Weightless

Journey Part 2

I have always been a book worm. Actually that is an understatement. I have always devoured the written word, like I have a craving I can't satisfy. As a child and teenager I always had my eyes glued to a page in some form. This led to me having interest in an array of topics including forbidden ones I could not necessarily discuss with friends or my parents. I also have always loved journalism and listened to NPR religiously. When I was eight years old I had my ears glued to the radio and there was all this talk about sex, specifically oral sex. People were angry at the president and all the magazines and newspapers at the store checkout stands were covering the story. I didn't at the time know what the definition of sex let alone oral sex was or why this story was gaining so much traction. So I first asked my parents. They were HORRIFIED. Okay maybe not, but looking back on it the expressions on their faces was quite comical. My mom finally sputtered out " Well you're turning nine soon, come back and ask me after your birthday." Um yeah. That was not going to work so I did the next best thing. Good thing the internet was not really a thing then! (not in our house anyway neither was Television or movies)  I pulled out my Noah Webster to find the answers I sought. I found it to be vague and inconclusive (I actually wrote this down in my notes at the age of eight after reading it.) I recalled that my mom had a few copies of Red Book magazine lying around and I went in search of those. I asked her for a copy and told her that I wanted to cut out some pictures for a project. But Alas! She knew me too well and had removed (or hidden) all copies because of the "mature content." The only other magazines around the house were Good Housekeeping and Woman's Day so I knew all of my immediate resources were exhausted. I did the only thing I could do. I went to the library. 

I actually happened to be in luck that specific day because there were some teenage girls there looking for “My Last Body Book." They did not find the specific book but they left plenty of material for me to peruse and I hit the jackpot. I can't recall the title of the book but there were Lots of definitions and cartoon illustrations. A few months later when my mother sat me down and gave a text book version of the definition (not too far from the dictionary) I didn't tell her I already knew. Yet at the time my only remaining question was “what is all the fuss about?" I learned an important lesson. If I had future questions/interests which might prove to be controversial I would have to be discrete and conduct my own personal and private research.

 Fast forward about nine years later I was once again spending my free time in the library and I came across Ms. Magazine. I sat for hours reading various issues and hid a few after checking them out. Unfortunately I did not hide them well enough. My mom upon discovering an issue hidden under some folders in my room asked me “what are you doing with this lesbian magazine?" I attempted to explain, I lied said I had no idea that there were any lesbians featured and that I checked it out because there were all of these amazing stories about work women were doing in the U.S. as well as internationally (which was actually true). I continued to read the magazines at the library only and I found another publication "Bitch" magazine at a bookstore and I wanted to read everything I could about Women organizing and activism and yes feminism. I desperately yearned for a space in where women could have an active and amplified voice. I wanted that space for my own voice. I felt at the time boxed in many ways. I was raised in church (something I may discuss in further detail in the future) and in that space I knew I was limited in what I could say, do and who I could become as a woman. 

As a teenager I was very active and did literally everything I was allowed to do: choir, youth choir, Sunday school bus ministry, sign-language team, youth outreach, girls club, before church musicians, before church singers, after church clean up, regular church clean up, and other things not organized I did on my own such as cooking/cleaning and helping an elderly couple I loved very much with their grocery shopping. I also held bible studies in my parent’s home  (sometimes to guys who would get my number and thought they were going to get with me). The church was my community, my home, and as I saw it then, my only future. So it seemed best that I embrace it in its entirety. Or at least almost. There were many issues I swallowed, ignored or pretended to be ok with and/or understand. However the issue of women was one I constantly questioned. When I graduated high school and was preparing for college I went to talk with the pastor about my lifelong dream of becoming a journalist (I had been infatuated with Michele Norris as a child) he told me I had to find a different career path as I am a woman and couldn’t be in any “delicate or questionable” situations such as going into a bar for a story or horror of horrors riding in a car alone with a man! I was heartbroken and I spent weeks crying, praying, fasting and thinking about the situation. I knew in order to have a life God was pleased with I had to do whatever the pastor instructed.

After that situation I became acutely aware of the sexism and power dynamic related to how women could lead their lives but I pretended it didn’t matter and I threw myself into prayer, the Bible and wrote for the church newsletter as my outlet.  I would speak in youth service, the only time women were allowed to speak in the pulpit and even then for only about fifteen maybe twenty minutes. I would often be told that I had the touch of God on my life, that I was a leader and that I had much potential to be used mightily by God. At the time I would silently respond “to do what?” Women were not even leading the church clean-up teams (even though they were making up at least 90% of the teams. The one exception was the first pastor’s wife leading the church for a year after her husband’s death. I talked to her a few times about my desire to do more, to become something or someone leading people. She told me “it’s hard as a woman, being a woman alone  (with regards to ministry) in the church is almost impossible.” The only other times women were being “used” at least in the sense that I understood at the time, was when they were married to or related to a preacher. The majority of those instances they were either singing, playing an instrument and nearly always cooking, cleaning, and raising children for them. I wanted no parts.

I didn’t even necessarily want to be married. I talked to the pastor at the time about this as well. I told him the only ways I saw women being used were in these contexts and people always told me that I would marry a preacher. He of course patronized me, told me I could do many things and proceeded to list everything I was already doing. I quickly lost any illusions I had that the change I would make to my world would be in that space. There is a lot more to that portion of this story but as I mentioned previously I may delve into more details in a future post. 

The point is I have for a long time desired to see women and be a woman who can be active and mobilize people. When I was five years old I wanted to be a missionary doctor. I wasn’t sure what that entailed but I knew I wanted to go to less fortunate communities and provide resources and safe spaces for people who would not otherwise have access to them. My mother told me “you can marry a man and help him.” When I asked her why she said women could not lead men or preach/teach them. I didn’t exactly want to preach, but I knew even then I didn’t want to play second fiddle to a future husband I might not even like sometimes. Yes I was a weird child I know. One day I was looking through photo album we had at the church of missionaries and I found one missionary who was a woman! I was so excited! I dragged my mom to the shelf where the book was housed and showed her. She conceded but also told me “well she has never been married and you don’t to be single all of your life do you?” I told her I wasn’t sure and she told me it would be very lonely. I was only five but that conversation shaped my perspective and my aspirations as a young woman in the church for years to come.

Disclaimer: My mom meant well, in fact much of my inspiration for a woman being assertive in a positive light was garnered by her example, but that is another post for another time.

While I no longer have any desire to lead in any church of any sort I still believe in missions work and uplifting people specifically women in various capacities and I have met some dynamic organizers here in Atlanta who are doing just that. There have been many challenging moments since my relocation here. Such as finding work in or related to my field of study (something I am still working to accomplish) navigating the city using public transportation, creating a social life, networking and lastly dating. I have never been an outgoing/perky person. I prefer a small setting with only a few people I share common interests with and I have rarely been aggressive in any social aspect. That however is rapidly changing since I have moved here. This is a place where for all intents and purposes introversion does not serve me well and I have had to break out of this part of myself to survive. It is scary and uncomfortable yet also quite liberating. I am still on a mission to determine what my purpose is/will be in this city at this specific stage in my life, but I know for sure that I no longer am required to be quiet or shy about anything I want in life or anything I desire to do. I have to chase and grasp it without any reservations. I have met reproductive justice organizers, students who are fighting to increase minimum wage, people organizing against racial injustice and law enforcement, educators, every-day blue collar workers desperate for someone to listen when they speak and many others. As I am a private person, opening up and embracing all of my selves on a multi-dimensional level can be quite exhausting but I know if I don’t I will never grow.

 Recently I was in search of a space to find Wi-fi and coffee and after an hour long bus ride to East Atlanta I found myself in the middle of a festival filled with music, art, food and people enjoying themselves. I sat and looked out of the window of Joe’s East Atlanta Coffee shop, I pondered as I watched people dance in the rain and bob their heads to the music I began to mentally compare myself to them. I started with attire. Them: flannel checkered shirts, fedoras, distressed jeans/ripped tights, boots and converse, floral dresses, tattoos, brightly colored hair cut into asymmetrical styles. They looked so… free. Me: red jeggings, stretched polyester top, brown knitted shawl, tan calve length boots. Hair in a large afro puff and gold hoop earrings. I began to wonder to myself, how can I feel so at home in this place yet feel like such an outsider at the same time? (ironically the same feeling I held when growing up in church)   

I decided my only ammo to combat this feeling was to get out and explore the festivities so I did just that. Upon doing so I met a guy wearing a dashiki, an afro, and a backpack full of canvases. He offered me art for donation but I was not working at the time and was unable to purchase anything. We began to talk and somehow he knew many of the things I was struggling with internally, as well as my zodiac sign, that I am a writer and that I was feeling under-accomplished. He offered me a painting for free and encouraged me to pursue my passion. After we parted ways, I realized that I was right to trust my gut about moving to Atlanta and this indeed is exactly for this moment and time where I belong.                                                   

Senescence

Do you see him?

Hardly anyone does. In this mass of youthful bodies rushing this way and that,

The man hobbling on the sidewalk struggling to balance his bags in his comfortable looking (but judging from the stance of his walk) not so comfortable orthopedic shoes.

He attempts to catch the nearly full bus before he is either trampled or the door unfolds and squeaks shut in his face. 

His clothes though not tattered or soiled no longer fit his frame properly. They billow around his hunched shoulders and slightly bent knees adding to his cloak of invisibility

His dark eyes seem to shrink deep into his face behind a constant watery mist.

They are trained eyes, experienced eyes, pushed past their freshness state.

Those eyes have read countless books, screened over five-thousand movies and sized up too many football games.

The hands. His hands, now gnarled trembling and fragile once carried boxes half of his body weight but now bear the difficulty of one five pound plastic handled Wal-mart bag.

They were once his livelihood, used for manual labor, a firm handshake, to caress the hand of his lover. Now they grip tightly to the curved knob of his walking stick. 

For him and him alone it seems, they are still of use.

His arms were once sinewy, not too muscular. Not too scrawny either. They were perfect.

For giving toss-in-the-air turns to each of this three children, for changing the light-bulbs in the far reaching ceiling fans of his family’s home, for hoisting himself into a tree and judging its strength for a tree-house.

Now the arms hang feebly at his sides and he protects them by leaning mostly on his walking stick.

Can you see him?

He makes it onto the bus. The driver lets down the step for him but he doesn’t lift his head. He pays his fare and trots down the aisle in search of a seat. No one in the front open-ended seating area designated for the elderly or those with disabilities scoots an inch.

The driver takes off with a lurch and the man loses his footing. 

His walking stick slips away at an odd angle from his stance. 

Someone slides over, about three centimeters to the right and he falls rather than sits between two teenagers,

Their faces glued to tiny screens on boxes in their strong hands.

They don’t look up.

Journey Part I

I moved to Atlanta, GA a little over a month ago for a variety of reasons. Partially to spread my wings and begin a new life in a faster-paced environment, I also did not want to stay in the Midwest and I needed a break from snow/ice storms.  However to be honest my first visit to this city nearly eleven years ago was a life-changing experience. While Junction City is perhaps one of the most if not the most racially diverse town(s) in Kansas, ethnic minorities are still that; the minority, in number as well as economic status. Atlanta was my first experience being in a place where I did not stick out based solely on my skin color, and primarily was the reason I knew I had to return to the city. While I still have much to learn regarding economic, social, and other dynamics of the South East, I have had several experiences which are constantly teaching me that no matter how hard I try, escaping racial disparities and inequities is not something that will happen due to a geographical change alone.

My primary source of transportation is via bus and train lines and many things are spread out via counties and communities. I have observed that certain areas which are higher classed also have cleaner streets, nicer restaurants, more resources and lack the amount of certain establishments such check-cashing joints and corner liquor stores which are much more prevalent in working-class to poverty ridden areas. I have also noticed that these neighborhoods also have few people of color even though we make up the majority of the population overall.

This past weekend I attended the annual Decatur Book Festival which is absolutely wonderful and an event I call my happy place because I am a dedicated book worm, its family oriented, and for me it represents the reason I love books to begin with; it is an escape or haven for all my woes with the world or at least helps me understand them.

The Keynote of the event was a conversation between Erica Jong and Roxane Gay held at Emory University.  I have recently graduated from Kansas State University and I miss the academic environment so I was thrilled to score a free ticket to the event. I noticed upon walking in the auditorium that the audience was overwhelmingly middle-aged to elderly and mostly Caucasian women (gender identity/racial ethnicities assumed).  I noticed there were few actual college-aged (at least traditionally) people in the audience and even fewer people of color.  Upon noticing this I began to feel out of place and unworthy. I felt that I did not belong in this crowd of people. Now this is not to say I was physically treated badly in any way shape or form, as a matter of fact the young woman at the ticket counter gave me a ticket reserved for Emory students as a gesture of goodwill. The ladies who sat next to me engaged in small talk, and my seat was a relatively good one. One could say that the issue of any racial disparity in such a crowd of educated/experienced people was all in my head and they would not be wrong. I will get back to what I mean by that in a little bit.

The ceremony was opened by former United States Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey in honor of the tenth year anniversary of the Decatur Book Festival. Natasha Trethewey is the daughter of an African-American mother and a Caucasian (listed Canadian) father. She was born a year before Loving V. Virginia and is currently a professor at Emory University.  I was not aware of these facts when she read the poem she had written for the occasion. I was aware that she was a woman of color, on stage, in this space where I felt small and insignificant. I was aware that this simple fact alone made me feel a little less self-conscious. It made me feel as though perhaps I too could be brilliant and competent enough to be in this room.

As a self-proclaimed feminist Roxane Gay is one of my personal literary/feminist celebrities. She is a professor at Purdue, a feminist, she is the daughter of immigrants, a woman of color, she is overweight and unapologetic about her body and most importantly to me; she is a successful writer.

Erica Jong (who was actually the highlighted author of the evening) is also a successful author/poet. She is a feminist. She is controversial. She is a trail-blazer for second-wave feminism and is one of the early authors to write unabashedly about and embrace female sexuality. She is currently married to a Chinese American psychiatrist but has been married four times all together. She is a graduate of Columbia and hugely celebrated in the feminist literary world.

Prior to the event I was only vaguely familiar with Erica Jong. I knew her name and had a read a few pieces of work for a Women’s Studies class however I was excited to hear her speak.

In the beginning of the interview Roxane Gay pulled out her phone and held the mic to the speaker. The younger portion of the crowd erupted in cheers when the vocalizing to the beginning of Drunk in Love came bouncing out of the speakers. Bobbing her head to the music, Roxane pulled the mic away from the phone to ask “Whose birthday is it?” Beyoncéeee!!!! I screamed along with roughly eighty-plus other people. There were over one-thousand in attendance. Immediately following the cheers Erica Jong spoke into her mic and gave a disclaimer stating that Beyoncé has done amazingly well in the music industry and used her entertainment platform in a positive light towards feminism. Then she proceeded to state in spite of that we need to make sure we don’t forget the women who came before her to make that possible. She listed Billie Holiday along with a host of other Blues women. “Killjoy.” I thought to myself before immediately chiding myself on mocking an elder and not seriously considering her suggestion at that exact moment.

The interview commenced mostly with Roxane asking questions and Erica Jong answering them, about her work as a writer, her experience writing about an older woman who enjoys and desires sex and the hostility she faced due to writing about such characters and claiming those desires herself.

After about forty minutes the floor was opened for questions. At first they were usual simple ones, questions about writing advice, advice being a woman, and details referencing characters in the previous book. Then someone changed the entire dynamic and addressed the big purple elephant which is constantly present in the living room of feminism.

A woman (gender assumed) inquired about the recent hashtag on twitter #feminismisforwhitewomen. She wanted to know what Erica Jong and Roxane Gay thought about it. Erica Jong responded that such a claim was ridiculous and ignorant of the history of the feminist movement. She also stated she does not have a twitter account. Roxane Gay (who at the time of this writing holds over eighty-six thousand followers on twitter yours truly included) responded that the conversation is indeed a legitimate one and speaks to the lingering issues feminism has today despite it being 2015. Erica Jong listed Gloria Steinem as the first feminist to introduce Sojourner Truth to mainstream feminists. There were many side-eyes given to this statement. Mine included.  She continued to say there were many black abolitionists, and black women who fought for feminist issues. Roxane argued that those women were often silenced or at least shushed within the movement. Erica disagreed once again and Roxane chose to bow out and take another less controversial question. A few more moments went by and another person asked Roxane Gay what she thought about the feminist movement and Black Lives Matter. Would there ever be a time where we don’t have to reference color as a point of division? Roxane at first made it very clear that she does not want to live in a color blind world but that yes indeed it is possible to reach a point of harmony which is inclusive of racial and ethnic difference but it would take work. She also stated “It won’t be people of color doing it, we’re good.”

Later someone asked both if either had been influenced by either Mae West or Moms Mabley. Roxane said “no” speaking for both. Erica Jong launched into a spiel on the greatness of Mae West calling her “a great old broad” She then asked who is Moms Mabley? Someone behind me said “a great BLACK WOMAN old broad.” Roxane also stated that the fabric of feminism is intersectionality. Erica Jong asked her “What’s that?” Roxane very calmly and without an ounce of disdain stated that it simply means “I am a compilation of my identities, I am a woman, a black woman, in this body, a child of immigrants, I live in the Midwest, I’m a feminist etc.” and these identities shape my perspective and mold how I view and am viewed by the world” (paraphrasing)

I furiously applauded this as my introduction to feminism was taught to me through an intersectional lens. Yet the evening was not over and there was one more event which would once again cause me to ponder and learn.

At some point near the very end of Q&A, the conversation turned political with both Erica Jong and Roxane Gay stating their support of Hillary Clinton. One person asked about their support of Hillary since she has supported the War in Iraq and bombings in Libya both of which have left millions of young women without homes, education, livelihood etc. She asked how as feminists do they justify their endorsement of such a candidate other than that she is a woman. Roxane responded that she felt those actions did not make up Hillary Clinton as a candidate holistically and that there are policies and actions the current president makes she does not agree with but she still finds him to be suitable for the position. She later stated she would like to sit down with the person who asked the question because she needed to learn more about the issues addressed.

So needless to say that entire event left me with many, many thoughts tumbling over one another and I am still attempting to place them in an orderly fashion. My mental state upon entering the auditorium was one indeed in my head but still very telling of the society in which I live. While in college I was a member of the feminist organization first as a member, then webmaster, then president. One year we brought the educator Jane Elliot creator of the Brown Eyes vs. Blue Eyes exercise. While I could write another entry alone on that experience I have to state I felt I was experiencing something Jane Elliot observed with her students. I won’t go into all of the details of the exercise but basically she divided her students based on eye color and told them one eye color was on top of the day. Those students who were on top went first at lunch, sat in front of the classroom, had extra recess, and were treated/told they were better and smarter than the other students. She said she found that those students did things she knew they were not capable of doing. Students who had difficulty reading read flawlessly. Conversely students who were on the bottom had difficulty. She had one student who had never made a mathematical error suddenly unable to complete simple problems. This mental ableism is one that has plagued the African-American community for centuries and is one that we often experience to this day. For me it happened in that auditorium even though there was no physical evidence for my reaction.

Prior to my relocation to Atlanta I harbored a desire and belief that I had found a haven of a majority African diasporic community which would allow me to blend in with the masses and absorb an existence unaffected by societal and institutional racial disparity.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact my understanding of the effects of racism, sexism, ableism and heteronormativity is challenged in a new way every day. I see how blatantly the city is zoned separating the poor from the rich and how that separation is often raced as well as classed and how I myself sometimes catch myself looking through a lens I am ashamed of. When I am on the train heading to Buckhead and I see white passengers I silently want to tell the young black men in front of me to pull up their pants, turn down the volume on their headphones and stop giving their mini-concerts in gangster rap. I secretly hope that I am not grouped in the category of my black sisters who are toting babies and bearing tattoos. I want to be viewed by these other (white) people as respectable, yet I want to be accepted by my people who live relatively close to my current neighborhood. When I ride the bus with them I let my voice slide into a “down home” vernacular and play with the babies and launch into conversations about rap artists. I compliment the black-trans woman riding next to me on her camo strappy wedge heels and try not to have a visible reaction when I notice her name first and last is tattooed under each eye.

One day on the train there is an older black man who is attempting to flirt with me. I speak at first just trying to be polite but he continues and I don’t want to be bothered so I put in my earbuds and blast Lianne La Havas in an effort to drown him out. Because my earbuds are cheap and I don’t want to damage my eardrums by increasing the volume I hear him call me a bitch and say how unattractive I am. I conclude he is mentally disabled and I ignore him. He starts a soliloquy “ My name Ooo-wee, Hellooo I get down” He pretends to hump the railing. A young man sitting across from me is greatly entertained by this he laughs and joins in “ Oowee” he sings. I chuckle nervously but feel very uncomfortable.

A young woman in a t-shirt and leggings walks up the aisle. The elderly man turns his attention to her, catcalling. She ignores him then he grabs her butt. She smacks him off. The young man across from me doubles over. There is another man also older in a suit and fedora sitting directly across from me. I haven’t noticed him until now. He is stoic in his expression. A man in the back gets angry and tells the man in the aisle to sit down and that he needs to apologize to the woman. The man retorts back that if he has something to say he should come up there. They hurl insults at each other but he gets off the train. For the rest of the ride the man in the back admonishes all the men for not doing anything and says it’s not funny. The older man says quietly “sometimes you have to let things go.” I feel uncomfortable I did not see the butt grabbing but I saw the woman’s response and I feel like I should have done something. Yet I feel sorry for the man because he is not mentally stable and once again I recognize the lines of right and wrong sometimes intersect like the Five Points Train Station which is my destination.  

I get into heated discussions on Facebook and with family members about the black lives matter movement and I want to be radical about what I post on the Internet but I hold back because I need to find employment and I don’t want to be turned away. My mental state is one of constant discombobulation and in this moment I don’t know how to deal with it. I want to make people understand that All Lives Matter as a response to Black Lives Matter is silencing and misunderstands the movement. Yet I feel like I don’t understand myself and am therefore not qualified to defend my position. My heart is cracking and I wonder if or how any of us will have it right and when will I?