It Is Either Her Chair or It is Mine

I felt it recently. That feeling where I felt like I needed to protect and fight for my space. I saw another Black woman succeed and I felt the fear - that because she had a space in that area and a platform, it meant that I couldn’t do what I felt called to do. I noticed it, fortunately, but it doesn’t always happen. I caught it because in one moment I was proud of my sister and then immediately I felt like I needed to fight. It was odd and felt very unnatural - almost conditioned, because it happened without thought.

I wonder when that came into play in my subconscious? I was always one of only a few Black people in places - my primary school, my secondary school, my youth church. I always felt like an exception, fortunate to be in whatever space I found myself because I was the only one. Perhaps it was the result of living outside a city in England - whatever it was, I was not ‘the norm’. And yet as a child I believed I could do anything. When I met other Black people, they felt like people who would understand and who I could relate to - people who looked like me. I wanted connection, not competition.

The feeling of competition came when I was older, when I started working for church. Perhaps it was because conversations around getting Black people to come to church became prevalent - it was when I first experienced tokenism. That scarcity mindset wasn’t one I was born with, but the reality was and is today, that there are limited spaces where Black people can be. Spaces where tokenism is real and only one Black person is required, not celebrated, just required.

It felt like I had to fight for my role. The Black woman near to me seemed like a person to be threatened by, not someone to learn from and encourage. But when the fight kicked in, I was confused because I didn’t realise who I was fighting. It certainly wasn’t the other Black woman, there was no threat from her, she was nothing but kind.

If I was to try and describe it, I would explain it like being in a playground - secondary school - if you can remember! You know when it is happening, when two people start to square up to one another. The atmosphere changes, it feels like a hurricane moving around you - the environment begins to feel unsafe. Your eyes start to search around, noticing the people around, quickly assessing the situation. Your body starts moving a little, trying to work out where the best place to stand is. That is what it feels like… the fear, the comparison, the assessment and then survival instincts kick in.

That is when the other person feels like a threat - fists clenched, turning inward and closing the door to another. What would it look like to open those doors and have open hands instead?

I cannot give something out of my hand when I need it to stay where I am. I can’t give away what may not come back around to me. But whether there is something coming back to me or not, is that the way I want to live? If the dream is not yet matching the reality, then the only way to make it that way is by living it out. If I can live with an open hand, reaching out to those other Black women around me, I am showing what it means to live as if there is no scarcity.

What does this look like in reality? It looks like encouraging sisters in their dreams, their projects and their activities. It looks like practically opening doors when and where I can so that others can have access.

I have experienced this more than I have done it for others and I am ashamed of that. I have been the recipient of genuine care and love from another who has opened doors for me, encouraged me and helped me to believe in a reality that is prophetic and not necessarily real today, but one that I want to fight for. A place and time where all are given opportunity, support and encouragement.

I cannot close my eyes and wish for a different future but I can acknowledge the systems I live in and choose to live differently - I can choose to show hope to those around me who need it. And I feel the pain, I do not ignore the reality that doors are closed to certain people and wide open to others. I cry, I live with an open hand and I don’t armour up but I protect my heart and I give hope to others.

The system exists, but it doesn’t need to be my story.