I didn’t want to write this while angry. I thought that maybe *I* shouldn’t write it. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing or publish a half-baked thesis out of haste.
But here we are. As Philip Seymour Hoffman once said, I am compelled.
Honestly it’s a rage that I didn’t know I had inside of me. It’s white hot and black cold all at once. Chaotic wandering *and* steely determination toward a destination. To be heard. To be seen. To be.
In the aftermath of the blatantly racist BAFTAs incident – involving white Tourette Syndrome (TS) advocate John Davidson and actors Michael B. Jordan and Delroy Lindo, two of the highly praised cast members of Ryan Coogler’s groundbreaking film “Sinners” – social media has been awash with a mix of confusion and questions, misinformation and disinformation, pain and anger.
But no one’s anger (and disappointment) has been more ignored, downplayed, and dismissed than that of Black disabled folks, particularly Black Touretters.
While I am Black and disabled, I do not have Tourette Syndrome (TS). I am not writing from a place of authority (on the subject or the incident itself), but a place of deep pain.
In the first 24 hours of this troubling news, I watched Black people I respect spout some of the most harmful stereotypes about TS. I also watched complete strangers, all white, minimize the harm done and the pain and anguish of Black people – to protect a middle-aged white man. And their comfort.
Comfort.
Something that Black people, especially those of us who are multiply marginalized, seldom receive. It’s often been asked why white people are inundated with care and understanding when enacting harm while we not only rarely receive it, but are often flat out denied it.
Rushing to comfort Davidson reminds me of how white predators and abusers are treated compared to their racialized counterparts. Tarana Burke’s #MeToo movement took off near the end of the 2010s. When accusations were made public, racialized, especially Black, public figures were often more villainized, automatically believed deviant. It’s a frustrating reality, especially in a country where, so often, racialized, disabled, and other oppressed people are overly punished and even thrown into the system through no fault of our own.
What I want is a world that gives oppressed people grace. Grace does not gloss over the need for amends. It doesn’t demand continued connection or support. And it doesn’t snuff out righteous anger. John Davidson’s initial public “apology” was not only woefully inadequate, but insulting. White disabled people continue to be frustratingly disappointing. But every time I read the common sentiment “Oppressors should be treated like us,” from fellow marginalized people, I think: why would you not demand softness for yourself in this moment? Why would you want to change the world for the worse? My desire to uplift grace is ultimately not about Davidson and the BAFTAs or “cooning.” I am not Samuel L. Jackson in Django Unchained.
However, in creating the anti-carceral world I envision, I don’t want Black and other racialized predators to skirt accountability and reparation. Likewise, I don’t want white and other privileged predators automatically discarded when harm is done. Disposability politics are the antithesis of liberation. In part because, by definition, those of us who are most oppressed are the most harmed when they’re enacted.
When I imagination our future, I imagine creating a world that elevates our humanity. I do not go backwards. I do not devolve. I do not regress. I refuse to…because I know that a better world is possible. Heightened humanity can, with much practice, erode capitalism, topple fascist regimes, feed and house people, and save our oceans. When humans falter, as we often do, do we want to handle it differently? If not, then this essay isn’t for you. But, if so, we must destroy our current paradigms to rebuild healthier, more human ones.
Hope, as Miriame Kaba says, is a discipline. And hope manifested is only possible when we govern ourselves, right now, as if that world is already here.
Denarii Grace (she/they – mix it up!) is a multi-hyphenate writer and editor, singer, and long-time activist. Founder of Fat Acceptance Month, they’ve been an editor with Rooted in Rights since May 2022. She can be found on Facebook, Threads, and Instagram @writersdelite.
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