Sex, Motherhood and the Teenage Daughter

My oldest daughter turns 14 this year. I lost my virginity exactly one month after my 14th birthday. Guess who’s nervous. I don’t know about all mothers, but one of my greatest fears is that my children will repeat my mistakes. I led a very “lesson-filled” youth. And I’ve held on to those lessons so I can hopefully guide my daughters in such a way so that they will circumvent all the “tests” I had to go through. I realize that this is not up to me, but as I mentioned in my post last week, I have control issues, okay? So I’m working on it. I’m trying to learn to let go. I’m pretty much forced to let go. My firstborn lives in another state with her father and stepmother, and although I really get down about us not being together, I believe that the distance has strengthened our relationship. When I lived there, I was the hard-ass mom who was always pushing, always trying to control. Being away has forced me to relinquish some of that control and just guide. It has done wonders for our communication. We talk a lot, mostly about boys and school, but  in general, we talk about life, the type of person she wants to be, how to maintain her inner light when people around her are trying to dim it, and so on.

Now that she is “that age” I’ve really begun to think about how to talk to her about sex in a way that is age appropriate but not too explicit, which I am known to be sometimes – we were Skyping the other day and I told her I had to take a shit. Yeah, I’m that mom. We’ve always talked about sex, probably since she was around 5 or 6, but now is the time to really get down to business. I’ve decided to be as open and honest as possible about the issue. I’m a very sexual woman, so I can’t/won’t lie and say that sex is bad and gross and doesn’t feel good. Although I’m very much a believer in waiting until the time is right, and the person is right (I’m going through my own sex sabbatical now, but that’s another post for another day), I won’t spout the “no sex till marriage” thing, because it’s not something I believe in, and frankly, it doesn’t work. I won’t hide my past from her, or try to lead her to believe I was a saint until I met her father and then again until the birth of her baby sister (who has a different father, so that whole “saint” thing really wouldn’t work).

I had no one to discuss sex with when I was a teenager. No one except my friends who were just as clueless and hormonal as I was (remember that phrase, “young, dumb and full of cum”? yeah). So here I am, trying to be the parent I wish I’d had, without dumping my own personal issues on my kid. Will it work? Who knows? My three rules/hopes/mantras for my girls: Be your own woman, don’t get pregnant (preferably ever, or at least until after 30), and travel the world. If one of them turns out to be a lesbian (I see hints of it in the baby), I’ll be even happier, but sticking to these three goals – it just helps me sleep. Don’t judge me.

How do you raise a young black woman to take sexual ownership, responsibility and pride in her body, in her womanhood, in a world where women’s bodies, minds and spirits are constantly attacked and devalued? It seems as if all the things I’ve read from Audre Lorde, Patricia Hill Collins, and bell hooks have completely left me. I have no idea what I’m doing and I’m freaking the hell out. But I am determined to be an open source of information, reference, guidance, and understanding. I’ve let her know that the door is always open and I’m always willing to talk and share, and what I don’t know we’ll find out together. And maybe I’ll revisit some of that bell hooks with her. I guess that’s all I can really do….

The Courage to be Imperfect

Disclaimer: This blog post is kind of all over the place. But that’s okay. Enjoy…

i’m working on allowing myself to not be perfect. i’ve never considered myself a perfectionist, but i’ve been told (and now admit) that i have a strong need to control. This need for control, for making sure everything is perfect keeps me very hesitant to doing new things, out of fear that i won’t do it right, that i’ll mess up, that i’ll make a fool out of myself. i have a problem being vulnerable. do i see it as a weakness? probably. yeah. i dont like being weak. i dont have time to be weak. along with my own journey, my own demons, i have two young black daughters to raise in a world that sets out every day to tell my girls that they have no worth. I have to have my sh*t together for all of us. So weakness, and therefore vulnerability, is unacceptable in my world, as a mother, and as a woman *pops collar and straightens cape*. These are the thoughts that pass through my mind when i’m dealing with trying to embrace my vulnerability, my imperfections. it’s hard for me to open myself up to the possibility of ridicule. i dont know if it comes from my childhood and wanting everything to be perfect now because they were so f*cked up back then, or what.  I keep saying I’m not a perfectionist because perfectionists aren’t perfect, and I want to paint a perfect picture so I can’t be a perfectionist *did that make you dizzy? it kind of made me dizzy* …

Earlier this year, I participated in a production of the Vagina Monologues, and it was one of the most exciting yet scariest things i’ve done in a while. i’m all for white-water rafting, zip-lining and adrenaline-rush activities that could very well lead to my death, but when it comes to performing in front of an audience, opening myself up to be seen and heard, all that Leo bravado that I’m supposed to have hides around the corner and peeks out. But, I did it.  I messed up some, and I dont think anyone noticed. But after it was all said and done, I didn’t care. I only cared that I did it even though I was scared. I was proud of myself for not running away and giving up (which I considered several times). Instead, I embraced my vulnerability, my fear of being imperfect and took it on stage with me.

Brené Brown, who I now call my virtual therapist, has a famous video of her TED talk on vulnerability, and another on shame. She talks about how being vulnerable is necessary to living a complete, whole-hearted life. i absolutely love her talk (and now i love her), and i’ve posted it here. it’s a good 20 minutes long, but it’s so worth the watch and listen. Make the time; it could change your life.

 

Know When To Take Off Your Cape ~ Guest Post

Superwomen, at what point do you say “enough is enough” and take off your cape? Dr. Chandler discusses the events that led her – or forced her – to loose her cape, and leave it behind altogether.

http://www.forharriet.com/2011/02/meet-ex-superwoman-why-i-had-to-divorce.html

Yep, I’ve decided to get a divorce! No, not from a significant other, husband, friend or job. It’s a more important divorce. This divorce is not amicable or mutually decided upon. It is due to irreconcilable differences. Those differences are many, but they all boil down to one issue: I will no longer be a Superwoman!

Sure, I’ve been quite committed to this relationship for over 40 years, 43 to be exact. I’ve ensured that the expectations thrust upon her – from within and without – were not only met, but exceeded. But I’ve done so at a great cost to my health and well-being.

You see, the Superwoman had no problem taking too much, doing too much, and being all things to everyone in spite of the cost. She had no problem diminishing (and sometimes extinguishing) her light so as not to disturb those that were too insecure to stand in the shadow of its shine. Her time was rarely hers to do with as she pleased. Her time was filled up with leaping tall buildings in a single bound, even on a broken leg. She is – she was – a Superwoman. But she was a fictional character created by history, confirmed by her experiences, and perpetuated by the internalization of numerous oppressions.

What led to the divorce, you ask? Here’s my recollection…

“I’m committing you.” I thought I heard what the psychiatrist said, but after several nights of insomnia, a lasting bout of overwhelming depression and an episode of PTSD that left me hallucinating at various times of the night, I wasn’t completely sure I’d heard him clearly. “I know this is not what you want to hear, but this is what you need. Your depression is in need of intensive therapy; therefore, I’m committing you.”

Yes, he said what I heard. All I could think of at the time was that this psychiatrist was just misdiagnosing the severity of my situation. I’d been here before, maybe not in the hospital, but I’d dealt with this situation before. I pulled upon the strength I’d been taught since childhood; what I MUST do in order to make it as a Black woman. I’d been taught that above all else, Black women had to be strong and not look to others to do what they could do for themselves– which seemed like virtually everything.

This I could do for myself, right?

My mom was strong in that she held down the job that took care of our health insurance while simultaneously being the majority breadwinner in our family. How can I not handle a little depression? Most of the women I knew growing up took care of children (whether there was a father in the home or not), worked, helped others in their family and community, and did so in the face of whatever health/financial/spiritual/emotional challenge that came their way. And there was always something going on. Therefore, I had to deal with my issues and “keep it moving.”

During the last couple of years of graduate school I began dealing with mild symptoms of PTSD and progressively raging insomnia. During my undergraduate years, I dealt with depression and anxiety manifesting in various health issues, especially my worsening asthma that once landed me on life support.

This was not new. In my mind, I would just get a prescription and some sleep and keep moving. If I’d gotten through all of that, I had to be strong, right? Even after finishing a PhD in three years and obtaining my first tenure-track job prior to finishing – even dealing with all of these issues, I could still keep it together, right?

Every Black woman I knew in college was doing the same thing, and they had boyfriends/husbands/children, etc. I was blessed, wasn’t I? I’d established myself as a strong, independent, more than competent, trustworthy individual that always overachieved by demonstrating I could “bring it” whenever necessary. I’d earned a fellowship and assistantship to pay for school. I worked full-time while finishing my other two degrees. I was blessed?

I was an upwardly mobile African-American woman achieving the American dream and demonstrating that I could be a credit to my race. I didn’t have children out-of-wedlock (or in wedlock for that matter). I wasn’t “shacking up” with anyone (which would have definitely landed me in the dog house with my Baptist-pastor father) and I was even a preacher that was active in ministry. Sure, I’d seen great models of support in the lives of many of my white female counterparts in school. But, these folks came from a legacy of entitlement by virtue of their ethnicity. Their parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents had either been college graduates, business owners, landowners, or had attained middle to upper-middle class status at least third to fourth generations ago. I would be the only person in my family achieving a Ph.D.

I also came from a heritage of strong Black women. We always worked and took care of everybody. We always made it happen without complaining. We walked through life with a steely determination to do our best, because we couldn’t expect that help was available. All we had to do was depend on God anyway, right?

So, this psychiatrist could not have understood my position, especially because he was a white male with no experience being an African-American female in a career that historically neither supported nor affirmed a performance that did not reflect a superhuman display. Did this shrink not know that I had to be in class the coming Monday? Did he not know I had two writing projects to finish, a search committee to organize, students to assist with academic and life problems, emails to respond to, bills to pay, an unkempt apartment to clean, and on, and on, and on? How would this affect my standing in my department? How would this effect acquiring tenure?

I certainly could not be perceived as not being able to handle the position I worked so hard to attain, even before receiving my PhD? There was no way I could be committed to a psychiatric hospital in order to deal with my ongoing depression and PTSD. He didn’t understand that, once again, I needed to just suck it up, take my medicine, pray, and keep it moving. I had to keep up my positive reputation and being in a psychiatric hospital – especially since Black women are never crazy, just angry – would not work for me. So I responded, “Is that a suggestion?” He emphatically stated, “No. This is an involuntary commitment. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but Dr. Chandler, I think this is the best thing for you so that you can get your life on track. You deserve to do so.”

Deserve?! This guy didn’t understand what my history taught me that I deserved. What my experiences taught me was that I deserved to be what Zora Neale Hurston so eloquently titled, “the mule of world.” Was I not a superwoman that could handle anything because the combination of my history, examples and experiences told me I could do so? 

There I was. When confronted with my humanity in such a way that I could not deny it, I was actually freed to relinquish the superhuman strength that resided in my mind and not my body. I was a human with a human challenge that when faced with acceptance, no judgment and care could be overcome. This was my on ramp to balance, shamelessness, self-care, and self-love. What looked like a situation in which I was forced to be, with no way out, was actually my way in to freedom and wholeness. I just had to take it in spite of the consequences that could potentially come my way. I deserved it.

There you have it! The confession of an Ex-Superwoman. The divorce was hard; however, it had been coming a long time. Now that I am living post-divorce, I must say I’m having the time of my life! Is everything perfect? Hell-to-the-NO! Is this the perfect life for me–YES! In the coming months, I’ll be detailing what life is like now that I’m no long a Superwoman.

I hope in the few moments you’ll take to read my posts, you might find a few answers, a few nuggets to provoke your thoughts, and some good ‘ol challenges to what has become status quo in your life. If need be, I hope you’ll be brave enough to get a divorce from your superhuman self as well.

Here’s your challenge: Go back into your personal phone booth. Take off that cape. Pull off your mask. Unzip and step out of the superhero suit. Now, look at your reflection in the glass. WOW! WHAT A WONDERFUL SIGHT!

Dr. Kimberly J. Chandler is an Assistant Professor of Communication Studies at Xavier University of Louisiana. She received her doctoral degree from Wayne State University and her research interests are in gender and communication. Specifically, she looks at the performance of gender and African American masculinities as well as Black women and identity negotiation. You can find her blog at http://exsuperwoman.wordpress.com/

Locate: Balance

I’m exhausted. I feel like I’ve been stretched as thin as dragonfly wings. Between my regular 9-5, being a single mom, my little independent side job, trying to maintain some sort of social life, and my various volunteer obligations (I just love oxymorons), I feel like Michael Keaton in Multiplicity, without the (dis?)advantage of the actual cloning machine.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m enjoying all of the things that I’m doing. I’m learning new things and meeting new people all the time. But honestly, all I really want to do is lay in bed for about 3 months and dream of intergalactic travel and my alternate life in Atlantis…and eat hot fries, vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup and drink wine (yes, it’s that time of the month).

When I lived in Louisville, Kentucky (for a dreadful 15 years), I was always bored because there was nothing to do. Well, I should say there was nothing that I was interested in doing that I hadn’t already done a million times. I wanted to be involved in things, I wanted to live the fast life, always on the go, always meeting new people, acquiring new skills, and making some sort of name for myself. In short, I wanted to feel productive and progressive and engaged. I wanted to feel like life existed outside of work and motherhood. I wanted to feel important.

As soon as I moved to Atlanta, I got my wish. I’ve met some amazing people who are involved in and have introduced me to a million and three different projects that they all seem to handle with ease and no dark under-eye circles. I really don’t know how they do it. Granted, none of them are single-handedly raising a two year old drama queen, but just thinking about some of the things these women do without tiny ones makes me want to crawl under my bed and never come out. But I try to match them as best as I can. And so far, I’m doing okay. Though I have to admit, while I don’t miss Louisville itself, I miss my lazy days spent there walking through the Highlands, hanging out on the great lawn at the Waterfront Park, and staring at the moon and stars from the roof of the Actor’s Theatre building. And it’s not like I can’t do that here, but I don’t.  The energy around me is always moving, always flowing, and I feel like if I don’t keep up I’ll drown…

Why do we do this? What is the deal with this Superwoman Syndrome that way too many of  us suffer from (from which way too many of us suffer? As a copy editor, I should know this. Whatever)? Why is this country so deeply invested in always being busy, always doing something? Just because you’re busy doesn’t mean you’re productive, and being productive doesn’t always give the appearance of being busy. Why don’t we ever take the time to just chill, just be still, to just be? We work ourselves until we’re sick, saying “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” or “Sleep is for losers,” when the reality is that sufficient sleep is a key factor in optimal health and the more multi-tasking an individual does, the less likely each of those tasks will be done at top-quality level (that’s a statistical fact – I just don’t remember where I read it and I’m too tired to look it up).

So now I’m trying to bring myself to a healthy balance of staying active and involved, and simplifying and minimizing my life. Life is about maximizing time spent on the important things, the things that matter most, not just filling your time with events and activities just because. That’s one of the main reasons why I deleted my Facebook page about two weeks ago. That’s a huge thing for a self-admitted FB addict. But I haven’t missed it and I haven’t looked back. I’m also focusing on the things I love most, like spending time outside with my daughter (I found a lake – YAY!), reading, editing and watching movies. I enjoy my volunteer opportunities, but I won’t be dedicating as much time to them as I was. And the socializing will be cut to a drastic minimum. No parties unless I really need to get out and shake something; and focus will be on strengthening the bonds I’ve created since I’ve moved here, as opposed to trying to create new bonds. At least for now. Eventually, when my heart is ready, I’d like to make sure I have quality time for my future wife (Meshell Ndegeocello – if you’re reading this, I’m talking to you, honey), and of course, and maybe most important, time to eat ice cream in bed and dream of intergalactic travel and my alternate life in Atlantis.

How do you maintain balance in your life?

Have you ever felt the need to do more than you already do?

Do you find it hard to say no to people who require your time or other resources?

What is one way you could simplify your life right now?

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