Being Single: Not Sold in a Store Near You
On being a mature Black woman, loving on yourself, and discovering that your own company is rather good.
My only goal in life is not to entertain you. Comfort you. Serve you.
I want to spend some time loving on me.
Now, I don't think that's asking too much, do you?
I've been thinking about being single lately. Not in the usual sense of wondering whether I'll meet somebody, whether there's still a decent man out there, or whether I should be making more of an effort to attract someone's attention.
I'm talking about being single and actually enjoying it.
More than enjoying it. I'm talking about becoming so comfortable in your own skin that being single is no longer a condition you're hoping to recover from.
And yet, have you noticed how little encouragement women receive to simply enjoy themselves?
Everywhere I look, there's something being sold to help us prepare for somebody else. Look younger. Smell better. Dress attractively. Keep yourself desirable. Learn how to attract a partner, hold on to one, or find another one if the first didn't work out.
And whatever you do, don't grow old alone!
As though growing older is some sort of competition and the last woman standing without a partner has lost.
But what if she hasn't lost anything? What if she's having a rather lovely time?
I find it curious that we can purchase almost anything imaginable, but the idea of a woman happily living alone still seems to be missing from the shelves. Particularly a Black woman.
Because historically, we've been sold a very different idea of what our lives are supposed to be.
The mother. The wife. The caregiver. The dependable daughter. The grandmother. The woman who holds the family together, serves the community, comforts the distressed, and somehow finds another pair of hands whenever somebody needs something done.
The strong Black woman.
What a compliment. What a responsibility. And sometimes, what an exhausting sentence to serve.
Our history includes generations of Black women whose labour was demanded, exploited, unpaid, or taken for granted. That history didn't disappear simply because the uniforms and job descriptions changed.
Even today, caring for others can become so much a part of a woman's identity that people barely notice how much of herself she gives away.
And before anyone misunderstands me, there's nothing wrong with loving your family, raising children, helping neighbours, or serving your community.
But surely those cannot be the only things that give a Black woman's life meaning.
What about her pleasures? Her ambitions? Her curiosity? What about the things she wants that have absolutely nothing to do with anyone else's needs?
Audre Lorde, the Black feminist poet and writer, understood the importance of preserving oneself. In A Burst of Light, written while confronting serious illness, she insisted that caring for herself was not mere indulgence but self-preservation.
And I wonder why women, particularly Black women, so often have to reach the point of exhaustion before rest and tenderness are considered reasonable. Why must pleasure come with proof of suffering? Why can't I simply enjoy myself?
Which brings me to dinner.
I'd like to know why a beautiful dinner setting for one isn't celebrated in the same way as a table set for two.
One lovely plate. One glass. A cup. A fork. Perhaps some flowers. And dessert, naturally.
I'm not talking about a miserable little microwave meal intended for somebody who apparently has no one worth cooking for. I'm talking about the pleasure of setting a beautiful table because the person eating at it happens to appreciate beautiful things. Me!
Why must everything come in sets of four, six, or eight? Why should a dining table be considered incomplete because there's only one person sitting at it?
I can buy the good dishes. I can light a candle. I can play music. I can even have dessert before dinner if the mood takes me. Who's going to complain?
And why should I have to go on vacation to experience a beautiful lifestyle when I can create one right at home? A staycation, always.
My home doesn't have to be a waiting room for somebody else's arrival. It can be a place designed around the person who already lives there.
Now, I recognize that this may sound a little unconventional. After all, many women of my generation were raised to become wives and mothers. We weren't necessarily encouraged to imagine ourselves as scholars, entrepreneurs, or captains of industry. And certainly not the conquering sort of captains.
Men, it seems, have long enjoyed a reputation for striking out on their own, claiming territory, building empires, and becoming pioneers. A woman decides she'd like to live independently, and somebody wants to know why she hasn't found herself a man.
I remember going to university and being struck by how many readings referred to humanity as he. He thought. He discovered. He invented. He governed. He, him, his. Goodness gracious, where were the women? And when I looked for Black women, the search became even more interesting. It reminded me of being a little girl growing up in Wolverhampton, England, where I couldn't find Black dolls in the stores near me. When I returned to Canada, I still didn't see much of ourselves represented on those shelves. America seemed to offer more of the Black dolls, figurines, and art I had been looking for.
We eventually learned to create many of the things that weren't being made with us in mind.
But imagine having to keep doing that throughout your life. Creating your own. representation. Our own opportunities. Our own pathways. And sometimes having to do it alone because the communities and institutions that ought to support you haven't quite imagined you being capable of taking that journey. So perhaps it's not surprising that some of us have become rather comfortable charting our own course. bell hooks, in All About Love, explored the importance of learning to be alone without treating other people as an escape from ourselves.
I rather like that distinction. Because being alone isn't the same thing as being lonely. And being single certainly doesn't mean being without love.
I have family. I have friendships. I have interests, ideas, things I enjoy, and things I haven't even discovered yet.
If I feel like company, I can invite someone over. If I want a conversation without having to entertain anybody, there's Zoom. And if I don't want company? Well, there's a rather wonderful invention called closing the door. I've discovered that the more time I spend alone, the less company I seem to require. Not because I've stopped liking people. I simply enjoy my own company. I like choosing what to watch, what to eat, when to eat it, what music to play, and whether I feel like doing anything at all.
I can buy flowers without wondering who sent them. I can wear my favourite clothes without having anywhere to go. And I can put on a beautiful pair of stilettos simply because I like how they look.
I've always loved stilettos. I think they make a woman's legs look absolutely lovely. But have you tried walking around downtown Toronto in them lately?
Between the uneven pavements, construction, and awkward walking surfaces, you'd better hope somebody drops you directly at the door.
And once you arrive, where do you put your handbag? Your coat? Why is the washroom down a flight of stairs that requires more concentration than the evening itself?
You can dress beautifully, spend your money, and still find yourself negotiating a series of inconveniences that make you wonder who designed the place and whether women were consulted.
Of course, I'm not suggesting that every sidewalk should be designed around a stiletto heel.
But I do wonder why comfort, safety, and accessibility are so often treated as extras rather than ordinary considerations. We encourage women to go out, remain socially engaged, look attractive, and enjoy themselves as they age. It would be nice if the world outside made that a little easier.
Which may explain why I'm increasingly fond of being at home.
At home, there's somewhere to put my handbag. There's no need to negotiate a staircase to find my own bathroom. And if I want to wear stilettos while enjoying dessert and watching something that makes me laugh, that's entirely my business. I can be glamorous for an audience of one. And what an appreciative audience she can be!
Toni Morrison, in Beloved, explored the profound difference between escaping bondage and claiming ownership of oneself afterward. Her novel addresses the realities and aftermath of slavery, a history far more consequential than my dinner arrangements.
But the question of what it means to claim one's own life is worth considering. Because we can have more choices available to us than previous generations of women and still find ourselves living according to expectations we never consciously chose.
We can become educated, independent, accomplished women and continue measuring our worth by how much we give to everybody else.
Sometimes the hardest thing to imagine is a life that doesn't require us to keep proving how useful we are.
Ntozake Shange gave Black women's inner lives a place on stage in For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf. In its celebration of finding love within oneself, I hear an invitation to stop waiting for other people to tell us that we matter.
And that's where I think we need to reconsider what we're teaching little Black girls.
Self-love should not be the reward for surviving a lifetime of neglect. It should be something we learn from childhood. We shouldn't have to grow old, endure disappointment, raise families, build communities, or exhaust ourselves caring for others before deciding that we deserve a little tenderness.
A Black girl should know that she's worthy of love before she becomes anybody's wife, mother, employee, or caregiver.
She should be encouraged to discover what brings her happiness. To enjoy her own company. Her own pursuits, and to recognize and enjoy her intelligence, body, curiosity, and her imagination as parts of her worth celebrating.
And yes, to hug herself. Not because she's achieved something extraordinary. Not because she's been especially helpful or well-behaved. But because she matters. Imagine how differently some of us might have approached life if we'd been taught that lesson before we were taught how to make ourselves useful.
June Jordan, a poet and activist, celebrated the power of women acting together in her Poem for South African Women, honouring those who resisted apartheid.
Her work reminds me that women have long had to imagine and create possibilities that the world was unwilling to offer them. And sometimes our efforts to make room for ourselves also make room for others. But I'd like that room to include something beyond another responsibility. I'd like it to include pleasure. The freedom to laugh. To learn something new. To change our minds. To enjoy our bodies as they age. To create beautiful surroundings without feeling guilty about spending time or money on ourselves. And to understand that choosing ourselves doesn't mean abandoning everybody else.
I am not arguing against marriage, relationships, children, or community.
I'm simply suggesting that a Black woman's life ought to offer more possibilities than being indispensable to somebody else.
Love is wonderful. Companionship can be wonderful. But so is waking up in the morning and realizing that your day belongs to you. And if I eventually decide I'd like someone to share my home, that remains my choice. Although I must admit, I've been considering a pet. Perhaps that's all the additional companionship I require for the moment, if at all, which brings me back to the dinner table.
I've been talking about setting a table for one, and how much I enjoy the idea of a beautiful dinner prepared just for myself.
But perhaps I've been looking at this all wrong. Perhaps I'm actually having dinner for two.
The woman I am today and the little girl I once was.
The little girl who couldn't find a doll that looked like her. The girl who was taught so much about becoming useful to others, but perhaps not nearly enough about the pleasure of being herself.
I think I'll invite her to dinner. I'll ask what she'd like to eat. We'll put flowers on the table, play some music, and perhaps have dessert before the main course. Why not? She doesn't have to be helpful, obedient, accommodating, or grateful. She doesn't have to earn her place by making herself useful. She can enjoy being a little girl. And I can be the grown woman who makes room for her.
Perhaps that's what loving on myself really means. Not just enjoying the woman I've become, but remembering the little girl who deserved that same tenderness all along.
Because society didn't always make room for her. Communities didn't always recognize her needs. And sometimes even families had other expectations. But I can make room for her now.
So yes, I'm single. And yes, I rather enjoy it.
But tonight, I'm setting the table for two.
One place for the woman I've become. And one for the little girl who should never have had to wait so long to know she mattered.
And if she wants another helping of dessert? Well, who am I to tell her no?
Reading references: Audre Lorde, A Burst of Light (1988); bell hooks, All About Love (2000); Toni Morrison, Beloved (1987); June Jordan, Poem for South African Women (1978). Ntozake Shange, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide / When the Rainbow Is Enuf (1976).
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