“but bein alive & bein a woman & bein colored is a metaphysical
dilemma/ i havent conquered yet/ do you see the point
my spirit is too ancient to understand the separation of
soul & gender”
-Ntozake Shange
Art by Demetria
My mother has always made an effort to push against forces that try to define her personhood. As a child, she actively challenged the image of the “perfect Black daughter” that her sisters created and abided by. Instead of focusing on getting good grades or learning how to do hair like her siblings, she spent her days hosting relay races on her neighborhood block, dreaming of being an auto-mechanic, making others laugh, flirting with boys, and living her life the way she wanted to.
Her mother did not quite understand her “against the grain” personality, and she especially did not approve of her love of running. A Southern Libra woman who embodied beauty, she would emphasize my mother’s looks and try to mold her into the perfect Black woman – sending her to Black cotillion events that put traditional Black femininity on a pedestal, for example. Her mom always said real women take their coffee black – and my mom puts plenty of cream and sugar in hers to this day.
My mother persisted against gender limitations. Her love for running and distaste for social norms transformed into a certified passion for Track & Field once she entered High School. One fateful track tournament, my mom tripped so hard that she skidded across the hot concrete, necessitating stitches across her chin. Horrified by the wound on her beautiful face, her mother took that as an opportunity to stop the running. She weighed the social capital that arrives with Black feminine beauty and my mother’s passion and chose societal acceptance. My mother never ran again, and she still has the scar on her face to this day.
My grandmother failed to understand that what is most beautiful about my mother is that she runs and has always ran. In a race against misogynoir and gender norms, she powerfully runs from oppressive boxes and claims her own path. Rather than letting “Black womanhood” define her, she defines Black womanhood. She runs her gender, not the other way around.
Rather than pass down the scars of gender limitations to me, my mom made an effort to ensure I never felt limited because I was a Black girl. While she, alongside my father, still raised me in a gendered manner, she always encouraged me to pursue my passions and interests, embrace my intelligence, and be myself. My mother would buy me more stereotypically “girly” toys like dolls, but she would also purchase genderless things such as scooters and science experiment kits. She did not force pink and frilly clothes onto me, embracing that green was my favorite color. She approved of my heels and my Jordans. My mom made it clear that she loves me because I am me, not because of who I have the potential to be. I have always known that I am Amari before anything else.
From a sociopolitical perspective, I see gender as a distracting method of social control. At its functional core, it’s a constructed system of categorization that finds its origins/basis in economic and social relations, relative to time and period. Gender then manifests on the intrapersonal level as a deflection from the self, telling us who society wants us to be instead of giving us immediate room to discover the truth of ourselves since our births, alienating the soul from true personhood. In that same way, throughout my childhood, I found myself in a constant battle between myself and womanhood. I knew who I was, but I kept being told who I should be instead, limited by others’ projections.
In Elementary School I wanted to play football with the boys. I could throw a perfect spiral, and my unlocked aggression made me a great tackler. But my peers’ internalization of gender norms said “no.” When I became a debater in Middle School, I could see the astonishment on others’ white cishet faces that a queer Black girl in a vibrant, red pantsuit was their competition. Catcalling from men on the street violently reminded me of my place in the world, their words serving as one of gender’s tools for subordination. I’ve had to assert my Blackness and queerness in woman-centered spaces to be seen as whole, joining the long line of Black women asking “aint I a woman?” Even today, when I express my opinions and assert myself with unwavering confidence at work, I am met with racialized, gendered shock and dismissal.
At first, I saw this battle as essential and heroic. I was following in the footsteps of Black feminists before me who worked to break against and expand gender expectations for Black women. But after a while, this battle felt less valorous, more Sisyphean and exhausting. I remember fully breaking down during my first year at college; the weight of being a Black woman and experiencing constant misogynoir combined with feeling like my gender identity no longer quite fit became overwhelming. I spent a drunken wine night full of confusion and fatigue, sobbing with two of my queer friends.
I had to ask myself why I was working so hard to expand the definition of a category that exists to be purposefully restrictive for Black women in the first place. It should never feel like hard work to exist as oneself. With the awareness that gender is a socially constructed institution came the realization that I could simply divest from it, just like any other.
Over time, exploring my gender identity became my own internal revolution. In order to move away from cis Black womanhood, I had to reclaim my self and my soul. I built off the foundation my mother gave me, working to strengthen the relationship I had with myself to realign my being with my truth and heal. I faced the difficult truth that, despite it getting me through so much, “Black womanhood” alone simply cannot capture the essence of my soul, and it does not always feel like a perfect fit. I can feel the dissonance between gender and my soul when I interact with others who see me through a gendered lens and treat me how they think they should, instead of just seeing me for who I am.
Black womanhood alone cannot define me, and in reality, it never could — because I’ve always been more than that. While I am okay with identifying with Black womanhood sometimes, I also do not view myself in a gendered way. In the words of Solange, “I can’t be a singular expression of myself, there’s too many parts, too many spaces, too many manifestations, too many lines, too many curves, too many troubles, too many journeys, too many mountains, too many rivers, so many… ”
In moving away from identifying as a cis Black woman, I do not see myself as running away from Black womanhood, but instead, like my mother, I am carving my own path and centering myself rather than society; I drink my coffee Black, with cream and sugar, and sometimes I just prefer tea. My ever-evolving gender identity as a queer, non-binary, Black femme/woman/person reflects my ultimate truth: that I am myself first and foremost, and I will not compromise myself by conforming to societal expectations.
Thank you for this.
<3 Thank you so much for sharing this Amari!
Thank you so much for sharing this! The way you describe your relationship with gender really resonated with me.
Loved this! Thanks for sharing and affirming not just yourself, but all of us on a similar path.
Thank you for sharing this!