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The Single Woman as “Shelf Warmer”

Recently, I found myself spending time with an acquaintance who has always been in the same social network as me, but for whatever reason, never became a solid “friend” in the way other women in that network had. A married mother of three, she was understandably preoccupied with running her household and caring for her children. Since my lifestyle choice doesn’t require me to consult with a spouse and be confined to the complex schedules of three different little people, our schedules rarely matched and thus, we didn’t get together often. Our acquaintanceship was comfortable for us both and though we found ourselves with some down time on the same day, I was prepared for this isolated incident to not occur again in the near future.

I was en route to another commitment and though I was happy to connect with her, I reiterated during our hang time, “Girl, I’m having fun, but I really need to get running so I’m not late.” And then she did what married mothers who I’ve been friendly with over the years have done on more than one occasion. She made a casual comment that I was always off to somewhere else. Always doing something and thus never having time to hang out with her. When she was ready to hang out, that is. I chuckled and said, “Ya know, we all have overbooked lives in these complicated times. It is what it is.” She went on to bemoan only having this one night available and then admitting what I’ve always known mothers of this mindset have always felt but never vocalized. “I rely on my single friends to remind me what it’s like to have fun and enjoy nightlife on those rare occasions when I’m free.”

In that moment, I felt irritated.

“They want to put us on a shelf and then expect us to just be waiting happily when they find time to take us off that shelf.” Jasmine, a woman who is single by circumstance and childfree by choice has had this same conversation with long time friends whose lives shifted once they took on marriage and motherhood. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why after years of having some version of this conversation with friends who took on families, it bothered me now. To be clear, I was not bothered because my acquaintance had prioritized her family over me. I would find it odd had she made the opposite choice. I expected that even my good girlfriends would have less time to hang out with me once they married and had children. I didn’t begrudge them their decision to make a lifestyle choice that resulted in having to devote 85% of their energy only to the people who lived in their house. What I was taking issue with was this acquaintance’s suggestion that to be single was to be willing to serve as your married friend’s Plan B. In this arrangement, you are supposed to take it as compliment when your married friend with children, who has much more important things to do, puts you on her as-soon-as-I-can shelf until she has less important things to do and comes back to get you.

When I told my acquaintance just how tedious and condescending such a role was for ANY woman, she seemed shocked. It never occurred to her that what she was expecting of her single, childfree friends is exactly what the men she had dated before her husband expected of her and all other single women. To be patient as they were put on the shelf while he sorted out his super busy life that made it impossible for him to plan a date or return a phone call until his schedule dictated either were important enough to him. And when he made this momentous decision…when he didn’t have to be out of town for a weekend or work late or coddle a potential client or ___ and he called with the sudden desire to “see your beautiful face right now — in the next five minutes,” he was perturbed when you said you had other things to do. “But I finally have 17 free minutes to give you. Why aren’t you accommodating me?”

This notion that because you are an adult female who has not taken on children and a spouse, you are by default the one who should be readily available to anyone who desires your time is insulting. It is also ridiculous when you consider the increasing number of women who are choosing to remain single well into midlife. We are nearly a quarter of the way into the 21st century. Surely, it shouldn’t be a surprise to the world at large that women who don’t choose marriage and motherhood actually have committed their post-work hours to a whole host of fulfilling activities. Things they value and consider top priority with just as much fervor as their married peers cherish family time.

We don’t expect our married friends who are parents to be our Plan B. We don’t try to guilt them into submission when we ask them to go to an art opening and they say they can’t because they have other obligations. We often make effort to adjust to their new reality of suddenly ill offspring, no-show babysitters and spouses who need them more than we do. We do this without any expectation that they will return the favor. And many of us understand that their lives as parents make it difficult to do so, anyway. We don’t take it personally because we know it has nothing to do with us. It is about their choice to take on the role of parent and spouse. A lot of us simply anticipate the friendship going through a cooling off period and maybe once the children are older, there will be a reconnection. A renegotiation perhaps. Or maybe not. Since we would have nurtured interpersonal relationships with others in the absence of the one we lost, it just may be that the friendship dies off without ceremony or incidence.

What precious few of us are willing to do is be the shelf warmer, though. Yes, we know you really want to still maintain the connection, but you’re being pulled in so many directions. No, we don’t hold it against you because you aren’t able to spend more than a few minutes catching up with us before running off to deal with a minor catastrophe somewhere in your house. You have valid reasons for not having time for us.

And like the eligible bachelor who has legitimate reasons for never following through on his vague suggestions that he would love to get together sometime, we won’t be placing you high on our priority list, either. There is no ill will. No animosity. If Busy Bachelor has prioritized all these other things over us, good for him! While he is doing whatever it is that is keeping him busy, we will carry on with our lives. When he calls with an urge to see us because he now has an opening in his schedule, it should be no surprise to him that he will have to go back to his busy life because we have one, too.

Again, this should not be news to anyone: Single women are not the secondhand books that you found in your favorite used bookstore and have every intention of reading — eventually. Perhaps? When/If the spirit moves you. We are fully realized human beings with expansive lives and commitments. We are not quaint reminders of your once carefree life, default place holders for when spouses are on business trips or fantastical escapes from the mundane domestic life you really do enjoy, but just want a break from every now and again.

We are more than willing to still be your friend. What we won’t be is your Plan B. There are too many others who are willing to make space for us. It defies logic to expect us to wait around for that rare moment when you need us to free you from your life and then never really speak to us until you need to siphon off our energy again.

Why Transwomen Have Earned Their Seat at the Table

This is not the first time I have written about PoseFx, the most significant television series to make its way into the pop culture psyche in recent history. I doubt this will be the last time an episode compels me to head straight for my keyboard, either. Aside from its glorious costuming, perfect balance of melodrama and nuanced performances, AND Billy Porter, PoseFx does not make the mistake of simply presenting New York City ballroom culture and the trans community as the exotic other. PoseFx (and likely, its producer, Janet Mock) is clear on its mission: YOU. WILL. SEE. US. AS. HUMAN.

On a recent episode, Life’s A Beach, I found myself near tears again. (It’s happened to me more times than I care to mention while watching this show.) While on a weekend get away an hour out of the city, Elektra, Angel, Lulu and Blanca end their day at the beach with dinner and cocktails at a high class restaurant. It is one of those joints that prides itself on its white linen table cloths and matching white people. Both making it clear that four transwomen from The Bronx don’t belong there. When one of its regular clientele comes over to explicitly state what the table cloths and pale patrons have tried to subtly suggest, Elektra reads this monied, arrogant white woman for filth. A take down so full in its totality and depth that she has to pause in the middle and take a sip of wine in order to properly “read that bitch.”

While there were so many incredible sound bites in that read, the one that stuck with me was: “We fought for our place at this table.” Elektra’s point being that simply because this woman had been born with a uterus and the accouterments of a privileged white lady didn’t mean she was entitled to claim the descriptor of “woman” anymore than the four women who were minding their damn business when they were confronted with yet another person who demanded they prove their worth. Their right to exist.

When the white lady follows Elektra’s command and scurries back to her table, the scene continues and we are presented with the most damning evidence that Elektra is exactly right: She has earned the title of woman more than any of the cis women in that restaurant, the Bronx, the city, the world. Blanca shares with her friends that she has been offered a chance to go on an evening stroll along the beach with a handsome life guard who had, several scenes before, saved her from drowning. Elektra immediately warns her not to accept the date, asking, “You told him no, right?” Her friends’ excitement for her chance at love immediately turns into fear.

“You can’t trust him at night by yourself.”

It is unspoken because there’s no need to say it. He, a cis man who has not been told that Blanca is a transwoman, should not be given the benefit of the doubt. While Lulu, Elektra and Angel had been goading Blanca since season one to take her love life more seriously and teased her throughout the day about the connection she felt with the life guard after he’d saved her, the moment she said she would be spending more than five minutes alone with him at night, each of these women wanted her to pump the brakes on the courtship.

She could end up dead. He would most likely hurt her. IF she chose to disclose that she was not “a real woman,” instead of just bidding her adieu and leaving her on the beach, he could very likely strangle her for making him become attracted to her and her “unnatural femininity.” If Blanca did go through with the date, she could enjoy a romantic, moonlit walk on a pristine Long Island beach or she could end up brutally murdered and disposed of in the rolling tides, her body left to wash up on shore a few hours later.

Elektra and the women surrounding her at that table were constantly cognizant of male violence. It was the first thing they considered when an innocent proposition to take a walk was offered. “You can’t just have coffee with him tomorrow afternoon before we leave?,” Lulu asked Blanca with a forced chuckle and smile.

If there is no other signifier of womanhood, it is the acute awareness that you can be the victim of male rage for reasons unclear to you and in moments when you have little to no resources to protect yourself. If you ask women how often they consider the possibility of being the victim of a man who felt entitled to take out his rage on their body, many of us would have a handful of moments at the very least, a couple of tangible experiences that still haunt us at the most. There might be a small minority of us who claim no past memory of the sharp fear that takes hold of your body when you realize you are on an isolated beach with a man you just met who has been a perfect gentleman, but something about the way he just looked at you, the sound in his voice when he called you sexy makes you wonder if you were too naive, too trusting after only a few hours of pleasant conversation with this stranger.

The women of PoseFx are not only women. They are transwomen. They are black and brown transwomen. Every moment of their lives is curated to make it easy for male violence to find a place to rest comfortably. No questions asked. No accountability expected. Only a few episodes before, Candy, their house daughter and ballroom competitor, was beaten to death in a filthy motel room after a sexual encounter turned violent. Earlier in this season, a secondary character relayed a story of servicing a john in his car and having him turn violent, knocking her teeth out. When the police showed up, she was brought to jail and abused. He drove off and went home to his family.

The most telling moment in Life’s a Beach is when Blanca says she is tired of allowing her choices to be led by fear and will go for the walk with the handsome life guard. Elektra admonishes her to protect herself and pulls out a knife from her purse. “Take this with you.” Lulu and Angel follow suit, pulling out a taser and a set of brass knuckles. It is played as a funny moment. A light hearted way to show us “real men and women” just how often these transwomen have come close to death. Just how much of their brain power is used to ensure the next time it happens, they will escape it alive like the last.

When Elektra pulled out the knife, I recalled the times I’ve walked home from my subway station after midnight, gripping my key tightly in between my thumb and forefinger so I could use it to poke an attacker in the eye if I had to. The appearance of more serious weaponry from Lulu and Angel only confirmed the reality that these women knew a world even more terrifying than I ever would. The amount of effort that goes into avoiding male violence is bothersome, but for the most part, it remains in the periphery of my life. If I were Elektra, would I have such a luxury?

“They don’t kill us because they hate us,” she explains to Blanca. “They kill us because of what it means to love us.”

If you want to know how the world teaches you to expect to be the outlet for male rage, ask any woman. If you want to know what it feels like to expect that you will be the outlet for a rage that surfaces when a man must confront what his attraction to you reveals about him, ask a black transwoman. Ask her to take you through the fear of knowing that at any given moment you can become the victim of violent rage because a man who has perceived his attraction to you as pathology now must kill it by killing you.

I suggest you start your research soon because another another black transwoman will lose her life to male rage by the time you are done reading this sentence.

I Wrote a Book. Now, I Have To Go Outside.

As a woman of a certain age, I am pretty confident that not only do I know who I am, but I own who I am. The good, the bad and the indifferent. Though I’ve written about my personal choices for the enlightenment of others for years, I own I am a deeply private person who chooses with intention to whom I will expose myself. Though I make myself available to love, I own I am most content when left alone. Though I have fed my insatiable wanderlust with a collection of passport stamps and privileged opportunities all over the world, I own that I value the comfort of a steady income and a stable sister circle of black women who accept my type of crazy. Like any gemini, I am layer on top of layer. And for decades, I have peeled back each, ending up here: at peace and in love with the woman who I began becoming somewhere in my late teens.

I thought I knew me.

Then I wrote a book.

To be clear: writing the book is not what brought me to the epiphany that there were still more layers to unravel. Writing the book came pretty easy. It felt so much like breathing that I had a decent first draft in under a year.

It has only been these last few months leading up to publication that it has occurred to me I underestimated how much I do not enjoy inauthentic interactions. How much social media feels like one massive inauthentic interaction, even when you are being your authentic self.

I do not like to expose myself unless I can control who sees me. Unless I get to craft how they see me.

Because it is 2019 and I am a new author, social media interactions seem to be a requirement if I want anyone other than my mama and homegirls to buy my book (and my mama expects a free copy). I have been playing around on Facebook for about a decade. I became acquainted with Instagram and Twitter through my messing around with Facebook, but had only really given them cursory attention until my publicity manager made me cozy up more to these tedious little sites. I never thought of these platforms as tools for anything other than…well, playing around whenever I felt like going outside.

This is what I discovered when I was told “Use social media way more than you already do.” I am an inside kid. I have always been an inside kid. I was not one of those adventurers who eagerly awaited the day in summer camp when we went hiking or camping or some other such outdoorsy activity that was meant to challenge city kids to go beyond their comfort zones. I relished arts and crafts day when campers stayed inside in an air conditioned facility and expressed themselves on their own time and in their own space unless they felt inclined to invite in others. Apparently, these outdoorsy activities must happen on and off line a lot if I am ever to become known enough to get an email from Toni Morrison inviting me to her house for lunch.

What promoting this book has taught me is though a gregarious extrovert, I am not a person who likes to be seen. I wrote a book. In that book, I showed you Keturah. I said, “Hey, here I go with some thoughts and tings. Okay, bye.” I truly do not understand why people would now want me to show more of myself in order to get to know the woman who wrote the book. She. Is. In. The. Book. I get little satisfaction from showing more, actually. I will do it (on my own terms) because I know it is necessary. However, there is a significant part of me that finds it counterintuitive. Such exposure does not come naturally to me.

Shortly after going outside online, people started inviting me outside in real life, too. “Can you moderate a panel on women’s day?” “Can I ask you a few questions about traveling abroad, being unmarried, etc.?” “We want to feature you in this storytelling series.” It was these opportunities to promote myself that forced me to see it wasn’t just social media I found exhausting. It was being seen. It was being asked questions I didn’t particularly want to answer. It was being outside. Period.

At 44, I am forced to own: I have an intense need to control every aspect of my life. I wrote a book. I told people what I wanted to tell them in that book. And now, these people want me to tell them other stuff? But, why? I said what I said. Now, I’d like to take my many strips of colorful twine and construct my friendship bracelet quietly over here in the corner, please. Just come get me when it’s snack time.

I suppose I should be happy that there are still parts of me I don’t know know. This means I won’t run out of self improvement goals any time soon. I should also be grateful for the invitations to play outside. This must mean people like what I have to say when I get up on my soapbox. They must enjoy what is seen when I choose to show myself.

I have decided not to wait for the day when I will enjoy this process myself. Because I doubt that day will ever come. What I will do is own that it requires me to stretch myself in ways that I wouldn’t have had to had I not written this book.

Thursday, the camp counselor says we are going to some place far away and will do something called hiking and then practice pitching a tent or some such. I have chosen not to fake like I’m sick Wednesday afternoon. I will get on the bus Thursday morning. That is all I can promise to do.

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