I’ve been on the social media for 14 years this month and it has taught me several lessons. Mostly that humans are some miserable creatures who get a sick thrill off the unhappiness of others. It has also taught me a lot about the pathology of some Black folks who are Generation X and below and I finally figured out how to word it and it is called The Searching for a Savior complex. We grew up on stories about the Civil Rights Movement, the heroes that came from that movement. But subsequent generations didn’t produce any heroes so we turn entertainers and social media content creators into heroes. And the so called heroes use it to their advantage either for money or support for their foolishness. And folks fall for it over and over again. The very definition of insanity.
This syllabus was created the spring of 2006 when I was a senior in undergrad and was contemplating going further and getting a PhD. Enjoy.
The African American Woman 350/450
Department of African-American Studies
T Th 12:00 – 1:30p.m.
Room 434 – Auditorium Building
Roosevelt University: Spring 2007
Instructor: Kathy M. Henry
Phone: 312 341-8260 Office Hours: Wednesday & Friday 12:00pm – 2:30
The African American Woman is an upper-division course for three credit hours in African American Studies. The purpose of the course is to offer an insight into the complexities of being a Black woman in a culture that has a deeply profound contempt for all women and has placed the Black woman at the bottom. We will critically read several works of literature to explore how issues of race, gender, and class are at play in African American society and in exploring these issues, develop opportunities for resistance.
Texts (required, available at Roosevelt Bookstore):
Cole, Johnnetta Betsch & Guy-Sheftall, Beverly. Gender Talk: The Struggle for Women’s Equality in African-American Communities.
Davis, Angela & Hinds, Lennox S. Assata : An Autobiography
Merriwether, Louise. Daddy Was a Number Runner
Souljah, Sister. No Disrespect
* Four Computer Disks- one to serve as a back-up for your work, the other to be submitted to me with your typed assignments.
Course Requirements and Grading Policy:
Final Course Grades will be determined on the basis of class participation (100), four 5 page reaction papers (50 points each) and an 10-15 page final research paper (200 points). All assignments are to be typed according to APA guidelines. The reaction papers will analyze the four readings in the syllabus and the final research paper will be a biography of an African American female figure of your choice. Also, all cell phones must be turned off prior to class.
500 – 450 (A)
450 – 400 (B)
400 – 350 (C)
350 – 300 (D)
299& below (F)
My family migrated to Chicago during the 1940s and they told the most marvelous stories of living here during that era. From dranking at juke joints in Bronzeville to eating the good cooking at various Black owned restaurants scattered throughout the city. Then I have my own stories of growing up on the South East Side. Memories of hot summer days, running through open fire hydrants and buying icee cups. But I’m starting to hate the city of my birth because of the violence. It’s barely two weeks into the new year and it’s already bloody. Pregnant women getting shot down like dogs. What the fuck is going on!!!!
It’s something sinister in the streets of Chicago. Its become a place where life has no value and anyone can become a casualty of thugs. Believe or not, it was actually a time in Chicago when the elders, women, and children were considered off limits to gang bangers but something changed in the 90s. The thugs decided that anyone could get this heat and and since then, Chicago has become a cesspool of ignorance and violence. And Black folks in this city have no one to blame but themselves because they coddled this shit. Nurtured this shit in the name of racism instead of looking in the mirror. White folks aren’t coming into neighborhoods such as Englewood and South Shore where violence is a daily ritual. Nah this is strictly a Black thang. Black people are committing these crimes and Black people are protecting these criminals.
If it wasn’t for my grandson and future grandchild, I would move to Las Vegas and never look back but I have to be an integral part of my grandchildren’s lives. I have to live near them, see their faces up close on the regular. Touch them and sniff them like a mother cat does to her kittens. So for now, Chicago is where I’m at. I’m praying for the day when this madness will disappear.
This month two exes who are currently married called me and asked me why I am still single. One was even bold enough to say that I’m not getting any younger so I need to be concentrating on finding a fella. If men don’t have anything else, they have more balls than a brass ass monkey.
One of the things that I have noticed about men is that they are eternally befuddled with the idea that a woman can be single and actually happy. I guess they are so used to the female friends in their lives constantly bewailing about being single that they believe that all single women are a miserable lot and then they come across me and are shellshocked. But let me continue my tale.
Now why these happily married men (so they claim) are worrying about me and my relationship status I will never know but it’s three specific reasons why I am a currently single woman. The reasons are relatively simple but at the same time, complex. Let me explain.
Number one: it’s easy to be single in 2021 considering the state of gender relations in this culture. The men I’ve come across are so dang angry and filled with bile and unrealistic expectations that’s it’s a turnoff. I’ve seen men with missing, yellowing teeth who think they are entitled to the most beautiful woman in the world. And in addition to being highly unattractive, they have the audacity to have rigid gender standards for women.
In their world, women are only good for fucking, cleaning, cooking, and more fucking. I just want to know how do these men have the nerve to be both homely and entitled at the same time. And on top of everything, they expect women to jump through hoops of fire for their affections and I’m not doing shit. We live in a patriarchy and I thought men were the hunters.
What woman in her right mind wants to be bothered with men who have that mentality? Not I. Unlike many women, I’m not parched for male companionship or validation. My bed will never be that lonely.
Number two: I have a disability and any man that I decide to be involved with needs to be able to deal with that fact. I’m an epileptic and as long as I take my medication, I’m seizure free and that’s a beautiful thing. But suppose I do have a seizure? How is he going to react? Is he going to jump into action or crumble? I need a strong man, not a wimp. You can die from a seizure and I need a fella who can help me, not be a hinderance to my health.
And lastly, at this stage in my life, I don’t want to be bothered. I’m not trying to male bash but many men are feminine energy vampires and they will drain a foolish woman dry. And I’m not foolish. So many women are walking around looking like life is whupping their asses and it’s because of the men in their lives. I look pretty good for an old broad, especially when I put on my concealer and eyebrow pencil. And I’m going to continue to stay looking fly and living stress free. But one day, I hope to find a nice fella. A man who makes my soul sing and my body tingle. A man filled with a passion to match my own passion for life. And who read books on a regular basis. Until then however, I’m single and chilling. Happily content.
December 16, 2019 was a perfectly ordinary day for me. I got up, washed my ass, painted my face and went to work. When I got off, I went to Target to pick up the set of Lincoln Logs I had ordered for my grandson for Christmas and purchased some other stuff because women are gatherers by nature and I couldn’t resist. Then I went home, cooked chicken tacos, talked shit with my children, and went to bed. But little did I know that in less than 30 minutes, my life as I knew it would change forever.
I had a seizure during those 30 minutes and when I came to after the seizure, my house was in chaos. My babies were crying, ambulance attendants everywhere, & Diddy (my cat) was hiding under the bed. I barely knew my name and didn’t have a clue about anything. I was rushed immediately to the hospital where I spent two days receiving a battery of tests on my brain. All the CT and MRI scans came back normal so I was released and told to rest. I went back to work after a few days and continued to live my perfectly ordinary existence.
I thought everything was fine until October 17, 2020. Once again it was a perfectly ordinary day. It was a Saturday and I decided to make some beef stew for dinner. I was missing several key ingredients so I went to the Walmart down the street from my house. I purchased my items and remember standing outside waiting for an Uber and then nothing until waking up in an ambulance on my way to the University of Chicago Hospital. I had another seizure and if it wasn’t for the kindness of strangers, lord knows what would have happened to me. I still had my purse, wallet and cell phone although I believe if it happened now, I would have woken up with nothing because people are extra grimy these days but I’m digressing so let me chill.
When I awakened from this seizure, I was scared as hell and started wilding out, trying to fight the ambulance attendants and one of these dudes referred to me as “combative.” Wouldn’t you be combative if you woke up clueless and didn’t even know what year it was because you had a grand mal seizure? Sorry motherfucker.
But when I got to the hospital, everyone else were empathetic. I was eventually admitted and diagnosed with epilepsy a month before my 50th birthday. I’m a special individual: first seizure a month after my 49th birthday and then diagnosed with epilepsy a month before the big 50☠️.
Since then, I have had two seizures, the next one on November 14, 2020 and the last one March 1, 2021. I’m currently taking 3000mg of levetiracetam which is the highest dosage recommended for this medication and it’s working because I haven’t had a seizure in almost a year but the side effects are something else.
Constantly tired, broken down and worn out. If I go to the grocery store, I feel like I’ve worked a full day of work. I’ve left two jobs this year because of the side effects of this necessary evil I need for my body and is currently trying to wrap my mind around the possibility that working a regular, on-site job might not be an option for me anymore. But I refuse to believe that. I’m only 51 years old and I know some younger folks believe that I have one foot in the graveyard but 51 isn’t old by a long shot.
I still have plenty of time left on this planet. I’m going to work on getting this fat off my ass, become more mobile and live my life. Epilepsy is not going to ruin my possibilities of which there are many. I’m going to keep striving and living because I have so much to live for. My children. My grandson and my new grand baby who’s due in the spring. My friends and other family members. My funky ass cat who works my nerves but I love to pieces. And myself because I want to be an old lady with snow white locs with a hand carved cane in the shape of a cat at the top. Telling people to get the fuck off lawn and still giggling madly at silly shit. The last two years of my life have been filled with so much turmoil, grief and anxiety but I’m still here to tell my story. And I’m grateful.
I didn’t discover bell hooks until I went to college in 2002. I majored in sociology and minored in history. Took two Women and Gender courses and it was then I was introduced to her works. And my life changed.
Her writings made me think deeply and I learned to fight for myself as a Black woman living in a white patriarchal society that despises all women but has placed the Black woman on a special rung in hell. Learned to fight for my dignity and autonomy in system that wasn’t set up for my advancement but my demise.
And as I’m getting older, due to her works, I have learned to have grace for others who weren’t as fortunate as me to have access to her writings and the writings of Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Assata Shakur and others. Black writers who reveled in their Blackness and wasn’t afraid to show it. Ignorance is cultivated in American culture these days so some people are doomed and all you can do is pity them and move on.
So Rest in Power bell hooks. Although you are no longer here in form, your works will continue to educate and transform, encouraging folks to improve their lives and elevate their minds. Folks like me.
In the Black community, there are women who aren’t mothers because technically they didn’t give birth to the children they mothered but are revered because of the guidance, wisdom, and unconditional love that they bestowed upon generations of Black children. This is my tribute to those women. My ladies in particular whom I loved with all my heart and soul.
The lady in the picture above is my maternal grandmother. She was born in Alabama in 1900 and she became an ancestor in 1984. Although I only had her in my life for a short time , she was one of my greatest influences.
She was my babysitter from ages 2 until I was 8 years old when she moved out the state to live with one of her daughters. She was the one who taught me how to read and write, my colors and all that good stuff. So when I learned earlier this year that she only had a second grade education, I was beyond shocked. Because to me, she was a genius and she played a major part in my cognitive development as a child. She was also a great griot and told me slave folktales about skeletons who spoke and and horses who scolded naughty children. She was loved and revered by all who knew her and was considered the backbone of the family.
The lady above is my Aunt Mary. She was born in 1933 and became an ancestor in 1982. Her and my mother was only a year apart so they were very close and as result of their closeness, I spent a lot of time with her. She was a Scorpio like me and we got along like cake and ice cream. When she died from ovarian cancer, I was so shellshocked by her death, I couldn’t cry and didn’t cry until a few years later. She was a gem, a feisty woman of fire who is still missed and I wished she had the opportunity to meet my children.
My Aunt Rosie is in the picture above and she was an integral part of my life. If I’m not mistaken, she was born in 1922 and she became an ancestor in 1995. I spent a lot of time with her as a child and I loved her dearly. When I wanted to get my hair done and needed some money, she gave it to me with a little fussing but she gave it to me. With love.
I would go over to her house to pick it up and she would feed me, tell me tales of growing up into young womanhood and when it was time for me to leave, she would put the money in a handkerchief and pin it in my bra. I used to have a picture of myself when I was about 6 months old and I was sitting between Aunt Rosie and Aunt Mary and they were looking at me with such love and joy. I’m tearing up now thinking about it.
And the lady above with the thick juicy thighs is my cousin Cleo and she was a combination of cousin, big sister, aunt, and towards the end of her life, a mother figure to me. She was born in 1942 and she crossed over into glory in 2018.
When I was a little girl, I would follow her everywhere because wherever she was, it was good times. My mother was a working woman and couldn’t take me places at times due to her work schedule so Cleo would take me and the rest of the cousins to museums, zoos, the beach, movies everywhere during hot summers in Chicago.
When I gave birth to my two eldest children, she was the one who picked me up from the hospital. She was always there for me with a kind word, a hug and most importantly, love. When I was a young adult and would be hanging out in the old neighborhood she still lived in, when it got too late for public transportation, she would let me spend the night. She didn’t have to be bothered with me but she chose to. My goodness when I think about the love I received from her, I cry.
On the day of her funeral, I deliberately took the longest route to the funeral home because I didn’t want to be there but I had to. Walking down the hall to where her funeral was being held was the longest walk of my life. It’s been four years since she became an ancestor and in some ways, her death was harder on me than my mother’s death because childishly, I really believed that she would live forever.
Monday I received a phone call from my cousin Mark and he told me that his big sister, Rosemary had died. I was speechless for several minutes because my brain had stopped. Not Rosemary. Not my Rosemary. Eventually I was able to speak and was able to give him my condolences while crying incoherently. I heard the pain and the tears in his voice as we mourned deeply over the phone and I told him to get some rest and that I loved him. I put down the phone and let out a primal scream that brought my daughter running into my room.
She said “Mama what’s wrong!” And I screamed “Rosemary is dead boo. She’s gone.” And another chapter in my life ended. My mother didn’t have any daughters besides me but my cousin Rosemary was my big sister and I loved her.
Rosemary was the eldest daughter of my Aunt Carrie and she was a year older than my brother Randy who was born in 1960. She was the ultimate diva, always fly, hair whipped, smelling good and I wanted to be like her when I grew up. She was my inspiration for going into the clerical field because she was a legal secretary making big bank and power moves during the 80s.
She was one of most generous, kind, and funny souls I had the privilege of knowing and I was blessed to have her in my life. She was 63 years old when she left for the ancestral world on Monday and she will be missed because she was a hell of a woman.
The above ladies were my blood kin and my other mamas. They loved and nurtured me and I miss them fiercely. But I’m not the only person in the Black community who has or had other mamas who impacted their lives and we need to give these ladies their flowers for being such a huge part of the Black experience.
The Black community would have ceased to exist centuries ago if wasn’t for the contributions of these loving, kind, selfless women who loved hard but didn’t a have a problem with busting an irate fool upside the head if necessary. Bow down to the queens in your life. Because I do every day for my ladies who are no longer here but will live forever in my heart.
The Bronzeville neighborhood means so much to me because much of my family’s history has been entwined in this area. My family started migrating from Mississippi during the 1930s. My Uncle Joseph was the first Allen to make the trek to the Promised Land and for him, the journey was bountiful. He started a Ma and Pa grocery store on 45th and Wabash with the help of his wife, my Aunt Edna, who worked as a laundress. With the proceeds of both their earnings, they purchased two buildings, including the one where his store was located. After that, the rest of my family, including my grandmother, with hope high in their hearts came to Chicago to make their fortunes. Some succeeded and some did not. However, that was not really important. What was important is that they had the opportunity to succeed, an opportunity that had been denied to them in their hometown of Itta Bena, Mississippi because of the rampant racism that existed. My own experiences with Bronzeville started in 1989, when my mother, my daughter and I moved to 49th and Prairie. We lived there until 1992, and despite of what anyone says about that area, I had a ball. I never knew such colorful characters actually existed outside of the many books I had read.
Bronzeville got its name because of the mass influx of African-Americans who came to Chicago that settled in the areas between 29th and 51st Street, during the Great Migration from 1915 to the 70s. Bronzeville was once a city within a city, with its own stores, several newspapers and strong churches. This neighborhood was dubbed the Black Metropolis because of the many opportunities offered to blacks. It became a magnet for African Americans, who migrated from the South in droves. Jobs were plentiful and there were many black-owned businesses such as banks, insurance companies and funeral homes. There were many social institutions to help the disadvantaged and activities for people to immerse themselves in. The nightlife was fantastic. Musicians came from all over America to play at the Regal Theater and The Savoy. There were several famous blacks who lived in Bronzeville and they include: Ida B. Wells-Barnett, Ferdinand Barnett, Robert Abbott, Lionel Hampton, Richard Wright, Gwendolyn Brooks, George Cleveland Hall, T. K. Lawless, Jesse Binga, Anthony Overton, and Richard R. Wright. These African-Americans contributed many gifts that would stand the test of time.
However, despite of its rich history, Bronzeville has faced a severe reversal of fortune. The losses of the stockyards and steel mills to different cities have pushed thousands of people out of the job market. Public housing projects – Stateway Gardens, Robert Taylor homes and the Ida B. Wells homes, created to give people better housing, trapped people in poverty and fear. The middle classed has moved to the suburbs. Retail businesses and lending capital have fled to safer pastures. This once proud Black Metropolis is now one of the poorest in the entire nation. The majority of its young people drop out of high school. Joblessness is the norm. Drugs and violence are rampant.
Even with all the adversity Bronzeville has faced in recent years, this community still has several strengths – beautiful old mansions, a great location near public transportation and the Loop, many churches, and a history so thick that you can feel it. This blog will discuss two things that were very important to the Bronzeville area during its heyday: housing and religion. It will discuss the hard time black migrants had getting decent housing due to overcrowding, segregation and what solution was taken to correct it, but ultimately caused a bigger problem. It will also discuss the religious wars that took place between the old guard blacks that had already settled in Chicago and the new immigrant blacks. There has been a great deal of renewed interest in the Bronzeville area because of its rich history, so hopefully, some of the money spent on other areas in the city of Chicago will be spent on this beautiful city within a city, the city called Bronzeville.
The Great Migration forced the established African American community in Chicago to make major adjustments and accommodations for its new inhabitants. Historically, black churches had, like their counterparts in the South, resisted any involvement in social issues. The arrival of hundreds of thousands of migrants, however, simply could not be ignored and churches, being the black community’s richest and most influential institution, were quickly called to action in the effort to help migrants properly adjust themselves to life in Chicago.
African Americans already living in Chicago were known as the Old Settlers and they were aware of the major implications the Great Migration would have on their lifestyle. The Old Settlers had striven to establish respect from whites and a sense of equality within the city’s socioeconomic system. With the arrival of the Southern blacks, most of whom unfamiliar to city life, the Old Settlers feared that the progress they had achieved would be dashed. White people would probably equate them with the thousands of uneducated, fresh from the country migrants. Most importantly, the Old Settlers realized the enormous strain placed on many of the migrants who, having fled the South for better opportunities arrived in Chicago lacking housing or a sense of direction. From the migration’s outset, African American Chicago area churches bore the brunt of the responsibility for helping guide the migrants.
The Old Settlers also worried that the temptations of Chicago’s nightlife would be too much for the green as grass migrants. Down South, the church was the center of social life. Chicago, on the other hand, provided numerous outlets for entertainment (bars, nightclubs, taverns, gambling halls), many of them deemed by the ministry as deviant and destructive. African American social activist Richard Wright, Jr. emphasized the importance the church played in welcoming migrants to Chicago. He said, “Get these Negroes in your churches; make them welcome; don’t turn your nose and let the saloon man and the gambler do all the welcoming. Help them buy homes, encourage them to send for their families and to put their children in school” (Sernett, Promised Land).
One of the first churches to help the immigrants was Olivet Baptist Church which is located on 31st and King Drive. This church assumed a major role in the process of aiding migrants. The Rev. Lacey Kirk Williams, the minister at that time, sent members of his church to several Chicago train terminals to meet incoming passengers. Church members greeted the newcomers and immediately directed them to places of assistance. Olivet quickly transformed itself into a social service center for migrants, providing them with food and clothing, while assisting them in the obtainment of housing and employment. They also hosted a wide variety of social, educational, and recreational activities, and soon gained a reputation throughout the South “as an oasis of mercy in the urban desert” (Sernett, Promised Land).
There would be major clashes between the migrants and the established Old Settlers, some of which concerned religion but most of which had to do with class status. The new migrants did not like the Northern churches. They felt that these churches were cold and impersonal. They were used to the expressiveness of the churches down South and to them; the Northern church services were restrained. The established Northern blacks felt that the new migrants were countrified and embarrassing. They liked the calmness of their church services and did not want change. They were also concerned about their own hierarchy in Chicago.
Some churches compromised their traditional religious practices in order to accommodate their new members. They incorporated gospel choirs, and added new, more vibrant songs to their traditional church hymns. Ministers livened up their sermons by interjecting “shouts” and encouraging emotional responses from the congregation. Still, the migrants still found themselves set apart by their class status, appearance and demeanor. The condescending attitudes toward the migrants by the predominately upper-class church congregations did not help the situation. They made fun of the migrants’ clothes, accents, and lack of education. It always amazes me that in spite of all the racism and contempt we have endured from other cultures that we would treat each other so shabbily.
Some of these migrants eventually left these churches and started their own denominations. The churches came to be known as Storefront Churches. These churches tried to recreate the Southern rural churches that the majority of the migrants were used to. E. Franklin Franzier explained that the storefront churches “represented an attempt on the part of migrants, especially from the rural areas of the South, to re-establish a type of church to which they were accustomed” (Sernett, Promised Land).
Of course, the established black churches felt that these churches were a slap in their faces. They felt that these churches were a disgrace to the African American race and nothing more than a minstrel show. The preachers from these churches were derided for their lack of formal training and were subjected to accusations including defrauding their flock of money, being agents in the numbers racket, and of immoral sexual behavior (Sernett, Promised Land). However, despite the criticisms, storefront churches persisted, and exist to this very day, their presence a testament to the strength of the Southern migrants willingness to keep their heritage and an unwillingness not to bow down to those who looked down their noses upon them.
Decent Housing but At What Cost?
The new migrants having settled the issue of religion now had to deal with housing. The majority of people lived in tenement housing and there were many horror stories about overcrowding, rats and insects. However, living conditions in Chicago, though overcrowded, were similar to housing conditions in the South. Down South, most migrants lived in three or four room cabins. It was not uncommon for as many as five people to sleep in one room.
But this was The Promised Land, and things were supposed to be better. As soon as they were able to get themselves together, they moved. Living conditions were used as a measure of the success or failure of migration. A family succeeded when they secured a place of their own.
One of the most popular living spaces for migrants were kitchenette apartments. These apartments were called that because everything was enclosed in one room, including the kitchen and are similar to what is called an efficiency apartment today, except a bit smaller and housing more people. Families of four and up lived in these small spaces. Many families took an apartment like this, dreaming of the day when a better life would come along. I came to know this type of apartment very well. My mother, my then-baby daughter and I lived in a kitchenette apartment from 1989 to 1992. We had been burned out of our previous apartment and lost everything we owned. We needed to start off from scratch and save some money in the process.
Unlike the migrants, we did have two separate rooms. The kitchen was actually pretty large and so was the bedroom/living space but we had to share a bathroom with the other tenants. It was a unique experience living in that building. There was a pimp and his two ladies of night living down the hall, and they would fight everyday. Sometimes, the girls would fight each other and on other days, would join forces and beat up the pimp. A lady named Dorise lived across the hall and she would get drunk everyday. Her boyfriend was a drunk too, and one time when he was laid out across the lawn in a drunken stupor, someone stole his brand new Reebok gym shoes off his feet. When the first of the month came (check time), the tenants of 4949 South Prairie would party like it was New Year’s Eve. It was truly an experience I will never forget.
By the 1940s, as more migrants flooded Bronzeville, there was less and less space for them to move into. Already decrepit apartments became overcrowded and the living conditions became worse. To alleviate this overcrowding, many blacks attempted to move to into neighboring areas and out to the newly emerging suburbs. However, they were met with massive white resistance, both political and violent, forcing them to stay confined in the overcrowded and dilapidated slums of the South Side. The City of Chicago needed to do something about these conditions; there was a serious housing shortage and the migrants either did not have the money to move elsewhere, or could not because of white resistance. The Chicago Housing Authority, a government agency, attempted to solve the housing problems of the South Side by building affordable housing projects.
The first of these housing projects to finished were the Ida B. Wells Homes, and they were completed in 1941. The next to be finished were The Dearborn Homes, which are located from 27th to 30th streets and from State Street to the Rock Island Railroad tracks. They were completed in 1950. They were designed by Loebl, Schlossman and Bennet and represented the CHA’s first “high-rise” public housing project. They ranged from 6 to 9 stories. The most notorious of the housing projects built by the CHA were The Robert Taylor Homes, Chicago’s (and the country’s) largest housing project. They were completed in 1962. They were named after Robert R. Taylor, the commissioner of the CHA from 1938-1950. Robert Taylor resigned from the CHA in 1950 after realizing that the political forces in Chicago would prevent the CHA from building unsegregated public housing. These political forces wanted blacks isolated and segregated from the rest of Chicago. And it worked.
The Robert Taylor Homes, consisting of 28 identical sixteen-story buildings practically guaranteed segregation because it was built in the middle of the slums of Bronzeville, keeping its over 28,000 residents isolated. By stacking people literally on top of each other, the CHA was able to house many people on this two-mile piece of land. The architects, who designed this madness, had hoped the open space surrounding the Robert Taylor Homes would give its residents a sense of closeness to the outdoors, making The Robert Taylor Homes a suburbia within the city. However, the land surrounding the buildings served more as an isolating factor Because of its isolation, these projects became a hot seat of criminal activity, which included drug trafficking, gang wars and murder. Public housing, instead of giving the poor an outlet of hope, continued the vicious cycle of poverty and turned Bronzeville into a ghetto.
Bronzeville was once a bustling center of activity for African-Americans who wanted to better their lives. Once the jobs left the community, it took the heart out of Bronzeville. The projects took its soul. What is left now is an empty shell of broken beer bottles and shattered dreams. There has been a great deal of renewed interest in Bronzeville, and some of the old, abandoned buildings have been rehabbed. New businesses have come back and put money in the community. If this interest continues, this neighborhood can be great again, but two key ingredients are needed to make this dream come true. The churches of Bronzeville have to take a more active role in the lives of its inhabitants, like they did in when the Migration first started. The ministers cannot turn a blind eye to the gang violence and drug activity that still plagues this area. The residents of Bronzeville also have to take a stand and not allow their neighborhood to continue its descent into the gutter. The residents have to teach their children about Bronzeville’s rich history. Bronzeville was built on the blood, sweat and tears of black migrants who came to Chicago with nothing in their pockets but dreams and a hope for the future. The children of Bronzeville should never be allowed to forget this. Bronzeville is the proverbial diamond in the rough. Let’s hope its shine will come through.
For some reason women stay their asses in the business other women’s pussies. Yes I’m going to be vulgar because I’m tired of these broads because they are dangerous to womanhood collectively .
Due to patriarchy, many women believe if they adhere to outdated ideology about female sexuality, they are better than the women who live their lives according to their own standards. So they spend their days and nights worrying about shit that has nothing to do with them. The original Coochie Cops of Patriarchy because patriarchy couldn’t exist if wasn’t for women willing to throw other women under the bus for crumbs.
We have enough police in the world and women don’t need their own kind policing their sex lives. How is someone else’s sexual activities going to affect your life? But for some reason, these chicks don’t get it. These women call sexually secure women whores, sluts, and tramps, all derogatory titles created by the patriarchy to shame women who revel in their sexuality and to make the Miss Priss chicks feel superior.
What these ninnies don’t realize is that it’s all game. The same men who talk shady about so called whores can’t wait to get between the legs of a whore. Will spend their last dollar on a whore. Prostitution is the world’s oldest profession and men are the ones who keep this profession in business.
I do believe that the Coochie Cops of Patriarchy are some wretchedly unhappy women who have never had an orgasm in their lives and are just jealous of those who nut on a regular basis. Just imagine if these women used that energy for themselves instead of being bothered. They would be happier and filled with satisfaction. Hopefully sexual satisfaction.
Writing is a skill that has come easily to me and I consider myself blessed to be able to articulate my thoughts in the written form but it can be frustrating. Because in order to be a successful online writer in today’s culture, you have to appeal to the masses, most of whom aren’t interested in anything beyond celebrity gossip, relationships, and conspiracy theories. Subjects I do not give a rat’s ass about because when I do decide to write, I write from a viewpoint of something that I am passion about. So being a writer can be frustrating as hell.
Like celebrity gossip. I turned 51 last month (Scorpio Woman!!!!) and I’m clueless about the newest celebrities on the block. While cruising the social media streets, I often see stories about the lives of rappers and reality television stars and I don’t know these people from a can of paint. It wouldn’t make any sense for me to write about them because it would be disingenuous and most importantly, they are boring. At least to me.
Way back during the Stone age, I had an affinity for stars from the Golden Age of Hollywood because of the black and white movies that were shown on television (during ancient times when cable didn’t exist) and I used to purchase the National Enquirer and Star Magazine every week to read about the lives of Elizabeth Taylor, Joan Collins and other stars from that era. When stars were glamorous and had some real drama, not that manufactured shit that they do now for social media likes.
But now I am sounding like a snob so let me stop. Back to the subject. The other subject that will get an online writer a lot of attention on the internet is relationships. Especially amongst the online clique of Black folks who have discussions about relationships that last for days and usually places blame for the dysfunction that runs amok in the community upon the backs of Black woman. These conversations revolve around submission, single mothers, welfare, and who eats first, the man or the children. These subjects are talked about day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year and nothing changes except the people are getting older and their mindsets stupider and stupider.
When I see these musings from clearly disturbed individuals, I feel blessed and fortunate enough to know functional Black folks offline but I can admit that I am both fascinated and saddened by the lack of intellectual curiosity from the online Black folks, especially these so-called pro Black folks. Why are these folks clinging so tightly to the chains that have oppressed themselves and their ancestors ancestors for centuries so tightly? Bewailing about the end of the nuclear family which was created by dominant culture during the 1950s to take away the freedoms of its women. Especially when historically, the Black family was centered around the extended family concept. Geez…..
And the conspiracy theories truly make my ass itch and twitch. People have built large social media platforms spewing nonsense about the pandemic and whether the earth is round or flat. I can understand the fear about the pandemic but people claiming that the world is flat really fucked my entire understanding of life up because it’s not the 1500s anymore. I’ve been saying for the past five years that this era in American history is The New Dark Ages but no one believed me and now look. These fuckers are running amok looking like complete ninnies, spewing nonsense and rhetoric that they learned from fools.
It has been hard for me to write because I don’t feel passionate about anything anymore but my ability to write is calling me, telling me to use this gift from the ancestors. I feel so blah 80% of the time and I am doing my best to fight this feeling so that is why I am wrote this blog today. Perhaps my passion about life will come back through my writing. I hope so.