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I want the door held open, the chair pulled out, and I don't want to think about money at all. I want nothing more than the ultra-femme responsibility of juggling hairstylist and mani/pedi appointments, being a great conversationalist, and looking like a dime. So why in these days of considerable female advances does a bit of the chicken live on, even in the best of us?
Journalist Joan Morgan isn't afraid to ask tough questions. Here she challenges a feminism that vehemently defends women's reproductive rights but ignores men's lack of reproductive choice. And she refuses to discuss the physical and emotional damage of sexism without examining the utterly foul and unloving ways women sometimes treat each other. But while women today still experience sexism, we do so in markedly different ways.
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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. More than a century later, that sentiment is still prevalent. My mother's approach wasn't wrong, it was just short-sighted.
I can't say enough how great this book is, even if you don't agree with her. Joan's writing makes you feel like Black womanhood is a treasure, whether the topic is welfare queens, chickenheads, bohemian artists or professionals. She makes our rites to a melanin sisterhood enticing, so that whether you believe in feminism or not, you'll want to embrace the special qualities that translate to Black womanhood. I wish there were more books on the shelves with her name on them.
When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost
May have some damage to the cover but integrity still intact. The binding may be slightly damaged but integrity is still intact. Possible writing in margins, possible underlining and highlighting of text, but no missing pages or anything that would compromise the legibility or understanding of the text. See the seller’s listing for full details and description of any imperfections.
Mission accomplished JM and that awards you many stars. Every chapter drips with internalized misogyny which makes for a rather disappointing read, especially from a writer who considers herself a feminist. Ecclectism and egalitarianism roam this book within the cloak of "hip-hop feminism". I also wish there was a similar book for those of us who hit adulthood in the '00s.
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I wouldn't do it for like $50,000 or something 'cuz you could really make that on your own -- but $300, 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. I read this book during my college years and it was quite insightful. During that time I was completed engulfed in Hip-Hop culture, this book help me define who I was a woman in such a movement. Too much talk of the "independent woman" v. the "gold diggers" which felt like slut shaming misogyny rather than an uplifting contribution to feminism.
"Right. Threatening to kill yourself. You know, the things we would never do. And those are the girls who seem to win. 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. 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. Showered her with shopping sprees at Barneys. He just wanted -- correction -- needed her to want something out of life besides him.
In otherwords, it never gets so abstract that it loses personal relevance. Reading this book is not so much like learning or studying Black feminism in the era of hip hop, with a culture and climate steeped in bold misogyny wrapped in a tight flow over a fly beat. It's more like listening in on your older cousin and her girlfriends discuss life in the 90s as 20 or 30-somethings, trying to find their way as women with obstacles that their foremothers couldn't have blueprinted even if they tried.
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. Select PayPal Credit at checkout to have the option to pay over time.
Cleared payment cleared payment - opens in a new window or tab. Plus, receive recommendations and exclusive offers on all of your favorite books and authors from Simon & Schuster. I definitely see how my 20-something self would have loved this book but my 30-something self would interrogate and disagree with it a lot. Because this is getting way too long, I'll stop here.
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. 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.
A lot of times what black women perceive to be brothers' "inability to deal with independent women" is really their struggle with a culture that views men who are less than financially solid as something "less than men." 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.
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