L'lerrét Jazelle Ailith is a Black trans creative and communications strategist born and raised in Baltimore, MD. She now currently serves as the Communications Manager for BYP100 where she is integral is building out a comprehensive communications infrastructure to support Black, queer feminist youth organizing. L'errét lives and believes in a feminism that is sex positive, glamorous, and affirming but also all things raggedy and contradictory - acknowledging humanness and the complexity of life. She has a passion for acting, uses music as a love language, adores cosmetic surgery (if only she could afford it), and lives for a bomb lace unit.

by Arielle Gray

“Would you cure it?” she asked me with wide eyes. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know, your bipolar disorder? Can you do that? I’m sure you can!”

I just tentatively opened up to a long time friend about my long time struggle with managing my Bipolar Disorder. Recently, I became more open about my mental illness and was trying to be honest with the people in my life about what I went through on the daily.
I got a lot of questions from friends and family. Mostly “I would’ve never guessed!” or “You hide it well” or “What’s Bipolar Disorder?” But never before was I asked if I would cure it if ever I could. She wasn’t trying to be malicious or problematic when she tentatively asked me that question. But when she whispered my illness, she unconsciously cloaked it in secrecy and shame. I could tell she was uncomfortable with the situation- I could see it in her eyes every time she glanced down at my scared forearms.

For y’all that don’t know, there’s currently no way to cure Bipolar Disorder. Traditional methods include medication and therapy sessions, depending on the severity. I went through various bouts of self-harming behavior when I was younger and in college, I spiraled out of control. I went to see this doe eyed, white psychiatrist who immediately suggested a hospital stay because of my suicidal ideation. Those eyes stayed strangely blank & glassy as I told her about all of my angst.

When I assured her that I was mostly bark & no bite, she wrongly prescribed me Prozac, thinking that I was clinically depressed when I was really in the midst of a severe depressive episode. The Prozac did me in. I failed all of my classes and had to drop out of college and fly back home to ATL. After cycling through a few therapists, I was correctly diagnosed and started on a regimen of medication & therapy sessions. Since then, I’ve managed via a myriad of methods, mainly therapy, weed and spiritual-examination. I’m lucky enough to be able to manage my symptoms- many are not able to.

A lot of people don’t understand when I tell them about my disorder. Black folk seem to live in this mysterious veil where we think we’re wholly unaffected by mental illnesses. Depression can be cured with prayer, suicidal thoughts are spelled away by the “strong Black woman” trope. We’re especially disenfranchised when it comes to mental health because we stand at a unique intersection of race & gender. Low-income Black women are particularly high risk for experiencing depression at some point in our life and we are also the demographic least likely to seek professional help.

There are stigmas rooted so deep in our culture surrounding mental illness that over one half of Black Americans think long term depression is normal. That’s. Not. Okay. I could write an entirely different piece about the insensitivity of our mental health care system and how our institution’s lack of cultural sensitivity and the normalization of black bodies in conjunction with pain has created a vacuum of space for black women to safely address their mental health concerns.

So when she asked, “Would you cure it?”, I realized that what she was really saying is “Wouldn’t you just want to be normal?” I realized that her inability to connect with my story about mental illness was symbolic of a larger societal & systemic problem- the failure to see black women as vulnerable human beings. Her question centered the conversation around my mental illness and reinforced it as a “problem”.

The longer I thought about her question, the more and more I realized that no, I wouldn’t want to cure myself. “Curing” myself, to me, implies that I have something to be ashamed of, something insidious inside of me that needs extraction- the exact opposite is true.
Living life with Bipolar Disorder is hard. There are weeks where I want to die, weeks where I have days long bouts of insomnia. There are times when my manic episodes cause me to forget to eat. There are times when things get so dark that I think about hurting myself again like I used to do. But ultimately, no matter how fucked it is, this is my brain. My disorder has inherently shaped and in many ways, enhanced my life. Having a mental illness is not always limiting- sometimes, it opens our eyes to how ephemeral yet precious things are. Sometimes, it shows us life exactly as it is- beautiful and at the same time, saccharinely cruel.

I have never appreciated the sunlight more than when I’ve managed to drag myself out of that deep dark pit. Embracing my shadow has allowed me to step more fully into my purpose in life. To live in my truth. There are no bigger demons to face than my own. I face them every night.

My Bipolar Disorder is a part of me. It always will be. If there is eventually a cure, I hope that whoever needs or seeks it receives it. But for me, it’s more than a disorder- it’s now a part of my identity. I am able to write the way I do because I’ve experienced darkness. I am able to connect with other people like me because I’ve gone through the things I’ve gone through. I am able to, in some small way, be a voice for the millions of Black women who stay quiet when it comes to their mental health. My story is not my own, it is ours.

That in itself is a blessing.

Arielle Gray is a Boston based freelance writer, graphic artist & music journalist. You can catch her stalking live shows around the city or eating Lucy's on Mass Ave.

by Gina Loring


As comedian Jerrod Carmichael said, women are the only minority group who are the majority. While we comprise a little over half of the population, we receive lower pay, are disproportionately less promoted in the workforce, and deeply personal choices pertaining to our bodies are determined by a room full of men. Then there’s the fact that an incompetent, unqualified misogynist is now in the White House, which speaks volumes about how far male privilege can take you. And don't get me started on longer bathroom lines, mansplaining, and uncomfortable, if not painful, high heels. As if the many layers of a patriarchal society weren't enough, women have yet another disadvantage that becomes glaringly prominent with each passing birthday: fertility.

Throughout my dating career, with each dissolved relationship, my dream for a family felt further and further away. Looking back on my twenties, and now with the majority of my thirties behind me, I've watched my progression from hopelessly romantic, to prayerfully resilient, to low key panic.

As much as I've always wanted kids, initially I was not open to the idea of freezing my eggs. I associated it with desperation, resignation, and lack of faith. Coupled with the outrageously high cost, it just didn't seem like something I would ever do. I also felt a level of embarrassment or shame around it, as if it would be an admittance of failure. "Welp, it didn't happen for me, so here I am."

But with my desire for a family getting stronger every year, and my maternal instincts on high, I decided to do some research.

After a few days of some focused googling, I discovered there are countries in Europe where fertility treatment costs three to four times less than in the US. Between the hormones, the procedure itself, and fees for storing your eggs once they're frozen, the whole ordeal can cost over $20,000 here in the states. That means you either have to be in a high income bracket or willing to go into debt. I was neither. However, after some serious searching, I found the perfect clinic for me. It was professional, clean, contemporary, and reasonably priced. When I contacted them, everyone was helpful and friendly, not to mention patient with my myriad questions.

So I went to the Czech Republic to freeze my eggs.

It wasn't a decision I broadcasted, but of the few I discussed it with, there were mixed responses. Some were instantly excited and supportive, some were concerned about me traveling so far alone, and some saw it as a biologically unnatural and emotionally fear-based move (or at least that is my interpretation of what was expressed).

As a poet/vocalist, I've traveled internationally extensively, and usually solo, so I wasn't intimidated by the travel factor. And with the exception of the hormones to stimulate multiple egg production, it's a relatively painless and risk-free procedure. It wasn't the injections I minded so much as the headaches, nausea and sore breasts, but a few days of slight discomfort is well worth looking into my baby's eyes one day.

To be clear, I am one who believes in divine order and fully recognizes the beauty in surrendering to faith over fear. I also believe the universe responds to energy. In other words, passivity about something deeply important sends a mixed message, which often results in either stagnation or compromised results. Many women who don’t want children, or who already have children (especially if they had them young) don't truly comprehend the heart-wrenching ache and almost debilitating sense of urgency we feel on this side of the fence, just as we don't truly understand the exhaustion of functioning on two hours of sleep with a baby who won't stop crying. I'm a private person as it is, but after I was unpleasantly surprised by one or two underwhelming responses, I decided to limit discussing such a sacred and personal life decision until after the deed was done.

I have been praying for a family my entire adult life (and my adolescence for that matter, as the only child of a single mother), but I didn't feel a sense of peace about it until I decided to stop waiting (and waiting, and waiting, and waiting) for the "one" and started being proactive. Ultimately, we are responsible for our own lives, and I realized it's not a sign of failure, but a brave and self-empowered choice. It is a leveling of the playing field, so to speak. I always found it highly unfair that men have the luxury of procreating at any age, and many feel little-to-no pressure to start a family until they're in their forties. While we're still light years away from gender equality, at least modern medicine has created a way to balance the scales biologically, and I, for one, am infinitely grateful.

***

My experience in the Czech Republic couldn’t have been better. From the clinic, to the hotel, to strangers on the bus, everyone was friendly and helpful. The doctors and nursing staff at the clinic were professional and kind, and made me feel well taken care of. The procedure had a quick recovery time, and I even had an extra day to do a little sightseeing around the beautiful city of Prague before flying home.

Taking this step has given me the invaluable gift of options. When I find myself in a committed relationship with someone I want to have children with, my first choice would be a natural conception. But if that doesn't happen easily on it's own, it would just be a matter of traveling to the clinic together. The eggs can also be sent here, but with prices as they are, traveling overseas and back would actually cost less than staying here, even including a stop in Italy or Paris for a romantic vacay along the way. The process of implanting one of my eggs as an embryo (after his sperm does its part, of course) is relatively simple, painless, and again, much more affordable in the Czech Republic. In the event that my partner is a woman, it would be as simple as finding a willing male friend to father the child (or children) and undergoing the same process. And while my intention is to raise a family within the context of a healthy relationship, if I find myself on my own, I can explore the possibility of a donor. Either way, no part of the story looks like me, postmenopausal, crying over a glass of Chardonnay wishing I had made different choices when I still had them.

This experience has been a transformative rites of passage in that I feel self empowered and liberated from the victim narrative so many in my position feel. It has lightened the load of resentment and/or remorse about past relationships I had hoped would work out, and relieved some of the societal and self inflicted pressure for my life to look a specific way by a certain age. It takes the sting out of the baby pictures on my social media feeds (especially posted by exes) or attending yet another wedding or baby shower, which used to trigger self judgement and possibly a few tears on the ride home.

Deciding to take the wheel and freeze my eggs bought me some time, and moreover, peace of mind. It is something I knew I would not regret doing, but conversely, could absolutely regret not doing. It was an action of solidarity from my present self to my future self, and a clear and loving invitation to my unborn babies: I'm ready when you are. It also made me honor and appreciate the capabilities of my body in a way I never have before. While I would like to become a mother sooner rather than later, for the present moment, I can take a deep breath and relax, knowing if and when I need it, part of my future is safely stored in a lovely clinic just a flight away.


Gina Loring holds a BA from Spelman College and an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. She was featured on two seasons of HBO's Def Poetry, and has performed her music and poetry in over ten countries as guest artist of the American Embassy. Contact her at: www.ginaloring.com. IG:@ginastarlight Twitter:@theginaloring

by Catherine Saunders

Angela White, the public figure known to many as Blac Chyna, has maintained a consistent place in contemporary media because of her relationship with Robert “Rob” Kardashian Jr..

Kardashian, unlike his famous family, has spent much of the last few years out of the limelight. Kardashian has become somewhat of a recluse after gaining a significant amount of weight and appearing far less confident than supporters of the franchise recall from his early days in the spotlight.

Rob’s return to the spotlight could not have been more dramatic. Last year, he emerged from his sisters’ shadow with the former lover of his little sister’s then boyfriend, Black Chyna,  on his arm.

Their drama appeared made for television, and it was. The drama fueled more wealth and attention to the Kardashian brand via a Keeping up with the Kardashians spinoff, Rob & Chyna.

Now the very public breakup of the couple few were rooting for in the first place has the contemporary media in a frenzy. The responses, are predictably damning for Chyna, labeling her a money-hungry whore who alienated Kardashian after getting what she wanted—his child and the glory of birthing the sole Kardashian grandchild to bear the family name.

My question for all those critical of Chyna is the following:

What makes Chyna different from the Kardashian women?
The comparison between Chyna and former friend Kim is obvious. Kim, a woman who became a public figure when her private moments surfaced online over a decade ago, is the white version of Chyna. Both women have ample derrieres, full bosoms, long hair, and long eyelashes—aiming to capture a universal beauty with multicultural attributes. Yet, despite their appropriation of black beauty to season conventional western attributes, both Chyna and Kim desire to attain white female supremacy.

While the similarity between Chyna and the most popular Kardashian sister may be conspicuous, less overt is the comparison between Chyna and the Kardashian matriarch Kris Jenner. Now, the author notes that Jenner and the elder Robert Kardashian were married for a decade before her indiscretion.

The author also notes that to many Jenner loved her first husband, contrary to how most conceptualize Chyna’s sentiments towards the younger Kardashian. This post however, solely gages the similarity of women who endure romantic relationships with conventionally successful men. The attribute of conventional success makes it difficult to measure the motives of any party involved, but the connotation that accompanies  black bodies leads many to label Chyna what they would hesitate to label a white woman.

Marriage does mean something, but white women have always been granted a legitimacy withheld from the black female body. This illegitimacy also functions as it did during slavery, to the detriment of the black woman not the white man who planted her seed in her womb without the conjugal sanctity of marriage.  Furthermore, Chyna exhibits similar behavior to the Kardashian matriarch in a dissolved loyalty for a man who funded her lavish lifestyle. These actions, while similar, stem from vastly different motives.

The motive for the Kardashians sexuality is dominance. Black female sexuality, on the other hand, is a matter of life and death. Chyna’s actions function as a means to overcome racists an sexist conflicts. Her attempts however are thwarted by white ex-lover Robert Kardashian who desecrates the temple she so desperately worked to deify, by airing her dirty laundry and genitalia for the world to cast their eyes and criticism.

The black female body, of course, is innately sexualized by the white male gaze. Whether an academic, astronaut, cook, dentist, doctor, or lawyer the black female is a presumably hyper sexual agent. As bell hooks says in Ain’t I a Woman, “Baby, you could be Jesus in drag—but if you’re brown they’re sure you’re selling” (hooks 58)!

So despite the distance many black women maintain from Blac Chyna and her behavior, to the western gaze, Blac Chyna is the black woman in her fullest and most raw form.

The most prevalent difference between Chyna and the Kardashians is of course race.
Yet coverage corresponding to the Rob and Chyna drama deflects from race, and uses the black female plight to consummate womanhood to push the feminist agenda—an agenda that will solely benefit white women. To clarify, feminism despite what modifying adjective precedes the term is for those solely marginalized by gender. To the being who stands at the intersectionality of race and gender, feminism hands you gloves in the freezing cold leaving your head, feet and torso frigid in the harsh cold air of global racism.

It is the feminist agenda that paints the KKK (The Kardashian Clan) as women simply trying to survive in a male dominated world, and Chyna as a white-washed jezebel incongruent to domesticity.

It is the feminist agenda that duplicates women like Blac Chyna, black females who seek to reap benefits for bearing female genitals. But as demonstrated in Rob’s actions, the black female body is inevitably destined for desecration in exposure and systemic mutilation.

Turning a racist matter into a solely sexist issue is yet another attempt of the western world to push other minority issues but ignore racism. Dissolving homophobia, sexism, ageism, and capitalism causes subjugated whites to elevate but still allows for racism to foment. As bell hooks boldly asserted in Ain’t I a Woman “ Systematic devaluation of black womanhood was not simply a direct consequence of race hatred, it was a calculated method of social control” (hooks 59).
Feminists maintain racist control as white female supremacists-- soliciting black female advocacy and support simultaneously steering attention away from black issues that consume those bearing the burden of both blackness and femininity.

It is the western desire to maintain global supremacy through racism that allow issues like feminism and gay rights to dominate contemporary conversations regarding change without engaging the intersectionalities that exists in these factions. Blac Chyna may seem insignificant in the larger portrait of issues plaguing the black collective, but she illustrates the systemic deflection that awaits the modern black body still bruised by traditional ideologies of whiteness.

To be clear, I in no way feel sorry for Blac Chyna. In fact, I do not see anything “black” about her besides her [altered] phenotype. However, whether willing or unwilling, she is a part of the black female collective and a viable tool in thwarting our progress.

Moreover, may her sexual relationship and fall out with a white man who fathered her child admonish those seduced by the temptation to dilute black pain with interracial sex. May Kardashian’s white male rage prompted by seeing seeing Chyna sexually engaged with black men remind the black collective of the brutal and often fatal consequences our ancestors faced for identical actions.

The KKK and their black accessories color the contemporary world with the red blood of the African holocaust, illustrating the danger of miscegenation and “keeping up” with klansmen (and women) who wear black culture as tokens of conquest.

Catherine is a doctoral student an the pen behind the perspective at whispersofawomanist.com.

by Lwando Xaso

Beauty is fair, straight, refined, slight and dainty. Beauty is polite, non-threatening and amenable. What beauty is not, I am told, is me. This definition of beauty is manufactured ,parceled, sold and internalized by its victims. This message is commercialized for profit and by design it thrives on the destruction of women who are forced to chase a standard that is impossible to meet but will spend themselves to attain. For a time I chased it too not realizing that my autonomy and right to self- determination were under siege.

I used to stand in front of the mirror in judgement of my body. I stared back at myself and all the things I could never be and desperately wished I was because I imagined life would be easier. I am a black girl, a dark, tall black girl with a pronounced butt and hips which I have hated since their arrival 23 years ago.
A girl’s body is highly contested ground and the site of a struggle for domination. Insecure women are the easiest to dominate and to exploit. Because the standard of beauty is imported from the west, guess who is dominated and exploited the most? Black women. Women like myself whose hair is not “good”, whose eyes are not light brown, whose skin is not caramel and whose hips will never be narrow. Black women who feel invisible because the object of the hero’s affection never looks like them. Black women who have grown accustomed to not being seen and so they assume their place at the back of the room because the spotlight was never meant for them. Black women who desperately wonder if their names will ever called, if they will ever be picked.

The forces that want to pacify Black women by denying their beauty are threatened by the magic of a Black woman in full possession of herself. Serena Williams on the cover of Vanity Fair in all her Black, pregnant, naked glory is the epitome of magic.

A magic that has liberated legions of Black women. A magic that has called upon Black women to assume their rightful places at the center of the room with the spotlight shining from within rather than from above. It is a magic that neither seeks or needs permission to define itself for itself. It is a magic that has told us in unequivocal terms that we are enough. A magic that has told us that only we can own ourselves and no one else. It is a magic that is unapologetic for its presence and form. A magic that has demanded and dared us all to make an unconditional pact to love ourselves as we are at this very moment.
We are magic because despite the war that has been waged against us, we are still here and we dare to shine. Serena, in just being herself, has reclaimed what beauty means and ignited a revolution. This Black woman has turned the world on its head and now we live on our terms.

Lwando Xaso is an attorney fron Johannesburg, South Africa.