Hi everyone.

No, thank you, I won’t need any tissue.

When I first started writing this, my opener was to ask you a bunch of questions about her, Simone. I told myself that, to stand before you today, to speak about a girl we all know, that it’d be my responsibility to get you to think of her the way you knew her. I wanted to spark your memories of her.

I deleted that draft.

I realized that I was avoiding having to share my own account of Simone, because I know that I know her better than everyone in this room. So I thought, maybe it’d be best, most gracious, to let her secrets die with her. To let her live on through your interpretations of her and not how she truly lived.

But that’s not my job today.

Today, I bear witness to the completion of a life that was beautiful and, at times, hard to live.

A life that either crossed paths or intertwined with yours.

My job is to tell you the truth.

The truth is, Simone was hard to love.

Not because she was wicked, though at most times annoying – I’m sure many of us here can agree. I put here in my notes that we all laughed politely in unison, so it’s safe to let a giggle out.

Simone was hard to love, for me, because I struggled to love her as she was. Her and I were obsessed with her being the very best she could be. You know, Simone was ambitious like that. It was world domination and nothing less. But at some point I got consumed with her “best self”, that I pushed her. Hard.

It got to the point where best wasn’t good enough. Her ambition was strong though, she gladly pushed her finish line back, over and over again. But she started to get winded, burnt out, and exhausted. I watched as she broke down but I kept pushing.

Faster.

Stronger.

Better.

We were on the rocks back then too. Barely speaking. Shoot, I couldn’t even look at her most of the time. She was hurt and I kept thinking that it’d all be worth it, eventually.

One night, she was done. I had never seen her so fed up. In that moment God met us, sat us down, and saved her mind.

We had a short conversation after that. Which was the beginning of a long journey of figuring out our new relationship. Most people call it “self-love”, I just called it “peace at last”.

In reality, Simone wasn’t particularly “hard to love” anymore than the average person, at least in my experience. It was just that Simone would make it harder for herself – she was always so hard on herself even though she didn’t really need to be. But I’m grateful that’s not the reason we lay her to rest today.

Simone lived loving, herself included.

Something you should know about Simone, now that she can’t tell you herself. But she’d want you to know.

Simone was in constant battle with her own fear.

As a kid, it was more of a cautious personality. Her dad says Simone had a cut once, measure twice approach to her life. I found this helped her make good friends and few decisions with poor consequences.

At some point, though, something changed. Simone was measuring a lot and never cutting. She would think, then think again, and think a third, fourth and fifth time.

She thought a lot.

But that was also one of the best things about her I think. Simone thought about herself, the type of person she was and wanted to be. She thought about how to be a better family member, friend, student, adult, artist, writer, communicator, advocate, cook, driver, money-manger, reader, and stranger. But Simone thought about two things the most: her world domination plan and her relationship with God.

Regardless, she hit a stride where 9/10 she would think herself out of doing most things. Her logic: it was too complicated, too stressful, it wasn’t the right time, she wasn’t ready, or she wasn’t good enough.

But she was, good enough. Simone always was. I thank God that Simone completed her life empty. She did everything she was meant to do. And killed it too!

I’m most proud of her for that.

I share this with you because she didn’t love being seen as fearless. It made her feel like she was living a lie, because it was. Maybe she never confessed in life how scared she always was because she was to scared to, or needed to believe her fearlessness so she could achieve her dreams.

I’m not sure the answer. We never actually spoke about it.

We spoke a lot but not about everything – though very little went unsaid between us. With our small amount of unexplored conversations, Simone expressed with God and then left them with Him.

I couldn’t be everything for her; eventually I became okay with that.

Simone. Damn girl you’re gonna make me cry up here in front of all these people. We’re supposed to be too gangsta for that. Hey, that’s another thing you should know, Simone cried a lot. And it was ugly.

Ha! There, Simone we’re even. You make me cry up here and I get to embarrass you. But knowing you, now, that doesn’t bother you anymore. You fell in love with your tears – the most gangsta thing you’re ever done.

Well, I’ve been up here for way too long. I think I can hear Simone starting to roll over, I’ve been talking so long.

Anyways, Simone, she loved Canada Dry Ginger Ale.

She meant every compliment she ever gave.

She tried her best to make sure people felt her gratitude for them – so if she ever told you “Thank you”, know that, no matter what for, she meant that in the deepest part of her heart.

Simone loved summer nights. She said it was her favourite season. So, when you feel that cool-warm breeze on a nice summer night, think of her. I know I do.

And she loved you. If for nothing else, just you being here to hear the last chapter of her story.

It was an honour to share it with you.

And to share life with her.

In loving memory of Simone Racquel Brown, gone at the right time.

Thank you.

On Tuesday, Sept. 24, I sat in a chair, second row, slightly on stage left, of Fourth Stage at the National Art Centre for Hors Pair Social’s third Débranché event. It was in that seat where I realized I was a starving artist but not in the way I thought.

In my chair I welcomed a moment of reflection, as I thought back to where I was a year ago. Just a couple weeks difference from that day.

I was at the first Débranché. That time with my two friends and only a couple weeks into my second year of university. I had the plan of rekindling my budding relationship with Ottawa’s creative arts scene after spending the four months of summer in Brampton. With minimal journalism experience (little did I know all the real writing started in year two), I was determined to carve out my place in a city I was learning to love, and in it’s community I wanted to be a part of.

That same passion, still bolder than ever. I was proud of how far I’ve come.

While excited for the performers, that night I had mentally prepared for three things: meeting the woman behind Hors Pair Social, the man they call “The Mayor”, and seeing one of my favourite poets (yes, I can comfortably say of all time), Apollo The Child, perform again.

I sat in my seat. With my cute yellow purse and my phone on the small round table in front of me, I was ready to be entertained. But the moment City Fidelia sat on the high stool at centre stage and started performing “Take Care” accompanied by The Lionyl’s, I realized, I was going to be fed.

The music took me beyond where astronauts go.

I’ll say this to put it out there and nothing else: City Fidelia should consider doing live music versions of some of his songs. Because “Take Care” live live…dope.

Oh and Talia Aoude, a voice that touched my soul.

Rich is the only way I can describe it. My stank face was the only reaction my brain could come up with, to best respond to how her music made me feel.

Well, it was either that or throw my shoe. Both of my shoes.

(That means I thought she was really good).

It’s been a violently long time since I’ve heard live music played. Thank God I broke that streak with The Lionyls. The power of a live band fused with a chemistry that makes the music flow without constraints; soul filling.

On that night this band of five were chefs, serving the type of meal you always find the space to mention in a conversation.

Remember that time I tried that restaurant?

You know what I’m craving right now?

That’s where I had my best meal.

True, because I told my friend about them as soon as I got home.

But see, gluttony is never good, even in the creative world.

What do we give back with the gifts we have? What do we build with the voice we use?

Apollo The Child performed a piece that called me to arms. With all of the Avengers cartoons I’ve been watching lately, I felt like a friendly neighbourhood creative being called to take on the world. That my art, my words, and my passion are stronger than I have explored.

In the silence at the back of my heart, God gently whispered to me, “You have a part to play Simone.”

And in response to Apollo’s charge, I confidently draw my pen.

I sat in my seat, bearing witness to art birthed from a heavy labour of life.

It were the performances of spontaneity, courage, and conviction in the open mic segment of the event, that resonated with me the most.

I snapped; yeah, “n****s and h**s really ain’t sh*t”.

I snapped; medical neglect is real and the Canadian health care system needs fixing.

I snapped; I’m tired of living in this twisted time loop where the Black person always seems to die in the end.

I snapped; I’m a living, breathing person who’s trying to understand life and love it.

I held space.

While King Kimbit read Marcellus Williams’ At Last…Another Heartbeat, I saw the loss of Williams as not just “another Black man” but the loss of a fellow creative.

I was reminded that when injustice persists for too long, it removes the humanity. As people die they transform from humans with lives to statistics of a tragic social norm.

I saw how, though I still breathe, the violence has killed me in a different way. It killed my ability to see a person. When I hurt, when I raged, it was out of exhaustion from injustice not the loss of a life.

I sat in my seat, and witnessed a piece of a person.

I found myself singing “F*CK 12” like the hymn that it is.

“F*CK 12. F*CK 12. FOR REAL. FOR REAL.”

The activist lightly sleeping in me was shook to consciousness and grew too big for her bed.

See, when your soul goes unfed, parts of you simply slow down. You can only give what you have…and when you have little, that’s what you give. I realized that my soul simply didn’t have enough to feed the activist in me.

That moment did for me what commercials say milk does, it built strong bones.

On that Tuesday night, I sat in my seat and found out just how creatively starved I was.

For the first time in a while I was inspired and it wasn’t to do something or create something, but inspired to be Simone.

In the best ways I can describe it, as a creative I intentionally take in so much art. From the music I listen to, the cumulative hours on Pinterest and Instagram, the outfits I see people wearing each day, the books I read, and the shows and videos I watch.

I’m collecting pieces to build a masterpieces on my own. Whether that masterpieces is an artwork, something written or even how I communicate with others and ask questions.

Unfortunately, the side affects of wanting to be a master of my crafts – or a “Titan of Industry” as I like to call it – is I forget to save some of all of this art to fill the person behind the work.

Maybe I need to stop seeing myself as an artist, and just a person who does art; I’m not what I do. There’s a person, a soul, who needs to be fed too.

So I sat in my seat.

I snapped,

I laughed,

I sang,

I thought,

I witnessed art.

And then my soul was fed.

Where do you even start with something like this? What I mean is, what more can I possibly say? When I’ve got anger and pain bubbling over in me, I try and open my mouth and find new words to say old things. Because it seems that we need a fresh mouth full of new vocabulary, to dress up these “old things” into Cinderellas worth our attention. As if the no frills nature of murdered children and even Black women in their homes simply isn’t flashy enough, is it?

I’m starting to question the excuses we use to justify our closed eyes. We may claim to look away on the basis of the sheer gruesome nature of violence, yet, we conveniently neglect the part where our backs are turned to those who’s hands are extended begging for us to face them.

I’ve come to understand that my closed eyes are the equivalent of the bullets and bombs that have caused screams, death, and grieving mothers. In my negligence, I play arole in the same violence I refuse to see.

I think the question, “Is this enough?” has convinced too many of us to close our eyes.

Will posting this Black square be enough?

Will my $5 be enough?

Will reposting this be enough?

Will raising my hand and calling this out be enough?

Will bringing this up in conversation be enough?

It’s a simple question of what our actions are worth in the grand scheme of resistance. These are fair questions. (I’m asking a few to myself right now as I write this.) But trying to draw equivalents between the individual action and the movement is designed to cause your inaction.

If no one yells at a protest, who will hear it?

If no one gives $5, who will help fund the work?

If no one posts or reposts, who will learn?

The movement, the change, the revolution, the justice, this work cannot be done without the individual actions done each day. The simple reality is, we cannot achieve the change, justice or whatever else with one gigantic move. So rather than minimize your action or the action of others, I challenge you to think about the grand scheme. Think about the work that these actions contribute to, not the actions in isolation.

This is why the revolution will not and fundamentally cannot be televised because the revolution is happening in a constant motion when we choose do to something. The revolution is our repost, our $5, or our speaking up. It is the compilation of moments unseen when we decide our contribution is enough.

Because let’s be real, everyone dissing actions on the bases that it “isn’t enough” are waiting for the next MLK Jr. or Malcolm X, assuming that they’ll just pull some overnight justice out of their pocket. Because while we know liberation work is nothing easy, we make it some else’s hard work to do. In our mind, there’s always someone more qualified and it’s always someone else’s responsibility. So, rather than be that leader, that person, or contribute in any fashion, we wish to justify our passivity by diluting the power, responsibility and necessity of individual action.

There are too many unmarked graves in my mind. Too many tragedies I know of but I can’t name a victim. What does that say about me? What does that say about where my eyes are focused?

Bearing witness isn’t simply knowing what happened but knowing who was impacted. It’s knowing the place, the names, the history. It’s not a story to be mentioned, it’s the truth.

And may I never speak on something and when someone asked me where I was I have no answer. Closing my eyes asking “Is it over yet?” because I was too busy prioritizing my comfort over lives and justice.

Having been in university for months, my friends and I – after a long conversation listing the pros and cons – decided to go to a party. We didn’t know what to expect, all we hoped for was a good time.

It was a typical house party: hot, crowded, DJ off to the side, and hot. We got there before things actually started popping off for real. (As 3 financially restricted women, we were not about to enter a party at it’s prime when we could’ve gotten in for free.) Now I know I said we were hoping for a “good time”, which is true. However, it would be extremely irresponsible of me to exclude the part that we were craving a classic Caribbean music filled party. We wanted the reggae, the dancehall, the whole of it. We had gotten to the point where our musical craving had outgrown our dance parties in between studying.

About our dance parties: It was a simple set up. My bluetooth speaker – that I had affectionately named Griselda after Griselda Records – would sit on my bookshelf over my desk as she blasted the dancehall jams of our choosing. It was our way of bonding while simultaneously letting go of our bubbling over stress. Loud dancehall music in the night was our kind of good time – and still is.

Walking into a house that is said to host a dancehall and afrobeats party seemed like a promising time. Now of course we were mainly there for the dancehall but we rocked with afrobeats. I wouldn’t call us huge fans – I’m not about to come on here and lie that we know more than Burna Boy and Wizkid – but when those songs come on, best believe we’re dancing a one two. With the room gradually filling with dopely dressed Black university students, it made this party feel like even more of a great idea.

To say that dancehall wasn’t played would technically be a lie because songs were played. You would think that with the few songs played I would actually remember more than “Clarks”. Yet, the overwhelming 98% of afrobeat song, after afrobeat song, have wiped my memory.

And these songs weren’t just the ones you hear on the radio, that a rookie of afrobeats music would know. They played songs for the real ones. After “Last Last” by Burna Boy and a couple other songs – of which we only knew the chorus – played, for we three dancehall lovers the night began to change. I remember looking over at my friends and we were all making the same face; which also meant we were all thinking the same thing.

I don’t go to a lot of parties. I think maybe it’s because though I love a good dance floor, I simply love my room more. But still, every now and again, the craving is there for a dance floor bigger than the ones of homemade dance parties. In those times when I find myself on those bigger dance floors, I stay on them. This particular party was the first time I chilled on the wall.

Doing such a thing is strongly against my own personal code. However, when you find yourself in a room full of people singing their hearts out to a song you can’t even pretend to know, the wall has your name on it. So that’s where we were, on the wall. Convientely, next to the window, getting the nice winter breeze being the only remedy to the heat hugging our skin.

I moved to a few steps away as cool became freezing and giving space to the people coming off the dance floor. As I watched young people who looked like me have the time I wish I was having, I couldn’t help but think, what was different between us? It was at this moment my new reality began to surround me like the breeze from the window. At that moment I knew: I was the minority of a minority.

In the GTA, my Caribbean culture was all over the place. My Black classmates in elementary and middle school had Caribbean grandparents like me. We had rice and peas and jerk chicken for lunch some days. We all wanted to present on Jamaica for our class projects. We came to school wearing that one t-shirt that our grandma brought us or we got from vacation to our family’s island.

Those days were no longer. Being Black is one thing, my racial minority. Now being of a Jamaican background, this was my new cultural minority. Not having more than “Clarks” played at a party was the first of many places that would not have enough space for my Caribbean needs.

It’s funny, until this point, I always saw Jamaica as my background even my culture. But as people ask you “where are you from?” in university, you say your roots. I was no longer the girl from Brampton with Jamaican grandparents. I was Jamaican.

I am Jamaican because people needed to place me. They needed to place the light phrases of patios that would slip out in conversation. They needed to place my loud voice and the way I kissed my teeth. They needed to place the way I danced, why I brought a rag with me, and the gunshot fingers I’d wave in the air (on the many times I did, because dang I did come all this way, Ima give a likkle one-two).

Because now my culture stood out and what was once my grandparents was now mine. Which is weird because if you put me beside an international student straight from ya’ad, trust you will see the difference. But our Caribbean community is so small, that difference isn’t so big to others.

I can’t remember how the night ended. We braved the cold and got back to our dorm rooms. All I can remember is the shock of feeling out of place in the Blackest space I had been in all year – up to that point. That’s never happened to me before.

This party would be a topic of discussion for days between my friends and I. As we caught ourselves being happily surprised when someone answered “Jamaican” or “Trini” or “Haitian” to our question of where they were from.

Where did this leave us?

More dorm dance parties! Shamelessly blasting our music all hours, respectfully. We spoke more patios in our conversations. Our boasy Jamaican nature grew as we made space for each other.

And where did this leave me?

I realized I had a culture to continue. I located myself with a people I thought I only had ties to through blood. But it informed more of my identity than I thought.

BIG UPS TO ALL MY JAMAICANS, NO MATTER HOW FAR REMOVED FROM THE CULTURE YOU MAY FEEL! AND LOVE TO ALL THE SISTER ISLANDS!

I would first like to start by saying, everything has an extreme side. Every movement, every group, every trend. That’s no different for call out culture, more famously known as cancel culture. I’m not in agreement with those cancel extremist who cut anybody down who conflicts with their point or view. That’s extra, and messed up.

I am in total support of the call out culture that holds people responsible for their actions. Specifically, actions that are discriminatory, racist, sexist, transphobic, classist, homophobic, ableist, colourist, and the list goes on. That crap can’t fly and people should be held responsible for those things.

So, here’s my beef with this “call in” culture. These cute safe space conversations are all well and good. I enjoy those convos from time to time. However, what call in culture ignores is those who were hurt. It does not consider what it takes for those individuals to come to the conversation.

With the instances that I mentioned before – racism, sexism, transphobia, etc – those are heavy conversations. Conversations that can cause victims and the hurt to re-traumatized themselves. All to explain to someone why their ignorance, privilege, disrespect and whatever else is not acceptable.

To say it plain, not everything needs a conversation. Victims are always expected to explain their traumas and triggers. All so people can claim their progression and how great an ally they were because they “listened and learned”. How about read and learn; Google is free. Or if you really must listen, listen to the people calling you out about what you did wrong – then go read. See, if people were actually listening, they’d hear what they’re being called out for and why it was wrong.

I do believe that call out culture is accountability. Maybe an odd equalizer. It forces people to come to terms with what they do. To check their privilege and reevaluate themselves. So maybe, gone are the days you can just say something and it not be challenged. I think this culture causes people to really decide what they stand with, what they don’t, and what they really believe.

In essence, I don’t like call in culture’s lack of sensitivity and awareness of those who get hurt. To ask someone, or really to tell someone, they should talk about what triggered, traumatized, or hurt them just to make the other person more comfortable is disrespectful and just as damaging. And to hide that disregard behind “listening and learning”, “educating others”, “open dialogue” and “safe space” is privileged and lowkey propaganda.

Don’t vilify calling out. And don’t throw conversation as the “mature” solution to everything; it can do harm too – especially when a party is disregarded.

In late March I tweeted about this odd phenomenon that I began to notice when doing a research project on the Black Moors. How the scholarly sources I was required and expected to use had nothing on my desired topic:

SIMONE on Twitter: "It's interesting how in school I'm required/expected to use scholarly sources but when researching about ancient African civilizations (like the Black Moors) those same all powerful sources have nothing. / Twitter"

It's interesting how in school I'm required/expected to use scholarly sources but when researching about ancient African civilizations (like the Black Moors) those same all powerful sources have nothing.

The reality of this situation is that in our society a “scholarly source” is often inextricable to white people and institutions. However, these sources have a dearth — if not noting at all — of information on Black topics, especially history. With the very little they do have, we must ask the question of credibility.

Many scholars, past and present, use their position to spread false, bigoted, and racist narratives. An example of this is during the Anti-rape movement in the 70s when white feminist scholars were writing books on the issue. Their books are considered scholarly sources, yet, while addressing the injustice they simultaneously contributed to the spread of the Myth of the Black Rapist. So, though they did a beautiful and groundbreaking job of communicating the severity of rape, misogyny, and the patriarchy, they expressed anti-rape alongside anti-blackness; one could argue that they connected the two

We are equating scholarly, credible, and valuable. Provided that, it is deemed scholarly it is automatically trustworthy. Therefore what is scholarly must also be what is most important to learn and know. Perhaps this wouldn’t be much of an issue if the definition of a scholarly source wasn’t so eurocentric. Resulting in the removal of Black history and the spreading of racist false truths.

When starting the project, the librarians confessed to the class that the databases they have been telling us for years to use — because of their wealth of credible, scholarly, and important information — were lased with so much eurocentrism that there was little or no information on the class’ selected civilizations.

There are only two things worth noting at this moment:

1. The databases were painted to only provided scholarly sources, and do not have any extensive information on Black history.
2. Though the librarians acknowledged how eurocentric the databases were, they never mentioned that before. Nor did they ever question the perspective or possible biases of said databases, especially when they were singing its praises — and encouraging teachers to do the same.

What message does this send? How will this shape the way students determine what topics are important and which sources are credible? Because right now, this is saying that the topic of Black history, in this case, ancient African civilizations, does not have any scholarly sources reporting on them. It says that one does not need to consider bias unless the situation is overtly about race. It says all the other sources on these topics are not completely trustworthy because they are not up to the scholarly expectations of academia.

All of this comes together to control what students and people feel they should learn, and what teachers think is worth teaching. This is the censorship of knowledge by way of white supremacy; and that supremacy in schools.

For those reasons, I suggest the disposing of “scholarly sources” and the reinforcement of what is a credible source. Requiring and expecting students to use credible sources will widen our ability to learn on a more diverse scale. Being able to learn about topics despite them not being deemed scholarly.

To complete my project on the Black Moors, I used many sources on YouTube (and a few from the sources the libraries gave to replace the databases) that share their rich and hidden history. However, the majority of my sources may not be classified as “scholarly”, I took a lot of deep drives and did serious digging to find the information and confirm its credibility — all of that only to scratch the surface.

I only wonder what my project would have looked like if each of my sources had to be determined as a “scholarly” one. Consequently, I also wonder how many great projects like mine have been, and might be, denied because of this discriminatory expectation.

Black History Month, though with good intentions and educative messaging, has been a point of controversy for the Black community. The statement always is, we deserve more. Often followed by the question, “At what point does Black history become all-year-round history?”

There’s no doubt that Black History Month is an important celebration to have; controversial or not. The value of highlighted recognition is extremely essential in countering the erasure and disenfranchisement of Black people. However, the issue begins when the recognition is solely done in celebration. Limiting Black history to 28 or 29 days is problematic; here is where we see the Black community start to split surrounding our thoughts on the month.

How would you feel if on the day of your birthday everyone started asking you what gifts you wanted? They all wished you happy birthday, wrote you cards — some truly genuine and other short and done with very little effort —, people shared with you their fondest memories they have of you — while some would share new stories, the rest would just re-tell the exact same story they share every year —, and made sure that everyone knew that it was your birthday, your special day.

You end the day feeling pretty special. The next day, everyone ignores you. When you try to speak, they cut you off or speak over you. When you attempt to address a problem, they turn away. The same people who wrote you cards, won’t respond to your texts, and the very people who shared memories do not even want to be seen with you. Those who only yesterday gave you birthday wishes are now cursing and humiliating you.

This type of behaviour would continue for the rest of the year until it’s your birthday again. And then, as they do every year, they acknowledge your existence and give you, what could be classified as respect. How would you feel if this was your reality, that you’re only recognized once a year and then are treated like dirt thereafter?

I would ask the question, why should you only be recognized on your birthday? And why does that mean you are to be ignored and ostracized for the rest of the year? These are the same questions the Black community is asking the rest of the world?

Some may argue that the value of Black History Month goes up when Black recognition/acknowledgment is strictly in February. Which it does, and some would say that is beneficial since people are under more pressure to participate and contribute to the month. I would say to those people, why is that a good thing?

The “value” of Black History Month is going up not because people are excited or understand the importance of celebrating Black people and our history. But rather because of: desperation to finally focus on Black people/history, to activate performative activism, make a profit, make a difference — because it’s the only time people are willing to hear Black people out — , and to create a “woke” or “inclusive” image.

Plus, are Black people not Black outside of February? Limiting Black history to one month screams that Black history is occasional. This then sends, a very clear message, that the validation of our blackness and history can only be justified on this one occasion.

Therefore, I personally do not believe that Black History Month is the issue nor is removing the month the solution. Just like birthdays, Black people deserve to be spotlighted, but for the rest of the year, we should not disappear.

The way I see it, “occasional” can also justify “optional”. By making Black history restricted to an occasion, we have allowed for it to be an option when we address history. Black history is history — and Black History Month never said it was not. Nevertheless, white supremacy has weaponized it in a way that allows history to be perceived as two different things. It has become a loophole for the licensed removal of Black people in national and international history as we know it.

Black history cannot be occasional because society engages and benefits from it every day; on every occasion. So, while we take this month to celebrate this part of history, do not stop the celebration, education, and recognition of Black history after February is over.

There is this nauseating idea that feminisms like Black feminism cannot and do not exist without white/mainstream feminism.

On my limited series podcast Women & Of Colour — that I may or may not continue — I take an episode to speak about Black feminism. Since then I’ve continued to read and learn about feminisms. Hence my discovery of the mindset that all of the feminisms revolve around white feminism.

During the recording of the podcast, I learned (from my guest Professor Sarah Riley Case in episode 5) that we do not have “branches” of feminism, but rather types. Types that may interact (like Black and Intersectional feminism), but still stand alone.

So, in realizing this my entire view on feminism changed.

Feminism was created for and by white women. It starts with the suffrage movement, with the notorious Elizabeth Cady Stanton — with whom I have some bones to pick — and others. And though Black women were invited to the party, there were surprisingly no seats for them. Seeing how womanhood was redefined by white women, how could Black women possibly get a real seat?

Thus, Black feminism was born because white feminism was plagued with white supremacists and the view that Black and white women are the same. I would say that this is where the wires get crossed. This is where people begin to believe that Black feminism rides on the back of white feminism.

I would argue that the definition of womanhood is where this problem originates. As mentioned before, white, straight, cisgender, middle-class, and able-bodied women redefined womanhood. Meaning what they established what a woman should be, act, and look like. All of which was built from the experience and social views of being this type of woman.

Womanhood through the eyes of a Black woman changes just by race alone — not even touching other areas like class, sexuality, accessibility, and others that are also impacted by race as well — and therefore do not fit the picture painted by white women. Yet, because of their whiteness, white women’s definition of womanhood becomes the default; they become the standard and the expectation.

Where does this leave Black women? I believe it leaves us constantly having to explain our unique position as women in this society. Having to defend our existence within the womanhood that we create outside of white women. Fighting for the right to have our own table and to be proud to sit there.

Our society cannot imagine womanhood that isn't white. So when Black women are fighting against misogyny in an area, it’s equated to or overshadowed by the white woman’s experience in that area. Areas like equal pay, even getting certain jobs, healthcare (specifically the hospital experience), violence against women, and so on. Each of these impacts women but we only respond to how it impacts white women. Thus, we assume that Black women’s experiences in these areas are the same.

With that being said, Black women cannot even have their experiences recognized without it being filtered through the womanhood that white women created and mainstreamed. So now when Black feminism stands on its own, people begin to filter that too, because “women’s issues” are also defined by white women.

If Black women cannot be women outside of whiteness then neither can their issues. I would petition that the issues specific to Black women are policed, simply based on our social location.

If a white woman or a Black man isn’t impacted by it or doesn’t experience it then Black women are accused of “reaching” or being dramatic. We are being asked to prove how a situation is targeting us. Also, there’s no room in our society to deal with a part of a “women’s issue” if white women aren’t being affected. In short, it’s not an issue unless it’s an issue for white women.

Here is where we start to see why Black feminism struggles to get out from underneath white feminism in the eyes of society. It’s simply because the severity or even credibility of an issue is linked to white women; white victims validate “women’s issues”. So our society cannot release Black feminism as a whole and separate feminism.

This is not to say that misogyny doesn’t discredit, ignore, and overlook the very real issues and injustices faced by white women. This is to say that white feminism has created criteria for what is and is not a “women’s issue”, which formulates the delusion that Black feminism cannot exist on its own.

Black feminism is whole and complete. It does not and has never needed white feminism to validate it.

I’ve probably watched the film a few more times between second grade and twelfth―since films like John Henry are easy diversity fillers for teachers, especially during Black History Month. They are the only times I can remember watching the film, but they’re the only times that matter. Though I was young with my shield made of innocence, I can not dismiss racist, and even classist undertones buried deep underneath the music and pretty colours in the film.

When my summer school English teacher told the class that we’d be watching the short, I was underwhelmed by the lack of effort in finding some diversity in her lesson. Nevertheless, when the film started, the music gave me a sense of nostalgia, until I picked up on the lyrics. The song starts off by speaking on how strong and “wonderful” John Henry was and then goes on to say, “…born with a hammer right in his hands”. The keywords there are “born” and “hammer”. That lyric is saying that John Henry was born to work, specifically in a working-class job. Within the first thirty seconds of the film, the conclusion is drawn that John Henry is big and strong, making him wonderful for a life full of low-paying work; that he is built for this.

Right off the bat, John has been limited to the box of being this big strong Black guy whose only purpose and drive in life is to work. This just so happens to play on one of the many racist stereotypes that plague Black men and the Black community as a whole. That all we are good for is work. Let’s not forget that this was a mindset of white colonialists when they became slave owners and condoned slave ownership. Just as slaves worked for nothing. The racist and classist intersection in our society restricts many Black people to working for next to nothing.

This theme song set the tone for the entire plot. When I first watched the short, I was proud that a Black man saved the day. He put his life on the line in racing the steam drill that would have taken jobs. John Henry is painted as the hero, and I saw very few Black heroes on screen. However, when watching it 10 years later, John seemed less like a hero and more like a sacrifice. I found it hard to dismiss that John Henry, the big strong Black guy built for work, was the one that had to give his life. John just so happens to be the only one who was built for the task at hand.

So, for the whole film, leading up to the point where John put his life on the line, he is set up as the hero. This is the equivalent of fattening up a pig before it goes to the slaughterhouse. I am not saying that John Henry was not the hero, but rather why he had to be. What needs to be understood is that buried in heroism is the sacrificial lamb. A lamb that had to die, and left his son and wife behind.

When John broke through the other side of the mountain and died in his wife’s hands, she was almost content. As if she knew this would happen. Her face was the face of “this was the only way”; that only John Henry could save them, that it was okay. She communicates that to her son at the end of the film. She reinforces that John was a hero and that everything is okay because he volunteered his life and his death was not in vain.

Focusing on this, it claims the reality that the Black community is constantly sacrificing itself and its members for the rest of society. That we must always be at the front lines. We work and do not make it home. This must force us to ask the question, “why is it that only the Black community is equipped to take on the world’s problems?” Also, that we have to accept our role as society’s unprotected protectors. And this acceptance is to be passed down to each generation.

Understandably, John Henry is a favourite for some. People probably enjoy the short film for the same reasons I did. Even though there are some beautiful elements to the film, we have to ask ourselves about the presentation of the representation.

To start, Black women can never simply be. Thus society’s move to entangle us with the negative connotations of anger. To be frank, it’s dehumanizing, disgusting, misogynistic, and racist. Which are all the ingredients necessary for me to state the fact that the “Angry Black Women” labelling is severely derogatory language.

In no way am I trying to sell my point, I don’t think that the main idea here is debatable. So, I think it’s valid that people recognize that mislabelling a Black woman as angry is derogatory and must be stopped. Quite honestly, the “debate” on whether this is even a problem or not is heavily laced in the bodily mixture of ignorance, privilege, and misogynoir. Why is it that the hurting of Black women is always debatable?

The Angry Black Woman is a verbal eraser used to rub away the thoughts, words, and feelings of Black women.

Who wants to deal with an angry person? No one does. So when a Black woman’s feelings, words, and expressions are marked as anger, it gives everyone else the ability/excuse to not address her. So it’s basically saying, “we don’t want to care so we’re going to write you off.” It’s a big disrespectful slap in the face.

People use this kind of vocabulary to control, limit, and minimize Black women in every way. To rewrite a Black woman as a one noted person who is unable to communicate and engage; since that’s who an angry person is.

Oh, and what happens when we are angry? Black women are not given the space to be angry because it’s never understood or respected. Oftentimes it feels like The Boy Who Cried Wolf, people categorize and expect us to be angry, so when we are no one bats an eye.

Where is our space to be human? To feel all of our emotions as they are and have them acknowledged as such? Now, I can't speak for all Black women, but for me, it’s sickening that the mere existence of the term “Angry Black Woman” means that my emotions won’t be considered normal or valid.

The stereotype “Angry Black Woman” and language like it, is derogatory and needs to be recognized as such. So if you have it in your vocabulary, get rid of it.