The act of preparation. These are the first words that came to mind to symbolize this moment for me. November 6-post Election Day. Exactly two years ago, on November 5th, I alongside a collective, took my oath of allegiance and just like that I was sworn in to become a naturalized citizen of the United States. The exhalation from this moment was one filled with gratitude, knowing what my parents sacrificed when they left our home country, Cameroon to come to the land of opportunities, as my mom would say.

On November 2nd, I stood in line and joyfully waited my turn to take part in what I had hoped would be a historic moment. I used my voice, took action, and voted for the woman who without hesitation, took up space and represented the ideals I believed in. On November 5th, my sisters followed suit, each standing in line, waiting their turn, and also casted their votes.

As children of immigrants, this moment feels very raw and very tender. For I know the gaze placed upon a woman who takes up space with confidence, is not always met with softness but with skpeticism. A woman who is multiracial at that. A woman of color who has to constantly thread the needle between what sometimes feels like different worlds of her intersecting identities. A constant dance that I recognize and resonate with. A few weeks ago, when completing the prompt for an application where I reflected on my story as a “New American”, I shared my experience as a Black African female. I unpacked the dance I’ve had to navigate, being keenly aware of the gazes that make you feel like you’re not black enough or you’re not African enough.

This oscillating movement that oftentimes can be burdensome yet, there is this silent and very real expectation that a woman of color, a high achieving woman still needs to show up as demure. She has to be cautious. She must not be too bold because then she’ll come across as arrogant; can’t be too stern, because then she’ll come across as too aggressive or overly masculine. So, you learn to dance. You learn to move with Grace. Vice President Kamala Harris, a woman occupying one of the the highest ranks in the US, moved to the notes of this melody that many of us with intersecting identities and social positions in this society that we live in know too well.

For those that say it’s not about race or others that say why is it about race, to this I say the conversation will always lead us here. Back to race. Back to gender. Back to the social constructs that were put in place to instill division and reinforce power imbalances. Back to paternalistic norms. Back to Eurocentric standards. Back to hegemonic ways of thinking. We will always come back here because these constructs are still very much a factor and a barrier to social change grounded in truth and authenticity.

Like many others, particularly black women, I feel a great sense of discomfort. Discomfort in what we know too well…that even when qualified, we might be overlooked.

Yet, in my discomfort, I choose to turn to the wisdom of my ancestors. I heed the words of my mother who has always echoed “The sun always rises”.

I turn to the wisdom of the great Maya Angelou who has said, “…I have had a lot of clouds, but I have had so many rainbows and one of the things I do when I step up on the stage, when I stand up to translate, when I go to teach my classes, when I go to direct a movie I bring everyone who has ever been kind to me with me. Black, White, Asian, Spanish speaking, Native American, gay, straight, everybody. I say come with me and we are going on the stage. Come with me, I need you now. They all did, you see, so I don’t ever feel I have no help. I’ve had rainbows in my clouds and the thing to do it seems to me is to prepare yourself so that you can be a rainbow in somebody else’s cloud. Somebody who may not look like you, may not call God the same name you call God, if they call God at all you see. I may not eat the same dishes prepared the way you do. I may not dance your dances or speak your language but be a blessing to somebody. That’s what I think”. I carry these words with me and look to them as the springboard from which I find solace, resting in the knowledge that I, alongside many others, strive to be rainbows in others’ clouds. We strive for inclusivity and equity.

Even in my discomfort, my spirit smiles when I look to women like my aunt, who left her job due to the workplace injustice she experienced and is now building her own business centered on “Le bien être” or in other words, on healing. I also celebrate women who, although we may not be close at this time in our lives, are dedicated to cultivating spaces for Black women and change makers to heal—a mission I uplift. I appreciate women like my professor from my Community-Based Participatory Research course, who extended Grace to all of us in class and allowed us to just be.

So, you see, even in this discomfort, if you look closely enough, you will see the sun rising, as my mom would say. You will see the rainbows amidst the clouds, carried by those holding the torch of light.

Have you looked in the mirror? Don’t count yourself out. You are that light too—the torch bearer. In the way you feel deeply. In the way you care and advocate for others, including yourself.

Be where you are. Be bold.

Answer your call.

It’s an act of preparation.

Until next time, I leave you with the thought below:

(1) Recharge.

Write it down or say it to yourself.

Resources:

• Maya Angelou- Rainbow In The Clouds

• Maya Angelou-Still I Rise

• India.Arie - I Am Light

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