5 Powerful Lessons We’ve Learned from our Guest Bloggers (so far)

On overcoming the culture of fear that has done so much damage to individuals and the community.

Living in fear is essentially living the lie that tells you to hope for much less and avoid taking chances because you don’t deserve them. At this point, I can’t afford fear because it’s presence in my path isn’t just a stumbling block - it’s a deep ditch that I’d never come back from if I fell in, so I’m choosing to step wisely.

On having the consciousness of being black, celebrating it and thriving in it

Even though the horrendous manifestation of racism can make being Black feel like a laborious burden to carry, we must unite in solidarity to end racial and social injustice; And rather than consume the lies of people who misconstruct our stories, we must continue to tell our own....The world needs to know that we are still standing; still black, still proud.

On the effect of hearing your parents say “I love you” when it comes to knowing your value

(Now that my sons have) reached the ages when I was crippled with such doubt about my importance, my value and worth, I see happiness, confidence and love radiating from my children. Now I see three words and all that they embody that I starved for as a child flow freely in my life as a woman, friend, and most importantly mother. 

On being called beautiful and why we all deserve it

I don’t like the fact that for many young black girls it has been a determining factor, in our black communities, whether you are given a chance or not. I don’t like that it has had so much power in who I am because I am more than my face and my physical body.

On overcoming other people’s opinions of our beauty and defining it for ourselves

The woman that I am is not defined by anyone’s standard of beauty. The woman that I am is one who is confident in her own skin, embraces her assets and flaws, and continues to live her life on her own terms.

On awakening our black pride by spitting out the lies society has told about us

To quote a Black man (Mr. Jesse Williams) who defines the awakening that I pray for our people to manifest, “What I’d like to see us do is to return to a space where it’s okay for folks to be proud and outwardly Black in public…” My Sistahs…don’t swallow the lies…YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!!  

Black & Living Fear by Violet Kadzura

One of the toughest pills to swallow as a black woman moving through a world that is hostile towards me and insistent on controlling me, is how much of my existence is crafted around fear. It’s instilled, it’s implied and even insisted upon. It’s drilled into my head with the long lists of things I shouldn’t do for fear that something will go wrong. Don’t swim, don’t travel, don’t show weakness and mind your success because it might drive potential romantic partners away. What underlines all of it, is fear.

Fear that swimming means drowning, fear that so-called weakness makes you easier to suppress, fear that you’ll travel and never return, or travel and become a statistics. It shows itself in smaller, seemingly mundane rules like don’t get a nose piercing because you’ll look like a hoe. It’s all done out of fear!

How many expectations of black women are silently swimming in your head that don’t even come from you? Why is there a long book of laws that decide whether we’re worthy of being called “queens” when we are powerful enough to decide that for ourselves. Most importantly, why are we so afraid of hundreds of things and why do we let them govern our choices?  

In every decision I make fear has a voice and whenever I take a step without fear it feels unnatural. Sometimes it feels like the ability to be carefree and even happy is impossible as a black person, and as if it’s impossible to have hope because what inevitably follows is disappointment and heartbreak.

This is obviously part of the defense mechanism we’ve built up to survive everything the world hurls at us. It’s how we manage expectations and avoid pain. We use fear to protect ourselves but I’m at the point of questioning if that’s doing more harm than good. I want to understand what the personal and collective cost of living in fear is. What is the legacy of this fear?

For me it has been anxiety, self-doubt and questioning every little move I make, sometimes to the point of sleepless nights and complete isolation from people I love and environments I thrive in. There are leaps I could have made that I didn’t, there are many situations I could have handled differently but didn’t because I was led by fear.

I want to understand why my blackness has to be defined by fear. Why must I be more cautious about taking chances than a person from another race? Right now, African Americans walk on streets afraid to be the next hashtag and protest inspiration. At this very moment, some people feel the need to water down their blackness for fear of facing the full extent of racism. I’ve witnessed people going against their own dreams and playing it safe. We all know at least one person who aspired for something ambitious but ended up going for the safety net because fear led them.

It’s not our fault. Look at what we’ve faced and how much we are up against it, but we shouldn’t naturalize fear and make it the heart of the decisions we make. It is possible to be black and look fear dead in the face and refuse its influence. We can be carefree, we can be happy and we deserve to be.

Living in fear is essentially living the lie that tells you to hope for much less and avoid taking chances because you don’t deserve them. At this point, I can’t afford fear because it’s presence in my path isn’t just a stumbling block - it’s a deep ditch that I’d never come back from if I fell in, so I’m choosing to step wisely.

Still Black, Still Proud… by Tresell Davis

I grew up in a predominately black neighborhood on the west side of Altadena, a mountainous suburb about 15 miles north of Los Angeles.  My father, a tall and slender set painter would make his way off to work each day just before dawn. Without skipping a beat, my Mom got me and my sisters up for breakfast and shuffled us off to school precisely at the moment the smog began to hug the horizon. 

Our cozy Spanish style house was a humble dynasty. At the epicenter of our home was an oval handcrafted wooden table which was visible as soon as you entered through the front door. Although each of the five surrounding chairs were identical in size and height, the plate with the largest piece of meat proved who reigned King. (As kids it was an unproductive use of energy to even consider staring at the succulent chicken breast with a longing desire. Your best bet was to concentrate your efforts on beating out a sibling for one of the larger drumsticks or wings).

This was because our dad was a self respecting and hard working Black man. He had a small afro and kept a groomed beard. He spoke with a commanding tone of surety. His baritone made the word “No” definitive and the word “Yes” a triumphant victory. My mother, a beautiful curvaceous brown woman with supple skin and high cheek bones, was more cunning in her sovereignty. Being released from the dining room table could only be granted when when every piece of food had been eaten from your plate; playing games outside only reserved for children with finished homework.

This made our home a place of equity and objectivity. Even with my pathetic attempts to plead for curfew extensions, my parents' love and protection was the primary burden of proof as they gave their final verdicts. So hanging out too late with friends had to be substituted for telephone conversations about what she heard “he said”, “she said” during 3rd period English. 

It was the same English class where Ms. Ivory, a middle aged Caucasian woman with a salt and pepper pixie cut, took a deep breath and projected, “Here,” they said, “this is beautiful, and if you are on this day ‘worthy’ you may have it.” I fingered the face, wondering at the single-stroke eyebrows; picked at the pearly teeth stuck like two piano keys between red bowline lips. Traced the turned-up nose, poked the glassy blue eyeballs, twisted the yellow hair. I could not love it. But I could examine it to see what it was that all the world said was lovable.”

Her voice quivered in sorrow as she recited Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye and her eyes later wept as she read Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man aloud. 

These literary masterpieces had been a part of her curriculum for years, yet the box of tissues she kept perched at the top left corner of her massive desk served as evidence that she grieved every time she read them.  As she looked out into her audience of wide-eyed Black and Hispanic adolescents, it became crystal clear that she wasn’t some nascent Michele Pfeiffer “heroine” character coming to rescue “dangerous minds”.  She had a black son.  She mourned not only for him, but for all of us. 

Much like my parents, she taught us that we could be anything, but knew that we would face a treacherous road in our quest for achievement and equality.  Regardless of our scholarly inclinations, innate ingenuity, or our creatively expressive nature, we were still Black.  We would not be seen as equal.  We would be harassed without just cause.  We would be criminalized and demonized; or equally calamitous, we would be pitied without recompense. 

She saw how slavery and segregation had been morphed into a new face at the hands of America's plastic surgeons; policy makers who have carefully molded the judicial system into a profitable incarceration industry that mimics 18th century plantations. She resented the fact that dangling black bodies, like strange fruit on sycamore trees, had been replaced by illegal chokeholds; and whips on our backs replaced by bullets at the hands of vicious cops and racist vigilantes.

Ms. Ivory bore witness to a world that barely recognizes us as human beings or sees our profound beauty. She knew that no level of education could dismantle the way we are perceived. We would still be Black. Society would continuously try to convince us that we are inadequate, but we must remain proud. No amount of wealth could be bartered to expunge the gruesome realities that lie behind our complex history. We will always be Black.  

Even though the horrendous manifestation of racism can make being Black feel like a laborious burden to carry, we must unite in solidarity to end racial and social injustice; And rather than consume the lies of people who misconstruct our stories, we must continue to tell our own....

The world needs to know that we are still standing; still black, still proud.

Tresell is a retail strategist and founder of B Collective Inc. She currently resides in Harlem, NYC. To get in touch with Tresell send an email to Tresell.davis@me.com.

When Silence Speaks by Erica Hughes

I. Love. You.

My first recollection of those words being uttered by mother to me was when I was eighteen years old. I was eighteen and standing in her bedroom saying goodbye. As I reflect on it now I wonder if she'd said it sooner and more frequently, if she'd put it into action, would I have been so anxious and determined to set out on my own with no plans of looking back just four months out of high school?

As I challenged myself to consider the lies I had been told throughout my life I realize the one that haunted me most, that shaped my life and the decisions made for it was never implicitly spoken. And for me it cements the power of silence. Preoccupied with various health issues and life resentments that I believe stemmed from being a teenage mother, my mother's aversion to expressing anything resembling parental affection or interest during my years of growing up left me feeling unlovable. For most of my childhood it fostered a belief in me that I was incapable of giving, and most definitely receiving, love from anyone.

But then after some time I met someone special. It helped me realize that I didn't have to be my mother, that her destiny didn't have to be my own. In no way, shape or form did I want to be her when I learned that I was pregnant with each of my sons. With my pregnancies and their births I resolved to do things differently in my household. When the doctors placed my sons in my arms I promised each of them that they'd never have to wonder if they were loved or wanted. It is a promise that I've kept every day of our lives. And now that they are older and having reached the ages when I was crippled with such doubt about my importance, my value and worth, I see happiness, confidence and love radiating from my children. Now I see three words and all that they embody that I starved for as a child flow freely in my life as a woman, friend, and most importantly mother.

Maybe Beauty is Overrated by Somikazi Tom

So last weekend I took a 12-hour long bus trip home, got picked up and had to drive another 2.5 hours to get to my rural home in Maclear, KatKop, only to arrive to work and early morning rising. Needless to say, my physical appearance was really just not a priority at any point when I was there, and on Sunday morning I wake up at 06:00 am to go prepare food for my brother who is currently going through his introduction into manhood (Initiation school).  

I got out of bed, put on a sweater and sweatpants over my pyjamas (it’s really cold back home now in winter, it’s in between mountains and not far from the Maloti Mountains of Lesotho), put on my Uggs and headed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. When I got there, my mom, dad and aunt were up already having themselves cups of coffee. My dad looked at me as I walked in with the biggest smile and said “molo mamGqwashu” (Morning, mamGqwashu – my clan name, and a term of endearment from him) and I responded smiling “molo tata” (Morning dad). He walked over to give me a hug, and my mom said mockingly “It’s so nice having a father”. We laughed and I proceeded to making my coffee.

They carried on chatting and I joined in on the conversation. We sat around the table drinking our coffee, then my mom got up to prepare some porridge for us. As she was getting up, my dad took out his phone and I continued chatting with my aunt. Next thing I know there is a camera flashing in my face. My immediate response was, “Why are you taking pictures of me so early in the morning and I’m looking so crusty?”so I started ducking and diving, and was like, “Okay well let me fix myself a little”. He stopped and said to me “there’s no need to fix yourself, you fine as you are right now”

I responded, “but the picture won’t look nice, because I won’t be looking my greatest”

My dad replied, “I don’t like these things of your guys, all of this stuff you put on. Nibe nijija imilomo apha (you twisting your mouths – Pouting-) and your endless posing.  I think that you’re your most beautiful when you’re in your most natural self, when you’re yourself, that’s why I’m taking the picture now cause that’s how I like to remember you”.

So I then sat there, without smiling, and just looked at the camera, he took the picture and was very happy with the outcome. I still thought I looked crusty as hell, but he was happy and I could continue with my morning.

Later on in the week, having done another 12-hour trip back to Johannesburg on Monday evening, I was reading blog entries on black beauty standards and was listening to this song by Robert Glasper Ft. Musiq Soulchild and Chrisette Michele “Ah Yeah” on repeat. I mean all of this was just igniting the space to write this piece, which then reminded me of my interface with my dad.

This interface with my dad struck a deeper chord in me than just the outward appearance in its rawness. It, combined with interrogating my own beauty ideals and understandings, brought me into a deeper interface about the term beautiful/beauty. I ask myself the question continuously:

What is beautiful and why do I want to be called beautiful if everyone is beautiful?

Why must I be adorned with those compliments when everyone is fitting of the compliment?  

I mean I cannot answer those questions at the moment, because I too am still doing some soul searching. However maybe you can help me answer them. When we talk about transcending what we have been taught in terms of how we understand ourselves, does that not mean how we re-learn and re-shape our mind space is just as vital as how we reconceive the world? I infer from this that we should then be exiting the frames and language of beauty -- we create another language more fitting for what we are trying to imagine and thus live. Maybe I’m crazy and have psychoanalyzed this too much, but then again maybe I am not!

Blackness is political. Beauty is political. Femininity is political. Geography is political. Sexuality is political. The whole idea of living as a black female is political; thus our identities are layered and convoluted concepts of who we are to ourselves and what we mean in the world.

Now the black female standards of physical beauty are conceived of in different ways based on location, cultural exposure, class, the private space and levels of agency. We know that in the public spaces, the black feminine physique has been kidnapped and reformed to fit the mould of “genuine mainstream European beauty” standards. It has then transcended to a place of appropriation, by the mainstream culture again to fit a new mould of the “exotic” standard of beauty.

“They” (all those of us whom assimilate and accept this culture) who have this arrogance and entitlement to the black feminine body and what it is, accept this language and thus recreate even when we are “Woke”.  The reality is that not every black girl has curves, not every black girls has ass, not every black girl has dark chocolate clear skin, not every black girl can grow a large ass, not every black girl can grow something that seems as simple as hair, not every black girl can dance, not every black can bare a corpus amount of children with their wide hips, not every black girl has wide hips to bare those children! My point is it’s a pool of soooooooooooo much physical difference that cannot be covered in just one blog post, so why is it that we continue to focus on the word and language of beauty?  

I am interested in authenticity. I am interested in the black girls’ soul. I am interested in demolishing all those lies about the Black girls beauty through penetrating their spirit and reviving it without having to talk about their physical appearance. I want to talk about how enough they are, how great they can be, how they can be whomever they want in the black and white community. I want to dispel the lies of beauty, because there is no one way to the ideals of “beauty” we can argue till we are blue in the face, “beauty” is based on what we see and how we see it, if we can see physical beauty we can see physical ugliness. The two don’t exist without the other.  If we accept the concepts of beauty, It means we agree and accept that there are ugly black girls and is this something we want to accept?

For the most part I really like the word beauty and beautiful, I have often found myself saying I prefer being called beautiful than hot. But the more I have come to understand myself and the kind of woman I would like to be, I have come to question what beauty actually means and how I want to raise my daughter one day.

I can accept that for now, I don’t really like that I don’t really like that it has come to be the one of the significant factors in how I see myself and other black girls. I don’t like how it has given people the authority to determine who is and who isn’t. I don’t like the fact that for many young black girls it has been a determining factor, in our black communities, whether you are given a chance or not. I don’t like that it has had so much power in who I am because I am more than my face and my physical body.

What I don’t know as yet is how to get around the term and language of beauty -- how to re-develop my mind heart and soul to speak outside of the physical focus more on the spiritual being. I am unsure how I will relay this this to my daughters one day; I am unsure how to relate this to people in general. One of these days I hope to figure it out, and if not I will pass it on for others to do so; beauty is overrated and we need to find a way to underrate it.

Somikazi Tom is a blogger, academic and black girl who is passionate about youth development through economic upliftment.