When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost

by Joan Morgan

  Girl, fuck potential. Nice, sweet, and well intentioned won’t get a brother into Harvard if he’s only got a C` average. It won’t get him into the NBA if he can’t shoot for shit. It won’t get him a six-figure salary at a top law firm if he can’t pass the bar. But nice, sweet, and well intentioned will get a nigga some sympathetic pussy every time.

  Not these drawers, darling. Not in the Nine Eight. Which brings me to my second gift. In the spirit of our mutual, ongoing quest for love, romance, happiness, and great sex I share with you ’98’s Relationship Resolutions. Smack me two times, if you catch me breaking them.

  Forever Your Homey, Joan

  I will not be an SBW.

  I mean it. If I’m buggin’ ’cause my check is late, the mortgage is past due, and there are no groceries in the refrigerator, I’m gonna tell him the truth. If I need him to hold me at night ’cuz sometimes the past is too much and the future is too uncertain, I’m gonna tell him that too. Independence is one thing but fear is another. Fear will make ya front like Superwoman every time. Pretending to be totally self-sufficient is a helluva lot easier than handing your vulnerability over to a man who might drop the ball. But since carrying it on my own has damn sure worn me out, I’m gonna take a chance and TRUST somebody. What’s the worst that can happen? At this stage in the game, me and Heartache are close enough to know it might hurt like a motha but it damn sure won’t kill me. If some fool drops the ball, I’m just gonna pick my shit up, dust it off, and hand it to the man who can carry it.

  I won’t deal with ENDANGEREDBLACKMEN (or any black man whose lack of productivity I find myself explaining away with sociological injustice, childhood trauma, or basic hard-luck stories).

  ’Cuz I mean really, what’s the point? A man who ain’t happy, can’t make you happy. And like Mary said, happy’s all I’m trying to be. I don’t care what the songs say—my black woman’s love (sweet as it is) can’t save an EBM from himself. I still got love for my endangered brethren, no doubt—politically, culturally, and socially speaking. But people who work with alcoholics and crackheads don’t give their unhealthy clients an open invitation into their bed, homes, and lives and I don’t see why I should either. I finally realized that it’s possible to love a brotha and encourage him to do better without handing out an all-access pass to my heart or the pooh. The next time some fine-ass EBM comes into my life and I’m even tempted to slide him some rhythm, my SBW in recovery ass is going to remember this: Kicking it with a man who has a ton of problems your love can’t possibly solve is a great way NOT to deal with your own.

  I’m gonna make the S-word in my relationships “Standards” instead of “Settle”—and I will not feel guilty about it.

  A while back I was kicking it with this really sweet white dude and my girl asked me the “Is it true that white men treat you better than brothers” question. I thought she was tripping until I realized why she asked. Out of all the guys that were in the mix at the time—and they were several—SeanI was the only white one and the only one I never complained about.

  In truth, he was a darling. Fine. Charming as hell. Always called when he said he would. Exceptional home training. No games. Treated me like gold. Great job. Great family. Loads of ambition. Had the whole Ivy League/prep school thing going on. Just a real cool dude.

  So it made sense that he was far less stress than oh, let’s say that brother who was of the “ex-struggling promoter–aspiring producer–but presently working in a boutique” variety. Baby had tons of dreams, no plans, no scrilla but did have a kid, a babymother, and a really sick relationship with his mom. Oh, and did I mention no phone? His favorite pastime during our brief tenure together was telling me his problems from the pay phone in front of the bodega.

  What didn’t make sense is that I wouldn’t have even thought about seeing a white guy who came in that package. Years of listening to my mom and her friends long-standing advice on interracial dating—“If You Girls Must Date These White Boys Pulllease Don’t Come Home with Something Even the White Girls Don’t Want”—made certain things a given: If a white man wanted to get in the mix, he had to bring at least as much as I did to the table. My girl’s observations were partially right. Sean did treat me better than several brothers I dated, but it wasn’t because he was white. He simply had much more of himself to give.

  When I tried to set the same criterion for brothers I’d feel guilty as hell. A “good black woman,” I’d remind myself, is always aware of the impact of racism on brothers’ self-esteem and shouldn’t judge too harshly. In actuality, I’d fallen hard for alla that tired conditioning designed to make sistas feel like we’re being classist, insensitive, and brainwashed by “The Man” just because we demand a brother have a legal hustle and three G’s: goals, game plan, and good home training. Then I wondered why time that should’ve been spent getting back the same support I gave was instead spent trying to dispel some EBM’s jealousy and insecurities by convincing him he really did deserve me?

  I’m over it. The next time some dude tells me he doesn’t deserve me, I’m gonna assume he knows what he’s talking about and head toward the nearest exit. I’ve finally realized that it doesn’t make me any less black, compassionate, or womanly to say a brother simply can’t cut it. I happen to be a black woman who brings a lot to the table and I have a right to demand the same. I believe in myself, I want my man to believe in himself. I work hard, I want him to work hard. I love black folks, and life, and myself. And I want him to do the same. I don’t ask for any more than I’m prepared and capable of giving. I set standards using myself as a measure of excellence—because anything else is just settling.

  I will not fall in love with a man’s potential.

  When it comes to romance, sistas need to eliminate the words “if only” from our vocabulary. What Dude will be in five years “if only” he got therapy, healed his relationship with his mother, stopped tricking bitches, eased up on his hustle, focused, or got over his commitment anxiety is really none of our business. Potential is a relationship between an individual and God. When it comes to life’s lessons, people learn the lesson when they’re damn good and ready to receive it—and that’s usually not a second before the good Lord sees fit. All the loving, pushing, willing, cajoling, nagging, or threatening in the world won’t get two-year-olds to act like they’re twelve. And it doesn’t work on grown men either.

  When it comes to me and love, unrealized potential has been rendered wholly irrelevant. Because even if a man becomes all the wonderful things you believe he can be, there’s absolutely no guarantee that he’ll become them with you. In all likelihood, it’s the sista whose standards won’t allow her to settle for anything less that’s going to end up with that finished product. So instead of focusing on what I think a man could become, I’m going to ask the only relevant question: Is this man, with all his faults, capable of making me happy right now?

  I will not spend time with men I don’t respect. I’m not just talking about on an intimate level, I mean this across the board. I’ve got a girlfriend who spends a lot of time hanging out with married men and their mistresses. Then she wonders why she doesn’t trust men as far as she can throw them. I’ve found that the best way to keep from being an angry, distrustful black woman is to simply keep the best possible specimens of the gender around me. For that reason all the lovers, friends, exes, brothers, and cousins that occupy prime space in my life all meet the same prerequisite: The way these men live their lives—the care they bestow on their children, the honor they show their parents, the faithful way they love their women, the superior way they execute their hustle—makes me repeatedly say, “Damn, that’s how I want to be.” And the particular way we love each other makes us better people.

  I will not spend all my time hanging out with women that don’t respect men.

  Constantly finding myself participating in those perennial men-bashing sessions means I’m obviously doing something wrong: like commiserating with sistas who are just as cluele
ss as I am about how to have a healthy relationship. From now on, I’m checking for the sista whose marriage is so tight, relationship so bangin’, or single status so fulfilling that she has very little to say on the topic. I wanna find out what she’s doing right and follow her example.

  I’m going to make God the main man in my life. When me and God’s relationship is right, everything else just kinda falls into place. If work feels like it’s demanding too much, I kick it with God and he reminds me of my purpose. If life’s obstacles seem too much for me to handle, God wraps his arms around me and reminds me of what we’ve accomplished together in the past. If loneliness is tempting me to lay my heart down in a place it can’t helped but get stepped on, God reminds me that heartache is what tends to set in when a woman calls on a man to do the job that was intended only for Him.

  Fulfilling a hunger for a love unconditional, one that never abandons or disappoints, one that replaces the imperfect love of a flawed parent or never fails to come through in our time of need is a very heavy task. And a damn near impossible assignment for creatures made of mere flesh and blood. That kind of loving is best provided by a divine and perfect Spirit. By giving God his proper place, I free my relationships from unreasonable expectations. And I free myself from fear—because I know that somebody out there has got my back. Regardless.

  * * *

  I. Not her real name.

  babymother

  I tried not to stare at her, this woman the color of Cadbury chocolates. She was alternately laughing and mumbling to herself while rocking back and forth. Of course, not staring was a courtesy she’d failed to extend. Just seconds before, her large brown eyes traced my profile intrusively, outlined its unruly kinky curls, examined the curve of my neck, lingered for a moment at my breasts and hands with a slightly crazed intensity.

  “Watcha doing?” she asked loudly with a hint of cynicism. “Typing?”

  My response, an acerbic I’m writing followed by a silent Stupid prompted her to read loudly from my computer screen as if it were the most natural thing in the world. With the malicious innocence typical of the insane, Miss Chocolate shouts my pathetic attempts at a new chapter for everyone in the writer-infested coffeehouse to hear. Look, I warn silently, I don’t give a fuck if you’re crazy or not, you’re ’bout two seconds away from an ass-whooping. Meeting my glare with callous laughter, she shifted her gaze to the window.

  Only then did I truly see her. The tufts of jet-black hair growing between once meticulously parted cornrows like triumphant weeds laying claim to a garden. Her baby-doll dress—an orange, worn, and faded thing —covered with the kind of polka dots favored by toddlers and circus clowns. The remnants of baby powder floating against the dark canvas of her arms and shoulders, like cirrus clouds across an expansive sky.

  I realize I can’t figure out anything about her: how old she is, if she was once pretty. If she likes boys or girls. If she’s ever had sex. If the older, Jheri-curled black woman sitting next to her is a home attendant or her mother. The older woman offers no clues. Instead, she passes time circling passages from the Bible, ignoring Miss Chocolate with the dispassion of those God grants the serenity to accept what cannot be changed. Unlike me, she doesn’t flinch when Miss Chocolate suddenly starts praying with Pentecostal fervor for Jesus to give her a son. Please, Jesus, please, Jesus, everything would be okay if I could just have a baby. Sweet baby Jesus, please give me a son.

  Her caretaker’s apathy underscored the inherent irony in insanity. Repeated often enough, even the most aberrant acts bear a striking resemblance to normalcy.

  “Do you think Jesus heard me?” Miss Chocolate asks as they finally prepare to leave. “Yes,” answers the older woman wearily, closing her Bible. “Good,” says Miss Chocolate. “Then it’ll get done.”

  As the issues of black women, desire, and babies become unwitting constants in my life, memories of Miss Chocolate invade my thoughts often. Despite her craziness, I marvel at the bold clarity of her desire to be a mother. For me it was never this way.

  Maternal instinct has been a dark shadow slowly illuminated by unexpected moments—recently flickering into my consciousness like the soft warm lights of tiny candles. Touching the protruding bellies of my two best friends during their simultaneous pregnancies. Marveling over the details of their daughters’ dramatic entries into this world—Damali’s marked by willful, deliberate stubbornness and Noni’s with ridiculous ease and flair—telltale imprints of the women their mothers already are and the little girls they are quickly becoming. The gentleness of the unsolicited kiss one bestows on my cut finger. The absolute sense of peace I feel when the other falls asleep in my arms. The new friend’s knowing smile as I confess all this. The achingly tender way his mammoth brown arms cradles them as he inhales, smiles, and imagines their smell—the three or five kids he plans to have some day. The undeniable melt of age-old glaciers that once surrounded my heart.

  Still, the arrival of my previously comatose instincts is marked with anxiety. The very idea of surrendering an identity defined solely by me (and to a large degree by my profession) for one so completely defined by someone else—my child and my husband—terrifies me. I feel like the career bitch from hell every time I hear my girlfriends say they would gladly abandon careers to be full-time mothers and housewives. But I watched my mother’s life literally blossom after she put herself through college and started to support herself in the career of her choice. Through her example, I learned that a career wasn’t only about financial survival but about freedom, self-esteem, and identity. Unlike so many of my childhood friends, I grew up unafraid to dream. My mother was proof positive that with hard work and sacrifice anything was attainable.

  I want the same for my daughter. I want her to know that her legacy is a willingness to fight, to play hard and win, and find love in everything she does. And I believe that gift will be invaluable.

  Despite my apparent convictions, however, I’m susceptible to the sexist but popular myth that defines a good mother as selfless and giving—easily subsuming her own needs for the well-being of her children. I know I am no such creature. Nurturing, giving, loving, kind, understanding, and patient—yes. Ambitious, driven, and competitive—definitely. In a father this is considered a perfect combination, but as a woman I’m cautioned against the impossibility of “having it all.”

  Denying I want it all, however, is futile. I’ve never been good at settling for anything less.

  I’m also terrified of going it alone in a world where single motherhood for black women is quickly becoming a norm. I’m haunted by the multitude of stats that cruelly remind me that my daughter has only a slim chance of growing up with two married parents attending her Sweet Sixteen. I’m sick of those who deny me this fear—all those who give my life a perfunctory glance, perceive a certain degree of financial stability and advise me “to just go on and do it, girl, ’cuz you don’t need no man.” Dumb tired of explaining that my desire to have children doesn’t stem from sheer biological necessity. I want to be part of a healthy, loving, two-parent black family—for reasons that are as political as they are personal.

  “What are you waiting for, girl?” The question falls from the sista’s mouth so effortlessly, I instinctively glance at the ring finger of my left hand. No, I assure myself. It is still empty. No wedding band has mysteriously appeared. To her knowledge and mine, I am still unmarried. Nevertheless, she repeats herself, stating her case more strongly. “You got the job, the house— when are you going to have a baby?” My answer, that I am waiting to be married, launches her into a lengthy diatribe that starts with reasons I don’t need no man and ends with the historical strength of black women.

  Her attitude is one of the reasons I’ve come to dread these things. I’m all for high-level sista-girl camaraderie but the incumbent protocol of the “babymother” shower gets to me. There is so much one is required not to admit. Amidst the Afrocenchic party favors and sympathetically generous gifts I think of Miss Chocolat
e’s naive belief that a tiny, helpless, needy baby can bring order to an existence fraught with chaos. And I wonder how many single, sane, and pregnant black women once thought the same. Why (whether we admit this or not), in spite of feminism, fine educations, professional accomplishments, and an abundance of evidence to the contrary, do so many sistas still believe that babies and mothers are package deals, that they will be the magical love glue that permanently binds us to a man who never intended to stay.

  There used to be plausible explanations. This was back when I was a teenager and the ’hood was full of girls who knew too much about poverty, violence, and loss, and too little about the possibilities of life outside the ghetto. Unconditional love was a little-known delicacy, and pregnancy allowed them to at least taste the potential. But I’m no longer a shorty in the ’hood. My peers are formidable black women—bright, ambitious, employed, degreed, and in most cases, very easy on the eyes.

  Despite these facts, the number of baby showers I’ve attended in the last two years has outnumbered bridal showers three to one. Contrary to popular class biases, this is hardly a “ghetto” phenomenon. (Twenty-two percent of black women making upwards of $75,000 a year become single parents—ten times the number of white ones.1) In stark contradiction to the feminist hype —the accomplished super-sista who is not pressed about being married, has reached a certain age, has made substantial loot, and got pregnant intentionally— the event is often unplanned, in the midst of unstable or nonexistent relationships and accompanied by mad drama.

  But we will talk about none of this. Instead, we’ll spend the afternoon recounting survival tales of strong black women who’ve successfully undertaken the monumental task of parenting alone. Conspicuously absent from these conversations are testimonies of the heartache experienced when one’s partner declines to share in the ups and downs of pregnancy and parenting. No stories will be told about the black women who’ve succumbed to the very real pressures of single parenting —among them constant emotional and financial strain, day-to-day uncertainty about the future, and the relinquishing of lifelong dreams. You know, the sistas we tend to tsk, tsk when they abandon their children at the local mall.