resilience is not a dirty word

perching lines, no. 26

Hello gentle people,

Last week I published twice and I found myself feeling a bit apologetic about it (hence the chat message). I think something is shifting in me as I loosen up my format on here so I had a lot to say.

I have decided I am not going to apologize next time that happens. I write here to offer care through my words—what a blessing it is to have been feeling so well I had more to offer.

This season has been one of pausing to remember:

I want to live a life that says I have fought for my being here in the softest way possible. And from that place, I want to help folks cultivate practices of resilience. For me, this includes self-care, spiritual and creative practices. Rest, healing and play, as I like to say.

Photo by Nik Shuliahin 💛💙 on Unsplash

Resilience is a special interest of mine.

Audre Lorde said,

“Within the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle and otherwise, conscious or not — I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.”

She says this in an essay about the transformation of silence into language and action. I’m learning from Lorde that the testimony of survival in an oppressed body—mine being Black (Haitian), woman, queer, immigrant, neurodivergent and disabled—is revolutionary. I am still here—how?

When I ask that question and answer in my language I expose systems of domination in their repeated failure to destroy me. Come, let us marvel at my still being here despite what is a natural hell on earth.

Lucille Clifton says

“come celebrate with me that every day something has tried to kill me and has failed.”

I have been studying these words with my life. And as someone who practices silence daily through meditation and writing, my hope is that it makes me loud in the moments I need to be loudest: In the face of fascism.

Through the reality of suffering.

In this hell that bell hooks called the imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy.

Resilience gets a bad rap amongst those of us who have survived predominantly white spaces that used individual resilience as a copout for creating systemic change. We’ve witnessed the violence of having our resilience applauded while the circumstances we were surviving were conveniently not mentioned.

But resilience is still part of our story. We are still here and our aliveness goes beyond our resistance. Sorry if that is news to you, but it’s true.

Today I celebrate my resilience. Our resilience. And I hope my words continue to cultivate our resilience. So that we live more fully.

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“Tokens get spent.”

I heard these words from Tamice Spencer-Helms in a video on IG. I had never seen my story told so succinctly, it stunned me.

It has taken years from me to heal from my past experience in the world of Christian social justice, particularly from the violence of predominantly white spaces. The wounds of the racial battle fatigue of 2021 still linger. Healing is a daily pursuit.

I started focusing on rest as a special interest and developed a whole new set of ethics to help me become more comfortable with two different kinds of tenderness: the softness that is alive in me and what was beaten into me/tried to destroy me. I did not shy away from sharing this journey of becoming in podcasts, newsletters, on social media, in sermons, through songs—

And all this time I was so sure I was trying to get back to some way of being that best serves capitalism. Best serves those who wish to extract from me. I have been missing the energy of the old Rose, completely obscuring what I know to be a new way for me to be part of this world.

So I am happy to realize that this whole time, my dedication to my healing has helped me grow more seated in myself. So that there is no old Rose or new Rose.

There is just Rose—Rose June, if you're nasty.

I gave myself the middle name June after the poet June Jordan. I thought in a very silly way that it was about finding my voice to speak out against injustice and name evils—as if it ever left. But it is still here and has continued to here here.

With this name, I want to declare love boldly and offer people a picture of what we are fighting for. To remind people that we are the ones we have been waiting for. Giving myself this name is about the permission to survive poetically.

My meditation practice is helping me to adopt the kind of stillness that reminds me that I am already doing it. I feel myself growing more compassionate.

I also recall the words of EbonyJanice in a conversation, “Who told you you were naked?”

All this work I have done (and continue to do) to credential myself into being just who I am….I am done with that.

“Within the war we are all waging with the forces of death, subtle and otherwise, conscious or not — I am not only a casualty, I am also a warrior.”

—Audre Lorde

Lorde reminds me—my survival is enough of a credential. The way to a gentle landing should always be built on truth: my being fully alive is both the journey of being here and getting there. It is the womanist way. The crip way. The mad way. The queer way. The immigrant way. The creative way. The way of simply being and becoming more myself.

Resilience is not a dirty word. It is a beautiful one when despite the established order’s desire to dehumanize and other you into oblivion, you find a way to flourish.

landing tracks

• Writing like this helps sort myself out sometimes. It also feels like prayer. Consider the Audre Lorde quote. Describe what it means for you to be a warrior who fights by staying alive. Write what you need to remember your way when you at war with the forces that wish to make you a casualty.

• My journey has also been one of finding my way back to my body. If you find yourself needing to make a journey back to your body, I recommend this YouTube channel for somatic healing practices. If dancing is more your thing, consider this channel for dance movement therapy.

As a reminder, everything I share here is free. Your generosity is definitely appreciated through a paid subscription or a one-time gift through Buy Me a Coffee!