A letter to the Black men wrestling with Black feminism
From the torment of my mind to the tenderness of my heart
By Josh Wallace
As I write this, I am uncertain of how this message will be received, and yet, I can no longer continue with my journey without offering it — of this I am certain. As a heterosexual cisgender Black man, I have found more peace, love, and grace in the wisdom and guidance of Black feminism, than I have anywhere else. In a time of great uncertainty, I took up Black feminism, wisdom grounded in the experiences of Black women which challenges interlocking forms of oppression (e.g., racism, sexism, class oppression). This was a time when I was searching for answers about who I wanted to be as a Black man. A time when saying “I’m good” was not good enough, or when “man up” was met with silence and regret. I took up Black feminism, and it gave voice to the silent suffering that had kept me quiet for so long. It is through Black feminism that I have come to understand my humanity more clearly as a brother, son, husband, friend, and scholar. It is from the liberatory language of Black feminists that I can articulate possibilities for Black men and their masculinities within a society that often limits who Black men can be. Thus, my brothers, I offer this letter in the hopes that sharing my journey toward Black feminism, and the benefits of an ethical engagement with Black feminism, will ease the tension in your heart and mind, and guide you to a place of healing and harmony.
Dear brothers,
I too was uncertain. I too had my doubts. As a young adult, I navigated the world with a posture of cool, and slyness, always ready to mask emotion and insecurity with a stoic face. Cool pose, is what Richard Majors and Janet Billson called it. Back then, nothing about who I wanted to be was in step with feminism.
At times I wondered, “Why are we (Black men) the object of feminist critique?” “What could feminism possibly tell me about my experience as a Black man?” These are questions formed from having only been exposed to feminism through media perception and male gaze. I had never even read a single passage on feminism.
Yet, these questions were coupled with those asked of myself “why must I perform in this way to be considered a man?” “What kind of man do I want to become?” My brothers, I urge you to ask these questions of yourself and others.
Wrestling with questions unanswered and feelings unresolved, I first began to engage in literature on Black masculinities and manhood. Reading the work that centered me, and my experiences as a Black man, I felt seen, felt heard. Though elated by the voices and presence of Black men on the pages, I could not help but be drawn to that which was unsaid. This left me with an unsettling feeling, the kind you feel when you’ve found a lost item, but not the one you were looking for. It was at this point that my yearning for answers hit a crossroads. Was I to accept the pages written as sufficient? Or should I turn the page and begin writing a new chapter, one that gives voice to my questions unanswered? I chose the latter. Brothers, we must always take ownership of our questions, for our questions are the impetus of our consciousness.
This new chapter led me to a more critical reading of masculinity, and eventually, I came to find work that asked the questions of manhood I had been asking throughout my journey. It was at this point I learned, engaging with Black feminism offers us (Black men) the language to exist outside of society’s image of manhood. Black feminism leaves us free to imagine a world unbound from the manhood traditions that silence our pain and insecurity. I experienced this imagination through engaging with what Patricia Hill Collins calls “self-definition”. As a Black man, I felt that so much of my being was framed by others — the commercials, the politicians, the podcasts, all reinforced men, and manhood as innate leaders and framed a successful man as one who is dominant both at work and at home. These are society’s standards for men, and at one point, I felt I had to adhere to them. Yet, these standards masked an insecurity of manhood — that manhood defined by power, privilege, and dominance, is fragile. It relies on the oppression of others. Through self-definition, I learned to challenge these controlling depictions of manhood and to define my manhood outside of dominance. Collins’s work forced me to ask a question of myself, that I ask of you all: Who are you when you are not a leader, a dominator, or in control?
When I began wrestling with my question from Collin’s work, I searched for more work that would help me answer that difficult question. It was then I was first introduced to Black feminist scholar, Hortense Spillers and her work Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: an American grammar book. I remember the title reminded me so much of my mom, who would utter the same words to me as a young boy and young man: “mama’s baby, daddy’s maybe” she would say jokingly as I hugged her when she came home from work. I never fully understood what it meant, but Spillers offered that opportunity. It was through Spillers’ work that I began to make sense of my mother’s words and in effect, myself. Spillers helped me understand that the man I want to become must first say “yes to the “female” within”. This meant embracing emotion, not hiding it, it meant healing by seeking help, not suffering in silence, and it meant challenging violence and dominance, not caving to masculine fragility. Spillers was my entry into Black feminism. And on this journey, I found that what Black feminism offers is the language of Black living, which allows me and Black men everywhere to think and perform the masculinities in ways that are humanizing.
Brothers, Spillers was my first connection with Black feminism, but her work does not have to be yours. I encourage you to read and sit with the Combahee River Collective Statement, where Black feminists define contemporary Black feminism or Sojourner Truth’s Ain’t I A Woman speech from 1851, or The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity and Love by bell hooks. These works bring us (Black men) clarity to our often misinterpretation of Black feminism — that Black feminism is somehow anti-Black male. Rather, these works emphasize a struggle against power, privilege, and patriarchy, all of which harm Black people.
Thus, my brothers, to be pro-Black feminist is not to be anti-Black male, rather it is to be for Black people as Black feminism acknowledges the struggles of Black people harmed in multiple positions of society, not just those of men.
My brothers, Black feminism offers you a chance to heal your mind from the torments of dominance and power. Black feminism can help you find love within yourself. But take heed. Engagement in Black feminism is not a passive feat but rather one that must be taken on humbly, with self-awareness of one’s privileges within society. A passive and partial engagement with Black feminism risks an appropriation of the wisdom and guidance of Black women. My brothers, let Black feminism lead you to a space of love and harmony. Begin to visualize a manhood with Black feminism, rather than against it.
Sincerely, your brother
Josh
Joshua Wallace is a PhD Candidate at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Wallace’s research critically explores Black masculinities and Black feminisms in higher education and beyond. X: @scholarjoshw and Instagram: @scholarjoshw
