Divinity and healing

02/27/2013

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African Goddess

by Charles Bibbs
Sometimes, when I think of divinity, I think of something bigger than this world, something so far outside of myself that perhaps I'll never reach it.

Then there are the times when I see divinity in the eyes of another black woman. I guess that's the difference between thinking about divinity and feeling the spirit of the divine, through contact with a black woman who has struggled and survived. And in turn, I suppose that means seeing divinity in my own eyes. I've got to stop and absorb that for a moment, because the transformation from struggling to sense an ounce of worth in my dark skin to seeing myself as embodying the divine feels like a miracle.

Black women's voices lifted up our divinity at last weekend's Black Women From the Future event. It really enriched my soul to be part of such a powerful reading, and I'm feeling an immense amount of gratitude for everyone who was part of the show, and who came out to see it, and who watched online via livestream. Be on the lookout for video from the event soon, and for more from Black Futurists Speak.

And in the meantime, let's continue on with the inspirational divinity of black women with The Black Woman is God, a living altar art exhibition showing now at the African American Art & Culture Complex in San Francisco. From the program description:

The Black woman’s contribution in the society has been devalued. She has been viewed as second-class citizen, relegated to the dresser draws of history. However, she has shaped and changed the world in social and political spheres. These influences of change are reflected in the art world, however, dominated by white male patriarchy. This exhibition will challenge the limited artistic space deemed appropriated for black women to occupy and question when black women create are they God. It is explosive because the images of God have on the most part been white and male until recently.

Wow. I can't wait to see this exhibition, and to hear from the participating artists at tomorrow night's reception - see details for that event on Facebook.

And for a start, listen to an important discussion between the artists in the videos below, and see what you get out of it. The message I got? I am more than a healer. I am healing.
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Close to callaloo

09/23/2012

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Callaloo soup

(the real thing)
I got down in the kitchen recently. I love to cook, so I do it fairly often, but there’s a difference between throwing dinner together for myself and getting down in the kitchen. It was a whole Caribbean-inspired feast – seafood sizzling in lemon juice, veggies coated in curry, cornbread sweetened with honey.

It was all for my grandmother, who just passed away. Or, as I like to think of it, she just found peace, after fighting many battles. One of her most recent battles was with Alzheimer’s disease. Another was her effort to live out her final days in her home country of Trinidad. In that fight, she claimed victory.

Now, I say that the food I cooked was “Caribbean-inspired,” because it was not quite authentically Caribbean. Cooking here in the U.S., I didn’t have the ingredients to make the dishes just right. I didn’t have the wise guidance of somebody like my grandmother, who could’ve helped me craft the meal like they do in Trinidad. So I had to substitute ingredients, and find my own path to the flavors I sought.

The most obvious of this inauthenticity was the callaloo soup. Callaloo is a popular dish in Trinidad, a green puree of delightful flavors, made with vegetables, coconut milk, and many times, crabmeat. I had to substitute leafy greens found in Trinidad for those at my local market, and I left out the crabmeat. In the end, my soup was more yellow than green, and considered callaloo by name only. It was delicious, and completely inspired by the real thing, but my soup was not real callaloo.

Sometimes I feel that my writing process is similar to this cooking endeavor. Lately, I’ve been feeling all kinds of things that exist beyond my grasp of words – grief, love, passion. For a moment there, these things threatened to shut me down with a bit of writer’s block. I mean, what could I really say about feelings that burst through the containers of the words we try to give them? Is it even worth the effort, when I’ll always fall short of capturing what I really want to say?
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A moment in Trinidad
Well, the food was worth the effort, despite the flaws. It filled my home with an irresistible aroma, filled my mouth with delectable flavors, and fed a few people I really care about. And it also gave me a chance to honor and celebrate my grandmother, to send her off with a tribute to her life. I don’t have the right words for this, and I couldn’t find the exact flavors for it, either. But it feels good to create something that represents, in a way, my search for an expression of all I want to say.
A poem I wrote in 2010 for my grandmother:
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On faith and hope

11/11/2010

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'Never place a period where

God has placed a comma.'

I’ve been trying to write about my Sunday, which was a few days ago now. It was a rainy morning, and with Oscar Grant on my mind I needed a place to think and pray. So I went to church.  

Yes. That kind of church. Well, maybe not that kind, if what you’re thinking is angry misogynistic homophobic against-everything-I-stand-for church, the kind that makes the most noise and seems to get the most attention. No, I went to another type of church, one where they follow principles of compassion and peace and are open and affirming to all people.  

I explain this because I’ve had to “come out” at many times in my life – as queer, of course, which for me can mean admitting I like women in hostile homophobic spaces or admitting I like men in spaces where my belonging as a part of the “gay community” might be challenged. And sometimes saying that I have a spiritual life feels like a type of coming out, too. Though Christians in this country are, at most times, privileged, for me this part of my identity is sometimes another layer I have to negotiate when it comes to acceptance. Just as there are religious circles that are hateful to queer folks, there are queer circles where saying you go to church means you might as well be admitting “but some of my best friends are homophobes.” 

Let’s clear this up: like queer folks and immigrants, or queer folks and people of color, or any other intersection of our identities, queer folks and people of faith are not entirely separate and opposite people. There are queer people in churches and temples, leading congregations or just taking part, and expressing their spirituality otherwise all over the place. And, some people of faith believe that part of their call is not to exclude or condemn queer and trans folks (or even welcome us with some “hate the sin, not the sinner”-type judgment), but to welcome and affirm us as we are, to help us on our journey towards loving and accepting ourselves, and, as Desmund Tutu calls for here, to stand up and take action against our persecution.  

For me personally, faith serves a similar purpose as writing – it gives me hope. In the moments when I can’t find justice anywhere else, can’t look for it in the criminal justice system or rely on institutions like police forces for it, I look instead to art, to music and dance, to writing, and yes, to some higher power. I look to real people, those real bodies that hold real truths that will reveal themselves if you look for them. And I look to my silly idea that there is something beyond this world. I may not always believe that justice will be served in a court of law, or that hearts can be healed over prison terms, but I do believe that at times bodies and hearts can find healing and balance in the joy, laughter and tears shared over art. And shared in communities of faith.  

The faithful people I know are not the angry, hateful ones you see on TV, but loving, compassionate, justice-seeking people I can often count on when I’m trying to find some glimmer of hope. This isn’t to try to preach about my beliefs, but just to spread the word that these folks are out there. We’re here. We’re queer. And sometimes we pray.

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