On Silence and Being Myself

This piece concludes my written reaction to the matter of Rachel Dolezal and identity politics 

Choosing not to speak/write on every issue facing the black community is a matter of sanity at some point. So much goes on that is painful and heartbreaking. I know it goes on and I feel powerless and hopeless at times. Being a black woman and knowing we are at the bottom rung in consideration of just about everything, even within the black community makes it hard not to internalize. Seemingly inescapable stereotypes this, she had it coming that, there is just no end to the amount of victim-blaming black people and especially black women continue to endure. Negative energies abound for black women. And of course I don’t have a right to be angry about any of it. Don’t ever tell me that. Rage is the subtext when it comes to matters of the blackness and black lives.

Then there is the matter of being myself. I like to think I do well in abiding by the value of being myself, being my genuine self. In fact it is a source of pride. Then stuff like this [Rachel Dolezal] happens where self-doubt is re-awoken. As I ponder my status and the eventual reality that I will need to establish myself as a professional, I wonder about my life chances. Is being myself enough? Will people take me seriously? I play the part and follow the obvious rules but always as myself, which is dependent on comfort level with my surroundings. But I know following the rules isn’t enough; being respectable isn’t enough. I know I can be weird and that my cadence in speech is readily made fun of. My blackness is questioned because how I present somehow seems inauthentic.

How is it that someone can pretend their way into blackness and privilege and a good life yet black women like me are viewed with suspicion and/or mistrust? Why is the genuine continually passed over in favor of false pretenses? Being taken as I am seems too much to ask for the status quo as well as the disenfranchised who prefer the status quo. How am I supposed to be optimistic knowing of this reality?  

I will do what I can in as good of spirit as I can muster; but faith in self and the universe is hard to come by at times; especially considering the daily reality facing the disenfranchised, black people and black women especially. I continue to resist the self-fulfilling prophecy regardless, but it is hard. Writing/speaking to this on the regular is hard. I need a break from the anger, from the powerlessness, from reality. Such continual anger is not good for the soul. It doesn’t help me relate to others, especially the ones who play into my triggers with their microaggressions.

I need a break. So I am silent. I enjoy the company of my son and the positive, hopeful, uplifting people in my life. I engage in the realm of happiness any chance I get because it is so hard to be without it. Don’t think I am one to trade my blackness in. That would suggest I am for the status quo and for oppression. I wish oppression on no one and will work to alleviate it, to end it. Those close to me know and understand the dialectic involved in this struggle. They know and understand my desire for peace, love, and being. They don’t mistake me for being neutral because of it. Being angry about these things is tiresome and not a space I want to be in for the rest of my life, short as it may be at this point. That is why I am silent on most issues others discuss most of the time. Don’t misunderstand my silence as a lack of solidarity.

Doesn’t mean my love is not there for us. It’s just a space I’d rather not dwell as I write, yet it is all I can seem to write about when I do freely express. So I suppose it is a space I am attempting to refuse despite my intimacy with it. 

Faith

Work
Live
Love
Triumph     

R. Dolezal : Black womanhood and legitimacy or I have issues

Side note on the current topic of Rachel:

Do I have to scream from the rooftops that I am/continue to aim to be an ally? Apparently so if I am to be taken seriously. But I’d rather not. If my actions—which are small and do not involve the spotlight—do not speak for themselves then I have work to do, obviously. Being a black woman in this day and age unfortunately has meant a controlled state of pain and rage are part of my many undercurrents. I wish I could be at peace and happy on the regular. Seeing and knowing that we/I still do not qualify for many of the things lighter/white skinned folks take for granted makes it hard as hell. I long for the day when I do not have to wonder about being taken seriously; makes me wonder if I can ever really succeed in life. I ache for a reality where being treated with respect and dignity without justification is a norm. As such I am a work in progress. I put up with what I have to. My refusal to put up with anything more shouldn’t disqualify me from being treated like you would want to be treated. Being in such negative thought spaces is tiresome. Yet acceptance continues to be hard to come by, so imagine what it must be like internally. I long to no longer have to wonder, what is it about me that makes me so undesirable in their scrutiny of me? The fact that I must continue to be hyper-aware of my every action makes it hard to live simply sometimes. Of course  I am no angel—I was disqualified the moment I was born, but because I have to over-analyze everything I do, I am pretty sure of myself when I find myself asking What did I do to you to deserve this? Usually it’s some kind of refusal I’ve engaged in: not holding my tongue, not agreeing with your argument, wanting to assert my confidence in certain matters, stubborn pride—all my fault to be sure. This is my experience with black womanhood at the moment.

On Rachel Dolezal : Matters of privilege

Reaction 4: Seems I missed something. There is that part of the black community that is biased as far as what qualifies as blackness; a partial truth if ever there was one [see previous post]. Here is another and more prominent one; that blackness guarantees access to oppression no matter your class, gender, or sexuality. So, why would anyone want to appropriate that? To claim that level of oppression as part of one’s identity if it weren’t truth? I imagine it lent to the sense of legitimacy of the work Rachel was/is doing. To claim expertise becomes more valid if one has shared in the oppression being discussed. Doesn’t make it right to appropriate, in fact it seems totally crazy when one knows of the privilege one otherwise has access to. If this is a matter of playing the game and winning, then of course I’m angry. I have doubts about “playing the game” as myself, not to mention I hate playing these kinds of games because of that and not being sure I could win, let alone live a decent life. Of course it is possible that she genuinely has love for the black community enough to struggle for and with us. I don’t know the full story. It doesn’t seem right that one would feel the need to go to such lengths to do the work. Why couldn’t she have been herself? What would that have meant?

The matter of privilege is huge regardless. It is in the realm of privilege that one thinks they can do, get away with, and represent themselves as anything without a second thought. To not have to think about possible repercussions of norm violations of any scale; to assume acceptance regardless of the situation; to be given the benefit of the doubt as a default of simply being. How often has Rachel had to earnestly think about these things in her lived experience? How often has she had to consider the gendered/sexual politics within the black community? What about the colorist politics? What is the extent of privilege she has had access to? What has been her lived experience within this identity? I cannot help but think about the range of responses on this matter while also hoping no harm comes to Rachel. At the same time, I cannot help but imagine her capitalizing off this further in her memoir “Black Like Me 2: Afrocentric Boogaloo”. The privileged and white have all the “luck”.  

On Rachel Dolezal and matters of [my] blackness: inital reactions

Reaction 3: There it is again. That voice. The one that speaks to my insecurities as a black woman that is not as involved in the black community or any community for that matter. The matter of realness as far as being black is concerned is something I continually get caught up in. I can hear it now in relation to Rachel: Yeah at least she’s down. She’s blacker than you. She was never neutral on anything as far as issues of blackness are concerned. Blah, blah, blah. Okay, okay, so I haven’t officially joined the club which usually means I haven’t decided to live by the black version of “Stand by Your Man” because that tune/mantra is total bullshit. Not joining any club when I don’t feel like I can be me in it. Also, I refuse to stand by oppression in any form no matter who is behind it. Selective in/exclusion is something I try to avoid/overcome. Maybe I am a black heretic among my people . Yet the black community I have witnessed is just as quick to do so among their own. My refusal to conform makes me suspect.

 Nothing points to race being a social construct with real-life consequences than ideas that surround what it is to be black among black people. Usually it plays out like a series of check boxes on a resume:

-Hmmm…has been called a n....r by whites?  Check. Knows who Billy Ocean, Freddie Jackson, and Luther Vandross are? Check. Grew up in a black church? Check. Sang in choir? Bonus points. Has temper/attitude. Check. Has angry black woman face. Check. Looked over for job opportunities. Check. Not taken seriously. Check. Not given benefit of the doubt. Double check. I see you did not check the Likes yams box.

-That’s because I hate yams.

-What about sweet potato pie?

-Also tastes like yams, which I hate.

-I see. It shows you also haven’t seen Devil in a Blue Dress.

-That’s correct.

-Or Harlem Nights?

-No.

-I don’t know if you qualify. Let me confer with my Council of Blackness constituents and we’ll get back to you on your Black card.

Never mind my skin tone. Never mind the fact that in situations concerning police that I consider my life to be at risk. When the guns are drawn I am just as likely to be targeted as any other black person, more so because of my darker skin tone. This makes me just as likely to be looked over in all respects from something as trivial as beauty to something as profound as dignity and the worthiness of keeping my life. Surely that makes me black enough.

So back to the matter of Rachel. Like most light/white skinned people and women in particular, she was given the benefit of the doubt in what I imagine to be all cases as far as her work and identity were concerned. Her identity credentials were never brought under scrutiny until now. Based on reactions, I imagine her being welcomed into the black community was all but seamless. Same with the work she did. No one had a reason to check anything, whereas the moment I open my mouth I am on the defensive because of the sound of my voice! Light/white privilege at its finest? Perhaps. But now light-skinned biracial women will also be put on the defensive regarding their identity politics, especially if blackness is part of it. Having to prove who you are, that you fit into these boxes in a lot of ways is total bullshit. It calls into question whether it should matter who you are if you’re willing to genuinely rep and do the work, especially if that work is that of being an ally to the disenfranchised. Do you have to be one to rep for one? Rachel seems to have bought into this, which is damaging for those that come after, light and dark-skinned women alike. I feel bad for the current turmoil she is dealing with. I wish that kind of strife on no one. Its hard to know the whole of the implications of this particular event. What will be the consensus? I am eager to know what other women of color have to say. Same goes for Rachel.

 

Until next time... 

black woman: the embodiment of poverty porn

this is likely to be an oversimplified articulation of a collection of observations

the american black woman and her objectified existence seems to be one of the most prominent remnants of her colonial past. still to this day her body is an object, a tool even. favored applications of this tool are articulated by phc's controlling images--the mammy, the jezebel, the sapphire. no she is certainly not human, therefore not worthy of respect, dignity, let alone care. if she is not compliant to her objectified existence, her existence is further nullified. she is an animal to be put on display in zoos, or medically examined as specimen. she is a trickster not to be trusted. no intelligence of her own. she is a girl in need of a spanking from daddy. she is to be put in her place, a reminder that she does not belong among the valued, the worthy, the dignified. she makes others feel like kings and queens simply by being what she is, a black woman. hung from a noose, strangled by bare hands, beaten, scorned--all of which bring multiple forms of pleasure for the dominator, the pleasure of reifying their status of royalty. this is not just for white men. no, all men, women, even children once they learn they can get away with it. she should expect nothing more, nothing less.

worst of all, she is her own worst enemy--willing to reify the status of others without a second thought. she has been inundated with enough reminders of her subhuman status, of her objecthood, of her otherwise uselessness. she knows the drill and has succeeded in internalizing this programming. not to say she has no soul. hers is rich with suffering,and yearning--a dark star, saddened, angry, hopeful. a remnant of celestial beings mistaken for artificial life. she knows of pain, of impoverished being, of the absence of care, respect, and simply being known and understood. she extends the best of what she longs for to others who suffer, knowing of their pain, but hardly to herself too numb to be aware of the possibility of healing herself. the black woman is both weak and strong. she has learned from the best of her dominators as to how to maim, objectify, kill even. yet she refuses to live this way--not that she doesn't default to this behavior from time to time and especially with those who do not mean well by her. she lives on regardless of her world, her would be dominators, and herself. she is stubborn. that is the celestial being trying to stake its claim to liberated life every now and then.

she tries to reclaim her beauty. see herself differently from what the illusion of reality suggests. but the status quo is embedded in her psyche so she is well aware of what the standard is. all people abide by it. her only desirability is in the extent to which she can be used as an object. every now and then she is seen as she is, as beautiful, as worthy, as a blessing. but she knows this is few and far between so she absorbs as much as she can before the illusions of reality put her back in her place. nothing good lasts for ever, let alone a moment. still she stubbornly tries see herself differently. she has always known she is something more than what they want her to believe.

her budding confidence, her budding belief in her beauty, her budding belief in her power are rooted in shallow soils that still possess toxic properties. what could she grow that wouldn't soon wither? she has not been cultivated in the ways of life, worth, dignity, and love. not to the fullest extent anyhow. the environment she exists in does not allow it. she must learn these things from liberated others and from books. her growth is fragile. all around her are reminders of her legacy others would rather see maintained. worries abound that she will be made yet another example and put in her place once more. so she hesitates and proceeds with caution, careful not to let too many see what she could be.

indeed, the black woman is the embodiment of forsaken beauty, the joy and pain, the positive and negative, both loud and silent. what more could they do but use her and cast her aside? she is grossly misunderstood and pays the price with her very being. why wouldn't rage be at a constant simmer? carrying all of these things in her very being is incredibly heavy, so she must be strong, patient, enduring. compassion is fleeting yet cherished when encountered. hope for better days are eternally yearned for . happiness is treasured, never to be taken for granted.  she is human but cannot exist as the other humans do. she therefore longs for the freedom to truly be herself and strives to do so in spite of everything. black woman, you are a sight to behold, a force to be reckoned with, a celestial mandate for the actualization of a holistically experienced goodwill and compassion. she is life itself.

dating is weird

All of this is a result of talking with a friend who is back on the dating scene after 10ish years. We both began our respective relationships in our late teens and therefore never really dated. We are both transitioning out of that in our own ways. So we conversed about that and the awkwardness that ensues...

I have come to a resting place of viewing dating as an unnatural and therefore socially painful phenomenon rooted in an economic legacy. It is therefore an interesting space where people go around with invisible checklists assessing one another on their compatibility. On top of all that there are rules accompanied with a reward system. Worst of all, the expectation is that it has to be going somewhere, usually marriage. Aziz Ansari's take on the marriage proposal comes to mind here.

We ended up comparing this space to friendship space and made a discovery as to why experiences of dating and romantic relations can ultimately end up being doomed to failure whereas friendship experiences hardly carry that stigma. What he said was something to the effect of comparing relating to a person that is our friend to relating to an object of romantic interest. An object.  An object we hope to possess. An object we place rules and expectations on. An object we reward with affection and punish in a variety of ways when they do not match up on our norms, values, and overall expectations. We effectively remove a good deal of their personhood the moment they become an object of romantic interest. Tragic.

We don't do that with friends. We don't do any of that stuff which allows for their beautiful humanity to be maintained and respected. Friend spaces are therefore more awesome and desirable. How can the romantic space be flipped so that it is more of a friend space? Unfortunately, the vulnerability and potential for rejection and therefore pain on both ends that is also attached to romantic spaces makes this possibility seem impossible.

So, where do we go from here? Being out of the loop, we notice that the act of dating is quite strange. Why not enjoy one another's company and time together without all of the other societal baggage? Where is there room for compassionate responses, for total and unconditional acceptance and love here? Can it be that the legacy of being an economic arrangement has forever tainted romantic spaces; the reason why we check those boxes in our mind (i.e. favorite color, favorite movie, career goals)? No wonder dating appears alienating to the extent that we want out. Spaces of unconditional acceptance of one's person hood and therefore lack of possession? That's what friends are for.  

Resting spot of the moment: Opting out of dating. It's just too weird and kind of oppressive so why bother? Freedom from such constraints is clearly the better option. One that inspires happiness, joy, acceptance of self and others--one that essentially allows us to live in peace. Besides, I coudn't help but point out that all the people in my life who appear to be free (as in not constrained by bogus societal norms like media consumption, masculinity, femininity, and are therefore truly themselves) are so bad-ass! So yeah, be free friends.  At least that's my take on the conversation. 

Silver linings in clouds of death

When my little brother passed on at 16, I was crushed by the loss of potential budding in his life. It had only been four years that he was able to live in a truly loving environment and he was blossoming into an awesome, loving, compassionate, and forgiving person. He is intensely missed to this day. 

When a mentor, friend, and supporter of my craft passed on in his 30s, I was crushed by a similar sense of loss. His love for his city and the people around him shone brightly. He could be depended on to share ideas of making our city more awesome as far as music was concerned. His was a loving light gone too soon.

When another friend who shared his love for music, intellect, and people passed on in his 30s my soul was crushed once more. Like my other friend, love was his message and he spared no expense to make that known, albeit quietly. His humility, like his loving ways made the world of many a better place. No one saw that loss of light coming either. 

Now an up and coming scholar. A young  soul trying to find his way into a brighter tomorrow vanishes in flames. His humility, kindness, and grit could easily serve as a model for those going through tough times like him; a model of what pushing through in spite of everything looks like. His tough times could have readily subjected him to being seen and treated inhumanely; to be regarded without compassion. But he was loved intensely by those touched by his light. I can only hope he knew that. 

What all of these experiences with death have in common besides loss of light are what they can teach. The silver lining for me continues to be how all of these individuals were striving for something greater than themselves. Despite hardships, their light was able to shine through. Their legacy is in having lived as they did; in the process of becoming better than they were all while living humbly. Were they to continue living, we no doubt would have continued taking them and their light for granted. Why is it that such light was reflected in infectiously glowing smiles? They were on their way to a better place to begin with. Maybe that is why they were taken what we may believe to have been too soon, so we can be reminded of what we are living for which maybe as simple as continuing to strive for that better state of being.