At the tail end of winter,
loaded with blousy, pink,
double flowers with frilly edges,
are Japanese blooming cherry
trees. At mere sight,
I become mooncalf,
mooning over their delicate
blooms. Reborn.
For a few weeks at least,
hope trembles through
the boughs.
The present moment
like each pink, soft cluster,
is cherished.
We obscure the outline of the belly of a mountain*
when we write about nature
we enter the realm of words being useless
we enter our narcissistic imaginations instead of being in with the mountain
I miss the mountains, the Highlands, Glencoe
At some point, I became marred by immobility, by staying close, staying safe
Now I return in my dreams, awake and grapple to describe their grace and poise
Abstracted longing. Never enough, never true enough to capture their form, their presence
I wait for my return. To sleep within the belly of mountains,
the mountains I’ve always felt are old Black women resting together, safe
*Day 10 prompt was: Find a single sentence someone else wrote that sticks out to you and use it as your first line. Let your poem unfold from there.
This adapted line was taken from ‘Against Nature Writing’ by Charles Foster.
This piece originally was published over on Medium with Binderful. I’m drawing this piece into the Living Wild Studios archives. Because I can!
“How difficult is it for one body to feel the injustice wheeled at another? Are the tensions, the recognition, the disappointments, and the failures that exploded in the riots too foreign?”
Claudia Rankin
In August 2014, there’s a summer of “hands up, don’t shoot” protests, in Ferguson, Missouri, in response to the unlawful shooting of Michael Brown Jr.. In November, Darren Wilson, the white Ferguson police officer responsible for Brown’s murder isn’t indicted. In December, filled with rage and helplessness, I organise the first ‘Black Lives Matter’ protest in the North of England; a political poetry reading at our city centre library. Together artists and writers, cram into a hot room on the top floor of a building made of glass, and pour out our rage and pain through our writings. Black people’s words. Our ancestors’ words.
I’m criticised by one Black woman, in particular, because I invite white poets to read. They could only read the words of Black people as this event is centring our lives. Black lives. A white people’s presence is not what this Black woman wants. She wants a safe Black only space. I respect and understand her views. We all want a safe space for Black people. But I feel we can achieve so much more when we work together, Black and white, to solve our society’s problems.
I know where she’s coming from though; a place of pain and suffering and hatred. As Black people, for so long, we have endured so much hate and violence from the hands of white people. For far too long, we have been excluded from a share in the economic wealth our ancestors paid for with their lives to create. We’re sick and tired of being excluded from the abundantly spread societal table which our ancestors give the skins off their backs to forge. And this hurts.
In March 2017, there’s a ‘Stand Up to Racism’ demonstration in London, Miss Ella, my seven year old daughter, and I dance behind the sound system truck, towards Trafalgar Square. Crowds behind metal barricades line our route, with the Metropolitan Police shepherding us along. We shout, ‘Refugees are welcome here.’ Miss Ella, dressed as her superhero, Black Widow, looks as if she’s just stepped out of a Black Panther’s meeting. With her long brown hair blowing in the wind and her peachy fist punching the air, she’s learning long before I did how to use her voice to bring about change. She carries her homemade banner stating, ‘Black Lives Matter,’ high with pride and courage. Along the way, a white woman with screwed up face screams at us to shut up and go back home to where we come from. Disallowing our protests, devaluing our presence here.
I recognise where she’s coming from; a place of her ignorance and pain and hatred. As white working class, for so long, she’s been fed the lies that Black people and immigrants come over here and take their homes and jobs. For so long, the poverty they’re experiencing is down to these Black illegal criminal and not a capitalist system rigged in favour of a few priviledged people. We’re just as sick and tired of this too. And we know it hurts.
In May 2020, there’s ‘Black Lives Matter’, protests around the world. In response to the recent killings of George Floyd, Tony McDade, Ahmaud Arbery, and Breonna Taylor, to name just a few, the streets are talking through fire and smoke. Thousands take to the streets, Black and white, to demand justice for all our Black brothers and sisters who have been and continue to be murdered by state sanctioned violence.
I’ve grateful for their voices and bodies. This time, I protest through my words and art. As the Covid-19 pandemic still poses a real threat here in my part of the world. I’m a Black, fat woman carrying yet another target on my back. While protesting, the odds of getting molested and arrested, and not surviving the experience is higher for me than any white person. Just as the odds are greater for me of dying from the Coronavirus than a white person.
Black, Asian, and ethnic minorities in the Western world are dying at a disproportionately higher rate and number than white people during this pandemic. Many explanations for this reality have been voiced with the blame thrown at the feet of Black people. That it is our unhealthy bodies and behaviours which are spreading this disease, conveniently not addressing the inherent racism and systematic inequalities that have operated for over 400 years that has brought about this dis-ease, making our weathered bodies more susceptible to this virus.
‘We rather die on our feet than keep livin’ on our knees,’ taken from the James Brown song, ‘I’m black and I’m proud’, I feel this as we see thousands of Black people (and white people) take to the streets, even though there’s a greater risk to their lives than ever before. But I recognise where’s they’re coming from. We’ve had enough. We’ve endured enough. We’re not prepared to accept Black lives being devalued anymore.
I’m using my morning routine as an anchor. Each day comes and goes, but I can show up and repeat a selection of rituals which keep me present and bring me joy.
When there are days when I hit a funk, when the energy is low and I forget about the abundance in this world, I lean in a bit more fully or a bit longer into a certain practice until I come back to myself.
Today, I needed to move with the sea. It’s been two weeks since I’ve been into the sea what with being away and experiencing the come down. So I promised myself last night, today is the day to return. I kept this promise to myself, strengthening that muscle of trust in the self.
It was freezing and beyond. The wind chill was sharp and painful. The waves were high out there. But I walked in and out, did my acclimatising dance and gave thanks.
I thanked the sea for being here, always to greet me. No matter how long I’ve been away, or how broken I turn up. She is always there to greet me in all my fucked up glory and I thank her for holding me, for rocking me back home to myself. To her. To the universe.
Describe your most ideal day from beginning to end.
A week ago today, I took the journey back to Montserrat. I first visited this multi-peaked mountain range, home of a Benedictine monk monastery, back in 2007 maybe. Then, I was staying in El Bruc, a small village at the base of the mountains, at the artists retreat, Can Serrat, for a month. A bunch of us from the retreat decided one day to climb the mountain range to reach the top, the monastery. To see the Black Madonna we had heard of.
It was hard going. Taking hours, at times using my hands, feet, knees, elbows to reach the top, climbing sheer rock face and rambling through the forests of the National Park.
I was always behind, at the back of the group. Moving slowly, holding everyone up. They kept stopping to wait for me. I told them not to but they said they had to. That they couldn’t leave me alone on the woods. Not knowing where to go, which path to take.
I didn’t ask for their help. They it took upon themselves to be responsible for me. And they resented me for it. Once we reached the top, and entered the Basilica, they all climbed up further steps to go see and touch the Black Madonna. I didn’t go up. I saw her from afar. I denied myself the opportunity to be with her because I was tired. I was also ashamed for moving so slow. For not being as fit as the others in the group. I was upset because my body let me down but also that these strangers had made me feel like shit for being me. For being a fat Black body who wasn’t good enough. I allowed them to take away my joy and self-worth all because I was unfit and slowed them down. But I didn’t ask them to wait on me or look out for me. I wasn’t a child but they seemed to think it was okay to treat me as such. And I allowed them to.
Fast forward to last week, the end of January 2025 and I return to Montserrat. This time I get up early, to catch the special train to Montserrat from the centre of Barcelona. It’s an hour ride on a commuter train heading north out of Barcelona. The train is packed and I’ve overheating with my two coats on, thinking it would be cold in Barcelona in January. I was wrong. The temperatures were glorious. Winter sun has a way of easing the bones, warming the flesh and making everything fluid and relaxed.
The further we moved out of the city centre, the more the train emptied. Until we were moving within the shadow of mountains and trees. The train can let you off at two stops for Montserrat. The first stop is for the airlift up the mountain which takes 4 minutes. The second stop is to catch the slower train up the mountain. 15 minutes of a steep, slow winding climb. I took the second stop as I was in no rush.
Even on the return to Montserrat, I chose once again to make slow progress. Taking my time to reach the final destination. Yes my body is older this time. I’m probably even fatter but I knew I wasn’t going to allow anyone else to dictate my process or to take away my joy.
Once I reached the top of Montserrat, well not really the top, the main station/ base where the shops and cafes are, I popped into the information centre there in the hope of getting a funicular further up the mountain. It wasn’t working this day but I could walk up an easy path to the top if I wanted.
I enquired about purchasing a ticket to get into the Basilica and to visit the Black Madonna this time also. If I could wait till 1.15pm I could see her as well as listen to the choir sing at 1pm for a little extra cost. Of course I wanted to experience it all. So with ticket bought and time to kill, I took my body further up the mountain.
A steep mountain track hugging the rock face took me further and further into the more or less cloudless sky. And I was just breathing in the tranquility and gratitude to be able to make this journey and relive a piece of my past but on my own terms.
There were other people here but it didn’t bother me as I was in my own little bubble of joy, soaking up the sun, the smells of cypress trees and elders and then there were the bells.
Once back down, I grabbed a coffee and just sat outside and watched people go by. My excitement was building, as after years of waiting, I was finally going to see the Black Madonna of Montserrat up close.
The Black Madonna is sometimes referred to by other names, including ‘The Virgin of Montserrat’ and ‘La Moreneta’, sits behind a sheet of glass high above overlooking the alter. One hand holding a sphere is not behind the glass. Her hand sticks though the glass and is available to touch or kiss if you so wish.
Along a corridor and up some steps and then some more to finally come to the chamber where the Black Madonna sits. You proceed in a line past her. Each of us has an opportunity to stop in front of her. To touch her. To pray. I gave thanks to her. And immediately teared up to be with her. To be this close to her. To be able to touch her. I didn’t ask for anything as she is known for granted miracles. I was just happy and grateful to be in her presence.
I journeyed back down to take my seat within the Basilica to then heat the choir song. All the time I can see the Virgin high above the altar looking down on us.
The choir sang for about 15 minutes and gave the congregation a blessing. I’m not religious. I’m spiritual. But I could appreciate the feelings that arose to be within such a remarkable place and to hear such angelic voices rising within the space and vibrating back into my body. Again another emotional moment.
Once the choir retreated. I got myself back into the queue to visit the Black Madonna once again. I was all about getting my money’s worth! No not really, I wanted to say goodbye and just see her up close once again. And as I say, I’m not religious. And I’m not praying or idolising over false idols.
What I see in the Black Madonna is a Black woman. I see myself. I connect with her as she can relate to my suffering. To my body and soul. And I just want to give thanks to her for being there for me at all times. She takes my woes and my joys. She just reflects back to me that we, as Black women, are enough just as we are. No one else needs to bestow any value on us. We see ourselves and we love ourselves. Just the way we are.
After touching her one more time. I walked back into the sun and climbed a steep path up the other side of the mountain, not ready to leave this peaceful sanctuary. A tremendous amount of peace had descended on me during my time within Montserrat and I wanted to carry it with me as I left. Moving became effortless. My heart was light and full of gratitude.
And I didn’t want this feeling to end.
Demeter Press is thrilled to announce the publication of
The Mother Wave: Theorizing, Enacting, and Representing Matricentric Feminism. Edited by Andrea O’Reilly and Fiona Joy Green
Price: $49.95 Cdn.; Page Count: 472; Publication Date: September 20, 2024; ISBN: 978-1-77258-505-6
Utterly thrilling. A potentially world-changing, game-changing work. This is the book that will help us transform the institution of motherhood.
– Lucy Jones, author of Matrescence
The Mother Wave offers a welcome critical perspective on the liberal feminist orientation toward gender equality by showing how the focus on equality does not remedy patriarchal systems of oppression that continue to challenge women’s lives, nor does it account for the emancipatory potential in mothering experiences and the affirmation that diversely situated women continue to find in motherhood.
Foregrounding the lived experience of women and others who do the work of maternal care, the contributors make a strong case for matricentric feminism as a new framework: one that treats the maternal as an issue of both biological difference and a set of complex social identities. Informed by the African American feminist commitment to the epistemological importance of lived experience, on the one hand, and third-wave feminist commitment to intersectionality on the other, the collection claims and demonstrates through multidisciplinary analyses that maternity matters more than gender.
– Tatjana Takseva, Department of English Language and Literature / Women and Gender Studies Program, Saint Mary’s University
Toppling and recasting the idea of “waves” that, until now, correspond to stale time periods and stages of the feminist movement, The Mother Wave allows us to begin seeing matricentric feminism as a core feminist theory and burgeoning politic. Positioning mothers and motherwork at the center of feminism, and motherhood as perhaps the uniting experience among most women, O’Reilly and Green allow for a new “wave” of feminist scholarship and mother experience to take hold and crest – a matricentric wave. The editors introduce a vast array of scholarship and creative work within this volume that collectively helps us understand both consistent themes and new surges within this subfield of feminist thought and experience.
– Heather Dillaway, Illinois State University.
Matricentric feminism seeks to make motherhood the business of feminism by positioning mothers’ needs and concerns as the starting point for a theory and politic on and for the empowerment of women as mothers. Based on the conviction that mothering is a verb, it understands that becoming and being a mother is not limited to biological mothers or cisgender women but rather to anyone who does the work of mothering as a central part of their life. The Mother Wave, the first-ever book on the topic, compellingly explores how mothers need a matricentric mode of feminism organized from and for their particular identity and work as mothers, and because mothers remain disempowered despite sixty years of feminism. The anthology makes visible the power of matricentric feminism as it is theorized, enacted, and represented to realize and achieve the subversive potential of mothers and their contributions to feminist theory and activism. Contributors share the impact and influence of matricentric feminism on families and children, culture, art/literature, education, public policy, social media, and workplace practices through personal reflections, scholarly essays, memoir, creative non-fiction, poetry, and photography. The mother wave of matricentric feminism invites conversations with others and offers a praxis of feminism that aims to coexist, overlap, and intersect with others.
This is where you’ll find my own chapter called
‘I Am Becoming My Mother: Conjuring Black Motherhood on Our Own Terms’ which is a hybrid piece exploring my matrilineage which I mentioned throughout 2023 here.
Get your copy while you can and support Demeter Press.
Living Wild Studios 