On sharing work in Non-White Spaces

I just spent the last 3 or 4 hours in deep discussion, sharing, and receiving at Danza Orgánica’s “We Create Festival” cohort, a space where BIPOC creatives share their works in progress, moving towards the final festival in the spring called “The Movements that Free(d) Us”. It was my first time meeting the group of people in person since the announcement of the cohort, so I was extremely nervous as the date approached, as I am with all new endeavors that involve socializing. As I walked into the CEI (luckily the space was a familiar one), the door was open, the space was warm, and food was steaming at the table. The warmth I was initially greeted with expanded as I met the Danza Orgánica team and the other artists in the cohort. 

I didn’t know it could be like this.

As we spoke about our lives over plates of hot food before the meeting began, the words echoed around in my body. Bounding and rebounding inside of my ribcage, and settling somewhere between my heart and my gut. I didn’t know it could be like this, it whispered. Since moving from the warmth and community of South Texas, my beloved home (that I begrudgingly admit I miss desperately), I’ve been left with a crack that has widened each year. The loss of a place to call home, the loss of the matriarch of my dad’s side of the family, the loss of community and cultural wisdom, have all impacted my spiritual health and artistic work. I seem to always be running towards the idea of “home”, which only exists in a present moment, but is gone in the next. I haven’t yet found the tools to connect the spiritual journey to my physical one, but it is ever pressing as the losses continue to rise. 

But here I was, sitting in a space of all non-white people, where the door was open, the heat blasting, and the food and conversation abundant. I decided to cross the threshold of this fragile home, this potential new beginning for community care and a soft holding space where the breath could be let go- finally. What unfolded was an afternoon of learning each other’s names, sharing intimate work about our own struggles under colonialism, our families stories, cultures, and lineages, deep vulnerability and gratitude, and yes- many, many tears. Tears of relief, of sorrow, of grief, of happiness, and of real, tangible, safety. A new home was created in this meeting of the cohort, one where every voice is heard, and where the resounding response to sharing one’s intimate life is “I am here listening, and I understand. I got you.” There are few spaces like this one-especially in Boston (don’t get me started on the amount of white organizers that are chomping at the bit to present POC’s trauma art to turn a profit with zero organizational support for the artists themselves)- and I sat in awe watching it unfold, wondering to myself; how do I do this? How do I create spaces like this in my personal life and artistic practice? 

As someone that lost their native language due to colonialism and assimilation, it was relieving to hear multiple native languages flow in and out of conversation, as some things can only be conveyed in the tongue. Translation isn’t always necessary if you know someone’s heart and are listening to context and body language. All artists were selected for the cohort based on their project proposals for the theme: What are the movements that have freed us, and what are the movements that free us? There were many stories told, of our ancestors, our histories, the land, our cultural practices, of how we fit into it all. As the sharing began, I felt the room shift and settle as we allowed our stories to be held by loving and earnest hands, and the knowledge that we understood. There was no need to outrightly say it, but we collectively knew.

I find that oftentimes as a BIPOC person, there are things that cannot be tangibly explained when it comes to our experiences or wrongdoings done by others. We might not always have the “proof” that white society froths at the mouth for, but there is a feeling of just knowing and understanding that can’t be captured. Because we have all felt the otherness, the coldness that permeates a space when a BIPOC person shares a difficult story in front of a room full of white people, often looking for a familiar face to hold onto. When you perform an intimate work on identity or experience, and are met with the blank faces of people that don’t “get it”. One of my long time mentors, karen krolack, when faced with my fear ramblings of allowing my  family to come see my work that solely explored transgender and gender expansive themes, asked me- “Are you afraid that they won’t ‘get it’, or that they won’t ‘get you’?” I mean, ouch. She was right, of course. As BIPOC creatives holding multiple identities (I won’t give you the checklist), we so often hold the fear of not being truly known, of not being truly seen, of not being understood (or intentionally misunderstood), so close to our hearts. This fear is a fabrication of colonialism, to continue to keep us down.

So what would happen if we chose differently? If we chose to disregard fear and run towards our truest selves? If we brushed off the fabricated imposter syndrome and decided instead to let ourselves be? 

It started when I got up to explain my work before showing an excerpt of it. As I began to speak about my childhood tree (named Ezekiel- the name that was to be mine if I was a boy… oh the irony), and my grandmother’s death, my airflow was cut off by a sob caught in my throat. I wasn’t expecting it at all- I don’t normally cry immediately after meeting people, not to mention my abuela died a few years ago, and I’ve spoken to her many times since. Grief is interesting like that. I paused and squeaked out something along the lines of “Oh, I’m not going to cry!”, and one of the participants said, “Let it out!” That simple permission to let my emotions flow, to not stifle myself for other people’s comfort, to let myself be, broke me. I immediately burst into tears, and after a moment (and a tissue passed from hand to hand until it reached me), I gathered myself enough to speak through the tears. I told them of my ancestry, and the deep grief that accompanied my abuela’s death when I realized all those stories told by word of mouth and passed down through generations, died with her. I cut my speech short, knowing that I wouldn’t make it back from that place of grief if I continued, but I ended with what the work is actually exploring- the reciprocity of our relationship with the earth, and how it can be a window into how we build reciprocity in our communities. After the showing concluded, the director told me,

“Your grandmother and the tree are one, and your Mexican ancestry and the tree are one.”

I had to escape to the bathroom to cry after that one, but over and over I’m surprised by how close we all are, how closely our lineages and ancestral histories are linked not only to each other, but to the lineage of the earth. 

As the sharing of work progressed, we shed many tears together, laughed at our poor time management and ability to get lost in each other’s stories, and shared many hugs and gentle shoulder squeezes that reaffirmed, “I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.” It wasn’t until my brilliant friend, Jassi, shared their work that we all fell to complete pieces, unable to be put back together. Jassi is Palestinian, and their work is something I might not ever be able to put into adequate words, but something that is so incredibly profound and soul bearing. There was a moment where they were going from a backbend with their head touching the floor, directly facing the audience, and attempting to kick up into a headstand. They would attempt, fail, breathe, and try again. Over and over, until they achieved it. Then, they began to recite words that crescendoed into almost a shout. It wasn’t about achieving the feat in one try (something Jassi had asked about- did it take us out of the work that they had to keep trying to get up?), it was quite the opposite. The resilience and determination to continue to try something so physically difficult, then to even be able to speak while in such a difficult position- was parallel to the struggles of fighting for liberation.With every exhale and attempt, I was begging Jassi (in my head, of course), to go go go, to try again, to get up again after falling. It’s not about how many times we have to try and fail, how many times we get up and falter, how many times we’re so close to success only to be pushed over, it’s about our inner resilience. It’s about always getting up again, to never accept defeat when there is a dream of that home to come back to.

Afterwards, it was completely silent barring the entire cohort’s sobs. We all sat in silence for a long time, with gentle shoulder squeezes and tear filled glances, we held the pain, suffering, and great love surrounding us. The director of the program was the first to speak, and with a strangled voice she said, “I just- I see them. I see them all in you. I feel them all with you.” and we all fell apart again as she hugged Jassi. I am reminded of how often our pain is experienced alone, how lonely it is to flee to a place of refuge when your heart stays behind. How relieving it is to be surrounded by people that can hold you when you can’t stand to bear it anymore. How we can share in our struggles, fight for each other, and be there when there are forces working above us that fight to eradicate our stories. These white institutions and presenters simply don’t have the foundation or infrastructure to be able to support work by underrepresented artists, which is why I’m so grateful to have found an organization like Danza Orgánica who is doing the community work that many institutions pretend to do. 

I left the showing with tear-stained cheeks and residual tears at the brink of my eyes, and as I travelled to my next show of the day, I felt a new sort of warmth in my heart, a fullness in my belly, and swirling thoughts of how I can create these same spaces in my personal practice, and in the world. I didn’t know it could be like this.