Lavender Afro American

Start from the beginning: How did you get the idea for the rally?

I didn’t decide it. This girl that I knew from my old school, Maxine Wint [16], she [and Sophia Byrd, 17,] had an idea. They know each other from Chicago Children’s Choir. Maxine posted on Twitter that she wanted to have a sit-in on Monday. They hadn’t organized a real protest, a big thing, before. 

I hadn’t organized one either, except I’d been behind the scenes for some of the Chicago Public Schools protests that have happened this year, helping with press releases, inclusivity, stuff like that. So I offered to help. Natalie Braye, she’s 16, she had also communicated with Maxine. All three of us used to go to Kenwood.

So you got your team together. What happened next?

I said, we need a group chat. Then they said we need a press release, and I had just learned how to do that. I said, we need goals, we need a purpose. What we wanted was this to be a peaceful protest. We had a goal of no arrests, which seemed impossible, because I hadn’t heard of a protest with no arrests—like this weekend was wild.

There were protests all late last week and weekend. Did you go to them?

Nope. I’m 17 years old. Although I have a lot of ideas, and I’m an activist, I’m aware constantly that I’m a minor, and that I don’t want to put myself in a dangerous situation. Which is why we did [our sit-in] during the day, because we didn’t wanna be out in the dark. Also, mental health is so important and those deaths [of black men at the hands of police] are so tolling. You have to be in a mentally prepared state to do a protest. Having it on Monday gave me the right amount of time.

What do you do to prepare for something like that?

I pray. I sung to myself gospel songs. It makes me feel calmer, ’cause then I’m promising myself in my spirit that I’m gonna be safe and everyone’s gonna be safe, and whatever is God’s will is gonna be done. My mom prayed too, and my grandma. They are so proud of me.

So your family is supportive of what you’re doing?

Oh yeah. I learned everything I know from them. And my grandfather, too—he just passed away. He was the first person to teach me that my gender didn’t matter, that I shouldn’t be ashamed of my gender at all. He empowered me. He taught me about the system young, about racism. [My family] taught me that I should never think I am less than, I just have to work harder to be recognized for my work.

You say you’re an activist and advocate. What does that mean?

[At the UN headquarters], that’s where I learned about the difference between advocate and activist. I decided I want to do both. An activist shines light on issues that are happening. An advocate feeds off that energy, and brings it to the office space to talk with politicians about policy change. Because activists make the issue more relevant for the politicians. You can’t be an advocate if someone isn’t an activist in the first place.

You guys were very clear at the outset that your event was "not anti-police, it's anti-racism," and that you wanted no arrests and no violence. How did you interact with police at the rally?

Learning that [difference between activists and advocates] is what made yesterday so important. I shared that idea with the other three organizers. We were able to advocate with the police, we worked together with them. There was one officer, Officer Ryan, I think? 

He was really nice and understanding, and wanted to make sure we had control of everything. It wasn’t necessarily collaborating with police, because we don’t want the misconception that we were asking for permission—it was more so like a respectful interaction.

There’s a lot of misconceptions when it comes to [police] dealing with people. They think of Black Lives Matter and youth—they might think, ugh, they’re gonna be this, that, and the other. But [the negative perception] was off when it came to us. 

They said they were impressed and they told us that we were gonna go places, that they wouldn’t mind [working a protest] again. Because we didn’t have a single arrest, and we kept things under control, especially being so young.

Have you been to protests in the past?

When Trayvon Martin was killed, that was the first time I realized the stuff in the history books was present day. My mom and I, we protested together. It was on Michigan [Avenue]. We were protesting gun violence and police brutality and general violence. It was my first encounter with activism, right before I started high school.

What do you remember most about that?

There was power in people’s voices. That solidarity, that love, that sense of community, and that sense of hope. It really resonated with me. 

There was also a shock when he died. Everyone in my generation was like, oh my god, the Civil Rights movement isn’t over. It was scary. I knew racism was a thing but it hadn’t resonated that it was a systemic thing. 

To get that shock at 14 years old … I dunno how to describe that. It hurt. Especially when Zimmerman got away with it.  Back to Monday’s protest:

Who else helped you with the organizing? 

Did you work with BYP100 or other groups that have been hosting rallies lately?

We did it with no adult help. Someone from BYP100 contacted us the day before and asked if we wanted help—they told us about lawyers and [provided] the medics [for the day of], but that's it. We talked to one of the organizers of the CPS protest, Nidalis Burgos, she’s 18. 

She helped us borrow megaphones from the Chicago Teachers Union, who stood in solidarity with us. So now we know connections. They showed up to support us, and they offered to mentor us. But we don’t have any adult partners right now.

How about the day of? What did it feel to see so many people show up?

Me and Maxine were the last organizers to arrive, because we were finishing our interviews with PBS. Just seeing all those people sitting silently, and those posters—like Asian Americans standing in solidarity with Black Lives Matter—and big banners, people of different races, different neighborhoods. I just started crying. It was so overwhelming initially. We thought it would be big because of all the people on social media, but it hadn’t resonated. Because we’re like, small—we’re 16 and 17—it just hadn’t resonated that we could do something like that. And then we did.

After such a big day, what did you guys do afterwards? Did you celebrate?

[Laughs.] This will just prove that we really are teenagers. We all went to Maxine’s house and we ate pizza. We were on our phones looking at our social media blow up. We were trending—our hashtag was trending nationally on Twitter. 

We were like, what? Overwhelmed. 

Looking on Snapchat, seeing ourselves—it was a lot. We waited until the news came on at 9. We split ourselves up into different rooms to videotape ourselves on all the different news channels—2, 5, 7, 9, and PBS, and CNN had done an overview.

How do you feel about it now? What did you learn from it?

I learned a lot. Like with the idea of intersectionality. I live with that idea. That people can be affected by multiple -isms. I’m a black girl from the South Side.

Not only does this stereotype uphold patriarchy and the gender binary, but it also feeds into rape culture with the idea that men hold all the power and consent in a romantic or sexual relationship.

It doesn’t matter what bisexual folks are saying in this situation, because of course they just want to end up with men, anyway.

When you insist that bisexual people want to return to men, you’re taking away the agency and consent of the bisexual person involved, because you’re defining their sexuality based on your own false assumptions.

You’re also completely erasing bisexuality as its own valid identity.

And you’re trapping bisexual people in rape culture that insists that our bodies and our consent are the property of men.

This stereotype also encourages a perception that women’s bodies are men’s to control.

Bisexual women face high rates of intimate partner violence, and many women survivors deal with abusive men who use their bisexuality against them – sex-shaming them and relying on anti-bisexual myths to keep them silent.

3. Bisexual People Can Be ‘Turned Straight’ with Sex

This stereotype is downright disrespectful.

It implies that bisexuality is a problem, something to be “fixed,” and that sex (or sexual violence) can be a way to change bisexual folks’ sexualities.

The same stereotype is often applied to lesbians, and any women or femmes who don’t identify as straight.

It’s rooted in rape culture because it hinges on the idea that all a woman or femme needs is some sex. Or in some cases, sexual violence – like when someone implies that “she can be raped straight.”

This usually involves sexual violence enacted by a man to “cure” queer women of any sexual desire for people of other genders.

Sexual violence is never okay, and neither sexual violence nor consensual sex can change someone’s sexuality.

Some people’s sexualities may be fluid and shift over time, but it’s not something that a hot night in the bedroom with a man is going to automatically change.

Suggesting that all a woman needs is sex with a man turns her into an object and not a person capable of making her own consensual choices about her body.

4. Femme Bisexual Folks Need to Experience a Man to Identify This Way

I’ve heard so many variations of this over the years, from the above point that sleeping with a man will “turn me straight,” to people just assuming that I can’t identify as bisexual unless I have sex with men.

This has always taken me aback because I’ve never seen a straight friend questioned about whether she’s actually straight if she hasn’t had sex with a man yet.

Odd, right? This has a bit to do with biases against bisexuality, and a little to do with rape culture.

Asserting that a woman or femme needs to have sex with a man to claim her identity pretty much says that we’re not capable of making our own decisions or trusting our own judgment until we’ve “been there.”

Why isn’t it possible for a woman to know she’s bisexual without “proving it” through sex with a man (which also completely leaves out asexual people, and anyone who chooses to abstain from sex or has to for medical reasons)?

In addition to being a part of rape culture, this adds to general judgments against bisexuality because of the assumption that people can’t be genuinely attracted to multiple a/genders.

5. Bisexual People Are Going Through a Phase

Similar to the idea that all bisexual folks need is to go back to men, we’re often told that we’re just going through a phase.

This seems to happen incredibly often to young women and femmes, which suggests that it might just have something to do with society’s resistance to letting us define our own sexuality.

I started the coming out process when I was ten.

I knew by that time that I liked other girls romantically, and I was confused about guys. At thirteen, when I officially started telling family and friends that I was bisexual, I was met with this opposition: “You’re too young to know that. It’s probably a phase!”

This phrase can follow women through high school, college, and even beyond, as if we aren’t capable of knowing ourselves and expressing our own identities.

Of course, some people may not know their sexuality when they’re ten or even 25, but it’s really disrespectful to make that assumption for someone else.

Young women are put down throughout our adolescent lives for expressing our desires, fears, and hopes.

There’s no direct link from someone saying “It’s just a phase” to also saying “Are you sure it was rape? What were you wearing?” but they have something in common: They’re making the assumption that women and femmes don’t know what we’re experiencing and that our reality isn’t truth.

My friends and family were well-meaning in saying my sexuality was just a phase. They didn’t want me to come out in a harsh world and have a difficult teen experience.

But they also subconsciously taught me to doubt myself and to be afraid of telling others – especially adults – what I was feeling.

These fears led to me later not opening up about my sexual assault in high school, because I was afraid I wouldn’t be believed, especially since my assailant was a woman.

When you doubt people, especially younger people and femme folks, after they tell you a truth about their identity, you’re giving them a reason to think that what they’re feeling may not be accurate.

They might go from questioning whether they really know their sexuality to questioning whether they really know if it’s wrong if they’re later sexually harassed or assaulted.

***

All stereotypes hurt bisexual and queer people.

Of course they do because they’re just that: stereotypes.

They don’t represent all of us, and even in the small instances where they might represent someone (if a specific bisexual person loves threesomes, for example), they still don’t tell a complete, nuanced picture of who that person is.

They’re oversimplifications that break people down into easily digestible pieces, and make it easier for things like systemic oppression, microaggressions, and rape culture to run rampant.

When I came out, I also learned to doubt myself.

I learned that people didn’t think my sexuality existed and that I could be changed by having sex with men. I learned that my consent and my desires didn’t matter, because as a bisexual femme, I was the perfect wet dream for straight guys’ fantasies.

All of these things made my coming out process so much harder. I was in college before I really felt like I could settle on saying “I’m queer” and stick by that.

The rape culture tied up in all these stereotypes made it harder for me to realize I’d been sexually assaulted in high school because I believed I might be silenced or told I was over exaggerating, especially because my attacker was a woman.

It made it more difficult for me to deal with being sexually assaulted, and later, with becoming a rape survivor in college.

It wasn’t until I was exposed to learning about – and unlearning – rape culture that I started to speak out about my experiences.

Not all of these stereotypes draw a straight, easy line directly to someone being a victim of sexual violence, but many of them involve aspects of rape culture, like harassment, gaslighting, victim blaming, sex shaming, sexual violence or sex as a “cure,” and objectifying women and femmes.

In having a recent discussion about young girls (specifically an 11-year old) wearing a two-piece bikini to the beach, I was told that, a two-piece bikini is not “age-appropriate” for an 11 year old because it puts them at risk for being raped or puts them in the “sight lines” of sexual predators. 

Being a young, single, black female with no children of my own to critique or compare, I felt stifled. 

Surely, one must know that an 11-year old should not have to worry about sexual predators lurking, right? 

However, realistically speaking, I can only imagine how frightening this place can be for a mother, especially a black mother.  I can imagine that I would be torn about whether I wanted to wrap my motherly arms around my daughter to be a sheath of protection while still wanting her to grow up confident in her femininity and womanhood. 

I have a couple critiques for this claim though. While of course, we want to take all precautionary measures possible to prevent any harm coming to our children, isn’t forcing a young girl to “think like a rapist in order to not get raped” harmful as well? 

Speaking on society as a whole, we have a tendency of “raising” our daughters while “loving” our sons. 

We teach our beautiful young girls how to avoid rape instead of teaching our young boys to not be predators. We teach our daughters to suppress all sexual feelings even the terror of sexual abuse while we teach our boys that “sexual prowess” and even sexual victimization is a part of “being a man”. 

So, now we are faced with a decision. 

Do we let our daughters know that SOCIETY has the problem and not them OR do we cover our daughters while continuing to raise a culture that TOLERATES sexual violence?

Hmmmm……Now back to dress code. If we were to REALLY explore cultural norms, in terms of rape, we could actually see that a large majority of victims of sexual abuse are NOT that girl that got super drunk with her boobs hanging out and wearing “provocative” clothing (even though that shouldn’t matter because how can clothing honestly “provoke” anything, especially human reaction?). 

Society tells us that what a woman wears determines her role in her sexual assault. 

But what about those little girls that are 5 years old and don’t even have a body to “provoke” sexual desire of ANY kind but are still raped? 

What about the girl that wears the hoodie and sweatpants while walking back to her dorm room and gets sexually assaulted on her way there? 

What about the fact that 40% of nuns in the United States, who are COVERED from head to toe, are victims of sexual abuse? 

We have been taught that THESE cases are the exception rather than the norm when it is actually the quite opposite.  

So, let’s just say for example, there is a sexual predator out that has a weird obsession with women dressed in all black and once he sees women dressed in all black he attempts and succeeds to rape them. 

Now, let’s say a nun walked pass him in her normal head to toe black gown and he proceeds to rape her. 

Should that nun have worn a red gown instead to prevent the rape because surely she HAD to know that there are people who rape women wearing all black, *Insert INTENSE sarcasm* I mean it is SO obvious, right? Right? 

There’s that logic for ya!

I have MY theories on why sexual abuse and the silence regarding that abuse (which I will eventually share in my next few posts), but I want to know what everyone else thinks. 

Why is the sexual abuse of the black female body disregarded in such alarming numbers?

Let’s talk about it!

It seems that, because these women were black, poor, and in some cases were dealing with drug abuse or prior crimes, the story didn’t travel very far, making them the “perfect” targets for Holtzclaw in the first place. Even better (or worse, depending on your POV), Holtzclaw’s jury was all-white and all-male. This could have gone very wrong. Thankfully…it didn’t.

You can check out these women’s stories over at Buzzfeed, but he not only sexually assaulted them in various ways, he continued to abuse his power by following them around the neighborhood, intimidating them, as well as family or friends, into silence. Holtzclaw was fired from the OKC police force in January 2015 for the multiple charges brought up against him. He was convicted for 18 of them back in December. He cried many a tear on that day:

Today’s sentencing was delayed for over three hours as Holtzclaw’s lawyer attempted to request a new trial, suggesting that important evidence never made it into this trial. However, it was later revealed/admitted that this “evidence’ was hearsay and based entirely on “office talk” among cops. So the judge was like NOPE. No new trial.

Here’s Holtzclaw being walked into sentencing being followed by the angry questions of a female reporter. Sadly, no water-works display this time:

Then, three of the victims came forward and were given the chance to testify about how what Holtzclaw did affected their lives:

White police officer, all-male all-white jury, and the victims being poor black women of various circumstances and with various histories (some of which includes other crimes). This could have gone so wrong. Too often women like these aren’t believed, or are made to feel like they brought it on themselves.

But the Oklahoma City police force fired his corrupt, raping ass, and a jury of his peers found him guilty, then sentenced him to literal centuries in prison. This is how it’s done. This is what should happen all the time. And now we all have the pleasure of watching Holtzclaw shuffling off to prison as we’re like:

To have black hair means being subject to highest degree of scrutiny — from assessments about your professionalism to comments from other black folks about your so-called lack of self-respect.

More often than not, people who aren’t black have the privilege of not having to agonize over the message you’re sending to the world or to your own community every day by choosing to wear your hair a certain way.

Take for example Louisiana weather woman Rhonda Lee, who was fired in November 2012 after responding to negative comments about her natural hair on KTBS 3 News’s Facebook page. When she was unable to find a job afterward, according to News One, her friends tried to help, but came up empty-handed.

“Co-workers have had an intervention of sorts with me when I first started trying to get weather jobs. They took me to lunch and told me, ‘You’re going to have to grow your hair out,'” Lee said of the tedious search process. It took until July 2014 for Lee to land a new job with WeatherNation in Colorado, with her hair intact.

You might be trying to share your respect and admiration for black hair being cool, different, and versatile, but there’s a heavy burden associated with what adorns a black woman’s head — one that you’ll never quite understand.

3. ‘You don’t look completely black. What exactly are you?’

More often than not, this question stems from a few things: genuine curiosity, implicit bias, and one terrible attempt at complimenting or exoticizing a black woman.

Sadly, these questions point to an unfortunate trend of colorism in American society, where minorities are more “acceptable” if they’re closer to looking like a white person.

A recent study revealed that “educated” black people are perceived as having lighter skin, whereas “ignorant” and “athletic” black folks are thought to have darker skin — regardless of what their true skin tone was.

Colorism also works as a divisive force within communities of color, as some racial minorities express similar attitudes and preferences.

Instead of telling a black woman that she’s beautiful or intelligent, people of all races, including some black men, perpetuate the unfortunate assumption that these characteristics can only be achieved if one’s recent ancestors mated with whites or anyone who wasn’t black.

Black women, too, are endowed with socially acceptable and desirable traits, regardless of their skin tone or their family lineage.

4. ‘Can you teach me how to dance?’

Some people take classes, others practice in the mirror or watch YouTube tutorials. That goes for people of all races.

But the belief that black people are naturally better dancers than others — especially white people — is so strong that research has been done to determine its validity.

So far, researchers have determined that rhythmic ability and the importance of music and dance is cultural, as opposed to innate or hereditary.

This question mistakenly assumes that you know someone’s background or cultural upbringing, even their interests and talents, based entirely on their skin tone.

Many black folks grew up in an environment where dancing was celebrated and encouraged. For others, that’s just not the case.

5. ‘I wish I were as strong as you.’

The media often plays up the resilience of black women to the point where it becomes a caricature.

The latest tragedy is Lifetime’s new show Girlfriend Intervention, a makeover show promoting the unfortunate idea that, as they say, “Trapped inside of every white girl is a strong black woman ready to bust out.”

The premise is based on the stereotype of white women as docile and delicate, while black women are bossy, loud, and opinionated — a trope also known as The Sapphire.

There are a lot of problems with this idea, but the important thing to keep in mind is this: Black women don’t always want to be strong. Often times, it’s their only choice.

Consider that unequal pay for equal work disproportionately affects black women, who make 64 cents on the dollar compared with white men, while white women make roughly 78 cents, according to a report from the Center for American Progress.

In addition, the research showed that black women have higher breast cancer mortality rates and are more than twice as likely to be murdered by men.

The “strong black woman” stereotype persists because black women are often seen in the media as they combat higher rates of assault, poverty, and discrimination — issues bred from systemic inequalities that disproportionately burden them.

Although these circumstances breed stereotypes of hardened women, many black women would, in fact, prefer to be carefree.

6. ‘Did you grow up with your dad?’

It’s been proven over and over again that the “disappearing black dad” myth is blatantly false.

In fact, research shows that black fathers are more present in their kids’ day-to-day lives than fathers of other races.

Still, people assume that black fathers are perpetually absent, due to the conflation between “living with dad” and “having a relationship with dad” by most researchers.

Even if someone didn’t growing up living in the same house as their father, it doesn’t mean that the father isn’t present — it just means the parents are divorced or were never married.

Information from the National Center for Health Statistics shows 67% of black dads who don’t live with their children due to separation see their children at least once a month, compared with 32% of Latino fathers and 59% of white fathers.

That’s not to disparage white or Latino fathers, though it’s important to not make blanket assumptions about black men being deadbeat dads, as they exist in every race.

If you’re trying to learn more about someone — say a friend or potential partner — then this question may be acceptable. But take a moment to make sure it’s approached with respect and not derived from an ugly and misinformed stereotype.

7. ‘You’re so lucky you don’t have to tan.’

That’s because black people have more melanin in their skin, a natural pigmentation creating the various shades of blackness that most people see on a daily basis.

One’s so-called luck about “having to tan” is relative to personal preferences around skin tone.

But there’s a common misconception among white people that black people actually can’t tan when, in fact, they can tan as much as anyone else.

Although black people are less likely to get sunburn or skin cancer, they’re still vulnerable to the effects of exposure and require skin protection and care.

8. ‘I’ve got a thing for black girls.’

Not all black girls are the same. So what are you attracted to, specifically?

Depending on your answer, you might be suggesting that you’re interested only in the stereotypes attributed to black women, as opposed to their individual characteristics.

There’s nothing wrong with finding certain qualities attractive — such as hairstyles, facial features, or various body types — but it’s dangerous to suggest that any combination of these qualities is representative of a whole population.

Furthermore, check your wording on this one.

Saying you have “a thing” for black girls is like saying you have “a thing” for action movies or Chinese food. It implies a blatant objectification of black women, which denies them their worth as people.

9. ‘Why are you so angry?’

Almost everyone has heard of the angry black woman stereotype — but that doesn’t mean it’s true.

Black women aren’t always angry. But even if they were, they have a right to be, as any one of the previous eight points would otherwise suggest.

Least of all, it’s because black women are continually berated with hurtful and offensive questions and stereotypes.

Telling a black woman to “lighten up” or be “less angry” demonstrates a complete lack of understanding or empathy surrounding her experiences.

Robyn Matuto, a multimedia production assistant based in Toronto, frequently fields what appear to be innocent questions from white coworkers, but are actually requests for labor on Matuto’s part that often put her in less-than-comfortable positions.

“I often get people asking ‘is it right if I cast x for y role? Is it my job to write a role for x identity even though I’m white,’ stuff along those lines,” said Matuto. “It’s honestly such a catch-22 because I would want to give my input as a woman of color to make sure the representation is done properly and respectfully, but am I your gatekeeper? Am I co-signing on your narrative? If something goes astray, will you use me as your ‘well, my friend who is a woman of color says it’s okay’ cover?”

These considerations and intersections are on the minds of Black folks and people of color every time we are asked to carry the weight of these decisions. As we are working with white people, we’re also juggling the reality that our decisions and actions when engaging with you may impact another person of color in a negative way.

That is a massive responsibility, and one that we cannot carry alone.

It is important to reflect on how generations of access and entitlement to our labor across does not mean you automatically get it from us now.

2. Have you checked in?

It’s pretty important that you see us as human beings. That’s a non-negotiable. White people need to admit that they often don’t pay nearly as much attention to people of colors’ lives as they do to those of their white friends.

Take a peek at our social media (if you have access and permission), or go on Google and do some research before you ask us for labor. Life happens to everyone, and it is important to pay attention to it.

A better question: do you even know us? If you don’t, are you willing to invest the time and labor to do that, or will you only give just enough effort to have that one Black friend? And even then, are you a well-meaning white person who is doing harm to their Black friends without realizing it?

You can easily find stories online of how white people often approach strangers of color through social media and immediately request astronomical amounts of labor.

If you are looking for a guide to online etiquette while interacting with Black people and people of color, Shannon Barber has a list of recommendations. One of my favorites from Barber is, “If you want to tell your story about what a wonderful white person you are, take it to your own space because we’re not here for it.”

If you expect us to respect you and your needs, you need to demonstrate the same consideration, support and respect that you are already expecting of us.

That includes the small stuff — like actually knowing a person of color. If you’d like to make that effort, do not begin by bugging all the people of color around you on how to do that.

“White folks, I get it. You’re curious, you have questions that you genuinely want answered, and you think asking a person of color is a way to support and center them,” wrote Lina Houston of If/When/How.

“For people of color, each day is a barrage of microaggressions, macroaggressions, and interactions that highlight and trigger our personal identities of oppression. And let me tell you, it is exhausting,” Houston continued. “Although your question may have been the first time you thought about race today, your question may be a trigger for your friend/colleague/relative of color and it may be the twelfth one they’ve dealt with today. Their refusal to answer your question may be motivated by self-protection.”

You do not need to walk on eggshells around us. You do, however, need to communicate with us, and do it mindfully. All that we want is for the white people who approach us for our labor to be considerate of their position, and to bring that consideration and intention to the table.

3. Are you working with us, or making us work for you?

Labor (when it’s done well, at least) is an exchange. It is a transaction where both the needs of the person requesting labor, and the person performing it, are met.

When asking for labor from people of color, white people, you need to remember that the balance of power between yourself and the person you are requesting labor from will always be unequal.

As explained by P.L. Thomas on his blog, Radical Scholarship, “Privilege and power are inequitably pooled among white straight men,” says Thomas. “And thus, a key to eradicating all types of inequity—racism, sexism, homophobia, etc.—is for anyone with privilege to resist denying inequity, especially by focusing on individual examples and by ignoring the central role of power in all types of inequity such as racism.”

Power will always be in your favor.

With that in mind, working with us looks like checking in not only once, but consistently, about everything: How is the labor you are requesting impacting us? Are we getting tired? Do we need a break? Do we need more time? Do we need help? Are there other intersectional needs that need to be addressed throughout our labor, like our mental health?

Working with us looks like checking in with yourself, too: Do you have adequate compensation for our labor? Are there materials or supplies that we need, but that only you can afford? Are your requests inherently racist, derogatory or insulting? Are you requesting labor that is actually possible for us to do? Are you willing to be corrected if you are wrong?

Working with you on our work, is still work. If you value our labor, you need to put the work in, too, and do it with us.

4. Do you want us to be nice?

White people: why is it so important for us to always be nice to you? What does being nice even look like?

Being nice to a white person means acting and behaving like a white person. In case you forgot, we are not white.

Many social activist spaces that center people of color and Black people have a “no white tears” rule.

“This sort of rule is instilled because oftentimes, in other spaces, your emotions, and the emotions of other white people, are constantly centered, nurtured, and coddled when it comes to conversations about race,” wrote Jennifer Loubriel of The Body Is Not An Apology.

“Rather than focusing on the lived experiences and traumas of People of Color when talking about racism, the focus is placed on the host of emotions that white people go through when confronted with racism. Rather than focusing on how People of Color feel on an everyday basis from having to deal with racist institutions, interpersonal relationships, and ideologies, the focus goes to white people just beginning to confront how they benefit from racism on many levels.”

Asking people of color to be nice to protect your feelings (which is mostly white guilt, usually accompanied by white tears, if we dare to say no) as we do labor for you is ridiculous and selfish. I have no qualms about saying that — we can be compassionate and understanding for only so long.

Asking us to be nice to you is actually not nice of you. There is a difference between being civil, and asking someone to go above and beyond in their emotional performance around you because of them being a person of color.

We can do our work honestly and well. We can do it with passion, drive, motivation, and creativity. When you ask us to be nice, we immediately know that the rest of what we do does not matter to you, and that we do not matter to you.

***

If you want to counteract this dynamic, lean in with us. Listen to us. Get to know us. Recognize your privilege, and proactively work with it to create space for people of color to engage in opportunities that do not hurt us.

Pay us a fair wage, or provide adequate compensation after we complete our work. Invest in us: emotionally, financially, spiritually, mentally, physically.

It speaks to the saying, “Give people their flowers while they’re here”.  Time is limited, life is too short and no one can say, “I’ll wait until tomorrow to hug that person, kiss that person, tell that person I love them” because tomorrow isn’t guaranteed.

On a deeper level, it’s not my little cousin’s fault for assuming something bad happened, nor is it an uncommon response or reaction for most Black boys or girls. It’s a symptom of growing up in a world that’s committed to murdering their spirits. But, we have to be mindful of how those symptoms manifest themselves in their development and behavior. We must counteract the symptoms with healing and love.

According to the Better Health Channel, some of the ways youth react to trauma are by overreacting to minor irritations, displaying an increased need for independence and similar to the situation above, displaying overprotectiveness with loved ones. The site also mentioned youth have strong emotions such as sadness, anger, anxiety and guilt.

Loss influences behavior

Supporting the aforementioned diagnosis is an article published by The Atlantic last year that highlighted the effects of living in poor, segregated communities.

Over the course of three years, a researcher interviewed about 165 Black males in high school and up to the age of 24. What the researcher noticed was “chronologies of loss” that influenced behavior. But without this context, our boys are labeled as aggressive, special needs, truant, etc. and penalized with punishment, particularly in the school and juvenile justice systems.

Similarly, Black girls internalize their pain more and are potentially prone to self-harm due to untreated trauma. And worse, the stress caused by trauma has been known to lead to chronic illnesses such as heart disease and hypertension, which are prevalent in the Black community. Meanwhile, mental health services aren’t.

Show love while they’re here

With limited access to mental health services in most low-income communities, more than telling our kids we love them, we also have to normalize showing them.

Showing our kids love is investing in their healing, holistically. Minimally, checking in with them to see how they’re doing. Affirming their existence and congratulating them on their achievements. Doing fun or peaceful activities outside of the environment that causes the trauma. Involving them in extracurricular activities that help relieve stress. Whatever makes them smile and brings them genuine joy is probably a viable option.

Tenderness isn’t just a state of how we react or don’t react to what people say and do to us – it’s about how we choose to treat other people. And that starts with how we treat ourselves.

1. Tenderness at Home: Loving Ourselves

There’s this thing that happens in social justice movements that’s been happening since the beginning of time. Activists throw themselves wholeheartedly into “the work” because “the work” is with the people. Their entire self becomes wrapped up in the movement.

Stakes are high, people are being pushed out of their homes and being killed, and our commitment to liberation has to be unwavering and put above all else.

I appreciate the revolutionary commitment of these beliefs, from the lips of my grandparents and from the courage of Black Panthers. But I wonder how it is possible to give ourselves fully to “the people” when we’re not our whole or full ourselves.

The art of loving ourselves is difficult because, as I wrote recently, there are no tools to teach us how to love ourselves, but there are plenty of pressures to prioritize care for others.

And yet, I’ve often found that not only does neglecting to care for myself adversely impact my health and well-being – it also means that I can’t show up in community the ways I want to.

When I speak about self-care, I’m not thinking of the privileged way it’s sometimes portrayed – expensive vacations and retail therapy. I’m talking about the importance of recognizing and healing our trauma, especially as oppressed people and activists.

Being a Black person living in the constant context of anti-Black racism is traumatic. The backlash and hatred activists receive for speaking out against oppression has a cumulative impact. Losing loved ones in our community to state-sanctioned violence and to suicide is traumatic. Pausing to care for ourselves does not take away from our ability to be present for community – it increases it.

Doing “the work” of social justice movements and being in community necessitates an unwavering commitment to tending our wounds in between marches.

2. Treating Our Community as Our Teachers

There are people in my community who don’t like me. And there are some that I haven’t had the best impressions of, either. But I still consider them my community regardless.

To me, those who are struggling to get themselves and their people free from oppression are my community, whether I’ve met them or not. And whether or not we agree on how and why we get free.

I can understand the unapologetic dismissiveness that’s become commonplace in many activist communities. Personally, I work hard to resist waving people off like they’re nothing more than an unwanted thought because they messed up my gender pronouns or “don’t get down how I get down.”

“Something so-and-so said didn’t rub me the right way, so there goes all possibility of any further conversation.” Not only is this not helpful in sustaining (or even beginning) potentially transformational relationships, it also suggests that “our way” of doing things is the “right” way, and we’ve figured everything out. And this limits our ability to learn and grow from people who move through the world differently.

When we are tender with our community, even those we don’t agree with or have had disputes with, we are committing to longer lasting and stronger coalitions.

There’s a difference between struggling to understand someone’s behavior and being taken advantage of, though. We can understand what our limits are. And when it’s no longer healthy for us to engage with someone (or multiple someones), we can create the necessary boundaries needed to occupy shared space.

As I’ve said before, tenderness is often seen as a weakness, but it’s anything but. When I think about the patience, love, and openness it takes to still be open to learning from those who’ve argued with us or who’ve even hurt us – it feels like the revolutionary strength we need to get free.

That said, please note that these examples are referring to day-to-day conflict that is political in nature – I believe that interpersonal conflicts involving abuse (which also happens in political communities) are a lot different.

3. Expanding Our Ideas of Service and Liberation

Part of my initial hesitation to enter activist community was my shyness. But the other part was that I had in my mind a certain archetypal spokesperson who was charismatic, convincing, and outspoken. They were at the head of the protests, on the news, or speaking eloquently into a bullhorn – and I didn’t picture myself doing many of those things.

It didn’t occur to me in my younger years that activists were as diverse as the communities we served – full of soft-spoken, quiet leaders and healers and behind-the-scenes geniuses.

Although my inner circles and broader community has included all types of personalities and leaders, there is still a celebratory nature to being visible, at the front of the struggle, and in the streets – sometimes to the point where others are criticized for not being involved in the same ways.

Sometimes the irony lies in being on the streets for “Black Lives Matter” or another cause when we’re not loving up on the Black people in our lives. At its worst, preoccupation with curating community and organizing only in a way that can be shared on social media can have us neglecting other areas of building with one another.

What if liberation simply boils down to the fact that we are able to survive and thrive as oppressed people? What if our daily act of service is loving up on ourselves so that we don’t enact our trauma on folks in our community? What if our moving towards freedom is bringing a friend food because they can’t get out of bed and are scared to ask for support?

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think we should necessarily get badges of honor for any of these acts – I just argue that caring for our community in these and other basic ways are as important as how we take to the streets.