I was listening to NPR this evening, and I heard a word that I like a lot: cacophony. Webster (well, okay, not Webster, but dictionary.com) defines cacophony as:

ca⋅coph⋅o⋅ny/kəˈkɒfəni/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [kuh-kof-uh-nee]

1.	harsh discordance of sound; dissonance: a cacophony of hoots, cackles, and wails.

2.	a discordant and meaningless mixture of sounds: the cacophony produced by city traffic at midday.

3.           Music. frequent use of discords of a harshness and relationship difficult to understand.

I don’t like cacophony, but I like the sound of the word.

Speaking of which, I do have a favorite word whose meaning I really like: serendipity.

ser⋅en⋅dip⋅i⋅ty /ˌsɛrənˈdɪpɪti/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [ser-uhn-dip-i-tee]

1.	an aptitude for making desirable discoveries by accident.

2.           good fortune; luck: the serendipity of getting the first job she applied for.

Who wouldn’t like that? Do you have a favorite word?

I’ve been thinking about this post for a while, especially as Black History Month bled into Women’s History Month. As I think about my own intersection, convergence, or crashing together of my blackness and my womaness, my questions and examinations of my identity as a black woman are part of a spiritual crisis that I am going through right now.

I’ve been going to a different church these past two weeks, partly to absorb and feel out their African-centeredness to see if it’s for me, but also to get away from some patriarchal issues I was/am having with my usual church. And I’ve been reading a lot of books – Katie’s Cannon, Moses, Man of the Mountain, and Diary of a Lost Black Girl, to name a few. And I follow The Kitchen Table. And the news. And all of it has me utterly confused about my place as a black woman, in America, in the world, and in my God’s kingdom. Now of course I have other issues, like depression and fibromyalgia, that are also weighing heavy on my heart. But it’s hard to describe them here because they are so deep I can hardly stand to speak them aloud for myself.

A large part of it all is a feeling that Jesus has somehow forgotten about me, despite my loyalty. Although He promised not to give me more than I can bear, I can’t shake the feeling of permanency, like I can handle this now/today, but I don’t think I can bear it for a lifetime. That despite all my blessings, for I have many including a strong and loving husband and two beautiful children, I feel slighted that I don’t also have peace of body and peace of mind. That I would give it up, be stupid and ugly if I could at least feel content. I don’t even need happiness, but I can certainly do without agitation and despair.

And that’s selfish, I know. I know that there are people in much worse positions than I. But I also wonder, as many of the above books allude to, if it’s simpy the black woman’s burden to bear. Are we really just de mules uh de world, as Zora Neale Hurston wrote, destined to carry the load given by the white man to the black man to bear, who then caste it to the black woman? Is it simply a coincidence that the attack on Rhianna and the sugarcoating of Chris Brown’s behavior comes at such an intersecting time? Is my current state of examination and crisis really just the embodiment of the transition from black to woman’s history? Are we, as black women, destined to a life of both internal and external violence and exploitation?

…to any longer feel bad about my financial situation. I have zero dollars in my bank account, mostly due to poor planning on my part for not taking into account the bureaucratic ineptitude of a certain university financial office. We will probably owe the IRS a shit-load of money this year, due to not understanding the fellowship and stipend tax rules or realizing that I could pay the taxes during the year. But even if I did consider this current situation my fault, I think I would still refuse to feel bad. Why is it that we place such high values on people “living within their means” instead of questioning the consumer culture that drives most of our taste? Should I feel bad for desiring a Starbucks latte simply because I may not be able to afford it? Should I more harshly judged for purchasing such drink than a rich(er) person who can afford it?

…to feel bad about what my children DON’T have rather than focusing on what they DO have. For example, not having the specific foods they want for breakfast. Due to the above money situation, the grocery store has not yet been visited. Therefore the beloved oatmeal is not available for consumption this morning, and the last beloved banana had to be split and shared. But there are other things to eat, including yogurt, Cheerios, and crackers. There is waffles and juice. My heart aches that the kids can’t have exactly what they want, and I know that I’ve created an expectation, but damn, a little disappointment now and again cannot hurt that much.

…to feel bad about my “brand” of motherhood. My kids watch TV, and don’t get a bath every night. Breakfast is not always hot cereal, but rather cold stuff. The kitchen and bathroom floors are dirty, and clothes remain unfolded for days. We don’t make our beds. We slap hands and butts every now and again. I yell and fuss. Many nights, I leave the house to do my work, and my kids are aware that I’m leaving. I enjoy spending time without my kids. I have no desire to be a stay-at-home mom even if I could be. I hate living in the suburbs. Doing well in my career means a lot to me, working for social justice means a lot to me, and I want to see all kids have opportunities in life, which means that I may not do exactly what’s best for my kids if it also means that it disadvantages some other kid, especially if they are black or brown. But God entrusted these kids to me, to raise them as I see fit.

I’m “irresponsible” with money because I have average tastes and below average money, I don’t give my kids what they want all the time, even if their requests for oatmeal are perfectly reasonable, and I sometimes place social equality above giving my kids all of me by devoting time to the cause rather than to them. But I’m the mama they have, so everyone just has to deal.

1. Where is the place for women and feminism in the modern church? Where is the place for black women, as de mules uh de world, in the modern church? The church I attend will be having guest speakers for the month of March to celebrate 20 years of the senior pastor being a part of the church. But not one of those speakers are women. In fact, I’ve noticed that whenever there are women giving talks, they are always aimed at other women. So men can tell women about living a Christ-like life, but women can’t do the same for men? Even more profoundly for me – what does it mean, if anything, that Jesus was a man? As I woman, can I ever be like Jesus?

2. Where is the place for social justice activism amongst diversity in the modern church? During the 10th annual State of the Black Union that aired this weekend*, there definitely seemed to be a call to the Black church to revive its roots of social activism. But again, the church I attend is known for it’s diversity, and with that diversity comes a call to be neutral on most political issues. No candidates are endorsed, no police shootings/profiling is declared to be wrong, we didn’t even participate in the National Day of Service b/c that would have been seen as supporting a political candidate. I guess we can’t talk about white privilege or black oppression when the church is as diverse as it is, and the church thrives by building membership, but it strikes me as false to court a diverse membership at the expense of not championing for what is right and using our power as a church to do so. Diversity doesn’t mean that all is right in the world, and I want to be a part of a church that understands that.

3. Am I an African in America or an African-American? I attended an African-centered church today, and  I was moved by the attention to drawing on a history that begins long before the slave trade. I loved that my children, although still young, could soak up some sense of their history, even only through osmosis. But it also got me to thinking – am I am African? While my history is irretrievably shaped by the slave trade, to be an African-American gives half of who I am to people who tried to destroy me, who considered me less than human. And many people say, “Well, our lives today are better than what they would have been had we all stayed in Africa,” but according to what standards? Personally, my bank account is empty b/c I’m a consumerist American, having been indoctrinated into the religion of money. My spiritual account is running low, and I obsess daily about building positive self-esteem in my children in a society that denigrates them. Had I been in Africa, perhaps I would lack that ever presence sense of inferiority that has been hardwired into us over centuries. So perhaps I will start to think of myself as an African in America, remembering that my history did not begin here as an oppressed people, but was rather interrupted.

That’s what’s been on my mind today – any thoughts?

* You can watch both parts at the links above.