Black Joy: Healing From the Trauma
Britain is a nation whose wealth has been built on the exploitation of black bodies, the ‘superior euro-ethnic’ rhetoric and birthed America on the backs of these ideologies. Yet, although we are told that we are now lands of democracy, liberty and freedom, these racist foundations were never totally abolished but rather built upon in a pathetic attempt to maintain the power and wealth such countries have accumulated. The result? A systematically racist system which manifests itself in our communities, educational institutions and businesses. We’re told our hair is unprofessional, our skin colour unattractive and our black men scary. Our identities are sold in the media and only ever valued as entertainers and athletes. Consequently, black working professionals or students in higher education, particularly those attending prestigious institutions, are met with a surprise at their very existence. The reactions my friends and I receive when we explain that we are aspiring engineers, pharmacists, lawyers and computer scientists makes this clear. These are the societal scars resulting from 200 years of racially driven eugenics and the commodification of black people. It’s even evident in social circles of white self-professed liberals where the racism, although subtle, continues. As I’m spoken to it’s seen as appropriate for you to unnaturally inject ‘bruv’ after every sentence as if such dialects are the only ones I understand.
It hurts, but it’s a pain I sedated to soften the continuous blows. Years of switching off meant it was easy for things to fly over my head. My self-preservation forced me to accept that this was our existence.
The murder of innocent black people has been ongoing for centuries and with the rise of nationalism in a white-centric America and Britain, it isn't going anywhere. I’m doing what I need to survive. A Master of Engineering, a middle class graduate supporting her first generation parents, clambering her way up the social ladder. I’ve made the attempt of sparking conversations about race just to be brushed aside and dismissed. Years of justifying feelings of deep hurt, to then be gaslighted.
This was not only enforced by teachers and ‘friends’ but my own first generation Sudanese parents.They spent a large majority of their lives in Sudan under post-colonial rule. They were fed propaganda which glorified the country under British occupation as opposed to the corrupt militia which followed and sent them into a violent regime followed by a civil war. This was engraved into their minds and accompanied them on their journey to motherland Britannia. They were children of the Empire and came to cash in on their promise of freedom, liberty and opportunity. Dad is racially abused by drunk customers. Mum is more often than not spoken down to. But no, ‘This is a wonderful country Heba, it doesn’t matter who you are. You can make anything of yourself’. So I disengaged because any real interaction with the idea that the colour of my skins hold me at a lesser value, is demobilising.
But over the past month I’ve seen a surge of videos displaying the continuous attack of the black community on mainstream social media. This is an existence we have had to endure for many lifetimes. May and June only gave you a snippet of the black struggle, and overt extreme examples racism right to your feeds. A white woman uses her privilege to falsely accuse bird watcher Christian Cooper of threatening her life. Ahmaud Arbery is hunted like game, shot repeatedly and left to bleed out. Emergency Medical Technician Breonna Taylor is killed by police in her very own bed. A police officer chokes George Floyd as he calls for his dead mother in the final minutes of his life. Onlookers watch and film. This state sanctioned murder doesn’t just leave a gaping wound in the victim’s families but the entire black community. In these videos we see the reflection of the black men and women in our communities. Whilst we mourn for these individuals and their families, in them we see our own. What sends me reeling is the thought that my intelligent, brave and charismatic 16 years old brother could be next.
But through the hurt we made noise and marched in our tens of thousands across all 6 continents. Large corporations posted online in solidarity. People created space for black voices in order for us to tell our stories. Money was donated. I had people I’ve never spoken to message me about race. Those guilty of micro-aggressions came forward to apologise. My closest friends organised protests with me and asked, as big parts of my life, what they can do to help me and my community. This was unprecedented.
Regardless, what’s been a difficult pill to swallow is the acknowledgment that it’s taken instances where our lifeless black bodies are circulated across all forms of media for members beyond the black community to take action. You’ve needed such graphic images to enter your feeds in order to spark solidarity with a movement which is a default part of our struggle for a human existence. The questions your white guilt wants answers to are ones we have been trying to ask for most of our lives. You shared videos telling stories we’ve been hearing for decades. Images we know to be so disturbing because the resulting black trauma takes many of us to states of complete debilitation. It’s tiring and takes a toll on our mental health.
My reaction to Floyd’s murder was outward. This time I moved different and switched on. I engaged with what I saw, let myself feel it. I called my sister and cried. I lay in bed for 2 days. I spoke, I wrote, I protested. I put myself in a position of vulnerability, as far as responding to people with opposing views challenging my fight for justice. I did a BBC interview where I was asked to justify why the protest was going ahead given COVID. I was asked to explain the reason I was fighting for my basic human rights considering I was at a greater risk as black woman. I was put in a position where I had to explain that even my sister an NHS frontline worker was out on the streets protesting to shut down the comments about my disregard for our healthcare workers, who themselves are BAME majority. Black bodies are have been fighting on the front line for centuries, we know the risks.
What’s more, while the the engagement of a whole new demographic is a step forward, those of us putting ourselves out here are in a position where we’re excepted to help uneducate years of anti-blackness and white superiority, all whilst dealing with the hurt we are experiencing. However, this continuous display of black trauma on the mainstream creates a warped perception of what blackness is - not only to others but ourselves. The bombardment of graphic videos of murder and the subsequent rage become not only the representation of the black community to the world but end up being the images in which we associate ourselves with. Its these images which evoke feelings within us and take us out to the streets.
But Adrienne Maree Brown’s 2019 anthology ‘Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good’, understands the sheer empowerment from happiness. It’s this pride, this black joy which not only plays a key role in helping the black community heal but is an ongoing sustainable form of resistance in the face of our oppressors. Black culture throughout history has been synonymous with resistance for liberation and the outcomes have been powerful. Such unapologetic black excellence is in itself an act of rebellion and self expression. This can be just as much of a catalyst for activism as black trauma. Our artists have become household names and the music we make are now anthems of joy and empowerment. Their art and achievements remind me of my own resilience in a space where my very existence is political. Last month and throughout history, though we screamed for justice down every avenue, we also bought this black joy to the streets. There have been wedding ceremonies, proposals, daughters on fathers shoulders and sons holding the hands of mothers. For many thousands the street was a stage as they erupted into dance. The music was a rhythm to a dance of defiance and our bodies displayed a vulnerable, yet powerful, exhibition of freedom in the face of oppression. We use our happiness to bring back the humanity we have been stripped off.
My people are beauty, power and everything in between. Instead of keeping my black consciousness sedated to avoid the pain I’m immersing myself in this black excellence in order to elevate myself and thrive. Professor Charles McKinney of Rhodes College wrote to his black students: “We are not solely the history of fighting white folks. That is not who we are.” Imani Perry, in a recent article for the Atlantic tells us “Joy is not found in the absence of pain and suffering. It exists through it. … Blackness is an immense and defiant joy.”
Blackness is riding up with the kids on the block in the warm British summer. It’s moving through each house with its open doors on the estate to play video games, get fed and watch TV. It’s calling every family-friend and neighbour over the age of 20 Auntie and Uncle because anything less is disrespect. It’s our natural hair let loose with the complimentary halo of frizz worn as a crown. Blackness is seeing a brother and sister succeed against all odds, and be an example of black excellence everywhere. It’s hearing our mothers calling down the phone to her family shrieking in pure joy. It’s the grainy VHS tapes of your whole family dancing to records. Blackness is the poetry of vulnerable masculinity and love in 2Pac’s poetry. It’s the blues, hip hop, R&B, garage, grime and sound system culture that we composed with the stories of our experiences. Its the classic 2-step we all know so well. Blackness is ‘our universe of experiences’.
Written by Heba Tabidi
Born and raised in the incredibly multicultural town of Slough, Heba is a second generation Sudanese female. From a young age (around 6 years old) Heba has been attending protests to fight global injustice. But she was first aware as her position as a black British muslim working class woman in society upon entering university. Attending the University of Bath and entering the industry of engineering, she was occupying majority white middle class spaces. Through the trauma of racism and genderism Heba faces, she fights for the right of her black and black female community through writing, speaking and protesting. She has recently organised two protests and was a speaker for the Bristol Labour Party at a meeting to discuss Black Lives Matter.