by Joan Morgan
According to law professor Melanie G. McCulley, we can’t. McCulley has advocated legislation that would allow men faced with an unwanted pregnancy the legal right to abdicate their parental rights up until the first six months after the child’s birth. She cites the unwillingness of courts to recognize and protect the “procreative choice” of the reputed father of a child born out of wedlock and has drafted a model statute that would protect the rights of the putative father. The statute would address situations in which a woman has not chosen adoption or abortion and wants to keep the child. Ordinarily, the putative father would have no say in whether to assume financial responsibilities to the child. The statute represents an attempt to balance the freedom of the woman to choose without interference from the would-be father, and the putative father’s freedom not to become a parent.
Furthermore, under the statute, once the babydaddy has abdicated his parental rights—which include, by the way, the right to “custody,” “companionship,” “disciplinary action,” managing the kid’s money, or teaching her right and wrong—he should also be free of all financial responsibility—pretty much for the very same reasons we don’t hold birth mothers financially responsible after their children have been adopted. If, however, the babydaddy failed to abdicate his rights, then child support would be mandatory.
Needless to say, many of the sistas I spoke with found McCulley’s ideas anywhere from dangerous to bananas. Even the most pro-choice women shared their objections: But suppose the woman can’t have an abortion for moral, religious, or health reasons, they countered. Or suppose he was having unprotected sex? He made the decision that he was willing to have a baby the second he slid up inside her without a condom on. More than a few suggested that men need time to “come around” to an initially unwanted pregnancy. Supposedly, allowing them to just sign away their responsibilities lets them off the hook too early and too easily.
All of these would be valid points in a society where abortion and adoption are not legal options. But in our society they are. None of the women in the above scenarios were denied choice. Religious reasons, moral and health reasons don’t eliminate choice. While they are certainly valid reasons not to undergo an abortion, they don’t rule out the possibilities of adoption.
The reactions are understandable. In a society still wrestling with the morality of abortion rights, the idea of men being able to abdicate their parental rights is a difficult one to swallow. Even more disconcerting is the legitimate fear that empowering men with reproductive choice and parental rights will place an unfair financial burden on innocent children. Ultimately, women will have to ask themselves if a truly gender-equal society is what we really want. In the meantime, any sista seriously considering proceeding with a pregnancy against the father-to-be’s wishes should evaluate her ability to do so emotionally, spiritually, and financially. Because whether the laws reflect this or not, the logical and, yes, feminist extension of my body, my baby, my choice is my sole financial responsibility.
Fortunately, there are far less painful alternatives. As the old saying goes, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. For starters, we can confront how we feel about abortion, adoption, and unplanned pregnancy before sex.
Recognizing my own inability to consider abortion or adoption, for example, forced me to change up my program when it came to sex and my relationships. Understanding that any man I slept with could potentially be the father of my child (after all, the only foolproof form of birth control is abstinence) made me much more selective. Fine and nice and just a li’l sump’n sump’n are no longer enough to qualify. Now I have to ask myself if the brother is emotionally, spiritually, financially capable of being a good father. And since this is an evaluation that takes more than a few weeks . . . suffice it to say it takes me a good, long while before I’m ready to hit the sheets these days—if I hit them at all.
Since the decision to have a child ultimately rests with women, I think it’s only fair for me to let my partner know my feelings beforehand. I need to know if he’s down to parent at all, let alone parent with me. If he’s not, and we can’t see eye to eye, then I’m willing to explore other options. Sex, after all, isn’t the only road to intimacy.
I’m not saying this is an easy topic to broach. After all, getting knocked up is hardly a pre-seduction topic —but sistas owe it to themselves, their partners, and their unborn children to have this discussion long before they hit the sheets. The AIDS epidemic taught our generation to be proactive when it came to sex. Demanding that our lovers use condoms and engaging in candid discussions about sexual history were habits women had to form if we intended to save our lives. If we can be that thorough when faced with the solemnity of death, we can do it with something as precious as new black lives.
We have to. Our survival depends on it.
* * *
I. Not her real name.
II. Not his real name.
chickenhead envy
Alright, Ms. Chicken,
We both know you and I don’t particularly like each other, but it’s time for a meeting of the minds. I confess, I’m a longtime Chickenhater—one of the smart, successful, hard-working, educated, super-independent black girls who spends a lot of time dissing you and your chickenhead sistren. In particular, we abhor your abject materialism, your predilection for Ricki Lake skankwear, and the nauseating way you stroke the male ego. For the record, none of us are buying that “airhead” shit. Any fool that’s seen you in dick pursuit knows you can be calculating, cunning, and savvy as hell. Trust me, baby girl, if I ever lost my press pass and needed to get backstage, you are the first one I’d enlist. We just can’t understand why, with all those skills, your sole ambition in life seems to be the wife (or babymother) of somebody who makes enough chedda to satisfy your shopping jones.
Admittedly we criticize you from extremely lofty perches. Convinced in our feminist, womanist, STRONGBLACKWOMAN principles we remind ourselves that we CHOSE to get educations, dedicate ourselves to our careers, cultivate not only our intellect but our spirits. We are the “good black women.” We are the women our mothers and grandmothers dreamed they could be—professional, driven, fiercely independent, and free from men’s financial control. We make men RESPECT our intellect, dreams, and ambitions. And for the most part, they do. So what does it matter if you got a man, a house, a car, and a big phat monthly allowance, and we seem to be perpetually single?
The difficult, shitty truth is that it matters much more than we’d like to admit. See, when we bought into the whole independent, successful, black girl thing, none of us ever dreamed we might end up alone. Granted the whole eighties– nineties “power couple” hype was probably some white folks’ shit we shouldn’t have bought into. But part of what got us through the inescapable hard times that came with our determination to succeed was the honest belief that successful BMWs (Black Men Working) would be part of the payoff. Instead, Ms. Chicken, it seems a good number of them are ending up in your bed—and complaining to us about you.
Hell yeah, we’re pissed about it.
I know this is a little foul. After all, it’s not your fault these otherwise smart brothers can’t seem to see past the big-ass-big-titties-jiggy-good-looks and deal with the obvious: Without the magnetic chick pull of a well-laced wallet, most of you would not give these boys the time of day. But to be honest with you, sistas like me ain’t trying to hear a brother grieving over the expensive vacations, designer clothes, or the ten tennis bracelets he bought you before you left him for a bigger Willy. We don’t wanna hear about the exorbitant amount of money courts are forcing him to pay you for the baby he never wanted to have. Not when we’re single, paying our own rent, busting our asses at work, and living for sample sales.
I confess, we may be dealing with an inflated sense of entitlement here. Despite our knowledge that black Prince Charmings are rare indeed, we do feel that if anybody’s going to end up with one, it should be one of us. As hard as we work, we deserve them. It’s
not like we’re exactly ideologically opposed to nice homes, jewelry, shopping sprees, and some semblance of financial security. We might not be waiting around for some man to relieve us from a lifetime of work, but I don’t know many of us who wouldn’t welcome the option. For real.
Quiet as it’s kept, Ms. Chicken, essentially you, me, your girls, my girls—we all want the same thing—someone to love us, shower us with attention, nurture and provide for us and our kids. The hatred we have for your chickenhead asses is in part the mask of bravado we wear to camouflage our fears. In our loneliest and most vulnerable moments, we look at you and wonder if chickenheads aren’t the ones who have figured it all out. Is being alone the price we will ultimately pay for doing it the “right way”?
Or is it the penalty we’ll pay for seeing a bit of ourselves in you—and fronting like we didn’t. . . .
Chickenhead Envy is not a pretty thing. My first attack left me laid out—in fetal position—sobbing like Toni Braxton in the “Unbreak My Heart” video. One of my best friends in the world stood close by in helpless, empathetic silence. She was visibly shaken by her futile attempts to console me—and wholly afraid of leaving me alone. The sudden banging on my front door provided a temporary distraction.
“Joan!! JOAN!!” the voice hollered. “Are you okay? Let me in!!”
Who the . . ? Slowly it registered through my delirium. Damn. It was Dude. The one I’d been sleeping with (but not the one I liked). The one I’d warned repeatedly that there was no reason on God’s green earth ever good enough to make surprise appearances at my door. The one (if I’d been a better person at the time) I woulda cut off months before, when I first realized the imbalance in our levels of affection. But among his many nocturnal delights was an insatiable seafood jones—we’re talking won’t stop eating ’til you get enough—and unfortunately, it thwarted any attempts at altruism.
Like an angel of mercy my girl’s svelte but muscular 5'11" frame staunchly barricaded the apartment door. “I must’ve called when whatever it is was all going down,” he tried to explain. “I know she doesn’t like people to just drop by, but she sounded so fucked-up.”
“Yes, something’s happened but you can’t see her right now,” my homey says kindly but with unchallengeable resolve. She knew his worries were sweet but useless. He’s not the one I like (the one I wasn’t sleeping with). He’s not calling to say, “It was all a lie. I do not have a girl at home that’s six months pregnant—a fact I’ve neglected to mention for at least the last five.” He’s not the one who hurt me.
“Yes, she’ll be alright,” she assures him, while gently guiding him outside. “But she’s in no condition to talk right now. To anybody.”
She returns to the couch and rubs my back soothingly. Slowly, the tenderness of her caress converts my wailing to a soft, steady whimper. It doesn’t, however, mask her confusion. And I am of no assistance. For the life of me, I can’t tell her why her girl, someone whose response to severe emotional hurt is usually of the “Find him. Go to his home, office, gym, whatever, and scream, holler, and throw things, but whatever you do —fight” variety is lying catatonic on the sofa, teetering dangerously close to the abyss.
Mercifully, the only soul capable of doing me any earthly good calls unexpectedly. Carefully, gently she pulls me back from the precipice.
Bethann, I sniffle. I just feel so stupid.
“Stop it now. ’Cuz feelings are what they are, and we ain’t gonna judge feelings.”
I can’t believe I let myself be played like that.
“It doesn’t mean none of that, baby. This doesn’t mean he doesn’t care. It just means he didn’t know how to tell you.”
He’s a fucking dick.
“Right now. Yes. And maybe tomorrow. But after a while you’re going to have to let yourself remember the magic of him. Or this will eat you up inside.”
I hurt, BA.
“Of course you do, baby. And believe it or not he does too. Nobody ’cept the devil could want to know he’s tearing you up this bad inside.”
The wisdom in this starts me blubbering again, and this time for a really, really long time. BA just listens. She doesn’t even mention what I already know. That at some point we’re going to have to talk about my responsibility in all this. ’Cuz even though this fool screwed up royally, I was grown enough to know that all the “Gwanna leaves” in the world don’t alter this fact: Until the day he really broke clean he was always somebody else’s. She does remind me that given the circumstances there was no other way for it to end— whether he’d been honest with me or not. The Joan she knows would never want a man who could turn his back on his pregnant babymother to go start something else. Of course this makes me feel better and then, simultaneously worse, because one of the things I love most about this man is his loyalty and sense of honor.
But mostly BethAnn waits for the epiphany, for me to realize that what I’m suffering from is not a broken heart, but a full-blown case of Chickenhead Envy. And the only cure is for me to confront the sordid, green-eyed source of my pain.
It was something I could only admit to a woman who loves me like a daughter. I really hadn’t spent the last four hours crying because Dude betrayed our friendship and straight-up lied to me. I wasn’t even mad that he was sleeping with his woman. I was mad and hurt that she was his woman at all.
Igniting my fury were the memories of endless conversations about his frustrations with a woman who seemed to have no greater life aspirations than being wifey. He paid her bills. Showered her with shopping sprees at Barneys. Handed over the keys to the Land Cruiser. He just wanted—correction—needed her to want something out of life besides him.
I remembered the pride and interest he took in my work, the way he marveled at my independence and self-sufficiency and the encouragement he provided every time I tentatively shared a new goal. But I also remembered the exasperation in his voice as he confided, “Yo, I tell her all the time, you want to go to school? I’ll pay for it. You wanna start a business? I’ll finance it, but all this free time on her hands leaves her with too much time to worry about my every move.”
I was mad because there was a black woman out there lucky enough to find a man who offered to financially support her every dream and somehow managed not to have any. I was crying in a sense, not only for me but for all the straight-up wonderful, ambitious, struggling, and single sistas I knew—women who had dreams and mad love to give but could barely find brothers willing to listen. Sistas who, I knew, if given the opportunity this brother was providing, would give a heartfelt thanks to the Creator—and then show Him how high they can fly.
I was crying because an admittedly frightened, weak, vulnerable, but oh so real part of me wanted to yell, “TAKE CARE OF ME. PROTECT ME. BE THERE FOR ME. LOVE ME.” Instead, I ended the last conversation we would have for two years by calling him everything but a child of God.
It’s not fair, BethAnn. It’s just not fair.
“I know, sweetheart. That’s why it hurts so much. ’Cuz us smart, good-hearted, independent girls, we’re the best. We’re out there handling our business and conquering the world, and we manage to be there for them too. We’ve got their backs. We’re the ones they call in the middle of the night. We’re like their best friends. The only thing we ask for is for them to be their best. And then it’s the weak ones who do the things we wouldn’t dream of—”
Like getting pregnant on purpose.
“Right. Threatening to kill yourself. You know, the things we would never do. And those are the girls who seem to win.
“But, baby?”
Yes, BethAnn.
“They don’t win forever. They really don’t. You’re young so it seems like that now. But remember, we mature faster than boys. Sometimes it takes the men we love a little longer to realize how much they love us.”
I hung up the phone, hoping to God she was right.
• • •
I hear you, the non-believers, steadily testifying. Not me.
Not I. There’s nothing I could possibly have in common, let alone envy, about a chickenhead. And for a precious few sista-saints this might actually be true. The rest of you, my dears, are fronting. Not to worry, though. Chickenhead Envy is usually accompanied by intense denial.
To you I offer my favorite Chickenhead litmus test: a piece of entertainment industry gossip concerning a certain celebrity. Contrary to his image as a family man, rumor has it the brother’s been tipping—albeit discreetly—on longtime wifey for years. His tipping wasn’t hard to fathom—baby must have more money than God and is ’bout as fine as Jesus. With his mega-fame, extramarital ass is a given on his menu in just about any country with a working TV. What would wifey’s incentive be for turning a blind eye? Maybe a combination of love, being the mother of his children, and landing in the mix pre-fame and without a good pre-nup.
What I couldn’t get was how he would manage to keep his shit so on the low. As the old saying goes, Hell hath no fury like a woman pissed off. In addition to wreaking a little domestic havoc and tarnishing his image, any scorned mistress of his stood to make a bundle confiding the details of her heartbreak to the media.
So needless to say, when one of my homeboys said he discovered much fewer than six degrees of separation between himself and one of Mr. Mention’s alleged mistresses, I was wide open on the details. Word is, according to my boy, he goes through great pains to make silence and loyalty a helluva lot more lucrative than kissing and telling. “All I can tell you is that he treats her very, very well. The car, house, and living expenses are all taken care of—plus an allowance in six figures a year. And Joan, are you ready for this? She’s not the only one.”
The next time I see Mr. Mention on TV all I can think is Damn. Another million for the ho fund. Then I find myself envisioning the lucky chicken chillin’ in a new Mercedes SLK Kompressor and discover something else —envy-green is an unattractive shade for an allegedly righteous black girl. Curious to see other sistas’ reactions, I repeated this “what if” scenario.
