It's Our Anniversary

Sometimes, I feel like I'm caught in the rapture of our honeymoon phase. Someone will be talking, and I'll pretend to be listening, when really I'm envisioning a week of scheduled articles about women all over the world, and the new books about to be delivered to my doorstep. I'll get such a big book boner that I will have to excuse myself, phone in hand, and escape to the bathroom. I'll lock the door and I'll scroll for my life. I'll laugh at the shade we throw to boring books and mediocre musicians. I'll get hyper-defensive if a friend's article doesn't get enough likes. Then, I'll realize how long I've been away. Even though I don't want to, I'll head back to my company, saying to myself, "I can't believe it's only been three months."

Other times, white feminism and male narratives trapped in women's bodies won't let us be great. It will seep into threads where it wasn't invited, kill every vibe, suck up all the space, derail a conversation, and fcuk up what could have been a good time. I'll spend a third of my day wrestling with what need be and need not be addressed. What is and is not my place. I'll question the intention of white women. How many of them are here just so they can tell their friends they're a part of something intersectional? How many white women want to see Tamika Mallory banished from existence, and speak on what they think Mo'Nique is worth, as they go to bed with a copy of Women, Race, & Class on their night stand? What am I doing wrong? Am I exploiting us? Is it fixable? Trying to provide a safe space for womyn oppressed with intersections I'm not yet trained to recognize, while I learn about intersections that have oppressed me my entire life; an oppression that I was calling life. Heavy shit, Sis.

I don't know what the hell I was thinking when I entertained the notion of opening up our house to cis men.

I hate kids. Can't f*cking stand them. There is an expiration on their cuteness, and it is thirty-seven seconds. After thirty-seven seconds, they become more annoying than anything else. They leak. They make noise. They demand more attention than I do. No. You keep them. On the rarest of occasions, I'll get a whiff of that new-baby smell, and I will hold it. I will take a picture with it that will suggest I am maternal. I will exploit that picture and post it as a profile, and people will say, "When's yours coming?" And when the dots from the flash disappear, I will give you back that fcuking baby. I will wash my hands, adjust the earrings it brutally tried to rip out of my ear, and I will smile. Because, I had to hold a baby, but I got to give it back. It happened just last week, but instead of babies, it was with men. Several men, mostly gay, but a few hetero as well, asked that I consider changing the rules on who's allowed in the house so that they could join us. And, in those moments, men were adorable babies. I forgot they were annoying. I forgot that they demanded more of me than I demand of my own Self. But, baby, they reminded me. And, you reminded me with the result of that poll. We saw what happened when every Sister was allowed to speak. The contrast. The safety concerns. Misogynoir. There was a word that women of color used repeatedly; safety.

I was concerned that by not extending an invitation to all people, I was not living up to the tenements of intersectional feminism. And then, I remembered why I let white women join sparingly: safety.

What is in a name? We are in the name. Intersectional. We are forever bound to it. As a concept, a practice, a lifestyle. More than a responsibility, heavier than a weight we're used to. Women of color are in need of safety. The acknowledgement of  this need right, the healing and educational powers of literature and art, and this commitment to respecting each other, not in spite of, but, because of the intersections we endure. You are obligated to carry the weight, because you read and agreed.

Never forget that intersectional refers to the  multitude of oppression one individual faces. There's no bragging right to be had for those of us who survive such oppression. All of the reading in the world will not mold you into the productive intersectional feminist you tell everyone you are if you don't learn how to extend empathy and radical love to those you don't identify with. I'm not just talking to white women either.

There are trans girls of color in this house.

There is a white woman who has recently fled from her husband and needs this space to be. Her words, not mine.

There are Black women who have all but sworn off Facebook groups because of ways in which they have been silenced, demeaned, disrespected, and then banned. They have had to dig deep in themselves to trust that space I have lead them to is indeed safe.

There are a group of women from Australia here. They have so much they want to learn, and even more to teach.

We all live in the same house.

Letting the literature do the heavy lifting works, but, there are limitations. Because, we are finding that, outside of print and offstage, there is much between us as women that is not understood, not respected, not thoroughly discussed. Listening is a great step, but, it is not the last step. We all need to be educating ourselves at who and what we don't understand. We must practice the art or critique without dragging. We have to watch how we talk about our Sisters and how we talk to our Sisters.

"Where my people are I must also be. I go into difficult spaces."
- Tamika Mallory