Chapter 8

Power

Fuck It, I’ll Do It!

The 2018 national election brought more than twenty Black women to the United States Congress—a record number.1 In 2020, America elected its first woman vice president. Kamala Harris is Black biracial, an HBCU grad and member of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Inc., one of the oldest Black Greek organizations.2 Black women are leading a revolution in Dixie, turning Virginia and Georgia blue.3 Three Black women founded Black Lives Matter, sowing the seeds for the modern civil rights movement. And the Me Too campaign against sexual violence and harassment—a Black woman started that, too.4

The treatment of these community activists, changemakers, and public servants is an example of how Black women are devalued and discounted, even as they labor for the greater good—how Jezebel, Sapphire, and Mammy can stalk Black women right into the halls of power and the front lines of revolution. But Black women’s continued sacrifice and bold leadership demonstrates resilience and dedication to getting not just themselves free, but everybody.

How Black women wield power is a mirror to how they move in an unjust world.

“People Take One Look at Me and Dismiss Me”

For many Black women, their desire to use their power to help their communities comes from a deep well of empathy. They know how it feels to be unsupported and forgotten. They know that a society that treats humans this way is broken. And that people who benefit from the brokenness aren’t likely to initiate repairs.

Halimah, thirty-eight, grew up in New York City, one of five kids raised by a mother living in poverty.5 When her family struggled—and they often did—the only support available forced them into the system that has never valued Black life. Courts. Caseworkers. Foster care. Detention. Incarceration. At fourteen, Halimah committed a nonviolent offense and became a “juvenile lifer.” “I came out [of detention] on my eighteenth birthday,” she says.

Today, Halimah is an activist and servant leader. She advocates for Black families in the face of historic and systemic ambivalence. For instance, she has worked with the New York City Department of Health to address the startling maternal and infant mortality rate among Black women. But she quickly grows frustrated by foot-dragging and bureaucracy, and the thoughtless and violent tendency for government and NGOs to punish Black families they are purported to be helping.

“It took them five years to create the New York City standards for respectful care while birthing—a patient’s bill of rights. Five years, because they [couldn’t get the language right]. It should have taken five months,” Halimah says. “[And we still] don’t have anything to protect parents in case the medical institutions now want to involve these families in the child welfare system.”

Halimah is passionate about getting Black families access to assistance that does not involve red tape and trauma. She is working as part of a participatory action research project with women and children who have been impacted by the child welfare system. It is designed to uncover what community support is available to families who look like the one she grew up in.

Halimah has also dedicated her life to being a source of community support, in big ways and small. She has supported and amplified birth workers in the Bronx.

“I used to work doing harm reduction, giving people syringes and providing condoms and lubricant and stuff like that,” Halimah says. “We had good condoms—Magnums and Trojans … And I was like, ‘I will bring some to my neighborhood.’ Every night when I came home from work, I would just leave some on the mailboxes. I come out in the morning and everything is gone. I didn’t even know until recently that, for over a year, I was known as the condom lady. People were like, ‘Yeah, we know you—the lady that used to leave all of the condoms on the mailbox for people. Thank you for that!”

During the COVID pandemic, she knocked on doors in her complex, making sure her neighbors were okay.

“I get frustrated about being in the hood,” Halimah says. “I want to get the hell up outta here. I want to get my kids up out of here. But while I’m in the hood, I still make a difference.”

All Black women are affected by racist and sexist stereotypes, but sisters who are poor, who live in underappreciated communities, who are single mothers, who have been justice involved—women like Halimah—bear an even heavier burden.

“I fight against it every day … all of the respectability politics. I’m Black. I’m still in the hood. I still swipe the EBT card. I guess I would be considered all of those stereotypes,” she says. “Most of my life I’ve been told I don’t belong in certain spaces—that I will never get to certain spaces acting in the way I do, looking the way I do and behaving the way that I do. I need to have all of these degrees and accolades in order to be accepted in certain spaces. People take one look at me and dismiss me.”

But women like Halimah are often the backbones of their neighborhoods. They have the relationships, the drive, the knowledge, and the heart to offer real help to people who need it.

Lead like a Black Woman

Public service is a hereditary and cultural imperative for many Black women, born of communal values that stand in stark contrast to the “me first” ethos that is patriarchy. Black women work not just to get themselves free but to liberate everyone.

Jessica Louise, a thirty-something nonbinary femme activist who does liberation work in Indianapolis communities of color and is a core team member of Black Lives Matter in that city, says, “We have a greater sense of community. We find ways to care for others because that task has been passed to us. We’ve taken it and we’ve explored what it means to actually be in community with each other.”6

She offers an example: “If I want to be free, that can mean something vastly different from a cis hetero, nuclear family that lives in the suburbs who consider their idea of freedom to be, you know, free from credit card or student loan debt. People deserve liberation and freedom in ways that make sense for them. My liberation cannot mean that I am harming or hurting other people. Me being free means that I cannot give a vote to a law that is going to, say, impact a trans person.”

Jessica adds, “If I don’t speak up for someone who has accessibility needs, then that can also impact my freedom. People will see that we’re allowing for violence to be done against those most marginalized groups and they’ll just continue to notch it up until it comes to our door. We have to be vocal about the ills that are happening to our most marginalized people. We lend our social capital to their cause and make sure that they’re not left behind and when it’s time for liberation to come to our doors, we are actually ready for it.”

The persistence of Mammy and Sapphire mythology makes the hard work of serving the community even harder. Black women often step forward to lead in freedom movements where they are still marginalized. Black women created the Black Lives Matter movement, but we still must plead to keep Black femme victims of police violence—like Atatiana Jefferson or Layleen Xtravaganza Cubilette-Polanco—from being forgotten.7 Black women are allowed, even expected, to serve but not to have their lives (or deaths) centered. And not to lead. This is as frustratingly true in Black communities as it is in the larger political space.

Gender and racial politics have long obscured Black women’s leadership in civil rights movements. Black men kept Black women, like movement organizer Dorothy Height, from speaking against the marginalization of Black people at the 1963 March on Washington.8 White men obscured the importance of Marsha P. Johnson at the 1969 Stonewall Riots, where the Black trans woman was on the front line of people resisting a police raid on the gay bar.9

The strength it takes to serve the community is both doubted and demonized in Black women. Jessica has been organizing her whole life but still has to “bring my resume with me” to prove her ability to lead. “I’ve learned that when you come into the spaces that people are ready to give men the credit for things that they have only recently engaged in when these are things that you’ve been doing for 20 plus years.”

And, she says, “There are a number of Black men in Indianapolis who … see our behavior as unladylike. And they figure that if we, um, if we operate outside of the confines of gender expression for Black women, then we deserve whatever happens to us. They celebrate when we’re hurt. They celebrate. When things happen to us, they write about it. They convene about it. It is exhausting.”

Service for Black women requires protecting themselves from the violence of the state and system. For instance, Bianca Mac, a thirty-six-year-old Portland organizer, was particularly vulnerable when she joined thousands of others in the streets to protest the police killings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and others.10 “I can’t afford to go to jail. I don’t want to run the risk of being imprisoned with men as a result of my being trans,” she says. But it is an ugly truth that Black women activists and community organizers must also often protect themselves from some of the folks they are serving.

No one thanks the mule for pulling the plow or asks how she is feeling afterward. The looming picture of Black woman as Mammy explains why Jessica says, “[People] see our labor as something that should be given freely and unconditionally and without boundaries. We should not want credit for our labor. We should not want payment or compensation for our labor.”

This was a common refrain from many Black woman public servants that I interviewed—that Black women are viewed as bottomless sources of service, requiring no thanks, acknowledgment, or assistance, no matter how monumental the task they face.

#ThankBlackWomen

But you would be forgiven for thinking, in the days after the 2020 presidential election, that Black women were finally getting their due. It took four soul-crushing days to officially know it, but United States senator Kamala Devi Harris (D-CA), a woman of Black and Asian descent, would be the new American vice president.11 (Oh, and she was bringing Joseph Robinette Biden with her as president.)12 After four terrifying years of White male supremacy violently asserting itself through a power-mad and feckless Republican Party led by an unhinged tyrant, it seemed Democracy was back.

And Black women were credited as the driving force behind it all.13

Nearly 91 percent of Black women voted for a Democratic presidency—a larger percentage than any other group.14 That is as it always is. Black women habitually show up to do their civic duty and vote in their communities’ best interests. But Black women were also on the front lines of work to block voter suppression, educate voters, and get them registered and to the polls to exercise their right to a voice in who governs them.

In 2018, Stacey Abrams lost her campaign for Georgia governor by just fifty-five thousand votes.15 Over a decade, her opponent, Brian Kemp, who had been serving as Georgia’s secretary of state, had purged 1.4 million people from voting rolls (some merely because they had missed voting in a previous election) and had overseen the institution of an “exact match” law that said handwritten voter registration must be identical to other personal documents. More than fifty-three thousand people—80 percent of them Black—had their voter registration temporarily held because of typos or minor mistakes.16

After her loss, Stacey Abrams, already the founder of New Georgia Project, a nonpartisan effort to register and civically engage Georgians, started “plotting.” She founded Fair Fight, an organization devoted to voter rights, and got to work.17 She wasn’t alone. LaTosha Brown, cofounder of the Black Voters Matter Fund, had also been working to increase power in Black communities through voting.18 Together, over two years, Abrams, Brown, and other voting rights activists—many of them Black women—registered more than eight hundred thousand new Georgia voters—nearly half of them under the age of thirty and/or people of color.19 To the surprise of everyone who doesn’t know to always bet on Black women, in 2020, Georgia turned “blue,” delivering Senator Harris (and her running mate) to the White House and, after a runoff, two Democratic senators to Congress.20

For a time, media—traditional and social—erupted with appreciation. #ThankBlackWomen and #BlackWomenDidThis became trending hashtags. The New York Times said, “Georgia Was a Big Win for Democrats. Black Women Did the Groundwork.”21 Reuters Foundation published an article: “Black Women Voters Changed the Shape of the U.S. Election. It’s Time to Thank Them.”22 Upworthy offered “15 Real Ways to Thank Black Women for Carrying the Country on Their Backs.”23

All this adulation, though, was not necessarily a sign of society finally seeing Black women clearly or valuing their capability and strength. Indeed it made tokens of Black women—figure-heads for the “woke” to reference for social currency. It did not dismantle the stereotypes that limit their humanity. It merely acknowledged that Black women, once again, had been forced to mediate with America’s worst self on behalf of its better self and remind the country to breathe before it suffocates its own fool self.24

During her candidacy for the Democratic presidential nomination, Kamala Harris was accused of both sleeping her way to success (Jezebel) and being too aggressive in debates (Sapphire).25 The Democratic electorate was generally tepid on the idea of a Black woman as a presidential nominee. But once Joe Biden won the 2020 primary, many people began lobbying for a Black woman to be his running mate.26 Both Harris’s and Abrams’s names were discussed often. A Black woman could turn out the vote. A Black woman could energize young voters. A Black woman could bring about real reform. Perhaps more uncharitably: A Black woman could save America from the old, gaffe-prone White man voters chose to be their candidate instead of a Black woman.

Media thank-yous are nice enough. Better would be society supporting and valuing Black women not just when they give their labor on behalf of others, but also when they slip from the role of loyal helper to gaining power for their communities and themselves.

The Audacity of Black Women in Politics

In 2020, Dr. Adia Winfrey (no relation) was the Democratic candidate for the United States House of Representatives from Alabama’s third district.27 It was her second time as a candidate and the culmination of many years of community organizing and civic involvement. She had served as the chair of the party in Talladega County. And she was a critical factor in turning that county blue for former United States senator Doug Jones (D-AL), who served from 2018 until he was unseated in 2020 by Republican Tommy Tuberville.28

“My work began with organizing and I didn’t even realize the value of it because, as a Black woman I was raised to be active in my community. It was just something I grew up doing, you know, knocking on doors, phone banking … I remember being a kid and working for campaigns. Those are things that win elections. [Black women] do these things for free. We’re putting in these long hours. We are the reason why these people get into office.”

Party officials who watched Adia harness community connections and turn out the vote were impressed, but their ardor waned for Adia the candidate. “When you try and get yourself elected, you’re the enemy,” she says. “It’s like, ‘How dare you put your name on the ballot?’”

Her campaign was such an afterthought that when, days before the 2020 election, officials held a state party event at a local college, they neglected to invite her. And though she had proved her mettle as a political asset supporting Doug Jones’s 2018 election bid, even his campaign was silent. “No mentions, no value, no free stuff, no social media posts or retweets, no ‘let’s hop on Zoom together.’”

The experience was an eye opener. It made her reflect on Black women’s political service. How too many people believe Black women are fit to follow but not to lead. “When it was Stacey Abrams running for governor of Georgia, they had all these reasons why she wasn’t the one,” Adia says. “It can’t be them, you know? [Kamala Harris or Stacey Abrams]—they’re both exemplary women. Harris wasn’t my choice for president, but she was qualified.”

Adia is proud of what she accomplished. “I was the first Black woman Congressional nominee in my district. So, we made history.”

And she wants to stay in politics. The opportunity to make policy that improves the lives of her fellow citizens is worth the burden, she believes. Adia assembled an amazing, young, hard-working team for her congressional campaign. She is energized by what they might achieve together. Alabama could look like Georgia one day. She planned a meeting to strategize for the future before the 2020 election night was even over, because Adia is certain: America needs Black women.

“People don’t realize they need us, but they do. Black women have always been the catalysts to moving this country forward,” she says. “We are the PTO. We are the church. Whatever you want to name. We push everything and everybody is better because we push.”

But she is going to move differently. And she thinks other Black women should, too.

Radical Self-Preservation

Adia suggests Black women unapologetically center their own needs in political and community work. “We have got to start being more selfish. We’re doing it for them—the community and all that. And that is important. But we’re doing it for us too.”

And, she says, Black women must know their value and demand compensation for their work.

“Even when Black women are getting paid, the level of service that we’re doing, what we’re actually bringing is not matching up with the amount that we’re getting paid. They use us up. Meanwhile, a lot of the people [on the payroll] are White.”

She recently told a Democratic political operative looking to pick her brain, “Anything that y’all want to know about me, about my opinions and ideas for how to move forward, you will add me as a line item in your budget and send me a contract. Then we will talk. Black women have done enough for free. This Black woman will do nothing else.”

Today’s Black femme organizers and activists are learning what their foremothers also came to know. That, in the words of iconic feminist Audre Lorde, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation, and that is an act of political warfare.”

Few others will work to preserve the lives of Black women. This is another thing they must do for themselves.

“We have an obligation to look at Black women and femmes who have carried the labor of liberation forward and to recognize that they themselves might be burdened or in need of a break or in need of additional assistance,” Jessica Louise adds. The bonds of sisterhood can lead Black women to watch out for each other—to see when another woman needs additional shoulders to carry a load. “Let me join up with you to relieve you … take some of this off of your plate so that you can then begin on your journey for healing and rest.”29

Bianca believes that, because Black women are so present nurturing and caring for others, folks assume they spend equal effort tending to themselves and their sisters.30 That isn’t necessarily true. For Black women who do political and social justice work to be fully supported, other members of the community must learn the caretaking skills, too. It seems like a dangerous alternative if we don’t: otherwise, we will continue to make Black women martyrs instead of humans with full and complex lives.

And Black women must prioritize their own rest, which is hard for women shaped by values and society to give of themselves.

Bianca is involved in mutual aid projects, where people take responsibility for caring for one another and changing political conditions. Sheltering in place during the coronavirus pandemic was difficult. There was still food to be delivered. Isolated people who needed a friendly word. But quarantine made some community work impossible.

“I can’t say I’m resting, because I’m still so aware of what’s going on,” she says. “I still know where I’m not showing up. I still know where my capacity to do for something else is limited by spatial concerns, shelter in place concerns or resource concerns. Sometimes it’s hard just knowing that there is nothing I can do [at the moment] for the betterment of my community.”

But she has learned to embrace joy.

“One of my affirmations is celebrate our victories. Clearing my sink is a victory. Making a meal that I love is a victory. My car still starts when I need to go to the grocery store. That’s a victory,” Bianca says.

And there are bigger things, too. I interview Bianca on a special day—the anniversary of her transition. In the middle of the pandemic, sheltered in place, she was going to celebrate. Black women are wielding their power to make political and cultural change—to ensure communities and a country that remain ambivalent about them survive. But they are not made for the use of others. No human being is. Black women, who so frequently center others, need space to center themselves.

“I’m gonna put my favorite lipstick color on. I’m gonna pick a pretty dress. I’m gonna put on my shoes after neglecting to do that for a long time. It’s a victory! Today is three years to the day that I answered the call on myself.”

This is the dance Black women must do. We know, no matter what we give—have given—that society forgets our humanity. We don’t forget. We know who we are. We know what we deserve. We know what our communities deserve. And so, we embrace our small joys. And we do the work. We do it around and despite misogynoir. And someday we will get ourselves free—and everybody else with us.

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