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My Final Reflection

It’s the end of the semester, with only one more class meeting left. I don’t even want to think about that, but I must. I’ve had the privilege of hearing from my classmates how much this class has meant to them. I would like, in this space, to share what it has meant to me.

This has been the hardest class I’ve taken at ISU, but in a very specific way. There have been more difficult classes, in terms of coursework and understanding. I’ve certainly had classes that stressed me out more, or at least in different ways. So much of my worldview has been rewritten, though not in a way I was actively resisting. I came wanting to learn. To be quite honest, though I am a WGS minor, this class doesn’t fulfill the requirements for my queer studies concentration. Academically speaking, I did not need this class. But I knew I needed it for me, that I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to be here. So I enrolled. And as a direct result of my experiences in this classroom, my life is changed.  

In ways it has been difficult, absolutely. But this has also been, without a single doubt, the most meaningful class I’ve ever taken at ISU. When I walked in on the first day, I knew this was a space unlike any I’d ever been in before. I’ve heard similar sentiments from my classmates, but for them, this class represented a space for them. A space they’d never been given, though they more than deserve it; the world owes them more spaces like this. For me, I walked into our classroom and was the minority. I know that feeling somewhat, as a self-identified queer person/lesbian, but that doesn’t compare. That identity can be invisible when I want it to be. I entered this class and knew that it was time for me to listen. I sensed this was a place I was very lucky to be in, and I owed it to my peers to do my best to respect and honor them.

At every turn I have had to combat my own insecurities and shortcomings, constantly trying to keep them from interfering with this work. I struggled a lot with feeling guilty about that, until I read the literature on allyship I selected to cover in my literature review. I spent a lot of time in the middle of this semester struggling with how to move forward on this project because of my own anxiety about it. I was intimidated, feeling that I was far behind my peers in terms of the quality of my work, the meaningfulness of it. I felt guilty about this. All I could see was that this project had became about me figuring out how to do this work. That’s not what I wanted, but it was what dominated my thinking anyway.

I put off making my reflections because of the anxiety I felt about it. Anxiety about what I could contribute to this topic that would have any meaning. I struggled with this in class, too. I loved the class—god, how I have loved this class—yet I wondered how I was supposed to participate when I trusted nothing that came out of my mouth to matter.

All of this, I felt so guilty about, and I felt guilty for feeling guilty about it. And then I read a selection of articles written on the topic of allyship.

Reading research and studies about other white folks’ journeys to understand their internalized racism/their place as an antiracist ally gave me what I needed to understand my own experiences. I felt guilty for my guilt and I could not see the next step forward. The articles I read have firmly convinced me that the development of my own antiracist White identity will never end. While that may seem daunting to some, I find this comforting because I can worry less about not being at any certain stage. Instead, this is a process, a path. And once I’m on the path, I can make my way towards the point where I’m equipped to do something. I have felt badly for not doing more, but the white folks in the research I read were very often described as needing to work through their identity before they able to meaningfully engage in antiracist activism. I suppose, perhaps, that is the case for me as well.

This semester has been a period of growth, to be sure. I see things in a dramatically different fashion than before. I was ignorant to a lot of the realities of black women’s lives. I am glad that this class was specifically focused on black feminism, and black women, because nothing could have been further from my own experiences. There is a quote from the Combahee River Collective Statement, which reads,

“One issue that is of major concern to us and that we have begun to publicly address is racism in the white women's movement. As Black feminists we are made constantly and painfully aware of how little effort white women have made to understand and combat their racism, which requires among other things that they have a more than superficial comprehension of race, color, and Black history and culture. Eliminating racism in the white women's movement is by definition work for white women to do, but we will continue to speak to and demand accountability on this issue.”

As a white woman, I inherit the triumphs and mistakes of the white women’s movement. I mean, I am the white women’s movement. But I don’t want to focus my activism from that perspective. I want to look to the groups that are the most oppressed, and begin there. Queer women of color, and trans women of color, matter very much to me as a result.

This is a beginning. This has been the beginning of a lifelong journey of questioning and learning. I have a lot more work in my own life to do, but I am irrevocably and deeply changed. I am so, so grateful for everything. So damn grateful. I don’t even know how to express it, but I don’t want to think about who I would be without this, because a me without this foundation in black feminism is not a me I want to be. I don’t want a single world I say, for the rest of my life, to go uninformed by what I learned in this class. I promise to carry it with me, always. That’s a big responsibility and a privilege. (I’ll do my best.)

So. At the beginning of this blog, I asked myself two questions:

What does it mean to be an ally?

What kind of work by white ‘allies’ is beneficial to black feminist/womanist communities and movements?

I’ll be perfectly honest and admit that I don’t have answers, not in a way you can neatly package and send out into the world. But I have a better understanding in my bones of who I want to be, because of this class. I want to be someone who does the right thing. Part of that means sharing what I’ve learned with my white friends and family. And a very large part of that is continuing to question myself, and seek out more knowledge about black feminism(s) and the oppressions experienced by women of color.

For so much of this semester, allyship merely existed as the word nearest to what I was trying to define, never feeling quite right but remaining as my best option. I was disillusioned with the way I had heard white people use the term, when really they weren’t doing anything to combat racism at all. But through my research I’ve learned more about the work done by both white folks and people of color to educate white people about racism and their own identities as allies. No longer does allyship feel like an elusive target. It just feels like work. That’s kind of amazing! No more games or hedging around guilt or problems with definition. I just need to do my work.

So that’s all, for this project. I wish every person who was a part of this class luck with their future, but mostly, I thank you all for sharing your time and learning with me. I’m a better person, feminist, human, whatever, as a result. I promise not to forget that.

With love and gratitude,

Alexa

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Ava Duvernay // trailblazers

From Michael Brown to Eric Garner, 2014 was the year that kickstarted a movement, shining a light on issues of racism and police violence in this country. Fittingly, it was also the year that director Ava Duvernay’s film Selma was released.  The film told the story of Martin Luther King Jr.’s famed 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama as a response to racial violence and anti-black voting laws in the state.  Duvernay may have set out to make a film depicting an important event in our nation’s civil rights history, but what she really did was hold up a mirror.  Nearly every scene felt eerily familiar, like an out-of-time echo of the day’s news.  The cultural significance of what they were doing was not lost on Ava Duvernay and her cast.  She spearheaded cast-wide shows of solidarity with the Black Lives Matter Movement. Some critics have even suggested that the “I Can’t Breathe” shirts she and the cast wore to the New York premiere of the film led to the much-publicized snubbing of the film at the Academy Awards.  This did not deter Duvernay who was recognized this year with a nomination for her documentary 13th, a film about the unjust ways that the criminal justice system uses to keep black people in prison for financial gain.  As a filmmaker, Ava Duvernay is an absolute visionary who, one can only hope, will continue to use her talents to bring to light some of the true injustices systemic in our society.

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This is some pretty solid advice for someone like me, who is seeking out moral models and definitions of allyship.

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Five You Should Know: Organizing for Change

As we begin Women’s History Month, we are excited to highlight the efforts and the abilities of African American women. African American women have made tremendous contributions toward the freedom, equality and thriving culture of African American communities. However, these stories are often historically lost to us or overlooked within the American story.

The women here represent a continual pursuit of equality through organizing, led by African American women. Follow us on Twitter and Facebook, and join us in sharing #HiddenHerstory during the month of March. 

1. Hallie Quinn Brown

Photo: Photo from Homespun Heroines and Other Women of Distinction, edited by Hallie Quinn Brown, 1926. 

Hallie Quinn Brown (1849-1949) helped organize the Colored Women’s League in Washington, D.C., one of the organizations that merged in 1896 to become the National Association of Colored Women (NACW). She served as president of the NACW, from 1920 to 1924. Brown is among many other notable founders of the NACW, to include Harriet Tubman, Mary Church Terrell and Ida B. Wells.

Brown also served as President of the Ohio State Federation of Colored Women’s Clubs between 1905 and 1912. During her last year as president of the NACW, she spoke at the Republican National Convention in Cleveland. Brown had a reputation as a powerful orator. In 1899, while serving as a U.S. representative, she spoke before the International Congress of Women meeting in London, UK on women’s suffrage and civil rights.

2. Madam C.J. Walker

Photo: From Homespun Heroines and Other Women of Distinction, edited by Hallie Quinn Brown, 1926. 

Madam C.J. Walker (1867-1919) is widely known for her successful beauty and haircare business, produced by her Madam C.J. Walker Manufacturing Company. However, Walker’s life also includes a long history of activism and philanthropy toward racial equality and civil rights. During World War I, Walker was a leader in the Circle For Negro War Relief, in the effort to establish a training camp for black army officers. In 1917, she joined the executive committee of the New York chapter of the NAACP, which organized the Silent Protest Parade on New York City’s Fifth Avenue. More than 8,000 African Americans participated in protest of a riot in East Saint Louis that killed thirty-nine African Americans.

Walker was also a supporter of Marcus Garvey, donating to the mission of the Universal Negro Improvement Association (UNIA). She was joined by Garvey and others when she founded The International League for Darker People in 1919 in the U.S. The organization aimed to bring together African Americans with other non-European people to pursue shared goals at the Paris Peace Conference following World War I. In particular, the organization made connections between Asian and black communities and for solidarity within their liberation movements. Walker’s life of activism is a reflection of her desire for global equality.

3. Barbara Smith

Photo: Portrait of Barbara Smith.

In 1973, author and lesbian feminist Barbara Smith, with other delegates, attended the first regional meeting of the National Black Feminist Organization (NBFO) in 1973 in New York City. This meeting resulted in the founding of the Combahee River Collective. The Collective’s name was suggested by Smith, who owned the book, Harriet Tubman, Conductor on the Underground Railroad by Earl Conrad. The name commemorated an action at the Combahee River planned and led by Harriet Tubman on June 2, 1863, in the Port Royal region of South Carolina. The action freed more than 750 slaves and is the only military campaign in American history planned and led by a woman. The Combahee River Collective emphasized the intersections of race, gender, sexuality and class oppression in the lives of African American women and other non-white women.

Smith also established the Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press in 1980, an activist feminist press that published several pamphlets and books. Many of these works became widely influential and adopted into many courses of study. Smith continued her work as a community organizer, when she was elected to the Albany, New York city council in 2005. She was an advocate for violence prevention, and educational opportunities for poor, minority and underserved people. Smith continues to be activist for economic, racial and social inequality.

4. Marsha P. Johnson

Photo: Marsha P. Johnson Black & white version of Andy Warhol Polaroid.

Marsha P. Johnson (1945-1992), a drag queen and gay liberation activist, is known as one of the first to fight back in the  Stonewall riots, a series of violent demonstrations among the LGBT against police raids. In the 1970s, Johnson and a friend, Sylvia Rivera, cofounded the Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR), an organization that promoted the visibility of the gay community, particularly through gay liberation marches and other political actions. The organization also worked to provide food and clothing for young drag queens, trans women and other kids living in the streets in the Lower East Side of New York. In the 1980s, she continued her street activism as a, organizer and with the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power (ACT UP). 

5. Charlene Carruthers

Photo: Charlene Carruthers, Photo Courtesy of BYP100 Project.

Charlene Carruthers is a black queer feminist activist and organizer. In July 2013, Carruthers with 100 other black activist leaders from across the U.S. were assembled by the Black Youth Project in Chicago for a meeting. The meeting convened with the goal of building networks of organization for black youth activism across the country. However, it was the verdict of George Zimmerman regarding the death of Trayvon Martin, that inspired Carruthers and the other activists to form Black Youth Project 100 (BYP100). The group was created to organize and promote young black activism in resistance to structural forms of  oppression. BYP100 trains youth to be leaders, to empower a younger generation of black activist. 

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BlaQ History Day 10: The Combahee River Collective was a Black Feminist Lesbian organization active in Boston from 1974-1980. They are best known for developing the Combahee River Collective Statement, referred to as the most compelling document produced by black feminists, calls solutions to societal problems such as sexual discrimination, homophobia, racial discrimination, and classism. The collective is also credited with coining the term “identity politics”.

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Combahee River Collective pamphlet, “Eleven Black Women: Why Did They Die?” (1979). Part of the Barbara Smith Collection at the Lesbian Herstory Archives.

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On Approach

When I first conceived of the focus for this project, my mental space was very different. In February and March I loved the class, but was struggling to see what I could do, as a white woman, to fight against the racism we were learning about. The problem is so complex, so deeply-ingrained. I knew this, but it quickly became apparent that I hardly know anything at all. My viewpoint grew rather bleak, because I couldn’t fathom what use I could be to dismantling racism. My fears were confirmed, almost, when I read the following piece about white folks attending anti-racist protests.

FOR WHITE PEOPLE WHO WANT TO ATTEND #BLACKLIVESMATTER PROTESTS

The author of the article, Ashleigh Shackelford, is a queer, nonbinary Black writer speaking from their own experiences at protests. They note that in 2014, they noticed more white people attending Black Lives Matter protests. Initially, they were okay with this. But enough white folks disrupted the original intent of the protests that it got old really quickly; groups of white anarchists provoking the police, or just people who showed up for a photo op.

I know that I’m not one of those white people, though I may once have been. While I’m constantly trying to do better, I still became nervous I would never be able to prove that to any black folks. And I told myself that I didn’t deserve others’ approval, that they did not owe that to me; that the best I could do personally is the right thing. But it still made me anxious; I didn’t want to misrepresent myself or my values. I removed a Black Lives Matter button from my backpack when the topic came up in a class conversation for literally just a few moments. My black peers weren’t strongly for or against white people promoting the movement, but I felt uncomfortable for co-opting it, anyhow. I’d bought the button with the idea that I would wear it and force my white classmates and peers on this campus to look at it and for a brief moment think about BLM, but I came to the personal decision I wasn’t comfortable wearing the button. So if not that, what could I do?

Literally anything else, really. Real activism work. I’m really only beginning to learn what that entails.

In the article, Shackelford writes,

“The fact that white people show up to these rallies as if it’s a fucking BBQ (cause you know y’all don’t have cookouts), chanting Assata’s words, saying “we have nothing to lose but our chains,” I’m actually retraumatized by how comfortable white people are in not doing anything to change their violence. These marches are funerals for us. Black people are being murdered, violated and oppressed every day. We are literally in mourning every minute of our lives.”

I read this and know that not every person out there feels this way, that there are plenty of folks who are fine when white people march with them in solidarity. But this opened my eyes to the idea that there are those who aren’t okay with it, as well. I know I can’t please everyone, but this is an important enough issue that I want to do right by as many people as I can. After reading this article, I was less sure that there would ever be a way for me to do that.

Now, of course this is all over-dramatic. I just need to do my best, like (most) everyone else. Taking care to treat others’ emotions seriously and respectfully is by no means a bad thing. And for the record, Shackelford makes a list of things that “matter the most” to white folks who want to go to BLM protests. Under the first bullet, they ask us to consider why we need to go to a protest:

“[W]hy are you going to a protest when you’re the oppressor? If you really believe that #BlackLivesMatter, ask yourself if you’re willing to die for us and to die to dismantle this system. Are you willing to learn everything possible about antiblackness and its many forms so that you can dismantle it? Are you willing to give up everything you have to make sure Black people can survive, thrive and be safe? If you cannot answer yes to ALL of these questions, you don’t need to be at a protest.”

Asking us what we’re willing to sacrifice reminds me now of what Dr. V said in our class last week, which I wrote about here. Those stakes are admittedly high, and I’m not to the point where I can truthfully answer yes to each of those questions. That’s the target I’m working for, though. And there’s no time like the present, I know. Clearly it’s beyond time for us white folks to catch up.

“Your presence only triggers the black people that are frightened by you, and you actually don’t change anything by being at a protest if there is no work to match your visibility.”

I don’t want to be a trigger, and I do want to do the work. It is work that makes me uncomfortable, true, but that’s my problem. My social anxiety is my problem. (Harsh, but true.) My upbringing in white spaces that leaves me less-than-ideally equipped to engage in black spaces… is my problem. It’s on me to unwrite the white framework I’ve been raised to see the world through. And once I do that, maybe then I’ll be prepared to do my part in the dismantling of racism.

“We don’t need white saviorism. We don’t need white people to speak for us. We don’t even really need white people to show up to rallies. We need our reparations, we need intentional disruption that involves high risk and we need y’all to stop playing.”

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On White Guilt

This is a poem I wrote on January 24th, which I just rediscovered in my laptop documents. That would have been the evening of the third day our class met. My memory of how I felt during those first few weeks is admittedly hazy, but I recall sensing that it was important for me to be taking this class despite the fact that I had never been in a space like this before. (Let’s be real, that’s EXACTLY why it was important for me to be there.) The fish out of water feeling faded after a few more weeks, and by the middle of the semester, I was pretty much fine. That in itself is a reason why I’m glad I enrolled in this class. My life is overwhelmingly white, something I questioned less before this semester. I feel like I have a better understanding of what it means to be in communities dominated by black women, which, honestly, changes the way I see the world. For the better, absolutely. I feel like I see more of it. 

I do remember feeling somewhat guilty, though. Not in a... white guilt way? I don’t know. Not in a self-indulgent way. Not in a “pity me I feel bad about racism, I’m just trying to be a good ally!!!” way. I was fresh from a social justice trip I went on the week before classes started. The trip was amazing in that I felt ready and better prepared to do activist work than ever before. I also acquired a deeper understanding of the pain felt as a result of racism, however, with the accompanying knowledge that I will never know how it feels to be a black person in America. The pain of witnessing police brutality and institutionalized racism is something I can sympathize with, but I will never know the depth of it. And that is but one tiny drop of what it is to be a black person in America. I’ve learned so much more in our class, and I know this is barely a beginning.

So this is just to say that if I were to write this poem today... it would be different. Waaay different. I still think it is on my and other white folks’ backs to eradicate racism. But I would take out everything in this that reads as white guilt. We don’t need more of that in the world. We just need people to educate themselves, take a breath, and begin doing the right thing.

Helplessness is anger is guilt is my heart and soul

trying to rationalize this position I’ve inherited.

All of us, this world we’ve been born into,

all of us, still children grappling with the decisions of our ancestors elders parents

all of us, responsible for remaking and taking what we’ve been given,

and giving it away again, made better.

I am a new girl rolling over into a new girl, this body, always rolling over

an ocean of new perspectives and knowledge crashing, rolling over

To be human is to change.

And who I am now is not who I will be next week, let alone next year.

Always rolling over.

I am responsible for taking what has been given to me on the backs of those oppressed,

every atom of my life comprised of the dead energy of those who died building what I’ve inherited,

taking what has been given to me, and with my own energy and wellbeing,

building something new.

It takes sacrifice to create something good from ashes, from murder, from rape.

Facing why this work is necessary does not feel good.

Every person is complicit in oppressing others.

Some more than others.

Far, far more than others.

Only the children are innocent.

The willfully ignorant are not innocent.

I am not innocent.

I hold this inheritance of oppression and stare until I hurt inside my eyes, my brain,

and my god if holding myself accountable isn’t searing,

I stand upon these systems that tear others down to nothing.

The full truth of my life is that every good thing I have ever had was

built from bones I had no right to take from the graves

my ancestors shoved those they killed down into

only after forcing from them

their labor, their freedom,

their humanity.

They took everything.

My recognizing this is not me pleading guilty

or making any attempt to cleanse myself

of what I owe.

Do not pity me, for I will not pity you.

The only path forward is forever rolling over, more work,

Taking and remaking that which is not mine,

But which I have power over,

Into good to share with the world.

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Let’s get familiar with being uncomfortable.

“White women elected Trump. Black, brown, trans and queer women have been doing this for far longer and at far greater peril.” Any kind of real solidarity from allies has got to start with acknowledging these truths.

Acknowledge white privilege, and acknowledge who has been fighting for equality from day one, and then use that privilege to help put marginalized people in charge.

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I saw so many black women at the Women’s March and each one I spoke to gave me a variant of the same answer: they were here because they had to be. To have sat it out would’ve been to cede to a feminist movement that was all too willing to discard them, when they had been the silent workhorses of the collective for so long. It was evident in the number of placards and signs I saw, happily quoting from the rich and grand tradition of black feminist theory and thought: Angela Davis, a speaker at the march, popped up often via her words, as did Maya Angelou. The most quoted was Audre Lorde, whose abundant written legacy is a treasure trove of march-friendly quotables.

It was about representation, a group of African women told me. They were here, representatives of African women a continent away from this march, each with their own feminist histories, currently living their own feminist realities. This is for us too, all the black women I spoke to were saying. Putting ourselves back into the narrative, where we have always been. So I approached multi-generational groups of black women and asked to take their photo, and I looked out for groups of multiracial teenage girls, eyes wide and almost overwhelmed by the crowd. We are physical manifestations of our parents’ dreams, and I saw so many parents with a proud gleam in their eyes on Saturday afternoon.

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Solidarity is not the same as support. To experience solidarity, we must have a community of interests, shared beliefs and goals around which to unite, to build Sisterhood. Support can be occasional. It can be given and just as easily withdrawn. Solidarity requires sustained, ongoing commitment.

Bell Hooks (via theproblackgirl)

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This article is from last summer, but I’m sure it would surprise no one that essentially everything Meyerson says still holds true.

“As I witnessed firsthand, the response to the photo of Max from whites I know to be smart, liberal allies could be tone-deaf at best and harmful to the Black Lives Matter message and movement at worst.” 

This sums up, to a great degree, why I consider it important to question what good allyship is. “Tone deaf at best” is not good enough. White people must do better. It is our responsibility to do better, and personally, I believe that it’s immoral of us to stand idly in this movement. So much is at stake, so much that I’ll never fully understand it. What we white folks should do, however, is still up in the air. But I believe that is a question we should be thinking long and hard about.

Meyerson writes, “While the role of white participants in Black Lives Matter shouldn’t be left to black organizers to figure out—black Americans have had to contend with racism and it isn’t the responsibility of blacks to show whites how to be good allies and comrades—white activists and sympathizers to the Black Lives Matter cause should take a page from white activists of the civil rights movement: that black people are the leaders, that the movement is centered around them, that glorifying white participation in a black-led movement is gauche and unhelpful, that this isn’t about white people.

There’s no clear path or prescription for how white allies should operate in a movement led by black and brown people—that’s part of the work. But one refrain expressed among white activists is the idea that the freedom of white people, of all people, is tethered to ending injustices for people of color. Otherwise, “we can’t get totally free as white people, we can’t get peace or rest,” Garcés says. One thing is for sure: it’s the responsibility of whites interested in ending racism to sacrifice their comfort, ask questions, and take cues and orders from black people without relying on us to show you and tell you how. It’s not the usual order of things, but it’s the way forward.”

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Tone Policing and Allyship

As allies, your job is to listen.

As allies, your job is to shut up and listen.

As allies, your job (after the first two things) is speak when spoken to, or to call out other privileged/non-oppressed people to listen to the group you are allied to. 

Your job is not to talk over oppressed people.

Your job is not to discuss every single thought about oppressed groups as though you are an expert (cause you watched a single @chescaleigh or @katblaque video.)

Your job is to not make an oppressed groups issues about you. They are not and never will be about you. Thats kind of the point.

Your job is not to make oppressed groups “sound better” or to instruct them to be “less mean.” You get no say in how anger of oppression is dealt with. 

In closing, it’s best to think of your allyship as being a house guest. You do not get invited to someone’s house and then rudely demand that they change the decor around that house to suit your tastes. (Nor do you speak over the family who invited you there and demand that they honor your opinion of them over their own opinion of themselves and their house.)

The most you should do, is kindly remind other guests to not be shitty guests and to listen to the host. (Unless asked directly otherwise.)

*I tried to make this applicable for most groups. I am a white, non-binary neuro-divergent bisexual person who has consistently dealt with bad allies in various forms. Feel free to add to this if you have the energy. I’m sure I have left out many things that could be addressed. 

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Women will know that white feminist activists have begun to confront racism in a serious and revolutionary manner when they are not simply acknowledging racism in feminist movement or calling attention to personal prejudice, but are actively struggling to resist racist oppression in our society. Women will know they have made a political commitment to eliminating racism when they help change the direction of feminist movement, when they work to unlearn racist socialization prior to assuming positions of leadership or shaping theory or making contact with women of color so that they will not perpetuate and maintain racial oppression or, unconsciously or consciously, abuse and hurt non-white women.

bell hooks, “Feminist Theory: from Margin to Center” (via feministfront)