How white women use strategic tears to silence women of color


‘Often, when I have attempted to speak to or confront a white woman about something she has said or done that has impacted me adversely, I am met with tearful denials and indignant accusations that I am hurting her’
 ‘Often, when I have attempted to speak to or confront a white woman about something she has said or done that has impacted me adversely, I am met with tearful denials and indignant accusations that I am hurting her’ Photograph: Caro/Alamy

The legitimate grievances of brown and black women are no match for the accusations of a white damsel in distress

 

By: Ruby Hamad: The Guardian Uk

That the voices of “women of color” are getting louder and more influential is a testament less to the accommodations made by the dominant white culture and more to their own grit in a society that implicitly – and sometimes explicitly – wants them to fail.

At the Sydney writers’ festival on Sunday, editor of Djed Press, Hella Ibrahim, relayed the final minutes of a panel on diversity featuring writers from the western Sydney Sweatshop collective. One of the panelists, Winnie Dunn, in answering a question about the harm caused by good intentions, had used the words “white people” and “shit” in the same sentence. This raised the ire of a self-identified white woman in the audience who interrogated the panelists as to “what they think they have to gain” by insulting people who “want to read their stories.”

In other words, the woman saw a personal attack where there wasn’t one and decided to remind the panellists that as a member of the white majority she ultimately has their fate in her hands.

“I walked out of that panel frustrated,” Ibrahim wrote. “Because yet again, a good convo was derailed, white people centred themselves, and a POC panel was told to police it’s [sic] tone to make their message palatable to a white audience.”

Trauma assails brown and black women from all directions. There is the initial pain of being subjected to gendered racism and discrimination, there is the additional distress of not being believed or supported, and of having your words and your bravery seemingly credited to others.

And then there is a type of trauma inflicted on women of color that many of us find among the hardest to disclose, the one that few seem willing to admit really happens because it is so thoroughly normalized most people refuse to see it.

It is what that writers’ festival audience member was demonstrating, and what blogger and author Luvvie Ajayi called the “weary weaponising of white women’s tears”.

To put it less poetically, it is the trauma caused by the tactic many white women employ to muster sympathy and avoid accountability, by turning the tables and accusing their accuser.

Almost every BW (black woman) I know has a story about a time in a professional setting in which she attempted to have a talk with a WW about her behavior & it has ended with the WW (white woman) crying,” one black woman wrote on Twitter. “The WW wasn’t crying because she felt sorry and was deeply remorseful. The WW was crying because she felt “bullied” and/or that the BW was being too harsh with her.”

When I shared these tweets on my Facebook page asking brown and black women if this had ever happened to them, I was taken by how deeply this resonated, prompting one Arab woman to share this story:

A WW kept touching my hair. Pulling my curls to watch them bounce back. Rubbing the top. Smelling it. So when I told her to stop and complained to HR and my supervisor, she complained that I wasn’t a people person or team member and I had to leave that position for being ‘threatening’ to a coworker.”

For the doubters, here is a mild version of this sleight-of-hand in action:

Pinterest
Jully Black and Jeanne Beker

Notice it is the white woman – Jeanne Beker – who first interrupts the black woman – Jully Black – who takes the interruption in her stride. Black continues to speak passionately and confidently, which Beker interprets as a personal attack on her even though Black is clearly talking in general terms (just as Winnie Dunn was). Beker then attempts to shut Black down by essentially branding her a bully.

Had Jully Black not stopped and repeated Jeanne Beker’s words back at her – “Why are you attacking me?” – they would have passed largely unnoticed, just another woman of colour smeared as an aggressor for daring to continue speaking when a white woman wanted her to stop.

It doesn’t usually end this way. “White women tears are especially potent … because they are attached to the symbol of femininity,” Ajayi explains. “These tears are pouring out from the eyes of the one chosen to be the prototype of womanhood; the woman who has been painted as helpless against the whims of the world. The one who gets the most protection in a world that does a shitty job overall of cherishing women.”

As I look back over my adult life a pattern emerges. Often, when I have attempted to speak to or confront a white woman about something she has said or done that has impacted me adversely, I am met with tearful denials and indignant accusations that I am hurting her. My confidence diminished and second-guessing myself, I either flare up in frustration at not being heard (which only seems to prove her point) or I back down immediately, apologizing and consoling the very person causing me harm.

It is not weakness or guilt that compels me to capitulate. Rather, as I recently wrote, it is the manufactured reputation Arabs have for being threatening and aggressive that follows us everywhere. In a society that routinely places imaginary “wide-eyed, angry and Middle Eastern” people at the scenes of violent crimes they did not commit, having a legitimate grievance is no match for the strategic tears of a white damsel in distress whose innocence is taken for granted.

“We talk about toxic masculinity,” Ajayi warns, “but there is (also) toxicity in wielding femininity in this way.” Brown and black women know we are, as musician Miss Blanks writes, “imperfect victims”. That doesn’t mean we are always in the right but it does mean we know that against a white woman’s accusations, our perspectives will almost always go unheard either way.

Whether angry or calm, shouting or pleading, we are still perceived as the aggressors.

Likewise, white women are equally aware their race privileges them as surely as ours condemns us. In this context, their tearful displays are a form of emotional and psychological violence that reinforce the very system of white dominance that many white women claim to oppose.

Ruby Hamad is a journalist and PhD candidate at the University of New South Wales, Australia.

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The World of Me!


You gotta love people who believe THEY are the most important people in the world.

They purposely cut you off on the roadways.   They appear in the express lane in the supermarket with 200 items.  They demand immediate attention, the line is for pedestrians.

When I travel, I’m usually the last one on the plane and the last one off.    Being last, usually mean I simply walk to my seat, most people are settled in, no waiting for people to stow there belonging.   I normally sit in the aisle seat near the end of plane.

One evening in Portland, I wasn’t the last passenger.  There was a lady, demanding the plane wait for her friend’s WHO were waiting for pizza.    The young woman at the counter said the flight to Sacramento was full and they were going to close the door.  NO! she shouted,  your not full, were not on, so you’ll have to wait!  They should be coming now!

Well, Hell, this is much better than the Housewives or any of the Reality shows. I wanted to see how this was going to end.    However, to see the end, would mean I would miss my flight.  So, I faked a slow limp.  DAMM!     On board, I strained my neck to see if the lady and her friends made it on the plane.        Ding, (the seat belt sign came on) as the plane was being pushed backward.   Guess they will enjoy their pizza at PDX!

What is it about those individuals, who has Chutzpah, to cut in line, push others and simply disregard all others and feel there actions are justified.

Turning the other cheek

Were human, sometime you can swallow and say to yourself, let it go, it isn’t worth it.  Then  there is that one time that your not feeling particularly Christian.  No fucking way!  Not Today!

Philadelphia:   I’m on my second leg of three legs to Sacramento.  A man enters the cabin, he’s not flight staff, he’s another passenger.  He opens the  overhead above my seat and begins to relocated the belongings of other passengers items to other bins.  I can’t believe no one isn’t saying anything.  In my head, I’m daring him to move my bag with my PC.   Sure enough, he takes my bag and I tell him to leave it where it is.   He said, he is gonna move it down.  You could feel the heat in my little section.   I told him, your going to fucking leave it where it is!  (This is unusual for me,  I’m not one for making scenes or swearing in public)  He angrily stared at me, as if!    In my head, I said to myself. you gonna end up seeing Jesus on this plane, ain’t nobody playin wit ju!      Somewhere during the flight, when the man went to the restroom, a man in the row behind me  tapped me and said, could you believe that guy, he moved MY stuff!    I’m thinking to myself, why didn’t YOU say anything.

 

Who are these people?  Did they Have indulgent parents?

One wonders, how were these people formed?  Did this form of narcissism begin as a child.  That one child who is throwing a tantrum because they don’t want to wait their turn and that indulgent parent who makes excuses and exceptions for their child’s poor behavior.    Is this the beginning, of  a skewed perception of the world that insists that their needs or demands comes before others, at any cost!

 

“We teach people how to treat us” 

One of my favorite movies is “Avalon”, directed by Barry Levinson.  It follows a Russian Jewish family as they slowly build a new life in  America.  Through the years the family immersed themselves in American culture.  Including Thanksgiving, one branch of the family is notoriously late. (not minutes,hour or so) not once ,but every time.  This was before (microwaves) and the very large family waits for the uncle and his familyto arrive before cutting the Turkey.  The children are hungry.   But they wait.  The apologies aren’t genuine.   After many years.  They start without them.   This action divides the once close family.  its very sad.    But….

We teach people how to treat us.   It is my theme.     I cant stand by and dine or travel with anyone who doesn’t  have any consideration for others.   I refuse to watch someone I know, berate another person , because he or she doesn’t want to don’t want to wait.  Those individuals don’t care if their friends are humiliated.  They simply want what they want!    When that happens, I quietly leave. No Drama, no scene’s or explanations.  I leave. All human beings deserve respect and if I should stay, I’m condoning bad behavior, it isn’t worth it…

 

CityFella

I Can Sum Up Marriage In These 11 Texts I’ve Sent My Husband


By Susannah B. Lewis (Blogger):Your Tango.com
Our text messages say a lot about our marriage.

 

While scrolling through my phone and reading the text exchange between my husband and me, I see a love story.

No, I don’t see a bunch of Xs, Os and lovey-dovey emoticons.  But I do see mistakes, arguments, parenting advice and venting sessions . I see two people navigating this life together. I see a parenting partner .I see a best friend. I see a union that thrives on a healthy dose of sarcasm.

When I read our text messages, I see a real marriage   AND I laugh ….

 This may be the most truthful text message I’ve ever sent my husband, but honesty is key in a successful relationship.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 Not only does my husband go grocery shopping, but he always takes the time to carefully and considerately explain life’s greatest mysteries to me.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 Communication is the lifeline of any marriage. I want to personally thank the inventor of text messaging for keeping ours together.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

Communication via text is wonderful, but sometimes we still need to pick up the phone for a personal exchange or just to hear our spouse’s voice. Oh, and to make sure they know when to do what they need to do.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

It’s a common misconception that the little weak lady needs to first consult with the big strong man when handling business. My husband often reminds me that I can do things on my own. Thanks for nudging me towards independence, honey.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 Sure, he thinks I’m a beautiful and amazing woman, but I know the difference between a sincere compliment and an “I need sex” compliment. Even through text.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 It’s the story of our lives, isn’t it, ladies? They don’t hear a word we say if it doesn’t involve the words, “Get naked now.”

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 Sometimes I think he messes things up on purpose so I won’t ask him to do them again. It’s actually pretty genius. That’s why I kept running the golf cart into bushes the last time he invited me to play 18.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. And the way to mine is if I don’t have to cook.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 Firmly letting your better half know that he needs to back off is acceptable.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

 This. You know you’ve got a good one when he tries to console you and then volunteers to be your PMS punching bag.

11 LOL Texts That Completely Explain Marriage

I hate cooking with my mom, but she can’t make fried chicken to save her life, so that’s what I make


Image result for FRIED

If your mom is an awful cooking partner (like mine), find a recipe she can’t participate in and hand her a cocktail

By: Bex Brian/Salon
For years whenever my mother left her Manhattan apartment and came to visit me in Brooklyn (which she called the country) she’d arrive disheveled and completely rattled, as if the number 2 train was a Wild West stagecoach wresting her from the safe confines of the city and plunking her down amongst the savages. Falling through the door, she’d whisper, “Get me a drink, darling.” Revived somewhat by a potent gin and tonic, she’d stare out across the low expanse longingly to the sun-blazed city so recently abandoned, and ask me what I intended to make her for dinner. It was at this point that I’d reach for my own bottle.

As children we merely bored her. As teenagers we bored her and frightened her. The problem now was, as adults, she had grown to like us, well, at least to need us, and that had totally thrown her for a loop. Which isn’t to say she was ready to let her guard down. One of us, at any moment, could suddenly marry a banker and start talking nonstop about derivatives. So far my sisters and I had resisted that urge, which didn’t leave her much to be bored by or critical of, except when we cooked. Her barrage of suggestions, her horror at technique, her scold would have me doubting my very existence, which was ridiculous because, empirically, I am a far better cook than she ever was. Every once in a while I would try to get her to back off, but she’d merely sniff and say she was only trying to help.

When she moved out to L.A. I can’t tell you the freedom I felt cutting my onions into slices instead of dicing them, using butter for sautéing instead of oil, and peeling my garlic like it was a fragrant pearl rather than smashing it as if it were a cockroach scurrying across my cutting board.

Being a good daughter, I do drag myself out to the coast to visit my mother once a year. And, as we’re not willing to just sit and stare at each other, I cook while she comments.

But this year I had a spark of inspiration. I would make something so far from my mother’s own experience that there would be no toehold for her muttered asides. “Really? Is that the best way to knead that dough?” Or, “If you leave that a moment longer you’re going to scorch it.” Or, “You sure you know what you’re doing? That much salt? You’ll ruin it. But go ahead, see for yourself.”

I told her that I was going to make fried chicken. Now I know fried chicken does not sound earth-shatteringly original, but my mother is a Cockney woman who migrated to Canada, where I was born. Fish and chips maybe. But fried chicken?

Never.

The chicken was great but the method was far too involved for the sort of cook I am and, since I do 99.9 percent of the cooking in our house, and since I’m just competitive enough to want to see if I could best his first attempt, I had to figure out how to do it with a lot less fuss.

At first I went the buttermilk marinade route, but didn’t like the texture it gave the chicken. I also tried cooking in high-heat oils, but then I would be in a panic turning the heat up or down trying to get an even boil. But eventually I hit on a version that suits my cooking temperament, which I would describe as a slapdash maniac with a decent palate.

With mother sitting in a chair in the middle of my sister’s kitchen, I began to assemble all that I needed. She watched with a gimlet eye as I dumped copious amounts of spice into my flour. I could see her craning her neck, but without any first-hand knowledge, she was rendered mute. When I pulled out my two-day dry-brined chicken cut into what I guess you could call hacked in the Chinese style pieces, she was too confused to offer a critique.

An hour or so later I placed a platter piled high with perfectly cooked fried chicken on the table, along with a cabbage salad laced with French Feta cheese and bowls of honey in which slices of Serrano peppers had marinated through the afternoon.

My whole family dove in. And soon I heard what every cook wants to hear, the groan of pure pleasure. My mother, though, had yet to pick up a piece. I didn’t blame her. After all, she had had no hand in its creation. Eventually, her hunger won out, and she begrudgingly grabbed a thigh. I can’t swear I saw a slight smile, but I am willing myself to believe that I did.

Recipe for Fried Chicken

Ingredients

Chicken: cut into 10 pieces, pat dry and heavily salt under the skin using Kosher or good sea salt (I like Maldon); leave uncovered in the fridge overnight or up to two days.

  • 3 cups white flour
  • 3 teaspoons cayenne pepper
  • 3 teaspoons Hungarian paprika
  • 1 teaspoon garlic powder
  • 1 teaspoon adobo
  • 6  Egg whites, more if need,
  • Olive oil, not extra virgin.

Method

Stir in cayenne and paprika; the flour should definitely have a reddish hue. Then the garlic powder and adobo. Adjust for taste. Many people sneer at flavor enhancers, but this is fried chicken; no point in getting snobby.

Dip chicken in flour, then egg whites (I like just the whites; the chicken has a lighter feel and more of a crackle without the yolk) then flour again. Heat the oil. It’s ready when you throw in a tiny edge of chicken skin and it quickly sizzles to the top. Cook in small batches until done, about 10 to 15 minutes per batch.

Keep warm on a wire rack in oven (200 degrees) until ready to serve.

Hanging on to HIS Mercedes


Just another day on Florida’s I-95

Image result for junior francis florida

Love is 4 EVA, until it isn’t! 

When Junior Francis and Patresha Isidore bought their C class, they knew their love was forever, after all they share a daughter.   Forever meant a joint title.

On Sunday, forever wasn’t home.  Patresha message was simple  my car, MY car, MY CAR, talkin bout MY CARR.

Men are very attached to their wheels and Junior Francis attached himself to the hood of the Mercedes.

With his former Boo inside the car and him outside the car,there wasn’t much  of a real meeting of the minds.

Petresha wasn’t feeling a chat anyway as she drove through the streets of Lauderhill Florida with her Boo on the hood their car.

She couldn’t shake Junior on the streets, so she headed to Interstate 95.  With Junior on the hood, Petresha qualified for the Express Lane, where baby girl was going to see how aerodynamic Junior was.

Junior was some kinda man. As his baby mama was trying to knock him off the car. Home cheese was holding on with one hand and calling 911 with the other,telling the police operator that his baby mama was “swerving the car and he was on top of the car.” I really need help.” 

His nineteen mile terror ride ended at an intersection, where they intercepted by Broward County Sheriff’s Office deputies.

The Sheriffs department said Patresha Isidore   had “multiple opportunities” to stop the car and call 911 and willfully put her baby daddy in danger.

Francis, didn’t want to prosecute his ex , because they have a five-year-old daughter. and refused to provide a sworn recorded statement.  But she was arrested and charged with negligence (risk injury or death) .    Patresha,bonded out of custody on the misdemeanor charge.

The Mercedes is now, his car, His car, His CARR ! They talking about his carr.

It’s clear, they haven’t watched Judge Judy.   Never, evah, evah, EVAH, share a bank account, co-sign, or buy a car with someone until your married.   The future of the Mercedes is in question.  Someone will have to buy someone out.

*This was a dramatization for my pleasure.  I’m in Sacramento and they are in South Florida.

CityFella

 

 

 

 

 

 

The 10 Worst Things You Could Ever Call Your Child


The 10 Worst Things You Could Ever Call Your Child

By: Maureen Healy

Ever call your child a brat?

Words have the power to wound or lift our hearts. This isn’t new news. Of course, the challenge is when you are small and new to the world — the words you hear help shape your self-esteem and ultimately, worldview.

Since I specialize in helping highly sensitive children thrive, oftentimes I spend time guiding children to “let go” of the words they’ve been called, from “brat” to “bonehead.” Said differently, we flip the script. I’ve helped a young boy, Tommy, begin to see himself as cautious and careful, instead of believing “You are a wimp.” These are positive traits that were initially slammed into him as negative.

Of course, we are all a work in progress, and we make mistakes. That’s okay. The point is to be a bit more mindful about the words that we let slip off our tongues into our children’s hearts.
To help with that, I have included the top 10 worst parenting words (without regard to curses) that have slipped into everyday conversation that I would love to see evaporate.

They are:

1. Crybaby

2. Picky (fussy)

3. Wimpy

4. Whiny

5. Punk

6. Problem Child

7. Hypersensitive

8. Drama Queen

9. Defiant

10. Brat

Every single one of these words has a positive counterpart. Whether it’s changing “picky” to “discerning” or “selective,” the point is that when we 100 percent decide to frame things in a more optimistic light, we can reduce the likelihood of low self-esteem flourishing. Because frankly, children build their worlds with your words.

Shakespeare probably put it best when he said: “The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven’s lieutenants.”

Maureen Healy is an award-winning author, popular speaker, and leader in how to help highly sensitive children thrive. She’s appeared on Disney’s “The Fatherhood Project” as a regular guest and worked closely with Fortune 100 companies such as Crayola to deepen their awareness of children’s sensitivity, creativity and joy. Follow her on Twitter.

White’s only Clubhouse in Sacramento?


A white only clubhouse in racially diverse Sacramento?

 

White co-workers allegedly used cardboard boxes to build a protective fort around their desks

 

 

Teshawn Solomon said, a manager repeatedly called him Nigger AND built a clubhouse out of cardboard boxes around his and other employees desks with the words “White Only” spray painted on the boxes.

In an article in the Sacramento Bee, Solomon said he reported the harassment to a regional manager, showing him photo of the clubhouse and no action was taken.   He resigned after making the complaint because he felt there was nowhere he could turn for relief from the hostile workplace .

A second man, Jason Flick who is Caucasian, joined Teshawn Solomon lawsuit against.  Flick, alleging racial harassment by workers and managers at Vivint Solar’s Sacramento.    Vivint, is a publicly traded home automation and energy company based in Utah.

Flick said  Solomon was “consistently singled out for racial discrimination and harassment by his predominantly Caucasian co-workers and supervisors.”  He said Solomon was frequently called Nigger.     He said he was told to  scrutinize Solomon’s time cards extra carefully.

The Flick lawsuit also mentions the “White only” fort, which “disgusted and distressed” He took photos of the fort and shared them with Solomon.   Flick resigned in March because he “could no longer tolerate the toxic, hostile, racist work environment.   When he applied for unemployment benefits, Flick included the photos of the fort in his application, which he believes were shared with Vivint’s human resources office, the suit said.

Vivint CEO David Bywater in released a statement on Wednesday(before Flick’s was filed)  saying his executive team first learned of the racial harassment allegations when Solomon filed suit earlier this week. Bywater said the company conducted an internal investigation that resulted in the termination of one employee and disciplinary action for several others.

“The disturbing experience described by our former employee does not reflect the values or culture of Vivint Solar and stands in direct contradiction to our core values as a company,” Bywater said.   He believes the racial harassment allegations are an “isolated incident,” and disputed some of Solomon’s lawsuit.

 

According to a lawsuit filed in Sacramento County Superior Court, a supervisor with Vivint Solar built a "White only" clubhouse out of cardboard boxes inside the company's Natomas warehouse. An African American employee is suing for racial harassment and discrimination.