Today I Cried In My African American Women’s Writing Class
Yesterday I found myself weeping in my African American Women’s literature course. I am not ashamed. Although I cannot recall a time that I’ve wept in the classroom before, as a poet who performs embodied work about which I feel very deeply, it was not surprising to me that I wept.
We are currently studying a unit I have named “Spirituality.” The previous unit was named “History.” After I contextualized the place of African women in a global context and taught about the circumstances leading to the transatlantic slave trade, we then entered our “Spirituality” unit.
This unit is designed to expose them to African spiritualities as they exist in Black women’s writing, and the ways Black women’s spirituality has informed their quest for liberation. They had already watched the film Daughters of the Dust. They had also read Alice Walker’s “Diary of an African Nun.” and then watched Julie Dash’s short film adaptation of Walker’s work.
In our most recent meeting, I began the class by placing the following prompt on the board:
“How does spirituality assist liberation?”
After they had responded in writing for a few minutes, we had a class discussion about the ways spiritual thought provokes resistance and the ways in which it can be used to quell resistance.
Afterward I shared a short presentation that offered examples of African descended women whose deep spiritual beliefs inspired their quest for freedom. We talked about Cecile Fatiman, the Vodoun priestess who led the ritual that inspired the Haitian Revolution. We talked about Harriet Tubman, who experienced trances and visions that aided her work on the underground railroad. And, we talked about Fannie Lou Hamer, the civil rights activist who transformed spirituals into freedom songs, and on whom my book, chop: a collection of kwansabas for fannie lou hamer centers.
Then I read 3 poems from my book. Here is the final poem I read:
bound
my man paps wants to save me
up like change but this thick black
body is spent. spare breast. spare kidney,
fibrous womb taken fore i knowd it
was. gone lay down my burden. i’m
river side bound for the promise, god
i would serve him till i die.
Whenever I read that poem I usually remind listeners about the Freedom Riders. The Freedom Riders were young people who bravely desegregated public transportation throughout the south. They would sit on segregated buses and provoke the status quo by pairing up, one black freedom rider with one white freedom rider, and sitting together on Trailways and Greyhound buses.
Their actions so incensed white segregationists that they set fire to their bus with them inside! There is this moment in the PBS documentary where it is revealed that they each signed a last will and testament prior to engaging in their dangerous direct action protest.
It was while recounting that fact, that I broke down, and there I was, up at the lectern weeping.
I think that the selfless love those young activists put out was so strong that I can still feel it more than half a century later.
If you’re reading this, you probably can’t join my course at the university, but you could come to The Sunshine Cultural Arts Center this Sunday to discuss another brave Black woman’s work — Angela Davis.
In honor of Black History month, my comrades at the Party for Socialism and Liberation will be hosting a potluck and community conversation about Angela Davis and her book, Women, Race and Class. NO READING REQUIRED.
I can’t guarantee I won’t cry. These days I think we all need a good cry. But I can guarantee that there will be good food and good people.
I hope to see you there!
