Hoes in the Pews

I’m not right these days. Living your life with depression, like I did for most of mine, is like living on the perimeter of a big fucking hole. Getting better, therapy, taking your medication is learning to stop hanging around on the hole’s edge, and to stop every once and a while being like “I’m gonna jump in there.” But you are never not living near a big hole.

As I try to figure out what the F, I have signed up for a course in Pastoral Care and Recovery at the Community College of Philadelphia. The class, as an academic experience, is pretty crappy. No structure, no lesson plan, a lot of the teacher, who is also a minister, holding forth on a random trail of subjects. The textbook, which reads like an essay from a student (half nonsense half plagiarism) is totally useless. But I decided that I would take it for the experience it was, and not the one I had hoped it would be.

And that was good in ways. There were lots of new experiences to be had. Being in a majority Christian environment. Being in a majority black environment. Sitting in a class without taking observation notes on the teacher.

And then there was last week. Last week, I don’t know how it started, but the teacher was talking about a book called “Pimps in the Pulpit.” It was about ministers who take advantage of women in their congregations who come to them for counseling. And my teacher, in the middle of her lengthy description of the book and it’s contents, said that we need to understand that “if there’s pimps in the pulpit, then there’s hos in the pews.”

And everyone laughed. Not like ‘clever turn of phrase’ laughed, like knowingly.

“That’s a fucked up statement,” I said loudly, which was out of character for the quiet, wide-eyed white girl persona I’d been working on.

“What you’ve got to understand,” my teacher who, in addition to being a minister is also a psychologist, said “is that if you’re going to be in that role you need to protect yourself from women who want to take advantage.”

“Some women,” she further illuminated “need to understand that they’re hoes. That’s what they are.”

Look, gentle reader, I’m not gonna spend a  lot of typing on your knowing that that is fucked up.

I had some back and forth with my teacher about how I didn’t want to hear women referred to as hoes, and the other white girl in the class also objected, but the teacher stuck to her  “hoes got to face that they are hoes” guns so I just shut up.

That is a cool strategy I have developed for when I feel small.

After class, I pulled my homework out of the pile on her desk. I didn’t feel like handing in my homework. And then I bolted. Then I stood outside of CCP crying. My female classmates were talking to me, trying to console me by explaining that I didn’t understand the word. It has a cultural use, they said. Like you would call a man a dog, they said.

So yeah, I don’t understand the word, no lie. I only know it as an alien. Like sometimes I have to explain “faggot,” to my students and they get the idea but they don’t.

So I don’t fucking know. Maybe it is not my word to hate.

But that doesn’t really feel right.

Is it patronizing that I don’t want anyone calling black women hoes, either?

Am I a crybaby because I don’t want to go back to class ever?

I’m pretty depressed that at some point, some broken woman might go to this professional and to this religious leader and say “I went to Pastor John for help, and he invited me back to my place and got me drunk and…” and that my teacher will gently let her know that she is a ho.

We are so fragile. We’re so fragile.

It’s so hard to ask for help.

It’s such a hard fight even in the hands of generous spiritual leaders and mental health professionals.

It’s so hard when you have the privilege of whiteness and safety and money.

It’s fucking hard enough.

This whole idea has sent me curling my toes over the edge of that deep-assed hole that I haven’t seen in quite some time.

She’s the TEACHER.

What’s the point in even trying?

I wrote my teacher an email that said this:

Dear Professor,

I wanted to write to you because I am still feeling upset from our discussion in class last night.

I feel very embarrassed because I made myself vulnerable in previous classes and was feeling like it was a safe space.

But it don't feel safe in a place where the word 'ho' is used.

You've been talking to us these last three weeks about how we should never call someone anything other than what they want to be called. If Karen wants to be called Karima, we call her that. If a transgender person wants to be called "her," we call her that.

I don't think anyone wants to be called a ho.

I am particularly scared by the idea that a woman might be called a ho because she is in a relationship with a man who has power, like a pastor.

I understand that 'ho' is a cultural word, and maybe it's not a word I can totally understand. I promise to spend this week reading abut the history of that word and what it means to black people.

I hope you can understand how that word makes me feel, when it is said about any woman.

Respectfully,

C

My teacher responded thusly:

Good Afternoon Cara:

First let me begin by saying how much I admire you and know that you are in the right place every time I see you on Tuesday.

As you recall, I was repeating a comment that was made by another individual who attended the workshop with  Ms. Shannon Bellamy. You may want to look up her book  "Pimps in the Pulpit."  I truly understand how certain words can affect others.  I certainly want you to understand that it was not meant to be offensive.  I was just sharing information.  Just allow me to shed some light when you responded by saying,  "That's Fucked Up" as a minister, how do you think that made me feel?  However, I did not take it personal nor was I offended.  We must allow ourselves to be open in this field.  I hear that word everyday at the college by students.  It is not as uncommon as you may believe.  I agree, however, that it is not pretty either.

I want you to know that you are definitely in a safe space, and I do believe that when you are in the room with us you are definitely SAFE.  

So. Yeah.

I don’t feel better.

I feel shitty.

I feel really shitty.