#Metoo- Black Girl Edition

"As you become more clear about who you really are, you'll be better able to decide what is best for you- the first time around." Oprah Winfrey

I have been trying to avoid the #metoo campaign. But every day, as I wake up with my view of the Abu Dhabi Corniche, I open my news feed to find another story of a male who is apologizing for his overall disrespect of a woman. The patterns are pretty similar: a white male in a position of power, a white woman feeling empowered to speak up, an apology, a public show of disappointment from the employer, and we move on. But every day there are more and more stories of women stating that they have been sexually harassed. However, the narrative from women of color is hard to find. Especially when your harasser is of the same race as you.

At least, that is my story.

I was an idealistic activist who wanted to change the world. The summer before my senior year of college, I participated in Union Summer through the AFL-CIO in Stamford, Connecticut. That summer I was surrounded by like-minded young people, wanting to fight for the rights of the working class. As interns, we felt like the cast of The Real World (true story of 12 strangers, different backgrounds, etc.), but instead of living in swanky digs, we slept on mattresses in an empty office and took showers at the YMCA around the corner.  Our coordinator was a mix of a lot of fun, knowledge, and I admired him like a brother. It was in part his influence and the experience that led me to apply for a very coveted spot with the organizer apprenticeship program.

I was selected and offered a chance to go back and work in Stamford after graduation. But during a training in Baltimore, I fell in love with the city and her people, and when the lead organizer at the site offered a chance to work there I accepted a role at that site. He was the black male lead, I was the only female at that location, I thought for sure that he was my brother. Things were fine, but then things got really uncomfortable.

My lead, a black man, made it difficult for me to work there.

The thing about sexual harassment when you are 21, is that you don't know anything about nuance. Flash to a scene in 9 to 5 where Dolly Pardon's character is constantly attacked, and that is the image likely in your head about the topic. Also, sexual harassment was a white female problem. Coupled with the fact that the movement at the time did not have a lot black male leadership. I didn't want to be that black woman keeping a brother down.

Things were initially mild. Comments about how nice I looked or how smart I was; I was flattered. But comments became more pointed about my dating life or my clothing. Often when it was time to go into the field to talk to workers, I was with him instead of my co-workers. Often I had no choice. Often stops became longer with stops back to his apartment because he forgot something, or a file had to be retrieved from his computer. Conversations became more about his marriage issues. I was often at a loss for words.

And I was uncomfortable but never said anything.

Because in my head, being sexually harassed was not nuanced, and maybe my feelings were just me being an awkward black girl. It was my boss' attempt to get to know me.

My coworkers saw my steady decline. I had a friend who worked there who always seemed to show up at the right time. My supervisor even assumed that I had a thing for him. Always asking why I spent so much time with him. I was shocked by the thought because I knew my friend's wife first and embarrassed that he even questioned my relationship with him. The other guys on staff were always super sweet, and I never felt awkward around them. I felt safe with them; I felt that I could be myself.

But I didn't feel safe with my supervisor. And I didn't say anything.

It took my brother, my internship coordinator, to come into town to see how unhappy I was with my situation.  He helped me get out. I did one more year with the labor movement, and my contract was not renewed. I loved the work, but I felt as if I was a hypocrite. I could I encourage others to speak up and stand up, and I was afraid to because I thought I was turning against my people. I wasn't as effective as I thought I could be and I never said anything.

I never said anything because I thought it was all in my head.
I never said anything because he was a black man, and black men get treated so wrongly in the world.
I never said anything because he was my boss, and I was afraid to lose my job.
I never said anything because his actions were not overt.

Flash forward to almost twenty years later and the wisdom of living has settled in. Sexual harassment is when your coworker or supervisor has the ability to create a work environment that is hostile and affects performance. It is nuanced; it is not always overt. And if you feel unsafe you should say something.

It amazes me that the #metoo stories focus a lot on white women, but sexual harassment happens in communities of color, too. Movements that grow too often ignore the additional crosses that women POC's have to bear. You saw it in the abolitionist movement, voting rights, equal rights, and you see it now in Trump era women's rights. You're not only supposed to support the cause of your sister, your brother, and your friends, but we are also supposed to not look angry and ask for what we want because of the image of the "angry black woman."

However, what makes me angry, as more and more stories come out, is that I never said anything about how I felt and never told anyone. I never said anything.

Now in my current role as a counselor, I tell my girls to not apologize for asking for what they want or to question a motive. To never be afraid to say that this makes me uncomfortable, and not to feel obligated because of race or advertised female roles. I hope for my nieces as they grow older, that they also know that your feelings are valid- that they owe no one anything out of race or age obligations.

Because the last thing I want for them is to sit in reflection, 20 years later, wishing that they would have said something.

 

Zumba, Twerkin', and Female Sensuality with Hijab

“The assumption that women in hijab are less enlightened or empowered than those rocking daisy dukes is arrogant at best. Feminism should fight for all women to have he right to live as they choose, not for all women to live the same exact lives like we're all in some sort of Sims game.” 
― Luvvie Ajayi, I'm Judging You: The Do-Better Manual

In my goal to reclaim my life, and to lose 40 pounds before 40, I went ahead and joined a gym this school year. The decision did not come lightly- I wanted a place that wasn't far from my home and that had nothing to do with my school (the reasons for that can be discussed in another post). So I found myself joining the ladies only gym near my home.

It is something kind of empowering to workout around women. We are all after a goal to look and feel better, and I do feel more freedom to make a complete ass of myself in the name of fitness. No thoughts wondering if a cute guy is checking me out. I think for me it is an act of feminism, although culturally it is preferred for women and men (in the areas of health and fitness) be separate. But there is freedom of knowing that no men are allowed, so in that spirit, I've been stepping outside of my comfort zone and going to some of the evening classes. So the other night I went to Zumba.

This was not the plan. I know my capabilities- I have rhythm but I am normally in the, "wave your hands in the air, wave them like you don't care," area of the dance floor. My two step is fierce and kinda cute. Zumba however is coordination with hips and sexiness. I only play sexy in my subconscious. However, the class that I thought I was going to do was 30 minutes earlier. And the choice came down to going to Five Guys or stay and workout, so I did Zumba.

And I made a complete fool of myself.

And I waved my hands in the air like I just didn't care.

The class was actually a lot of fun. But what made it fun was that I was in room of women who just let themselves loose, and twerked themselves into happiness. Women in this region are built like black women in my family: they have butts, they have chests, they have curves. You would never know that the same woman who was backing her thing up in class is the same woman who covers when she leaves the gym. It's kind of awesome, and also empowering.

There is often a misunderstanding of the woman who chooses to cover. Yes there are areas in the world where women are forced to, but for the most part the women that I meet who cover do it as a choice. They choose to share their sex appeal with their husbands, and they choose to share their womanhood with other women. The intimate spaces of being around others who understand what it means to be female can be very inspiring.

And maybe, it is ok to decide to protect my modesty, instead of feeling that covering is the same as oppression.

The Root of it All

"A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots." Marcus Garvey

My grandmother, Ernestine McDade, was a badass.

I think I had this healthy dose of fear and respect of her when I was younger. When I got older, I started to see the nuance of the struggle of being an educated, black woman, who set her own rules. I loved it, admired it, and sometimes hated it. She was always a woman who managed to have the last word. Her last words to me, after I finished my first year working in education was, "Well, I told you so." That was my Ma-Ma, and I love her dearly. I miss her so much.

One of my greatest memories was riding with her to Chicago to cousin Bill's house. They would get together before family reunions and gather information, share photographs and stories, and I had an amazed seat at the table while they worked on family history and stories. All of this culminated into our family reunion which was held almost every year. The honor of knowing at least a little bit about my history was this advantage, a treat. I wasn't this lost black girl not knowing where her people were from. However, the root of it all is that a piece of my history was still a bit lost.

I had these two Kuwaiti students, who used to take myself and my friend Yolanda around to different sites within their country. They knew their roots, their family line, the history and movements of their people. I have friends from the Continent, that can tell you about their tribe and history of their family; the why behind divides, colonialism making decisions about where people were supposed to settle. The root of it all is that they have intimate sense of their past, and it's something that I am quite envious. Although I have some, more than others, there are still parts of my history that I was dying to understand.

So here comes technology.....

I did a DNA test this summer and I received my results this week. Ever since, my mind has been filled with so many more questions and ideas about where my roots are truly from.

• 68% West African- Mali, Guinea, Senegal, Mauritania, Nigeria 
• 22% European- British, Irish, Mediterranean
• 1% East Asian and Native American

Then the interesting thing about the West African result is how the results broke apart my maternal side DNA. How through my mothers side, it traced the movement of her roots. How their language, religions, and traditions spread throughout Central and Southern Africa. It also explored my West African roots, and confirmed the movement was reflected in the Atlantic slave trade. I didn't need a DNA test to tell me that, but it brings a level of awareness that this is scientifically a part of my history. Thanks to my uncle, who did the testing a while back, I know that my paternal side is most likely from the Horn of Africa: Ethiopia, Sudan, and Somalia. The root of it all is that I am a product of some of the greatest empires that existed in this world. 

I haven't even started to dig in on the European part- I am still so overwhelmed with what I know already.

I was really trying to move on from the Middle East for work to explore other parts of the world, but I feel as if God planted me here because of its vicinity to where my roots are from. The language and religion of my scientific history, is one that is shared with my current physical location. It's so hard to explore these places from the states, but it is so much easier to do it from here. My dream to visit the continent could never be affordable over there in education. But here, if planned thoughtfully, can be something to deepened. The root of it all is that there is always a reason for reasons why we are where we are in this world. 

I wonder what my grandmother would say about all of this. I bet you she would've been one of the first to try to organize some trip and contact a distant relative or family member. And as I discover more, and figure out a way to honor her work,  I will indeed share my journey. It's the title of this blog after all....