As we [sistahs] began to bring home the bacon, we also began to view differently our husbands, brothers and male acquaintances. He was now becoming a thorn in our side. He was keeping us down. We were now able to afford fine lunches at the finest restaurants in downtown USA and designer clothing adorned our backs. The feminist movement, which was never our movement said, “We had rights. We were entitled.” We watched as the “Boss” bought presents for his wife during lunch—because he was dating the secretary. We watched as the “Boss” drove his BMW and Mercedes into the workplace and we the nurturers and lovers of our men, homes and families began to covet his lifestyle. Discontent entered our unions like a gentle breeze.

Armed with degrees, corporate power and money we brought it “correct” to our men: “Either get a job or a better job. Make some money or get out! Why can’t you afford roses—which I once grew in my garden, but today I have little time for? Why don’t we buy a car like the “Boss”? Why can’t we wear more designer labels like the “Boss”? Why can’t we buy a bigger house like the “Boss”? I can do this by myself! I don’t need you! You are holding me back.” What happened?

We told our men they were no longer needed and expected him to stay. We told him to get out, but we closed the open door. We told them their money wasn’t enough, but we wanted him to buy our dinner. We told him his house was too small and apartment too shabby—so we bought bigger ones his salary could not afford. We told him he didn’t measure up to our “Boss,” so we didn’t take him to the corporate functions. We told him his good simply wasn’t good enough. We stopped loving, inspiring, building, motivating—we stopped caring. Not only did we tell him, we showed him by bringing in the big dollars and falling in love with the “Boss.” To make matters sweeter [for Black women] in 1975 Congress passed an important law. This law had far reaching implications for the Black family. That would be the Equal Credit Opportunity Act, which said, among other things that banks could no longer ignore a sistahs income when determining whether the family earned enough money to qualify for a mortgage. So we bought even bigger houses. Doesn’t sound too earth shattering and the question here is not if the Act was needed, however, I submit this Act opened the door for us sistahs to take our money, buy our house and run when it didn’t make sense. We began to look at our positions as mother, wife, daughter and sister as menial labor. These were ‘positions’ relegated to poor and uneducated women. Now one generation later and what a mess. We no longer want to be like our mothers keeping the house, cooking, loving our men and our children. That job is for suckers. The world had so much more to offer. Or so we thought.

Today we’ve kicked brothers completely to the curb. Sorry brothers catch up if you can. I see a bus coming. We have and plan children whom we believe we can and should raise alone. What? We buy and build our own homes with no intention of a brother ever living there, because it’s mine. We manage over brothers in our positions as vice president and CFO—catch up if you can now. We lease our Lexus and Jaguar and we will not date a brother who doesn’t own property. We have more disposable income sistahs since entering the workforce and climbing the corporate ladder, however we’re spending more trying to keep up with the “Boss”. We raise our children in daycare centers and with home care providers with little or no guilt. We nurture less and love less. But we ask why a brother doesn’t want to open the car door. We wonder why the brother doesn’t want to pay the mortgage. We wonder why he wants to go ‘Dutch’. We wonder why he dates White women. We wonder why he doesn’t want to serve our God and enter our churches. Who is our God anyway? We wonder why our brother doesn’t want to talk anymore. We wonder why there exists a disconnection between Black men and women. Are we really that blind? Sistahs, we’ve usurped from our men their role as Black men. We’ve taken from our men their purpose and place in our lives; however, as Landis so fondly shared, ‘we still want to hold brothers accountable to the standards of yesteryear.’ I tend to agree with brothers who say, ‘enough is enough’. Black women, we can’t have what our double mind speaks because we’re tearing brothers down! Just like the crack of “Boss’” whip.

I know we are not going to stop working sistahs! This is not what I suggest. Many of us have careers we love and are in no position to leave Corporate America, even if we wanted to. Many of us hold positions, which will help change and shape the world. I certainly do not advocate throwing in the towel on higher education for Black women. But I challenge us sistahs to pause for a moment and contemplate what our actions and words are saying to Black men and where they’ve gotten us. Yes, I know we are educated and powerful Black women who can verbally spar and out think and run companies with the best of them. We do it all day in Corporate America, but why do I bring it home? I challenge us sistahs to ask ourselves some questions: When did I stop offering my labor of love to my Black man? When did the Black man become my enemy? Can I take responsibility for what I’ve created? When did I start believing the lie that my worth, status and success should be measured by the dollars we make? Who told me his Buick was whack and Corporate America all that? When did our homes change from his castle of peace to a den of thieves?

Let’s travel back to a time when ‘bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan’ wasn’t our dream. That was never our story. We have our media induced ethics to thank for that. You see I remember watching nana give papa a wet kiss when he returned home from a hard days work. I remember smelling baked chicken, greens and cornbread coming from the homes, which lined Carpenter Street, as mothers, sisters and daughters prepared dinner for their husbands, sons and brothers. These Black men were our champions and heroes. I remember when our homes were safety zones and a place of refuge, protection—comfort for Black men. The walls were fortified with love, peace, patience and kindness. The enemy could not penetrate. I remember a day when Black was beautiful on a brother. I remember a day when I’d get on the bus and say hello to the brother driving the bus—because he looked like me—and I’d greet the brother I sat next to. I remember a day when I’d walk into the grocery store and the Black man behind the counter was my brother—he was my uncle, father—he’d give me the best cut of meat. I’d thank him and ask about his family and day. I’d smile as he asked about my father. What a love story! Brother Landis all I can say is I remember!

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