Originally posted on Wed, 09/21/2016 - 9:36am
The Washington Peace Center continues our new critical conversation series with Dia Bui, Co-Director, and Danielle Elizabeth Stevens, who discusses her organization, This Bridge Called Our Health, a Black queer-woman led digital publication and community healing resource. She describes the importance of self-care and healing in a world where Black women, Black queer women, and people of color are oppressed. She offers methods of healing to combat trauma and oppression.
Where did the inspiration for This Bridge Called Our Health come from?
The inspiration came from the anthology “This Bridge Called My Back”, which addressed the ways that women of color have been harmed by the academic industrial complex. The book offered a space where women of color spoke truth to power about the possibilities and limitations of finding healing and building sisterhood with one another to mend the bruises inflicted by the harm of academia.
With This Bridge Called Our Health, we provide a digital space and community resource that centers the healing of Black women and femmes; To share authentically about how we are wounded by intergenerational trauma and state sanctioned violence. Everyday, we are living with the repercussions of slavery and other forms of institutionalized violence that have a harmful impact on our minds, bodies and spirits. This Bridge Called Our Health offers a space to de-stigmatize discussions around healing, trauma, self-care, grieving, and violence; where it's okay to honor our vulnerability and name the ways we are harmed; To remind us that we’re not going through it alone and we don’t have to suffer in isolation and silence. The harm of oppression is a shared experience, and in many ways the challenges of cultivating healing from that can be too; We affirm and celebrate the power of building family, community, and sisterhood as a way to embody our truths collectively and forge paths for our collective healing.
Who are you inspired by or who do you draw inspiration from?
This is such a big question, wow. My mother, my grandmother. There’s a quote from Beyonce’s Lemonade, “Grandmother, the alchemist. You spun gold out of this hard life. Conjured beauty from the things left behind. Found healing where it did not live”. I think about all the beautiful ways my mother and grandmother created vitality for us, out of what many would believe to be nothing. We didn’t have a lot of money or material items having grown up in poverty, on welfare, in the hood in Long Beach, CA. But we had an abundance of love. They have shown me how to honor the divinity and magic in myself, and remind me to be a compassionate mother to my own inner child. That really creates a blueprint for my work and reminds me that I am worthy of healing, worthy of love, and worthy of the community that my mother, grandmother, and sisters created for me growing up.
What steps (moves) have you taken on your journey to heal from oppression?
I think it absolutely starts from within and being honest with yourself about the ways that you’re hurting. There are things that happen in our lives that call us to reflect. For a long time, I could not see my own reflection, or bear to look at myself in the mirror. For a long time, I ran away from myself, afraid to explore my own shadows, the murky pain that lies within my hearts’ chambers. But pain festers when you neglect it. Healing necessarily means that you have to be able to look at your reflection, to look at yourself in the mirror and all the ways you need to heal. To look at yourself in a compassionate way and allow yourself time to uncover. And to hold yourself tenderly as you do that uncovering. To say to yourself softly, “I want to open up a space for you to heal”. And I really have to carve time, space, and energy for that. I have to make regular time to quiet the noise so I can do that. What I mean by noise is everything that gets in the way of being with our breath and being with ourselves. For me that had always been relationships, work, likeability, expectations other people had of me, being concerned about other people's business. But carving sacred space to be with myself and actually be genuine with who I am and who I am not, really unlocked powerful truths about myself and began to create a blueprint to my healing.
In your writing, you talk about your identities being a Black, Queer woman. How do these identities impact your work?
I have a lot to say but what I feel compelled to share at this moment is that being a Black woman in this society, I have been conditioned to always stand strong in the face of adversity. And I’ve had to be wildly resilient and ‘strong’ in order to create life as a Black queer woman from a poor single mother household, intimately navigating overlapping forms of oppression. When things have knocked me down, the tools of resilience and ‘strength’ continue to keep me alive when forces are trying to render me and my people extinct. But in regards to healing, those tools have not always be useful. When there are wounds that have opened up or when we have been hurt, we have to give ourselves permission to be soft. Being tender and honoring my vulnerability and softness is like a form of resistance to the ways this society hardens Black women and strips of our layers, our dimension, our humanity. It’s ok to be soft even when the system has hardened you. It’s ok to be soft when it comes to our healing.
In the blog, there are writings about Radical Compassion which to me is so important to talk about in this work and in the movement. What does radical compassion look like and what does it mean to you?
When I say radical compassion, it’s something we have to hold for ourselves, to honor our wholeness and recognize our humanity in a world that renders us sub-human. We have to remember that we are growth embodied, and must hold compassion for the infinite possibilities of learning, transforming, and becoming in our journey through life; for ourselves and one another. Even as someone who has been an organizer and activist for the past 10 years, I just recently begin to understand the shift that I needed to make in approaching social justice work with radical compassion. I found that I want to be more gentle and compassionate towards my people, especially when our people are already suffering through enough. Radical compassion with one another is a way to get free together. We have to create a foundation of radical compassion to fight against the system; the system and it’s harmful energetic presence in our communities is the foundation and root of our pain, it is not our people alone. Radical compassion is a way to get free collectively against these systems that are harming us.
I see my folks and people out here doing this work. I see their heart and trust so deeply that they care about our freedom. And sometimes I see us rip one another apart and that breaks my heart. I’ve absolutely been there too. I don’t think the onus of not having radical compassion for each other should be placed exclusively on our folks, though. The onus should be placed on the toxicity of oppression and the pervasive ways it permeates into the ways we build community together. We need to not let the the dynamics of oppression come in between the ways we love on one another. And that’s hard work! But to me, that is the work.
On Movement and Leadership: Respectability politics v.s. Authenticity
There's so much dynamic leadership that comes from our communities. The mannerisms of Black women are often seen as counter to our notions of “leadership”, which is rooted in respectability politics. But we are experts of our own experiences, and no one can speak to our experiences but us. We absolutely can and do engage in leadership. The most inspiring leaders I know are all Black folks who are women, queer, and/or trans. We need to continue to create platforms for Black queer and trans communities. Black voices are often not heard because we are being spoken over by the good intentions of well-meaning non-Black folks. But social justice spaces need to do a better job at uplifting Black queer and trans organizations and collectives, to celebrate the work that’s already being done.
I think Black queer and trans folks generate so much knowledge, culture and livelihood in this movement and this world. It’s frustrating to me to see Black women and Black folx embody such truth in our experience but are always held in skepticism or told to show proof of our oppression, while when a non-Black person talks about Blackness, their words are legitimized because of the harmful ways our society understands power in relation to identity. There are so many non-Black individuals and organizations who profit off of my Blackness; People who are receiving capital through both exhibiting forms of leadership that are seen as ‘digestible’ (ie: anything in tandem to mannerisms of Black people that are often devalued) and also through talking about Black suffering. I think that’s harmful. I don't need Tim Wise to legitimize what I go through. I don’t need non-Black people who have Black friends who read “African American History” books to represent my very personal experiences with the intimate harm of anti-Blackness. Black people have been speaking truth to power for generations, this is what we’ve been saying for generations. We need to trust our people, trust Black women, and trust Black queer and trans people. Believe us when we name our own truth.
On allyship towards Black people:
I think a lot of people who engage in allyship do it for the wrong reasons. For them it often depends on image, accolades, and recognition. It’s not authentic or genuine. If you’re only doing it for your image, it’s disingenuous. We live in a society where people are capitalizing off of anti-Blackness; From the enduring criminalization of Black people through state-sanctioned violence and the prison industrial complex, to the ways that non-Black people are literally getting checks by talking about the violence Black people face; Blackness continues to be a commodity that everyone is getting paid for except for us! It’s really dangerous. We need to honor the voices and experiences of Black, queer and trans people. If non-Black folks are being asked to speak for and about Black people, they need to yield those opportunities to Black, queer and trans people.
On state violence:
There is a constant erasure of Black women when it comes to state sanctioned violence against Black people. I wrote a piece for Elixher magazine a couple of years ago about Ferguson and invisibility of Black/women and girls. I also wrote a love letter to Black women and girls killed by police and vigilantes for This Bridge Called Our Health and For Harriet. To be clear, I think it's fucked up and heart breaking when any Black person get killed. Black folks of all genders and experiences. It’s just saddening to see that the violence that occurs against Black women and girls doesn’t get much attention. When I go to marches and bring up Black women, I get asked why I’m trying to divide the movement. To be told that my audacity to honor the lives of Black women who are killed by police is divisive is so illustrative of the ways Black cis, queer, and trans women continue to be dehumanized, both within and outside of our own community. It demonstrates the ways society and our community continues to devalue Black women. My life is dedicated to Black women, femmes, and girls. Black women have been the blueprint to my healing and freedom. I will always honor us. That why with This Bridge Called Our Health, it is so important and deliberate for us to continue centering Black cis, queer, and trans women, femmes, and girls and name the ways we are harmed and the possibilities of our healing. We’re unapologetically dedicated to uplifting the narratives of Black women in this work, to honor the intrinsic magic and radiance of Black women in a society that continues to strip Black women of our divinity.
On non-Black POC inclusion in the upcoming “Healing from Oppression” skillshare:
I’m a Black queer woman from a working poor single mother household in Long Beach California and my relationship with institutionalized trauma is intimately connected to all of those identities and experiences. When I’m creating and speaking, it’s from that perspective. Black women and authors serve as the blueprint in healing spaces we create. In the healing spaces I create, I center Black women by naming that this space centers Black women, and by using the work of Black women to guide my work in order to bring intentional visibility to the leadership and creative expression of Black women.
On Inheriting Healing:
This Bridge Called Our Health carefully and deliberately centers around a model of transformative justice. To me, the way that I understand it is that hurt people, hurt people. People who are hurt, often hurt others. We got a lot of hurt folks in our community, a lot of folks living with a lot of bruises. When our bruises are unmended, they bleed. I think a lot of folks bleed on each other. I know I’ve bled on people and that has inflicted harm onto them. People have bled on me, and it has inflicted harm onto me. How can we mend the wounds within us all that are craving for attention and gentleness? How can honor our healing so that we don’t inflict harm and violence on ourselves and other people? How can we begin to be gentle with the inner child in us that is just craving compassion, visibility, and some space to just be? It starts from within. That cycle of healing starts with us. We are inflicted with systemic forms of violence which manifest into trauma, and we are not isolated in these traumas. We can break that cycle. We can break the recurrence of cyclical violence in our community. I dream of a world where instead of continuing the cycle of inheriting violence, we create a world where of inheriting cyclical healing. A new world like this ispossible; and I’m absolutely committed to conjuring it.
As an organizer, movement builder, what gives you joy?
Black folks arriving in spaces just as they are. It brings me joy to bear witness to the healing experience of my people and the beautiful ways they embody emotions and give themselves the permission to feel. It brings me joy when we allow ourselves to heal and be human. It’s wonderful to be unapologetically human in shared space together. I also just love to carve spaces the can hold the ways Black folks transform, shape-shift, grown, become, it’s beautiful to bear witness to that trajectory from the beginning to the end of a workshop. Black folks in general give me joy; building kinship, sisterhood, family and community. The ways we make connection with one another, the beginning process of family and love is so beautiful to me. That brings me so much joy. Seeing somebody say “yes, sis”, “ I agree with you”, “I see you”. The ways we reflect one another is so inspiring to me. It reminds me that we don’t go through life in isolation. The shared experience, that reflection is so warm to me.
Are there any readings that are particularly transformative for you?
I think navigating the academic industrial complex has made me have a particular relationship to reading with having to read for production in college. Reading for pleasure is something I’m still trying to discover; I’m uncovering what it looks and feels like to read for my own pleasure. We often just produce for other people’s consumption and not necessarily for ourselves. It’s what capitalism does, diminishes the self in that way. But anything by Black women i’m here for. Any discourses around healing and dreaming, spirituality, tarot, astrology, music.
How can folks support your work and This Bridge Called Our Health?
People can like our FB page, Instagram and Twitter at This Bridge Called Our Health, I personally engage in a lot of discourse around healing, trauma and self-care in my own FB page, so I welcome folks to contact me there as well.
This Bridge Called Our Health is basically a two-person, volunteer-run platform with no institutional funding or grants. The only funding we’ve had in the two years we’ve been around is what we have raised through the fundraiser we currently have that launched this summer. Black women and trans led org don't get much funding in comparison to other orgs with identities closer to sources of power and resources. We welcome support by sharing and making donations to our fundraiser. It’s important to name that healing is a form of feminized labor; labor that has historically been left for women to do. It’s labor that under patriarchy and white supremacy, is readily consumed, used and digested but isn’t always valued. We understand that we do work in this scope and welcome donations from our community members who are benefitting from this Black woman-led labor.
Through spreading the word about the work that we do, collaborating with us, and becoming a client. We offer a range of healing services including group and collective healing, grieving, and self-care spaces, sacred individualised healing sessions, consultation, curriculum development, and event-planning for organizations, schools, business, and more, all through a social justice lens. We are currently open for Fall and Winter programming and beyond, so if people are interested, we welcome them to email us at: thisbridgecalledourhealth@gmail.com
Danielle will be facilitating the upcoming DC Trainer's Network Skill-share "Healing from Our Oppression: Blueprint for Women and Femmes of Color" on Tuesday, September 27th 6:00pm-9:00pm at St. Stephen and the Incarnation Episcopal Church 1525 Newton St. NW Washington, DC 20010
For more information, contact thisbridgecalledourhealth@gmail.com.