This post is part two of a three-part series. In part one, I explained how slowness is an important part of enduring the weight of consciousness. If you haven't read it yet, click here!
Full disclosure: I have avoided this part of "The Weight of Consciousness." Community is something that I still struggle with deeply. I have only begun to share the level of trust and vulnerability authentic community asks of us with people outside of my family, and it remains the less comfortable choice.
You see, growing up as a kid in a Word of Faith Evangelical church in the 1990s, I was taught that being a Christian is about a constant state of strength and optimism. To even communicate that I am struggling outside of singing a praise and worship song or recounting my testimony was a sign of doubt, and doubt is always the root of our struggle. Giving too much attention to your material circumstances or your difficult emotions only delays God's intervention and leaves the door open for the Enemy to cause even greater struggle. "Everything to God in prayer" was the best and only acceptable outlet for my pain. And when I dared to go to the adults in my life, their way of comforting me was pointing me back to the Book. "I know it's hard, Courtney. But take it to God, encourage yourself with the Bible, and He'll make it right," or some variation of that was the most supportive encouragement I hoped to receive. At some point, I decided that I was better off doing what everyone else around me did: keep the pain inside and tell everyone who asked that I was fine.
Then, at 25, I had open heart surgery.
A couple of years earlier, a murmur was discovered during my first gynecological appointment (a story for another day) when they listened to my heart, and I was encouraged to see a cardiologist. The first specialist saw mostly elderly patients and decided all I needed was some blood pressure medication. I had an allergic reaction to the medication just weeks before my wedding day and refused to take another pill.
At my next yearly gyno visit, I told her what happened, and she referred me to a pediatric cardiologist who specialized in treating congenital heart issues, defects, and disorders. At that visit, I was informed that I had a defective heart valve that needed to be fixed right away, and I was on the operating table two weeks later. At this point, Dave (my husband of exactly one year) and I were no longer in the church, but we had created a friend circle of fellow ex-evangelicals (the moniker didn't exist then, but that's exactly what we were) who surrounded us with prayer, meals, fun, and even opened their home to me when needed help relocating. They were my first real community experience outside of my family. With them, I could talk about my struggles...a lot of them, anyway. I didn't have to pretend to be happy or have it all together.
There were still glaring issues, however, namely racism, homophobia, and xenophobia. I had more than enough internalized anti-Blackness to happily laugh along to their jokes and even add a few of my own. I was still the only Black person in the room 99.9% of the time, and they wouldn't let me forget it. Still, it was something, and I cherished our bond.
About six weeks after my surgery, Dave and I relocated from Raleigh to Winston-Salem, North Carolina. We nicknamed our first house The Shire. Built in 1924, the small craftsman had its original plaster walls, dark wood floors, and oddly shaped rooms. There were even rod iron fireplaces in the living room and bedroom. And the backyard was thick with mature trees wrapped in climbing ivy. We moved to be closer to a friend from our days back in our old stomping grounds of Virginia Beach, along with his new wife.
They were our new community, and we were more vulnerable than ever. We barely had any money because I was too self-righteous and ignorant to get unemployment or disability insurance. Dave worked as a waiter, regularly working double shifts to make ends meet. We were too poor to afford home internet, and for a time, I didn't even have a working cell phone. We leaned heavily on our friends and their local family, and they leaned heavily on us. They would bring us food from the neighborhood pantry where their mother volunteered. We were invited to family dinners at their sister's house. We would regularly host each other for meals and long conversations about the world that lasted into the wee hours of the morning. The only thing was, even as we grew to need each other for survival, I never felt safe. They made us family by declaration and expected our full allegiance. When my family would visit from Raleigh or Dave's family would come to town from Virginia Beach, they would expect us to share every detail about our time with them. Then, they would cast judgments about their behaviors and beliefs, suggesting that our birth families (like theirs) couldn't be trusted and we were building something better together.
They were also racist, homophobic, and incredibly misogynistic—yet so were we. We endured how we were treated because we believed that’s how we deserved to be treated. I was told that I was too powerful and masculine and that my outspokenness was offensive to God and my husband. I started changing how I dressed, trading my leggings for long, flowing skirts. I softened my speech and quieted my tone. Even as I shared the most vulnerable parts of me, knowing that I would still be loved and cared for, the judgment and control grew. I began to fear them; whenever we went to their house, I felt like I was risking my life. I would stand at their door rigid with fear, envisioning my murder in a million ways. At the time, I had no language for trauma or triggers. I had only seen a mental health professional twice in my life, and the purpose of those visits to the Christian counselor was to assure me that my attraction to women was not because I was queer but because of negative childhood experiences.
That's another story for another day.
Outside of my interactions with our new "family," I developed an insatiable appetite for books. Dave and I didn't own a TV and couldn't afford cable or internet, so the library and a local used bookstore became our main sources of entertainment. On one of our regular bookstore visits, I found a box set of classic Black works: collections of poetry by Paul Lawrence Dunbar and Phylis Wheatley and the Slave Narrative of Frederick Douglass. I had never read a slave narrative before, nor was I familiar with any African American poetry outside of faint memories of "Caged Bird" and "Dream Deferred."I tried reading the poems, but the Old English syntax was too hard to digest and I moved on to Douglass's narrative. I was rapt. I devoured the book, with every imaginable emotion flooding my body as I encountered his story. The heartbreak of his separation from his family. The rage of witnessing his beatings. The thrill of hope when he made his successful escape. The defiant pride as he traveled the world, met presidents, and spoke to thousands.
When I turned the final page of Douglass's narrative, a separate piece of writing revealed itself. It was the Appendix, and here Douglass chose to address his complicated portrayal of the American Church.
I find, since reading over the foregoing Narrative, that I have, in several instances, spoken in such a tone and manner, respecting religion, as may possibly lead those unacquainted with my religious views to suppose me an opponent of all religion. To remove the liability of such misapprehension, I deem it proper to append the following brief explanation. What I have said respecting and against religion, I mean strictly to apply to the slaveholding religion of this land, and with no possible reference to Christianity proper; for, between the Christianity of this land, and the Christianity of Christ, I recognize the widest possible difference — so wide, that to receive the one as good, pure, and holy, is of necessity to reject the other as bad, corrupt, and wicked. To be the friend of the one, is of necessity to be the enemy of the other. I love the pure, peaceable, and impartial Christianity of Christ: I, therefore, hate the corrupt, slaveholding, women-whipping, cradle-plundering, partial and hypocritical Christianity of this land. Indeed, I can see no reason, but the most deceitful one, for calling the religion of this land Christianity. I look upon it as the climax of all misnomers, the boldest of all frauds, and the grossest of all libels. Never was there a clearer case of "stealing the livery of the court of heaven to serve the devil in."
For the first time, I felt my church wounds witnessed and the heart-rending conflict I had lived with all my life, but especially since the murder of Trayvon Martin revealed the hidden bigotry and apathy in the hearts of my church family, every pseudo-religious community I had been a part of since our departure, and most importantly in myself. Douglass’s words named the desperation I felt in a Christian retreat in the North Carolina mountains that I had attended just a few months earlier. At one point during the service, I was reduced to tears. I confessed to the minister who came to comfort me that my Blackness caused me to be isolated, misunderstood, and mistreated in Christian communities.
"Oh, Courtney,” they replied understandingly, “God doesn't see color. Only man and woman."
When they finally moved on to another attendee, I rushed out of the room, found a lonely corner, and sobbed bitterly. Why would God make me Black when He didn't even see me? If it didn't matter to Him, why not make me white and make my life easier? How could God be so careless? Thankfully, another minister found me in a crumpled heap in the hallway of the retreat center, listened to my broken heart, and prophesized that God did see me and that He would restore my roots and show me the significance of who I am.
That minister saved my life, and Frederick Douglass saved me again. Later, Rosa Parks would save me, and then Coretta Scott King, and then Ta-Nehisi Coates and Nicole Hannah Jones, all revealing to me that I was not only seen, but I was resilient, talented, strong, while also being the target of America's violent guilt and the Church's willing complicity.
Nine months after Dave and I moved to Winston-Salem and ten months after my heart surgery, we conceived our first child. Dave exploded with excitement when I emerged from the bathroom with the positive pregnancy test. He ran over to me, picked me up, and twirled me around the room. I was terrified. Every unknown in my mind became a worst-case scenario. My mother was a great source of comfort during those early days (and continues to be the greatest example of mothering I've ever seen), but she was back in Raleigh at the time. She encouraged me to find a doula, and that's how ShLanda and I met.
ShLanda is a birth worker, educator, dietitian, community activist, and one of the sweetest humans ever created. Our professional relationship lasted for about 10 minutes, then we were instant sister-friends. ShLanda drove me to doctor's appointments when Dave had to work, teaching me how to advocate for myself and my daughter. She also introduced me to other moms who were her clients. Few families that came into ShLanda's orbit ever left the gravitational pull of her love.
She also pulled us into her community work. She envisioned creating a perinatal safe space for all women and families in the Triad and empowered me and a handful of other mothers that we could be part of the solution. We met together regularly, these diverse, crunchy, stay-at-home mothers with babies wrapped closed to our chests or kicking from the coziness of our wombs, spit up on our sleeves, and nourishing foods in mix-matched storage containers across someone's kitchen table.
Is this community? I asked myself. I felt seen and embraced. And something more. I felt unashamed. I felt smart, worthy, and useful. I felt comradery. I felt reciprocity. I felt embodied. ShLanda and the den of mothers recognized both my power and my vulnerability and treated them both with sacred appreciation. I felt safe with them, and they didn't have to ask me for it. They showed me respect, affection, and care and demonstrated it liberally. And there were Christians among them, but we cared for each other out of a genuine desire for connection, not some sort of duty or a promise of heavenly reward. The relationship was the gift. Interdependence was a great blessing. Our community work was our ministry, and the only message we hoped to spread was the inherent right of all children, women, and families to have safe, healthy birthing and parenting experiences of their choice, no matter their identity or economic, marital, or religious status.
Throughout my life, I have been blessed to experience the joy of family and the fun of friends. Community, however, was elusive. For one, I was a very independent person who kept most people at arm's length. It wasn't until my body and bank account could no longer perform in our ableist, capitalist society that I could even begin to understand the value of community. At the same time, I underwent the surgical separation of my self-worth from how well I could take care of myself and others while performing the cultural norms society demanded. Once I got a glimpse of the beauty of my humanity, I could recognize who could see it, who couldn't, and who wanted to devour it. ShLanda could see it, and she wanted to protect the seedling, nurture it, and witness its growth. She and the mothers did all of that and more.
Now, ten years later, I still struggle with the tension between self-reliance and communal interdependence. The fear of repeating old, ugly relationships can cause me to retreat from the beautiful, life-giving connections I continue to make. But it is inside of those fears where the invitation to deeper self-reflection beckons me and where self-love and self-trust grow. The glow of my inner strength attracts friendships that are worth the effort of breaking down walls of self-protection and exposing my most vulnerable self. Allowing myself, again and again, to lean on the strength of others has been the greatest boon to my faith and hope for the future.
In Part Three, I will speak to how creativity allows us to shoulder the burden of consciousness with imagination and hope. If you like what you've read so far, consider checking out HDxLiberation: A Human Design Podcast co-hosted by me and Andrea Ward Berg, and joining our Patreon Community!
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Until next time! 💜
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