[White] Women’s March Was Not A Win

Yesterday afternoon, I attended a sister Women’s March in Lexington, KY.  Yesterday night, I went to bed feeling nearly as bad as I felt the night of the election.

Surrounded by thousands and thousands of people showing up to resist Trump’s agenda was exciting…at first.  That was until I started reading signs and getting a read of the crowd.

End of the march route.  Personal estimate of 5,000 to 10,000 people present.
End of the Women’s March on Washington – Lexington. Personal estimate of 5,000 to 10,000 people present.

 

There were a few problematic signs like the apocalyptic biblical “You want a Revolution, I want Revelation”, one with images of both a cow and human in shackles – daring to liken meat-eating to slavery, and the Dumbledore’s Army-esque “Wands Up!”.  But what really troubled me was the compounded message of every single sign that was spouting one-dimensional first/second wave feminist phrases.  “Girls rule, boys drool.”  “Feminism is the notion that women are humans.”  “Can’t believe I have to march for this in 2017.”  The sea of pussy hats.  Every single article of clothing that made me feel like these people just raided their breast cancer awareness closet.  And every message that wasn’t written on a sign or was dwarfed by this pink/white-washing.  It was all of this that suggested to me that these white folks were not showing up for anyone other than themselves and their privileged white friends.

I realized just how unsettled I was when we started marching.  It seemed like for the majority of the people present, this march was a pleasant little stroll through the streets of Lexington, KY.  Maybe for a lot of these folks, this was their first involvement in activism ever, which is awesome.  But were these people here because they want to engage in the work or because they want to point to a history book and say “I was there”?  I felt no sense of urgency in the crowd.  No sense of collective anger at injustice and oppression.  Chants died off quickly with meager support from those marching, while I was chanting at the top of my lungs trying to infuse energy into the crowd.  When we started chanting “Black Lives Matter”, several white folks stopped chanting….and then an “All Lives Matter” chant bubbled up soon after.  My sign read “You Can’t Stop the Intersectional Revolution” but I’m no longer convinced that we have one.

At this point, I don’t even care where these people were when black bodies were lying in the street at the hands of police violence, when indigenous water protectors were being sprayed with water and tear gassed on their own land, when bathroom bills were being passed to further oppress trans* folks, when 53% of white cis-women voted for Trump.  The only relevant question now is:  WHERE WILL YOU BE???  How many people who attended marches all over the world are actually going to go home and have critical conversations with their friends and family?  How many are going to look for ways to build community and stay involved in the resistance?  How many are going to educate themselves and realize that the revolution must be intersectional or there is no revolution at all?

I know folks like to claim the opposite, but Donald Trump is our President.  Don’t blame it on Russia.  Don’t blame it on rural white southerners.  Don’t blame it on whatever else you’ve been blaming it on to make you feel better about yourself and allow yourself to ignore the fact that Donald Trump won because of institutionalized systems of privilege and oppression.  The problem is bigger than Trump.  It always has been.  Recognize that and hold his administration and your neighbors accountable.

As much as I hoped for yesterday to be invigorating and empowering, I feel disappointed, tired, lost, engulfed in the work that needs to be done even and especially among those who showed up to resist (at least portions of) Trump’s agenda.  It doesn’t matter that these marches combined may equal the largest (by attendance) protest in history.

There is so much to do.  Educate.  Agitate.  Organize.

K

That Which Has Come Out of the Jumbled Mishmosh of Contemplating Collective Liberation and Queerness

Prologue

I kept the title as long as it is to signify that I have not come up with some definitive nugget of wisdom that can be understood and pocketed in a mere moment.  Instead, I have found connections among my jumbled thoughts and created a trajectory upon which these connections can continue developing. Essentially, I have more clarity now than I did before I wrote this, but I am still searching and learning and thinking.

Following are some thoughts that I have had as a result of different discoveries, conversations, questions, and connections in conducting my undergraduate thesis research on collective liberation, contemplating my sexuality, and discussing queer politics/culture in my Black Lesbian Lives course. So shout out to Dr. Story for cultivating a stimulating class already in the first week of the semester, to Maddie for listening to me discuss my inner turmoil and providing necessary perspectives and friendship, to all of my people with whom I regularly discuss privilege and power and identity, and to all of the authors of the radical literature I have perused recently, especially Chapter 1 of James Tyner’s The Geography of Malcolm X which is what I was reading today when I pieced all of these jumbled thoughts together.

That Which Has Come Out of It All

Respectability politics is bullshit. I’ll leave the Wikipedia definition (which was gleaned from a black feminist work) here for reference:

Respectability politics or the politics of respectability refers to attempts by marginalized groups to police their own members and show their social values as being continuous, and compatible, with mainstream values rather than challenging the mainstream for what they see as its failure to accept difference.

There is no need to conform to the mainstream; no need to assimilate.  I am speaking as a queer woman when I say these things and the following, but I do think these perspectives could be echoed by persons of other marginalized groups, whether that be a person who is of color, trans*, or dis/differently-abled, etc.  Why embrace the mainstream when I can embrace me?

Phrases (and the accompanying memories of when and where and by whom I heard them) like “it’s fine that they’re gay, but why do they have to be so loud and insistent about it” echo in my memory from a time in which I told myself that I most surely was probably not at all gay.  I had even thought the above was a partially agreeable statement as it simultaneously made me shrink further into myself – I was internalizing the heteronormative poison.  If anything, the more “insistent” that marginalized groups are and the more they either embrace aspects of their culture or create a culture that is separate from the normative, that is a result of the mainstream pushing these groups away.

I am not gay as in happy but queer as in fuck you. – ACT-UP

The goal is not about conforming.  It is not about passively and quietly appreciating your corner, your reservation, your ghetto, your closet – all spaces that privileged groups have fabricated and forced marginalized groups to occupy.  It is about remaking spaces, reclaiming identities.  We (myself and other queer folks [can’t speak for other marginalized groups]) must insert ourselves into the normative because right now the normative does not include us.  Change the system, not the person.  Change the system, not the person.

Since we’re already skilled in creating spaces for us, dismantling systems of oppression shouldn’t be too unattainable.  In countless conversations I’ve had with politically liberal-identifying folks (read: usually Democrats), people think you simply cannot allow yourself to dream of a world that isn’t founded on oppression.  They say that you cannot believe in collective liberation (essentially the active and shared struggle to dismantle systems of oppression by both mainstream and marginalized folks because the systems of oppression affect us all).  They say that your thoughts about operating in a non-capitalist society cannot possibly be grounded in reality because it is not possible for the world to operate outside of the constraints and chains of capitalism.

But honestly, why can we not think these things?  They say that capitalism isn’t even bad; it’s just been corrupted.  But as we realize the limitations and incompleteness of this political ideology, we must offer our critiques and keep building and growing, creating multi-dimensional and intersectional movements.  Still, we MUST remedy this corruption, and what better way to do that than to dream of that which is liberating and needed for all people and create something new rather than attempt to ameliorate a flawed system.  The system does not have flaws.  The system is flawed.  That is inherent.  So it is time to stop with the bullshit and to start dreaming and doing and lifting each other up.

I am a human and I demand for myself and everyone else to be free.

K

ineptitude

they’re back,
these thoughts of incompetence,
visiting my brain
as if it’s an abandoned summer home
where they may do what they please

then guilt arrives,
the inspector who came at the wrong time
to examine the scene
as these thoughts tumble within me,
tracking dirt on the floors,
chipping paint off the walls,
easily fixable,
but the verdict is the same:
not strong enough

but I am not,
in fact, inept
and the state of being
is underrated

I
am
a home
a vessel
a catalyst
a ray

I, out of love, am
and that is all I need to be

so I keep telling myself
that these thoughts need not
hinder me

K

Frostbite

Her bare hands grasp the warm mug,
and redden and crack as
the relentless winter wind whips
the moisture away.

She endures the pain.

Every few steps
she peels one hand off of the mug
to shovel in a bite of the oatmeal,
each spoonful colder than the next.

The mug is still warm,
she whispers,
as lukewarm,
cool,
cold,
become synonyms for warmth.

She stands in the wind
holding her cup,
never setting it down
for fear of frostbite.

But the red fades to blue
And still she stands,
enduring the pain.

K