Devastation (and Rest)

I often write from personal narrative, because I am a writer, and I believe in the power of words and the power of telling our personal stories. I write from first person narrative because the best stories I tell are my own. But the story I share this week is a collective one.

There is trauma reverberating throughout my body in the wake of this election. Because this is not just an election reflecting the personal choices of one political party or another. Rather, it is a pulse check on the emotional and mental health of this nation. The verdict is in. This nation is sorely, gravely, stubbornly ill at ease, sickened by its sins of slavery and racism, which walk hand in hand with its undying devotion to capitalism. The proverbial blood test does not lie: the vast majority of US citizens have no desire to do their emotional work, to heal, to mend the sins of the land. The vast majority would rather continue to rape, pillage, and steal from others.

Not so for the Army of Kindness. The results of this election are such a gut punch to some of us not because we doubted the existence of those for whom money will always trump equity, power will always trump freedom, and selfishness will always trump community. We knew these things existed. But some of the shock, I think, comes when we realize just how many people are delusional. More people in this nation would allow a delusional, racist, misogynist, proven criminal and rapist to be its leader, rather than a community driven, compassionate, educated, experienced civil servant who has the capacity to navigate complex identities and problems. I don't understand that. I may never understand that. I don't want to understand that the vast majority of this nation is delusional, selfish, and ridiculous. I am part of the Army of Kindness. I am ill at ease, and I am tired.

Black women, like Kamala Harris, have been fighting the good fight for generations. We have cultivated joy, familial strength, comfort, and perseverance in ourselves and amongst our families and communities for generations. Throughout American history, from the middle passage, through slavery and Jim Crow, through the civil rights era, to the modern day struggle of movements like BLM and Free Palestine, we have been fighting for equity and liberation not just for ourselves, but for our families and our communities. We have been fighting our entire lives. And not just to survive. To thrive.

In my own experience, as a woman of African descent living in a racist nation, I have persevered past the insanity of racially unjust systems to build a life I am proud of. To pursue my goals and dreams. To move my body in joy and progress in places it is welcomed in. To obtain degrees, to write and publish books, to buy a home of my own. To build a life that I love. But as with every other Black woman, it doesn't just stop with me. It never stops with just the self. Black women, the descendants of Africans forced into enslavement, cultivate kindness and build bridges of connection, because (as much as we have been forced to endure and overcome) we understand our health is connected to that of our neighbor. We understand and know the truth of ubuntu, "I am because we are." We know this truth because it lives in our bones.

But we are tired.

Alice Walker, yet another tenacious (and resilient) Black womanist author, once said that she wrote the things she needed to read as a little girl. She was writing to herself, and little girls like herself who needed to hear words of affirmation which would stir up their broken hearts and encourage their weakened spirits. But I wonder if Alice knew that she wasn't just writing backward, but that she would be writing forward, to generations yet to come. I bet she didn't know the power of the words she was compelled to write:

"We're going to have to debunk the myth that Africa is a heaven for black people -- especially Black women. We've been the mule of the world there and the mule of the world here."

Black women have fought this fight, in Africa, in America, and abroad. We are exhausted of the fight against racism, against the patriarchy, against capitalism. We have been fighting these demons our entire lives.

In the days since the election, many of us have lost words. I am just now finding mine. First and foremost, I want to address my beautiful mahogany sisters.

"Beautiful, beloved, adored, cherished, wonderful, resilient, tired, exhausted sisters. Let us sit down. May we give ourselves permission to rest, laugh, and dance. May we move our bodies around this world in the wide, deep spaces they are welcomed. And may we let other warriors in the Army of Kindness take up the fight. Black sisters, we have earned our rest, we have more than done our part. May we honor the fight of our grandmothers, our mothers, and ourselves, and call out joy of our own granting. May we situate our bodies in a new place on the earth, one that is more loving, if we please. May we go on extended vacations, if we are able. May we quit the jobs that no longer serve us. May we celebrate with wine and pedicures. May we intentionally seek out joy and peace. In the face of the resistance of demonic, racist systems and people groups, may we grant ourselves permission to enter divine rest. On earth, before we even get to heaven."