by Joan Morgan
The results of my informal poll? With the exception of one admirable saint (and she wasn’t me) we all failed to take the high road. The only difference was that girlfriends who were unabashed graduates of “Pussy Ain’t Free U” weren’t hampered by things like moral quandaries or my womanist drivel. All they wanted to know, in the succinct words of one, was Where are the auditions? My chickenhead-hatin’ homegirls, however, did a lot more qualifying.
His wife is cool about it, right? I mean she’s gotta know.
I wouldn’t do it if I was in love.
And my favorite,
I wouldn’t do it for like $50,000 or something ’cuz you could really make that on your own—but $300,000— where’s a black woman gonna make that kinda money legally? It’s not like you’d be selling out for a couple of pairs of Manolo Blahniks. We’re talking major lifestyle change.
And moi? Let’s just say thoughts of my late mortgage payment, the new paint job my co-op could definitely stand, and the still-to-be-paid-for elite degree that was supposed to give me the keys to the world, temporarily clouded my vision. I wouldn’t do it forever. Three and a half years would be plenty. And I’d quit in a second if I fell in love. Then shockingly remorseless, I envisioned the all-female film and music production company I could run.
Of course, what we’d do if the reality hit might be quite different from speculation, but the reactions confirmed something I’ve long suspected—given the right circumstances even righteous sistas can be tempted to get their “cluck, cluck” on.
So why in these days of considerable female advances does a bit of the chicken live on, even in the best of us? The reasons are ultimately rooted in society’s good ol’ sexist imbalance of power. Despite women’s considerable gains in economic, social, and political terrains, the gatekeepers to power are still men. This is particularly true for black women. Feminism, degrees, hard work—it’s all good—but when it comes to six figure and above lifestyles most of the ballers are men.
Unfortunately, power is still divided by gender. And in a world where men got the lucci and we got the coochie, the one self-inflicted Achilles’ heel men have is their tendency to define power partially in terms of sexual conquest. Punanny is the one thing women control and men have an unlimited desire for. That makes it, even in these post-feminist times, one helluva negotiating tool. “Trickin’ ”—specifically using sex (or the suggestion of it) to gain protection, wealth, and power—is a feminine device probably as old as sexism itself. From chickenheads to feminists, most women possess an almost intuitive understanding of the role sex, money, and power play in our intimate relationships—and we accommodate accordingly.
The phenomenal commercial success of rappers Foxy Brown and Lil’ Kim—the official chickenhead patron saints—are one example. Unlike MC Lyte, Queen Latifah, Salt-N-Pepa, or Yo Yo, Kim and Foxy are hardly examples of Afro-femme regality, refined sensuality, or womanist strength. These baby girls—with their history-making multi-platinum debuts—have the lyrical personas of hyper-sexed, couture-clad hoochie mamas. Once again hip-hop holds up its unwanted mirror and drives home a little-discussed truth. In these days of Cristal, Versace, and Benjamin-filled illusions, the punanny-for-sale materialism which dominates Kim’s and Foxy’s albums runs rampant in the black community—and it cuts across age and class lines. The same sistas who boogied through the eighties singing “Ain’t Nothing Going On but the Rent” were the ones up in arms about their daughters singing “No money, money, no licky, licky. Fuck the dicky, dicky” along with Lil’ Kim. Ironic, since both sentiments reduce a brother’s value to what’s in his wallet.
For many women trickin’ is less a matter of right or wrong, than an issue of personal taste and context. Des,I for example, a receptionist in her early thirties, thinks Kim and Foxy are shamelessly “nasty little girls,” but she has no problem telling the BMWs that park in her lot to “show her the money.” With flawless taste and impeccable grooming, Des is not only as fine as she wants to be, she’s the kind of woman whose entrance effortlessly brings the room to a pause. She prides herself on being the definitive trophy girl—good looks, great body, and the ability to “make any man I’m with feel like it’s all about him.” It’s a well-cultivated talent she feels her man should pay for. “I’m not greedy, but when it comes to things like clothes, or taking care of myself, I have no problems asking them for money. Let’s face it—this takes money and time. If they like the way I look, then they need to help pay for the maintenance.”
What it takes her men longer to see is that Des is also smart, driven, and ambitious. Moonlighting as a stylist, she hopes to have her own business one day. But after sharing her dream with several boyfriends, she found herself hurt and disappointed. Even though “they could more than afford it” they refused to invest in her business. “What killed me is they knew I could do it,” she says angrily. “Half the clients I work with now are ones I got through them. The funny thing is that when it came to buying me jewelry, furs, or paying my rent, they had no problems. But when it came to my business, it was always some tired excuse. The bottom line was, they weren’t trying to do anything that would empower me and let me do for myself.”
So now Des “takes no shorts.” Her current boyfriend —wealthy and married—was told in no uncertain terms that she would only see him if he deposited several hundred dollars in the bank every first of the month. For Des, it’s not about love or trickin’. She simply sees it as a way of making sure the relationship also serves her “best interests.” “I’m not about to be one of these ridiculous women who sits around waiting for her married boyfriend to leave his wife, while he has his cake and eats it too. I know a married man with kids isn’t capable of giving me the kind of support, time, or dedication I’d require in a full-time relationship. So in the meantime, I’m trying to build something that’s going to secure my future. That money goes straight to my business.”
For most of us, however, the negotiation rarely plays itself out in a strictly monetary exchange. Trickin’ is often a less straightforward affair—the more subtle, the more socially acceptable. It’s the persuasive, silent “punanny strike” you go on ’til your honey comes ’round and sees things your way. “Not giving it up” until you’ve gotten at least one present and a few nice dinners. That amnesia-inspiring flirtation you reflexively bestow on a male traffic officer if you bust him stealing appreciative glances at your breasts. The power suit with the notably short skirt you save for meetings with those executive boys. At its essence, trickin’ is a woman’s ability to use her looks, femininity, and flirtation to gain advantage in an inarguably sexist world.
Its intractability, however, speaks to something far more complex than mere female strategy, greed, or sexual manipulation. Trickin’s prevalence across class lines demonstrates just how deeply wedded money, sex, and power are to our notions of male and female identity.
Comedian Chris Rock once asked me to talk him through the nuances of courting a feminist woman. “Would it offend her if I paid?” My answer, I thought, was tight. Of course you should pay. I think a lot of guys don’t understand what being a feminist means. Just because I’m a feminist doesn’t mean I’m not a woman. And sometimes women like to feel nurtured and special and feel like they’re being taken care of.
Besides, it’s just good home training.
“So paying is good home training?”
Definitely. If you ask a woman out you should pay. And then in a futile attempt at equanimity, I added smugly, And you know what, Chris, if I asked you out I would pay.
Then he blew up my spot. “You would pay? Now you know that’s bullshit. You might act like you’re going to pay. You might have your money in your pocket and reach like you were ready to pay. But the second I let you pay you would never go out with me again.”
He was right. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d put my hand in my pocketbook even on a second or third date—let alone a first. I wasn’t brought up this way. Moms was not an advoc
ate of trickin’ in any form. The many years she was forced to postpone her dreams —college, a career, travel—essentially because my father refused to come home from work and help take care of small children, left too many footprints on her spirit. She got to college by working as a domestic, taking whatever could be salvaged out of $2.00 an hour after raising three kids, and stuffing her dreams into an old thermos bottle. By the time her youngest was in junior high, there was finally enough money for her tuition. My father never gave her a penny.
Her experiences informed the brief but very specific rules I was given when it came to boys and dating.
1. No accepting gifts of monetary value.
2. If he pays first, you pay second and try to go Dutch as often as possible.
3. Never, ever, ever, leave home without your feisty (Jamaican for “rude”) money—enough change for a phone call, and if not taxi fare then at least two tokens.
When asked to explain the whys of it all, my mother’s only comment was “God bless the child that’s got her own.” So while I collected poems, love letters, and flowers, my fellow ghetto princesses stuffed their closets with designer clothes, gold chains, and expensive sneakers.
It never dawned on me that sex figured prominently into this equation until one day, while longingly admiring my friend Tai’s II most recent acquisitions (among them a slamming new pair of Anne Klein loafers) I ventured to ask exactly how her seventeen-year-old non-working and living in the projects behind could afford it all. She could not believe my naïveté. “Girl, my man gets it for me.” Then thinking of the ass-whooping I’d be sure to get if I tried to do the same, I asked what in the world she told her mom. “My motha is the one who told me,” she said. “Pussy ain’t free. Don’t be giving up my shit to these niggas unless they give me something.”
By the time I got to college, I saw that sentiment was hardly limited to the ’hood. There were plenty of sistas whose theme song for relationships shoulda been Janet Jackson’s “What Have You Done for Me Lately.” Still, I never regretted my mom’s advice. Thanks to her, I escaped much of the sexual pressure that plagued many of my peers. For some girls, the deciding factor for whether or not a guy deserved the boots was how much he spent on the courtship process. Unfortunately, the decisions weren’t always based on the woman’s desires. Very often the more money a guy spent the more he felt he was entitled sexually—and he applied pressure accordingly. Sadly enough, many women complied—not because they wanted to have sex but because they felt that was the price they paid for someone treating them nicely.
That sense of obligation was foreign to me. Since my mother’s value system never taught me to make a connection between sex and dollars, it never occurred to me to base my decisions about sex on anything but my desires. A brother was no more likely to get laid if he spent $100 on dinner than if he spent $30 on cab fare and a movie. And no less likely if he didn’t.
It wasn’t until I grew older, however, and watched women repeatedly relinquish happiness to men who were controlling, disrespectful, and abusive for the sake of “maintaining a certain lifestyle,” did I fully recognize my mother’s sagacity. In her own silent way, she instilled the importance of financial independence, self-reliance, and determination so her only daughter would know that her heart, soul, spirit, and body were simply not for sale.
For the most part, I am my mother’s child. While financial stability and a career he loves are definitely among my dating prerequisites, they matter more to me as indications of a brother’s capacity for passion, commitment, and a solid work ethic than what I think his money will do for me. And when it comes to not giving me the respect I think I deserve, money is not a factor I’m ever tempted to place over love or happiness. There’ve been six- and seven-figure brothers who’ve suffered the same fate as the ones who were barely getting by. And I’m grateful to my moms for giving me that freedom.
Still, there are plenty of times when those liberated principles get conveniently played to the left. Unfortunately, my mother’s well-intentioned, egalitarian approach to dating didn’t translate well into the adult, post-college world. Even though the values are intact —I still enjoy treating a brother to dinner or surprising him with a home-cooked meal—I gave up the “Dutch” habit long ago. It was more trouble than it was worth.
To my surprise, if a brother was feeling insecure about his financial status, the offer only ended up making him feel worse. Despite my protestations that it didn’t matter—I liked when he cooked or we enjoyed a quiet day in his modest studio—all it took was one three-day assignment with some member of the Black Boy Millionaire Club, or some investment banker I knew to glance at him the wrong way and we’d be back to the same old nonsense. I don’t know why you even fucking with me. You should be with some nigga that can give you the world.
Even if the financials and confidence were clearly intact, most brothers viewed my insistence on splitting the bill as anything from unnecessary to annoying.
In my honest confusion, and my desire not to join the ranks of irate sistas who honestly feel like brothers just can’t deal with independent black women I went and sought the counsel of my homeboys. Invariably they told me the same thing. Just because a man’s ability to pay wasn’t an issue for me it did not mean it wasn’t an issue for him.
The point was driven home one night by this cutie in San Francisco. Despite being told each time we went out that he’d “never let a lady pay,” I’d instinctively reach for my wallet. This time, however, he’d gone to great lengths to plan a particularly romantic evening and the gesture came dangerously close to ruining it. Baby read me the riot act. Why do you always do that? I already know you’re an independent woman. That’s why I’m here. But damn, Joan, a man needs to feel like he can do for a woman. And when you tell a brother you won’t even let him pay for a meal, it’s like you don’t want to be vulnerable at all.
Then, responding to that silent, pouty twelve-year-old thing I do whenever I’m effectively called out, he gently took my hand. Look. I admit it. I need to feel needed. And I think you could use some taking care of. So why don’t you let that superwoman shit go for a minute and let a brother do his thing?
He did have a point. The teenager my mom sought to protect by devising those rules was now a fully grown woman. Her values were already too deeply ingrained for me to really be at risk. I already knew that a man paying for dinner, a hotel, or an airline ticket did not entitle him to a piece of my ass. And truth be told, the same ultra-independent STRONGBLACKWOMANisms that compelled me to go Dutch were also the ones that landed me in Frisco in the first place—tired, unhappy, and sick of my life. Besides, at that very moment, staring into those big baby browns was far more important to me than my mother’s advice or feminism. I conceded. I never tried to pay on one of our dates again. Eventually I gave the practice up altogether.
My mother’s approach wasn’t wrong, it was just short-sighted. Like so many God-blessed girl children raised to have their own, I was naively unrealistic about the effect economic and professional disparities can have on a relationship. Call it the aftereffect of growing up in a cultural amalgam of Protestant work ethic (Hard work is next to Godliness), capitalism (It’s all about the Benjamins, baby), social Darwinism (Only the strongest/ richest survive). American men tend to invest a great deal of their identity and self-worth in what they do, how much they make, and their ability to provide. For many, it’s an intrinsic part of how they define their manhood.
For black men, racism greatly intensifies this reality. As far back as emancipation, black men assumed that the ability to acquire wealth and property would decrease the emasculating impact of racism. Even though Booker T. Washington’s anti-integrationist advice to the masses to “cast down your buckets where you are” and W. E. B. Du Bois’s dreams of a “Talented Tenth” —a fully integrated black leadership elite—were seemingly at odds, both leaders embraced the same premise: that hard, honorable work could win black folks a certain degree of legitimacy in an
otherwise hostile society.
More than a century later, that sentiment is still prevalent. According to Keith T. Clinkscales, successful BMW and president and C.E.O. of Vibe, “Black men are very often characterized by the media, society, popular fiction as not being ‘real men.’ We’re depicted as not providing for our families or doing our thing. And believe me, nobody wants to have that on them. Brothers want to handle their business. They want to prove to themselves and everyone else, that they are real men.”
While he believes that it’s impossible to escape racism, Clinkscales maintains that a certain degree of “professional achievement does provides black men with the state of mind necessary to combat racism more effectively.
“It’s not necessarily even an issue of how much you make. Money may become a barometer of success in certain professions, like your Wall Street professions, but I think for a lot of brothers, it’s more about just wanting to be good. The belief is that if you can just enjoy what you do and be really good at it, then you have a great chance at making money.”
Paul Jacobs,III a professional athlete and fledgling entrepreneur, echoes Clinkscales’s sentiments strongly. “As a black man, professional success validates you and gives you the ability to compete, especially against the white men of the world. It’s like your check.”
Women, however, have a very different barometer of worth. Thanks to sexism, there is considerably less pressure on us to be financially and professionally successful. For better or worse, society still allows us to measure our overall worth in ways that have nothing to do with our careers, like being good mothers, wives, or community workers. The pressure we feel about our ability to make paper is usually more about economic survival, dreams, and ambition than maintaining our “feminine” identity.
