Women Gender Study Writing Intensive Essay

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Dear Patriarchy Crunkista

Dear Patriarchy,

This isn’t working. We both know that it hasn’t been working for a very long time. It’s not you . . . No, actually, it is you. This is an unhealthy, dysfunctional, abusive relationship—because of you. You are stifling,

controlling, oppressive, and you have never had my best interests at heart. You have tricked me into believing that things are the way they are because they have to be, that they have always been that way, that there are no alternatives, and that they will never change.

Anytime I question you or your ways, you find another way to silence me and coerce me back into submission. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve changed and in spite of your shackles, I’ve grown. I have realized that this whole restrictive system is your own fabrication and that the only one gaining anything from it is you. You selfish dick.

I will not continue to live like this. I will not continue to settle. I know now that there is a better way. Before you hear about it from one of your boys, you should know that I have met someone. Her name is Feminism. She is the best

thing that has ever happened to me. She validates and respects my opinions. She always has my best interests at heart. She thinks I am beautiful and loves me just the way I am. She has helped me find my voice and makes me happier than I have ever been. We have made each other stronger. Best of all, we encourage and challenge each other to grow. And the sex . . . Well, the sex is so much hotter.

I’m leaving you. You’re an asshole. We can never be friends. Don’t call me. Ever.

Never again, Crunkista

Co py ri gh t @ 20 17 . Th e Fe mi ni st P re ss a t CU NY .

Al l ri gh ts r es er ve d. M ay n ot b e re pr od uc ed i n an y fo rm w it ho ut p er mi ss io n fr om t he p ub li sh er , ex ce pt f ai r us es p er mi tt ed u nd er U .S . or a pp li ca bl e co py ri gh t la w.

EBSCO : eBook Academic Collection (EBSCOhost) - printed on 8/14/2018 5:36 PM via SYRACUSE UNIVERSITY AN: 1468570 ; Cooper, Brittney C., Morris, Susana M., Boylorn, Robin M..; The Crunk Feminist Collection Account: s3372930.main.ehost

Chapter Selection From: Cooper, Brittney C., Morris, Susana M., Boylorn, Robin M., eds. The Crunk Feminist Collection. CUNY Feminist Press, 2017.

On Black Men Showing Up for Black Women at the Scene of the Crime Brittney C. Cooper

In 2013 I showed up to the Brecht Forum in Brooklyn ready to have a conversation about what we mean when we say “ally,” “privilege,” and “comrade.”

I showed up to have that discussion after months of battle testing around those issues in my own crew. Over the years, I’ve learned that it is far easier to be just to the people we don’t know than the people we do know.

So there I sat on a panel with a White woman and a Black man. As a Black feminist, I never quite know how political discussions will go down with either of these groups. Still, I’m a fierce lover of Black people and a fierce defender of women.

The brother shared his thoughts about the need to “liberate all Black people.” It sounded good. But since we were there to talk about allyship, I needed to know more about his gender analysis, even as I kept it real about how I’ve been feeling lately about how much brothers show up for Black women, without us asking, and prodding, and vigilantly managing the entire process.don’t

In a word, I was tired. I shared that. Because surely a conversation about how to be better allies to each other is a safe space. This brother was not having it. He did not want to be challenged, did not plan to have to go deep, to interrogate his own shit.

Freedom talk should’ve been enough for me. But I’m grown. And I know better. So I asked for more. I got cut off, yelled at, screamed on. The moderator tried gently to intervene, to ask the brother to let me speak, to wait his turn. To

model allyship. To listen. But to no avail. The brother kept on screaming about his commitment to women, about all he had “done for us,” about how I wasn’t going to erase his contributions.

Then he raised his over-six-foot-tall, large, Brown body out of the chair and deliberately slung a cup of water across my lap, leaving it to splash in my face, on the table, on my clothes, and on the gadgets I brought with me.

Damn. You knocked the hell out of that cup of water. Did you wish it were me? Or were you merely trying to let me know what you were capable of doing to a sister who didn’t shut her mouth and listen?

Left to sit there, splashes of water, mingling with the tears that I was too embarrassed to let run, because you know sisters don’t cry in public, imploring him to “back up,” to “stop yelling,” to stop using his body to intimidate me, while he continued to approach my chair menacingly, wondering what he was going to do next, anticipating my next move, anticipating his, being transported back to past sites of my own trauma . . .

I waited for anyone to stand up, to sense that I felt afraid, to stop him, to let him know his actions were unacceptable. Our copanelist moved her chair closer to me. It was oddly comforting.

I learned a lesson: everybody wants to have an ally, but no one wants to stand up for anybody. Eventually three men held him back, restrained him, but not with ease. He left. I breathed. I let those tears that had been

threatening fall. Then an older Black gentleman did stand up. “I will not stand for this maligning of the Black man . . . ,” his rant began. While

waiting for him to finish, I zoned out and wondered what had happened here. Did this really happen here? In movement space? Tiredness descended. And humiliation. And loneliness. And weariness. And anger at being disrespected. And embarrassment for

you. And concern for you and what you must be going through—to show your ass like that. And questioning myself about what I did to cause your outburst. And checking myself for victim blaming myself. And anger at myself for caring about you and what you must be going through. Especially since you couldn’t find space to care about me and what I must be going through.

Later, with my permission, you came in and apologized. Asked us to make future space for forgiveness. I didn’t feel forgiving that day. I don’t feel forgiving today. I know I will forgive you though. It’s necessary.

After being approached at the end by a Gary Dourdan–looking macktivist, who couldn’t be bothered to stand up to the brother screaming on me, but who was ready to “help” me “heal the traumas through my body”—as he put it (yes, you can laugh)—I grabbed my coat and schlepped back to Jersey.

On the long train ride home, and in the days since, I was reminded that that was not the first time I had been subject to a man in a movement space using his size and masculinity as a threat, as a way to silence my dissent. I remembered that then as now, the brothers in the room let it happen without a word on my behalf.

Why? Is it so incredibly difficult to show up for me—for us—when we need you? Is it so hard to believe that we need you? Is solidarity

only for Black men? As for the silence of the sisters in the room, I still don’t know what to make of that. Maybe they were waiting on the brothers, just like me.

I do know I am tired. And sad. And not sure how much more I want to struggle with Black men for something so basic as counting on you to show up.

Co py ri gh t @ 20 17 . Th e Fe mi ni st P re ss a t CU NY .