Finding My Tribe

Before I left Maryland, one of the pieces of advice my mentor KB gave me was to find my tribe.

I thought I found a part of that tribe with the women’s writing group. But after the second session, the facilitator of my group asked me for the remaining meeting to come, participate in the discussions but then find another place to work. Let me explain.

I was placed into a writing group that meets late in the afternoon, which means I have to leave early to pick up M. I tried unsuccessfully to switch into a writing group that meets at an earlier time, but was informed that all the groups are full. The organizer (which I later find out was her graduate assistant answering emails on her behalf) assured me that leaving early to pick up my daughter would be fine; getting 2 ½ hours of uninterrupted writing time is better than none. But it was not fine.

When the facilitator asked me to find a different space to work, I had to ask her to repeat herself. I did not think I heard her correctly. When she did say what I thought she said, and my body became numb, the around me thick and oppressive, the sounds muffled, my body unresponsive, but my mind was racing. My brain lit up just not the rational parts.

I don’t know what expression was on my face, if any. After she delivered that oh so delightful bombshell she then asked me how I was adjusting to Lubbock. My first thought was, “I cannot have this conversation. I get punished for leaving to pick up my child from school when not even 3 hours earlier another woman from the same group is celebrated for setting and maintaining her own parenting/work boundaries. And now you want to ask me how I’m doing?”

The purely emotional part of me wanted to quit right then or send the facilitator a passive-aggressive email or ask the facilitator if it would be better if I never came back. Play the martyr! Make her the villain! I didn’t, by the way, do any of those things.

What I did do was try to stop crying as I picked up M from school, self-medicated with vegan ice cream (still works!) and tried to build my wall. You know, that pleasant amenable-looking armor on the outside so no one knows what’s going on inside? I still had to get through Friday with all its faculty and staff meetings. Unfortunately, that armor has some cracks and has had them for quite some time. It just doesn’t hold up like it used to.

The chair of my department, who knew the facilitator, of course, offered to speak to the facilitator on my behalf. I quickly backpedal. No, I don’t want any trouble and I don’t want to be trouble. Maybe it came out wrong. Maybe I’m taking it the wrong way. Let’s just see how things go next week.

However, I shared my story with E and KB because I was still upset. Plus, they know me in ways that are really not comfortable. KB suggested that I address my writing cohort directly, saying that I may have more allies than I realize. Another thing KB and I talked about was anger, which I certainly felt that Thursday afternoon. But as I often do when I feel anger, I immediately feel shame for my anger as though I’m not allowed to even feel that emotion much less express it.

I recently listened to a podcast called “Another Round” when one of the co-creators spoke frankly and in defense of anger because all too often she as a black woman is expected to turn the other cheek and to not become angry even when she feels she’s been wronged. She pointed out, however, that there are plenty of instances here in the US where people did not turn the other cheek, but instead hit back.

For me, there is fear in being labeled an angry black woman, but I am quite angry. Some of that anger is directed toward myself for feeling powerless, for feeling stripped of my voice, for feeling like I’m supposed to accept whatever treatment I receive.

Fast forward a week and I’m sitting at a faculty of color luncheon. As the guest speaker tells her story of how she came to be at the university, I’m struck by the tone of her speech. She does not say that everything is sunshine and rainbows. It is rather honest about what it’s like to be a faculty of color in west Texas: an existence in a fishbowl because your actions reflect not just the university but also your race/ethnicity, which, quite frankly, made me feel claustrophobic. Yet, she also spoke about the incredible albeit quiet power the faculty of color has to change the paradigm. Her speech during that lunch reminded me of one of M’s haikus.

I’m scared of my voice

because it’s louder than yours

but one day I’ll speak

I am afraid of my anger. I am afraid of my voice, and I know I need to get over myself. I need to get over the idea that an angry black woman is a negative. It’s not a negative. She’s fucking pissed and has every right to be.

For the record, I did address my writing group about my scheduling conflict/childcare situation and asked for suggestions on how to make my exits less distracting. They just told me to go when I needed to go. Being a caregiver was not a new concept for any of them. And just like that (or so I thought), the issue was closed.

It turns out, I got into more trouble for speaking up. Apparently I was not supposed to say anything about why I was leaving early, although no one told me not to say anything about it. So the organizers of the writing group are working to place me in a different group that meets at an earlier time so that I will not leave early, which is what I asked for in the first place.