Jackson Free Press

Dear Gabby,

Hey, sweetheart. How's school?

I'm going to assume that, based on the fact that you haven't sent me any class papers to review, you don't have many writing courses this semester. Or maybe you do, and you're handling them just fine by yourself.

In any case, I hope the semester is going well and that you are looking out for Josh. Have you settled on a Broadway musical for your American Sign Language exam? If not, I'd recommend "The Lion King." I know I talk about it all the time and, of course, you were too young to remember, but when you were a little baby, and I worked at the movie theater, I'd take you to see it. You'd get so excited during that opening sequence and the "Circle of Life" song.

In any case, I know you'll pick the perfect tune. I'm so proud of you for sticking with sign language. I never thought that ASL would be something you would have chosen to study, much less for three years.

Then again, you never cease to surprise and amaze me. I know I've said this before, but I'm really proud of how far you've come as a student, even if it kind of bums me out that you need me less and less to help with writing assignments (you have an open invitation, of course).

I would say that I hope you're taking time to enjoy yourself, but from scrolling through your Instagram and Facebook, I already know that you are.

The blue dress? Really? I'll keep my comments to myself because you're a grown woman now and make your own decisions. Besides, whatever outfit you decide to celebrate the weekend and why it makes you happy to wear it is for you. It's no one's business to form an opinion about, not even mine or dad's.

The hard part of being a big brother is that we're always in the position of being proud of our intelligent, dynamic, beautiful little sisters on one hand while being wary—loathsome, really—of guys who are attracted to you for different reasons.

You probably remember—or maybe you don't—me shooting boys and young men dirty looks who fixed their gaze on you a little too long or stared at the wrong part of your body. I kept (OK, I keep) mental notes of the names of young men who make comments I don't like under your photos on Facebook. Sometimes, I wish you didn't post certain pics at all (see: aforementioned blue dress). I've even thought, half seriously, that I might need a big, scary gun just in case anyone ever tries to mess with you.

After all, in America, isn't the only acceptable response to a man hurting a woman you love to bring a firearm to 
the situation?

Deep down, I hope I know better. And to be perfectly honest, I think I know the whole overprotective big brother (or father) thing isn't about you; it's about me. It's not about women; it's about men. Of course, I do feel an obligation to protect you as my kid sister as I do to protect mom, dad, Josh or anyone else in the family. Like every other male in this country, I grew up in a culture where girls are expected to be innocent and pure, and where manhood is defined by men's ability to protect the purity of "their" women. In other words, in our culture, a woman's value is measured largely in terms of her relationship to a man who is "strong" enough to protect her honor.

And the danger in that—expecting women to meet some standard of purity or respectability—is that when some man decides that a woman's purity is compromised because of her low-cut dress or that she's not a virgin, he assumes that gives him permission to ignore or abuse her humanity.

As the saying goes, "Purity culture is rape culture." Expecting a woman to meet some man's idea of respectability is absurd, like saying Mike Brown didn't deserve to live because he was no angel. I know that, like everybody back home, you've been following stuff in Ferguson fairly closely. It may seem strange, but I've been thinking about Mike Brown a lot as I've been following news about football player Ray Rice, who was kicked out of the league for abusing his former girlfriend and now wife, Janay, and researching and writing about men's attitudes toward violence against women.

You could even modify the expression to say that respectability culture is hate culture. What we're really talking about is unchecked power and victimhood and how invested people who hold power are in the spiritual and physical death of people with less power. As Ferguson has unfolded, I've been confounded by people who seem to have a spiritual commitment to believing Mike Brown was some kind of soulless fiend, of which I doubt human beings are any more capable of being than angels.

I just don't get that. But I also don't get how some men—and I'm talking about black men, especially—can be outraged over how Mike Brown was killed, but wonder aloud what a woman did to provoke her boyfriend into knocking her unconscious. I know these brothers; I've talked to them. They are as lost and ignorant and in need of self-love as the racists celebrating each nugget of negative information about Mike Brown as it has been leaked to the news media the past few days.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. The system that produces violence against women produces violence against black and brown folks, LGBT folks, poor people and children. That system is almost biologically dedicated to protecting people like Darren Wilson and Ray Rice instead of seeing people like Mike Brown or Janay Rice. Or you. As a black woman, you get the worst of both worlds, and that scares me to death.

I wish our society would reckon with that. But that reckoning doesn't mean expelling one rich man from a professional sports league or even filing formal criminal charges against Darren Wilson for shooting Mike Brown, who was walking in the middle of the street. It doesn't mean teaching black boys to pull up their pants or young women to cover up their bodies.

Reckoning will come when we create a world where we teach boys that a knockout punch, much less six bullets as in Officer Wilson's case, should never be considered an appropriate response to a human being who is not behaving the way we think that should—even if the offense is hurting our little sisters.

Again, that is not your burden; you have enough on your plate. That burden belongs to me and men everywhere.