Sometimes to be Black in America means weeping for lives lost and violence inflicted.
But mostly, to be Black in America means always finding a way to fearlessly press on, not over, and not under, but through the obstacles that surely lie ahead.
But mostly, to be Black in America means always finding a way to fearlessly press on, not over, and not under, but through the obstacles that surely lie ahead.
I wrote those words a year ago, with tears in my eyes and my head achy from sobbing. In my tiny lower East side apartment, as my four roommates were settling into REM sleep, I snuck to the bathroom and burst into tears I’d been holding in all day. The thought of someone taking the lives of those who wanted nothing more than to pray and fellowship was almost too much to bear. But like the many other burdens of Blackness, I kept it draped over my shoulders until I could snatch a moment alone to deal with the weight of it.
having harmless fun with friends. In an attack that has since been called an act of terrorism, those partygoers were murdered, and even more survivors ended up in the hospital.
As I reflect on the year since the tragedy in Charleston, I can’t help but see these two instances as deeply connected. Two marginalized groups. Two disturbed men murdering senselessly with weapons they bought legally. One man being called a terrorist. Two terrorists.
These unfortunate circumstances make me think of Melissa Harris Perry’s discussion of ‘ontological blackness’ or, as she puts it, making oneself “the least of these.” In her talk at Elon this winter, she explained, “Blackness is not having a problem, it is being perceived as a problem. When we say, ‘Black lives matter,’ we really mean problematic or marginalized lives matter.”
By that definition, most if not all of the people in the Orlando LGBT club that night were ontologically Black – and 102 of them paid a steep price for that, having been injured or killed for their sexual orientation or gender identity. For being who they are.
As I reflect on the year since the tragedy in Charleston, I can’t help but see these two instances as deeply connected. Two marginalized groups. Two disturbed men murdering senselessly with weapons they bought legally. One man being called a terrorist. Two terrorists.
These unfortunate circumstances make me think of Melissa Harris Perry’s discussion of ‘ontological blackness’ or, as she puts it, making oneself “the least of these.” In her talk at Elon this winter, she explained, “Blackness is not having a problem, it is being perceived as a problem. When we say, ‘Black lives matter,’ we really mean problematic or marginalized lives matter.”
By that definition, most if not all of the people in the Orlando LGBT club that night were ontologically Black – and 102 of them paid a steep price for that, having been injured or killed for their sexual orientation or gender identity. For being who they are.
"A piece of my heart is with you at the dinner table as your family watches the news coverage and adds commentary that stings the core...and you sit quiet. Again.
In the wake of that tragedy, I wonder how many LGBTQIA people, out or not, had to sneak off to a corner or a bathroom or their car to let the tears fall. I wonder how many people have taken a few extra showers this week so that the water would drown out their sobs.
On Sunday, after news media spent the day interviewing family members, airing press conferences and retelling the same sickening details over and over, I scrolled my Facebook feed to find that many of my friends had done what mainstream news media would not and could not – they focused more on solidarity than spewing facts.
One friend in particular quietly came out as queer-identifying (though she’s not a fan of that word). It was deftly hidden in a post that kept the focus on those who she seemed to think were struggling with this more than she was – and those who could not struggle openly at all.
On Sunday, after news media spent the day interviewing family members, airing press conferences and retelling the same sickening details over and over, I scrolled my Facebook feed to find that many of my friends had done what mainstream news media would not and could not – they focused more on solidarity than spewing facts.
One friend in particular quietly came out as queer-identifying (though she’s not a fan of that word). It was deftly hidden in a post that kept the focus on those who she seemed to think were struggling with this more than she was – and those who could not struggle openly at all.
“A piece of my heart sits with all the QPOC,” she wrote, “who sit around tables with families today with pits in their stomach, lumps in their throat and endless tears anxiously waiting to burst through the flood gates of your eyelids when you're finally alone in your bed tonight.
“A piece of my heart is with you at the dinner table as your family watches the news coverage and adds commentary that stings the core...and you sit quiet. Again. Because they just don't know how much heavier this feels. How much more this hurts. How this attack is not as distant as your parents may think. This was an attack on two major intersectionalities that you embody. Being of color and being queer. I am with you. It's okay. We can cry later. We will cry together.
“Another piece of my heart is with those who might've been at Pulse without their families knowing, but are now forced to explain and defend their identities before they were ready. You should not have to do that, but please know you are not alone.”
A year ago I pieced together a partial meaning of Blackness: the tears we cry to ourselves, the way mistreatment of strangers feels like mistreatment of family, all the times we wonder how we’ve gotten this far without becoming a hashtag or ending up on a t-shirt.
Today I see how this extends to ontological Blackness as well; a theory that I once questioned is starting to make sense. We live in a world that seems to be regressing, but in reality, we just have more access to information about the everyday instances of racism, sexism and profiling that has always existed in this country. There have always been people standing at podiums and in courtrooms, encouraging that bigotry in front of live audiences and stenographers. Now, there are others who tweet and text and blog about it.
Today I see how this extends to ontological Blackness as well; a theory that I once questioned is starting to make sense. We live in a world that seems to be regressing, but in reality, we just have more access to information about the everyday instances of racism, sexism and profiling that has always existed in this country. There have always been people standing at podiums and in courtrooms, encouraging that bigotry in front of live audiences and stenographers. Now, there are others who tweet and text and blog about it.
At the same time, we have more means and more courage to be honest about who we are and how we want to be treated. When we celebrate Blackness or encourage people of all sexualities to #KeepKissing, or tell women they shouldn’t have to dress like they’re warding off sexual assault, those bigots get angry. Something deep inside of them this is disturbed. And whether they shoot up a church or a club, whether they defend “20 minutes of action” or call for a ban on immigration, they act out in ways that create a mixture of fear and solidarity among the ontologically Black. |
The fear, for many, is constant and the solidarity doesn’t last long enough. In between tragedies and outpourings of support, we live our lives normally: outwardly and collectively celebrating what makes us unique, but still navigating a society that turns our difference into a burden. We work twice as hard for half as much, fake phone conversations so potential rapists don’t try anything, hide pieces of ourselves from those who love us and watch what we say because we know we’re representatives of our marginalized identities in ways that others are not.
I guess that’s the thing about ontological Blackness: it lives in two places. In public, surrounded by those who identify the same way we do, it can be a source of pride. But in the quiet moments, the times when we are alone in our difference, it can be a suffocating, heavy thing that makes us vulnerable to assault and mistreatment and even death.
As we #PrayforOrlando, almost a year after prayer warriors became prey in Charleston, the only thing that encourages me is our strength in numbers. Right now, just like after any heartbreaking national event, we are together. Ontologically Black people (at least those who understand intersectionality) are rallying around one another. This is when we are strongest. This is when the bigotry and the hatred are silenced. If only this could last always.
I guess that’s the thing about ontological Blackness: it lives in two places. In public, surrounded by those who identify the same way we do, it can be a source of pride. But in the quiet moments, the times when we are alone in our difference, it can be a suffocating, heavy thing that makes us vulnerable to assault and mistreatment and even death.
As we #PrayforOrlando, almost a year after prayer warriors became prey in Charleston, the only thing that encourages me is our strength in numbers. Right now, just like after any heartbreaking national event, we are together. Ontologically Black people (at least those who understand intersectionality) are rallying around one another. This is when we are strongest. This is when the bigotry and the hatred are silenced. If only this could last always.