For the last sixteen years, I have held down a job. I can no longer remember a time when I was not working, attending school and juggling care-giving responsibilities. On their own, these are full-time positions. Coupled together they tell a story of howI am always producing, always looking out for someone, forever tired.
I accepted that for the longest time. The grind, the constant working for more, and the rejection that at some point I would have to stop completely.
But in September of 2019, amidst another arising mental health break, I came to the realization that I needed to do something different. I could feel it and this time, my survival was on the line. If I ignored the need, there was no guarantee I’d make it this time.
With the support of my therapist (that it took three years to find), I began a journey of stillness, the mindful engagement in quiet, inactivity, or lack of motion. Rest became a central function in the work I’ve been doing to heal myself from trauma.
Along with therapy, I learned to incorporate my spiritual practice of Hoodoo, inviting my ancestors into the healing space. Myeshxa Worthington writes that Hoodoo (or Conjure) is utilized “…to create precise and specific outcomes to liberate ones self from the violence and oppression of White hegemonic terrorism.” I learned about generational trauma and generational healing.
By venerating my ancestors, I learned that working through my trauma heals my present, past and future ancestral lineages. It acknowledges those that have not been encouraged to rest.
In my journey into Hoodoo, my therapist and ancestors began guiding me and eventually prescribed stillness as an aid to achieving liberation. When I began to hold the fact that stillness and rest have always been forbidden for Black folks, I gave myself permission to engage in them.
Initially, stillness sounded simple, something anyone could do. But when I first started practicing it, I was terrified. My thoughts were racing and I kept wanting to do something. I was restless. Eventually though, I came to the sinking realization that the amount of work I had been doing kept me distracted. I wasn’t able to focus on myself or articulate needs.
Without a job, I had hours in the day where I alone determined what they consisted of. I binge-watched tv, caught up on social media and was more available to chat with friends. My classes consisted of a short number of hours per week. I connected with my ancestors, began dancing again, practiced yoga and cooked, all things that require a beautiful mix of stillness and movement.
Though having an abundance of time felt unreal to me, I rested. I sat my ass down. I napped.
During chattel slavery our ancestors’ bodies were used as units of time and money. They were forced to produce at unfathomable quotas with no regard for their wellbeing, rest or safety. After the “abolition” of slavery, forced Black labor continued via chain gangs, the Black Codes, and anti-loitering laws.
The discomfort that white folks feel in seeing a Black person not working is apparent in every system in the United States. The origins of white violence rely on forced Black labor. And the prison industrial complex normalizes/ reinforces pipelines where forced labor is made possible. Even after our ancestors produced trillions, Black folks who do not rest are still a commodity.
Though I know Black folks get nothing out of continuously being on the grind and not sleeping, I still feel guilty for having the ability to practice stillness and rest. Other Black people are working so hard, who am I to not do the same? How dare I rest?
Stillness forced me to confront my own seemingly radical politics. If Black people deserve housing, clothing and food without working as arequirement, why don’t I? If I believe others’ worth is not dependent on productivity, why can’t I believe that for myself? How can I practice the ideals of radical love I claim to believe if unable to extend them to myself?
I’m now realizing that these feelings are a result of living in a cruel, antiBlack, capitalist society. A society that creates conditions where for its main producers rest is criminal.
In the U.S., anti-Black capitalism is the predominant economic mode of production, and thus stillness must become the antithesis of what’s required to sustain it. This nation, founded with our blood and labor, has always needed our movement to generate white lives and white wealth.
During the global pandemic of COVID-19, I offer stillness as respite. Different from my own stillness eight months prior, where I was able to prepare beforehand, many are being thrust into a state of stillness via stay-at-home orders. These orders have closed communal spaces, schools and places of employment.
In a time of increasing conflict and anti-Black violence, stillness is a necessary form of survival. It is necessary for us to thrive and create spaces where we can dream. While I know access to stillness varies with privilege, I propose that our radical praxis includes creating and stealing moments of stillness for ourselves and our communities.
Digging deeper into stillness gives us an opportunity to confront our own negative self talk and allow in more self forgiveness.
All Black people deserve rest. As Black bodies continue to be put on the front lines of this pandemic, stillness is being snatched from some to create comfort and ease for others. Even Black business owners are being systematically blocked from programs aimed at keeping businesses operational during and post-pandemic. The rest of the country is able to remain safe and unharmed while our communities are expected to continually produce. Now is the time more than ever to take it back.
Stillness offers us the opportunity to refuse meritocracy, antiBlackness and misogynoir.
Whether we practice stillness for a few hours or a few moments, our ancestors thank us for it. Making space for stillness is an ode to those of us who have not and are unable to rest. It is an acknowledgement for those of us for which rest has been stolen.
As we fight to create the worlds we dream of, let us take our rest back. Ashé.
Reading Suggestions:
Dark Matter: A Century of Speculative Fiction From the African Diaspora by Sheree Thomas
https://www.scalawagmagazine.org/2018/01/finding-ceremony-a-song-for-from-seven-generations/ by Alexis Pauline Gumbs
Dear Universe: Letters of Affirmation and Empowerment -For All of Us by Yolo Akili
Danielle is a Black non-binary femme with a love for their ancestors, their cats and building their intuitive practices. She is a writer, healer, twerk lover, weed enthusiast and cultivator of Black joy. They believe in the power of good ass food and community, conjuring Black freedom in those spaces of love.
