Sometimes, I will randomly text questions to my sibling group chat, such as:
“Do you still wear culottes?”
Culottes are a type of shorts. But they’re also pants. And they’re also a skirt. They’re basically what happens when a sundress goes to a day party and, after a few too many mimosas, has a one-day stand with a pair of basketball shorts, gets pregnant and raises the baby in the suburbs surrounded by skorts and capris.
Short-sleeve yoga pants, if you will.
My sisters and I were raised in a fundamental holiness church, where a six-piece shouting music band played for our five-hour services four nights a week. At the Household of Faith, the bouncers ushers wouldn’t let a man through the door who wasn’t wearing hard bottoms, a coat and tie. Our Jesus wouldn’t even talk to a woman who didn’t wear a prayer cloth, a slip and stockings to cover her legs.
If we were white, they’d call it a cult.
In our church cult, women who wore pants were considered “jezebels” (which, I thought, was pronounced “jazzybells”). And, because I used my “kernel mind,” I just assumed being a “jazzybell” was a form of burlesque dance. (Back then, I didn’t know that “burlesque” was basically a steampunk stripper).
In any case, our church considered pants to be a gateway drug for Jazzybelles. Girls who wore tight jeans were headed down the road to heathenry, drinking Seagram’s wine coolers and listening to secular music (which, I thought, was “sexual music”). To be fair, men who skipped church services and listened to Prince would also become whoremongers (Or “whore monsters,” which I assumed is how Godzilla and Freddy Krueger were conceived). And because my sisters were not aspiring jazzybells, they didn’t wear pants.
Even if you’ve never met my sisters, there was probably a girl in your middle school glee club whose entire wardrobe consisted of long jean skirts and blouses (People with the Holy Ghost don’t wear shirts; they wear blouses). And, according to a stat I made up, the Black church is responsible for 72.5% of all domestic jean skirt sales. I’m pretty sure the entire prayer cloth industry would collapse without Pentecostals, COGIC and the greater Holy Ghost community.
This no-pants edict was not a problem for my youngest sisters, Comelita and Robin. Like most heathens, they questioned everything. By the time they were in junior high school, they were listening to boompity-boom music, praying without wearing a Holy Ghost lace front and leaving their slips at home. And after years of searching the scriptures for the verse in which the Apostle Paul wrote to the Thessalonians about the dangers of sweatpants and denim leg coverings, they realized that Jesus didn’t have a dress code and started keeping a secret stash of acid-washed Jordache jeans in their school locker.
My oldest sister, Sean, was different. She shouted at church, led the children’s choir and adhered to protocol. Sure, she watched Soul Train, cussed a little bit and did the wop when no one was around. But unlike her younger sisters, she was not on the jazzybell trajectory. She just followed the rules.
And Sean played sports.
Not only was Sean the strongest, fastest and most athletic person in our family (boy or girl), she was also the only Black girl at her all-white, Christian private school. I’m not making a racial stereotype, but the fact that she made the basketball, volleyball and softball teams in a skirt said a lot.
Because of rules against violating religious rights, a public school would’ve probably had to let Sean play in her Holy Ghost attire. But because she was at a private school, she was really worried about the team uniform. And if you’re thinking, “They wouldn’t dare kick the best player off the team because of something so insignificant,” you forgot one thing:
These were white people.
White people are keen on forcing other people to follow rules that don’t affect them. They can always find a loophole to excuse their own behavior, but they will paint other rule-breakers as thugs or heathens destined for hell.
When you think about it, racism is an apt comparison to religion. They are governed by illogical unwritten rules that don’t make sense. They both follow traditions based on centuries-old rules that men made up. And they both weaponize shame and fear. Whether it’s a church service, the Klan or the Supreme Court, there’s probably a robe involved. And religion and white supremacy are both weaponized against Black women…
To protect them.
Because Sean was contending with a system where whiteness and religion were intertwined, it was natural for her to believe these arbitrary rules were sacrosanct. If Jesus’ team had a uniform policy, then why wouldn’t a Christian school basketball team? Conversely, if dressing like a jazzybell makes you a jazzybell, then are you even a volleyball player if you don’t wear volleyball shorts? She was in a pickle, and there was only one person who could solve this dilemma:
Me.
After studying the subject, I discovered that culottes was the solution. The boneless pants would give Sean all the movement of shorts while also hiding her Jazzybell parts. They were basically jogging pants for Jesus.
A sweat skirt, if you will.
Sean and I prepared an entire presentation to present her case to my mom. As we rehearsed our arguments and came up with rebuttals for any pro-arguments, Comelita and Robin screamed to my mom, who was in the other room.
This is an exact transcript of the incident
Comelita: MAMA! IF SEAN WEARS COOL-OFF SHORTS TO PLAY BASKETBALL, WILL SHE BE A JAZZYBELL?
Mama: WHAT IS COOL-OFF SHORTS? AND WHAT IS A JAZZYBELL?
Sean (whispering): Shut up, girl! We ain’t ready!
Me (also whispering): It’s culottes!
Robin: MIKEY SAID IT’S “CULOTTES!” IT’S PANTS!
Mama: CLOTHES DON’T MAKE YOU A JEZEBEL! WE’LL GO GET SOME CULOTTES TOMORROW!
AND WHY ARE YOU HOLLERING? I’M TRYING TO WATCH MY STORIES!
It turns out my mama cared about Jesus’ dress code as much as Jesus cared about Jazzybells. Her children’s ability to navigate this world as kind, principled humans was her biggest concern. By the time they finished high school, Comelita and Robin were out of the pants closet, and I was allowed to skip some church services. Mama wanted us to think critically, not just to follow arbitrary traditions just because someone said so.
And guess what?
Not one of us became a Jezebel or whoremongerer (OK, I may have done a little mongering during my 20s, but I didn’t target Jazzybells). But we also learned something that changed our lives.
Sometimes you can just ask!
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Today’s Reading List:
White People Can’t Tell Me Nothing by Michael Harriot
There Is No Post-Racial America by Ta-Nehisi Coates
Gullible, Cynical America by Adam Serwer
The Caucasians’ Guide to Black Churches by Michael Harriot
