Definition of a Mad Black Woman

Credit: Jessica Felicio

A Few Key Terms:

Cold Meds — a non-narcotic prescribed medication that Incarcerated Individuals are allowed to keep and administer themselves.

Hot Meds — usually narcotic, or otherwise potentially dangerous medications that must be given on specific time schedules, supervised by nurses at the Med Line. (i.e. Suboxone, Neurontin)

Med Line — The lines outside the Yard Clinic where Incarcerated Individuals receive their daily doses of prescribed medications.

Write Up — a disciplinary action. Individuals who receive them get a Hearing where a Lieutenant decides their guilt or innocence. If found guilty the Hearing Officer imposes a punishment; i.e. loss of good time credits, or other privileges.

Meds — verb; the process of dispensing Hot Meds at the Clinic window. (med-time)

Out of Bounds — a Rules Violation that results in a write-up, which occurs when an Incarcerated Individual is in a restricted area, denoted by red lines.

Poly Programmer — noun; an Incarcerated Individual who consistently engages in positive programs and abides by the rules. i.e., attending college, self-help groups, work, and other prosocial activities that promote rehabilitation. (goodie two-shoes)

Victim Mindset — Woe is me.

Mad Black Woman Syndrome (MBWS) — adj; a condition where individuals perceive everything African American women say as “aggressive”, which generally effects people who are closeminded, susceptible to misinformation, predisposed to prejudice, and inclined to a Victim Mindset, see (Victim Mindset)

No matter how sing-song I make my voice, how I throw my pitch from its natural deep velvet to an inoffensive nasally soprano, or how I alter my body language to say, “Hey, I’m totally nonthreatening” people still accuse me of “being aggressive.” With a smile so big it loosens my ponytail, they still read, “DANGER.” After much soul searching and self-reflection, I’ve come to realize that this actually isn’t on me. I’m not saying it’s wrong, or rolling my eyes. I’m not speaking loudly, or being catty, sarcastic, or rude. I’m being as polite as my southern-belles raised me to be… but I’m Black and tall on top of it. I walk with my head held high and my shoulders straight, and apparently this all-equals hostility.

This is not a one-time thing; this is an almost-everyday-thing, or at least a once-a-week-thing. It is not always vocalized, but unfortunately, I can read body lingo. I see the eyebrow raises, and the head tilts. And yes, being told to “calm down” when you’re already calm is the absolute worst. And if you’re me, and you actually feel badly when you offend or hurt others, this constant misperception of your meaning, your feelings, and your person, is draining.

There is a wide range of effects that afflict the victims of people who have MBWS, which can be as small as feeling rejected, misread, or undervalued, and as extreme as being murdered by a cop during a routine traffic stop (R.I.P. Breonna Taylor), being fired from a job, kicked out of school, wrongfully accused and imprisoned, and/or written up and kept there.

For us Black women who are thought to be mad (the actual victims), we seem to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, almost all the time. And in prison, this is the difference between freedom and denial at the Parole Board. The difference between making it to your son’s Graduation or not, due to loss of good-time credits.

It was an uncharacteristically sunny for a mid-November day in California’s Central Valley; beautiful. The Yard was open, which was another anomaly that caused this Saturday to make you feel good, even in prison. Outside the Medical Clinic there are five lines that open daily at noon for the nurses to dispense hot-meds. Cold-meds, however, are available on a walk-up basis; preferably any time other than hot-med time, which is something like the McDonald’s drive thru at lunch.

It was 11:50 a.m., and the shades were still down because noon meds had not begun yet. However, people were lining up in preparation, waiting and saving spots, because this line gets “hectic” to say the very least. I moseyed along and knocked on the widow, stated my name and that I had a cold-med pickup (an eczema cream), and the nurse promptly opened the window, took my ID card, and began searching her cart for the bottle flagged with my name and CDCR number on it. But, behind me, chomping at the bit in anticipation of her hot-meds, someone began yelling. It almost faded into the background; I was engaged with the nurse, so initially, I didn’t even realize that the fuss was over me, nonetheless at me.

Before I fully conceived what was happening, I was hit from the side. Not in the face, I’m not even sure this lady could’ve reached. It was a gut punch. It didn’t actually hurt, nor did it move me, but it did upset me. I was shocked and uncertain why she was so angry. I wasn’t cutting her; her line wasn’t even open yet! But I didn’t respond in violence, verbal or physical (still patting myself on the back). As I began to walk away, I was stopped by an officer who observed the interaction and informed us both that he would not be pushing the alarm button (because the situation was under control), but that we would be sent to talk to the Sergeant.

Being that I had not reacted, I knew I was only going to be interviewed, after all, I was the victim. However, the Sergeant was a 5-foot tall non-black person afflicted by MBWS, and looking up at me, and at eye level with the white woman who assaulted me, he immediately decided I was the perpetrator, and had somehow caused this reaction. He separated us, and reviewed the AVSS video footage of the incident, and informed me that this happened because I had “cut the line.” I tried to explain that hot-meds had not started yet, it was 11:50 a.m. when I approached the window, and that I was in the right going to the window at that time. Unfortunately, his MBWS was in full force, and he didn’t even attempt to hear me. What he did hear, was a distortion of everything I said. “Sir, the med-line was not open yet, so l.. but it seems like he heard, “l can cut that white girl if I want to. And, so what?”

He told me that this was prison and not day-camp, and that someone else would have, quote “really beat my ass.” He continued to name a few well-known bad-asses, and assured me that I was lucky I didn’t cut them, because it would have been much worse. He went on to tell me that I live in an Honor Dorm, and was a Poly Programmer, and should know better. He asserted that I started this because I felt entitled, and needed to be knocked down. He then told me I would no longer be a resident in the Honor Dorm that I had lived in for the past 7 years, because you must remain “write-up free,” and that he would “fix that” by writing me up.

Out of Bounds. There are red lines drawn all over this facility on the asphalt to keep us reigned in, like cattle. There is a red line drawn outside of the Clinic windows, however, these lines are often not so cut-and-dry. You are allowed to be within the red lines if you are receiving meds, otherwise, you are Out-of-Bounds, which is against the rules, and a write-up. I was getting my cold-meds, the nurse had scanned my ID, and I was having a justified interaction. But, his MBWS caused him to manipulate a gray area and unjustly write me up. He said that he would write her up as well, for “Behavior that could lead to violence,” but asserted that hers would get dropped, because it would be unsubstantiated, but my write-up would stick, because the camera shows that I was clearly within the red lines.

I have been in this Institution for 9 years, and have never had a disciplinary write-up, but he still didn’t see me. He saw every other hoodlum he’d ever seen that caused him trouble. The three bad-asses he named all happened to be tall Black women — apparently, although I am a Fresno State student, with a 4.0 GPA, a full-time job as a tutor, and by his own admission a Poly Programmer, I was instead all of the Black women he’d mentioned. MBWS does not recognize distinction, we are ALL mad.

A write-up will cause me to be relocated, removed from my positive support system, and the drug and alcohol-free environment I currently live in, lose my job as a tutor, and possibly be kicked out of the Fresno State Bachelor program. I told him all of this, and begged him to reconsider, but, once again he did not hear me. I will lose approximately a total of one year of good time credits, and I will have to explain to my son, my parents, and the rest of my family and friends that I will no longer be coming home in 2027.

I keep replaying everything. Was I rude to him, did I say something wrong, should I have waited to pick up my cold-meds? Throughout my life, as a Black woman, I’ve been conditioned to believe and admit that I am the one in the wrong. I’m trying to find the cause of all this destruction… what I did wrong, and why I ruined so much for a bottle of lotion. Where did I go wrong, and do I deserve this?

Beyond the proven racial sentencing disparities… not only are we (Black women) locked up longer, and easier, we are continually treated unfairly throughout our imprisonment. I pray, hope, and do my best to put good energy into the universe. I also hope and pray that my Parole Officer does not have MBWS. I need them to know that I am NOT dangerous, or violent, or aggressive. I need them to know that I am a competent, balanced, compassionate, and kind person. I need the world to see a scholar, a writer, a mother, a positive and productive pro-social individual, and NOT just a Parolee. NOT a Mad Black Women!

Watching Dreads

By Crystal St. Mary

Watching my son’s dreads grow,

From a prison video,

But I look at him and know, He’s proud to be Black.

I’m proud I did that.

You’re pretty;

“What are you mixed with?”

Momma said baby tell them bitches,

The BLACK in me did this!

Exotic, wanna rock it,

But they can’t,

My drip like wet paint.

Curly fro, a subtle disobedience.

Won’t assimilate,

So they hate me when they see me,

Prowling like a lion,

But I’m the daughter of two Panthers,

With my mane untamed, Unburdened, Unashamed.

Marchin’ like Martin, To change the prison cuz I been in,

Out to the Governor’s mansion,

On they NECK,

Moses screamin’ let —

Maaaaan, my people GO like E-40,

From wading in the water,

To a million Black men marching,

What we started then,

We followed up,

With a double up of Obama.

On my Momma we’re resilient,

Instilled IN

To the souls of my people.

Still hurts and I see you.

Everything happens for a reason.

Hope it’s more than just a season.

Finding people I love,

In the most loveless place.

Looking at my own face for the first time,

Learning what’s their shit and talking mine,

Growth from despair,

I had to learn to love my hair.

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