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Authors: Maria D. Dowd
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child deserves to be force-fed this kind of anguish.
And women whoâve been victimized need to talk about itâboth to help and heal. Forget nasty little family secrets, promises and hurt feelings. By talking about it, we can hopefully lift the burdens and possibly save a child from a similar fate.
We need to keep a brow raised to all of the people our children and teens come in contact with. Letâs not sensationalize it. Most child predators donât lurk in bushes and dark alleyways. They sleep in our beds, sit at our dinner tables, babysit, borrow sugar from across the fence and take our children on outings. They could be our husbands, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, neighbors and close friends of the family. Most are men. Some are women. While some might assault without warning, most will take the time with our children to build trust and even love. Look closer into our childrenâs eyes. Watch their interactions with and reactions to the people in their lives. We do the laundry; check it. We tuck them in at night; talk. Teach them the differences between âgoodâ love and âbadâ love. Then show them âgood loveâ regularly and unconditionally. Assure themâthrough words and actionsâthat you love them and want them safe. Watch, listenâ¦and never betray their trust in you.
We need to remove our rose-colored glasses and see things as they areâwithin our homes, schools, churches and other places where our children are presumed safe and secure. We need to share our stories of âplights of passageâ so that we might save our villageâs children from similar fates.
----
What moves me to tears is when others give their power to someone else who then makes them feel insecure and insignificant. I resolve to remain self-assured and independent byâ¦
----
Ivy Reid
B Y N ANCY L EE
M otherless herself at fifteen, my motherâs journey was multifaceted. She immigrated to the United States from Jamaica having been coerced into marriage by another immigrant from home who played her fears of being a single woman in a strange, hostile country, of facing the world alone, of making a life by herself in the so-called Promised Land. There may have been some attraction, but her decision to marry my father probably was based mostly on fear.
In the States, her income came from what I see so many of our people doing todayâcaring for white peopleâs children. Her articulate husband managed to snag a position as a law clerk until he was let go after the 1929 stock market crash. His new position as an elevator operator required long hours and enough endurance to face racism in all its demeaning dimensions. He was a proud, intelligent man who wore the mask of fake gratitude and fake cordiality while smothering real anger and the very real fear of not being able to adequately provide for his burgeoning family.
Always resilient and resourceful, Mom proposed getting a Harlem brownstone to convert into a rooming house. She would go to work using her newly gained skills as a seamstress while he managed the property. Proud and chauvinistic as he was, my father would have none of it. He wanted to return to Jamaica where he already owned land. She balked, but he insisted and eventually took the children back home without her. The separation lasted seven years until he became ill, and she was forced to return to Jamaica.
What she encountered when she arrived was a mortally ill husband who had been diagnosed with rapidly advancing cancer, but rumor had it that a jealous brother-in-law had poisoned him. Dreams of a good life in the Promised Land had faded into a bleak reality. Before my father succumbed to his fate, he impregnated my mother one last time and passed away two months before I was born. I look back from my adult perch and wonder how she endured; I doubt I could have.
I came out of the womb too soon. My older sister had had
And women whoâve been victimized need to talk about itâboth to help and heal. Forget nasty little family secrets, promises and hurt feelings. By talking about it, we can hopefully lift the burdens and possibly save a child from a similar fate.
We need to keep a brow raised to all of the people our children and teens come in contact with. Letâs not sensationalize it. Most child predators donât lurk in bushes and dark alleyways. They sleep in our beds, sit at our dinner tables, babysit, borrow sugar from across the fence and take our children on outings. They could be our husbands, boyfriends, fathers, brothers, uncles, cousins, grandfathers, neighbors and close friends of the family. Most are men. Some are women. While some might assault without warning, most will take the time with our children to build trust and even love. Look closer into our childrenâs eyes. Watch their interactions with and reactions to the people in their lives. We do the laundry; check it. We tuck them in at night; talk. Teach them the differences between âgoodâ love and âbadâ love. Then show them âgood loveâ regularly and unconditionally. Assure themâthrough words and actionsâthat you love them and want them safe. Watch, listenâ¦and never betray their trust in you.
We need to remove our rose-colored glasses and see things as they areâwithin our homes, schools, churches and other places where our children are presumed safe and secure. We need to share our stories of âplights of passageâ so that we might save our villageâs children from similar fates.
----
What moves me to tears is when others give their power to someone else who then makes them feel insecure and insignificant. I resolve to remain self-assured and independent byâ¦
----
Ivy Reid
B Y N ANCY L EE
M otherless herself at fifteen, my motherâs journey was multifaceted. She immigrated to the United States from Jamaica having been coerced into marriage by another immigrant from home who played her fears of being a single woman in a strange, hostile country, of facing the world alone, of making a life by herself in the so-called Promised Land. There may have been some attraction, but her decision to marry my father probably was based mostly on fear.
In the States, her income came from what I see so many of our people doing todayâcaring for white peopleâs children. Her articulate husband managed to snag a position as a law clerk until he was let go after the 1929 stock market crash. His new position as an elevator operator required long hours and enough endurance to face racism in all its demeaning dimensions. He was a proud, intelligent man who wore the mask of fake gratitude and fake cordiality while smothering real anger and the very real fear of not being able to adequately provide for his burgeoning family.
Always resilient and resourceful, Mom proposed getting a Harlem brownstone to convert into a rooming house. She would go to work using her newly gained skills as a seamstress while he managed the property. Proud and chauvinistic as he was, my father would have none of it. He wanted to return to Jamaica where he already owned land. She balked, but he insisted and eventually took the children back home without her. The separation lasted seven years until he became ill, and she was forced to return to Jamaica.
What she encountered when she arrived was a mortally ill husband who had been diagnosed with rapidly advancing cancer, but rumor had it that a jealous brother-in-law had poisoned him. Dreams of a good life in the Promised Land had faded into a bleak reality. Before my father succumbed to his fate, he impregnated my mother one last time and passed away two months before I was born. I look back from my adult perch and wonder how she endured; I doubt I could have.
I came out of the womb too soon. My older sister had had
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