black body Archives - Chasing Impossible

I woke up this morning…Actually, it is more like I barely slept into the morning. I was a jumble of nerves. I was feeling anxious. I knew that I had to listen carefully to my body in that moment because it could be the difference between being anxious for a day and being depressed for months.

My body said, “I need yoga.”

So I cued up Yoga With Adrienne on Youtube and got on the mat. We started slowly in a seated pose. Then we did the breathing exercise that opened up my world. I felt calm. Then we moved into cat pose…then we moved. And as we moved into each pose and I got to connect with my body, I understood what was happening. My body was demanding attention. I cried a bit on the mat but I felt better for that moment with myself in a dark room.

I texted my friend and said, “I have abandoned my body. I don’t look at it in the mirror. I struggle to feed it. Even clothing it is a struggle. I need to make peace with my body.”

This epiphany reminds of reading Love Warrior by Glennon Doyle. A major theme is reuniting the self. The self is divided into the mind, body, and soul. She feeds her mind and her soul. She is disconnected from her body. In a lot of ways, I connect to this idea/situation. I have always been an avid reader. I take great pride in developing my mind. I am invested in my soul. My faith is a big part of my identity. My body and I though are not connected. I never felt like I looked how I felt. I often don’t feel like I look smart or accomplished or presentable. I often want to hide in public because I just like my body does not belong.

I have lived most of life at this point with a disordered eating behavior. I love the idea of cooking food more than the idea of eating it. When I do, I have to battle the shame I feel about feeding myself. It has gotten easier over the years because even when I don’t love eating, I focus on the functional aspects of it. I just do it.

I go through cycles of taking care of myself. There are times when I exercise consistently. In those moments, I usually feel connected to my body. I look at my body more. I understand how it works. I take pride in beautifying myself. I feel a sense of grounding by engaging with my physical self.

At the moment, I am a year into a very sedentary phase. I have ignored my physicality. It is not just in the working out. It is in the way I refuse to care for my hair or my skin. It is in the lack of exercise. It is the lack of attention to what I eat. In many ways, I let my body go because I needed to focus on my mental health. Now that I am at a place where my mental health is stronger and I can say that happiness is a regular state of mind, I need to focus on my body.

I don’t need to diet like I have been tempted to in the last month or so. I know after 18 years in this battle of disordered eating that I do not do well with structure around my eating. I need to go back to creating nutrituous food and celebrating the art of eating.

I need to physically challenge my body. At the moment, I am inclined to focus on walking and yoga as means to do that.

I need to look at my face and body. I have been wearing more make-up of late. I have also been taking selfies. There is a part of me that feels narcissistic for taking pictures of myself. However, I recognize that in looking at myself and not cowering away from my own image, I am accepting that I am worthy and beautiful just as I am.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I do know that today, I started a new journey in understanding my relationship to my body.

I have spent the last couple of days processing what to say in this post. If you are on Facebook, you might have seen the post where I stated that a man referred to me in the derogatory “N” word. He calling me a Nigger is not the first time I have had my blackness muddied in America. His word was hurtful but not as terrifying as the low growls of dog set upon me in the streets of Somerville. Nor was it as soul-crushing as the persistent lack of opportunities I have faced in Boston as a black woman.

One of the blessings of my life has always been that my heritage lies in Nigeria, in the grand Yoruba land. My heritage lies in the stories of my ancestors. It lies in the stories I was told as a child in Yoruba. It lies in the songs that I was sung. It lies in my name. In my ‘oriki.’ My strong connection with my past means that in my present I feel no trauma. I have always believed that I am a first class citizen. Not second…first.

For the longest time, I lived in that bubble in America. I went to schools where I was the token black student. Instead of feeling somewhat isolated, I felt I was special and breathing some rarefied air. In the past few years of living in Boston, I have come to realize that my privilege as the token black kid in class is, in fact, another symptom of my second class status in America. The truth is no matter how many doors open for me because I am special or different, as long as the door is not open for all, discrimination still exists. Where discrimination exists, we all remain victims. And some of us, remain perpetrators or even beneficiaries of such discrimination when we remain passive. The truth is if we are unable or refuse to confront/deconstruct the false privileges of being exceptionally black, then we cannot truly begin to claim equal status.

In this age of nuanced racism, I feel bad for people of color who are unable to process the complexities of racism. Sometimes I see a black person express an idea that is so racist and I cringe. Maybe partly because I have been that person. You know that person that claims to be African, not African-American, because we believe we are somehow exceptional and not black. I cringe because I understand that when awareness dawns, this person who is now exceptional would have to deal with accepting their ordinariness and redefining how they see the world.

The thing that makes a lot of racism, as well as other discrimination, so dangerous is the small ways that they sneak up. The truth is, in this day and age, a very few people have the gall to say that they believe that a particular sub-set of people are second class. Those people who wear their bias openly are actually not the most dangerous. They are annoying as hell. The most dangerous people are the people who have conscious, even unconscious, bias that is not clearly expressed. Those people would send you to a mental home trying to figure out if you have just been slighted or you are being overly sensitive.

While I was processing how to write this post, I was lucky to run into this essay by Kevin Powell. His sentence on the silent neutrality being an accomplice to injustice validated my decision to break my vow not to speak about Trump. Early in the election season when Donald Trump first started his craziness, I checked out. I refused to acknowledge him. Maybe it was my privilege or naiveté, I had a feeling that America the great melting pot would strike him out. So I took a voice of silence and told everyone I won’t speak about him. The truth is I don’t like talking about discrimination and racism. Who wants to be an angry black woman? I have had a group of white friends tell me that I have a chip on my shoulder when I tried to engage them on diversity issues.

As much as I loathe discomfort, I refuse to be a coward. I refuse to be an accomplice to injustice. I refuse to luxuriate in black immigrant exceptionalism. I refuse to confuse living in the ghettos of inequality as being accomplished. I am going to start making more comments about what it means to live in a black body. About how I feel unsafe on the train now because I am not sure what lies behind the eyes watching me. About how I am unable to walk on the sidewalk of my neighbors’ house because they have a dog and I am afraid they might set it on me because someone once did. About how I don’t network in Boston because I am usually the only black person or one of a few people of color in a room of professionals. About how I am considering a second career but I am trying to avoid fields that may lead to the black tax.

I refuse to be silent.