Yesterday I cried and almost said fuck it – I am not teaching another class to another group of women who have nothing and seem to want nothing. I almost said they are what society says they are – bitches, ho’s and baby momma’s selling raffle tickets for their children’s fathers DNA.
I am even angry at their names – seemingly foolish attempts at solidarity – Shaquanna, Lativia, Armoni, names that bear at least to my ears an abandonment of history and revising based on resistance to education.
Who are we really? Are our first stories told in our DNA and our second stories borne in the names we are given. I share with the group I am named after Angela Davis – my daughter is named after Maya Angelou.
This is my anger speaking and now writing.
But this does not matter to me as I sit in my car and bang my fists against the windows – WHO DO I THINK I AM! I scream – Eloi, Eloi, Sabathani! Does my Father hear my lament and was there supposed to be guidance in this mission? Have I somehow gotten off of the footpath designed for me?
No, I do not feel forsaken – I feel mistranslated and for a moment my trail of breadcrumbs leading me back to self is untraceable.
I sat in my car and my heart sunk to the bottom of my feet and for more than a moment I did not want to move. But I know that in not moving I don’t honor those who have come before me and I must honor my home – my upbringing- I MUST do the work that has been left for me to do.
I write and teach for a living, simple as that. I go into places where the pristine, literary and lily white writers groups of Boston will not go and share with women of color the urgency for media justice. I teach that media justice will not happen without diversification of the media landscape. I teach that the diversity and change we seek is beneath our tongues and at the tips of our fingers. WE MUST HONOR OUR PAST AND WE MUST WRITE OUR PRESENT TO PRESERVE OUR FUTURE.
Two weeks ago, I taught a class at Project Hope and the women were a wall. I arrived 15 minutes late – damn GPS! – I live in a suburb of Boston and navigating the inner city is a challenge, but I try. Somehow, I think my suburban adobe invalidates my experiences for some and this something I push past. As soon as I arrived I asked the director to make some copies for me – this is what I do with all organizations, have them make copies and save them money by charging them less. Some organizations can’t afford to pay – I teach anyway – the mission is always more important that the money -this I thought was a good thing.
The class, at least the first one is not a discussion class – it is an introduction to the African Griot traditon – the same tradition that is continually echoed in song and action. We are the New Griots I tell them – but we must write our stories for our children to continue our work – to honor our original mother, Africa.
There are white women in the class and I look directly at them – yes, you must also be honoring your mother, Africa I am communicating. I communicate this same theory to my daughter who is half Irish and could pass for something other than black if she chose – but I have instilled in her through story, my story, our story – a love for self and she at 14, is about the work of change for good. Change is not just for self but for the circle that connects us to others.
I stood in this circle of women and they were not a fortress to hold me and somehow I slipped into the cracks of their minds and there I languish. Good intentions worthless, lessons worthless, realization I can’t change the world – priceless.
One woman began a dialogue on clothing and asked do I dress the way I was dressed all the time – and I say, yes when I am teaching. It was a suit. I feel trapped in suits and so to this, I lied. I usually wear jeans and a t-shirt and prepare to get dirty because teaching is dirty work.
But I find younger women are more open. When I stand before women who have not confronted the consequences of their choices – I am a demon. They judge a journey they have not witnessed and this is a distraction.
My dismantling begins. Why is her hair like that? Why does she speak like that? Who is she to tell us this?
And then I am resistant to the story of me – not in this manner. I shall share but not feel compelled to confess. I am a mother, a writer, a wife, a daughter, a survivor of childhood abuse, a college graduate (by the skin of my teeth) a small business owner, the author of three books – but tell me how is this relevant to the extrapolation of these women’s pasts and presents.
It is distraction and distraction temporarily soothes a soul resistant to change.
I will not stop the work – I must not stop the work – but Lord, I ache with weariness. How do I share our past and connect it to our futures? Is it too late for some – my husband says I can’t save the world.
I say can I save one person?
He smiles – because smiling breaks the solemnest of his beautiful face that reminds me of a carnal Christ.
This one does not speak- his stories are born in his walk, his quiet, his rough edged love that can soothe and disturb.
These women I am trying to teach how I tell them – there are organizations in Boston that will have nothing to do with you and don’t care of or about your stories. Your silence is a lullaby to them because you are poor, black, and needful.
Needful things are abandoned things.
You are left to suckle the tit of an inhospitable charity system that grows weak from your hunger.
How can I not push on with Cornell West saying one must be willing to live and die for the love of black folks….?
How can I not push on with my grandmother leaving me her story of walking in the hot Virginia sun with the weight of white folk’s laundry stinging her palms? In that story is my survival – my daughter’s survival.
Pushing past the business of distraction is my work towards change.
I have attached to this email some student critiques of my last class – hurtful, but I am putting it here – because transparency gives me relief.
I have attached to this email some student critques of my last class – hurtful, but I am puting it here – because transparency gives me relief.
What was most helpful/interesting about this session?
It was informational.
It motivated me to strive for the best.
Nothing
I found it introspective.
It got me to write.
It’s interesting that she’s so stuck in the past.
What was not useful about this session?
I didn’t understand what it was all about. There was no point to it all.
I didn’t like the stereotyping about Black women.
I didn’t like her posture and gestures.
She was so late. That’s not professional.
I didn’t like that she talked so much. That it wasn’t more of a discussion.
I felt disrespected. We deserve respect.
I was offended by her bad language.
Every time she talked about whites, she looked at a white person.
Wasted time while she sorted through her papers.
What changes, if any, would you recommend?
Conduct herself in a more professional manner.
Talk less.
She needs to present her stories with more respectful and appropriate language.
She needs to be on time if not early.
Be more prepared. Trish had to make copies for her.
Listen to us more. Let us say something.
Do some activities and not just talking.
Would you invite this speaker back to Project Hope?
Yes
If she makes the changes
Definitely not
I’d give her another chance
No
