Janelle Gray's Blog, page 12

Double Blue Card

At 23 I have been more than lucky to have travelled as much as I have. Of course, I worked hard to save lots of dollars to fund said crazy adventures. But the point is, travelling for ‘leisure’, or ‘adventure’, or ‘backpacking’, or whatever you want to call it, is a luxury that a minute percentage of the world can enjoy. And after having been blessed with so many eye-opening experiences, I cannot pretend that this gig hasn’t been made a whole lot easier because of two things: my blue skin, and my blue passport.Now when I say blue, let me be clear. I mean my dad is Scottish, so I turned out so white I am practically blue, especially on cold days. And as the holder of the blue, Australian passport, my journey around the planet has gone pretty well, to say the least.The double blue ticket has afforded me a huge amount of privilege in my life and in my travels. Yep, it’s that all-pervasive, yet supposedly elusive ‘white privilege’ you keep hearing about. Let me give you a little snapshot of what it has looked like for me over the years.When returning from Peru to Australia and ticking ‘yes I have something to declare’ on my migration card, then explaining I had a bag full of loose coca leaves in my luggage, the customs officer did not so much as lift an eyebrow. She waved me straight through without even checking my luggage.When returning from India, dressed in a sari and dirty hiking shoes, once again, I was waved straight through without so much as a second glance. (If your cultural appropriation buzzer is going off, don’t worry we’ll get to that later.)At a Muslim Layenne festival in Senegal, I was given special access to meet an esteemed religious leader. I had no idea who this man was, I do not speak Wolof, and am not Muslim. Meanwhile, members of the Muslim, Senegalese family I was staying with did not have the chance to meet him. The importance of the meeting was lost on me, and those who would have appreciated this gesture, were not afforded the same treatment.Being given favourable ‘special treatment and attention’ when I was the minority in a place or situation.Being ushered to the front of a very long queue for a nightclub when I was the only white person.In general, having no hassle at airports or in transit. Not having random people touch my hair.Being referred to as an ‘expat’, not a ‘migrant’These are just some small ways white privilege has dictated my travel life. Now, even though no one can control where they are born, everyone can check their privilege. Not sure if you even have ‘white privilege? Here are some telltale signs. The wanky, white traveller often does many or all of the following:Takes zero responsibility for their financial or personal security, with the attitude that their privilege, passport, random standers by, and or parents money will bail them out of any situation.Explains stuff about someone else's culture to the person who is actually from that culture.Talks A LOT about their own travels, and listens to/notices NOTHING that is going on around them. This one includes having no cultural awareness and often no language skills apart from English.Treating locals like they are there to serve them. This attitude goes something along the lines of, “you are lucky I am bringing my money and tourism to your country and you are now indebted to me.” This person now expects 5-star treatment, giving no understanding in return and has no concept of how damaging the tourism industry can actually be to local people and their culture.Having a long and wanky checklist of things and places to do and see, and bragging about this relentlessly to anyone who will listen. This one sort of reeks of the whole ‘the world is to be conquered’ mentality. Not always, but there is a fine line between a bucket list, and a hugely inflated sense of entitlement to consume the world's greatest wonders. At what cost?Expecting special treatment and attention for being white. Can also include expecting everyone to speak English, and getting rude/frustrated when they don't.Expecting European/western standards of everything when visiting remote/ developing regions. Not having any sense of adaptability. This includes complaining about cultural norms and expectations of the country you CHOSE to visit.Cultural appropriationThat last point opens up a whole conversation on it’s own. So i’ll just leave you with this list for now. Having been born with the double blue card of white privilege, I can never claim to understand or know how it is to not have it. However, we can always check our privilege, and choose not to live from this sense of entitlement.If you are lucky enough to wander the globe, tread lightly, listen carefully, and watch truly. As you step beyond your comfort zone in the outside world, let that sense of adventure travel inward. Discover your privilege and confront it head on.Just because you may get through pretty much any airport without hassle, remember your best mate from Colombia is getting ‘randomly drug searched’ at every layover. Remember, where you may look at police and see protection, many others will see danger. And just because you would like to have a quirky and different cultural experience, someone else’s ancestral traditions may be jeopardised. And no, it's not a coincidence. Check your privilege with your next check in. And stay woke.To keep up with Geneviève, follow her blog atwww.dancingchange.comand like her Facebook pagehere.

Ain't No Half Steppin': Assimilate or Advocate (Part 1)

“Can’t I just ‘be’? No. No you can’t. You do not have the luxury to just be. You must be great.”This quote was taken from a recurring conversation between the black consciousness and the society we live in. Even with all of the social justice movements, systemic oppression, and manifestation of dreams happening in the 21st century, there are still two choices that we as black people are forced to make on a regular basis. We either assimilate or advocate. In this context, assimilation can be defined as relinquishing any aspect of one’s culture in order to achieve a more desirable standard within society. One example of this could be women straightening hair to look more professional in the workplace.To advocate is to simply hold one’s culture closely by preserving its values and history.The objective of writing this article is to highlight and rationalize how black men and women confront racial obstacles that force them to either assimilate or advocate with regards to their experience within African diaspora, success, and white supremacy. I chose these three topics (out of many others) because they’re relevant to the black experience.One of the consequences of being a child of the African diaspora (displaced from Africa) is having the dilemma of either advocating for restoration after displacement or assimilating to the culture and etiquette of the country that they occupy. This is a result of the slave trade that happened in the early 16th century.Take Colombia for example. According to author Karen Juanito Carrillo “by 1518, with the demand for slaves in the Spanish ‘New World‘ growing, King Charles I of Spain authorised their direct transport to the Americas… At least 10 million Africans from areas as diverse as Dahomey, Nigeria, Ghana, Luanda, Mauritania, Togo, and Angola, were enslaved in the Americas.”In those days, slaves had no choice of where they would like to live, how they would like to live, or even if they would like to start a family of their own. The only precious belongings that were brought along with them were the will to live. “Assimilate or die” could have been the slogan of their slave experience.In the present day, the child of the diaspora is confronted with the same dilemma but packaged differently. Some might say that I was one of the lucky ones because my ancestors were shipped to the United States and not to another country that was deemed under-developed. American history has revealed that there, in fact, was no luck in the brutal and uphill battle for liberation and freedom from the shackles of slavery.During the Reconstruction Era (a time in American history when the 13th amendment abolished slavery), we African Americans were given the heavy burden of building our lives from the ground up. Two choices were given: either assimilate to an evil culture that capitalized from slave labor instead of figuring out life on its own or advocate for those who had just become freedmen by prioritizing education and self care. Thankfully, pioneers such as Frederick Douglass, Booker T. Washington, and W.E.B. Du Bois chose the latter.This would be a good time to address the African-American experience based on DuBois’ illustration of ‘the double consciousness” and “the veil.” DuBois wrote, “It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s souls by the tape of a world that looks on in amused, contempt and pity.”This description is nothing short of the African-American experience: an experience that encompasses both the black self and the American self.Incidentally, to be black in America is to be a problem. Racial profiling, police brutality, and mass incarceration have proven that. If identity, esteem, and self-worth were left up to the images, stereotypes, and perception of black, then we would succumb to the label of criminal. We would succumb to being less attractive or less intelligent than our white counterparts. “The Veil” is a mentality that keeps everyone from seeing African Americans for who they really are. This veil is what makes the color line so transparent geographically. This veil reinforced master and slave mentalities among both whites and blacks even after The Emancipation.Can we advocate while assimilating? Some years ago, I had the chance to visit my family during the winter holiday. We had a conversation about our names. In a frank manner she replied, “Your father and I gave you these names because we want y’all to have jobs when you’re older.”I do wonder what my name would have been had my mother chose not to prioritize the fact that we live in white society. I view my name as a permanent link to a loving family. Honestly, my name does not bother me. What does bother me is the fact that both parents knew that raising a black son in the world came with the responsibility of representation. On the other hand, I am reminded of an iconic African African man who was born with the name Malcolm Little. Most know him by the name of Malcolm X, the X representing the sever between him and the white lineage that his last name was linked to as well as the true last name that is unknown to him.In the second part of this article, I will address the following: How does success affect whether one chooses to assimilate or advocate within the black hierarchy? Are black men and women forced to chose because of white supremacy? and what would advocating look like in the present day?(1) DuBois, W.E.B. (William Edward Burghardt). The Souls of Black Folk. Chicago, A.C. McClurg & Co., University Press John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A. 1902(2) Carrillo, Karen Juanita., The View from Choco: The Afro-Colombian past, their lives in the present, and their hopes for the future. (May 2010; ISBN: 1451565275 / 1-4515-6527-5)To keep up with Justin, subscribe to his youtube channel, The Black Curriculum,here.

Welcome Home

Sometimes you never know the experience you’re having until you’ve had it. In South Africa, I sat on balconies in hammocks, I drank wine on rooftop patios, I stood in the high courts, and walked the Apartheid Museum. Statues and images of Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela watched over my shoulder from almost anywhere in the city. Heroes from the war against apartheid are tattooed on the walls that line the roads.I walked in wonderment taking pictures of things locals probably found normal or wished not to be publicized. I eavesdropped on conversations behind me just to hear the sound of the language. I watched as women with babies tied to their backs in cloths and objects balanced on their heads casually walked the modern streets.The first day I was there, I distinctly remember thinking, “So this is what it’s like to be a part of the majority.” Odd. Not because it was a first time. But because I’ve been so used to being considered/treated as “minor” in my own country for so long that it never occurred to me what it would feel like to see mostly black people in a whole city and not just a part of town.I’m being assumptive here but I think it’s a feeling that few Black Americans know. There are certain experiences that you will never have until you leave the country. I don’t mean to sound arrogant. But I do mean to make you consider finding out exactly what I mean.As a person of color in a country designed to mistreat people of color, it’s hard to imagine a world where black is consistently all things. Black is businessman, entrepreneur, homeless, poor, powerful, powerless, blue collar, white collar, educated or not. Black is all those things while being neither the exception nor the expectation. For the first time, black just was.It’s a country where black took its power back. I’ve never felt so empowered and deflated at the same time. Because how can Black America take back power that was never theirs to begin with?Now, I know what this may sound like. So let me clarify that I am not suggesting a mass exodus (but I’m notnotsuggesting it either). I know many people who would say, “I am American. This is my country. And I’m not going anywhere.” And I’m not challenging that. I know some may say, “My people built this country. They bled, sweat, and cried here.” And that’s true. But let’s be clear. They didn’t want to. They weren’t given a choice. But you are.Again, I’m not suggesting every Black American pack their bags and leave the U.S. for their country of ancestral origin (although right now that might be safer; but I digress). But I am suggesting a mass pilgrimage of sorts. Why? Because you, too, should know the feeling of touching land where the history of your existence isn’t rooted in submission, steeped in false inadequacy, and chained to suppression. You, too, deserve to touch a land where your people were born of and to freedom. That is a feeling I could never convey with words.Only a few decades out of apartheid, South Africa is prickled with its own racial issues and problems and in many ways continues its own battles. I’m not so naïve to think otherwise. But standing in a modern land with its city infrastructure that you’ve only seen depicted as underdeveloped, starving, and what they have coined “barbaric” makes you want to seek what they are trying to hide.At the end of the day, I could tell you I felt foreign in a foreign land; because I am and I was. I could tell you I was like a deer in headlights when they spoke languages that should have been my own. I could tell you how I felt shame when they realized I didn’t understand them.Or, I could tell you how I felt oddly at home between the clicks of their words. I could tell you their language sang an anthem I’d never been taught but still understood on some basic level. I could tell you how their stares turned to smiles of welcome as if they saw me for both who I was and who I would have been had my path and the paths of those before me not been ripped from us.I could tell you how when I told them I was from the U.S., they smiled warmly, opened their arms and genuinely said, “Welcome home, my sister.” I could tell you how I’m writing this through tears because it seems impossible to even think of it with dry eyes. I could tell you how I graciously accepted their hug of welcome for my grandmothers who will never receive it and my ancestors who once longed for it.I could tell you. Or you could go and feel it for yourself.

A Martyr In Her Bed Tonight

Posted on 07/12/2016It was a swipe right, a short convo, a debate over the best Old Fashions and Black Russians, and a meeting downtown with every intention to be out of our minds then her polka dot panties and my Superman boxer briefs long before the bars closed. This town is small and made for bowlers and girls who wear side ponytails and Reebok Classics. Neither of us fit and found comfort in our sheepy behavior, however black it got.Drunk, though I could argue we were tipsy, we stumbled down the cobblestone sidewalks, looking for pieces of Earth to hold tight to in case gravity wasn’t enough. “Just keep me where the light is,” I yelled out, and she went into a rant about John Mayer’s white supremacist dick. Drunk. Not one star in sight, just beams from our cell phone flashlights lighting our feet and attracting gnats and mosquitoes.We replenished in each other everything drained from us over the past few days. I wasn’t sure how else to say “thank you,” except with a kiss while waiting on the Uber. She kissed me back pretending my hand on her back was the reason she came closer.We left our shoes at the door, our phones on the coffee table, my shirt on the back of a dining room chair, and her shorts were kicked to the top of the fridge. All else made it to the bedroom floor.We examined the markings strangers left on our bodies; the art and the writings. Between us were novels and galleries. I was The Met and her, the Gagosian. She’s a wanderer and a lover. I shiver next to her.“Breathe. Remember to breathe.” Reminders when we were able to speak. “Breathe. Say something.” I read the poems on her back out loud.Then there were no words. Just heavy breathing, a wind coming through the window, over our legs, and beneath the door, and laughing in the parking lot five stories below. They were probably lovers, I thought.The silence wasn’t awkward, scary, or unsure. It was just there, like I was, feeling a peace, a serenity, a vibe. And she asked, “have you cried for Philando Castile or Alton Sterling yet?” Then I did.Follow Darnell Lamont Walkerhere.

Sketch me as a woman

We judge people based on their sex, their creed, their chosen profession, or even the friendships they keep. And of course, women are more harshly judged; especially among other women. Our standards of what we believe to be beautiful, promising, or successful do not align to what men’s ideas are of being “that” woman; the ideal woman.But then again, could we even draw “that” woman?I wrote this poem thinking about what she’d look like and knowing that I can never draw her. Beauty is subjective. And ideals or views of perfection tend to change as we grow older, gain life experience, and are exposed to the different types of beauty in people.As we become husbands and wives, fathers and mothers, our idea of beauty shifts to the character, wisdom, and personalities of our spouses and children. But wouldn’t it be great if we all looked at people like that before our identities change? What would the world look like if we sketched the character, the inner beauty and goodness in people at first glance? We would see terrible ugliness in some people, but we would also see beauty that we may have initially missed.Sketch me as a womanWith slender limbs,Wide hips, a small waist,And breasts to your liking.Color me an olive hueWith light blonde hair,Full lips and bright blue eyes.Dress me up as a ladyWith a dress that hugs every curve.Cover me in modesty,But enough skin showing to warrant your lustful thoughts,And greedy eyes to feast on every inch.Now sketch me as a man,With strength in my stance, andBroad shoulders that can hold the weight of the world.Color me any color that represents my masculinity;Anything but pastels or light colored tones.I don’t need you to dress me up as a man,For whatever I wear takes on my character.Now sketch your daughters.Sketch your sons.Color her ravishing, but innocent.Color his strength, and not his arrogance.Dress them up, as you want society to see them.Are you picturing your daughter clothed in modesty?Or painting her with power in her stance?Or your son;Must he be clothed like a predator,but with the heart of lamb?Now I’ll sketch me with my own eyes,I am woman with wide hipsthat carried and birthed my babies.And these breasts that are used to nourish my children,Can get big or small, depending on the time.I color myself a light brown,The color of coconut husks.I dress whatever pleases me, and comforts meAnd not for your lust, your pleasure, or for you.When I trace my face,You can see the laugh lines from my youth,And lines that come with worry that only motherhood can give.In my stance, I give you grace and strength,Of being tied to my label as only a woman can.We, who are daughters, wives, and mothers,With spines of steel to take on any insult from both you, and our sisters.Shoulders that bare the brunt of your world.Hands that wipe tears, calm nerves, andWork tirelessly to do it over againWithout pay.These are powers in my femininity.I give you a challenge toSketch me again.Sketch me as a woman you already know.To keep up with Leila, follow here on Facebookand go to her website at.

To My People

So often, we measure others by our measuring stick. (Incidentally, we often measure ourselves by others' but that's neither here nor there).What frustrates me is that, while many people of color are angered by the consistent stereotypes hurled onto us by a majority-white society, we tend to do the very same thing to ourselves.Last week, The Echoes Blog featured a post by Mandish Kalsi: an Indian-Australian woman constantly defending her individuality as it compares to her Indian roots and Australian upbringing.As people of color in countries dominated by white men, we have to walk a line that is acceptable to the majority i.e. muting our accents, changing our speech and vernacular, and more. Sometimes, to those whose race and/or culture we share, walking that line appears to be a betrayal. The problem is, sometimes there are bits of that line that are simply who we are. And constantly having to defend our race/culture from being placed in stereotypical roles while being attacked by the same race/culture, is tiring.The following poem is a piece I published in my book of poetry,Mosaic: Pieces in Poetry. Although some of the brand names may be a bit dated, the feeling is still something I unfortunately always wear.October 2, 2004So what?I’m not good enough for you?I’m not black enough for you?Ethnic enough for you?Because I don’t use words like “ain’t”And I speak correct EnglishI don’t snap my fingers and smack my lipsRoll my neck and then my hipsBecause my voice doesn’t precede meYou question my ethnicity?My skin color’s not dark enough for youMy clothes aren’t always Baby Phat and FUBUBecause I don’t listen to the same music you doThen I must not be as black as youBecause I enjoy going different placesAnd congregate with people who have different facesI make education my personal dutyAnd I don’t look like I came straight from a hip hop video or movieBecause I make it my questTo be the bestBecause I’m confident and have prideThen I must be acting whiteLike we didn’t come from the same heritageAs if I don’t know my historyYou think racial slurs and white supremacyDon’t offend me?You spend a great deal of timeBlaming oppression for your neglecting to tryLooking down at meAs if you’re more aware of our ancestryBut I’ve risen aboveWhat we were expected to becomeI’ve ascended past the ignorance of manyAnd the stupidity of someSo you say I’m not urban enoughOr black enough for you?Well allow me to set the record straightAnd tell you the truthI can’t be definedYou can’t explain meI exceed my genderAnd surpass my nationalityI am the person racism’s ignorance is afraid ofAnd the person you’re scared to beYou thought I sold outBut truth be told, you’ve become what we were thought to beEducation insufficientSimple minded and class deficientIll mannered and dim wittedLazy and illiterateIncompetent and insignificantIrrelevant and impertinentYou resent meFor the intelligence you seeI read too muchI think too hardI’m not quick to play the race cardI don’t give upI don’t give inI try even harderWhen I think prejudice will winI don’t just complain when I’ve been wrongedI stand up for what I think is rightWhen someone takes what should be mineI don’t give in without a fightSo what makes you blacker than me?Is it my hopes, my aspirations, my dreams?What exactly makes me “white?”Is it because I don’t fit in the stereotype?Our people fought for us to be freeTo have our own goals and make our own destinyTo own our opinions and have our own thoughtsNow what would they sayIf they saw you in that boxFor years they took away our prideAnd our integrityBelittled our intelligenceAnd subjected us to conformityDetermined to keep us simpleAnd deny our strengths and abilitiesAware of the power in our unityAnd here you testThe concept we were deniedThe chance to uplift each otherAnd sing a song of united black prideYou’ve become the enemyYou’re like the tool they used during slaveryExpected to put others downTo get recognitionUnaware of integrity’s attritionBut I’m not madBecause I know what it’s likeSo afraid to failSo you refuse to tryYou see, the truth isWhat makes me blackIs my ability to stand on my ancestor’s backsTo allow their injustice to be my driveAnd the results of their struggleTo mold my lifeTo mimic their perseveranceAnd intensityTo get to the place in lifeWhere I need to beDon’t fault me for my individualityMy fearlessness and multifaceted personalityMy pride and my intellect were gifts given meThrough my forefathers and foremothers need to be freeSo you can say I’m uppityBecause of where I grew upBut I definitely don’t need you, or anyone, to tell meI’m black enoughMosaic: Pieces in Poetryavailable for purchasehereor available in iBookshere.

Stop asking where I'm from

When I was growing up in Sydney, Australia, I was called an Indian; even after I had received an Australian passport. I had a tinge of Indian in my accent (which I'm sure I still do). I would talk about my favourite Bollywood movie. Hence, I was not Australian.As I grew up, perhaps due to my circumstances or perhaps it was a conscious decision, I began doing things that weren't very “Indian.” I started hip-hop dancing. I learned Italian. The final straw was when I chose to study Fashion design at University. That was it. I was a maverick. I was the mould breaker. My identity was steering towards Australian during that phase. Everyone would say, “But you're not very Indian, are you?“ Till this day, I'm not sure how one measures one's Indian-ness (or any other ethnicity). But also, how much is acceptable and who gets to decide?About 6 years back, I started travelling. Till that point, I was quite certain of my Australian identity. People would ask and I would say, without hesitation, “I'm Aussie.” It was after I started visiting other countries that I realised I wasn’t sure anymore. I hesitated every time someone asked me. I'm not trying to be some flower child and say that I am a citizen of the world. But because I really don't have the answer, a certain sort of discomfort sets in. It’s like the discomfort that comes with eating lemons. Your face contorts, eyes twitch and body shudders.And I'm not sure why people are so keen to find out where someone is from anyway. In my experience, some people just won't quit asking till they have your identity pinned down to a place. I lived for a year in Colombia as an exchange student from Australia with an Indian heritage. You try saying that to a person who has never left Bogotá, Colombia and see on their face the conundrum you've put them in.During my year in Colombia, saying I was Australian was never sufficient. I would have to dive into my entire life story. Conversation would go something like:“Where are you from?”“Australia.”“Oh, but you look Colombian.”(insert my fake laugh)“My family is Indian but we live in Australia.”“So you were born in Australia?““No I was born in India, but moved when I was a child.”Some people would leave it at that. But many others would persist to find out further how Australian or Indian I was. They would fire away all sorts of generalisations of both nations. This wasn't limited just to Colombia. It's happened just about everywhere I've been. And the more it happens, the more uncertain I become of the answer.The funny thing is: the place I've felt the most foreign is in India. When I was younger and we used to come to visit family, my parents always told me to never open my mouth in public because people would pick up on my foreign accent. Sometimes I wouldn't even talk and shopkeepers would look at me and say to my mother, “She's not from here, is she?” When I've travelled through India by myself, people don't even think I am Indian. They'll start talking in Hindi and think I can't understand. (I won't lie, calling people out in those instances has been rather enjoyable.)Last month, I moved back to India for an indefinite adventure. My Hindi is pretty decent and I'm quite aware of the cultural norms. It's a little unsettling, though, constantly being called “foreigner didi” (“didi” means sister). After being an immigrant in Sydney for 17 years, I’m now an immigrant in my own birth nation. They continue to ask questions in broken English and I keep finding myself reminding people, in Hindi, that I speak Hindi. I’m constantly being told, ”Oh, but you're not really one of us, are you?” Mind you, I also fit the general Indian look: dark skin, sharp features, long dark hair. But in a population of 1.3 billion, what exactly is the general look?I guess this is a common enigma faced by immigrants. Some of us will find more grounding in one nation than the other. Perhaps, if they're like me, they'll just feel a little lost.I'm not particularly patriotic. I guess that doesn't help. Yes, I am Indian by birth. But that doesn't mean I am a prude conservative. Yes I am a naturalised Australian. But that doesn't mean I sit on a beach drinking VB beer all day. If I just told you that I'm a fashion designer but I also love to dance, read and travel, would you say I'm more Indian or Australian? But then, what if I told you I do Indian dancing and like to read Spanish books?I'm happy with my identity. I know who I am from my work, my beliefs and my experiences and they don't specifically align with India, nor Australia. My heritage and my environment have shaped my character to an extent. But why does my nationality matter so much? Why are we so eager to create division amongst ourselves at first sight?Maybe I've missed a point. I don't know. And, at the risk of sounding like a flower child, I would like to just tell people I'm human. And geography really has nothing to do with who I am.Follow Mandish on Instagramhere.

Revolutionary Honesty

This video is going to step on your toes. You may feel uncomfortable. You might not like it. But growth comes from opposition. So, if you don’t like what it says, I challenge you to watch it all the way through and not tap out on this article. I challenge you to look up @jillisblack on Instagram and watch several of her videos.I had a difficult time writing this article. I’ve decided to explain why in a separate article to be shared later this month. But for now I want to focus on Jill. With over sixty-seven thousand followers, Jill’s voice is unquestionably being heard. What started as just a brief video on a day she was just fed up, has earned her followers on all forms of media.When you have as much visibility as Jill, the world tries to define you. But Jill describes herself simply as “someone who is interested in doing real work and making authentic connections; someone who believes in black people.” And it’s for these reasons that she makes these videos.She generally opens with “Dear White People,” and there’s a condescending tone with which she speaks. But, as she says, “that’s part of the messaging.” She makes no apologies for anyone’s discomfort. “A lot of this is me using that same smug, condescending, and patronizing tone that white people use and mirroring that for them. So does that sound like hate? I’m sure it does. That’s how I experience it,” she says.But perhaps what makes people squirm is that Jill’s not talking to or about the racist white people we all know. You know, the ones yelling at Latinos (who are many times American citizens) to get out of “their” country. Or the ones wearing the confederate flag over their hearts. She’s talking directly to the liberal white people. The ones we know and like. The ones who participate in the marches and yell alongside the disenfranchised and discriminated. She’s talking to the ones who are trying to help.That’s what gets the knee-jerk reaction. People say, “You complain when white people say nothing. You complain when they say something. What do you expect?” Jill’s response? Nothing. As a matter of fact, some of her videos even go so far as to say she wants white people to be quiet. She wants white people to stay quiet unless they say something real and honest. She wants them to stop talking unless they say, “I’m here to try until I’m challenged…and, unless a black person doesn't tell me that I'm not like the others, I will claim victimhood.” I think that’s where the train stops for some people. I think that’s where some people get off.But you’re still here, right? Great.You’re not alone. Like I said, Jill has thousands of followers. And they’re not all black. My friend, Emilia, said she watches her videos and others like it through her fingers; like a scary movie. She’s waiting for Jill to say something about her. She’s waiting to feel like, “Oh crap. I do that.” And even though it steps on her toes, she keeps watching. “I look at it like alcohol in a wound,” Emilia told me, “if it stings, then it’s working.”One thing you cannot say about Jill is that she is one sided. If she comes for the liberal white community, you better believe she comes for the “woke” black community as well. She makes videos with the same sarcasm talking to "pseudo-revolutionaries" who devalue her efforts because she is queer. She pokes fun calling some of their activity "The Woke Black Olympics" and talks about how some people judge and quantify the blackness of others and "super shame each other into woke black submission."She hits us all in that soft spot. And for those who accuse her of being preachy and a know-it-all, she willingly admits she is also as culpable as those she convicts. “These videos are me talking to me,” she says, “I’ve never made one about a black person I’ve never been [or] a white person I’ve never met.”She doesn’t claim to be the mouthpiece for black people. As a matter of fact, she doesn’t want that responsibility and thinks no one should have it. She speaks for herself. But she doesn’t force her ideas on someone else. “If a black person wants to invite [white people], that’s their call. What I’m saying, is for me, I just want to see what [they're] going to do.”With all this talk about who gets to come to the revolution and how it should be fought, no one has really defined what the revolution is. We could all be talking about fifteen different revolutions! “To me,” Jill says, “the revolution is black people loving ourselves more than we love whiteness.”What does that look like? It means black people stop considering it a success when we move to white neighborhoods and schools. We stop “moving away from our families to these cities so we can have brunch with other black people who are just like us while complaining about racism against black people we would never speak to.”So aside from being hit in that secret place we’d like to act like doesn’t exist, why else does Jill make us uncomfortable? I think because she tells us to do something we innately try to avoid: be honest. Be revolutionarily honest. What does that mean? “It’s a simple as that stuff that you’re saying privately, intimately amongst black people about white people and what you think they’re doing,” she says, “you say it to them.” And that’s what she’s doing.But that’s also probably why she gets responses saying that she’s no different from a racist or that she’s just trying to start a race war. To that, her response is simple: “I’m not trying to start a race war because I would never take credit for someone else’s work.”But it does open the door for the questions that gets thrown around when talking of racism: Can black people be racist? I’ve heard the arguments. There’s the simple “Yes, because everyone can discriminate against someone based solely on race.” And then there’s the “No, because racism is based on the oppression of and removal of power from a group of people based on their race.”As for Jill, she chooses not to play that game of semantics. But she does say this when asked about the difference between what she says and what a racist says:So we’re going to ignore history [and] the present. We’re going to ignore how we got here. We’re going to ignore the civil rights movement. We’re going to pretend me and some white person got born into the same life and they were racist and I’m racist. I don’t know how to answer that because it’s so silly. What would be the difference? Oppression of the racial variety as well as all the ones [white people] have. I also suffer from all the things [white people] suffer from and also this big piece of racism [white people] created.You may dislike what she says. You may agree with it. But whatever you do, you cannot dismiss it. She may only claim to speak for herself. But her followers show that she says a lot that they, too, believe.Forget the labels. Don’t call her a militant. Don’t call her an activist. Don’t even compare her to Angela Davis. No. She requires that her audience request the same thing of her as she requests of those clamoring to join the revolution: receipts. She wants to see consistency. She wants to see a track record. She doesn’t want late-joining revolutionaries. She wants something she can trust.My takeaway from the interview (and to be clear, I’m still digesting quite a bit) is this: the array of black needs is vast, the spectrum of solution is wide, and the road to redemption is long and complicated. And this revolution will take all kinds of people with many weapons fighting on many fields. No one of us has all the answers.But honesty within the revolution and about that which we oppose is imperative. The walls between races, ethnicities, and religions are built by the secret conversations we have with people who look and think like us. They’re built by the secret thoughts we bury beneath our self-importance and the actions we use to cover our denial.The revolution isn’t just the fight against oppression. The revolution isn’t just the demand for equity and equality. The revolution is unapologetic honesty. The revolution is unashamed truth.Follow Jillisblack hereClick here for the full interview

WTF! Resist?

What the fuckWhat. The. fuck.Whaaaat am I even writing? Is this writing? Is spelling out WTF writing?OK. Breath. Don't check Facebook. Don't look at that news alert. Ignore the rage. The world is ending. I hate everyone. Wait what? WTF!!!!Did you get that part out of your system yet? Yea, me neither.I'm still resisting.Resist seems to be everywhere. I knew it was going to be a new word the moment I saw those guys hoist up a crane with a banner reading “resist” upstaging the White House.What is resisting? What does it mean to resist? What does that do to me when I actively resist something? What does it do to my mind, body, and spirit?My mind wanders to the moment Oprah had Rhonda Byrne, author of the book "The Secret," on her show. I vaguely remember this concept of resisting and the words "law of attraction." Oprah, man. Whatever, let's look it up.According to opentoprosperity.com, "One of the greatest hindrances in working with the Law of Attraction is a little thing called RESISTANCE. At its core, resistance is nothing more than negative thoughts that trigger corresponding negative emotions. As simple as that explanation may be, overcoming the problems it can cause is a little more complex."Tell me about it.Well, let's get away from the law of attraction (if that's even possible) for a second, and define resistance:1. the refusal to accept or comply with something.Example: They displayed a narrow-minded resistance to change.synonyms: opposition to, hostility to, aversion to, refusal to accept, unwillingness to accept, disinclination to accept, reluctance to accept, lack of enthusiasm forExample: They displayed a narrow-minded resistance to change.2. the ability not to be affected by something, especially adverselyThe first definition is like "yes!" The second definition is like "but I AM adversely affected by what's happ-en-ing in the world. Hello!"What are we resisting anyways? Really.If you believe words are powerful, then we should be having this conversation. So, what's the reverse of "resist?” What's the other option that relates to how I'm feeling and what I need to do and how am I going to organize people? And what if people don't like that new word or it's too liberal, or nice, or not clear, or not inclusive?”What kind of word will allow people to take control, to feel resolve, to make progress in a world of multiple realities, and no one truth? In a world where people call you snowflake, who think you are overreacting, and who tell you that you are brainwashed?WTF? Breath, don't check Facebook. Ignore the rage. The world is ending, I hate everyone.Maybe these words are leading me down a semantics rabbit hole to nowhere. But let's look at what the law of attraction has to say about this. I mean Oprah is totally into it.Let’s suppose you created an intention to manifest something, visualized in the proper way, opened your heart energy, and nothing happened. Your intention failed to manifest quickly because you had resistance.Whenever your intention fails to manifest quickly, it’s because you aren’t a vibrational match to your intention. Instead, you’re a vibrational match to things remaining the same…and you probably don’t even realize it.Resistance usually takes the form of subconscious fears and doubts. You don’t even realize they’re there. Yet, they sit in the background and prevent your desires from manifesting. They act as counter-intentions and the more attention and energy you give them, the harder it is to manifest what you want.I repeat: They act as counter-intentions and the more attention and energy you give them, the harder it is to manifest what you want.The harder it is to manifest what you want. Manifest what you want. Manifest.  Manifest.What's the definition of Manifest?1.adjectiveclear or obvious to the eye or mind2. Verbshow (a quality or feeling) by one's acts or appearance; demonstrateWait. So what I'm telling myself is that we need to be demonstrating and showing what is maybe obvious? What is obvious to us? That all people deserve to be treated as equal human beings? That all people deserve to be free? That war is bad? That climate change is real? That you can`t drink oil and you can`t eat paper money? What if we manifested the solutions to what we know to be obviously true, instead of resisting what others force us to accept as their truth? What could that look like? What are the possibilities when we stop resisting reality and we start manifesting reality?Could that be manifesting new politicians from our neighbors and friends? Could that be starting a group? Does that mean creating a new economy? Could that mean supporting organic agriculture? Does that mean chasing your dream and travelling the world? Does that mean not paying taxes? Does that mean using reusable energy? Does that mean giving revolutionary love? What does manifesting reality look like for you? When I say manifest, what do you say?Imagine a reality filled with what you want in it; not trying to keep out what you don’t want.I don't know what it looks like to you. But I can guarantee that if you're reading this you're going to figure it out. I'm figuring it out too. I can promise you, I will figure it out for me. I'm going to manifest reality for me so that you can enjoy it too. I’m going to demonstrate so that you can do it too. You will figure it out for you. In your own beautiful way, you will figure it out. When you do, be confident and manifest something great; something incredible. Because ultimately truth is just a reflection of what is manifested from you and me.

Color blindness and blindness are synonymous

As a young, black male living in the world, I am constantly reminded of my skin color. Whether it be the personal time I've taken to delve into my own history, my exclusive relationship, or even the countries that I've called "home away from home," my blackness is something that I cherish. Consequently, if one were to read the aforementioned statement (or better yet, the title), then many assumptions may come to mind. I'll mention a few in hopes to debunk the myth of color blindness and ultimately contribute to the fact that yes, color differences should be celebrated.1. I don't care if you're black, white, brown, yellow, etc.Unfortunately, this tagline can be cited from common rhetoric that claims to not only unify the masses, but it also declares to said masses that no one will be discriminated against. However, what does "not caring about skin color” actually look like? Well, since not caring about the color of one's skin is built on negation, the real issue becomes the fact that part of your identity, the piece that makes you physically stand out, has now transformed into an invisible cloak in the sea of uniformity. Unfortunately, others willingly become blind to identity, ancestry, race, the vast spectrum of beauty, and individuality... all because "you don't care."2. I don't see color.So many rebuttals, so little time. What can be addressed here is that not seeing color is, again, building a stance on negation. Assuming that this statement has not derived from someone who indeed has been diagnosed with being color blind, it is safe to say that color means race. The unsafe and quite dangerous element of not seeing color comes in when one is not able to distinguish between race and ethnicity or when one does not realize that not seeing color is a declaration of a conscious effort to disengage with regards to race talk. Finally, not seeing color is an inadvertent way to perpetuate systemic racism due to one's inability to acknowledge one's race and consider, for a moment, that race does matter. As a conscious black man, I do consider the possibility that people who may have uttered "I don't see color" have probably done so in order to not offend anyone. In a world where ethnic groups often celebrate their culture, "not" seeing this practice becomes the biggest offense.3. The construct of the term "black"James Brown said it best, "Say it loud! I'm black and I'm proud!" Aside from the contagious self-affirming lyrics, similar declarations were made to combat blatant acts of oppression and racism. During the 1960s and 70s, the U.S. underwent a social change and heightened awareness of race relations. Most know this time as the civil rights movement. Not too long before this movement, the color terms "black" and "white" did not exist. Rewinding even further, the term "negro" was frequently used to denote persons of African descent who lived in the U.S. Over the course of the 19th and 20th century, self-identity began to change as new terms were introduced. Regarding the color term "black," many adopted it to identify with an ethnic group that spent tireless efforts to campaign, march, and speak out for justice. Some might say that no one is actually "black" or "white;" that these are simply constructs. To that I say “yes,” but what is probably most important and very real is the effects that these constructs have one our lives.When I say that I'm a black man, I'm saying that I fully subscribe to the identity and culture that has spent decades fighting to have our place in the world. In time, my hope is that the color differences are celebrated because they have finally been seen.To keep up with Justin, subscribe to his youtube channel, The Black Curriculum,here.