Why This Black Women Tends to Shout…

When I was married to Ishmael years ago, I remember explaining the lyrics of Lauryn Hill’s “Tell Him”, letting him know that it was a standard version to 1 Corinthians 13. When I was nine, I loved the chapter so much that I had it memorized along with the many other verses and chapters of the bible. I thought then as a kid that I understood the chapter and that I would understand love once I received it in my life, so for every boyfriend that I had, those words would ring clear…okay, I should have known better. I thought that what I had when I was with the man I called husband was love for the few years that we were together. We both had goals and dreams that we wanted to make come true, and with those goals came a house, better careers and the raising of my son. Our wedding was another part of that dream that was suppose to place our lives in the position of that strong Black couple that would conquer the world. I had dreams before him that consisted of meeting my soul mate, marrying him and giving birth to 5 boys and one baby girl, living on the isle of Manhattan as I wrote novels and poetry and he played jazz for a living. I wanted the brownstone and the station wagon. I wanted to trek Italy and hang out in Milan for a year while losing myself in the art and the language. I wanted to model and be Tracy from "Mahogany". I wanted to become the feminine feminist who did everything she wanted when she wanted and how she wanted, with painted toenails and a backpack with poetry and bottled water. So when I met Ishmael, my urban/suburban dreaded god the summer of 1999 and got my first kiss in the rain at 5 am in the morning, I thought that I was on track and I was on my way to finally achieving everything that I wanted.

Understand, I was the barefoot hippie that was traveling, exploring and opening up my eyes to life like a newborn just brought into the world by three hard pushes. I had my son alone, I had been married, and somewhere in the middle of all that, I decided to take the path to get back in school and change my life. I never knew that a few classes in Intro to Computers would lead me to the Web, which led me to poetry, which led me to Slam, which led me to Ishmael. And after him, there would be no more, I told myself. I left the small, country hometown of Ripley, Tennessee to find out who I was, despite what my parents said and what the world thought. I ran to Ishmael with no hesitation with my son and furniture in tow. And for that first year, our family was content…sometimes. I missed my parents and my friends constantly, but I wanted to build my world around what we were building. Looking back now…. well, it was real. It was perhaps one of my best years because we inspired each other. We amazed each other with poetry and music, new recipes and a new playground for my son to play on. We couldn’t make love in our bedroom because of our downstairs neighbor (complaining bitch!), so we improvised. I couldn’t wait for him to come home at night - I would be up waiting with a warm meal, a bath, a glass of wine, incense…everything that would make him happy. When he was content, I was content.

Imagine my surprise when I received my wake up call.

After being with him for 3 years, I went to Memphis for a Moment of Reflection. I needed to go and find the woman that I used to be before everything fell apart. Three years after we met, we were no longer the happy couple that we used to be. See, I became someone that I didn’t know…silent. I no longer had my own opinion, my own heart or my own soul, and inside of my head, there was a girl that I once knew crying out, begging to be heard. Around this time, I had all but stopped doing Spoken Word. I wanted to do an album, but I promised Ish that he could finish his before I started working on any project. He felt that my poetry was tearing the family apart with me on the road and working on other projects. We began to fight each other instead of the system. For Ish, I was the system, and he would slap it if it didn’t go his way while he lived in a purple haze of confusion. After falling in love with the woman that was so outspoken when he met her, he silenced her with hits and derogatory words, no matter if the child heard or saw. So I kept quiet. Some days I wished that I could get totally lost in my writing, but the dishes needed to be done and the bills needed to be paid. We were so busy fighting and arguing most of the time to even notice that my son was being affected by all of the mess that was now created. So when Michelle Montgomery called me one Sunday morning in January 2002, it was the beginning of my journey. It was time to bring the woman that I knew back home with me. And for those three days of Reflection, I cried, I screamed, I laughed out loud…without hesitation, I came back. The me that I knew before Ish came out, and she was excited about herself again. And when I went back to Winston-Salem, I was born again, barefoot and all.

It was that trip that taught me that sometimes we as women lose ourselves in the idea of what marriage is suppose to be. I became the desperate housewife with no sign of life while my husband hurt me mentally and physically. I thought that creating a good dinner and making the house was in order would make life better for the three of us. I used to hate women like that. My mother was never that woman, and my father had no use for a woman like that. So I cannot tell you where the desperate housewife came from. Perhaps from fear of losing it all…the house, the money, the idea of not being alone…

When I found out weeks after my trip that Ish had cheated, I went into a rampage. Not physically, but emotionally. I thought about the things that I had given up and the people I had lost…the words emerged again and I went back to writing. Only this time, I made up my mind that I would never stop. God was leading me down a path that I to this day cannot get off. And because of that path, I became stronger, more appreciative of the woman that my mother and my grandmothers were. I was given an opportunity that molded me and led me out of the mess that was made.

That same year in 2002, I was invited to do poetry at Broads off Broad for Whistling Women, a feminist group that I had admired from a distance. I had done my poem, “eulogy of a suicide victim” that I had written when the fighting had hit its fevered pitch the year before. I can admit it now…that was the state of mind that I was in that year when I wrote it. I wanted to give up and let go, but I didn’t know how. It became my scream for help, only I had covered it up and made it as if I was just teaching a lesson…for what it’s worth, a teacher cannot teach anything without having the experience first. A woman named Mary knew that. And when she heard the poem, she wanted me to recite it again for her play “Weep No More”, a domestic violence play for her ministry. I never expected to experience the opportunity to see my private life unfold in front of me in a play. That was the hardest thing for me to watch because I had been in denial for so long. The first time I did my poem for the play, I cried. A piece of me wanted to shake me and make me see what was going on in my own life. I watched and listened and realized that what was going on in my life wasn’t normal…not for my son or me. I had to ask myself if I could walk away from everything and start over again from scratch. The thought of never finding someone to share my life with scared me, but the fear of losing my voice….the thought of never speaking up for myself and losing everything that I used to be frightened me.

November 1, 2002 was the day that I saw the play and reflected upon my life.

December 1, 2002 was the day that I stopped reflecting and took my son and myself out of a home that was no longer filled with love and laughter, but with anger and abuse.

Do I regret leaving? That’s like asking me if I regret living and breathing. I can admit now that leaving and having to talk to police and judges about what was going on was the hardest thing for me to do. But regretting is the last thing I have done. I wanted more for my son and myself so I had to do what needed to be done. The last time he touched me, I told him then, “You will never place your hands on me or any other woman again.” It was the only way that I could open my mouth, clear my throat and sing my song like I needed to. I was no longer the caged bird peering down at what I was missing anymore. It is the one time that I needed to shout. I was giving birth to a new life, and in order to get it in order, I had to push away the pain and scream until it finally came to fruition. 

When my marriage failed and I walked away from the abuse given to me on a bi-weekly basis, I no longer wanted to deal with a man, much less date one. I was tired of thinking that everyone out there in the cold, cruel world was out to play games and use others for their gain, so I vowed to enjoy my life and myself without complicating it with a relationship. I spent a year alone in North Carolina learning to love myself and enjoy my own company, and with that, I gained back my confidence and self esteem. I made dates with myself, whether it be a movie on television or a night out on the town with jazz and a good meal to boot. I had girlfriends that came over through the week and we would spend most of our time laughing, acting a fool, singing and cooking gumbo. For me, this was new. I had relationships with women, yes, but it was always the same old She-Gurrrl Man Hatin' Club, sitting around and complaining about what they did, what they couldn't do, and what we saw the other one do to get the man she had. What these women and I shared was a love for good food, wine, music and us. And this was my first time enjoying gumbo. And to be honest with you, I didn't know how to cook gumbo until one of my girls came over to the house one afternoon with music in her soul and spices in her bag. And from that day on, it was us, Rachelle Ferrell, Earth Wind and Fire, a large bottle of wine and a big pot of gumbo. From that day until I moved to Dallas, my belly and my spirit was full. 

When I finally thought that someone was in love with me as well as I with them, I left the comforts of my two-story townhouse, told my girlfriends goodbye and headed west. For me, it was like coming out of a pretty damn good prison and getting back to the life outside the walls. I did better staying where I was, if you want to know the truth...I got caught up in the old routine again, looking for the relationship to fill the appetite that I had for life. It was too bad that I wasted that energy on him the first few months because I know that I could have written some great poems or cooked some great meals or even conquered more of the old fears that were trying to come back. After 6 months of loneliness in a relationship that wasn't, I woke up on my 32nd birthday and realized that I not only did I no longer embrace myself, but I was hugging thin air and falling apart with no support. After so many inconsistencies and so little love from the brother, it ended and I made myself start all over again and began to teach myself how to breathe again without searching for artificial support.

When I decided to find someone to date again, it was a hard decision. I had a new fear that the brother that I was with was a representation of every man in Dallas. And the fact that "Cheaters" was based on the city didn't make things any easier. I wasn't sure if I needed to place myself out there to look vulnerable or naive. I wanted to find someone that I could have fun with...someone that could understand my jokes and knew why I cried at the end of "Forrest Gump"...someone who knew that I had to have barbeque sauce with my fries and jazz playing on a Saturday morning between coffee and CNN. It was more than a want...for me, it was a necessity that I began to desire. 

When I decided to move back to Memphis, it was a decision based on love and time, but time had been so cruel to my whn it came to love, and to know what the hell to expect was even scarier.  I knew what it was like before.  All I wanted to know was how to protect myself from the pain that would come along with the guy that would sweep me off my feet.

Then came the whirlwind.

I met a young man that was everything that I wanted and needed in someone and within myself. The desires that I thought I had left behind underneath my favorite tree in Winston-Salem had finally found me again. In the beginning, it was frightening. I waited on the shoe to drop, for the world to end, for something to stir up all the mess that I removed myself from before he came along. Instead, the wildflower seeds that were left inside this bitter earth began to bloom and I became transformed into the woman that I recognized. He was a blessing in my home and in my heart, because suddenly I was inspired to write like I used to. Parts of me bloomed and blossomed, and I couldn't help but laugh and dance again like I had as a child. I looked forward to the night phone calls  that would have me up all night laughing and smiling in my sleep, because I knew that the next day I would receive it again and again and again. He is a reflection of my adult self as my child was a reflection of the youthful me and to see myself within their eyes became my reason for waking up every morning and thanking God for another day.

I began to yearn and understand what it was to be loved back for the first time in ten years...I realized why black women tend to shout. I used to scream about all of the pain that I was going through when I started doing my poetry, but I kept quiet about the joy. I was told as a young girl that it wasn't proper for a lady to be loud in public or laugh too hard at a joke. I was told as a wife to not speak too loud in public about my feelings about the world and its destruction...I had to stifle it with head wraps and long skirts to cover up who I was and what I wanted to be. I was told in the relationship before this soul mate came along that it wasn't cool for the world to know that we were together, so handholding and public kisses were out, so at night when I was alone after the relationship was over, I stifled my tears in my pillows until I slept, and even then I cried in my sleep. I lost a lot of myself long ago...it was only when he blew in to my life that the me that I knew emerged and the sanctification began.

Sometimes the love that that we receive feels so tremendous that the world has to know...I know that it says that love is not loud or boastful, but a strong, Black love...it's like staring at your youth all over again...all the hopscotch games and Popsicles that you could eat. He made me full and hyper and happy, even when it seemed that he rest of the world was so damned harsh and cruel. Other than the birth of my son, I had finally found a reason to feel the craving to scream from the rooftops. He was the reason why I found myself singing and cooking gumbo while cleaning up the mess that was left from the last cat. I have been blessed to have this young man in my life at this present moment. His friendship and his embrace has been the best belated birthday present I have ever received.

I dedicate this book to him because when the silence existed, he taught me how to fill it with noise again. And when I wanted to scream for crazy reasons, he became my calm. And I am so grateful that I have met him in this lifetime.

I also dedicate this book to my sisters who want to shout but don’t know how. It took this journey of writing this book to realize that there are so many things in my life that I have experienced that cannot be hidden between pages of diaries and old cardboard paper. I can no longer hide myself from the world and from my fears anymore. I am a woman…that makes me a creator, a mentor, a feminist, a motivator, a teacher, a mother, a lover and necessary to exist. I pray that my poetry -my words- live within my sisters that feel me.

Aisha Zorelle Raison