The Downside of Female Tribalism

Since I decided to write publicly about the thoughts in my mind, and try to curb my need to rhyme (Ha! I am so lying), I have been watching some things that make me question women kind.

What the hell, female tribe???

I have not written much about my brother or the dynamics of my mother’s family so I will address that error most candidly- my mom’s immediate family consists of five siblings- four women and one golden man in the literal, skin tone sense. Outside of his fledgling ideas in music, he is going nowhere in my opinion. But this essay is not about him. Being the primary man in the family, this uncle has an influence on the female dynamic. For this highly internalized racism dynamic, my brother got the backlash being the color of good chocolate for lack of a better description.

And for me, this is a problem that I overlooked because my mom worshipped my brother like his life was her most valued possession. That obsession never really took in my book. But that obsession was obvious and it shook my ability to look at him as anything but an enemy for the parents in my younger days. Let me tell you how that took:

I recall in my bratty single digits, I threw an epic tantrum and got a gift at his birthday party. I know then it was obvious my mother loved him more than me. My father, in his attempts to quell my rage, went out and got me a Barbie. I don’t think I was able to hold it until my own party when my brother received a gift on my birthday as well. In my petty mind, I should have been superior for once. Well, that did not work out too well.

During the era of the My Own Kenya doll toy craze, I hid or stole my brother’s homework for some reason. In my father’s infinite wisdom, my punishment was to know what my gifts were for my birthday and not receive them for months. I think I got them in the following March. It was harsh. It did not help that the favorite of the two gifts was a Beauty and the Beast watch. The Kenya doll was taken out and shared with the children of my mother’s friend. They immediately ruined the hair of the doll on its first day in my hands. Makes my disinterest in wanting to share with anyone kind of make more sense.

I have a brother and I love to hate him. He was friends with my first sexual harasser. He lost his key in early puberty and kicked in the front door until he got in our home. Since it damaged the door frame, his actions in fury made the house unsafe to live in. He got to leave this home shortly after to live with my father’s mother place. He got what he wanted at the time and no punishment. It seems so petty now, but that hit me hard. I think that is when my rage at my mother took a shift for extreme violence.

In all of this, I never blamed him per se but I sure as hell would not come to his rescue when he could use it. And he returned the favor eventually. While he eventually moved in with my father and his new wife, I was left with the impending madness of my mother’s magic manifest. We had fights about this but memories are faulty in this period. But after a few years in my father’s housing, he returned to my mother’s side of the family with stories of my father’s wife. It was… interesting.

See the whole, my brother being a potential villain began under my stepmother. This woman married a man with two children and she personally did not want any. She would make empty gestures of gifts but never looked you in the eyes. For her to be a therapist, this felt unwise. And it was the end of my father’s shine in my brother’s eyes. For three years he endured a series of petty viciousness from this woman who called the police at any chance she had to show her control over my brother to her husband. At least that is what he told us what happened.

Once my brother opted to leave the fake smiles of my father’s house, he was initiated into my grandmother’s clutches. And this woman, being a Black woman, has a hatred for men overall. In a way, all my aunts loathe the opposite sex. It is a strange dynamic for someone that loves to bring the opposite sex into their bed. But there you have it, and his skin was another element.

Sadly, there is not one woman on my mother’s side that has not suffered under the hands of a Black man and with the lack of therapy, it makes giving birth to your enemy a hotbed for paradoxical reasoning. My brother suffered for it. And I get it objectively. But it makes him mean to me. And while I can understand his reasoning, he would still hesitate if he saw someone kidnap me.

That is enough for this evening.