White Guilt

Before I go any further I want to preface this piece by saying that this is an attempt to speak on subject that is notoriously complex and delicate. The creation of this blog originated from the legacy of truth speaking. When we speak our truth not only does it put us in a vulnerable position, but also holds us accountable to others and ourselves. Truth speaking is fluid and takes on many forms, but the type of truth speaking I am about to embark on is, for lack of a better word, scary. This is my perspective and deconstruction of white guilt. When I say we or us in relation to White people I am referring to a group of people who systemically benefit from privilege based on a social hierarchy that has been established since the creation of the United States. I can only hold myself responsible for any opinions expressed. Inevitably I am going to say something very un-PC, ignorant, or just misunderstood. What I can guarantee though is that a lot of thought is put into what I say and how I say it.

I wanted to write on White guilt because of a personal incident that happened to me last week that left me contemplating what it means to be White in this country (not like that’s a new thought to say the least). I was on my way home, slightly lost, so I pulled over into the entrance of what appeared to be an inactive parking lot. About ten seconds later I feel a car rear-end me. I was shocked. Not only had I literally just pulled over, but I had just received this car as a gift from my cousin who was going to donate it or else I never would have been able to afford it (believe me, I recognize how privileged I am). Because I have such a limited income I pay for the most basic insurance. Since I wasn’t hurt damage to the car is what crossed my mind. Then I looked into the side mirror to peak at the car that hit me. I saw two young, Black men, probably in their late 20’s emerging. “Fuck” was exactly what crossed my mind. Don’t ask me how my mind works. I still am trying to figure that out, because instantly my head went to issues of race and class privileges. In that instant I felt that no matter what happened, despite who’s fault it was or wasn’t, if we had to take this into legal hands I would most likely have the benefit of the doubt. A young White female up against two Black young men if you look at it from a historical perspective on how race works it was not looking good.

Not only was I conjuring up scenarios, but also I thought about how even though I don’t personally have a lot of money or hardly any, I come from an upper-middle class family. Even if I couldn’t afford damages done to the car most likely my parents would probably dish out even though they claim they wouldn’t. And if my parents wouldn’t loan me money I always have access based on my social positioning because of my skin color, class privileges and education level to loans, credit and jobs.

Okay, so this is what crossed my mind basically before I even got out of the car and within the next couple minutes after exiting.

I did not know what to do. Literally, I did not know. I had never been in a car accident before, except for one time when I was 16 or 17 someone hit my bumper right outside my Mom’s work. Nothing had happened and my Mom took care of the procedures. That was about seven years ago so when I found myself in this predicament last week I was stumped.

When I stepped out of my car (after making sure all of us were okay) we assessed the damages. His left light was smashed and the area around it damaged. Somehow my car didn’t even get a scratch. I didn’t even know technically who was at fault. Was it mine for pulling over at some random spot close to the entrance or his for not paying more careful attention to his surroundings? I didn’t want to come off as innocent and wanted to take responsibility, but wasn’t sure how. (Note this line because there is unintentional symbolism to it that I will address further on.) This young man, Marcus, was rightfully upset by the damage inflicted to his car, but did not address his anger towards me. He started saying, “Man, I don’t need this right now. I can’t believe this.” Shit. That’s what I thought. We started talking logistics. Did he have insurance? Yes, full coverage. Okay. Well, I didn’t have to worry as much because nothing happened to my car or me. For that reason I wasn’t sure what else to do. I apologized and explained that I didn’t know what the procedure is for a situation like this. I guess he didn’t either because neither of us thought about calling the police we simply exchanged names and numbers. Maybe that was subconsciously intentional, maybe not. I personally, try to keep the police out of my business as most of the time they’re up to no good and in this instance I didn’t want to be assigned the role as the victimized, innocent white girl and him labeled guilty.

I didn’t even know until after I got to my parent’s house that you are supposed to have a police report for a car accident, no matter how minor. In fact, most insurance policies won’t cover any damages without one. Then I felt worse. Did he think that I did that I didn’t suggest calling the police on purpose? What would happen if his insurance didn’t cover the damages? What if he couldn’t afford to pay out of pocket? I know I wouldn’t have been able to. If he did utilize his insurance his monthly fee would increase and he would be paying more anyway for an incident that was not entirely his fault. How much of what happened was my fault? Maybe I shouldn’t have pulled over right there, maybe I was in the wrong more so. These are thoughts that have been nagging at me since the accident. I thought about calling him and offering him some money. But, how much was appropriate? I don’t have a lot right now so $100 or $200 is the best I could do and that would be stretching it and most likely his damages cost A LOT more than that. But, even though I don’t have a lot of money I always have access to some money in some way. So, I’ll never be starving or homeless, so maybe I should have given him money.

That leads me to a whole other world of thoughts on class and economic privileges. No matter how little money I have I would never label myself poor, but rather broke, I do not come from a cycle of poverty. More than likely in the near future, in a couple of years, I will be middle class. My broke-ness is temporary and also voluntary because I chose to participate in an Americorps program.

Okay, back on track. I cannot help but think that this was ironically symbolic. I know that had a White dude rear-ended me I would have felt bad, but the guilt would never have come up. There is no doubt in my mind. Here I am an anti-racist activist, scholar, multi-racial feminist, all that jazz and it doesn’t mean shit. First of all, this guy that hits me does not know that. He has no clue of all the thoughts that I had. In so many ways it doesn’t even matter. I’m still a White body, my Whiteness posses’ power. In any general situation like this I’m still White, I’m still going to benefit. No we clearly did not go to court for this or get the police involved, but that is not the point. What I am trying to make of this whole situation is as a White person, particularly as an anti-racist activist, what can I do? Really, what can we do? How do we change a system? How do we make it more just? How do I, as a White person who chooses to fight against Whiteness navigate a system in which I benefit? This whole accident would have looked differently and felt differently to me had it been a White guy. We would have been on an even playing field.

So that is one really huge concept that emerged for me. Helplessness. Hopelessness. Defeat. How do I utilize my White body, my White voice, my White privilege? No, but REALLY? Oppressed people did not choose to be oppressed. I choose to go against Whiteness in the ways that I know how and I am still learning, but it will never be enough. Ever. No matter how much I “choose”. Every second of my life I will continue to benefit and no matter how much I try to push up against my Whiteness it will just laugh at me. I am still a part of the problem. I guess in some ways that hurts. It hurts me that I am hurting people I love and care about and innocent people that I have never met. By living and breathing I am imposing harm on others. By being I am therefore participating in a system. Point blank that sucks. It sucks. Although I can listen, learn, and see the struggles of others and understand it in an intellectual and humane way I will still never know. I will never feel, fully, the consequences of being.

I didn’t want to come off as innocent and wanted to take responsibility, but wasn’t sure how.

With all this guilt emerging I really had to look at White guilt that is so prevalent in our country. My particular favorite is when people get really defensive about being labeled a racist even if no one was insinuating that they were. (I always get amused by that one.) My mind went back to Janet Helms’ Stages of White Racial Identity Development that I was introduced to by Becky Thompson, my professor, white anti-racist activist and author, about five years ago when I was just learning about Whiteness. Now, I would consider myself to place between stage five or six (although feel free to comment if you think I am mistaken).

Stage 5: Immersion/Emersion: Actively seeking to redefine whiteness. Focus is on developing a positive white identity not based on assumed superiority, takes pride in active anti-racist stance. Needs support from other whites. (Side note: on developing a positive white identity not based on assumed superiority. How does the car accident work here? I wasn’t trying to imply superiority, but acknowledge reality. I want to explore this complexity further…thoughts anyone?)

Stage 6: Autonomy: Has internalized a positive white identity. Actively anti-racist, engaged in ongoing process of self-examination. Works effectively in multi-racial settings.

But Helms only addresses White guilt in stages two and three.

Stage 2: Disintegration: Awareness of racism and white privilege increase as result of new personal experiences. Feelings of guilt, shame, anger, denial, and withdrawal are common. May desire to take anti-racist action.

Stage 3: Reintegration: Feels pressured by other to “not notice” racism. Feeling of guilt and denial may change to fear and anger towards people of color, “blaming the victim,” for ex. Avoids the issue of racism, if possible.

I would argue, as a White person who feels comfortable in developing a White racial identity, that there is more fluidity to the stages-somewhat. However, I would not say that I am still at stage one.

Stage 1: Contact: Unaware of own “whiteness” and privilege. Sees racism as “individual acts of meanness” rather than as institutionalized system. Attitudes about people of color usually based on stereotypes.

But, because privilege is so embedded into being White it is easy to be unaware no matter what stage one falls at. I do not think that racial identity is a linear process as much as it is circular. Here is the fourth stage;

Stage 4: Pseudo-Independence: Abandoning beliefs in white superiority. Has an intellectual understanding of the unfairness of white privilege, recognizes personal responsibility for dismantling racism. May distance from other whites, and seek out relationships with people of color.

I think that among White people there is a lot of hesitation in addressing White guilt, even those with more advanced awareness and language around it. Many times it is the big elephant in the room where instead of people talking about it they talk around it. Let us be honest. Guilt is really representative of responsibility. To talk about the guilt that we feel we need to become accountable to our actions (even if unintentional) as well as history. Even if you did not participate in slavery. Despite the fact that your ancestors immigrated here after slavery. Got it?

So White people feel guilty, no doubt. But if given the space, the vocabulary, the knowledge to dialogue around this could we alter guilt into responsibility into growth into knowledge into action into progress? What if we let those feelings of guilt emerge and talk about it? Discuss it? Critique it? I’m not implying that we sit down and lament and have a cry fest feeling bad. But, truth is guilt does feel bad and not knowing how to take responsibility in order to reverse and change the system-not knowing what to do and how to do it does not feel that great either. Not knowing how to fix instead of be the problem is crappy.

So, I am saying we need to talk about White guilt. We need to talk about it with White people. We need to talk about it with people of color. It is a truth that we need to speak on. And it hurts. It’s hard. It’s scary. But, it’s problematic if we don’t. It’s going to leave White people feeling isolated from each other and from their responsibility. In my opinion it only results in more disconnect. We won’t come to any solutions or conclusions. I am not saying that there is an intentional resistance by any group or people out there keeping White people from talking. If anything I think that White people hinder themselves from engaging in these discussions. I know I almost did until I talked to Ladi about my hesitation. How would I sound? Would people judge me? She encouraged me to write, for myself, about this issue. I needed to hear that and I also needed to write. I needed to put this out there. So thank you Ladi for your patience and advice. For always holding the necessary space for me.

I want to comment on one last thought. I Googled images of slavery to put at top because the root of our guilt comes from slavery, although we should not forget about Native American genocide either. I was surprised how few of the pictures had White people in them, very few illustrated White participation. That struck me. How detached we are from our past. Who lynched Black men? Who tore families apart? Who allowed and at times facilitated their husbands rape of Black women? We did. When we learn/teach about slavery how do we fail to emphasis that? Slavery was not just an event in time. The actions of White people established a foundation that has influenced our past, present and future. It is okay to talk about that. It is okay to be ashamed of that. Vulnerability might be our only option and most valuable tool to destroy what we built.

I would really appreciate comments, thoughts and critique on this piece.

Gentrification

Before I post this next entry I also want to introduce myself as a new blogger on Speaking Our Truths. My name is Kathleen Peters. I'm a white, New Hampshire-born queer woman who is currently working in New Orleans after graduating from Simmons College in 2008. While I was always interested in women's studies and (partially) aware to the sexism in our society, my awareness to race and class issues didn't begin until I went to college, and even then it wasn't until my last couple of years that it really started to sink in. I tend to get my thoughts out best through writing, yet generally I'm too nervous that I'm going to "get it wrong" when discussing race and class issues to talk about it on a larger scale. I'm finally learning, however, that I will never get it right, that I will constantly learn new things, that others will often correct me and put me in my place when it's needed, and that a little more light will be shed on which way I should be going. So I might as well just start talking rather than constantly being afraid. Just as a personal note with any entries I post, while I know it's no one else's responsibility to teach me, comments are always welcome and appreciated. I'm here to learn as much as I am to share.

The following are my current thoughts on moving into a new apartment and wondering where I fit in with regards to the current gentrification occurring in many parts of New Orleans.

Gentrification

My [insert superfluous gender label here]-friend and I just signed a lease on a place on the border of the 7^th and 8^th ward of New Orleans. As his friend and our boss said when we told them the cross-streets, “Ooh, y’all know that’s a hot corner, right?” The shelter we work at provides volunteer/staff housing in return for taking very low pay rates. That was working out fine for the first few months, however it became evident that living and working with the same group would not last for long, so come summer we started apartment hunting.

I found the apartment we ended up settling on off of Craigslist. It was cheaper and larger than any other one-bedrooms and studios we had looked at before, and the location was perfect – right in between the shelter in the Upper 9th and my second job in Mid-City. The landlord is great and the lease is thorough but fair, so we put down a deposit and signed our names. The only problem is as we were signing it, I couldn’t help but think we were doing damage by moving into that neighborhood. Much of the areas around the 8^th and 9^th wards have already been gentrified, but most of it is still predominantly Black and (increasingly) Hispanic. The shelter’s staff housing is in the Upper 9^th, sandwiched into a block where most of the houses are owned by an extended Black family. The previous shelter managers, who were white, had lived there previously, and when they left the shelter they asked their neighbors their thoughts on making the house a place for volunteers/staff to live. Before staff lived at the shelter, and in an attempt to decrease staff burn-out the directors were looking to create separate volunteer housing. The surrounding family had no problem with the house becoming a place for volunteers, so volunteer housing it became. I had questions in my mind when I first moved there, feeling that I was intruding on a neighborhood/family and remembering the stories of how the area across the street, the Bywater/Marigny, used to be predominantly Black as well. It wasn’t until the last several years, and especially after Katrina, that white artists and hippie folk overtook that area for their own, pushing people of color further into (or in many cases out of) the 9^th ward. I was worried that by (mostly) white volunteers living there we may be adding to gentrification occurring on this side of the street as well.

I reminded myself, however, that we were not tenants who were willing or able to pay high rent rates for this house or who were looking to change the color and/or class of neighborhood. Everything was done under the shelter, and we were shelter staff who were thankful to have a free place to stay in a city that was new to us. The intent for the placement of the house was also one of solidarity, with the idea that if you are working with a community, you should be a part of that community. The shelter did not want its full time staff to be advocating for women and children to live in an area that they themselves would not live in. Our shelter started with Common Ground Relief, the organization who were one of the first to respond to the needs of Lower 9^th ward residents immediately after Katrina, and the organization whose motto is “Solidarity, Not Charity.” Our shelter is working to keep within that mission as best we can, thus we house our volunteers a few blocks away from the shelter.

The worry of intruding on a neighborhood returned, however, when it was no longer the shelter that was renting a house for predominantly white staff in a poor, mostly Black area. It’s now the case of two young white out-of-towners renting an apartment in the same area on their own. To be fair our choices of apartments were limited, for not only was price a factor in where we lived, but also location. The shelter can be a bit of a 24/7 job with a high probability of needing to be there on short notice if an emergency comes up, so the radius of apartments that we could look at was restricted. We could have lived in the Bywater/Marigny, along with most of the other white people in the area, but the apartments were too expensive and many weren’t looking to rent at the time we needed. When we looked at the place we decided on, we discovered the low rent was due to “nobody” wanting to live there due to the dangerous reputation that the area has. Now I won’t lie, while I usually don’t get caught up in the stigma surrounding some New Orleans neighborhoods, personally believing that that stigma is racist and classist in origin, I did think twice about calling the landlord back after our boss, who is Black and has lived in New Orleans all her life, told us how she thought that area was bad news and she worried about us moving there. I want to be open-minded and in solidarity with the community I’m working with, yet I also don’t want to be blatantly naïve and ignore realities if there are certain corners of the city where you don’t want to be. The apartment was empty for six months prior to us moving in because everyone who had come to look at it never came back. After talking with our boss further she said she thought we’d be fine overall, she just didn’t want us going into it completely unaware of our surroundings. However, if we could have afforded to live in another area we probably would have kept looking after that conversation.

But regardless of our financial situation or the safety status of the neighborhood, should we be moving there on an ethical level? Should two white twenty-something-year-olds who have college degrees and could get higher-paying employment but are choosing to live under the poverty line for a job they love (and are gaining much experience from), move into a low-income area where they are potentially taking that space away from a person of color or a person poor not by choice?

Taigi Smith, who wrote “What Happens When Your Hood is the Last Stop on the White Flight Express?” in the anthology Colonize This! Young Women of Color on Today’s Feminism calls gentrification:

“The displacement of poor women and people of color. The raising of rents and the eradification of single, poor and working-class women from neighborhoods once considered unsavory by people who didn’t live there…A money-driven process in which landowners and developers push people…out of their homes without thinking about where they will go. Gentrification is a pre-meditated process in which an imaginary bleach is poured on a community and the only remaining color left in that community is white…only the strongest colors survived.”

This does not describe us. We are not intentionally “bleaching” a neighborhood. We are not moving to a place “once considered unsavory” – it is technically still unsavory, and shocking to everyone we meet when we say where we’re moving to. One Black man who I sat next to on a flight back to New Orleans called me a “very brave lady” with a confused smile on his face when I answered his question of where I live. While he was very polite and friendly, I couldn’t help but wonder what he was actually thinking behind his smile. Was it, “what is this white girl doing moving to that neighborhood for?” Definitely, he as much as told me that in the rest of our conversation. Was he also thinking how naïve this New Hampshirite was for not knowing that area like he did, a native New Orleanian? Possibly. Did his thoughts go so far as “Why is she gentrifying that neighborhood?” Probably not. The area’s not to that point yet. There are other white people living here, but it’s nothing like the Bywater/Marigny or other places further up in the 7^th /8^th ward. Possibly due to the context of our conversation, as well, he did not get from me that I’m some young artist type that is trying to be “trendy” and revitalize the neighborhood. I’m someone who’s working in the neighborhood and just wanting an affordable place to live. At least I hope that’s the impression he got.

Yet regardless of our intention, regardless if Taigi Smith’s definition of gentrification doesn’t necessarily define us, we do fit the profile of those who start gentrification. We don’t make much money, yet we have a high educational background and came from middle-to-upper class families. We’re young and do not have a family that we feel the need to “protect”, thus we don’t mind living in an area that is dubbed as “less desirable” than where we grew up. We frequent the trendy bars and coffee shops in the Bywater/Marigny, and if one popped up around the corner from us in our new place, we’d probably patron them as well, thus encouraging similar establishments to rent property there. This would in-turn draw more attention to the area from other whites and affluent people in other parts of the city, and then a few years later we now have another fully gentrified area that have pushed marginalized groups out to find a new place to call home. That is until another group of people like myself decide they want to live there as well, and the process starts all over again. We’re not intending for any of this to happen, yet we’re aware that it most likely will and that our presence there almost undoubtedly will add to this process occurring.

Should we not move there? There are tons of articles and journals and newsletters out there promoting affordable housing, describing grassroots efforts to keep rent prices from going up when gentrification begins, and attempting new methods for keeping long-term residents in the community while allowing for some more affluent residents to reside as well – a form of compromise with the gentrification beast. And in reality, after thinking about the effect we may have on gentrifying the area, we may make a point not to support a new coffee shop if it’s not locally owned by someone originally from that neighborhood so as not to encourage further signs of gentrification to occur. Yet before it even gets to that point, whether gentrification is inevitable or not, would it be more ethical for us to play no part in it? Should we get jobs that we may not be as happy at but makes more money so that we can afford more expensive apartments and not need to invade poor people of color’s space? In short, would it be better for us to stay in the “white” side of town? I believe segregation is harmful and is one way racism and fear of the Other is perpetuated, and while there have definitely been cases where integration was not beneficial, I want to believe that if there are the right networks in place and there is a community that supports integration, it can be positive. But can you have positive desegregation without the fear of gentrification? Can you have integration without infiltration? Is it better to come from the other side, with people of color choosing to move into typically affluent, white areas if they want instead of white people forcing integration upon poor people of color? Am I wrong altogether in thinking that integration is positive?

We have the lease for six months and then we can re-evaluate if we want to stay. Maybe being in the area longer and getting to know the city a little better will tap us into community efforts to fight for affordable housing, and perhaps being involved in that will cancel out any potential harm we’re doing by moving there. Yet we’re already outsiders to this city, an issue I go back and forth on every day: whether it is even ethical for me to be working here in the first place. Perhaps there are enough disaster-junkie transplants here who want to get their “New Orleans fix” before moving on. That’s not to undermine the work that people not native to New Orleans have done and the care they do it with. But there are also a lot of out-of-towners that are just here for the crisis-rush, make too much noise and take up too much space, push people from New Orleans out of the positions they should really be holding, and then get offended when people call them out on it. Would we getting involved in affordable housing community organizing be another type of that same invasion? It’s bad enough to invade a neighborhood in the community that you’re originally from, but to invade an area you’ve only lived in for a short time, then leave a year or so later where others now have to fight a battle you helped fuel? That’s gotta be worse.

My friend talked to an old professor of his, who also helped start the shelter, about this issue of gentrification and what part we may be playing in it. Ultimately the conclusion his professor came to was that if we were attempting to work in solidarity with the community around us, it would be ethical for us to live there. That's the conclusion I believe I'm coming to as well, but still part of me can't help but wonder if intent isn't enough. Sure I'm intending to work in solidarity, but does that mean I actually am? Sure I'm not intending to further gentrify the neighborhood, but does that mean I won't add to it eventually? This could get into the issue of solidarity in general and if that type of activism and social justice work can even exist, but that's another essay for another time. I just hope I'm not inadvertently hurting the community by moving there. I suppose only time will tell.

An introduction

Peace everybody,
I want to introduce myself a little bit before I introduce my work. My name is Amanda Ali. I am a Black, radical, able and female-bodied, queer, Muslim feminist born and raised in the Franklin Field section of Dorchester, Massachusetts. I’ve been blessed. My rough upbringing juxtaposed against stellar educational opportunities afford me a unique perspective on life.

After leaving the Boston Public School system at eleven years old, the culture shock of private school in Wellesley, Massachusetts hit hard. Moving into dormitories three years later only made me angry. Racism and privilege at the school hardly provided a sound environment for personal development as did neither of my parents' homes. My external communication concerning emotions stunted while my internal voice flourished onto paper.

Four years at Williams College gave me a critical analysis of my experiences as a young, queer, Black woman in America; my writing often taking a dark tone to reflect this understanding.

Now, as a published poet, community organizer and MSW candidate, I am learning every day new ways to cope, new ways to learn and teach and new ways to speak. I hope ultimately to have an influence on youth from similar backgrounds and to be a resource for my community.

By day, I am a health professional; by evening, an organizer, spoken word artist and activist and by night, I am a poet and writer.  I am a full-time critical thinker whose work is meant to be read aloud. It speaks to the root causes of the isms and prejudices that surround us all and has previously been published in the online poetry magazine, Breadcrumb Scabs and La Sagrada, the 2009 Zine from the Mujeres de Maiz.

Below are some pieces that I recently read with a group of women from the urban neighborhoods of Boston doing great community work called Reflect and Strengthen.

Politikin’ Personal Politics

If you are a person
everything is personal.
But when systems started putting our personage on blast
the personal became political.
And since their politics have been involving my clitoris since before I knew what to call it
and before they built slave ships,
my personal is always political.
My skin color has been up for grabs since we got here.
And even if people of color leave now, white men’s politics will still dictate where we can go.
And even if you “have no color,”
the politics of that
state that
you have the privilege
to say that.

So if you are a person,
then everything should be political.
So I politik my politics to those melanated people who think that politics don’t concern them
even though they come from a White House.
And I make sure that those colorblind who don’t have to pick a side
step aside until they figure their shit out.
I don’t make mundane conversation political.
The politics are already in ideology
I just name it.

Therefore,
everyone should be active,
everyone should be pissed
about everything that we don’t have access to
and take it.


1 4 the Times

I live in a police state.
and so do you.
streets are war zones.
mobilize the youth.
make aware the generations
much older than you.
we must awaken the people
this war will consume you.

We are the victims!
We are the martyrs!
We are the soldiers!

Heat.
The heat from the sun beats down on the people in waves.
Agitated we
use our landscape
to take each other down.

Angry
there’s no food
Angry
there’s no air
Angry
bombs drop everywhere
and we
end up
homeless.

Combat.
Sweat meets brow as we
hand-to-hand,
gun-to-chest
kill each other.
And we die slowly on the pavement,
blood runs into sewers
in churches,
minds run away from grief
panic meets artery
on wooden slabs of pew
spirits die too.

Pigs with M16s
mean
war.
Urban warfare,
we should be the guerillas
but are gorillas
mis-identifying our enemies.

I live in a police state.
and so do you.
streets are war zones.
mobilize the youth.
make aware the generations
much older than you.
we must awaken the people
this war will consume you.

we already grow up too fast
waving childhood good-bye at nine
becoming soldiers on patrol
protecting our young and our youth.

constantly under attack
our
man and womanhood
lives and livelihood
and yet, we strive to get out the hood.

I asked for advice
about what we should be doing
I was told to be putting bombs
inside the subway systems
snipe on top of skyscrape buildings
if we’re gonna be guerillas

patrol our own streets
watch for the common enemy
wiping tears over our blood
shed
after seeing gore too early.

war wounds still oozing
pain
carrying our dead on our backs
backed up by
our Somalian family
our Liberian family
our Palestinian family…

militarizing our neighborhoods
in our favor
violence is in our blood
spilling onto our culture

gun recycling
it’s time to fry bacon
and recycle the oil
to keep our lanterns burning
in vigil
reuse the fat to make new candles
new culture
of community policing
we belong to each other.

I live in a police state.
and so do you.
streets are war zones.
mobilize the youth.
make aware the generations
much older than you.
we must awaken the people
this war will consume you.

This Work

Don’t ask me why I do this work.
I do this work because nobody’s fighting for the wholeness of Dorchester.
They give us shots and pills,
but no one seems to get better.
Because our breasts are infected,
they rip out our wombs,
and feed us chain food toxins
strategically.
I do this work because where you live still determines how long you’ll live.

Because mothers having children they can’t afford is a symptom of a bigger problem. Because brothers locking themselves up in the winter says there’s something wrong with the system.
Because everyday, there’s a girl with no love at home,
meets a man she thinks is cool
and decides to have a child of her own.
And we elders calls her stupid;
Not realizing that we are who failed her.
Unable to give the support she needs
because we’re not getting it ourselves—
The cycle.

I do this work to break it;
To let people know that their problems
are our problems.
That their burdens come from a larger system,
and that their pain
comes from the pain of those before them.
I do this work because we are so detached from our bodies that we do not care what we put in them.
Because the links between mind, body and soul have been lost but might be the key to our salvation.
Because empowerment begins at the heart
but our actions are in our hands.
So when will self-worth become valued within our movement?

I do this work because I speak up and tell my truth,
and for it I get called a bully, a bitch, a dyke
and a whore for looking good while doing it.
I’m arrogant for defending my convictions,
Because I know my worth and use it.
I do this work because I cannot dress up and be taken seriously.

“O you accursed women who make men rape you
Make men hate you
Because you speak like they do
And do not apologize.”
That is the curse of competence.

I do this work for my past, present and future.
I do this for my friends, family, blood relation and extended.
I do this work for the ones who can’t,
don’t know they should
or simply refuse to,
I do this for me, he, she, ze, in between and most of all
I do this work
for you.

Junkyard

can you see me?
can you see beyond what you think you see?
we being robots
trained to perform
trained to be
what we see

feeling nothing
not knowing who we are
copying carbon copies
outlining ourselves

follow command
reject the hand
see no clearer
be the mirror

blocking the stage for each day
carrying out the divine design

each morning,
risen to find
mirror images
reflecting the malfunction
body betrayal when the Ace Bandage
slips
do you know how to tie down D’s?
does it matter?

hard drive damaged
emergency:
shut down

switch roles
create new life
ignorant pupils
gaze
disconnect
live wires
start a fire
to
unplug

i hear the echoes
i'm calling myself


seeing reverberations
amalgamations
hearing reflections of pieces
that work

searching,
looking
uncovering, digging, calling, wanting
the whole
calling out to the clothes,
the hair,
the face
who are you today?
made up for you
today

some
things only fit parts
some
times
and in some
places

can you put a butch spin on hijab?
what do I have?

can you see me?
can you see beyond what you think you see?
we being robots
trained to perform
trained to be
what we see

feeling nothing
not knowing who we are
copying carbon copies
outlining ourselves

follow command
reject the hand
see no clearer
be the mirror

choreography
that matches the leader
what are you wearing?
what did you say?
sit up straight
carry the weight
of who you're not

cherry-picking stance
magnificate
to assimilate
to feel half-way-there
queer
to say the least
part-tamed beast
came to me in a dream,
free

defined by anatomy
used against me
performing cunnilingus
with cunning linguals
shut the fuck up
and genderfuck for fun
words mean nothing

what do you get when the fitted won’t fit
but the heels hurt
and the bra is scratchy?

awake to a new day
unearth another piece
the beast still calls me
nuts and bolts
hold
together
Tin Man butter
junkyard

can you see me?
can you see beyond what you think you see?
we being robots
trained to perform
trained to be
what we see

feeling nothing
not knowing who we are
copying carbon copies
outlining ourselves

follow command
reject the hand
see no clearer
be the mirror

Idenitity Building From the Home Spaces of Black Women

“The healing knowledge of ‘Our Ancestors’ is central to our survival. The veneration of our foremothers is essential to our self-respect”
- Luisah Teish, Women’s Spirituality: A Household Act

So maybe it’s just the place I’m in, a plea I’m wailing through words, but here I am, again, writing and thinking and writing and shouting about how critical being a black queer woman whom loves Black Queer women really is. Maybe I’m just at this point where I’m trying to pull a lot of different things together in my healing for self-respect/dignity/love and wholeness. Lets go on and say it’s that along with the fact that I NEED FAMILY and I’m really beginning to understand that my readings and virtual correspondence is just not enough. I need to see, touch, hear, and smell my family (and in family I mean Black Queer women who know writing is healing, who are mediums for our ancestors and foremothers, and who exert love and work towards the powers of freedom truth and justice). So shouting about whom I am and am not- what I stand for, help the process of gathering and building and knotting those family ties. However, this writing has more of a focus. I want to speak directly to the healing and structuring of identity between black queer women (and Black women in general, although I’ve queered all Black women/people in my mind and understanding already).

I am not a Black Goddess
I an not a Rock
I am not a Photograph
I am not a picture in your mind
I am myself struggling toward myself
- Donna Kate Rushin, The Black Goddess

This writing initially came out of my want to place on paper the feel and identity growth that comes from loving Black women. I wanted to articulate how I’ve been able to piece together my sensing of who I am and where I come from or how I’ve been able to transform the distorted and negative concepts of self through loving Black women. Well, we won’t stray too far from this. However, after consulting with my handy dandy, always trustworthy, spiritual reader, Home Girls, I realized that I needed to address the topic on a larger scale. I want to discuss the resistance and the healing that births from Black women’s writing and through sistering and mothering one another, altogether. Its been a little more than a year now since I discovered Cheryl Clarke’s essay, “Lesbianism As Resistance” and let me tell you, she’s been my hero every since! I was at Spelman, trying to figure out how I ended back in the middle of a world that’s feeding me disguised images and messages of self-hatred. A world I was running away from in Boston at Simmons. So I made it my duty to conspire a master plan to go against all the visuals and aesthetics I was confronted with by being the biggest Poor Black, Queer, Dyke, Writer Warrior Activist (in all that I understood those terms and identity labels to mean) as resistance. I shouted and screamed and dressed in my chucks and jeans, and cut my locks and laid them out in my room next to Sitting Bull. And in all this, I came up with what I thought to be an original thesis for a final paper, lesbianism as resistance. After typing this into Google/J-Stor/Clark Atlanta’s library search engine, all this info on Cheryl Clarke and Bridge came up and I was floored. It felt so good to be able to read and hear a voice that sounded so much like my own. A voice that articulated all that I was feeling and trying to draft up in all my running and big fusses made. It was a deep exhaling and release of so much tensed energy just in knowing you’re not alone, you’re not crazy, and that you’re struggle and want to survive is experienced by many others. This is the healing power of women’s writing. Through the writings of women like Barbara Smith, June Jordan, Alice walker, Audre Lorde, and others, I was able to grab hold of a community, language, and legacy of voices that reflected my narrative and struggle, and greatly impacted the way I shape and develop concepts of identity, resistance, and healing.

“Certainly, self-hatred, in one form or another, is what brings Black women to therapy. How many black women, in the course of our lives, could unequivocally withstand the assaults on our very existence? We could sue society for nonsupport except for its ‘support’ in teaching us the oppressive process of internalizing racism and sexism, i.e., self-hatred”
-Eleanor Johnson, Reflections on Black Feminist Therapy

After coming across this in Eleanor Johnson’s essay, “Reflections on Black Feminist Therapy”, the overall themes and material entailed in that essay pushed me to address the impact that Black women sistering one another has on identity. It enabled me to reflect on the spaces I call home and here is where I realized that they are mostly queer but always involving Black women. Taking the time to ponder the question, “How many black women, in the course of our lives, could unequivocally withstand the assaults on our very existence?” I could only imagine the answer amounting to little to none. My friend Miafere and I always talk about how if folks only knew how hard or how much it takes for a Black girl to embody some sort of self-confidence (or even the masking of such) the whole premise of the Black girl’s big and bad attitude persona would be diminished, as its only our survival skin. This skin is something that I’ve learned to turn on when standing along a threatening path. My protective skin, something taught from a very young age, equipping you with a poker defense face and tongue that can intimidate nearly anyone in any situation. However, what I wish I were taught is that it’s okay to cry and hurt and feel/be vulnerable. Yes, and I could never understand why white women are always crying! And I find myself being kind of angry at this tool they seemed to possess, the ability/affordability to show weakness and sensitivity. It weirds me out every time I encounter it, in the classroom, in an office, on television, at a restaurant or market, any and everywhere. It’s such a crazy visual for me as I can only recall seeing one Black woman elder cry along the twenty-one years of my journey, and that turned out to be a big mistake.

I used to think
I can’t be a poet
because a poem is being everything you can be
in one moment,
speaking with lightning protest
unveiling a firey intellect
or letting the words drift feather-soft
into the ears of strangers
who will suddenly understand
my beautiful and tortured soul.
But, I’ve spent my life as a Black girl
A nappy-headed, no-haired,
Fat-lipped,
Big-bottomed Black girl
And the poem will surely come out wrong
Like me.
-Chirlane Mccray, I Used To Think


Nevertheless, there is an unveiling that comes out of home spaces between Black women. An unveiling of self, the masks, and protective skins. I am able to confront myself in a way that forces me to learn and evolve. Through the writings and communities, I am able to discover the truths about my ancestry and sisters that walk with me now. I am able to face/meet/see real Black bodies and minds and hear the voices in separation from the bullshit that clouds our daily societal existence. The realities of my being, the beauty, strength, magic, warmth- all things that aren’t accessible in my everyday are found within the circles of Black women. There are simple things one can pull and take from these spaces, like a love for my hair. I love being able to see a Black woman with a head full of tight coils (as mine) as she has it all twisted and wound up in some funky style- not in the light of taming or controlling her hair. But in loving its uniqueness. Hair, is always a topic amongst Black women. It can’t seem to escape confrontation as it so tangled in with our struggle around womanhood and humanity. Yes, something as small as hair is an item that Black girls learn to align as enemy from an early age. It’s learned to be the one extension of yourself that may set you apart from obtaining beauty, safety, love, acceptance and its through convening with like minds and spirits that I re-learn to love and see the beauty in every puffy coil. The pulling of the love I have for my widened hips, rounded saggy breast, belly that wraps all around the back and sides, cellulite thighs, and the stretch markings resting on my waist. There’s also the taking of hearing the drawls, snaps, slurs, and sounds that comes off a Black tongue. Those little Black woman grunts and noises that seem to be oh so universal and innate. In loving a Black woman, I’m enclosed in this sharing of aesthetics, respect, and tools for survival. In loving a Black woman, I extend myself- my energies my survival my healing onto her and between ourselves.

There’s an underlining truth and understanding of each other’s walk that Black women meet on and having such a foundation is quite powerful. It calls for discovery in one another. Eleanor Johnson posed the question why Black feminist therapy? Her answer, “Why Black women? Why Black people? We seek our grandmothers’ strengths, our great-grandmothers’ strategies-we find our sources. We discover/recover ourselves” (Smith, 324). And this is truth as our stories histories fear struggles strengths hurts are all intertwined, creating a sense of free when we come together. One unlike any other I experience in other spaces or circles. And there is a struggle and strength in carrying on such relations as it’s like you’re confronting you. You’re confronting all that you are and struggle with. All that you struggle with loving, you’re taking those energies of fear and anger strength and heaviness and you love it. You love her with all that’s in you and you heal and you survive and you get through and you love you. You love you and you feel lighter. She makes me feel lighter just as all the black women whom I love and loved have healed me in some way. I see myself in her as sister as lover as friend as comrade as my support and I reflect the same.

I am not a Black Goddess
I am a Black woman

Remember
There is the residue of fear in me
Remember
There is Healing in my hands
If you can hold these contra dictions in your head
/in your heart

You can hold me in your arms
-Donna Kate Rushin, The Black Goddess

A lover (my love(r)) told me today, in midst of our session of loving supporting sistering mothering and just knowing how to be there (in knowing what that means) for one another, something that spoke great volumes to how I was feeling at the time. It was a very small token of good listening and understanding that allowed me, for a moment, to settle in and exhale from all the hootin’ and hollerin’ I was doing. In discussing my anger for the white gentrified presence in Harlem and how I would love to find a way to simply not carry so much with me day by day, she interrupts my tirade by saying, ‘I know, you just want to be lighter’! And in her uttering of those words, I sunk into the mattress and took a deep breath. She said this and yet again, (as this usually is the case), those words (her words) were my own. Taking a breath and weight from me at the immediate connection understanding and alliance made after my first listen. It felt as if through my whole rant sighs and exhales/wavering/grunts/ shouts she knew what I was feeling (where my frustration laid) and sweetly said, “I know, you just want to be lighter”, and that made sense to me. It made sense because that’s what I felt and that’s what I was trying to convey to her through all my fussing. And just as it made sense to me, those words were hers in her knowing of what such emotion/yearn feels like. Its moments like these that I feel something greater/deeper transpire in my loving Black women. There is a presence of knowing and understanding that is beyond….just beyond. I am able to build, mold, transform my sensing of self through the correspondence, meetings, gatherings, love making, consoling and it helps me to be a better, stronger, wiser, more honest me. I’m able to love myself throughout it all, as that’s what it take for me to love her….and at the end of the day, I’m being healed and loved for being me, the biggest Poor Black, Queer, Dyke, Writer Warrior Activist of em’all!

Why you should care about Melissa Harris Lacewell

To all who have followed the very beginnings of this blog thank you for not abandoning us…we’re back! Ladi and I were discussing some of the affirming comments that were left on one of her first posts and we reflected on the potential of our efforts. We’re grateful for the use of this blog to hold the necessary space to speak our truths and dialogue around these issues. As a white woman I am extremely grateful not only to this community, but to the many spaces and communities I turn to for support, guidance and solidarity.

Our inspiration for the blog originated from classroom discussions, which became so pivotal not only in validating our voices, our truths, but in expanding our consciousness & forming a beloved community able to offer refuge after periods of isolation.

When I approached Ladi and Alicia about the creation of the blog I was fired up by the work of Melissa Harris Lacewell and Yolanda Pierce, two Black women professors at Princeton University and their blog called The Kitchen Table or TKT for short.

As of July 7th, 2009 Harris Lacewell has officially retired from her place at TKT. I am a big fan of Harris Lacewell and an avid follower of her on Facebook and Twitter. Her appearance on Democracy Now! debating Gloria Steinem is how I became familiar with her work. More than just being a fan though I am fascinated by the significance of her presence and how she uses social networking and blogging to hold a virtual space for dialogue. Not only is she teaching us and setting an example on how to do it (evidence Speaking Our Truths blog), but the work of Harris Lacewell and others is actually redefining the tradition of the narrative and access to information–efforts that were the focus of multi-racial feminism and traditional text.

TKT was a unique haven to multi-racial feminists in the cyber blogging world for many reasons. I recommended it to all of my friends because it is politically smart and socially aware. Tell me who else was critiquing Hillary Clinton and going head to head with Gloria Steinem in defense of Barack Obama? Along with the a critique of the racism exerted by the Clinton campaign, Harris Lacewell and Pierce spoke out on issues from a perspective that is not welcome or encouraged at many other media tables. That perspective is inclusive of personal experience and intellectual knowledge. It analyzes the intersection of race, class, gender, sexuality, age, etc and dissects how privilege and social hierarchies function in our society. Basically it is a whole lotta truth speaking!

In addition to generous amounts of knowledge that was imparted to the readers there was the underlying personal narrative of the blog that made it so special. These women were writing not just because they were informed about a topic or an issue, but because of a personal connection. It embodied the personal as political and the political as personal.

Why is this important? Well, for many reasons. As two professors they were altering who typically has access to resources by using a blog to relay information. The Internet is accessible not only in homes (for those who can afford it and privileged enough to own a computer), but also in schools and libraries. It is also essential that these are two black women who while working within the institution are working against the system simultaneously. The act of writing itself is pivotal when we come from a history where a Black person with an education was seen as dangerous to today where schools that primarily teach Black and Brown students are in deteriorating conditions, underfunded, and have minimal resources is no coincidence.

The Black narrative historically documents not only oppression, but also survival and resistance. Although I am not exactly sure how third wave multi-racial feminism emerged based on my knowledge I would argue that 3rd wave feminists used a model of the Black narrative to shape identity politics.

Texts such as This Bridge Called My Back are groundbreaking because here are radical, lesbian women of color vocalizing and printing what has kept them maybe not only isolated from each other because of social norms and hierarchies, but also oppressed and exploited in society. Within their words and pages there are so many validating experiences for the readers. That is one reason I love books and writings because for so many people we feel so alone in our communities, within our own families, but then truth is discovered from one to another. It is these spaces that sustain us, which we thrive from. One person sharing their truth can indefinitely change another’s opinion of themselves, of another person or group, or of how structural inequalities work. Just one voice CAN do that.

Why did I focus then, specifically on Harris Lacewell? I feel that she is continuing and contributing to the work of our ancestors-Adrienne Rich, Audre Lorde, Gloria Anzaldua, Cherrie Moraga, among others because she offered another layer to identify politics although no, she’s not a poet (that we know of.) I was saddened that she left her place on TKT, although I don’t blame her. Her accessibility divulges her busy life as a public figure, devoted mother, author, campaigning for her boyfriend, James Perry, running for Mayor of New Orleans, her research and advocacy for the victims of Katrina & NOLA, her dedication for her students at Princeton and the list goes on and on.

BUT I felt like TKT was a space created by two activists, advocates, public figures, professors who recognized the vitality of a community. There is no other blog out there that I have found similar to TKT. How many of us doing this work often feel so alone in a world where so many people are already disconnected from each other? What we need is strength and support, acceptance, advice, patience and each other. So be it blogs or Facebook, twitter or books, whatever, however let us gather for each other, for ourselves.

Loving and Sistering Women: A Rant

   So I've been wondering just how close and crucial writing, speaking, loving, and connecting with women in general is to my survival,
my clarity and overall feeling of safety,
identity building/discovery/creation,
the shaping of home, and in healing.
I mean it’s in those spaces and at those times (with women) that I feel the need
   want
      desire to place my innermost on the table - Whether it’s through tele-sound waves, on a pc screen, or through ink. 

   Loving and Sistering women, is what helps me to sit and make peace with myself and the wavering energies that flutter within and round'n about daily. It’s in these circles or between these one on ones that I reach out for safety and grip hold to something strong and binding on the other end. I take the creations,
    creativity,
       tears,
          shivers,
             sighs,
                exhales,
                    nods and yes ‘sums,
                        wavering hands,
                            the eyes/that look, 

                               the laxness and intensity back to school, back to the classroom,
   on my walks through Harlem, Philly, campus, wherever,
      my mother’s home 
         an aunt’s house 
            church
               the stoop
                  to meetings
                     the park 
                        the bus/charlie/trolley stop and subway
                           the cafe
                              lab 
                                museum 
                                  to eat there or sometimes here
                                     that store, or in that cab, with memories and the knowing that home, like minds and like love and vision is not is real is truth is not far away. I take my fillings of those meetings wherever I go so that I may not ever be caught without a weapon or defense or courage. And cause I know I'm not alone, I know my voice struggle fight lives in many.
There's a power, a revival that comes from those meetings moments and shared words that I think need to be
   to be
     to be
       to exist more freely, abundantly with more safety more rage and more love. With less competition 

   envy 

      negative energies of hurt 

         lies 

           and self-loathing. There is a need for some true community village family sisterring thinking knowing and doing. There is a need for the hate

and hate
   and hate that lives within us individually and as a collective persons to be understand holistically and rid from our bodies minds spirits families and communities. We've allowed them to break and tear us down for too long and the destruction and death and disappearance and suicide and killing has to come to an end before were all extinct and parish and fade into white...seeing as how we know, live and exist in the dark too well and for far too long. There needs to be more of a fight for visibility and fight for a loving and collective visible we. I want
  I want
    I want a lot and very little at the same time and am willing to put in the work. Am simply in need for the energizing of my loves my sisters to occur alongside my walk with a collective of tired minds bodies and spirits with me! My rant and continuous plea as I rest the days thoughts for some nighttime rest!

In Peace and With Much Love,

Ladi

Redefining the Politics of the Body

So I am in a steady battle of coming in and out of the type of language and labeling I place onto my body and onto my struggle with this constant changing of my politics and sense of who I am within my struggle as a queer Black woman in this society.

Changing from the idea that I am "trapped" within a body that society, media, and this western/euro-centric worldview deems as other, hyper-sexual, inadequate, and without voice and womanhood to a language that separates the blame from that which I live and breathe in, to the actual root. Changing the notion that my body is the root to my oppression as it operates alone within society, detached from my being, allowing the placing of labels, meanings, and definitions to be carried with me without my sanction. Transforming those notions to a language that clearly identifies the actual source to which my struggle lies instead of using language that directs to my external being, my flesh as the outer layering of who I am.

I'm moving away from this siding of accepting this feeling and hurt that correlated with this sense of "trapped-ness" to a body that's constantly targeted with harmful images, messages, and misrepresentations of my Black womanhood, my queer identity, my "poor" socio-economic status, my African cultural aesthetics and retentions, etc.
However, I recognize that I am forced to move through society with these additional concepts of my being that are in opposition to the self-concept and perspective I hold for my own body and person-hood. I just wonder where and how the line be drawn to separate the two. Are the methods of resistance just not enough, as I am young woman who is in search of a higher level of consciousness of the matters that are going on around me, my community, and globally, yet in still, I struggle with finding a concrete grounding to loving myself within this body. What are the resistive methods that need to take place here? What are the solutions to building a barrier that will allow younger Black and Brown girls to be confronted with all that this society throws at them without the internalization of such? What does such intervention look like, and how do come to a place to hold our communities, families, educational systems, and ourselves accountable for doing this work?

As I've just begun putting together an interactive forum for middle school Black and Brown girls to receive the message of moving these questions to their conscious forefront, I hope to make the necessary connections of what can be done and in what ways we can make our efforts effective. Hopefully the writing and dialogue around this discussion will shed more light on ways to maintain our sirvival actions.

In Peace,

Ladi