Writing A Love Note to Sisters in Struggle

What began as a 20-min quick-write in a writers workshop grew into my personal manifesto, public dedication, and political commitment.

Five years ago, I wrote “A Love Note to Sisters in Struggle”.  I wrote it in community. Among other writers, sharp and tender souls, bravely I wrote.

Recently, on a Thursday night in Berkeley, I shared it on stage at the Empowering Womxn of Color Open Mic Series. The purpose of this event is to create a space to celebrate and uplift the voices of womxn of color.

Given the very necessary rumblings of #MeToo and the conversations and triggers ruptured, addressed, and/or healed after Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony, I figured that an open mic would be the perfect space to share my love note in public.

Now, still, and more so than ever, its words still ring true for me.

Here, I share with you the original draft straight from the notebook:

March 9, 2013

I came across a quotation or an anecdote, rather, about a poet asking his audience whether they wanted poetry, sex, mysticism, or revolution that night. A woman in the audience answered, “What’s the difference?” Touché, my friend. Lately I’ve been thinking about love. Grappling with what the layers and temporalities of love might feel like. I’m drawn to the idea of waves. Of feeling and pulses washing over me. An urgency to connect. I think about communion. Not the kind when I wore a white dress in 2nd grade for a Saturday morning in church, either. I’m talking about the communion I feel when I share a poem. It’s that moment and that process and that feeling when I’m calm but focused, vulnerable yet strong, fierce, open, and ready. When my whole being feels bright. When my chest opens with light. When my eyes feel open, bright, and just emanating with light. When the crown of my head emanates with light too. When I feel free and no fear. 

I have learned, over time, that it’s a man’s world in which some men hate women, some women hate other women, and some women hate themselves. And, for every 365 affirmations, there are at least thousands of years of documents, wars, and industries bombarding the ether with the otherwise. I believe in the strength and love women carry — not in the spectacular sense of misogynistic amusement nor the reproductive capacity of binary biochemical relations but the regenerative and productive politics and possibilities. Sometimes, the first inclination is to mistrust or deny this power. However, how often has that been done and to oneself?

I have also known for quite some time that manners are nice, but being polite isn’t always necessary for survival. Rather, being competent is. I have been grappling with the idea of competence. How do I see, listen, and feel what is right in front of me? When do I believe it? To know what’s necessary and to do it.

The Ivory Tower is cold, I’ve been told. And, it is. Knowledge for sale. People as discrete chunks for analysis. However, I learned to believe in people again — or, at least, certain people — when we took up love as our hermeneutic, our lens, for not just our work, our relationships, our research, but our selves.

If anything, please remember this:

When you show up in your power and others try to discredit or minimize your bravery, knowledge, wisdom, and fury as a woman, remember that has nothing to do with you and everything about them.

Women, keep coming forward. Keep moving forward.