My Womanish Body

“You’re not what you look like.”

I wish I didn’t know what she meant by that. I wish she hadn’t explained what she meant by that. (I picked up no offense, mind you, I didn’t check a bag and my carry-on has no extra room.) There’s always an undercurrent, in Black female academic/church spaces, that reminds me of why “Legally Blonde” is the flick... and should be required watching before any pretense of “sistering.”

It’s always interesting to me that we discuss embodiment but eschew those who show their bodies. We love ourselves and each other - wholly and regardless - but only covered in layers of fabric and not tattoos. I wonder when we decided that scholarly and sexy can’t exist in the same space. And I wonder when we - who speak and write and teach of Spirit and Sisterhood and Black woman bodies and sexuality as gifts from God - decided it was best to lock our bodies away behind polyester and cotton blends, to be seen but unseen, to cover our curves and blend into the tapestry of textiles. And I wonder when we decided that our words are our uniform and our skin shouldn’t be seen. And I wonder when we decided that we could be empowered and empowering but only if our bodies aren’t free. And I wonder when our Womanist work will wander away from words and into real-lived experience. And I wonder when the love of our bodies will mean being unashamed of our bodies and not embarrassed by other bodies. And I wonder when “all women” will mean *all* and those women who are just a little too bare, just a little too marked, just a little too …unrespectable won’t be something Other than like us. And, really, I wonder when Womanist spaces will stop performing similarity and make room for the multiplicity of womanish.

I’ve been waiting. Watching. Wondering. I’ve been bodied in Black woman academic/church spaces for quite some time. The Other is always new to the space, though. Those marked as different are familiar but unknown. But I’ve been here. Wondering. Noticing. And I remember you... though you won’t re-member me.

It’s always interesting to me how quickly those whose words say “don’t dismiss people” actively dismiss people. I listen with my eyes closed in the sessions. And I watch with my ears open in the hallway. And I wonder how demands from wholeness echo from microphones while people are pulled apart, shredded in the name of fitting in. And I wonder why we think we can remake people - these fabulous people that God has made - in the image of a woman who we think may possibly exist but is definitely not divine. And I wonder what our ancestors must think of us invoking their names in one breath and demanding their own particularity be smashed in the next. And I wonder how our children - different and disparate - will find the space to enter the circle we’ve created as impenetrably pedantic. And I wonder where diversity is and I wonder where authenticity is and I wonder what happened to the courage to be.

There is a difference between “I’m every woman” and “there is us in every woman” and I wonder when we discarded the freedom of the latter for the sake of the hegemony of the former.

Why do we choose to not be free?

It’s always interesting to me how the words that are written, the profundity proffered over PA systems don’t match the glances given and the teeth sucked.

I wonder if you think I don’t notice the side-eyes when you call me “Sis.” And I wonder if you think I’m not worthy of a greeting when you suddenly avert your gaze. And I wonder if - because my head goes unbowed - you think I don’t hear you when you speak of me. And I wonder if you think the tattoos on my skin mean my skin is steel, impervious to the barbs that come from your tongue and the eyes that cut as you use your hand to mark as yours the body of a man whose name I know only as Your Husband.

I used to notice more and it bothered me.

But I’m old now.

It shocks me, still, every time “Sis” and a hug comes with a quick size-up and eye roll and a reposition of arms and hips to denote my embodied space as Other. I never expect it, because I hope for more, so I stay taken aback when I receive a sigh and a huff as jackets are pulled closed around shoulders that aren’t mine in response to my hello.

But I’m old now.

And my feminism is extra-feminine. Ruffles and lace and pink and purple and stilettos and bouncy curls and too much lipstick. The much-loved roundness my ancestors gifted my wounded Womanist soul flows over the tops of corsets and jiggles in tight pants and fitted skirts. I’m old now. And I’ve been through enough to have earned the right to be me, unapologetically, to be unbothered. I embody my name. I don’t change my outfits (at every break) to change your mind. That’s not my work.

I’m old now. And the work my soul must have? My work? Must be done with coffee and corsets and selfies and stilettos and Barth and brocade and wine and water and wisdom. I am old.

And I am exactly what I look like.

But nothing at all like you expect.