October is Breast Cancer Awareness and Domestic Violence Awareness: But Are We Truly Aware of Both??

So, I am sitting here trying to understand why during the month of October Breast Cancer Awareness gets more media attention and corporate sponsorship than Domestic Violence Awareness which is also remembered during the month of October. I know that most women have breast irrespective of their size, pigmentation, and function. And, I also know 1 of 8 women will be diagnosed with some form of breast cancer. However, what I am having a hard time trying to understand is why it seems to be favored, if one could favor one personal disaster over another, over domestic violence especially when 1 of 4 women will experience some form of domestic violence in their lifetime meaning women are more likely to be exposed to domestic violence than breast cancer.

This acknowledgement is not to reduce the level of attention Breast Cancer Awareness’ initiatives receive because it is important. And, evermore important to me because a couple of months ago my “beloved” godmother was diagnosed with it which caused me to become a consumer of all things related to curing Breast Cancer. However, as a survivor of domestic violence—lived through my mother’s daily beatings—and goddaughter of a breast cancer survivor, I see the interconnections and similarities between both issues and why they must be addressed simultaneously.

“Ooh, I’m gonna tell My Daddy what you did”: My Father my Imagined Black Superhero, The Black Texan

What happened this week that made me imagine my father a superhero:

This week, I went to the doctor to check on my blood pressure. A couple of weeks ago it was a tad bit above the normal rate and so my doctor wanted to monitor it. So, I scheduled an appointment to come in this week. So, I go in and the nurse takes my blood pressure and it’s perfectly normal. So, upon hearing this I thought I could leave, but the nurse said I still had to see the doctor. To make a long story short, I saw a white male doctor who I had have never met before and instead of checking on my heart, he felt it “appropriate” to discuss my sexuality, to make racial innuendos about black women’s hypersexuality and STD rates, to discuss my “pear” shape of a black derrière, and to slide his ungloved hand under my shirt to touch my belly without cause or provocation.

Yep, this is what happened to me this week. And, of course, I felt silenced throughout the entire ordeal trying to figure out how my sexuality and the need to touch my belly had anything to do with my perfectly normal blood pressure reading. Nothing it had nothing to do with it. This older white male doctor, who appeared to be congenial, in a matter of moments, stole my ability to breathe, and, honestly, after it happened all that I could think about was, “If my father was here, he would whoop his ass.” Yes, in that moment, I wished my recovering alcoholic father who I know can fight (i.e. Evidenced by my mothers’ many blackened eyes growing up), was present to punch the white doctor in his eye Superhero style with BAM, WHAM, and a Whoosh.

An Early Valentine’s Day Post: I am My Father’s Daughter

Next week is Valentine’s Day. So, I thought I would write an early post about it from the perspective of someone (i.e. me) who deeply desires “soul abiding” relationships, but who struggles greatly in that regard.

So, you know what is troubling for me is to look in the mirror and see myself becoming like my once alcoholic father who with the help of Seagram’s Gin would make grand physically violent scenes demanding that everyone—my mother, older sister, and I—look and see him and his power. Yes, my father was a profoundly broken man who inwardly desired acceptance and, most importantly, to be loved. My father needed the healing and rejuvenating power of love. But, because he was not given those tools as a little black boy growing up in Bryan, Texas he sought to gain acceptance and love through fear and intimidation. He became an abuser.

Now that I think about it, to do what my father did requires that you find ways to cover your eyes from seeing the act and consequences of your abuse. My father used Seagram’s Gin with a hint of ice to mentally block the terror he saw in my eyes when he with bare knuckles blackened my mother’s eyes and body. All abusers—white slave owners, dictators, child molesters, rapist, and, simply, spiritually broken people—must find ways to reduce the victim to an object in order to abuse them or find ways to mute the memory of their victimization. Yep, Seagram’s Gin was my father’s choice of denial.

Indeed, my father was once a broken man and now, I, his daughter, am in many ways a broken woman.