One night I stood outside the dressing room of one of my
Feminist writer inspirations for hours in pouring rain. Soon-to-be-autographed
t-shirt in hand, I awaited my turn to get a minute with Lena Dunham. Once she finally
emerged, though, all she offered me was a curt glance-over, visibly annoyed
with my presentation -- runny mascara, jeans made slick and skin tight with rain,
sopping wet shoes. She told me that I was wet, messy, and unwelcomed. And then
slammed the door.
This was just a dream.
I am not sure why it is Lena Dunham’s door slamming in my
dreams. Perhaps my bitter ex-fan preoccupation with her has her face
lurking in my subconscious. In reality, if I were to flinch at the hollowed thud made by another door denying Black
women entry, it would more accurately read a general “White Feminism,” and not an isolated “Miss Dunham.”
The revolving door of White Feminism comes to a
screeching halt on the attempted entry of Black and Brown women. Soaked to the skin in
our messy Black People Problems, the realm
of White Feminism, furnished with pristine White carpet, lie on the
other side of the dressing room door, removed from our carpet-staining issues.
In recent months, I’ve read fellow Black women bloggers’
posts and tweets about White Feminists making Black women feel unacknowledged, learned
about the ugly, racist split Mother of White Feminism Elizabeth Stanton made from the
abolitionist movement in 1867, and fallen out of love with Lena Dunham and her non-inclusive
feminism and television series. Still, my faith in the movement has kept my skepticism at bay.
However, this Spring Break, I witnessed my peers take a
photo that shred every thread of this intricately woven denial.
I, along with around 45 other University of Illinois
students, spent Spring Break touring the southern cities pivotal in the Civil
Rights Movement. The group was impressively diverse – Black, White and
International students, and a handful of LGBTQ folks.
In Alabama, we visited what is now a reserved park space in
memory of the epic civil rights demonstration that happened there decades ago.
The protest held on these grounds would become one of the internationally
famous illustrations of American race relations in the ‘60s.
 |
| Photos from this demonstration show White policemen using dogs and fire hoses to deter non-violent, unarmed Black protesters and were seen around the world as a testimony to the surreal reality of Jim Crow. |
For me, standing in this park was chilling. I felt a
connection to the protestors whose belief in Black freedom was somehow more
powerful than the water pressure from fire hoses that stripped bark from trees,
and more fierce than the canine teeth that tore Black flesh from white bone.
On the contrary, some of the White girls on the trip found
humor in this sacred space.
Tickled by a statue reenacting one of the hundreds of mini-horror
scenes occurring simultaneously during the demonstration, Katie* and Evelyn* opted
for a reenactment of their own.
With grins a mile wide, Katie and Evelyn (right to left) pose as the racist policeman and his dog, while a – Black – boy poses as a demonstrator.
“I’ll be the dog!”
I heard Katie shout this in a tone that would have been
appropriate in exclamation of winning a family round of scrabble. Her chipper was a bloody red lipstick stain on a white
carpet – jarring and cheap. It rang in my ears each time I looked at one of those girls
for the remainder of the trip.
Don’t get me wrong, here, I genuinely enjoyed both Katie and
Evelyn. Like Lena Dunham, these girls and their friends are a treat of high intellect complemented by an off-beat spunk. Their unapologetic individuality provided as many
laugh-out-loud conversations as it did learning moments for me. Even in the short time
of a week-long trip, I feel like I’ve grown from knowing them.
Evelyn, specifically interested in Black and Latino issues,
took full responsibility for the offensive nature of this picture, and called
it a “learning experience.” Katie handled my confrontation with an impressive
amount of grace, too. She was apologetic for offending me and understanding of
how the picture was unacceptable.
My issue isn’t with them -- they are just variables in the
larger problematic of White Feminism. I found that here, amongst liberal-minded,
pink-haired, socially-conscious, feminist non-conformists, even the “coolest” White
girls were painfully out of touch with my reality.
My own confusion indicated all that I had yet to learn from blog posts and tweets critical of White Feminism. I had been thinking:
“Some White women can’t understand Black
People Problems, but most White Feminists get it.”
The truth was simple: this movement’s
-- made for White women, by White women -- attempt to “get it” is futile at
best, and nonexistent per usual.
It would be foolishly dogmatic to assume that the birth of
feminism produced no White feminists
progressive-minded enough to believe in a sense of true sisterhood with Black and Brown women.
Still, while the dressing room door may not slam while “inclusive”
feminists hold the knob, more often than not, it appears only to be left ajar for women of color.
The root of the divide is the White feminists’ inability to identify with the complexity of
the Black woman’s struggle.
Let’s say The Help’s
Miss Hilly was a feminist interested in including Black women in the movement.
Had she taken a peek into the life of Minnie, her Black domestic, what she’d have found would've prompted her retreat further into her own pristine White
bubble. The smell of alcohol coating the breath of Minnie’s self-hating husband
as he slurred justifications for beating her, the sight of a small, glass
container housing Minnie’s entire life savings, and the sound of sheets on a twin-sized bed being tousled and yanked
by four of Minnie’s own sleeping children
would all have felt, to Miss Hilly, like the realities of an alien universe.
To address Black
People Problems, Miss Hilly would have to broaden her campaign for more female representation in local politics
to account for racial equality now,
too. Issues regarding equal pay for men and women would get sticky, as Black
women faced relentless job discrimination even within the realm of “women’s
jobs.” And in subversion of patriarchy,
Miss Hilly and her feminist friends would now have to attempt to solve the
riddle of self-hate and machismo at work when Black men “disciplined” their wives.
Historically, Miss Hilly has been no more capable of understanding Minnie’s Black People Problems than Elizabeth Stanton was willing to stick by
abolitionist Frederick Douglass’ side after Black men appeared to be surpassing
White women in the crusade against inequality. Whether it’s a matter of
misunderstanding or malice, the divide persists.
Katie and Evelyn are not hateful racists – not by a long
shot. They simply can’t identify with Black
People Problems. If they did, they would find no humor in a park stained with Black blood.
Turning back into the hellish downpour of my dreams, I can
understand why Lena Dunham was unenthused by my presence– no one wants rainwater
stains where White carpet was once unblemished. However the issue is, and remains,
why I was wet in the first place, while she had no trouble keeping dry. The
White Feminist disengages with the messiness of Black People Problems, while simultaneously enjoying the White
privilege affording her sisters the privilege of an appearance unblemished by the intersection of dual identities.
*Katie and Evelyn’s names have been
changed
