Growing up in the Bible belt, I learned very little about the contributions of blacks and even less about strong black women. Yet from the little I was taught, one of my sheroes was Sojourner Truth.

Named Isabella at birth in 1797 in New York, she grew up speaking Dutch, the language of her original slave masters. She was first sold at age nine and learned English the hard way, bearing the lash whenever miscommunications occurred. She labored hard in the fields, agonized as nearly all of her children were sold into slavery and fought for equality before and after she became a free woman. At 29, Isabella changed her name to Sojourner Truth, walked to freedom and preached about the abolition of slavery, women’s rights, the right to vote, temperance, prison reform and ending capital punishment. She helped Abraham Lincoln formulate The Emancipation Proclamation, pioneering the civil rights path when everyone else was still preoccupied with talk of the civil war.

In her most famous speech, Truth asked the fundamental question: Ain’t I a woman? In Truth’s day, white women were put upon pedestals that were planted firmly on the backs of black people. Black women served as beasts of burden in a variety of ways: cook, caregiver, maid, field hand, breeder.

Truth knew in her heart that black women were only different than the women on the pedestal due to their slave status, racism and lack of equal access to resources. Given the prevailing pseudo-science about the mental capacity of blacks and the pseudo-religious belief about blacks not having souls, those untruths justified their continued enslavement and the denial of a proper education.

One of the ways Truth made money was by selling pictures of herself. The caption on each portrait read, “I sell the Shadow to support the Substance.”

I understand Truth’s drive to succeed. Her motivation to hustle. Her trust in God to open windows where others had closed doors. Using the power of her persuasive voice despite her illiteracy. Fighting for more than the stereotypical roles others desperately coerced black women to remain.

I can be the temptress, the tease, the naughty girl next door you salivate to defile. Afterwards, will I be the trollop, the strumpet, the slattern, the meretricious woman and all the other 200+ negative names you call sexually expressive women because you feel guilty or inadequate about your own sexuality? No matter which way your sexual pendulum swings, (sensually) ain’t I a woman?

Oh, I got your joke. Find my feminism funny? As a matter of fact, you’re my favorite punchline. That’s right. While you’re laughing at how little I earn despite my education and experience, which is equal or superior to yours, just remember, for my last joke, I’ll get the last laugh. (laughs) Ain’t I a woman?

All these conflicting messages on womanhood. I’m to be strong for childbirth, but weak for birth control. Creative in the kitchen, but unimaginative in politics. Loud when singing praises for others, but silent when standing up for myself. BUT AIN’T I A WOMAN?

And if ever you succeed in quieting me down, don’t think you’ve won. You should be afraid. ‘Cause I’m plotting something subversive. (whispering creepily) Ain’t I a woman?

As the youngest child of three girls, I played the theatrical role of being the youngest and loudest.  Whenever I didn’t get my way, I’d pout. My mother, a Virginian country girl at heart, knew how to nip that in the bud with one question: “Do you want me to give you something to cry about?”

Thus, I learned at an early age the gracelessness of whining.

And since I have a strong A-type personality, I used to approach every conflict with the double barrels of logic and reason while disrespecting people for wearing their emotions on their sleeve. As you can imagine, that particular attitude did not go over very well with supervisors.

Instead of being thrilled that an employee pointed out the illogical and inefficient aspects of whatever they were asking us to do, they seized the moment to flex their muscle. At the height of stress, my emotions get the best of me and I whined.

Some supervisors pounced on my announced vulnerability like feeding time at the Serengeti. At one point, I was so stressed with work, the supervisor-induced power struggle and life in a new country that I suffered from insomnia and my hair thinned. During vacation, I returned to the US and bought a book about negotiating office politics, Working with You Is Killing Me. Not only did I feel more empowered and slept better, but I learned a new twist on the lesson Mom had taught me: supervisors will give me something to cry about when I don’t tactfully voice my opinion.

Then, I self-published my first novel, Tribe of One. I truly believed hoards of people would buy it now that it existed. What a humbling experience. The most formidable obstacles were my own expectations and attitude.

Of all the books I’d read about marketing, PR, branding, and the publishing industry, another book about negotiation, Getting More, taught me the most valuable business skill: listening. Knowing what the other person is thinking is the main premise behind getting more out of any negotiation. You must listen to what the other person is saying, regardless of whether they are illogical, mistaken or just plain batshit crazy.

Secondly, you must control your own emotions. Even if the other side resorts to name-calling, yelling and temper tantrum antics, they will remember if you do the same. Magically, if you control your emotions to the point of maintaining a positive persona, the universe rewards you for exerting good energy.

The ground shifted beneath my feet when I received notice how much my rent was going up. Fortunately, I was due for a capoeira class when I found out. I released a lot of angst while training that Brazilian martial art.

Then, I did what I do best: I wrote out my situation in a letter addressed to the property manager. I even included two pictures: one showed the 12 canvases I’d completed and the other showed me in costume for the roulette.

In my letter, I explained how my only New Year’s resolution for 2014 was to finish my second novel, The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa, which included at least 16 paintings. I’d saved up money and transitioned from high school Physics teacher to freelance editor and writer in order to have a more flexible painting and writing schedule.

This was only possible if I had affordable, safe housing, conveniently located near cultural events and included free Internet. By raising the rent beyond my budget, he would effectively evict his unofficial artist-in-residence.

After reading this, the property manager said my letter was the nicest, most well written of its kind that he’d ever received, which he’d put in his scrapbook. The best part: he only raised my rent by $20.

I learned another facet of Mom’s lesson: when people hear a persuasive, heartfelt appeal rather than whining, they are more willing to negotiate.

In life, there are a few things you pledge loyalty to and adhere to your sense of integrity. For the rest, it’s negotiable. You can whine your way through a conflict or you can successfully resolve it.