In 2013, Beyoncé posed in a sweatshirt that said “Can I Live?” on the front. I am wondering the same for her, and for me, and for all black women. What is our responsibility now? Who will write us? As a black woman, as a descendant of black people who were enslaved—not simply “slaves”—I want to be reminded of our power in spite of our dehumanization. The dominant slave narrative should not be so far removed from that of the human condition. As a black woman, I want to know that despite the cruelty of the slavery, a black man would still have been willing to bear lashes for a black woman; that through the grit of blood between his teeth and the crack of the whip against his back, she was worth loving. As a black woman, I want to know that black people would have kept the wit and spirit needed to spin satire around white slave owners so well that Aristophanes himself would have applauded them. As a black woman, I want to know that white people can never fully know me, break my humanity down to a science, although they have historically tried. I want to know, I want to know, I want to know. I want to know, but not just know. I want to realize that anger metamorphosing into power, that power channeling into humor, that humor gliding past white consciousness, and that white consciousness never being able to fathom what that humor entails. My idea of a black narrative is one that subverts, flips, and undermines rule until that final product cannot be duplicated by anyone other than one with black hands.
Does this mean that only black women should be allowed to write about black women? I am not sure if I can advocate for such a radical position. I do believe that both white women and other women of color can write about black women, but if they do so at a much higher rate than black women do, that’s an issue. And furthermore, if they are not willing to self-interrogate while they write about black women and to dismiss universality, color blindness, or dilution of any kind, then no, those individuals (not the entire racial group, mind you) should not write about black women.
The particular experience of the black woman in modern America needs to be addressed. But there isn’t just one; there are many. Millions, to be exact. I can only add one.
9
How to Survive: A Manifesto on Paranoia and Peace
When you wake up in the morning, thank God, the Universe, or the ancestors that you have been able to see another day. Before your day begins, understand that you opening your eyes again in this world is a triumph in and of itself. Celebrate yourself before you remove yourself from bed, and know that whatever happened yesterday did not kill you, although it might have tried.
Your breath may be uneven and your legs may be on the verge of giving out from under you before your feet touch the floor, but you are here. If you can, stretch your arms out towards the ceiling or stretch your smile from one side of your face to another because this time is the only time you have to yourself before you step out your front door. This is your safe space for self-adulation. Let the praise of yourself lather all over your skin like ointment to prepare you for the world.
Once you stand in front of the mirror, do not touch your hair and face yet. Just look at yourself. What do you see? Do you see your mother’s eyes or your father’s nose, your grandmother’s widow’s peak or your grandfather’s skin? Do you see the ancestors’
blessing upon your brow, how their travailing has brought you into existence? Submerge yourself in your beauty. Do not question.
Do not filter. Do not judge. Only experience the essence of yourself like a current. Do not impede it with a dam that is there only to diminish just how beautiful you are. Recognize yourself. You are the only person staring back at yourself. Remember this reflection before you leave it because that is the woman you should endeavor to be mindful of first and foremost before you shame your lineage by comparing yourself to anyone else. When you part your coils or curls, shape your fade, buff out your afro, or run your fingers through your strands, move in the direction that feels the most natural to you. You may work in an environment that tries to tame this part of yourself. That is okay. This moment is even more important for you.
As you step into the shower, close your eyes and let the water roll down the nape of your neck to the backs of your legs.
Water cleanses. Not only must you wash the sweat from your body but also the energies of other people with whom you both did and did not interact the day before. Because you are both black and woman, people want to transfer their energy to your body in hopes that will help them since the body that you’re in relays to them that you are always available. Scrub in and around all of your crevices so that no spot can be left untouched before you step out.
Clothes. Are you worried that a little bit of leg will make the aunties light-headed even if the only time you see them is at church or at family gatherings? It won’t. They have seen much worse in their days, and they probably have done this themselves.
Do you wrestle with the fear that the hint of your breast will have spectators brand you with “whore”? Wrestle no more; they already do. No matter which article of clothing you place over your body, you will have someone think of you as a slut. There is no stitch of fabric that can shield you from them thinking that your body is always available. This is not your fault.
It’s not because you had sex outside of marriage and everyone knows it. It’s not because you let a boy feel you up in middle school when he did not make a commitment to you. It’s not because you touch yourself at night. This is an injustice that has been tailor-made for black women like yourself. You just were born into this framework. However, now is not the time to feel defeated before you leave your home. You put on those daisy dukes if you want to. You wear your family earrings or that skirt you feel was not designed with anyone else in mind but you. For what others think of you is none of your concern.
Here comes the hardest part: stepping out your front door. Before walking too far away from your doorknob, close your eyes, breathe in the open air, and let that fill your lungs to their fullest capacity. You’re gonna need every particle of it, for there will be people who will want to take your breath away in the most unromantic sense. Now you are on the outside of your home. You are susceptible to any-and everything. At least on the inside, you can turn off the TV, computer, or radio if any content becomes too much. On the outside, you do not have this option, so now you will be able to gauge if your self-adulation in your safe space was either enough or insufficient to prepare you for the story of today. Remember your reflection. Remember the way you touched your hair. Remember the water beads purifying your body. Hold on to that like a boat to an anchor.