Season in Sheol

The generation of black woman who came of age a decade before me did not join the Feminist Movement in significant numbers. They were living a form of feminism already: heading households independent of men, and working full time, of necessity, not choice, undervalued, underpaid. Our ivory counterparts stayed home to tell their Black housekeepers how to starch their husband’s shirts while they played bridge, watched “As the World Turns”, and pondered the meaning of “The Feminine Mystique” with their friends. The feminists wanted our Black bodies, but my wise sisters knew that feminism was a white woman’s gain. That one day, in their comfortable suburban homes, they would tell their children how they marched arm-in-arm with their best Black friends, recalling the battle; their stories ending with, “I don’t know what happened to her…but if it wasn’t for the Movement, Mama would not be CEO today!” It did not take a crystal ball for Black women to see the white women who stood with them shoulder to shoulder rise in corporate America, as they died in huts, poor, sick and forgotten as Fanni Lou Hamer. How did my Sistahs know we would only rise as high as the Best Black Friend who makes the stars look hip: a Sherri Sheppard* to Sara Rue*? I was a best Black friend to a couple of white women. Yet, I would tell my sisters to proceed with caution, especially, in the workplace; because if our interests collide with theirs they expect the sacrifice to be ours. Black women have stories we can only tell each other. Our best white friends are blind to our perspective. Our relationships work best as long as the Black half is somehow less. If we are more (more anything at all) we must be reduced—restored to our rightful place that the world may turn in favor of the more righteous hue. I never expected the Flamethrower to turn on me as she did. We were friends. She joined the synagogue ready to contribute time and effort and I supported her committee work at every turn. When she started the New Moon group, I was among the first to join. She was my confidante when Gumby’s managerial incompetence drove me crazy. It was during the Flamethrower’s tenure as Vice President of Office Management that I developed my medical condition. My heart beat like Gene Krupa banging out ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ to Benny Goodman’s clarinet. I was frightened that my shaking hands signaled the onset of Parkinson’s Disease or MS*. Over the phone, two or three days before, the Flamethrower had been compassionate, supportive and understanding. By the time we met, her brain was scrambled eggs. She was testy, impatient, hard-hearted, and mean, nothing like the nurturing leader I held hands with, hugged, laughed with in the New Moon Group, who was so gracious when I helped and supported her New Member Committee activities. That day she was hostile every time I opened my mouth. The agenda, as she and I discussed in advance, was getting it into Gumby’s head that I had problem, and the minor adjustments (room temperature, office pressure) that could be taken to keep things in check and running. But when I objected to something Gumby said, the Flamethrower snapped at me, apropos of nothing previously mentioned, “This is what I mean by your bad attitude. It’s unacceptable.” Was she possessed? In an “Exorcist” head spinning, projectile vomiting kind of way? Did we need a priest in the beit midrash? I knew what was wrong with me. What the hell was wrong with her? It was immediately obvious that I was not going to get anywhere. Gumby had barely spoken. I gave up. There was no longer any reason for the meeting, but I guess the Flamethrower felt she had to accomplish something. She interrogated me and I repeated the facts: what the condition was, the outward effects, my treatment. There was nothing I could say that she did not manage to twist in a sneer of fault. “Well it seems to me this is your problem. You have to deal with it!” I was dealing with it. The Flamethrower was listening to herself, not me. Was I the only one aware that she was angry at me either because I was ill or despite my illness? Even Gumby tried to diffuse the Flamethrower’s outraged attack. She did not offer to do anything about our work situation, but at least she was not mad at me. And she did fill in a couple of conversation gaps that let me keep quiet because each time I opened my mouth, the same woman who offered, “Would you like me to talk to Gumby?” went after my tongue with a hot poker. …and in conclusion…it did not matter. I was demoralized by the Flamethrower’s betrayal; stunned by my ‘friend’s’ reactions. What was it about me in this shul that turned decent people into Khmer Rouge*?