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Join me and an intimate community of WoC+ to explore the intersections of somatics, spiritual practice and unhooking from the narratives of “the program.” Zoom calls on Tuesdays Oct. 8 — Dec. 3.

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1. He said Kamala just “happened to turn Black” and now he is confused. “Is she Indian, or is she Black?” And I thought only someone who has never grappled with race, never questioned where he fits or if he belongs, could suggest such an audacity in a room filled with Black journalists.

2. As if to be of more than one racial identity requires a choice. Otherwise, what an inconvenience for others. Otherwise, what are you?

3. “What are you?” This is the question I’ve received more than any other. Not from whites, certainly not, who wonder but never ask. From Black men, usually older, usually dark-skinned. I wanted to say, “I am a human,” but never had the courage. Instead, I meekly confirmed their suspicions.

4. I am mixed, but I didn’t want to be. I wanted straight hair like my mother, her perfect toes and size-8 feet.

5. Dad wanted a little girl with blonde hair that could brush and catch the sun. This, despite his own brown skin and 4C curls.

6. I wanted to want Kamala for president in 2020, but when she rallied in Oakland, I did not go. Not for fear of gatherings and the awkwardness of wearing a mask but for her politics. How could a Black woman, who must know what all Black women know, have been tough on crime and locked away so many nonviolent offenders

7. Growing up, Mom said, “Your hair is your crowning glory,” perhaps referencing its volume or honeyed hue. But I didn’t know what she was talking about. My hair was an unruly tumbleweed that attracted unwanted attention from my classmates, who pulled it and teased me. I kept it back in a tight ponytail shellacked with LA Looks Mega Hold.

8. What is it to be mixed race than to know more than one world intimately?

9. “If I had all that hair, I wouldn’t have to wear a feather,” Grammy said. Years of lye relaxers had led her hair to take flight long ago. Then, she wore “feathers” that filled her closet in every shade: red, blonde, brunette, each on its own Styrofoam head. 

10. Her Kool-Aid was as sweet as she was. Even at the age of 8, I diluted it with half water. At Thanksgiving, I held my nose to the chitlins and greens as they passed around the table but doubled up on the cornbread dressing and silky mashed potatoes. Even with copious bacon grease and sticks of butter, I still can’t replicate them.

11. Our big meals with Dad’s family were so different from those with my mom’s. Grandma Jan, my white grandmother, filled her cupboards with curiosities from the natural food store, jars of supplements, Kettle chips, peanut butter that was strangely stratified.

12. Her home, Colorado, was an essential political battleground in the 2012 Obama/ Romney election. I visited her often then, and once spied her ballot sitting right there on the stove where she kept her mail. It would have been so easy to slip it into my purse, to help her make the right choice.  

13. Then, her support of Romney felt like a betrayal.  Now, I miss him.

14. “People can change,” my friend keeps reminding me as we discuss Kamala and her campaign. “Bernie once voted against background checks for guns. Kamala chose Freedom as her campaign song. That’s not a centrist song.”  

15. Where does internalized oppression end our most authentic self begin? I’m beginning to believe they will always comingle. When I was a little girl, I caught a bumblebee and believed I could keep it alive by feeding it flowers. I watched with fascination as, with each flower, the bee got to work stuffing pollen to carry to its hive. It worked diligently even though there was no escape. Now I wonder, am I so different from that bee?

16. For years, I was caught in the trap of trying to make my brown body less Black and more like that of my white peers. I highlighted my hair, shopped where they shopped and spent all my time and money on exercise: morning runs, afternoon yoga, and evening dance classes.

17. “A woman’s breast should fit into a champagne flute.” Somewhere, I learned this was the French ideal. My breasts would overflow a beer stein.

18. Lately, I can feel my thighs rubbing together. It’s an accomplishment that this is now not intolerable. Swish, swish, swish, as I walk to the oven to check the roasting broccoli or nectarine crisp.

19. Lucille Clifton said her hips could put a spell on a man and spin him like a top. Could the same be true for the folds of my stomach? The whiskers that grow steadily from my chin?  I wonder, will there be a day when I just let them grow like I imagine Clifton would.

20. I tear up every time I watch Kamala’s campaign video. I don’t want to be so easily moved, such an easy mark for the political machine, but I think about my friend, an elementary school teacher, who told me about the little Black and brown kids the day after Obama’s election – how they walked in with a new confidence and boisterous excitement. Then imagine what Kamala’s impact could be.

21. I was with my niece when she discovered her hand. She sat in her little buggy, clasping and unclasping her fist in wonder. Her hair puffed out from the side like a cloud. It wanted to take flight. Sometimes, I wish it could have carried her away from this world to a softer, more hospitable land where she wouldn’t have to decide where she fits or make concessions about who she could be.

22. My partner said that when a butterfly leaves its chrysalis, its wings are wet.  It finds a place to stretch them fully so they may dry. In that place of stretching and waiting, the butterfly is vulnerable to prey, but if it pulls its wings in too soon and they dry incorrectly, it may never fly.

23. When I lead a centering practice I say, “feel the earth and feel the sky, feel how both live within you. Feel your history, feel what is yet to unfold, notice how they coexist. Feel your individual body, feel your fundamental interconnection, sense how both are true.” To center is to come home. To be centered is a fundamental quality of leadership. Who better to lead than those already familiar with residing in the in-between?

24. I like to imagine the butterfly sitting there, its little heart beating as it feels the warmth of the sun heat its black veins and harden its newfound appendages. It must feel quite scary to be this new body, to rest in this interim. Never before has it flown, and then suddenly, it takes flight.

What’s Coming Up

Movement Meditation for Women of Color: Living in the In-Between

Thursday, August 8 at 11 a.m. PT
This month is about navigating the grey and is for anyone who finds themselves in the in-between. I’ll offer a guided practice for connecting and moving with the wisdom that’s always found in the both and neither. Register here.

This is a free practice space for women of color. Learn more about it.