My roommate called me out tonight. In the middle of another ill-advised discussion of politics she called me out: “And what about you? You’re working for your non-profit but what do you really care about people in other states? What’s abortion compared to black men being in prison, our education system falling apart, the classes being separate? To get down on rich progressives for not doing enough and you’re as rich as the rest of us. What are you doing?”
And there it was. What was I doing? Here I am arguing for more grassroots activism from the left, but what am I really doing? (leaving aside what my roommate is doing aside, for the moment.)
I’m not a lawyer. I don’t argue cases in front of the Supreme Court to protect our basic rights.
I’m not a social worker. I don’t have daily contact with poor black women and girls every day. (Truth to tell, tutoring every week was a trial for me. My student’s basic ignorance of her own history made me angry.)
I’m not an activist. I don’t march in parades against the WTO; I don’t agitate against the government; I don’t get on federal watch lists because of my activities against the state.
I’m not even a local politician. I go to work every day and push paper and work for a women’s non-profit; I don’t have contact with the women who use our services. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing so; their and my experiences are so different.
I’m sick of the way our national Democratic party only seems to agitate on behalf of elections instead of people’s real needs. (Abortion being only one of them.) So what am I doing?
I’m thinking that if my roomie really knew what I was thinking, she probably wouldn’t be my roommate. I think this is so for many black/white folks who are friends. We all like Nina Simone, but black folk thrill to "Pirate Jenny" a whole lot more than, say, "Autumn Leaves." For, to be as militant as I want to be means that there are things that go by the way side. Gone are the cocktail parties, decadent and meaningless, not really important in the big scheme of things; gone are the easy entertainments, insensitive when you think about what kind of entertainments others don’t really have; gone are the indulgences, products of a bourgeois life. What is a person like me supposed to do? I’m the product of a poor black childhood with miraculous access to higher education; to be the good black woman I’m supposed to succeed in this world – be articulate, social, mobile. But success here also means to be separate.
An acquaintance of mine, H-, grew up in a militant family. I wonder if she feels this double consciousness – to want to lift as we climb, but not knowing how, because to lift would be to cut ourselves off from white people. Because my roommate called me out, I had a rare chance to look at what my life has become but maybe this introspection is a long time coming. I met a black woman at a party over the weekend; we sat and talked with her boyfriend about the election results in Ohio, the need for grassroots organization in the black community, the need for mobilization against certain power structures in this country. I ignored everyone else.
Which is the true self? Is the real me the me who speaks well, who can cook peach-bourbon glazed pork chops, and reads Jane Austen, or is the real me the black woman who reads Angela Davis, doesn’t want white people to touch her hair anymore (or really talk about it at all) and wants to see the city aflame in revolution? (I’ll say it: when the LA riots happened and white people were scared, I exulted in it. Yes, even with all my ‘advantages.’) Which is it? Is it the me who wistfully thinks about shopping at Bloomingdale’s and what social events could fill the summer, or is it the me who wants to see the black community stop being quite so polite and start putting Frantz Fanon in action? Is the real me bill cosby (which makes my friends more comfortable, I think) or is the real me bell hooks (who would freak them out, if they even fucking read her)?
I don’t think they ever questioned the me they have; I don’t think I did, either.
(i'm not the only one with a split pov.)
4 comments:
I KWYM about "what am I doing besides talking?" And I think it's a good question (though I also think that writing and talking and not letting things go past you in conversation is more valuable than we realize--that's how most teaching works). OTOH, why are being militant and being bourgeios *necessarily* in opposition? Is the point of action to achieve moral purity (surely not), or is it to do things and be effective?
I've kind of decided that "activist" can have many meanings, and it's a question of finding what your own role is, what you care about. Speaking and writing are a kind of activism. And life is long. Couuld be you're preparing yourself for something you don't yet realize--but keep in mind you also speak, effectively, to church people from a feminist point of view. Which is both rare, and necessary.
this reminds me of the 'conflict' of being bisexual in which there is an implied choice that one is expected to make. i argue that my choice is to embrace both, to refuse to be bound by the society's narrow minded view of what i 'should' be and do. to make of myself what i will.
Synchronicity--I just picked up the New Yorker and started reading this. It seems apropos.
D,
I so understand what you're talking about. I've been thinking about my own splitness without coming to any sort of resolution or acceptance. Having made a concientious decision to "give back" by working in a non-profit, I wonder what exactly I'm giving back when most of my worries these days tend to focus on my inability (perceived?) to afford a decent middle-class living, not actively working to change the world, whatever that means.
I hear your cry dear.
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