A Love Letter to Self Care and Revolutionary Acts in Reflection of The March for Black Women

“Free your mind and your body will follow,” my uncle chuckled as we echoed loving goodbyes. As I pressed “end” to the phone call, I felt relieved. I was confused as to why I had built up such an anxiety about the conversation I had just had. My music loving family readily offers sage advice in catchy proverbs summarizing an adventurous life story. Of my dad’s siblings, I had only talked to his sister and received her “when the ox gets in the ditch, don’t wait for the water to fill up.” Or at least I thought I had.

I met Ms. Anana Harris Parris at a scholarship award ceremony for EmpowHer 365 and The National Action Network on Spelman College’s campus. At the time, I was returning from a semester of medical leave from Spelman and had not officially confirmed my reenrollment. I was not registered for class. I did not have financial aid. I did not have housing. I did not have proper tags or insurance registration for my car. And those are just the needs I am comfortable in sharing.

As I type, I am struggling with this idea of comfortability in sacrifice for vulnerability because true vulnerability would challenge my survival. No matter how forward thinking we all proclaim to be, there are still prevailing stigmas about differently abled persons especially for things non-visible. When I hear self care or mental health campaigns, I am skeptical which I feel is my prerogative. The black female body is no stranger to the horrors done in the name of science or curiosity. So many are disingenuous by leading with ignorance asking to be corrected then educated with patience which leaves me in a tiring cycle. These microaggressions are a part of the same system of oppression that Toni Morrison uses to describe race. She says, “The function, the very serious function of racism is distraction. It keeps you from doing your work. It keeps you explaining, over and over again, your reason for being.”

I could not tell you how long I have been distracted or count the daily interruptions. There are too many intersections. But I can tell you about my dreams. I can tell you about my desire to survive. I can imagine what liberation feels like and I’ve tasted it on my tongue as I wrote out my Self Care Plan.

I can imagine what liberation feels like and I’ve tasted it on my tongue as I wrote out my Self Care Plan.

This past weekend I joined a group of women from Atlanta traveling to the nation’s capital to lend their bodies to The March for Black Women. Instead of being distracted, I was able to disrupt. I incorporated every bit of George Clinton’s “free your mind” and ran from other responsibilities to remember covenants I made with myself.

As PJ Morton’s “Gumbo” set in the background, I listened through the tracks gazing out the bus window remembering childhood car trips between my parent’s house for custody visitation. I revisited old games questioning my own mental claustrophobia and the impetus for this trip. This past summer I had the best time living and working in DC. I met so many incredible people and developed emotionally, professionally, and spiritually. I took the trip to visit my summer friends, who also joined me at the march, and to feel inspired for postgraduate applications because I felt stuck.

This capitalist society works when individuals are quiet. It works when people feel ashamed. It requires silence and shame to separate you from your own needs in order to subjugate you to uplift and support your own detriment. Like any capitalist structure, it cost to participate. Every area of your life can be liquidated for this society’s consumption. Women are socialized to expect this and Black people often anticipate it. The most moving part of the march was when Black women were asked to remain standing as everyone else knelt. When I looked behind me, I saw a wave of people, row after row, kneeling and cheering for me and my sisters as we stood. The support was astounding demonstrating how these individuals cherished and revered Black women. When we stood and passed the Trump hotel, you could hear the 94% of Black women and others who joined them against overt hatred. You could hear it and it shouted, “shame!” with a resounding echo of pain and tears from an enduring place. Using the same weapon of shame thrown at us, the buildings appeared even more hollow. We staged a die in at The Department of Justice which seemed to amplify and applaud our stillness understanding that we were the only ones to go through a transition. I thought about femininity, Black women, and how the private becomes public.

One of my friends who marched with me asked if I thought that marching actually worked. It was his first protest and he wanted to know what is the real payoff to these demonstrations. I prefaced and conditioned my response, as women usually do, and told him I could not speak for all organizers or activists and I certainly could not speak for all the members of my varying intersections. Through these intersections and despite them, I form a living, breathing definition of me.

The prolific Audre Lorde reminds us that,

“if I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and eaten alive.”

The March for Black Women was a definition. It was a cathartic declaration. It was an opportunity to free my mind and allow my body to follow whole heartedly and without reservations. I told my friend of the daily distractions that we are inundated with by racism, sexism, heteronormativity, ableism, and all other junctures. At times, it can feel like no one else is there and that no one else is fighting the good fight. But at a march, you meet those foot soldiers and comrade in arms. The reality and authenticity of your emotions are revealed in full demonstration making them all the more valid and recognizable. These memories doubt your doubts and reclaim sanity when oppressive distractions come calling.

I am so thankful for the organizers at SisterSong for embracing me and the Spelman community throughout this incredible trip. All of you dynamic individuals reminded me that I am a bona fide romantic and love spontaneous weekend getaways to exciting cities. To Ms. Anana Harris Parris, thank you for this space and the SisterCARE Alliance. You have taught me that challenging myself means being more of myself and I am finding unspeakable joy working my plan. To my family and loved ones, your love is freeing and I cherish your wise words. And to that one Spelman, political science major from Macon, Georgia wrestling senioritis and an existential crisis named Janeal Hightower Fordham, I love you. Nobody does me better than yourself.

With revolutionary love,