I woke in the middle of the night last night with this question ringing like an alarm in my mind (as I have the past seven nights), startling my partner awake with a shouted “FUCK” that I hadn’t even realized was on my lips before it left. And this question echoed as I fruitlessly tried to calm a racing heart, soothe skin that was prickling with sweat, warm the cold surge of adrenaline snaking through my veins, fall back asleep under a blanket of guilt—it is now February 8th and I have not yet posted content for Black History Month for any of the organizations where I lead.
With tears drying in my eyes this morning, I thought of my parents, raised on 40 acres in rural southwest Alabama in the 1950s. I remembered a piece of wisdom that they gave me that I have used to shape so much of my life— “You will work twice as hard for half the reward until the day you die because you are Black and female. If you want to make it, don’t waste time complaining. Just work.” I smiled into my coffee. What may sound like a brutal thing to say to child was one of the most loving acts of kindness they ever showed me.
I have worn this wisdom like a talisman for most of my 45 years.
I closed my eyes, my first cup of coffee warming my palms, and felt gratitude that this wisdom has warded me against disappointment, taught me persistence, given me purpose, and issued a challenge that is both nemesis and inspiration—work until this talisman no longer has place in the world.
I inhaled. Swallowed my blood pressure meds with the last of a cup of coffee and poured another. I exhaled. Tried to push oxygen into muscles and joints gone soft from too many days and nights at a computer, on airplanes, in despair. I inhaled. Imagined the voices of critics and allies, collaborators and detractors, and my own voice heavy with exhaustion and shame, “where is your Black History Month content?” I exhaled.
This is not right.
For seven days, I have tortured myself for not doing or being enough during Black History Month, while simultaneously berating myself for neglecting to engage in self-care. I have misconstrued the wisdom of my elders, confusing “work hard” for “give everything to an economic system built upon the institution of slavery that values your work at just 63 cents to the dollar of another.” I have quietly endured thousands of shallow cuts inflicted by being repeated told to practices self-care—as if this were the easiest thing in the world for someone whose dignity and humanity is reduced to a product of her productivity.
Today, I will remember that my worth is not a product of my output and that my “work” is a condition of progress that only I have the power to define. I will remember that February…March, April, May, June, July, August, September, November, December, and January too…is an invitation to create a history of Black joy, of Black health. I will remember that being too busy to enjoy the liberation we’ve won is an example of systemic injustice and that rest is a radical act of resistance that requires the work of unlearning and patience. I will remember I am not alone.
I offer a prayer for this and every Black History Month:
“May we celebrate joy, wellness, and serenity with a passion that equals the fervor with which we hype our hustle. May we grant ourselves and others the grace to step back from the relentless pressure of performative activism and allyship so that we may enjoy the blessings of those who show up with energy and authenticity or simply spend time listening in quiet contemplation. May the nature of Black history be defined by its makers.”
Celebrate Black Rest.