This essay for BIPOC women in academia was so beautifully written and so moving I just have to pass it on.
A Survival Guide for Black, Indigenous, and Other Women of Color in Academe
By Aisha S. Ahmad, posted today on The Chronicle of Higher Education
I can’t count the number of white people I’ve heard say the murder of George Floyd woke them up to how bad things are for black people, for indigenous people, for all people of color. I’ve cringed, stayed silent. But I’ve wondered. How could you not know? At the same time, if I am fair, I think this monstrous act (that follows centuries of monstrous acts) struck at an especially vulnerable time. Maybe because we are all so off kilter from the pandemic this has reached deeper, feels more vivid. Maybe even those of us who scream white privilege, who have the luxury of turning away, of tuning out, haven’t been able to turn away from this. For me, it joins other griefs, wakes up overwhelm and powerlessness. And living in there, too, is a flicker I think might be hope. If you don’t know where to begin, you might start here.
75 Things White People Can Do for Racial Justice
I learn the FHA refused African Americans home loans in good areas. First I’m angry. Then I’m selfish. I could’ve had black kids on my block. Another heartbreaking part: this denied blacks the chance to build generational wealth. Hard to hold it all without white guilt.
[re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
We’re in the girl’s bathroom, plain white tile, 5th grade. The group of black girls in my class are breaking the rules, I think. I am a goody-two-shoes, say some snooty, uptight white girl thing? Later, our teacher names me the ringleader, and the black girls laugh.
[I plan to post one tweet each day in November @tryingmywings. I am re-posting them here.]
Today I see a photo in the L.A. Times, 70,000 people protesting the anti-immigrant Prop 187. A sea of color surrounds city hall, young Latino Americans taking to the streets in 1994. I cry, big pride in them. Good chills thrum down my thighs, big belief in Californians.
[I plan to post one tweet each day in November @tryingmywings. I am re-posting them here.]
My stepfather’s house in Connecticut, five acres, a creek. The school bus stops on a dirt road, long, sand-colored buildings, no trees. All the black kids get on. I am eight years old. Today, at 61, I cringe. Even then, shouldn’t I have known something was deeply awry?
[I plan to post one tweet each day in November @tryingmywings. I am re-posting them here.]
No Holds Barred 