Those Women

I woke up this morning, much earlier than I had any reason to, and lay in bed thinking about what I should do today. Then I realized I was angry, livid, frustrated to the nth degree. Why? What possibly could have happened in the five minutes cradled in the cool cavern of my bedroom, under the coziness of my sheets? 

Then I realized that I was one of those women. 

My disdain for those women was not my fault. I earned it honestly. I remember being twelve years old, staring with my cousins out my grandma’s two-story window at the juke joint across the street. We were supposed to be in bed. Then without warning, I was yanked away and threatened with the dire things that could happen to my life and soul, should I lose my morality and become one of those women. Later, I laughed that off as I went to fraternity parties every weekend. I was still a good girl, still in the choir, still church going, not a scantily clad Jezebel.

My grandmother would grumble as we grocery shopped at how those women couldn’t control their children, and I agreed, vowing never to be embarrassed in Randall’s or Weiner’s by my offspring. And I mastered that one too; my children were models of propriety whether we were out, or they spent time at a neighbor’s home. Those women needed to get it together. Hmph.

And when I got my first real job (not just babysitting), my dad was so proud. I was in college and working. I’d be independent, not one of those women who needed a man to support me (though by this time, I sorta envied those women, the ones who could bat their eyes and pout and get clothes, jewelry, money, and even more lavish gifts). Somehow I missed Coquetry 101. Damn.

And when I left college, I made the unforgivable decision to cohabitate. Oh Lord, I was one of those women, shameless, Godless, unfit to walk among civilized beings like my family. No one had ever done such a thing. And so to quell the furor, and prevent the apoplexy should it be found out that I was pregnant out of wedlock, I married. I was now a working mother, a wife, the girl-next-door. I had arrived. I was in my position, playing my role. Cook, clean, go to church, raise quiet, respectable children. No danger at all of being one of those women. 

But now I’m not just responsible for me. There’s a grown man who reflects on me. And suddenly I was one of those women again. I was doing everything right. But my husband was hanging out late at night, at juke joints, chasing scantily clad Jezebels. It would’ve been comical in its irony, were it not so painful, were it not so embarrassing. And rather than just be incensed at the assault on our marriage vows, I was mortified that I had been thrust into the ranks of those women, through no fault of my own. I was now one of those scorned, long-suffering wives, who, though ignored and neglected, live quiet lives of desperation trying to present this image of respectability to the world. Suddenly, I was a suspicious nag. 

And then I became one of those other women. The ones in the police station because my home was no longer peaceful; my mate was no longer safe. And, that wasn’t even the bottom. I became one of those women. Divorced, a single mother, ex-husband sliding from one residence to another, never a part of his sons’ lives because he’s avoiding child support.   

I rose from those ashes, a phoenix. Re-married, this time I chose better, chose a wonderful man, bought a house in a wonderful neighborhood, got awards on my job, published my writing, sent my sons to a prestigious high school, and sat back and counted their scholarship offers and acceptance letters. But secretly, I was again one of those women. The ones whose husbands deal with the issue talked about on late night commercials. I was an undersexed wife, whose husband never looked at her because he had long since lost the desire and ability to perform in the bedroom. I was one of those women, filled with doubts about my femininity, my attractiveness, my worth. I lost my faith, my hope. And so as I divorced the second time, I was one of those women- a failure at love, at marriage. 

But at least I had my kids- shining examples of manhood- ‘til one and then the other were arrested for being stupid. The kind of decisions I could only shake my head at, decisions rooted in chasing those women. And suddenly I was one of those women I never imagined being. The one talking to lawyers, visiting bail bondsmen, visiting jail, putting money on “books” and phone plans. A year passed, and both were found innocent, clean records, ready to ride off into the sunset, which was good because they weren’t gonna be coming home to live with me.  

And so, as I lay in bed, thinking about how different my life was than I imagined it would be. Thinking about how I am supposed to be buying a present for a bridal shower for a colleague half my age, who is living in a house bigger than mine with a man that makes double what any of my former boyfriends made, I am again feeling like one of those women. The ones who just haven’t gotten treated that well by life.

But there’s another, deeper feeling beginning to surface. I stood back a moment, adjusted my metaphorical magnifying glass and concluded that I should be proud. I am stronger, so much stronger. I am wiser- like an old griot sitting under a tree. I am a survivor. And instead of fearing being one of those women, of shaming those women, I could choose to celebrate my journey, to celebrate the journeys of all women. We are survivors. We are conquerors. We are WOMAN, in all her incarnations- Madonna, mother, Jezebel, martyr, victor. 

We are women, women society has minimized, vilified, and denied time and again. We are proud of our battle scars. We will not be silent any longer. As long as we women are above ground, life is not over. Our goals and dreams and visions still lie ahead of us, waiting for us to walk towards them. In taking this walk down memory lane, gazing at all the ways society would tell me I have failed, I disagree. I am stronger- much stronger. I am a survivor. And so are all those women like me. We are those women that society has minimized, vilified, and denied time and again. 

We are those women society owes its success to. Those women who endure.  

-Marlena Johns

Marlena Johns is a mother of twin sons and a grandmother of three. She was Teacher of the Year for AHS twice, a Claes Nobel Educator of Distinction and a University of Chicago Distinguished Educator. She is also a spoken word artist, as well as an organizer and promoter of live music, art and poetry shows. She has had poetry published in issues of Restless, and Five 2 One magazine., three poems featured in an anthology titled Let’s Talk about Being Human., and poetry and prose published in issues of Jonah, Caravel and in Switchback.