Circling the ‘Divine Feminine’

On April 20, 2023 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentary, womanhoodLeave a comment

I changed my Instagram algorithm. My ‘For You’ page showcased the divine feminine, religion without an institution, and spiritual dissatisfaction. I found myself curious on how younger religious people were navigating the world. However, I did not expect to seek out new definitions for faith and belonging.

As a concept, I was wary of the “divine feminine.” I grew up in a church environment where women were referenced in Biblical text, but the patriarchal-God reigned supreme. I did not belong to a sexist place of worship, far as I can recall. My younger self interpreted religion as a template to living.

I remember the sheer awe of one Black woman who incorporated her pan-African spiritual beliefs with the African Methodist Episcopalian tradition. Our Bibles illustrated a Black Jesus with a shiny bed of jet black curls.

When I visited this lady’s house, I admired the calming nature of incense and earth-tone colors displayed from room to room. Was this part of the divine? What did my girl-child-self think then? The intentional creation of imagery and scent. To be a woman, I would create sacred space.

As an adult, I feel a little uneasy reframing my spiritual practices. How would I keep the tenets of my mostly-patriarchal faith group? I find it hard to center the divine feminine at all. Perhaps, I had been biased in my interpretations of goddess worship. However, I don’t see myself going that direction. I watched the women closest to me – in their monotheistic traditions – pivot. The curiosity grew. I started to read more contemporary and older literature discussing women’s spirituality.

Photo by Dominika Roseclay on Pexels.com

I am aware of at least two approaches to the divine feminine.

One, the divine may include admiration for women figures in the Judaic, Christian, and Islamic traditions. It may focus on motherhood or not. It may focus on autonomy outside of societal biases. The echoes of Sunday School flood my ears on who to emulate.

I would imagine that non-monotheistic traditions have an earlier history with the ‘ divine feminine.’ I circle the rows of a metaphysical store, as my tarot-enthusiast friend shops. The sapphic shaped candles. The pentagrams. The history is out-of-my-depth.

Two, the divinity term may focus more on goddess worship and efforts to use non-male-centered symbols. Some women may blend varying traditions together, Eastern and Western practices. I envision the older Black women from my childhood. Their source-power derives from African spiritualities. I imagine that some folks may already have existing masculine and feminine god-like interpretations.

Surprisingly, I did not expect them in the one-God spaces.

While reading Catholic mystics such as St. Teresa of Avila and Julian of Norwich, I discovered another way to view God. A former professor, who served as a nun for many years, introduced our spirituality class to the works of St. Teresa of Avila.

I draw inspiration for her heightened notoriety. Previously, I had zero knowledge of women saints and/or anchoresses. My sour taste of sainthood began with the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas. In a feminist theory course, my class felt displeased with Aquinas’ feeble-interpretations of women. It mirrored my disdain for earlier philosophers, Plato and Aristotle. It brought forth how certain Christian communities quoted Paul (when referencing women’s involvement in the church). But I doubt any woman wants to be silenced. Spiritually gagged, if you will.

However, Teresa’s work as translated by Mirabai Starr has been a window of sorts. The fervor of St. Teresa of Avila’s Interior Castle reminds me of cleansing. I should examine the metaphorical rooms within myself, while minding what needs attention in my physical life. Perhaps, I am drawn to the themes of acceptance of self.

Mirabai Starr has also translated the works of Julian of Norwich, an anchoress. The Showings: Uncovering the Face of the Feminine in Revelations of Divine Love has been a curious read. While I am not Catholic, I am intrigued by this introduction by Mirabai Starr about Julian of Norwich. The inclusion of God as mother may prove interesting to the divine feminine crowd. Starr writes, “…the ever-present source of all Goodness, who transcends gender and permeates all things (xxi, Starr).”

I weigh these words carefully. I do appreciate the fluidity they hold, especially in our visible world of gender identity. Is this part of the “deconstruction” work? By taking apart antiquated definitions; perhaps, people will build a more welcoming divinity. Who do we include in the divine?

With that said, bookstores house a multitude of books written about Mary Magdalene. She’s been noted as the wife of Jesus, a repentant prostitute, and/or the powerhouse of women’s spirituality. To some scholars, Mary Magdalene has been conflated with negative imagery (as in the same vein as Eve can be). I am armed with more questions than when I started reading. Scholars such as Elaine Pagels and James Carroll have a great deal of perspective on how religion changes.

In the Secrets of Mary Magdalene: A Guide to Her Story, History, and Heresy, additional scholars debate and reason with earlier and contemporary canon. I found it interesting to read about their segments about the Gnostic Gospels, a selection of Biblical text not included in the complete body of work. More so, the “controlling images” about women that influence culture and generational attitudes.

Who should women admire? What are the pitfalls to avoid? How does one honor oneself? What gifts and/or elements of the divine are innately within us? What power do women hold?

Cakes for the Queen of Heaven: An Exploration of Women’s Power, Past, Present and Future offers insight to the twentieth century woman. While it’s 2023, I am curious about what conversations took place before.

Author, Shirley Ann Ranck, details her experiences with unlearning self-sabotage. Her main objectives within each chapter focus on realized power. She quotes Jean Baker Miller, and then continues to explain her own interpretation. “Our male-dominated society has tended to define power as power over others, the ability to control…Real confidence in oneself and real power for oneself have the opposite effect — they reduce the need to have power over others or to control them (Ranck, pp.51-52).”

Ranck furthers her objective by stating that women must not fear their own power, but harness it. However, I do find it interesting how women’s spirituality from each generation more or less has been about audacity. How do women amplify and/or reframe their roles as individuals and as a-part-of-the-whole?

The divine feminine must be tailored to the individual, I argue. It appears as though discovering its full impact will be a process. I want to feel that I have the power to craft my spirituality.

…

Bibliography:

Burstein, Dan, and Arne De Keijzer. Secrets of Mary Magdalene: A Guide to Her Story, History, and Heresy. Edited by Deirdre Good and Jennifer Doll, Orion Books Ltd., 2007.

Ranck, Shirley Ann. “Reclaiming Our Power as Women.” Cakes for the Queen of Heaven: An Exploration of Women’s Power Past, Present and Future, Delphi Press, Chicago, IL, 1995, pp. 51–52.

Starr, Mirabai. Julian of Norwich The Showings: Uncovering the Face of the Feminine in Revelations of Divine Love. HAMPTON ROADS PUB CO INC, 2022.

The Heart Rooms, The Chapels, and The Inner Toil

On April 6, 2023April 6, 2023 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentary, lifeLeave a comment

This essay reflects my undergraduate experiences near 2016-2017.

I am a woman sitting in the chapel, steeped in an uneventful meditation practice. Brown carpet spans the room. There used to be pews here. I learn this from the alumni, now in their seventies. They visit the old women’s college situated in the Lehigh Valley where the trees are numerous.

Decades before, the alumni held Christian choral services. I can only imagine the kinship they feel with the current Christian Fellowship club. Now only the acoustic piano (finely tuned) remains.

Today, I am attempting to sit still. Allow one thought to enter and float by. A Buddhist nun instructed my religious studies class to take our time with meditation. I envied her way of surrender as she spoke. Her black robes, short-cropped white hair, and worn hands unobtrusive.

Perhaps, I am deeply American in the need to solve “everything.” Will I find my balm here? Will I let the looming uncertainty about my life go? I sit, impatient, with my knees folded. I imagine the spiritual desperation to flit to the next thing.

My professor is a short man, with a grandfatherly air about him. He tends to wear sweaters over button-down shirts. His bushy eyebrows sit comfortably. Behind his brown rectangular glasses, he holds a reflective, wise gaze. While he appears as a tranquil man, he has a fiery disposition concerning all things political.

As a Chaplain, he recommends that we do not consider any sort of conversion until after we complete his course. His sound reasoning juxtaposes the Christian Bible Study Group and the Islamic Studies course. No one clasps your hand and runs off with you in a literal sense. It’s a choice to accept newfound faith (sometimes). However, people are devoted to offer you what they have and what they think will comfort you. I want comfort and ease and certainty and…

I am trying to quiet myself. Become less restless. A group of students waft in and out of the connecting art building. The rise and fall of conversation drifts inside the chapel. The lilt of sunlight does cheer people’s spirits today.

As a new Muslim[1], I sometimes prayed here – in the chapel. The dazzling-stained glass windows remind me of the statuesque church of my childhood. I think about virtues and obedience. I do not feel as though I am steadfast or able to relinquish my full soul unlike Mary/Maryam/Miryam/Holy Mother/Our Lady of Guadalupe.

The sun stops short, and it fills the room part-way. Crystallized reds, greens, whites, and yellows cast patterns onto the carpet. It’s nondenominational space but the stain glass remains.

My meditation practices are infrequent this undergraduate term. I downloaded the Calm app, and then deleted it. I once listened to the Meditative Story and the Hay House Meditation podcast. The soothing narrator voice worked for a while, but then I wanted to hear voice that had a different dialect[2].

Religion and Meditation are hard fronts. Truthfully, I am in the rehearsal stage. Whenever an unsettling emotion rises, I am plummeting down the same tunnel. Sometimes I combat negative thought patterns by using the story reframing tools (my therapist recommended in the past).

Therefore, in my moments of reflection I had a tough time being indifferent to the women of ancient times. I thought about what I had been instructed to believe in various Sunday Schools and sermons. There will be a time to revisit Eve, Lot’s wife, and Esther. A meditative conversation can take place even though my faith paths have shifted.

However, my mind is wandering…

There are a million and one excuses to not sit with myself.

“Every meditation doesn’t have to offer anything – it is a practice,” the Buddhist nun assured our class. She had only visited the class once, but her words still lingered on. I wish I knew how to offer silence to myself. And in the corners of my silence – I could tell God what I thought.

Giving. Receiving. I learned quickly that rooming on a women’s college campus came with responsibility. Students came with their parent’s traditions (or openly despised them).

Now that I think about it – the walking meditation during my Buddhist class was ideal. From heel to toe, we – all twelve or so students walked in a wide circle without speaking. In silence, you hear the rhythmic procession of feet, breath, and the whir of the ceiling fan.

How often had my friends walked trampling the underbrush with our sneakers? We had the hills and the forests of upper Appalachia – a sanctuary continuously withheld from Indigenous groups. A stream of water, an unsoiled fountain itself can become a place of joy. I am tied to the imagination brought forth by colonial settlers, and the awareness of what nature means to enslaved people who toil without reprieve.

Let’s wade. Let’s take off our shoes. Let’s silently pray and make dua’a inwardly when we feel this free. Our freedom that came from loss.

One friend has died since my undergraduate days. Her body – as fragments of the universe – are contained in a simple urn. She would have never agreed to that, but she died during the pandemic. Her family made that call. I knew too much about her upbringing. I flinched continuously with anger and grief about the lack of respect given to queer folks even in death. I thought about her bold tattooed stars lining her arm. I thought her stance on her body being given back to the earth, since she too had trekked through the land as a weary traveler her whole life.

…and so, our friend group mourned with an unexplainable distance.

I’ve given my sorrow when I reflect on my many friends who have been desecrated by a mortal man too aware of violence. I wince at the carelessness on which people label carceral feminism[3]. I want to avenge her. I want to listen to survivors and/or victims. I want to name my own pain. But I am clamped down in an airtight box, and simply told no “We must create a society that can heal and atone.”

The past nature walks bring me to that stream – a place where my friend still exists in continuum. I hate letting go. I hate the sordid business of defining one’s own religious path (when all feels shaky). How do I just accept what is?

My friend lived as an atheist. And I learned so much from her way of life. Her lighthearted joys. Her rooted sense that she would not condemn others in the name of religion.

Maya Angelou once wrote that she could not condemn her Jewish nor her non-believing friends. There would not be a spool of ribbon with their name on it being casted into hell. I too do not want condemnation in my heart. Whenever, it is a weary time, I think about just walking.

I am not a Buddhist, and I am barely proficient in a second language. Yet, the glee and starry contentedness of the monks at the Tibetan Buddhist Monastery in New Jersey opens a door. One monk sits in a chair and watches his pupil – who addresses our visiting Buddhist Studies class.

My classmates and I are admiring the large yellow and red tapestries hung about the room. There are pastel-colored cushions on the floor. I am sitting here, my knees pointed toward the ground, and my behind firmly planted. Time feels absent. But the bare tree branches hug this monastery like the house of a ribcage.

I cannot stay here. I am a traveler. A visitor. Let this thought go.

“I don’t know why they took the pews out,” one alum laments at a later banquet. Then, the cafeteria swathed in white table runners held the best silverware.

“They’re trying to be inclusive,” one alum says.

I, eye the single Black woman in their class photo. What was it like then? How do you worship when you are the only one?

There are not a lot of Black Muslims at college. So, I rely on the Southeast Asians and Arabs to teach me about Islam. I am also learning the language of silence – a makeshift muteness – because I am trying to understand myself. The chapels of my life are folding in, and I am still looking for the right one to be still.

[1] The ‘how I got there’ exists in different essays.

[2] Many meditation and yoga apps feature narrators with a similar and clear voice. However, one day I will address how it matters to a voice that does “sound non-White” if the practitioner is not White. But I’m not visiting that here.

[3] Carceral feminism is a term used by activists who are invested in abolishing public and private prisons. The main themes include how real justice does not occur within these spaces, while also highlighting how many oppressed folks have been caged there. Notable speakers include adrienne maree brown and Angela Davis. I don’t like prisons, but I still do not know how to envision a world without them. I am reflecting deeply about victim advocates, such as my friend who works in the social work business to bring awareness to human and sex trafficking.

Murmuring a Humanist “Prayer”

On July 2, 2022July 13, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentaryLeave a comment

Perhaps, you’re sitting quietly in your house with thoughts similar to mine. How can I be religious in a country where fanatics will oppress the many? How can I speak of God, prayer, and compassion at a time like this? How can anyone choose to ignore the assault of human rights?

Which people have had their language and spiritual practice stripped from them? Answer: Indigenous folks. I recoil at the feigned ignorance of evangelical Christians: who deny the severity of residential schools, who deny that people had their knuckles bruised by rulers in the classroom (if they were left-handed), and who deny that enslaved people were forced to abandon their own native religions. People who disregard those who are Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, and/or Atheists.

Perhaps, you are starting to engage more with the things nonreligious people say in healing and restorative circles. Their decision to become nonreligious but spiritual. Their decision to forego religion altogether. The right to privacy, the right to safety, the right to form an opinion, the right to not fear religious oppression…

I remember my atheist friends and how they supported me during my first Ramadan. In Summer 2016, we stood together decrying the corrosive Trumpian election. These people were also my people. They became my chosen family, and I could always count on them to speak on human rights without limitations. We made protest signs together.

I remember sitting on the quad, as my friend chanted no racism, no homophobia, no transphobia, and Black Lives Matter. On the lawn, I sat shoulder to shoulder with other allies who also chose to wear masks as a “silent” protest. My college friends and I had a million conversations on how to strive for equity. They did not need a reason to be respectful or kind in their communities.

I found community amongst the very people — fundamentalist churches would instruct folks to fear. Yet, I do not fear the people who do not ascribe to a god. What happens when you find more acceptance outside of a church? What happens when freedom looks like not being afraid to engage in dialogue? What happens when the pastor’s daughter becomes more herself through her connection to people “different” from herself?

I remember my agnostic friends and how they never shied away from scientific discussions. I felt free as a new Muslim to engage with topics such as evolution, traditional knowledge, and indigenous ways of knowing. With these memories, I see how crucial it is to advocate for them too. Not solely for the ways that they showed up for me — but because they deserve as much freedom to become who they are in this life.

It’s hard for a prayer to leave my lips. But maybe these words are a prayer, affirmation, a humanistic attempt to speak something into existence. I think of Mary Oliver’s words and how she devoted herself to the natural world. How a simple acknowledgment of all that surrounds a person can be important. Each person on this earth is important. So are the other living beings now discounted by the Supreme Court’s decision regarding the Environmental Protection Act.

As a child, my mother used to recount that ‘prayer without action’ meant nothing. Perhaps, religious folks (outside of extremists) cannot rely solely on murmured prayers. Perhaps, there are some refusing to be dormant but proactive in rallying around their nonreligious community members. The realest demonstration will be our decision to stand up for our neighbors (even when it’s not convenient). Perhaps, that’s why humanism takes precedence in a turbulent time such as this.

“Good Little Girls”…Learn to Heal

On June 27, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentary, womanhoodLeave a comment

You tell someone for the first time that you’re scared to admit the truth. All of those words are typed in a word document, a frenzy of confessional paragraphs, that will later become your thesis. Ninety-eight pages of excavation.

“So what did you write about?”

You wrote about sex and religion. That’s the blunt answer. However, the real answer is much more complicated. You wrote about growing up in a purity culture. There you are sitting in the pediatric doctor’s office swinging your thirteen-year-old legs back and forth. “I’m not sexually active. I’m waiting till marriage,” you said to the older White woman in a white lab coat.

“Good girl.”

You sat there without asking the real questions:

What options do I have if I have painful, debilitating periods?

Am I destined to have fibroids (if my mother had them)?

What actually happens during a pap smear and what is HPV?

And then, you are in your twenties, and you hate the moniker “good girl.” Was I good? Was I a good, faithful preteen during all those wellness visits?

You wrote about the slew of other older women you encountered. How they praised you and the other girls for being respectful and decent — How you all are the kids of pastors, deacons, and choir teachers — You wrote about the missed opportunities to have “The Talk” and how your school aged friends (in the same predicament) all were disillusioned with their physical bodies.

“Don’t let people kiss you on the neck?” [Definitely NOT the Talk]

“Don’t let people take you to a secondary location [Again, definitely NOT the Talk]

You float through middle school, high school, and the early days of college — hyperaware that your body knows things that some religious places want you to deny. You better not find out about sensation, clitoral stimulation, consent, and orgasmic ascent.

No one talked to you about birth control, masturbation, dental dams, or same-sex attraction. People did talk about fornification, children out of wedlock, and “being loose or fast women.” You remember how naive you felt when the girls at college told you their experiences with their boyfriends or girlfriends.

She has a duffle bag full of fancy items in her dorm closet. She doesn’t like anal sex. She doesn’t understand why people have to shame other folks for having multiple partners. She has only been with one man. She has a history of abuse and trauma. They are asexual and proud.

In thesis workshop, you are panicked. You cannot say things like this. You cannot break the moral code of your religious and racial community by sharing intimate details about your upbringing. Or what you learned vicariously through others. Black women of faith shouldn’t do that. But you are learning fluidity now.

You start to write down all of the memories that were to be repressed. Matching polka dotted underwear with your high school best friend. Floating into lingerie shops on your day off from work. Listening to the Islamic studies professor clammer on “how women who are not wearing hijab may be uncovered lollipops that the flies may get.” Understanding the women of faith who aren’t afraid to speak up about the normalcy life.

You are situated at a crossroads. You’re thankful to heaven for Planned Parenthood and how they supplied you with information no one taught you as a child. You are navigating the tricky situations that come with being religious and progressive. Your Instagram For You page has undergone some serious changes. There’s a slew of mental health influencers and legitimate therapists. There’s a nonreligious but spiritual minister advocating for LGBTQ+ rights while denouncing alt-right Christian extremism. There’s a couple of Muslim women sharing their advice on life. Every once in a while, you spot a painting video, a meme that you understand, and a dog with floppy ears moving in tandem with the background music.

You haven’t published your thesis. You consider where to submit your essays and whether you want people to know you that well. You would have to own your own sensuality that fits you like the strapless red velvet dress in your closet. You would have to tell your inner child, “we aren’t trying to be good girls but educated ones.”

Lighting the Way

On March 3, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentary, InternshipLeave a comment

On the cusp of Spring, I am surprised how much the sun matters to me. I need those longer evenings basked in warmth. I need that reminder how things will change for the better. My internship at Snapdragon has undergone a seasonal shift too. The team now works on finalizing the Spring issue. This includes editing, formatting, adding pictures, creating social media posts, and more.

My weekly tasks began with organization. I updated the Google Drive continuously throughout the weeks. Then, I dove into market research. So, you can imagine my delight when the managing editor and editor-in-chief offered me another opportunity that related more to sensing and feeling.

How do you feel about rearranging the poems for the upcoming issue?

I immediately responded via text and accepted this invitation. This was a stream of sunlight coming through the window. It was a challenge to embody an analytical eye needed for research; however, I learned to advocate for what I thought would benefit this journal. It’s trusting your gut (with the inclusion of hard facts).

Yet, I loved the creative appeal even more. In an earlier post, I discussed that this quarter’s theme focuses on pleasure. It feels timely with the news cycle, running on overdrive, to keep all folks updated on how things are around the world. The harrowing ordeal of those in Ukraine; students, citizens, neighbors, and activists. The blooming disparity in Somalia, Palestine, Israel, and the United States too.

More than ever, human rights are disregarded. Yet, it does reveal the stark awareness of how countries can be better, and the people who lead those countries can lead with humanity — if they choose to do so. I am reminded again that people – with their humble and vibrant hearts – are trying to uplift others.

How are people grounding themselves? What brings people pleasure? How are the poets viewing their inner and outer world right now? Which verses will carry people through their darker times?

Perhaps, I am more surprised at the dialogue between staff members. People are open to sharing how they are really doing, and at the same time a crack of sunlight enters. It reminds me of the Sufi poet, Rumi who said “the wound is where the light enters you.”

Perhaps, invoking pleasure does heal parts of our wounds and the ones around us. Perhaps, acknowledging what we love the most allows us to move in that direction.

I am surprised when the sunlight comes, but I am never surprised on how much it means to people who need a light in a tunnel.

Museum Outings

On February 16, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentaryLeave a comment

***Before the coronavirus pandemic, I used to go to my favorite art museum.

The visibility is not too great. The windbreakers and knitted waistcoats break the sightline. I can see my folded pamphlet, the now disappearing receptionist’s desk, and I can see that there are not a lot of people like me here. The costumes and dress-wear are staged around the room. Like Broadway, the lights are grand and huge. The light hovers above the mannequins who are really the ghosts of actors and actresses from the Golden Age of Hollywood.

When I arrived, the museum’s downstairs floor overflowed with people at the check-in desk. Within minutes – I found myself debating whether or not to go back for my coat in the orderly and empty coat room. Costume regalia fills the entire upstairs’ exhibit rooms. Beaded sequin gowns are not for breathing. The cinched waist defining the ribcage suggest that many of the esteemed actresses were petite.

The name cards of Doris Day, Marilyn Monroe, and Rita Hayworth make me smile. It’s a sense of recognition among the crowds of strangers. A familiar voice starts to speak from behind and when I turn I see the milky hazel eyes of the security guard/tour guide. He’s the only other person of color I noticed when I came upstairs.

“There are having a discussion on race on this particular exhibit. The electronic screens downstairs show the time – that may interest you,” he says.

Then, he is gone. The windbreakers, knitted caps, and glamour coats swallow him whole in that crowd.

Perhaps, this panel talk will add other names that do not shine under the costume regalia. I would learn of Anna May Wong by happenstance two years later. I would envision that Hollywood in the fifties was for blonde and brunette superstars who use hair tonic and old-fashioned Frigidaire appliances.

Even within the few dim rooms, I am still searching for color. Maybe the costumes of Lena Horne, Dorothy Dandridge, Harry Belafonte, Eartha Kitt, and Sammy Davis Jr are displayed at another museum. Would the setup of this exhibit change? I linger on the Russian-style fur coat suits with embellished breast-pockets. I hover a little longer at the East Asian style ‘farmer’ wear. These two displays appear with a small tangible scene – a dirt ground underneath and something else I no longer remember. Yet, I do recall if this slice of diversity is enough for me. It isn’t.

Downstairs I retrace my steps and visit my favorite installations. There is Stephen Antonako’s ‘The Room Chapel’ and today I had a chance to take pictures with no one in there. The various colors invoke a different mood or tone for those who enter. I will be saddened when this exhibit moves because the ambiance is cool and balanced.

On the far right side of another exhibit, I hear a young boy usher an older woman to a large painting. In that frame, the artist has painted a closeup of a Cuban woman puffing on a cigar. When the boy and the woman arrive directly in front of this painting, the boy exclaims “she looks like you – but older!” Intermittent laughter glides out past the connecting room. As I turn to leave, I hear an overlap of Spanish words I cannot quite decipher from where I am.

It is time to go. Approximately forty-five minutes has gone by, the check-in desks swells with patrons. Through the fog of jackets, older women with fur-trimmed coats and hats, penciled eye brows and bright red lipstick proceed to cut through the cloudiness of brownish-gray winterwear. I can find the exit now. The path is clearly visible with their presence.

Shuck the Oyster: Find the Pearl

On February 15, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentaryLeave a comment

Good writers create amazing throughlines. They tell you the weighted sentence (or a single word). This happens before the reader has had a chance to guess at the impact this will have on the narrative. Well, I am a good student and therefore I will try that some other time.

I have been thinking a lot about navigating space these few months. How will I do this? What has changed since undergrad? What has remained the same? What arbitrary rules exist for navigating predominantly White spaces?

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

I suppose it takes great strength and resilience to keep navigating those spaces even in academia. I signed up for this, paid for this, and I am orchestrating a larger plan (therefore I need to participate in this). The “this” can be anything. For writers, it could mean workshops, academic mentorship programs, additional studies, and the-one-thing-that-makes-me-want-to-throw-in-the-towel.

In my undergraduate days at predominantly White, women’s college, I knew what my options were. I can say this here, but not there. After all, it starts to sound like a Dr. Seuss rap battle between the here’s and there’s. I lean into my supporting confidant and ask for guidance. How do I still show up even when I am struggling to find/build community?

I remember tucking myself away on the second floor of the college’s library. Faded yellow and red chairs (no doubt remnants from the seventies) became my refuge. The dusty shelves spanning from second-wave feminism, outdated parenting models, and hidden gems about world social justice theory line the shelves. I wanted to stay there. I wanted to stay where Angela Davis’ afro seemed powerful on that book jacket, and where Sara Ahmed gave me the needed information about Islamic feminism.

However, I would have to trudge back upstairs and find myself in a less diverse writing circle. I would have to remind myself to not vomit up all of the racialized traumas for the white gaze, and then I would have to honor myself by letting it out anyway (in a different space).

Those feeling surged forth again, recently. I read Kiese Laymon’s memoir Heavy, and soon I found myself armoring with that protective shield. I want to talk about the Black experience (which is not a monolith), but I wanted to delve into how angry I was. Angry about the “lies” I had swallowed to make it. Angry about the inflicted traumas the narrator, their mother, their grandmother, and all of the young folks streaming out of Beulah’s house.

Yet, I kept it cool for awhile, and stayed dormant in my silence. How do you allow yourself voice in a White space? How do you accept that everyone has different levels of anti-racist work before them, and what you really need is balance as a Black woman? I want to hear, listen, and speak. I want some form of confirmation, affirmation, and hell– maybe even validation about what the book talked about.

The hardest part about academic space is that even under the best intentions, some things fall through the cracks. I do not blame anyone. Yet, I am not quite sure if all this shucking has led to my discovery of pearls. My confidant whispers “stay with it or don’t.”

Good writers can become teachable in the uncomfortable situations. Yet, what happens when the discomfort does not serve everyone in the writing situation well. There’s a lot to learn about navigating space, and what responsibilities one has within it.

I picture the large window panes of my alma mater’s library. The windows are large and one can see the encompassing grassy hill that spills into the local park. I used to watch all those people going about their day, and wondered what kind of narratives would they gravitate toward. Who would they choose? What do I choose in this awkward situation?

A Vision of the Home World

On September 13, 2020 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentary1 Comment

At first glance Carol Cronin’s painting, Draíocht, reminded me of the space wormhole featured in Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (1993-1999). For context, this wormhole held great significance to various species in the galaxy. It allowed planetary travel, where one could enter one quadrant and then quickly be on the other side of the galaxy — via wormhole. For Bajorans, who lived on a planet near the wormhole, it held great spiritual reverence.

If one is familiar with Star Trek, you may recall there are discussions on philosophy, political differences, and cultural interactions. On the space station (Deep Space Nine), a Bajoran liaison officer Major Kira Nerys, maintains strong loyalty to her people of Bajor. She experiences how to engage with Starfleet aboard the command station. I will not spoil the many seasons, which one can binge on Netflix – but I will say a few words.

Kira Nerys, as an officer and a person of faith, meant so much to me as I watched the series. Her home, Bajor, faced extreme occupation from a nearby planet, Cardassia. She became a freedom fighter from an incredibly young age, and as a result went through layered trauma. One could connect similarities that we see today, but I will allow you the reader to fill in the blank.

When I look at Carol Cronin’s painting, I reflect on the significance of hope. For Bajorans and Starfleet personnel, the wormhole was sacred for various reasons. For the former, sacredness means that spiritually-gifted individuals, such as the emissary (Captain Benjamin Sisko) can consul with spiritual guides inside that swirling mass. For space officers, the wormhole brought economic opportunity for trade but also a vector for individuals to bring violence (if they intended to do so).

Below, I have written a poem directed toward Major Kira Nerys aboard Deep Space Nine. The readers should note that Major Kira has witnessed a dominion war and severe oppression against her people. She has made new friends and acquaintances aboard the station during these times as well. She has had her spiritual faith tested through disbelief from others and the erasure of practicing one’s values. Her planet has undergone various leadership changes as you can imagine, for better and for worse. I did not plan on writing a poem-style letter to a Science Fiction character, but the writing goes where it wants to.

Photo by Felix Mittermeier on Pexels.com

Kira of Bajor

And the breath did return,

to the shoulders, supporting

the axle of the head.

Upon your gaze,

do you eye the wormhole,

a portal in deep space,

with Star Base ships

pouring from its heavenly mouth?

Oh, Kira –

I want to see what you hold firm,

as a sailor of stars,

who fights for many to go home

and save their land

which still roots itself

and remembers

the first war.

In the expanding tunnel –

“a wormhole,” the personnel on base say,

I wonder: do you see the clouds of Cronin.

In Cronin’s canvas,

she painted us back to you –

to Bajor,

to all those dreams you fought for.

The wars between species,

with an eventual freedom —

It cannot bring back the dead

who lay weary upon our breast

as a child who cries and cries

flooding the canvas

in dark violet bluish tinge.

I am in your hands, Kira,

the clay birds you made,

once in contemplation

about flight and freedom.

Am I of Bajor?

Can I be…?

Do I not seek understanding,

a restless home,

in the sightline of a subspace station?

Will the emissary –

I mean Captain Sisko –

seek the vision,

the quest which we must all tarry.

I ate from the master’s table,

as custom once on Cardassia,

but these eyes could not unsee the clouds.

The opening light,

a beacon on the dark indigo waters.

Oh Kira,

when you stand on the promenade[1]

remember us[2]

as we deliver ourselves –

pour forth our watery prayers

and cloudy hopes

at your border.

You are a woman,

who seeks seers,

hears healers,

and knows one must be of a place

and within its grasp.

Oh Kira,

I know not a god

who does not pain at the destruction of their people.

I know not when the breath settles

the shoulders,

or when the mind says:

“It is okay,

you have found home,

and you are of here…

of the Bajor

you fought so hard for.”

[1] Note: Carol Cronin’s paintings are available for purchase on her website: www.carolcronin.com. I had the pleasure to learn about her work from my MFA instructor this past summer.

[2] If reposted, please include original sources.

Dismantling Silence and Embracing Anti-racism

On July 20, 2020July 20, 2020 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentaryLeave a comment

Last month, the Unlocking Us podcast hosted by Brené Brown, delved into a dynamic discussion about anti-racism and accountability. Austin Channing Brown, the guest, gave listeners a wealth of information and read portions of her new book I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness. I encourage you to hear the entire audio interview here.

Here’s what I loved about this episode: Brené and Austin are candid about the racism in the United States. The conversation holds space for the visceral feelings of Black people with a nod to collective trauma. At the same time, the episode acknowledges how one can rationalize their current position about racism, anti-racism, and social responsibility. The two women address how white supremacy can manifest in overt and subtle ways within our communities.

I felt seen. The more Austin Channing Brown talked about her own experience, I conjured up my own. From stress within the body to faith-based interaction, she voiced many truths. Now as a young Black woman who existed in predominantly White spaces, it is important for me to unpack the role of niceness. How does it show up for White folks? How does it show up as a survival tool for myself and others who are marginalized? In other words, this episode will truly help you understand why the “can’t we all just get along” statement is dehumanizing and lacks accountability for one to show up as a better human being.

Maintaining the Facade:

Between starting high school and finishing undergrad being “nice” became unbearable. As a young Black woman, I chose silence when I shouldn’t have. If I could take my younger self by the shoulders I would say this:

Do not tolerate people’s behavior when it assumes that you are comfortable in hearing racist jokes. Even if these jokes are meant to show that they (one’s friend) is not racist but their family members are — it will harm you in the end. Be vocal in the moment (when it is safe to do so).
Power-play and gaslighting are real terms. Do not accommodate someone else to the point where you do not recognize that you are being manipulated. “You’re overreacting” and “You need to calm down” are insidious.
Do not downplay folks who use the ‘N’ word even if they are singing to a song. Do not let that word slip “unnoticed” in the Facebook Messenger group chat.
You are Black enough, and it’s emotionally violent to be dubbed an oreo (someone who people see as a White person even though they are in fact Black).
It’s better to stand on your own than to swallow racial trauma over and over again — with a “smile” on your face.

Breaking the Barrier:

There are many deaths highlighted in the Black Lives Matter movement, and it can be one quick step to fall into despair or numbness — depending who you are. However, it became more apparent than ever to instill hard, concrete steps about anti-racist work. Yes, both Browns’ discuss the resources coming forth from book clubs but I have a new set of next steps for myself.

As I said earlier, I had/have experiences in being the: doormat, token Black friend, peaceful stoic, and etc. What would it look like if I got more vocal? Perhaps, this mere blog post serves as a stepping stone. I am telling you the necessity of not staying silent and getting into good trouble as the late Representative John Lewis echoed in his mission for civil rights.

Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.
Representative John Lewis

By choosing to do the work for ourselves and our communities, we become free. Now do not misunderstand me this work will take strength and perseverance — we are all capable of going forward.

I encourage you to get comfortable with a new onset of voices. How are you participating in anti-racist work? Type your comments below.

The Incantation of Black Wings

On June 8, 2020July 13, 2020 By Aginetta MulimaIn commentaryLeave a comment

I saw their soot wings,

and I outstretched my own hands –

hoping the divine would let me,

and my people fly

Let the green earth know

we are worthy.

Most High, Most Merciful

Make me a crow among men.

Let me acquiesce the fears that breathe

long after our plucked song stops.

Scattered light below,

I watched how the Divine

made all the living witness each other

like birds.

Crows, renowned for their ominous color, often receive the brunt of many misconstrued narratives. When they flock in groups, one might call it a murder. According to some scientific researchers, this designation is frowned upon. I wonder what the original scare of crows was and when did it take place. When did the crows, folks of color, and the concept of blackness; equate to danger?

The newscasting segment can start in two ways. One, it can define the song which will be sung about the people who came out in larger groups. Will it be a warning call? Will the song describe the looters, the crescendo of voices, and the unrest? Sometimes when I am not moving, I can trace the fear all over my body. It spreads over my chest, curves under hip, and burrows into my back. Sometimes when I am not moving, I imagine myself as black as a crow. As black as that. As black as that.

On Thursday, my mother and I drove to one side of town. Soon, we spilled out into another city and we observed the darkening silence.

Stay safe

My mother says to the young teenager on the moped.

Stay safe

We let the words drift out of our car, and into the street. The row houses, bodegas, and gas stations teem with folks. They are Puerto Rican. Black. Arab. Hispanic. White. Biracial. We pronounce Stay Safe as many times, as if it were a blessing to give. As if we had the ability to make marginalized people into birds, so they could open their large crow wings and go. Go so far and so close into the sky that heaven would know that their creation beckons safety again. Again.

A month ago, the dark ink grew runny veins, and the word COVID-19 housed a lot of fear. I watched the black crows huddle together on the hospital lawn, when I dropped my mother off at her workplace. I do not remember if I misconstrued their presence and created a narrative that would soothe my own bias. I do not remember if these black birds had been there for the whole five years I lived here in Pennsylvania. Yet, I kept praying in bed with no light, in the car with its shell, and in the awareness of my body: that crows, and people deserve a better story.

It is said that the Divine

blew life into mud,

brought ribs from one

to give to the other

so that they may live.

I am a mere mortal,

but I asked the Divine

so many times, for wings,

made of black soot.