Fear is immobility. Fear is running in place, unable to go forward, to make a choice. Fear imposes the silent suffering of isolation and is the catalyst for complacency and inaction. But knowing this doesn’t render me fearless, doesn’t make me immune to hesitation and to unwillingness. I am afraid, afraid to be critical, to delve deeper into the question of who I am, to be a leader, and to make demands of my community and of society as a whole. However, the muzzle of fear is one that I can’t afford to bring down upon my own mouth. I can’t become an accomplice to the silence that already afflicts me as a woman of color, the unfavorable and unrecognized "Other."
The Black experience in this country can’t be condensed into a simplistic coalescing of racial oppression. The Black community, like any community, is composed of distinct individuals, each with their own story to tell. I am a student at Vassar, part of a minute diversity statistic. I am a woman of color born to middle class privilege. I am a member of what society has deemed a substandard race and gender. I am vulnerable to the glaring visibility of difference, yet I am subjected to the conformities and stereotypes that would have me remain mute and invisible. I am struggling to be vocal. I am a Black Feminist.
As a Black woman, I’ve been subjected to racist and sexist predeterminations that seek to nullify my voice before I’ve opened my mouth to speak. My needs go preferably unnoticed and ignored by a dominant culture that would rather rest upon its preconceptions than acknowledge my attempts at self-definition. Thus, I can’t afford to be an obstacle to myself. One of the many fundamental threads of Black feminist thought is the necessity for Black women to individually reclaim the construction of our identities, salvaging them from the gross generalizations and distortions of racially proscribed roles. But after encountering the Black feminist text of Audre Lorde, Angela Davis, and bell hooks, I realize that they won’t and can’t do it for me. I have to liberate myself, speak my own truth, and strive to make myself heard and my grievances known. Because to do so is to complicate the falsities that are available to me as a woman of color and to assist in a movement that threatens to dismantle oppressive structures.
As I strive to live Black feminism and to promote its message, I am drawn to the effectiveness of writing in fostering communities of collective consciousness. Writing also provides me with a space where I can express myself free of societal constraints. To be a writer is to insert yourself into a continuum of voices, seeking to be heard, and it is a communal medium that puts an end to our isolation. The public circulation of private thought can be liberating, or inspiring, or even life-changing for those that come across and connect with your message. And I recognize the power of words in producing action. As I write now, I hope that my words stimulate a response, even if it’s critical, so long as I am successful in initiating dialogue or igniting your own self-reflection. Because to critique ourselves and our relationship to this society is both our right and responsibility. So, vocalize your discontent, convert words into action, and be active in the changes you wish to see in your community.
Fear is a defensive response, its one of the many methods we employ to protect ourselves from the guilt of implication. But fear only serves to neutralize the threat that we could all potentially pose to the institution of oppression. As a Black feminist my quest for self-liberation and the liberation of all Black women goes hand in hand with combating the oppression that afflicts every segment of the social hierarchy. Black Feminism is a community. It is a cosmopolitan of voices calling on the testimony of every individual. It challenges us to be more than mere orators of hope and demands that we be active initiators of progress and of change.