Be Strong

Maybe it was my face. Maybe it was the swiftness in my stride or the squint in my eyes from the glint of the sun. Or, perhaps it was my child, relaxing in his stroller, lulled from the consistent pace in my step. 

I don't know what it was, and I probably never will. He does though. He knows why he felt compelled to say to me, on my routine MWF walk around the Lake, "Hey Sis, be strong."

Pause. Dead in my tracks. What? Why are those the only words that he could muster in order to throw some (literal and figurative) shade my way?

It took everything in me not to turn around and go quickly 'get at' him. There were so many problems with his address. Below I've compiled a list of the transgressions to educate those who were inquiring, as seen from my perspective:

1.     The fact that he felt compelled to say it. It wasn’t a compliment; it wasn’t a nice gesture, an attempt to get my attention and hold it. Just say "hello" next time, a mere “how are you” would’ve sufficed.

2.     This is what strength looks like. You don’t know my life. You don’t know that it took everything in me to leave my house, put my baby in his carseat—like seriously, that was a feat. He’s anti-carseat right now. He’s mastered the art of the body-tense, it’s all kind of madness; energy draining madness. I digress.

3.     This is what strength looks like. I made it to this lake, amidst deadening thoughts, fatigue and morose. I am here, walking—determined to make it the entire 3 miles so that I can get some head space. Be good for myself, for my husband, for my kids.

4.     Your male gaze is not welcoming, not welcomed; unwanted. Let me just stroll, ok?

5.     Perhaps it was the sun. If it was my face that prompted you to address me, did you consider that the scrunch on my face was from the sun—that I had forgotten my sun glasses and I just couldn’t pretend like I was enjoying the rays any longer? My eyes needed relief. 

What does it even mean for you, for me, to be or look “strong”?

It’s why the Stop Telling Women to Smile campaign is so necessary. There’s a not-so-subtle declaration of our personhood, a furious rejection of objectification. We will not cower at your uncomfortability, bow to your purported dominance. It is you who needs to change, recognize me as equal and then maybe we can talk. I will not contort my face so that you feel comfortable.

While his “greeting” may have been meant to be uplifting and encouraging, it wasn’t. Women, black women in particular, are always told to be strong. We are to be the beacon of all things solid. But we’re broken, weighted from the pressure of never being able to collapse, relax, frown or cry. And the pendulum that swings, that declares balance in the lives of so many, fails to deliver the same level of consistency for us. It swings left and stays there, cordoning us off from the rest of the world, boxing us in as objects where actions can be dictated: be strong. A command, not an inquiry into my life, an attempt to see me as fully human. For me, that was his way of saying:

I could (would) never even attempt to understand life from your perspective, so rather than attempt empathy, I want to rid you of the expression on your face that calls me out of my selfishness, requires me to begin to understand you. Free me from the burden of (purported) black woman pain. Fit into this box of “strength” that requires nothing from me as black male--that makes me feel better, allows me to continue, business as usual, failing to be the rock that you can rely on, sit on, rest on, recover on. Absolve me from the tension and energy it would take for you not to have to, for once in your life, be strong.

The expectation is maddening.

And while I did not turn around and address this young scrub, hanging out the passenger side of what I presumed to be his best friend's ride, I did shoot him a quick side-eye and continue on my journey, me and my baby. Just strolling, strongly, along.