I sat with a client a while ago and heard myself describing being black: confident, loved, secure and constantly celebrating that combination, as a form of ecstasy, a post-blackness without having to have ever moved out of, through or even into what being black might, could, and does mean.
I am aware that post-blackness might imply that moving out of ‘blackness’ is something that could happen. Do not get me wrong. I do not speak of blackness here as a culture or a melanin count. Here I speak only of a consciousness. A confined, conflicted, previously created for-us-but-not-by-us kind of consciousness.
I speak here of the kind of consciousness that I was born into and fed on for years. the kind of consciousness that creeps in even when you fight with all of your naive hopes and dreams to keep it at bay. The kind of restraints that one locks onto one’s own exhausted self. The rules and behaviours and almost invisible movements that one practices in order to be a thing that everyone is trying so hard to be but no one has any clue as to what it is.
28-years of age is and will always be a conflicting time for the human being. Apparently, our consciousness expands every 7 years (28, is a big expansion). I was always warned about being 28, by my parents, by teachers and by the anthroposophical societies that made up the threads of my formative years on this planet. Now 2, seemingly very long years later, my world has emerged, through the quagmire.
Blackness does not simply move through the world, quietly existing, not existing or attempting to exist. Blackness has had to fiercely exist in this modern world, for a number of reasons, but most importantly because it has constantly been made to feel as if it were something needing to be stamped out, cleaned, diluted.
Those of us, beginning to feel as if we can move in a post-black space are still doing so gently, so as not to hurt those who are still learning their own blackness and their own freedom or lack thereof. I tread so lightly, so softly, so carefully, to make room for others, but mostly so as not no create a path that implies something on which one should follow.
I tread lightly so that I can step off the path and get lost multiple times, never knowing where my feet walked before, for this is the freedom of being me. Being black. Being post-blackness. The privilege is frightening and so new that it barely exists, but it is there. Even if only as a form of anxiety, a stomach ache, a laugh a position in a mirror, a relaxing or tightening of a muscle so deep and central, you might not even know it to be there.
I can not describe post-blackness, and if, in truth and honesty, without excluding or dividing, I thought I could, I would choose not to. Everything that we are has been defined and coded or language in a way that could not and was never meant to belong to us. Post-blackness is my illustration of self-actualisation. This in its self speaks to privilege, or maybe Maslow’s Hierarchy of needs did not factor in the need for freedom in a world that routinely, harmfully and purposefully needed to dissolve you.
Post-blackness, is a form of ecstasy, like a flower growing through a small crack in a busy stretch of the tar road.
I am so excited to see a world filled with this. I am so excited to see a blackness that is free. A blackness that is made up of a mind and understanding that is not barricaded or barred by influences that were never created to have us be a part of them. A world filled with self-actualised embryos, ovum and sperm. I can not wait to raise a child in blackness and watch it grow into its very own post-backness, or whatever word they might choose for their own idea/ illustration of freedom.