I just got back from the “Through the Portal” conference in Chicago this past weekend. It was a lovely convening of leftist, radical organizers, educators, and activists seeking answers about how to navigate this unique (and terrifying) political moment. While I enjoyed being a fly on the wall at the conference, I couldn't help but wonder how the majority of us are doing now. You know, those of us who were not present in Chicago when the convening of 100 young people happened in 2013, those who were not living in or near Ferguson, Missouri in August 2014 when Michael Brown was killed, and those of us who were not founding members of mass movement organizations in response to the brutal and unfettered violence against Black people when the Movement for Black Lives began. Where are our homeplaces now? Now, that the movement is largely diffuse and battles for justice for all people are taking place everywhere, including our college campuses?
In 2014, I was in southern California, transitioning out of corporate America. I had just had my third child and felt called to shift away from the white-coded American Dream I had been socialized with. I felt deeply compelled to go be in communion and community with my co-strugglers. My work as an organizer had been limited to my childhood in Oakland, CA, the birthplace of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. After 15 years away from my political homeplace, I was searching for somewhere to become an anchor. I found the young people in Chicago.
I remember feeling so invigorated and inspired by the spirit of Chicago's Black community. They reminded me so much of people from back home, in Oakland. And, while I never expected to ushered in the front door without skepticism, I struggled to find community, care, and camaraderie. I joined BYP100 in 2015 after watching the organization for a year, ensuring that it was in alignment with my own goals. I remained a member until I aged out in 2019, at 35 years old.
I learned so much about ground tactics, political quilting, collaboration, and movement strategy during those years. Even with three small children, I made the 45 minute drive each week from the south suburbs to Hyde Park after my doctoral classes and teaching to ensure I was present and accounted for.
But, I rarely spoke up in meetings. I rarely interjected or volunteered. I realize now that I was afraid to challenge people who seemed more experienced than me. Not only that, I felt like an outsider. Often, my perspective was seen as “academic” and foreign. It wasn't until I took on a leadership role as Political Education Chair that I began to feel legitimate, valued, and necessary in that space.
I think a lot about that time because, in many ways, Chicago politicized me. I began to understand my queerness, my transness, and my disabilities while there. I freed myself of my shackles of respectability. I jettisoned all expectations of a world made better by gentle reforms. I learned how to fight in Chicago. But, I didn't learn how to love, certainly not myself (the socially-anxious, “baby” organizer who was frequently reminded that I hadn’t been there from the beginning).
I guess that's what I'm concerned about now, where to find that loving homeplace, the one that is warm and inviting, the one that isn't surrounded by gatekeepers and passwords and flanked by soldiers ready to take aim at anyone, opponents or otherwise. I don’t know where to find the place for all of us intermediate organizers, deeply steeped in the teachings of our ancestors and elders, committed to a praxis of liberation and freedom for all oppressed people, and simultaneously disconnected from the places (geographically and emotionally) that orchestrate this work.
I haven't found that place yet. I keep thinking maybe I'll find it in New York. Maybe in D.C.
Maybe it isn't a place at all. I'm not actually sure.
But, I'm tired of feeling wayward. I want to be lovingly called in and called on. I want to get phone calls from co-strugglers just because.
I want to be a part of something meant to move us toward a freer world. I want the experience that Audre Lorde, June Jordan, Cheryl Clarke, and so many of my foremothers had before me, stealing away on clandestine trips to plot about our next big attack on white heteropatriarchal cisgender capitalism.
I want what bell hooks, Beverly Guy-Sheftall, Toni Morrison, and so many others had, sneaking off on writing retreats, encouraging one another to do the things they said couldn't be done and say the things they said shouldn't be said.
Where is it? Where do us political orphans belong?
I don't have an answer. I only have the longing. And, I keep reminding myself that the work will take me to my people. One day. Hopefully, soon.
Asé.