is the job a therapist to be human and to show his or her client that there is always a path to be found out of the difficulties of life, not just via book lessons but through setting the example by how we live our own lives and how we take care of ourselves.

Until Next Time,

D.

On the number 23…

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The sound of Italian fills my ears as I stand, tired and sweaty.  The number 23 bus is too crowded, and somewhere nearby there is a baby crying.  I look behind me and see the tear-streaked face of a little girl, whose dark skin and dark eyes reflect my own.  Her hair is artistically decorated with many colourful bands, separating her carefully combed hair.  Even as her mother hands to her a small bottle to help calm her nerves, the little girl’s eyes glance around at the many strangers, who tower above her–How scary we must all seem.

In whispered and loudly spoken words, those who speak Italian say of the little girl, “Che bella…” and “Che carina…”  Her mother is busy speaking on the phone and does not seem to notice the admiration that her little one has inspired.  I am made to smile in the moment, because I can see that those around me are trying in their own way to show appreciation for diversity in beauty.

The elderly gentleman next to me leans over the little girl and tries to ease her worries, speaking to her in Italian as I have not experienced it before.  His voice is soothing and kind with a rich tone that makes every word that he speaks that much more exquisite.

“Non si preoccupi…non si preoccupi…non si preoccupi..”

The little girl’s eyes stare at him with wonder as the corner of her lips curve into a smile.

 

Until Next Time.

Best,

D.

TWFB: No, thank you. I am not a prostitute…

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Colosseo, photography by D.M. Blake (2011)

I am still listening to Vivaldi…Don’t ask…

(TWBF=Travelling while Black and Female)

I spent last night mulling over what my exact experiences have been as an overseas traveller since reaching adulthood.  The reality is that there was a lengthy gap, of almost ten years, between my travels overseas.

I had basically ceased all of my overseas travelling in 2001.  Partly because of my own anxiety around 9/11, the war, and also being in the process of becoming an American citizen.  Simply, at that time, it seemed to me to be in my best interest to stay put in America.  Thus, I did just that.

Of course, one thing leads to another (as in years passed by while I was living).  I moved from Florida to Massachusetts, studied, graduated, and then was working.

So, what have been my experiences since coming to Rome, i.e. as a Black woman?

(YouTube is a great travel resource.  Please, watch SaitamaFlowers has some wise words.)

Hmm…I suppose, for the most part, I have been treated respectfully here.  There are some things that I have come to understand and experience that leave me with some concerns.

In general, however, my grievances are a bit superficial…like not being able to find makeup to match my skin tone (Thank the universe for Kiko Milano! :)), and not being able to find hair products (Thank the universe for olive oil and Cielo Alto!:)), etc.  These types of things, which if one is persistent in seeking a resolution, then all should be mostly well.

It is true (again, this is my experience) that some older Italians are not accustomed to dealing with foreigners.

Sadly enough, while I was waiting in line in a grocery store, there was an elderly man who kept hitting me with his shopping cart.  At first, I thought it was an accident, but I recognized after the second/third/etc times that this man was having a serious problem with me.  Of course, I tried my best to redirect his behaviour, but he simply let loose a string derogatory words about my non-Italian status.

Luckily enough, the people in the grocery store, customers and employees alike, came to my defense and were quite apologetic, and they told the man that he was in the wrong.  The experience was shocking to me.  The response of the bystanders, however, gives me hope for the future of multiculturalism here in Rome.

It is true (again, this is from my experience and some research) that some Italian men see Black women (really, I should say here foreign women, especially young Americans) as easy sexual targets.

For Black women, it is possible too that we may be thought of as prostitutes as there is, apparently, a significant number of North African women who are considered as engaging in prostitution–This is an exceptionally difficult topic, and I am trying to handle it in the best way I know how.  Please, understand that I mean no offense.

First trip to Rome (2010)

One of the things to which I had to become accustomed was the staring.  People here stare.  When I write “stare,” I don’t mean like a lengthy sideways glance.  No, I mean stare.  They seemingly try to stare you down.  These days I treat it as a challenge…a little staring contest.  You know, like in childhood, Just who will be the first to look away?? 😉

Now, when I first came to Rome, I took major offense to this behaviour.  You know, it felt like I was being silently assaulted by these stares, because I did not know how to understand them.  A part of me was like, Do you seriously have, or want to have a problem with me?

Then, I learnt that the staring-thing was not just directed at Black people, or foreigners (yes, I asked several people), or people dress a little oddly like I do.  Oh no, Italians stare at Italians too…and I have witnessed it first-hand.  Actually, I find it quite amusing these days.

So, yes, people here stare.  Try not take it too seriously if you travel here. Of course, it is true that they may be staring at you because you are obviously a foreigner, but again it’s a cultural thing.  So, don’t let it upset your day…try to have a sense of humour about it.

I will say this:  it is important to learn the basics of the language of the country to which you are choosing to travel before you leave.  Practice aloud greetings and asking for help.  Also, it is important remember formalities of the country/culture.  The more you know about culturally appropriate behaviour, the better off you are.  Perhaps most importantly, it is important to keep a sense of humour, especially at the most difficult of times.

If someone offends you, regardless of intentionality, just remember to treat it like water running off a duck’s back.

Until Next Time!Best,

D.

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Travelling while female…and Black (Part 2)

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In Florence, photography by D.M. Blake (2011)

Where to begin…where to begin.  I am still listening to Vivaldi.

How is Vivaldi relevant to the topic?  Well, actually, I have found that listening to instrumental music is quite helpful when managing emotions.  And throughout my travels, I have most definitely had to learn how to manage my emotions (although I am not always the most successful).  😉

I have been travelling alone since 1987.  My first trip was a 3-4 hour long flight from Kingston, Jamaica to Boston, Massachusetts.  Strangely enough, I remember feeling neither terrified nor excited–I was busy thinking about the most appropriate way to act, in order to make the best impression on those who would encounter me.  Even at the young age, I had tapped into something that has served me throughout my travels of the years.  That is, neither fear nor excitement will get you anywhere, if you do not behave appropriately.

So, let’s fast-forward some years to 1996 when my mother and I decided to backpack from London to Edinburgh.  Although it was a great deal of fun, it was also my first instance of having someone look at me askance.  What I mean to say was that my long braided hair, bell-bottom (before they were called boot-cut) jeans, guitar slung over shoulder look along with my big blue Jamaican passport causes one of the (thankfully female) guards to do an extra check on me.  It was the first time that I had someone basically put their hands on my person in such a thorough manner.  And I remember recording that in the catalogue of my mind.

Apparently, I did not learn from episode 1996, because in 1999 when I travelled to Berlin to attend an overseas program, again I was stopped and thoroughly searched:  shoes removed and all.  Of course, I was still rocking out in my hippie-mode the long braids, guitar (I think), big blue passport, but then I had traded my jeans for cargo pants…you know, with the many pockets.  The guards at Tegel weren’t having it.  I wasn’t annoyed then…that came later.  I figured I would allow for stereotypes to simply be.  After all, even in the US, people pair Jamaica with the word marijuana, so…

Looking perplexed crossing the Charles River into Boston, photography by D. M. Blake (2011)

Berlin…to Prague?  No, I don’t think so…

Everything changed when I decided to take a trip to Prague to visit a friend in November 1999.  I remember clearly that it was an early morning trip, and already Berlin had become cold.  Even as I journeyed to Prague, I could see the pilings of snow covering buildings and streets–At that time, snow still fascinated me.  (Live in Boston for a couple of years, and you get over the fascination really fast).

So, what could have happened on that trip?  Well, long story short was that I, along with other people of visibly minority status, were escorted (I use that for the sake of politeness) off the train and told to return to Germany…i.e. even with my big old visa that gave me the right to enter into the Czech Republic and thus visit Prague.

Yes, that’s right.  My passport was taken from me and I was kept in a holding area (feel free to read into that a little) until train heading back to Berlin had arrived.  Mind you, in German I directly asked the German border patrol what the meaning of this was.  He equally directly and quite civilly told me that the Czech didn’t want people like us there, and that was the reason for our removal. Wait…People like us??  

Well, that was my first and last time to have an experience like that…and why?  The following is not a definitive reason.  However, I will say that the episode caused me to do something I never thought I would do… I decided to become an American citizen.  I understood that with my Jamaican passport, I would continue to run into problems. Now, please, understand that this is merely my experience and my then-logic.  I understand now that problems with travelling can occur regardless of your passport. The little blue passport, however, did help me in my travels.  No longer did I get the strange delays and the weird looks (okay, so I still got the looks). 😉

(Expat in Korea celestrial81186 at YouTube.  See part two here.)

Okay, so what does this all mean?  No, I am not saying every person of colour  who is not American should run out there, toss their citizenship, and try to become an American citizen.  I am proud to be an American citizen and equally proud to be Jamaican.  What I am saying is that it is possible that the origination of your passport potentially can help or hinder your ease of travel as a person of colour.  Again…these are just my thoughts.  Also, there is a difference when travelling to a place for vacation, and staying in a place for a longer period time, but I will come to that next…  😉

Also, if you have specific questions about travelling, please free to ask and I will address them in my next post.
Until Next Time.
Best,
D.

P.S. I was attempting to find a cute cartoon featuring Black women travelling…and so, I did as we are expected to do these days and went on Google Images…What did I find?  Well, nothing could be posted.  Many of the cartoons were quite derogatory towards Black women.  Now, why is that?

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AMBW… What??

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I have a tendency towards researching things.  Yes, I am a bit obsessive.  However, when I speak or write about a topic, I like to be as well-informed as possible.  In my last posts, you may have noticed that I have been using information from Asian countries, i.e. expats living in Asian countries like Japan and Korea.  I have been researching on YouTube what it is like for Black women to live in countries where they are a perceivable minority…Little did I know that this research would lead to…

Apparently, there is a growing celebration of interracial relationships between Asian Men and Black Women.  I had no idea.  Of course, I think it is brilliant that people of different ethnic/racial/religious/etc.  can and want to get together.  I am, however, a bit concerned by the seeming exoticism of it all…

I know in my life, I have tried to stay clear from people who are seeking to be in a relationship with me because they have a prepared plan of only dating Black women, because Black women are x, y, and z…,or who are seemingly fixated on my cultural background.  So, I am uncertain as to what is happening here with this AMBW push.

More importantly, I have noticed that there are even virtual battles that are being waged about the beauty of Black women and where we stand on the beauty standard totem pole…And according to some, we are at the bottom.  There are even some arguments that Asian men and Black women should get together, because we are both on bottom in terms of desirability…And I am like (yes, I wrote “like”), “What??!!”

Have I missed the boat here?  Was there some big thing that happened culturally that I wasn’t aware of it?  It’s true that I don’t watch television, listen to the radio, avoid newspapers and magazines.  So, it is quite possible.  When, however, did minorities exoticizing other minorities become in vogue.

(Very good YouTube video that addresses this issue. Video by Charly in Korea)

 My apologies for the tirade, but…

Until Next Time.

Best,

D.

P.S.  This guy is just too much :D…

 (“Interracial Dating – Korean Guy’s Perspective”

by famousamos on YouTube)

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Travelling while female…and Black (Part 1)

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“Travelling Home to Rome….” photography by D. M. Blake (2011)

As I mentioned in my last post, I had a long conversation with my mother that included remembrances about her childhood and my grandfather.  There was something else of which spoke that made a deep impression upon me.  That is, she spoke about her travels around the world.

It is a bit strange, perhaps, that my memories of my mother are of old photographs:  my mother standing in snow-covered places, my mother amongst tulip fields and windmills, my mother feeding pigeons in a wide and open plaza, my mother on a ship…

My mother in places that I, as a child, never understood how she came to be there or if I would ever see such wondrous sights in my life.

I remember finding and displaying all the coins from the many foreign countries in which she had travelled.  Places with strange names, strange languages, differently shaped than the money I knew as a child in Jamaica.

How could one person have travelled so far at a young age?  So very far from the island country that served as a birthplace, and where she had both children and husband awaiting her?

Then again, how could she have not?  She was teaching us, her children (and even our father), something very important.  She was teaching us that no matter who you are and where you are, you should never limit yourself.  Think big, dream even bigger, and allow life to take you where you will it.

“How to Create Dreams I” photography by Diedré M. Blake, 2011 (Rome)

There are many answers that one could give, or rather, that I could give.

The fact is, I travel because I need to understand that nothing is this life can limit me but my own self.

Not the colour of my skin.  Not the kinkiness of my hair.  Not the language that I speak.  Not the relationships that I have built through blood or friendship.

Perhaps it is selfish.  I am certain that culturally, for some, this type of attitude is selfish.  For me, I see it as setting an example for the younger generation of my family, who will undoubtedly face a world that is filled with stereotypes, some of which will be aimed at them.

Trust me, travelling is not easy for people of colour, especially in parts of Europe, where the colour of one’s skin can mean a reason to be attacked (again, this is my own opinion).

Travelling, however, is one way of challenging stereotypes.    It takes courage to say, “Let me leave everything behind and go somewhere far away.”  And that is regardless of race/ethnicity/sexuality/religion/etc… Everyone, I believe, feels some fear when away from what is familiar, and from those who are accepting of us.

When we open our eyes and our arms to the world, we allow ourselves to see beyond stereotypes…Equally important, we allow for the world to see us as individuals.  Thus, why should the world not be our oyster?

I thank my mother for passing on the wanderlust that has allowed me to have and to act upon the desire to see as much of the world as I can…I suppose she, in turn, thanks her grandfather, who was a ship engineer.

Until Next Time.

Best,

D.

P.S. —

Some YouTube Links of Black Women Travelling:

Babs in Japan: “Love life and Japan” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VLx7Yc0dwU&feature=share&list=UL2VLx7Yc0dwU

Charly in Korea: “Black in Korea” http://youtu.be/mbLVIWNtdzo

Interesting Blog from China: “Life Behind the Wall”  http://lifebehindthewall.wordpress.com/

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Hunting for Valentine’s Day! Plus, a woman eating alone = Feminista!

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I will admit it.  I forgot. 

Upon waking this Monday morning, I had only two thoughts: one, call April and wish her a happy birthday; and two, finish my blog entry for yesterday.  I completely forgot that today happens to be Valentine’s Day.  As I mentioned in my very first post, I am usually late… and apparently, not just with time.

So, it was that I received excellent electronic reminders that today was indeed the day to run out and get your beloved all sorts of treats and flowers galore! And I thought, “Wonderful!  I am in this city that is supposedly filled with romance.  I am bound to find red and pink heart-shaped decorations, chocolate fountains, and dozens of roses just littering shop windows and even the streets!”

I actually threw on a pair of jeans and sneakers (and for those of you who have been around me more recently, the fact that I am not wearing heels is perhaps amazing), and ran out the door, ready to be greeted by amore and strains of “‘O Sole Mio.”

It's still a regular day on Via Arenula (2.14.11)

What I got, however, was this (image on the right).

Life in Rome was simply going along as though the day had no particular significance.  I couldn’t believe it!

I decided that I must be in the wrong section of town, and walked back over towards Campo dei Fiori, where I was certain I would find evidence of Valentine’s Day! Or, at the very least, some tourists showing excessive amounts of PDA.

Heart-shaped cakes in store window (Campo dei Fiori)

 

Campo dei Fiori did not disappoint me!  Although sadly, in comparison with the commercialization of Valentine’s Day (V-Day) in the U.S., the V-Day efforts of Campo dei Fiori seemed quite mediocre, if that. 

I was pleased to see the evidence of V-Day celebration being displayed by some of the vendors in the marketplace and also by some of the stores (well, one store).  

Woman with heart-shaped headband (Campo dei Fiori), 2.14.11

One woman, in particular, was really in the V-Day mood as she made her way throughout the marketplace.  Another woman was selling flowers (or hoping to) with a beautiful array of roses amongst other equally attractive flowers.  A male vendor sold carnivale masques and some V-Day theme items. (Although I am still not sure what they were… I just saw the sign.)  All in all, Campo dei Fiori had a pretty good and promising vibe for V-Day, especially as the weather was bright, fairly warm and sunny.

Woman flower vendor (Campo dei Fiori), 2.14.11

The experience at Campo dei Fiori left me feeling very hopeful. Thus, I made a mad dash towards Largo di Torre Argentina, camera in hand and at the ready to snap pictures of V-Day in the making.

I love Birkenstock sign (Rome, Italy), 2.14.11

Well… to cut a very short story even shorter.  There was nada, or niente (for the sake of adding an Italian flare).  I did, however, discover that there were expressions of love for other things… like Birkenstocks (I think Germany will be happy to know this on V-Day.)

Couple walking (Rome, Italy), 2.14.11

Oh!  And I almost forgot!  There was also the random couple that actually showed some potential acknowledgement of V-Day… 

Side note: Yesterday, Giuseppe told me that “love is the most important aspect of [Roman] life.  After all, Roma spelled backwards is ‘Amor,’ which means love.”  Really?  You could have fooled me.

 

 

 

 

 

I eat alone.  Therefore, I am a feminist!

After my long and emotionally taxing (Yes, it is quite emotionally draining to search for love – You and I both know it’s true!) morning spent walking around the apparently anti-Valentine’s Day city of Rome, I decided to head back to my neighbourhood of Campo dei Fiori for lunch.  Recently (as in, last night), I discovered a wonderfully inexpensive, but quite good, bar/cafe very close to my home.  It was to this cafe that brought my tired self to enjoy a little V-Day lunch before heading home.

I had been thinking much about yesterday’s demonstration by the women of Rome, and wanted to find a way to talk with some Italian women about their experience of gender roles in Rome.  Luckily, the night before I had met a young woman named Janet, who works at the cafe.  She also happened to be working today.  I decided to ask Janet if I could make a time to speak with her about her experiences. 

At the conclusion of our very brief conversation to exchange contact information, one of the male servers asked Janet a simple question in Italian.  Unfortunately for him, he assumed that because I spoke in English that I could not understand Italian. 

He asked: “Lei è femminista?” (Is she a feminist?)

I answered him, “Sì. Io sono femminista. Perché?” (Yes. I am a feminist. Why?)

In English, he responded, “Because only a feminist would eat alone.”

And so there you have it… If you do not want to be seen as a feminist in Rome (per this Italian man), best not eat alone.  As for me, eating alone is equally as comfortable and appreciated as eating in the company of others. 

I wonder what he would think if he knew that my grand plan for this evening is to watch the movie “Gladiator” and to write?

 

In Rome on Valentine’s Day

Love I will not write

The cold of my heart like snow

Words of my mind – death

Just when I thought hell would have to freeze over… Demonstrations in the streets!!

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I will tell you, there is nothing quite like thousands of women and men shouting the English word “bullshit” all in unison!  No… really!  Especially, when this is done with strong Italian accents, it really makes you smile, and feel proud to be an English speaker! 🙂 

Women's Demonstration against Berlusconi & the Government (2.13.11)

Okay, there were many other reasons to feel quite proud today, and they had nothing to do with being an English speaker.  They, however, had everything to do with being a woman!  Yes, that’s right!  The women of Italy must have heard about me complaining in my blog, or somehow psychically felt my ever-growing disgruntled pms-ing energy pervading the universal ethers (because everything is really all about me – No, really, I know! 😉), and decided to show me that the women of Italy knew what was up!  And what was up was their dander!

"Al sesso, bello, sporca, tutto, un capo brutto" Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

The very same thoughts that I have been sharing over the last few days about my observations on the behaviours of Italian men, or at least the structure of the Italian patriarchal society that so highly influences its men’s behaviours, was being reflected back to me by these angry and highly organized as well as mobilized women!  They shouted for respect and equality!  They asked not to be seen as just sexual objects to be used and abused by men such as Berlusconi, the current Italian president.  They asked for all Italian women to be united and to stand up for themselves, and to demand their place in society, rather than be treated as second-class citizens!

"If not now, when" Sign at Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

I was amazed, dumbfounded, and humbled.  I realized that I have had the misfortune of only having had the acquaintance of Italian males, and did not understand at all the experience of the average Italian female.  In my independent, liberal-minded, feminist, American arrogance (Yes, I said, “arrogance,” because it was true.), I had made the assumption that the Italian woman was okay living in this system, and had quietly acquiesced to her place of submission –  I was wrong, and am truly glad for this discovery.

Women at demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

What is equally amazing is that I would not have known anything about this demonstration had it not been for a man.  Enter Giuseppe: a politically-minded, middle-aged, professional.  He along with a number of many other Italian males were participating actively in the demonstration and screaming and shouting along with the women, and applauding the female presenters!  This was highly encouraging to see.  After all, up until this point, I had all but decided that Italian men were… well, let’s just say, not quite enlightened.

Men at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

The cynic in me, of course, is always able to point out the many people who are, what I call, “token” activists.  That is, they come to a demonstration here or there, but otherwise do nothing, or actually do everything to thwart whatever the movement is. 

These “token” activists are able to say, however, that they believe in the movement because they went to a demonstration.  It is like people who say they do not exhibit any racist behaviour because they have minority friends, yet still they may make stereotyped commentary about minorities (all under the guise of “It’s just a joke.”)

I suppose this is my fear –  That these men might just be “token” activists,

Berlusconi Flyer (Given out at the Demonstration), 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

and do not actually believe in the cause, or will not actually do anything to help the women further it.  That these men, in essence, are there just for lip service and to be a “token” display of gender alliance. Well…  I will choose for today to look at the glass as half-full however… and be happy for these women, and happy for myself too, to have been witness to this event. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is not lost on me that the women chose to hold this event on the day before Valentine’s Day… Especially as I have been told, Valentine’s Day is not much celebrated here.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 
 

"Indignant!" Banner at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

"Enough!" Banners at Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)


















Thousands gathered, Women's Demonstration, 2.13.11 (Rome, Italy)

An old gypsy woman, Italian men… and renewing my “Bitch” card.

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An old gypsy woman at the Spanish Steps, Feb. 9, 2011

I realized today (…Am I caught up yet?) that unbeknownst to some men (and I am sure some women too), third-wave feminism did not die out in the 90s when it began, but is actually still alive and kicking its very high and pointy stiletto-ed heels as well as steel-toed combat boots (both of which I happen to own, even if I am more partial to the pointy variety at the moment)!  By the way, I am generally inclined towards ignoring the outline of my headlines and just plunging into whatever topic most interests me first.

Italian men

What a way to start?  The topic that most interests me first is Italian men… Right!  Well, it’s perhaps not in the way that you might think.  No… This is not the “Eat. Pray. Love.” – version (Yes, there may be many more references to come… Deal with it) of some handsome, young, Italian man with an unpronounceable (at least, for me) name such as “Massimiliano” sweeping me off my very queer-loving feet into some fairytale love-land or even love-fest.  Actually, this is a two-part observation: one of two men I know personally, and the other of the Roman men I have observed so far… or should I say, who have observed me?

Part 1. I have two friends here.  Fortunately, or unfortunately, they both happen to be male and Roman.  One, I believe, is more accepting of his Roman-ness and wears it as a badge of honour (Friend A).  The other, well… We’ll just say that he thinks of himself as a sensitive type of man (Friend B), which I am not quite certain fits in with my perception of the Roman male… Then again, what do I know?  I have only been here a couple of times in my life, and only know these two guys.  So, what the heck.

Without going into very long and rather tedious stories, I will simply state that both Friend A & B demonstrate a similar behavioural pattern, i.e. the when all else fails, “women-are-at-fault-all-times-no-matter-what.”  Curiously enough, this behavioural pattern has manifested only when I was engaging in an assertive act, such as expressing my own position on a topic, or my own right to act independently, or my own right to be heard and not be demeaned.   Immediately from both of these men, I was told that I was somehow injuring them by being assertive.  That by actually standing up for myself, I was actually being “rude” and “aggressive!” (Insert “Angry Black Woman Syndrome” because that is what it surely sounded like they were suggesting to me.)  I am in therapy.  I know for a fact that I am certainly not a sufferer of ABWS. (Now,where is that certificate of proof?)

Part 2. Beyond my two friends, I have been subject to the scrutiny of the general Roman male population, whose members, I can tell you, are not shy about making their assessment of your sexual appeal known.  Between the catcalls (“Bella!”), the stares (up and down, and up and down, and up and down, and call the friends over to stare up and down again and up… you know), the polite hellos (“Buonasera“), the direct one-on-one pretend conversations (“Hi, are you American?”or “Where are you from?”), and the pull-the-car-over-to-the-side-of-the-road-to-stare-and-try-to-engage-in-conversation (yes, this actually happened on Sunday); life here in Rome has been quite simple as a woman to enjoy. 

I don’t at all feel like a walking vagina on a daily basis whatsoever.  Nope.  Not at all!  I don’t at all feel like I should try to scrub away the filthy, grimy looks I received all day long as soon as I get home – Mind you, one never knows if the looks are due to lewd thoughts, or racist thoughts, or some whacked combination. Either way, it does make leaving my little studio each day quite an adventure!  It could be enough for a more reserved woman might want to resort to wearing a burka, were she permitted to do so.

Back in October as well as now, I wondered how Roman women have been able to deal with this kind of crap (what I deemed Roman male chauvinistic attitude towards women’s equality and sexuality) for generations.  Then, I thought about the rapidity of the language of Italian… and how for the most part, it was pretty hard for anyone to get a word in edgewise… and I had the answer!  The women didn’t listen to these whining,complaining, and seemingly sex-starved men -The women just talked over the men! (Okay, maybe I am being a bit simplistic, but…) 

I suppose the therapist in me had prompted me to have the patience to listen to them, or even to pay mind to them.  In the case of my friends, the reality was that they just did not like having a woman stand up to them… once again.  In a patriarchal society, what’s new in that?  And in the case of the general Roman male population… Well, men always desire what they esteem highly, but can never have.

Renewing the “Bitch” card

So, I renewed my “bitch” card, put on my name tag “Bitch Numero Uno” and wore it proudly today as I walked out of a bookstore, leaving Friend B behind, who thought that I should spend my time chasing after him (after he walked off and left me without letting me know where he would be going… I imagine he did this because of the small lecture I gave him on feminism… Oh well!).  Side note:  I am beginning to think I need to pick better Roman male friends.

Being a “bitch” is a necessary mode that all Black women must be able to access in my humble opinion.  When I say “bitch,” I mean that you are quite capable of showing even deeper levels of your personality, that you too are  a “beautiful, intelligent, talented, courageous hellion,”  and will serve all of that up with a smile. 😉   All you need is a reason.  Right? 

Black women have for too long been subject to the bottom of the totem pole.  It is in our best interest, therefore, to thwart anyone who tries to get in our way from upward movement… At least, these are my beliefs.  I could also apply the same thoughts to a whole slew of minority groups to which I also belong (general women-folk, foreign-folk,  gay-folk, chronically-ill-folk…you get the picture).  In essence, down with the man!… Did I just write that?  Well, what I mean is… Power to the people!  And the people, in this moment, happen to be me.  And I happen to be a Black woman living in Rome, albeit for a short time, where minorities are not well-liked or respected (no matter how nicely it’s put – Thanks, Francesco and Catherine)… and I am not sure exactly what the position women exactly hold… and if it is actually seen as vertical (of course, I am quite new to Rome, so don’t hold this against me… My opinion might change).

Old gypsy woman

There are many beggars here in Rome like many cities around the world – This is nothing new.  Guidebooks, natives, embassies, your friends and even parents warn you against them.   Don’t give them your money.  While one distracts you, others will come to rob you.  Darn right!  It’s true…  It is equally true, and not surprising for me, that a majority of the beggars that I have seen in Rome have been women…  And of course, minority women.  From what little I can tell, my assumption is that they are gypsies, who have been notoriously stereotyped as thieves and who live in fear in Italy due to their minority status, especially as the level of intolerance for cultural and ethnic diversity increases throughout the Italy’s major cities. Sadly, it seems to me there is a lot to be feared by the Italian male, if you happen to be female and a slight shade darker than White… At least, this is my opinion for the moment.  Who knows what experiences and new insights 17 more days will bring.

For the most part, I like beggars.  I always have.  I should actually rephrase that.  I like to help the homeless.  I was brought up that way.  It is not in my nature to look askance at someone, or to turn my nose up, or to shift my eyes away from that which makes me uncomfortable.  I learnt this from my mother, who I watched when I was a child give to many strangers bags of food when we, ourselves, were quite poor.

Distinctly, I have a memory of an old man who came to our home in Jamaica asking for food in exchange for work.  My mother would have been happy to have given him the food without having him work, but he insisted to cut the grass in the back of our house.  I watched him all day cut away at the tall grass with nothing but his frail body wielding, what seemed to me then, a giant cutlass.  This image has never left me. 

So it was that I found myself today standing atop the Scalinata della Trinita dei Monti (“Spanish Steps”), located in the Piazza di Spagna, looking  down at an old gypsy woman holding her hands clasp together as though praying.  She called to each passerby and to those who stood above her, “Ho fame.” (“I am hungry.”)  I stared at her for a long time.  I did not think much about whether or not she were telling the truth.  I only thought that I liked the look of her face.  Her face told many stories as she had seen many things – Stories I would never know. So I took pictures of her – Several.  And for that, I placed a euro in her jar.  Still afterwards she called to me, “Bella, ho fame.”

I smiled at her, and thought, “So am I.”