Khristi Lauren Adams - Parable of the Brown Girl: The Sacred Lives of Girls of Color

People resist by... telling their story.

bell hooks

Jesus Christ did some of his most valuable teaching in parables. His parables presented clear stories from everyday circumstances where the listener would be met by the spirit of God alongside plain truths. In thinking on the times in my life when I have had those same profound encounters, those moments have undoubtedly been in my interactions and conversations with black girls. Consequently, I have often wondered what these parables would have looked like with black girls at the center. Parable of the Brown Girl explores the everyday lives of black girls and is written in a way that parallels some of the characteristics of the parables of the gospels. For starters, the names of Jesuss parables usually emphasize an important feature of either the central character(s) of the parable or theme. In staying true to that manner, I created this book title with an emphasis on the color of the girls skin, which many would distinctly see as brown. I specifically use the phrase brown girl in the book and chapter titles to highlight the variety of hues the girls have in their skin complexions. However, when referencing the girls throughout the content of the book, I refer to them as black. Racially classified, they are black; aesthetically the girls are shades of brown.

In each place my career has taken me, I have had the opportunity to develop powerful relationships with black girls. My life has been significantly impacted for the better by listening to these girls. My conversations with them have changed how I see God and how I see the world around me. The first of these experiences happened when I graduated from college. I worked briefly at a residential treatment facility where I was placed on a unit for teenaged girls suffering from severe emotional difficulties. Although I was only a twenty-one-year-old recent graduate whod spent the previous four years of college studying advertising, the hiring process for this position as a residential counselor was effortless. However, the turnover rate for this position was at about 70 percent. I didnt understand the reasons for this high percentage until I stepped foot onto the unit for the first time and looked into the faces of nine angry black girls. They were angry with the world around them for letting them down. They were angry for being left and forgotten in this jail-like facility in a remote corner of the country, and they wanted everyone they encountered to feel that same anger.

As a staff, we were trained to meet the girls coldness with coldness. We had strict instructions not to get into overt close relationship with the girls, though we could do so subtly. During my first month there, I worked hard to enforce the rules, maintaining strict boundaries with the girls and making sure they respected my authority. The girls didnt care about any of those things. To them, I was just another person who was there for a paycheck and who would likely leave them soon. They tested me, cursed at me, manipulated me, and disrespected me every chance they got. After a while, I began to understand why the turnover rate was so high.

One night while completing my evening notes before my shift was over, I decided to take a look through some of the girls binders. Each had a binder full of notes written by the staff. The binders also contained background information on the girls. Each girl had her own story. I read nine-year-old Leticia had once been beaten with a baseball bat by her mom. I read ten-year-old India had been sexually abused by her own father. I read seven-year-old Nikki had been burned with cigarettes for misbehaving in the house. It was like perusing a book with pages no one would ever see. I remember feeling nauseous reading each of the horrifying stories. These girls were far more than bad kids who needed to be locked up in order to behave.

That was the first time I sensed the call God placed on my life to build relationships and work as an advocate for black girls who often find themselves on the margins. After learning their stories, everything about my entire approach to working with those nine girls changed. I spent the next few months getting to know each girl personally. I listened to them share their stories. I watched them get so angry, staff would have to physically carry them to their rooms so they would calm down. I watched them laugh with black girl joy with each other in random moments as if theyd forgotten they were locked away. I saw the pain on their faces when family would say they were coming to visit and then failed to show up at the last minute. I worked so many hours there were times I would tuck the girls in at night, go home to sleep, and then be back the next morning in time to wake them up. I stopped treating the girls like a job or like they were inmates, and the girls began to let their guards down more and more. They nicknamed me Advocate because that was what they called staff they trusted. They showed me pictures of their families and we stayed up at night talking about their crushes on boys and which staff they couldnt stand. Sometimes, we talked about God and prayer, and we would pray together at night before it was time for lights out.