brit n that: a feminist rant
November 1, 2012
I usually find myself craving space. For the most part as a Queer/Lesbian woman of colour (and the bloody rest) I am constantly looking for spaces that allow me to feel at ease, grow and to create. As a Black British Feminist, these spaces can be few and far between. Like the rest of the AFROPUNK contingent, I understand that being the only one or in the minority ain’t nothing to write home about.
That in mind, let me take you back in time a little. Earlier this week I was sitting in an unfortunately non-descript café drinking mediocre coffee when I received an email inviting me to the Black British Feminist Retreat. Instantly, I was thrown into a day dream of what this place would be. Black women, as far as the eye could see, talks, workshops, women with fire in their belly, eye to the sky and ear to the ground. Switched on and ready to get it moving. A space where everyone could grow and create.
I had worked my way into a frenzy, I was so friggin’ excited I jumped on the chance and booked myself a place on retreat. Two and a half days later I was on a train (a transfer, another train a delay a bus and a taxi-romance dwindling) half way across the country to a place I had never heard of to get my Black Brit Feminism thing on.
What unfolded was an interesting weekend that was on one hand nourishing, fun, and all that. I heard some interesting lectures on things that I had not considered before which bent my mind as I tried to understand the concept of Radical Praxis amongst others.
I attended the retreat with a friend of mine, Brrrrrnd. We were both suitably well behaved at the retreat and for the whole time we were there we never discussed with each other how we were finding it. As soon as we had left and were on the train back we found ourselves moaning about the same thing and asking the same question, What is with all the hippy dippy shit?
Now I love to meditate as much as the next chic, and don’t get me started on Kale and Quinoa. I appreciate the need for my emotions and I absolutely get the need for us as black women to heal. True story. That being said, lets tone it down a little eh? I find it absolutely disengaging and at times verging on the goddamn disingenuous to be talking about feelings, making “I “statements and talking in that fucking sisterly tone! Moreover, I am not sure I think its gonna make my life or any other woman’s life better. That’s the point no?
At times I felt like Wednesday Adams around that campfire when they tried to make her smile! Except it was hippy dippy “poetry”, (FYI ladies, writing your feelings on a piece of paper does not constitute a poem, not at least one that you should share) and I was honestly falling asleep and trying to not get caught.
There has to be a better way of us getting this shit done no? That can’t always be our fate of black women’s feminism. Can it?
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