In the South, some call it “nice, nasty” or the “bless your heart” syndrome, a penchant for couching insults in edible saccharine gift wrap. The insidious nature of this kind of passive-aggressive tactic leaves those attacked without recourse, often because the target knows what they meant, but the casual observer may not.
If you decide, for instance, to retaliate more straightforwardly, you’ll look like the aggressor. People often respond negatively to such a reaction, which victimizes the target twice—the initial attacker has won!
Game, set—match!
To be sure, some women recognize this kind of thing as mean-spirited or wrong and do not care. They have this narcissistic winner-take-all mindset and hone this skill to lethal precision. I met such a woman in the workplace and did not understand how good she was. Well, let's say I spoke up about her abuse; she played innocent, and I lost my job.
Game, set, match.
That said, many women trained to speak in this way have behaviors that coincide with their sweet-as-honey voice that not only reveals the horrific mind fuck behind what causes FBV, it underscores the psychological abuse heaped upon these ladies, a type of emotional browbeating that can exist even outside of the Christain Conservative bubble.
My run-in with FBV at a ScreenCraft Convention
Before COVID raised its evil head, I was able to attend the Coverfly/Screencraft convention in Atlanta, Georgia. I was a guest judge alongside Pool Boy writer Julie O’Hara, and our job was to listen to TV and film pitches from aspiring scriptsmiths.
Alas, we could only pick one winner, who would get to pitch their ideas to executives from STARZ, HBO, and NETFLIX.
Tough job.
Still, Julie and I had a ton of fun with it and came across a ton of incredible stories and ideas; however, the most memorable pitch was from a young lady who had written a script about her escape from a Conservative Christian cult.
While her story was truly astounding, what stuck out was her demeanor.
By her own admission, the woman had been two years out of the fundi “cult,” but she had great difficulty making even the decision to sit or stand.
“Should I sit down or stand up?” she asked Julie and me in super sweet voice. We looked at each other, and I replied, “Whatever makes you feel the most comfortable.”
“I think I would feel more comfortable if you told me what would be best,” she said
When I finally left the church, it wasn’t like I said, “God doesn’t exist,” immediately—it would be another ten years before I went there. But there was this disconnect—not knowing what to do with myself or who to be. It felt weirdly disembodied. Like, was I even alive?
She nodded; yes, it does feel like that—and she decided to stand.
That pitch sticks with me to this very day.
Not just a Fundi Phenomenon
After I left the church and ventured into the world, I slowly but surely began to let my hair down. I went from being afraid to go to a bar out of fear I would go to hell to performing music in underground clubs and crowd surfing.
YES! Crowd. Surfing.
Don’t knock it till you try it!
Along this journey, I noted the curious phenomenon of men and women from all backgrounds trying to put me into a mold or tell me how to “behave” as a woman.
I had men angrily ask me why I couldn’t “accept a simple compliment” when I demurely acted shy in response, and conversely, I was attacked as narcissistic if I smiled and simply said thank you.
I went from lowering my eyes to meeting people's eyes, speaking in low tones, and constantly worrying about how my words would be perceived to speaking plainly.
I went from being scared to speak up for fear someone might get mad or no longer be my friend to realizing that anyone seeking to suppress me in this way was not worthy of the gift of the friendship I wanted to impart.
I spoke up. Loudly.
I was sometimes told I was acting too much like a man.
Then I started asking men out
Part social experiment, but also, I was ready to settle down and have kiddos; I wanted to find a man my forwardness wouldn’t threaten. I learned that 90 percent of guys viewed this suspiciously—most told their buds they felt the move was ‘desperate.’
Despite most men saying they want women to make the first move, the majority I approached were weirded out by it. Likely because being the first to ask a man out wasn’t a submissive posture—I would likely be one of those overly confident, mouthy women who would be hard to control.
Okay—yeah. I resembled that remark, but I earned those stripes.
This is how and why I slowly recognized Fundi Baby's voice as a form of extreme psychological abuse—and why I pity the women who feel the need to use it.
Fundie Baby Voice is hallmark of abuse
As Jess Piper aptly discussed in her brilliant Substack article, Fundie Babie Voice is one of the few tools women in strict Christian Societies are given to be able to ask for a receive what they need without seeming “aggressive.” Conversely, they were demeaned and browbeaten as manipulative for using the very device they were trained to use.
This leads me to another potent tool of Fundamentalism—the double standard. If you are wrong, no matter your choice, they always get to be right.
It’s why I cringe whenever people make fun of it.
FBV, in my humble opinion, as annoying as it may be, is one of the worst manifestations of emotional abuse we might encounter outside of a feral demeanor. It is made worse because it comes wrapped in nice clothes and respectability, packaged as “caring for women’s social roles.”
Sadly, the very women who have suffered through the kind of mental abuse that causes them to subjugate their very personalities and identities have also been taught that anyone trying to rescue them from this mental enslavement is part of the demonic empire the brave, superior male species saved them from.
Once I recognized the bullshit of these ideals, I got myself out and left a ton of the past behind. It wasn’t an instantaneous fix, but I think the only remedy is getting the woman out of that space and hoping the scales eventually fall from her eyes.
I set myself free
When I recognized I had the right to become who I wanted to be, devils or angels be damned, I began to express myself in ways that were respectful to others while remaining true to myself.
When the choice came between appeasing the world and being honest, I began to choose honesty every time.
To date, I am an opinionated woman. I am open, brash, and proud, if not loud, and willing to use the language that would make a sailor blush, push came to shove.
And yes, there are still days when I might question my purpose, my choices, or even my words, but I no longer question who I am.
MY SUBSTACK: oneangryblackchick.substack.com/...