Womanism: a knowing & a being

“My education, my lived experience, and my ancestors qualify me, authorize me, and amplify me.” ebonyjanice moore wrote this in her book All the Black Girl Are Activists: A Fourth Wave Womanist Pursuit of Dreams as Radical Resistance.

For years I have referred to myself as a womanist and everyday this proclamation rings more true for me. It resonates exponentially not because it becomes more true over time, but because I am becoming more and more intimate with this omnipresent, timeless truth.

Education is a privilege, life experience is a privilege, communion with ancestors is a privilege. But the key to accessing these privileges is not money, institutions, a passport, or some top secret ritual. The only price we must pay is presence, association, stillness just still enough for mind, body, and spirit to align and intertwine.

Signed,

N.A.

Saturdays in São Paulo

One mid-June madrugada, I finally landed at São Paulo-Guarulhos International Airport. “Madrugada” is one of those words that doesn’t have an English translation, but my personal translation for it is “the butt crack of dawn.” The morning prior, I woke up bright and early, on just a few hours of sleep, to make it to the Bogotá airport in time for my flight. I was on time, my flight, however, was not. That delay caused me to miss my connecting flight and had me spending six wifi-less hours at the Panama City airport, then catching a red-eye to São Paulo. Also, is it still considered a red-eye if the sun isn’t even up yet when you get to your destination?? It was 5 am when I was finally crawling in to bed in my new apartment. I closed my eyes and thought to myself as I drifted to sleep, work starts in 5 hours.

After six months of working remotely, traveling the world, and shuffling back and forth to DC doctors (a frustrating addition I had not planned for my beloved nomad year!), my body really caught up to me. I was tired! And while I was beyond excited to finally be in Brazil, a country I had initially considered moving to rather than spending the year traveling, I knew that something had to give.

About a month prior to this moment, I had spent a Saturday afternoon roaming art galleries in Toronto, Canada. I posted some highlights on my Instagram with the caption “saturdays are for art galleries.” I hadn’t intended it as anything particularly meaningful, but its rare that life’s callbacks are recognized in the moment.

I was fortunate in São Paulo to really adore my new apartment. Of all of the temporary abodes I’ve experienced up to this point, this apartment is one of the few that I could see myself living in long-term. Something about the layout immediately made me feel at home, so I went about the business of forging a “regular” life in it. I began establishing routine in my life, something that had been conspicuously, yet happily absent over the last several months. But this time, instead of going to events and sites at every opportunity, I found myself exploring the nearby grocery stores.

I began cooking everyday, exercising regularly, rededicating myself to my Portuguese study, reading for fun, and resting. In addition to this much-needed recalibration, I accepted that I did not need to do and see absolutely everything the country had to offer, so I reprioritized my Brazil bucket list. Priority #1: I had already planned a work-free long weekend vacation to Salvador da Bahia; I knew I could not leave the country without bearing witness to this historic city known as the Little Africa of Brazil. Priority #2: Learning about diaspora history and culture; I booked Black culture walking tours through the Afro-tourism company Guia Negro in both São Paulo and Salvador. Priority #3: Saturdays would indeed be for art galleries.

So, in addition to rest and rejuvenation, here is how I spent my Saturdays in São Paulo, Brazil.

On Saturday #1, I quickly realized that there was something intangible that I admired about São Paulo. My first stop was Museu Afro Brasil. Not only is this museum a mecca of African and African diaspora culture with thousands of works in diverse collections, it is also located inside a magnificent nature park. There’s something significant about this museum providing a space to immerse in Black culture, both indulging in the joys and reckoning with the tragedies of history and modern life, then stepping outside, finding a quiet place to sit and reflect, and feeling the earth below your feet, hearing the birds chirping around, and gazing at the peaceful lake. It feels eerily well thought out, yet magically serendipitous.

Saturday #2 was a special one. It was the one when I found myself mesmerized by the bohemian beauty of the city’s Jardins neighborhood and thought to myself, I could live here. Everything about this day felt familiar, like I could make a home here. From brunch at Botanikafe, to my afternoon at Museu de Arte de São Paulo, to my pitstop listening to Nalla on Avenida Paulista, it all just felt right. Feeling encouraged by my day, in the taxi ride home I worked up my courage, waited until we were 10 minutes away from my apartment, then nervously leaned forward to my driver and asked “posso praticar português com você?”

Saturday #3 was the day I knew I would be back. It was on Saturday #3 that the vastness of São Paulo, and of Brazil in general, became tangible to me.

People often say “you don’t know what you don’t know,” but seldom talk about the moment when you begin to realize that what you don’t know exists, when it starts to immerge into your consciousness and becomes capable of holding hopes and dreams. As I meandered through the Memorial da Resistência de São Paulo, a museum memorializing a resistance movement I had only a very vague knowledge of even ever occurring, something clicked in me. I knew, with a knowledge not housed in the mind, but somewhere much deeper in my being, that I would be back to São Paulo one day. Only time will tell if it will be to live or to visit, but on Saturday #3, I inventoried in my heart a newly actualized resolve to be a local here one day. I want to know the unknown.

On Saturday #4 I knew I was in love. It was my last day in beautiful São Paulo and as I sat in the back of a taxi, gazing out the window at the romantic couplings of trees and skyscrapers both stretching to the skies, I knew. This feeling right here, this feeling is love. I did my best to enjoy the day, I ate at my favorite restaurant, I strolled my favorite neighborhood, I really just took it all in.

I’m usually not one for souvenirs, but I left São Paulo with one memento: a book. I first learned of Lélia Gonzalez almost two years ago when I started my coursework in Afro Latin American and Caribbean Studies. As I learned more about her politics and her work, I was increasingly blown away that I had never heard of her before. How could I call myself a womanist and not know Lélia Gonzalez? As I made my way through the program, I remember being struck by the reoccurring realization of how language barriers separate Black movements and impede sorority and coalition building across linguistic lines. I’m often frustrated by the exclusivity (in an international context) of US Black movements, but this was the first time that I caught a glimpse of all the knowledge I was missing out on. It was then that I started learning Portuguese. So one Saturday in São Paulo, I made my way over to gato sem rabo, a bookstore that exclusively sells books written by women authors, and picked up the book collection of writings and speeches by Lélia Gonzalez. I figure, what better way to practice my Portuguese than through the words of a revered radical Black activist.

The funny thing about Saturdays 1 and 2 is that on both occasions I had fully intended to explore more of the city on Sunday as well, but when Sunday rolled around I was simply too tired. So, I listened to my body, and by the time Saturday #3 came around, I learned my lesson and basked in the glory and gratitude for the Saturday without envy for anything more.

São Paulo confirmed to me that I’m a city girl at heart. Little did I know, all I needed was a few weeks in the biggest city in the Americas to help me get back to myself, reset my mind and body, and feel inspired to continue learning. I’m forever grateful for this city, and I look forward to my return.

Signed,

N.A.

What Francia Márquez Reminded Me About Black Women’s Activism

Almost two years ago, I wrote an article about how newly elected Colombian vice president Francia Márquez would be great news for human rights. Yesterday, I was honored and delighted to be in the room as she addressed a group of Afro-descendant land and territory defenders from across Latin America and the Caribbean; and I was nothing short of impressed.

To be completely honest, the article I wrote two years ago was quite diplomatic. I was writing it for publication on my employer’s website, so I had to keep it cute. I praised her resume of work and her previous accolades, I connected her issues to the ones we worked on, and I kept it pushing. If anything, I just wanted to mark the history books with a subtle, don’t say I never said anything.

But what I felt at the time and didn’t say, and what I felt yesterday in her presence, is that regardless of the restrictions of executive office, Francia Márquez is the type of dark-skinned, Black woman, get shit done (dare I say radical), grassroots activist that gives white supremacist systems a run for their money.

Last week, I was telling a friend how excited I was that I might get a chance to meet Colombia’s first Black woman vice president. My friend, unfamiliar with Colombian politics, replied, “oh, she’s like our Kamala.” “Absolutely not!” I explained, “She was never a prosecutor, she came from grassroots movements, she actually cares about her people.” Francia Márquez is not the type of Black woman that makes representation seem nominal or visual only, Francia Marquez is in the league with the likes of Fannie Lou Hamer and Lélia Gonzalez, with Tarana Burke and Marielle Franco.

Since taking office, Francia has been pioneering the region by making diplomatic connections with African countries. And she’s been very clear about the fact that she’s doing it because Black people in Colombia, and throughout the diaspora, need to shake off their white supremacist, colonialism-imposed negative views of Africa and start getting to know where they come from. She is the reason Colombia is opening embassies across the Continent. She’s also done a great deal to push forward reparations work in Colombia. But here I go again with her resume.

What struck me most listening to Francia Márquez yesterday was actually not her speech at all, it was her introductory acknowledgements. The very first words of her remarks were “Saludos a todos, todas y todes.” For those who don’t speak Spanish, while this translates to “greetings to all,” it is not a simple “to all,” rather it is proactively and purposefully gender inclusive. In spirit, it’s “greetings to the gentlemen, the ladies, and the theys.” She continued to acknowledge the “people of import” in the room: the organizers of the event, the Black defenders who were the attendees, etc. But before moving on to her speech, she purposefully and specifically acknowledged “LGBTQ people, people with disabilities, and Roma people,” all groups too often invisibilized in Colombia.

You see, there’s this really special thing that Black women human rights defenders like Francia always do that sets them apart from the rest: when they move up, they bring others up with them. Kimberlé Crenshaw coined the term intersectionality referring to Black women, referring to the specific exclusions we face because of the combination of our race and gender. And if there’s one thing living life at such a prominent intersection will teach you, it’s not to forget others. Black women human rights defenders don’t just fight for ourselves, we fight for everybody. We have a keen understanding that none of us are free until we are all free, and that freedom starts with the freedom of the most marginalized among us.

Francia Márquez isn’t perfect, and her administration surely isn’t either. But there is a magic that emanates from the place where her identity, her authentic dedication, and her willingness to utilize the power of her office converge. I think we can all learn a little something from that and use it to push liberation forward.

Signed,

N.A.

My Journey to the Sacred Black Feminine

One year ago today I wrote my first Signed, N.A. blog post. The creation of this blog is in large part owed to Transcendant Kingdom by Yaa Gyasi, a book that taught me that books I can relate to actually exist. Since I read Transcendent Kingdom in January 2021, I’ve continued to find books that make me feel truly seen. And now, at the one year milestone of this blogging endeavor, one book stands out among the rest: Dr. Christena Cleveland’s God Is a Black Woman.

In my first Signed, N.A. post a year ago, I mused on my identification with the title Nwanyị Akwụkwọ and set an intention to write and share “reflections on what I’ve learned about myself and the world around me through literature.” When I read God Is a Black Woman I learned things about myself in a deeper way than I ever have before. I felt connection, not only to the author and her story, but also to my ancestors, and maybe even to my chi (s/o to the Signed, N.A. readers who know what I’m talking about). The things I learned and felt from this book were of such a personal nature that I wasn’t sure I wanted to share, and I went back and forth quite a bit on the decision. But, as we arrive at a year of Signed, N.A., and I reflect on the intentions I set at the beginning of this so called pilgrimage, I could only come to one conclusion: to share with you all My Journey to the Sacred Black Feminine…

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In the church I grew up in, the most frequently used image of Christ is a painting of Jesus as a blonde-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, phenotypically white man wearing a bold red robe. Several times over the course of my life, and particularly during my time as an active member of this church, I have paused to think about the implications of this image, or similar ones, being the one I most easily associate with God or the Divine. In recent years, I have taken a furtive and concerted look inward to unpack how what Dr. Christena Cleveland refers to as white male god has influenced how I see myself and how I move through the world.

My journey away from the church I was raised in and toward a more personal divine experience has raised many questions from others, and I often find myself without what I would consider adequate answers. And while I have always and continue to assert that my experience needs no explanation as its depths defy the bounds of human language, I would also like to thank Dr. Cleveland for her book, God Is a Black Woman, which, for the first time, has provided me with some language that I feel comes close to explaining the transformative journey I am on.

Throughout the book, Dr. Cleveland introduces the readers to a Sacred Black Feminine who displays characteristics of a Divine Mother and who descends from on high to wallow in humanity with their child. The Sacred Black Feminine is not perfect and does not look down on me, rather, She shares my experiences, intimately knows my trials, and struggles alongside me. Dr. Cleveland also writes about the importance of valuing and giving credence to Black women’s lived experiences with divinity even when they contradict religious theory or doctrine. Personally, this is a principle I appreciate in all aspects of life. I truly believe that just because something hasn’t been dissected and extrapolated using scientific theory doesn’t mean that what I or anyone else feels and/or experiences is not true and real.

It was this distinct cognitive dissonance that caused me to leave behind white male god and seek out the Sacred Black Feminine. As a womanist and human rights advocate, I have a deep conviction for the ideals that we are not free until we are all free, and that the most marginalized hold the key to liberation. These are ideals I try my best to exemplify in my work for justice and equity. Yet, when I stepped back and examined the manner in which I was approaching my personal spiritual liberation, I realized the god I was acquainted with was very distant from my pain, was not familiar with my life experiences, and often made me feel as though I was sprinting in the sand to catch up with someone who started before me, ahead of me, and on solid ground.

It was about four years ago that I first began to more consciously and consistently notice this dissonance in how I saw the world and how I believed god saw me. But as I look back on the expanse of my short life, I do see that the Sacred Black Feminine was whispering in my ear all along.

The first time I heard Joan Osborne’s “One of Us ” in my early teens, I was enamored. It was the first time I remember considering a god like me rather than one whom I was trying to be like. And though I was raised to believe in a loving god, the kind of god Joan Osborne sang about seemed capable of a level of empathy I had never before attributed to the Divine.

This was one of my first whispers. Since then, I’ve become better acquainted with this sort of divine empathy. I’ve known and felt it from the Divine, as well as from the divinity I’ve encountered in others, and manifested in myself. And through a series of gentle whispers and words of encouragement I arrived at an undeniable fork in the road with white male god on high on one hand, and Sacred Black Feminine beside on the other. So, I chose the path of understanding and empathy, the path whose love was designed specifically for me, and was immense enough to be designed distinctly for each individual.

A large part of my journey since then has been arriving at the recognition and acknowledgment that the Divinity within me is just as important as the Divinity outside of me. I’m proud to say that I now exist in “the world of the Sacred Black Feminine in which [I can trust] my experience and embodied wisdom more than reason and tradition. “

So, to others who may be in my shoes, I would like to suggest that you may already know what you’re looking for and where to find it. Just trust yourself, and know that there is indeed a Divine Being who knows you and your experiences so well that she might just be you.

Signed,

N.A.