I grew up in a town in Metro-Atlanta where Chick-Fil-A reigns supreme. In fact, as Atlanta is the birthplace of Chick-Fil-A, the restaurant chain kind of rules the state of Georgia, if not the entire southeast. Southerners’ relationship to Chick-Fil-A is unique; it’s as much responsible for helping us grow into strong adults as our mother’s milk. Those phonetic-spelling cows mean as much to us as the glowing In & Out Burger sign means to West Coasters. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and dessert—Chick-Fil-A does not disappoint its loyal patrons. And by loyal patrons, I’m only talking about the heterosexual ones.

Though Chick-Fil-A has never hidden the fact that it is a devoutly Christian-based organization—it’s closed on Sundays—the chain has found itself in the hot seat for its affiliations with anti-anything logical (e.g. right to abortions, gay marriage) Christian groups. After one such association was made public, Chick-Fil-A’s President and COO, Dan Cathy, responded, “[W]e will not champion any political agendas on marriage and family. This decision has been made, and we understand the importance of it. At the same time, we will continue to offer resources to strengthen marriages and families.” Simply, Chick-Fil-A won’t directly take a stand against gay marriage or gay people, especially as the chain continues to grow well beyond the South, but it will assist organizations that do.

Popular Internet responses to the chicken enterprise walking that tightrope have ranged from “You Eat Chick-Fil-A Because You Are a Homophobe” to “Chicken or the Gays: Make a Choice about Eating Chick-Fil-A.” While I understand the motivation behind these grand proclamations, I find this approach terribly reductive and safe. It doesn’t account for the circumstantial malleability of human values—our own and others—meaning our social values (the ones we develop based on awareness and circumstances) are fluid and change based on what affects our identity and us directly. For example, if you’re gay (or support gay people and gay marriage) and boycott Chick-Fil-A, do you also protest drag queens with questionable racial politics? Do you stop eating Hershey’s, M&Ms, and Twix because children cultivated that chocolate? Does one oppression equal all oppression, and if so should it be handled as such?

The rigid dichotomy in which protesting Chick-Fil-A has been framed—the “you’re either all in or completely out” mentality held by many of today’s socially-conscious—is nothing short of drive-thru activism. Not simply because we’re talking about Chick-Fil-A, but also because the pervasiveness of the Internet makes it fairly easy to pick up the latest cause, often one that doesn’t require much of us as consumers or social activists, and drive off in smug self-satisfaction because we took a stand for one something…whether or not we let all the other somethings (racism, (hetero)sexism, classism, etc.) slide by. When our social activism is built upon the fluidity of human nature, we stand to trip ourselves up walking over that crackling foundation.

I am not suggesting people shouldn’t protest or boycott Chick-Fil-A because they/we should. I, too, am of the mindset that Chick-Fil-A and WinShape’s (the nonprofit arm of the business) donations to wretched organizations like Focus on the Family are completely harmful and destructive to the progressive and positive sustainability of this country. Focus on the Family and other groups like it, have such a strong lobbying hold that their efforts carry sincere danger. And to be real, though I’m not surprised, I am disappointed that Chick-Fil-A couldn’t just stick to making cookies ‘n’ cream milkshakes and six-pack kids’ meals because they’re so good at it and I miss having that much sugar and sodium in my life!* At the same time, I am not in the business of ignoring the mainstream gay rights movement’s issues with women, gay folks of color, queer identities, and class.

Being an activist, of any kind, calls for constant check-ins and recognition that while we’re fighting one oppression, we may be engaging in another. That doesn’t mean we give up and forget trying to make or advocate for any social change. Instead, we put greater energy and effort into investing and maintaining a community and solidarity with all people—oppressed, marginalized, and otherwise—in our hearts and spirits as much as through our avoidance of two pickles and a bun chicken sandwiches.

*Admittedly, I recently ate at Chick-Fil-A after my thesis defense, but if it’s any consolation, I felt guilty the whole time.

A version of this essay was originally posted at Womanist Musings on January 27, 2012

One night I dreamt it was my wedding day. The florist dropped off the flowers in Styrofoam to-go boxes; the caterers wanted to know if and where they could smoke weed before the reception; guests asked me to pour them a Coke; I was overcome with emotion that people I’d never spoken to in college were there to celebrate my big day; and the entire cast of Martin showed up. Finally hitting my breaking point, I cried to Martin that everything was a mess (and I didn’t even know who I was to be marrying). He gave me a hug and in a high-pitched voice mocking me, apparently, he repeated the mantra I’d always given him when things got tough. “Whenever I’m having a bad day, I just put five drops of glitter on my face and everything’s better!”

I woke up to make sure there wasn’t a gas leak in my apartment that would’ve caused me to dream such nonsense, but then I began to process why marriage would even be on my mind. Marriage, and more specifically the politics of marriage is everywhere—with the spotlight unforgivingly resting on Black women. Since Barack and Michelle Obama waltzed through their inauguration, a near obsession has taken hold of mainstream news outputs from CNN to the New York Times about why Black women have such low marrying rates compared to other women.

Largely spearheading that conversation has been Steve Harvey—the thrice-married comedian whose advice errs on the side of Black women should consider dating men 15-20 years their senior. He’s been on Frontline, The Oprah Winfrey Show, more recently, Anderson Cooper’s daytime talk show—and he’ll soon begin taping for his own show—explaining to the world what (Black) women are doing wrong and how they can get right when it comes to (heterosexist, outdated, patriarchal) love.

Harvey’s romantic comedy, Think Like a Man, based on his best-selling relationship book, Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man, opens in theaters on April 20, much to the annoyance of many happily single-self-sufficient-“why would anyone listen to this man for anything other than guidance on where to get a double-breasted suit” women. (By default, Harvey originally tailored his message to Black women, but having gained inexplicable success as a relationship expert, his message has since transcended audiences)

To counteract those images of the Obamas, the media engaged in a massive “anti-black woman campaign” to let Black women know that what the First Family has is an “anomaly.” They responded with this statistic: 70% of Black women are single. So for the last few years scholars, scientists, and journalists have been asking “why can’t all these beautiful, successful Black women get married?! Everybody else can!” Theresa Lasbrey calls it “The Obama Effect.” The unspoken message becomes: “Black women, please do not think you’re going to get that fairytale. Your men are in prison, uneducated, and the ones who aren’t only like white women. So there. Go sit down and watch Martin.”

Taking this narrative out of context of Black women for a moment, and opening it up to a larger issue of how we deify marriage in American culture, I recognize that a few things are happening. First, it attempts to make (heterosexual, cis-gendered) women act like hamsters on a wheel—constantly chasing an unattainable dream, dishing out money and developing a complex in the process, with no further gain than where we began. In that framework, women turn to one channel and see Bridezillas; they turn to another and see Steve Harvey telling us to “Act Like a Lady, Think Like a Man;” another channel says there’s a “crisis” in marriage and it’s our fault; and finally our politicians are saying that we must protect the institution of marriage. The constant that weaves through all of those conversations is that for women to find success in love, we must not hold back in the mental, emotional, spiritual, moral, or financial investment we make to find our Mr. Right. That is coincidentally convenient for publishing houses, the movie industry, media conglomerates, the Religious Right, and you already know—patriarchy—a capitalistic patriarchy—more specifically.

There are two conversations missing on the subject of marriage. The most obvious one is that not every couple can exercise their right to it. Those aforementioned narratives about the current state of marriage distract us from the fact that marriage, as it currently stands, is an unequal and unjust institution. Images of women screaming at their bridesmaids and putting them on diets distance us from the painful reality that an arbitrary system dictates other people’s fulfillment. Seeing dear friends and mentors in loving, committed relationships who only have access to a civil union hurts me on the deepest of levels, but it also forces me to check my privilege as a straight person and do what I can to change things. I would challenge any person or couple who supports gay marriage to not simply state it, but also find a way to make it a reality, whether that’s through donating to an organization like Lambda Legal, stop eating Chick-Fil-A (which has been so hard for me—those nuggets are too good), or simply being cognizant of how much you talk about your wedding plans to your nonheterosexual friends, just out of respect and awareness of inequality.

And finally, mass media appears to be afraid to broach the possibility that many women might be fine with not being married. While I am in a committed relationship, I am also a womanist/feminist/independentist who believes that I can create a lasting friendship, partnership, and space for love without strong-arming my fella into running down the aisle at high speed just so our relationship appears more legitimate to Steve Harvey and others who unquestioningly buy into the marriage-industrial complex.

Marriage is lovely and I hope that we can find a place in American society that allows all people who want to experience it be able to. In the meantime, there needs to be some conversation reform. At its core, marriage is a legally-binding contract. There’s obviously nothing romantic or sexy about that. So instead, I choose to focus on what marriage represents—a deep, evolving love, commitment, respect, and honor of another human being that can offer me the same in return. If we could shift the public conversation on marriage to something like that, instead of the measurement of one’s success at life and womanhood, I might find something more productive to dream about—like the winning lottery numbers.

A little validation from the universe: After I finished the original essay, I just so happened to turn the television on to Dr. Drew’s Lifechangers. A segment of the show focused on a young, unmarried couple that had a child together. The “mentourage”—Mario Lopez, Finesse Mitchell, and Steve Santagati—and Dr. Drew argued that once the pair had a child, they lost their chance to be twenty-three and needed to “stand before God” and get married. Clearly frustrated, Maria Menounos, the facilitator, argued “What if people don’t want to get married?! It’s ok!” Naturally she was dismissed by the mentourage because under this latest iteration of patriarchal paternalist rule over women’s lives that the Marriage Industrial Complex has raised, women are not regarded in the manifestation of their own desires and destiny. We are just strapped to a chair and spoon-fed whatever capitalist-patriarchal society thinks we’ll eat. 

Originally posted at Womanist Musings on February 10, 2012

Despite what my bio says, I am not just a cultural critic—simply put on this earth to analyze, inform, and hate on all the things that make you happy. I am actually something much more prolific than that. I have been granted a special power that absolves and heals white guilt. Yes, it’s true: I am a race priestess. By divine blessing, I have the power to not only attract white people who need to confess their nonprejudiced, nonracist frame of thinking, but my very essence heals them from the pain and awkwardness that comes with being white and knowing that some white people have done really horrible things to people who look like me.

There was the older white woman who approached me in the “African-American Literature” section at a liquidated Borders. After telling me all about an episode of Oprah with Terry McMillian, she segued into a story about how she’d always been quite liberal and never had a problem with Black people (or gays!).

There was the man at a suburban library who noticed my copy of bell hooks’ Killing Rage: Ending Racism and shared with me his experience of working with young Black men in the army. He explained, “I’m not prejudiced, but I was hard on them because they wouldn’t listen. They saw me being tough as being prejudiced. I don’t have a prejudice bone in my body. I don’t have a problem with black people. Black people are humans too; you all put your pants on one leg at a time…just like the rest of us.”

There was the college professor who chatted me up in the locker room at my gym. She wanted to know my thoughts on why Black people in the 60s didn’t like blues-influenced white rock music. She blamed it on the Civil Rights Movement because, according to her, it taught Black people to be self-sufficient and segregate ourselves.

*My personal favorite* Though he wasn’t quite looking to defend himself in race court, an elderly man saw my friends and I sitting together at a local Red Lobster (I know, but it was my birthday) and was struck by the fact that “all three races [Black, Korean, and Jewish]” were “sitting together at one table!” He’d “never seen that combination before!” Like unicorns and leprechauns, racial integration is such a rarity in America that when one stumbles upon it, he must stop and marvel.

Finally, there was a woman who called in to a radio show I contribute to and expressed her frustration with Black people being so resistant to letting white folks ask them questions about race. Her interest in wanting to right so many wrongs and getting shut down made her feel like “damn if I do, damn if I don’t.”

There are two common links that run through these stories. First, in each of these conversations and dozens of others like them, the white person walks away with an air of self-satisfaction because they have just created an opportunity for themselves to lighten the heavy load that is pretending as though race doesn’t exist and secretly knowing it does. The second link is age. In many of these stories, the individual was past the age of 40; they and I are part of conflicting generations. (That is not to say young people don’t commit racial microaggressions because they do…a lot.) Discussing race as openly as we do today—outside of our close family and friends or liberal arts classrooms—is relatively new. So while these people tell me how they’ve never had a problem with Black people, or what they really think of Black people, or how moved they were by The Help, the root of their narrative(s) is that because it’s now less taboo to talk about race publicly, they are in search of forgiveness for those many years of silence. Unfortunately, for me and many other Black folks, we hold the key to their absolution…or so they think.

The 1970s Norman Lear sitcom Maude lightheartedly encapsulates these experiences. She is well intentioned, but in her eagerness to show what a compassionate and accepting (white) liberal she is, she highlights her own prejudicial thinking. To create a shared space of healing, love, and acceptance—of ourselves and the history we are all unfortunately a part of—I would ask white people (or any other ethnicity that’s not a part of the one they are trying to learn more about) to do a few things:

1.)   Stop referencing The Help. Ultimately, it’s fiction, not an Encyclopedia Brittanica.

2.)   If you’d like to know more about race, Black people, or a particular moment in Black/American history, read a nonfiction/history book. Visit your local library or log onto Amazon and find some books that use citations! The Help (or Mississippi Burning, The Long Walk Home, etc.) may have been your accidental starting point, but you have the power to not let it be the end of your journey to discovering the Black American experience.

3.)   Do not engage Black people with conversations about race if you do not want to hear what we have to say.

4.)   If you are only looking for reinforcement that “you is kind, you is smart, you is important,” please limit your storytelling to other white people.

5.)   EXPERIENTIAL VALIDATION. If you so choose to engage a Black person in a conversation about race, please remember those two words. It is key to building racial harmony. There is truth in our experiences; use them as a lesson, not an act of finger-pointing. If you didn’t do it, most likely no one’s blaming you for it happening.

I am obviously not a race priestess. However, I am one of many, many folks who have made a commitment to fostering dialogues about race productive for all parties involved. I know Hollywood has led a lot of people to believe in the Magical Negro, but none of us are actually magicians. Though it would be nice, we can’t erase the past or make you feel better about what happened. It may sound shocking, but that old man at the library was right. Black folks are human too—we’re just trying to browse the bookstore, workout, and eat cheddar-garlic biscuits like everybody else.