Harriet Tubman once said, “In my mind I see a line, and over that line I see lovely flowers and beautiful white women with their hands stretched out to me.”
I envision a table with a single empty seat: “Come,” they say, “let us build—smash the patriarchy.”
I smile as I run with my all my might towards them. I am dreaming again. As I am pouring milk in my eye—recovering from another sting, I look and I do not see the mass shades of lily and alabaster that captivated me. In the last vision I see myself awaking from a deep slumber; I take out my red book, and write: black woman, mule of the world. Is it not on her back the discourse is taught? Still she is told race derails, gender unites.
These are images that crossed my mind as I think about solidarity movements in feminism. I keep thinking of Harriet Tubman’s imagery of outstretched white arms; it stirs me. I think, what do “pussyhats” have to do with how my life is penalized, criminalized, scrutinized, erased, and stolen. I know “I’m blackity black and I’m black y’all,” but I’m torn. I keep seeing the outstretched arms. I’m a woman; we must stick together—I crave kinship.
Then I read reports about famed feminist Hugo Schwyzer blatantly attacking black women for questioning his feminism, and the deep silence all around. Then I read articles about wage-gap-warrior Meryl Streep promoting her suffrage film with shirts that state, “I’d rather be a rebel than a slave.” Then I see the tweets about women of colour being silenced at the Women’s March on Washington. Then I hear black hair is being yanked, hijabs are being yanked, and I start looking for my body.
Then—as if my heart could bear anymore—I see images of white women holding up protest signs that read “Woman is the n***** of the world.” I’m restless. When we’ve all finished to dancing to Who Runs the World at corporate parties, who gets into formation? Because even Beyoncé had to labour onstage just for Adele to sweep the grand prize. Black women are tired of doing the heavy lifting just to be overlooked. I’m weary. I go to Facebook, someone writes, “Do not be a voice for the voiceless, just pass the mic.” This resonates, and I take note.
Sometimes, I still see the outstretched arms, sparkling beautifully. They beckon for me to sit at the table—to build. But I think, if I protect myself, am I being divisive?
Audre Lorde says, “It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences.”
And so I run, and run, and run.
I run with all my might to outstretched arms. As they welcome me, their black arms wrap around me, and I feel safe. Here in my sisters’ arms I feel understood, loved, respected, and valued. Unless your solidarity is as strong as the image of black arms holding me, you can keep waiting at the finish line—with outstretched arms for black women.
