How We Get Free: Black Feminism and the Combahee River Collective

by Keeanga-Yamahtta Taylor

My perspective, and I think it was shared, was let’s not name ourselves after a person. Let’s name ourselves after an action. A political action. And that’s what we did. And not only a political action but a political action for liberation.

Now you’re talking about the founding of this chapter in Boston. What were some of the debates animating feminism at this time? Well, one of the debates was “How are you going to deal with race?” Does the feminist movement as a whole, does the women’s movement as a whole have any racial consciousness or any interest in dealing with the racial politics and the racism and white supremacy of the nation in which it is indeed located? That was a big question.

The thing I want you to keep in mind about the context of our organizing is that we were organizing in the context of a race war. They almost beat a Black man to death in Government Center, where the city hall is in Boston, using a staff of a flagpole to do it. Look it up. Ted Landsmark.

So, a major question was racial politics. And then the one that was right next to it was class and economic politics. We connected with socialist feminists in the Boston area during that period because they were the feminists who actually had a race and class analysis. Now whether they were completely woke—to use a contemporary term—who is, and are we ever?

So the first is the fact that we were socialists. We were part of the organized left. We were not sectarian. We did not belong to any parties or groups. Both Demita and I have never belonged to any party or organized formation. That’s just where we were coming from. But we did consider ourselves to be a part of the left. We did consider ourselves to be socialist. And we had been involved in other radical struggles for justice prior to organizing something called a Black feminist collective.

One of the things about our involvement in the antiwar movement is something that characterized the politics of Combahee, which was our internationalism. This is not a part of our politics that has necessarily been uplifted widely, but that’s where we were coming from. In those days, the term “women of color” or “people of color” was not used. It may have been used on the West Coast, but we were not there. I didn’t hear it until the early eighties. We were third world women. We considered ourselves to be third world women. We saw ourselves in solidarity and in struggle with all third world people around the globe. And we also saw ourselves as being internally colonized. We were internally colonized within the United States. We identified as third world people. And that kind of solidarity was not just true of the very new Black feminism that we were building.

I’m not saying that there were no kinds of tensions among and between us. There definitely were between us, as women of different racial and class backgrounds. But socialist feminists at least had it out on the table that they thought race and class were important oppressions to be integrated into an analysis of gender oppression. So we did a lot of work with socialist feminists, including me going to the socialist feminist conference that happened in Yellow Springs, Ohio, in the summer of ’75.

Cheryl Clarke

Kitchen Table: Women of Color Press

Part of what you’re saying is that, given some of the complications for women of color publishing with whatever number of white feminist presses existed at the time, that there was a particular role that could be played by Kitchen Table that otherwise would not have existed. Well, absolutely, because we did not have a press. There was no women of color press that was doing the kind of publishing that Kitchen Table did, particularly since we were publishing all women, of whatever sexual orientation, and women of all nationalities, races, and ethnicities.

In the 1970s, there were women’s unions—socialist feminist women’s unions—all over the United States.

But around the issue of sterilization abuse, and abortion rights, those are two of the major initiatives that we worked with socialist feminists on. And we did so for quite some time.

These were women who actually understood that you could not really deal with sexism and the exploitation of women if you didn’t look at capitalism and also at racism. So unlike some of the other feminists—cultural feminists, radical feminists, lesbian separatists, bourgeois feminists, and mainstream feminists—unlike all of those groups of feminists, socialist feminists had a race and class analysis . . . and thought that addressing race and class were important.

It’s not like it was all smooth sailing, because we were organizing across identities. We were doing that intersectional organizing. But of all the feminists, of the varieties of feminists that I just described, socialist feminists were best aligned, as far as I’m concerned, with the work of Combahee. Because they had a race and class analysis that was actually a solid race and class analysis as opposed to, “Oh, I don’t really care if people are different.” The baloney, you know. “I don’t really see color.” “Well, time to go to the ophthalmologist.”

In those days, if you were politically involved, particularly as socialist feminists and leftists, you were always studying and reading, you know? So we learned a lot about population control. The worldwide population movement. Eugenics. Probably it was during that period that I first read some biographical material about Margaret Sanger and the founding of Planned Parenthood. We were very serious. And it was great. It’s like I got my education in college and in grad school, but I got another kind of education just being in the movement.

There were two sisters—the Relf sisters in Alabama. The Relf sisters, Mary Alice, who was twelve years old and Minnie Lee, fourteen, had developmental disabilities. They were sterilized as teenagers.

I think I heard a podcast or podcast episode about them. Not sure.

Audre was a key figure in the creation of the mobilizing of Black feminism as a political theory and practice. If you are familiar with her books, I particularly think of Sister Outsider, her book of essays. You will see that she was definitely making significant contributions as well as of course in her poetry, to what do we think of—what do we mean when we say we’re Black feminists? What are Black feminist concerns? As I said, she played a pivotal role in the building of Black feminism in the United States.

As I said, they were very well organized. They generally went from Friday through Sunday. And I would imagine sometimes people arrived on Thursday so that Friday was a full day. We talked about politics. We talked about organizing. I’m sure we talked about spirituality. We would have cultural performances, usually on Saturday evening.

And, of course, a lot of reading. Readings. Because there were a lot of poets involved . . . with the retreats. Audre, and Cheryl Clarke, and Akasha Gloria Hull.

I think our major goal, at least as I would describe it—our major goal was how do we establish Black feminism functionally so it has actual political impact upon which way forward, for all the groups of people we cared about.

The retreats were also a time for healing and spirituality.

I think our goal first of all was to make a political place for people like ourselves. We were marginalized in the Black movement, in the Black liberation movement, certainly in the Black nationalist movement. And we were marginalized in the white feminist movement, for different reasons. One of the reasons we were marginalized in the Black movement, besides sexism and misogyny, was also homophobia. A lot of us were indeed lesbians, and we—including myself, at this time I was coming out. Some people had been lesbians for longer. So they weren’t coming out simultaneous with their involvement with Combahee. But for me, those things kind of went together. So, as I said, we were marginalized in Black contexts. We were marginalized and not understood in white feminist or women’s liberation contexts. We needed to have a place of our own. We needed to have a place where we could define our political priorities and act upon them. And that’s where identity politics come from. I explain this over and over and over again. I believe that the Combahee River Collective statement is the first place that the term “identity politics” actually appears.

But however the right wing got ahold of identity politics and began using it as their whipping boy and their whipping girl, what we meant by identity politics when we originated the terminology was wholly different. What we were saying is that we have a right as people who are not just female, who are not solely Black, who are not just lesbians, who are not just working class, or workers—that we are people who embody all of these identities, and we have a right to build and define political theory and practice based upon that reality. That was all we were trying to say. That’s what we meant by identity politics. We didn’t mean that if you’re not the same as us, you’re nothing. We were not saying that we didn’t care about anybody who wasn’t exactly like us. One of the things I used to say, and of course I’ve had so many speaking engagements I have taglines at this point [laugh] of things that I’ve said more than once, is that it would be really boring only to do political work with people who are exactly like me.

So I wonder if you could say more about that. And let me—I’ll just add that I think that there’s certainly a right-wing kind of ridiculous caricature of identity politics. But I think that the concept is also sort of seen in a particular way by liberals or the left, in that for some the notion of identity politics seems to be that unless you suffer a particular kind of oppression, that you have no role in the struggle against it. And so there’s this real emphasis on experience as the main sort of—as the main kind of way that gives you the ability to fight a particular oppression. That if you don’t have that experience, then you really have no role. And so it’s almost as if by embracing one’s identity, that you give up on any sort of hope or notion that there is such a thing as solidarity. We never meant that. I mean, we actually worked in coalitions. I just described working in coalitions with socialist feminists. We worked in coalitions with other people, too. We certainly showed up for causes that might not be the expected ones for people who had the identities that we had. Demita [has] talked about standing up for union organizing, and for men of color who were being excluded from work sites and from construction jobs, because of racism. And I often cite that example, too, because I guess both of us will never forget the looks on the faces of the guys—who were primarily guys—who were demonstrating. And then we come, you know, and we demonstrate with them. You know, they...

Now is a time when much solidarity is needed, because the nation-state is in free-fall. It’s not like I’m a worshipper of the nation-state. That’s not what I’m saying at all. But it is a little bit unsettling when you see what was thought to be basic assumptions about how that nation-state functioned go completely out the window. [laugh] This is a time for solidarity.

Coalitions. “This Bridge Called My Back” as a concept. Why are those so important? Because of the fact that that’s the only way we can win. The only way that we can win—and before winning, the only way we can survive is by working with each other, and not seeing each other as enemies. There’s far too much of the perspective of: “You’re not like me. I’m not like you. I’m not a transgender person. I don’t give a damn whether you can go to a bathroom or not. And the fact that you’re being murdered summarily, and that your income levels keep you in poverty far more likely than somebody who is cisgender—that’s not my problem!” Those are bad politics. Really, really bad politics. And the reason it’s important, as I said, is because that’s how we win, and that’s how we survive in the meantime.

But if it’s a forward movement toward justice, you will see that people of different backgrounds and different places in a social structure actually at times come together. The abolitionist movement comes to mind. Because there were white people who actually stepped away from their white skin privilege at a critical time in US history, because they could see as plain as the nose on their face that enslaving other human beings was wrong. And they decided, like, “Okay, yeah, I guess I’m white, but I guess I love humanity more.” And of course, there were people who were abolitionists who were racists. Who really thought that Black people were inferior to white people. I’m not that big of a fool that I think [laugh] that everything was just . . . lovely, and everybody was just really conscious and open. No. I mean, there were abolitionists who actually thought Black people were inferior, and actually wished for them, once we were freed, to get on the first boat sailing. [laugh] “Go back somewhere else, not here!” But be that as it may, they still lost social standing, paid prices, speaking out for people whose situation they didn’t have to be concerned about—what difference did it make to them? You know, they were still white in the United States. Things could have been really nice, you know? That’s a great example of when people see an incredible wrong, an incredible injustice, and they decide that justice is more important than their status and their privilege. And those are...

Black Women’s Blueprint.

Black Lives Matter

I might not have called what we did “original” Black feminism, but instead wrote that the reason Combahee’s Black feminism is so powerful is because it’s anticapitalist. One would expect Black feminism to be antiracist and opposed to sexism. Anticapitalism is what gives it the sharpness, the edge, the thoroughness, the revolutionary potential.

So we walked over to the church. And we went in, and it was bedlam. Barbara and I read them the riot act. We said, “No, this is not what this is supposed to be.” And then we started talking to them about civil rights. The civil rights movement, and what this meant. You organized them. “You’re not supposed to be running around [laugh] like little idiots, This is serious! This is important!” [laugh] And so, I’m sure they were happy when we left! [laugh]

:-)

And I think they called those parietal hours. Men could only come into the dormitories only one day a week, on a weekend. I think it was Sundays—probably Sunday.

Geez, Eastern still had parietal hours in the 80s and 90s and even beyond, I’m pretty sure.

We went to this demonstration. And there was this slightly older white guy. He may even have still been a college student, but a bit older. So he was talking to us and found out that we were in college. And then had the nerve to turn on us and say, “Well, you’re just—you’re bourgeois.” You know, “You’re just . . . ” I mean, this white guy? [laugh] We’re at the demonstration.

One of many examples of how leftists make themselves odious, even to allies. What will it take to get us/them off our high horses?!?!?

They were studying the history of slavery. A lot of the other Black girls were taking this class. And I remember them one day coming back from the lecture, because you know, we would have our individual sections and we would have the big lecture. They came back from the lecture. They were distraught. Why? Because the professor who had given the lecture was talking about Black women slaves and rape. And he said, “You can’t rape a Black woman, because a Black woman is always ready.” What?! Yeah, they were distraught. Distraught. I don’t know whether any of them were crying, but there were a whole bunch of them. Oh yeah, there was much crap. Much crap.

See, if I had been at a place where my politics were acceptable, I would have been doing political work. I didn’t give up political work because I didn’t want to be an activist. I gave it up because I didn’t have anybody to do it with.

And, [laugh] you know, the beliefs that I had—for example, these people were so [laugh] what’s the word? I want to say solipsistic. I don’t know whether that’s the correct word. But the thing is, they were so [laugh] inward-looking and inward-dwelling that they had no use for SDS or people who were demonstrating or working against the war.

And I think, in our particular cases, because I don’t believe this uniformly—I’ve heard some people say that Black women in some ways are feminists by definition because of the fact that we have often had leadership roles in our communities. We have been working women—women who worked, ever since we got here. We were brought here to work. I’m not telling you anything you don’t know, but sometimes I’ve heard Black women characterized—“Well, you know, Black women just, you know, almost in a way definitionally are kind of feminist.” Because we did some of the things that constituted liberation before other folks, mainly or namely white women. I don’t believe that, but I do think in our case, because of the factors that I talked with you about, that there was what they call a substrate. There was like this foundation that nurtured us toward feminism in some ways.

And that really also was a turning point in the civil rights movement. That’s really what sowed the seeds for separatism, because the Democratic Party really messed up and really betrayed people who thought that they would be able to accomplish something.

You began by talking about the National Black Feminist Organization conference. It was just—it was revelatory. And one of the reasons it was amazing is that I had never heard the experiences of Black women talked about in a politically analytical way before that time. I had also never [seen] so many Black women in one place. There were, I would say, two hundred people there, three hundred people there. I was so thrilled to think that there might be a place where I could return to doing political work.

And the first assignment that I had was—there was a hospital at that time that was called Boston City Hospital, and it was sort of the hospital for poor people in Boston, run by the city. The resource of last resort. All kinds of poverty. All kinds of just what life imposes on poor people and people of color. Not that all of their patients were people of color, but pretty much all of them were poor. I can guarantee you that.

There were some cases having to do with abortion rights. One involved a Black doctor at Boston City Hospital, the place that I mentioned. I had some contact with him when I was there. Not around his case, but he was being accused of performing an abortion where the baby was alive, I guess, post-abortion. And so he was up on some very serious charges. He was acquitted. But we were doing political work to support him.

In terms of developing our politics, I think one of the biggest emphases for us is that we were familiar enough with the women’s movement and feminist analysis and ideology by the time we started talking with each other to know that our realities as Black women were not being addressed. And so, we kind of knew what was there in a way. And we had read it. We had had interactions with people, more or less. Other feminists who were white. Racism—addressing racism, and probably class, really, when we think about it, were two sort of missing-in-action pieces that we knew were very important.

So what we did, which I think is a tremendous contribution to politics in general, is that we really worked and struggled to develop a political analysis that took into account the multifaceted aspects of our identities and of our conditions. And I think the reason I say that it was such a contribution in general is because when I think about the approaches toward certain oppressions or whatever you want to call them—for example, if someone’s a socialist, it’s only about economics. It’s only about work. It’s only about material conditions. It’s only about capitalism. And it’s often only about men. And so that is to some extent—as important as all those things are, that’s kind of a flat slice, when you think of it. Or a thin slice, because as difficult as all those things I laid out are, for us, there’s even more going on than that. Because, yes, the workplace, we deal with many, many things that are characteristic of what happens with workers who are oppressed. You know, low wages, unsafe working conditions, et cetera. But we also deal with low wages because we’re female. And we deal with conditions of employment that include sexual harassment in a way that men do not and have not experienced, particularly before a certain point.

And then add to it, [laugh] and I know you know this is true, but then add to it to the fact that not only are we female and therefore subject to or at risk for sexual harassment, but we are Black females. And so what that means is that because we’re Black, then the way that we are seen in terms of our sexuality, our morals, our [so-called] sorry history of immorality, however you want to put it, that then even intensifies the risk.

So I feel like what we contributed was a politics that says, “No, it is not as simple-minded and flat and one-dimensional as you all may think it is.” And you can look at many different identities or conditions. You can look at many of those. For example, I was focusing on people in the workplace. Workers’ oppression. I was talking about it in terms of women, and then in terms of Black women. Well, there’s something else I had thought of. We can just take it into another arena. Health care is a perfect arena, because while white women had a ton of stuff to deal with in relationship to getting healthcare and medical care as females, we had all of that too, and then we had the things that were sort of attendant again on our Black identities and our identities as women of color.

Women are more at risk in general, too, I think from bad treatment in the context of mental illness, psychiatry.

But the thing is, I believe when you get—when Black women are involved, whatever is happening to people who share parts of our identity, it goes farther.

And what I think the Combahee River [Collective] Statement did, and I sort of want to go back to when it was newer, is that I think it must have given a lot of Black women literally like a handhold. Something that exists in reality, in black and white literally, that they could read, hold on to, and say “Oh, yes, I experienced that too. I’ve had these kinds of issues and conflicts and difficulties too.” So I guess what I’m saying, to go back to the statement, the ideas that we developed—that that probably helped to foster the development of Black feminism, and that it continues.

You know, one of the things that amazes me still is that my awareness at this point—and when I say this point, like let’s say the last five or ten years, or fifteen years—how many Black women there are now who say, “Oh yes, I’m a feminist. We’re feminists.” And like not bat an eye. There was a time when that was like really, really uncommon. Really embattled. To say that you were a feminist—you were in a very embattled position.

I feel here in Boston, those kind of relationships were possible and happened, as opposed to some other places where people—perhaps white people were concerned about racism and did what they could, but there were no bodies. I shouldn’t say there were no bodies, but see, we had a very strong entity, and we had a strong presence. People knew we existed because of the statement. I can think of a lot of activities and activism that we were involved in that we either drew white women into, because they [needed] to be there, too, or vice versa.