those questions that provoke and are testing you, to establish if you really want to have a conversation or if you just want to use and abuse me on your own terms, for your own agenda and gain.
For my birthday, my beautiful and talented daughter gave me 107 Days by Kamala Harris. I might have dropped some hints beforehand but boy was I pleased to receive this gift.
As soon as I heard Harris had published a memoir all about her run for the President of the United Stated of America, I knew I had to read it.
During that remarkable time from 21 July 2024 to the election 5 November, when Harris was propelled into the run for office, given such a historically short time for campaigning, I was hooked.
Hooked into hope. Having a black/ brown woman as president of the United States wouldn’t just be radical and amazing it would change the world. Harris would change the world, not just through what she stood for in terms of policies, but more importantly what message her face in the White House would say about us to the world. Thanks once again to a black woman stepping up, caring and making changes not for egotistical, selfish gains but for the benefit of all
I’ve always been in conflict with Black Feminism, in that reality that black women receive the worst treatment from everyone within society and yet we go to bat, stand up and fight for everybody’s freedom. We lead from a foundation of love while at the same time surviving and thriving within a world that does not give that same love in return.
We are destroyed on the daily and yet we still love ourselves and each other. That is what we have to do, love ourselves in the face of being unloved by others.
So here I am reading 107 days, feeling as if Harris is talking directly to me because of her writing style and because I’ve watched far too many of her speeches and interviews to hear her voice while I’m reading, I’m taken back to that time of campaigning and I’m crying when I’m reading.
I’m crying for what Harris had to go through during this time and after. The behind the scenes undermining and neglect, to the public abuse and questioning of her credentials, intelligence and race, by her opponents as well as those who were supposed to be her supporters.
How there’s nothing more revealing of what is within a person’s heart as when a black/ brown woman walks into a room and what that individual says or does in response. Do they see the black/brown woman? Do they recognise them for who they are/ as a human being or do they operate through a stereotypical, misogynoir lens?
I’m crying because during those 107 days, I bought into the whole Harris campaign. I had to. No choice. I knew that to get a black/brown woman elected as President was a long shot, was believing in unicorns, was hopeful, blissful dreaming for groundbreaking change.
And I was all in. I had to be. I had to believe it was possible otherwise what’s the fucking point! what would that be saying about how I viewed myself and my place in this world?
I’m crying now not just because of all those hopes and possibilities being dashed when Harris didn’t win. But also because of what the world is like now because she didn’t win and the dick for an arse who is now in control of the White House and what a fucking mess he’s making of the job, the country, the world. how many people he’s hurting and killing because he didn’t give a fuck. Because he doesn’t and never will care. Harris cared and cares.
I’m crying because my heart was broken then when Harris didn’t win and it’s breaking now as I read how Harris was graceful and joyful in her appearances and actions during the campaign while dealing with racist, sexist shit behind the scenes.
Harris was used just like any other black/brown woman, brought in to repair and save the day, without given the proper support or time or resources to do so. But expectations were and still are there to excel beyond anyone/ everyone else while given less than in terms of resources, grace, the benefit of the doubt.
What Harris achieved in 107 days was remarkable and historical and downright amazing. But does she receive her rightful credit and accolades? Not a fucking chance.
I’m crying because I still have hope in the face of such shit. I’m hurting with hope.
Hope is a practicing and we have to keep practicing.
retro disco. good tunes. way back to our youth. we’re dancing. enjoying the tuuuunnnnneeees.
i kick off my shoes. barefoot in the grass. the cold september grass.
i look around. blond woman staring. pointing at me. talking to her man. me and my bare feet. laughing. i know she’s not saying anything good about me.
i stare back. she sees i see her. she tries to cover her tracks. too late. bitch. i see you.
before. i’d smile. make it appear as all is well. while i bleed from another wound inside.
before. i’d smile. make her feel better. while i die another death inside.
tonight. i ain’t smiling. i give her cut eye. i stare her down. she looks away first.
i continue to dance barefoot. smiling inside.
i’m protecting my peace so i have the energy for me, to {BE} in service for we, the we that looks/{BE} like me
this is all becoming clearer now
i’m not expending or wasting any more time, energy, attention on those (white) people who do not see me. or when they do see me, they do not see me as human
as Akwugo Emejulu says, the black woman can never be a human being
for decades i’ve spent time, energy, attention, through my practice and day to day life, trying to convince others ( white people) of my humanity. i would bend over backwards trying to get accepted, recognised, cherished as a fellow human being
look, please, i’m human. look, please, i feel, i hurt, i bleed. i breathe
no more. i am no longer prepared to play that role. dance this stupid dance. as i will never be accepted, recognised, loved as a human being. the system won’t allow it. (white) people won’t allow it
i’m no longer wasting my energy on proving jackshit
i’m refusing what has already been refused of me ( fugitivity)
i knowing who i be. i am smart, i am kind, i am important ( The Help). and i don’t need/want/entertain any (white) person to tell/grant/recognise me as such
and i’m no longer apologising/ playing it down or safe/ tempering for how i feel/act/ {BE} about this situation
as that just expends/takes/sucks out of me a whole heap and of other energy
i ain’t smiling.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
The lessons I try and pass on to my kids are not to allow anyone else to change you. You go about your business as yourself. Don’t change for nobody.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
I know my nature. I smile a lot. I lean into the joy of life because I’ve always said life is too short after being touched by death so young ( I now think life is long but that’s another conversation).
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
I’ve noticed I’m walking out now and not smiling. To myself or others. My face is fixed in a neutral stare, going about my business. I don’t not need/ want to look, speak or touch anyone else.
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
Is it my nature to smile and make contact with other (white) people because that’s who I am? Or do I do it to make them feel comfortable and not to think I’m a threat to their safety? Do I smile because I’m happy? Or do I smile to keep others happy?
I’ve been in a battle with myself.
Through speaking with a ( black female) friend recently things have become clearer and more resolute.
i ain’t smiling.
Not smiling, gazing or connection with (white) people while out walking/ coffee drinking/ shopping/whatever, is me, protecting my peace.
People have said to me before – you have a beautiful smile.
Or – you’re beautiful when you smile.
Or – your smile is contagious. I see you smile and I just smile backatya.
Bullshit.
Where I live, black faces are few and far between. But I’ve lived here close to 16 years. It’s my home now. I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else because I’m close to the sea.
But still when I’m walking the streets. My streets. I’m still looked upon as a stranger. That is when they see me.
Because I’m a joyful person, I smile. I smile a lot. Especially after a dip in the sea. Then I can take on the world. I can face the world with a smile.
I have lost count of the number of times I’m walking out, look up to make eye contact with someone walking towards me. Even give a smile or a nod of recognition, a greeting. And there’s been nothing in return. No eye contact. No smile. No recognition of a fellow human being. No connection. Nothing.
And if there has been a gaze at me, it’s not welcoming or positive. It’s been hostile, or questioning or vacant.
Don’t gaslight me into thinking this isn’t the case. This is my experience. You weren’t there. And I’m sick and tired of giving the others the benefit of the doubt.
I’ve never been given the benefit of the doubt. That is never bestowed on me. I’ve accepted it. Allowed it. Made excuses and explanations for it. But no more.
i ain’t smiling.
I ain’t making eye contact. I’m not stepping off the pavement to make room for others. I’m taking up space. My space. Nobody else’s. Mine.
“The stories begin from the premise that liberation is an already existing and unfinished and unmet possibility, laced with creative labor, that emerges from the ongoing collaborative expression of black humanity and black livingness.”
Excerpt From
Dear Science and Other Stories
Katherine McKittrick
I’m not smiling. I’m not making eye contact. I’m going about my business.
I’m taking up space. My space. Nobody else’s. Mine.
There’s something that’s been happening. I’ve been noticing a shift in the way I’ve been operating.
I’d say it’s since I went on the Black Women’s Creative Retreat at the end of August. probably it’s been rumbling in the background. But this experience crystallised it for me.
It was me with 3 other black women camping in a field in Hamsterley Forest. I need to write further about this experience. But for now, I’d say that for a short time we existed in our own timespace. For a short time, we built our own world. A world in which we were centred and celebrated. Seen and heard. And loved unconditionally.
And then we had to return to ‘civilisation’. What a shock to the system! People are rude. Period.
And I’m no longer giving them the time. My time. My attention. Because they do not see me. They look right through me or they be ignorant towards me.
The image above is part of a new series I’m playing with.
i ain’t smiling.
More to follow.
Unconsciously I set myself the task of being creative everyday. A good way of marking this practice, was and still is, turning up here on this blog and posting something. Anything. A word, a quote, an image, an essay, an epiphany.
Some days, I’ve not had the time or energy or bandwidth to create anything, other days when I’ve felt this way, I’ve still turned up and done something. Anything. I’ve wanted to bring in some consistency within a world where consistency is irrelevant and pointless in the grand scheme of things. When the world is on fire, when Palestinians are dying of starvation and gunfire. When anti-immigration riots erupted once more in the UK. When tropical storms kill people in the Philippines. And when Syria returns to bloodshed. The list could go on of more countries and peoples around the world suffering at the hands of others, who do not see them as human or care about them.
I get sick of hearing the news. Watching the news. Seeing the headlines. I look away. I look away because I can and then chastise myself for dong so. There’s something in witnessing it all, even though it hurts my soul. What can I do? What can I say?
I get frustrated with all the hypocrisy I witness. The double standards. The lack of justice. People saying we’re doing this to them because we’ve been persecuted for so long so have a right, or are justified in persecuting other people now. I’m a white man and I rape women and children, but I’m protesting about (illegal) immigrants coming over here and raping our women and children. Everything is operating within this world to keep a few in power and wealth at the expense of other people deemed inferior and dispensable.
I hate hate. I can’t stand it. I see it in the screwed up faces of people hauling abuse at vulnerable people. It’s been there within the marrow of their bones for centuries. Grown white adults, hurling abuse at little black children. Not seeing them as children but as beasts, beasts to destroy. It breaks my heart and disgusts me, but what can I say? What can I do?
I can stop myself from feeing powerless. I can stop my handwringing, and getting frustrated with myself and use this energy otherwise. I can make art to bring about change. No matter how small that change, starting from myself and vibrating out.
I can create stories of an imagined alternative, better, other world. I can create zines which challenge and refuse what has already been refused of us. I can blog about my own experiences in order to connect with others. I can paint/ print posters to raise awareness and change the messages of hate to love and hope. I can create community and create change together, one stitch, one word, one voice at a time. I can create poetry to create conversation. I can self-care so I can in turn community-care. I can donate time, money, resources to a cause I believe in and that is bringing about a better society. I can lean more into mutual aid to divest from racial capitalism.
I can keep showing up here, craving out a safe and brave space on the internet that is liberatory worldmaking, on my own terms.
“On the afternoon of May 16, 2020, about a week before George Floyd was killed by the police, twenty-one-year-old Tye Anders was accused by the Midland, Texas, police of running a stop sign. He pulled over in front of his ninety-year-old grandmother’s house.”
Excerpt From
We Refuse
Kellie Carter Jackson
There’s Anders pleading for his life. There’s many policemen with guns drawn pointed at him and there’s bystanders filming it all. One woman who’s filming this is also pleading for the police to not shot Anders saying he’s scared. Hasn’t there been enough killing of unarmed black people, killed just because of the colour of their skin?
Still no guns are lowered and Anders is on the ground clearly empty handed but the situation is just escalating as the police continue to train their guns on his body.
Anders’ ninety-years-old grandmother steps out of her house praying. With cane in hand she walks towards her grandson even though guns are trained in her direction.
There was still panic still bystanders screaming for the police to put their guns up. Some do but still one cop is walking towards Anders with his gun raised. Trying to move and push her out of the way, his grandmother doesn’t believe that her grandson won’t still be shot so she falls onto her grandson, protecting his body with her own body. Not longer after this with the police and crowd pushing and pulsating around her , she loses consciousness.
Anders is arrested for fleeing the police. His grandmother is taken to hospital.
Reading this story this morning made me cry. Not because of the police brutality or the disregard for human life, black life. But because of what the grandmother in the story did. She’s ninety-years-old, frail and only has her prays and body, but used both in protection, in an act of love.
“Her collapse was not a coincidence. Protection is powerful, beautiful, and sacrificial because protection is love. But she should not have needed to put her body between the police and her grandson to protect him.”
Excerpt From
We Refuse
Kellie Carter Jackson.
Protection. She should not have needed to, but she did put her body between the police and grandson to protect him. This act of courage broke my heart this morning. Had me weeping. Maybe it was the last straw that pushed me over the edge into the breakdown. Maybe it was my imagination seeing this playing out.
Maybe I’m just sick and tired of living in a world where white violence is justified and black violence is really self-defence but is never judged that way.
I’ve always been a supporter of care work but even more so now. As care work, along with rest are forms of protection. Through the way I {BE} with myself and others, and the work that I do for self and others, I’m tending daily to the mental, emotional, and physical needs and health of black people, so we are better equipped to survive and thrive within a hostile, brutal, grinning world.
Living Wild Studios 