Me, too, Sis...
Foreword for Chapter Six, Lynching Language, in Black Washed written by Stephanie D. Keene.
“I thought I was going to harm… the movement.”
Me, too, sis.
In the spring of 2014, I met a charismatic leader and activist at the forefront of the movement for criminal justice reform in America. For almost four years I have been trying to forget him.
I was working for a domestic violence program in Philadelphia and had begun teaching workshops on the subject inside a women’s correctional facility. Working with those women changed my life in ways I could not have imagined. Ways that are particularly resonant as I find the voice to write this.
As a result of my work with the women in the correctional facility, my program director sent me and a few colleagues to a local symposium about the impact of the prison industrial complex. Attendees and panelists included activists, educators, people who were formerly incarcerated, law enforcement staff, artists, and social workers. The keynote speaker for the event was a handsome Black man in his early 40s, dressed meticulously in a tailored suit, and finished with expensive dental work. He spoke of the importance of prioritizing the voices of people who have been directly impacted by the criminal legal system. He observed that “those closest to the problem are closest to the solution but furthest from resources and power.” Finally, he shared his own story, strategically saving the reveal of his past incarceration until the exact moment the audience was captivated by his charm, his intellect, and his command of the stage.
He was good at this.
He knew it.
And he made sure to humbly point out that these traits do not make him exceptional as a formerly incarcerated person; that many people who have spent time in this country’s prisons and jails are brilliant and talented and capable.
I did not actually meet Davis* after his speech. Instead, I went to another room for a workshop and continued to tweet some of the highlights of the day, using the organizers’ hashtags for the event. That evening I received a tweet from him. I had followed him and thought that he had read my tweets and realized I had been at the event. Later he would tell me that too many people had followed him that day for him to have noticed individual profiles. Instead, he had noticed me in the crowd during his speech and later searched the hashtags for the event until he found me. I was flattered.
He was good at this.
He Knew it.
We moved our conversation to private Twitter messages. We exchanged pleasantries about the event itself and talked about prison activism. We playfully engaged in standard Philly vs. New York City banter. He asked about my interest in the movement. I asked about his next steps with his new organization. He eventually asked for my number. We moved our conversation to a phone call. He told me he would be in Philly again within the week and asked to take me to lunch. I was not available. He impishly pouted and insisted that this meant I had to come to Harlem for dinner soon.
A few weeks and many conversations later, I drove to Harlem. I got lost as I approached his neighborhood. He called me and was noticeably agitated. I wrote it off as the New Yorker in him. When I finally arrived, he got into the passenger seat of my car and directed me to the parking garage where he kept his car. He gave me his spot, and we got into his car to go to dinner at a soul food restaurant in his rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. The evening was pleasant. There were flashes of what I now believe to be narcissism. However, whenever he read alarm on my face, he flashed his $50K smile and transitioned into jokes and more banter.
He was good at this.
He knew it.
We dated for just a few months. He asked me if I would be willing to meet his 4-year-old son. I suggested we wait until we had known each other longer. He agreed and said that his “crazy” ex, the child’s mother, would probably respond to that better.
We continued to meet over long weekends and planned breaks. He never came to Philly; I always went to him. The nonprofit he started did not have a board yet, and he was working from his Harlem apartment doing everything from fundraising to public relations. We would hang out between conference calls and walk to neighborhood spots for lunch. He asked me if I would consider moving to New York and working for the organization. “Imagine how powerful we could be together,” he would say. I never responded directly.
Eventually, he suggested that we share our electronic calendars with each other to make arranging our time together easier. Part of me thought he wanted to prove how busy and important he was, but most of me thought it was a sweet gesture. One day, I went to check his calendar to plan for a visit, and there was an entry that read “Family trip to purchase wedding bands.” He had accepted the invitation. I did an internet search for the name of the person who had created the event. She had a blog where she mentioned Davis* as her husband and referenced their 4-year-old son together. Upset but not all that confused, I sent him a short text, something along the lines of “So apparently you’re married. Great. We’re done here.” In responding, he practically refused to address the issue. He only wanted to know if I was still driving up that weekend. It was like a text version of that $50K smile. When I refused, he insisted that the calendar entry was a “bad joke” from his “crazy ex.” When I insisted that I was done with our budding relationship, he responded: “Drop dead, bitch.”
What followed for the next 6 months were periodic texts from him telling me about how I had ruined everything: us, the movement, the potential of his organization, the summer he could’ve enjoyed. He also added insults about my self-worth and sexuality, and accusations about my intentions and motives. He never acknowledged his marriage, his lies, or his threats, which were just thinly veiled enough not to be illegal. Looking back, I often wonder if my work in the field of domestic violence was a welcomed challenge for him. But, then again, that would require an acknowledgment on his part and that his behavior was abusive. I stopped responding after the first few weeks. Eventually, he stopped texting.
He never went away though. In the fall of the following year, I began working for a prison education organization. On my first day, we were planning a conference celebrating the organization’s upcoming anniversary. We were discussing potential keynote speakers, and someone suggested Davis*. I stopped breathing. I began to silently identify and name objects in the room, a tactic I use to prevent anxiety attacks. The meeting ended with folks agreeing that we should invite him. I could not speak.
Months later (before any invitations went out), I confided in an older male colleague about my experience, including that I had been too ashamed and afraid to tell the group. He knew Davis* casually and said “I’m not surprised. I’ll handle it.” The invitation did not go out.
For the duration of my employment with that organization, I spent a lot of time wondering if Davis* would be present at events I was obligated to attend. I would ask other colleagues to go in my stead when Davis* was on the program, without explaining why I wouldn’t/could not go. When I did go, I vigilantly surveyed the room for the exits, just in case he showed up. By then I did not fear as much for my physical safety. Not because I trusted him, but because I figured his care for his reputation would not allow him to act out in public spaces. My fear was for my emotional well-being. Could I even breathe with him in the room?
Davis* would go on to give national TV interviews and appear in groundbreaking films about incarceration in America. He founded a successful movement to close a notorious jail in the state of New York. He received honors and awards as an advocate for human rights.
He was good at this.
And he was unavoidable in the work that I now knew was a critical piece of my calling.
Besides family and a few close friends, nobody knew about my experience with this man. This leader in the community. This voice. Few knew how I’d cringe when I would stumble upon him on TV or a popular podcast. How I prepared myself to encounter him in critically acclaimed films. How I hadn’t been able to visit Harlem since that spring.
I considered speaking out a few times. But I struggled. I didn’t know if it would matter. And I couldn’t quite name what I had been through. I hadn’t been sexually assaulted. I hadn’t been physically abused. I had the language of “emotional abuse,” but even that didn’t feel like… enough. What I felt was more convoluted than that. There was this element of feeling terrorized within the spaces in which I needed to be present in order to do what was necessary and just.
Aside from struggling with the words, I struggled with wanting to maintain my privacy. To not have my name attached in any way to this man and his behavior. And to not have his behavior attached in any way to the movement. We were both doing important work, and I didn’t want something so messy to detract from that. And I didn’t want people to be able to point at him and make sweeping generalizations about currently and formerly incarcerated people, many of whom I love and admire. I decided to remain quiet. For myself, for the movement, for the people we were all collectively trying to create space and justice for.
And then I heard whispers that he’d resigned from the organization he had founded. No details were offered. But my spirit shifted. I knew. A few days later, a friend who I’d confided in showed me an article in the New York Times. Davis* had been accused of “sexual misconduct” by at least 3 former employees, one of whom had been paid $25,000 for her silence (she later decided to breach the agreement to stand in solidarity with the other two women). She said she hadn’t spoken out before because, “I thought I was going to harm quote, unquote the movement.” I decided to speak.
My story isn’t the same as these women’s stories. But it’s related. And it’s relevant. And telling. And justice requires, for me at least, that I share my piece of the story.
Too often, Black women and femmes in social justice movements are given this false dichotomy of choosing between ideals: Are we down for “the cause,” or are we down for making sure activist spaces are safe for everyone who shows up? I decided I’m tired of choosing.
This is the work of washing Black women—of removing the layers of disrespect and disregard with which the world desecrates us at every turn. We wash Black women by standing up for (and with) Black women.
“Those closest to the problem are closest to the solution but furthest from resources and power.” Women who are harmed by powerful men within social justice movements are often rendered powerless. But we are our own resources. Our collective voices and our willingness to tell our stories create a reckoning that cannot be ignored.
What good is a movement if its people are immobilized?
We have begun to speak. And we will not stop.
*Name has been changed, not to protect the subject, but to give the author peace and agency.
[An earlier edit of this piece first appeared on Medium.com.]
Me, too, sis.
In the spring of 2014, I met a charismatic leader and activist at the forefront of the movement for criminal justice reform in America. For almost four years I have been trying to forget him.
I was working for a domestic violence program in Philadelphia and had begun teaching workshops on the subject inside a women’s correctional facility. Working with those women changed my life in ways I could not have imagined. Ways that are particularly resonant as I find the voice to write this.
As a result of my work with the women in the correctional facility, my program director sent me and a few colleagues to a local symposium about the impact of the prison industrial complex. Attendees and panelists included activists, educators, people who were formerly incarcerated, law enforcement staff, artists, and social workers. The keynote speaker for the event was a handsome Black man in his early 40s, dressed meticulously in a tailored suit, and finished with expensive dental work. He spoke of the importance of prioritizing the voices of people who have been directly impacted by the criminal legal system. He observed that “those closest to the problem are closest to the solution but furthest from resources and power.” Finally, he shared his own story, strategically saving the reveal of his past incarceration until the exact moment the audience was captivated by his charm, his intellect, and his command of the stage.
He was good at this.
He knew it.
And he made sure to humbly point out that these traits do not make him exceptional as a formerly incarcerated person; that many people who have spent time in this country’s prisons and jails are brilliant and talented and capable.
I did not actually meet Davis* after his speech. Instead, I went to another room for a workshop and continued to tweet some of the highlights of the day, using the organizers’ hashtags for the event. That evening I received a tweet from him. I had followed him and thought that he had read my tweets and realized I had been at the event. Later he would tell me that too many people had followed him that day for him to have noticed individual profiles. Instead, he had noticed me in the crowd during his speech and later searched the hashtags for the event until he found me. I was flattered.
He was good at this.
He Knew it.
We moved our conversation to private Twitter messages. We exchanged pleasantries about the event itself and talked about prison activism. We playfully engaged in standard Philly vs. New York City banter. He asked about my interest in the movement. I asked about his next steps with his new organization. He eventually asked for my number. We moved our conversation to a phone call. He told me he would be in Philly again within the week and asked to take me to lunch. I was not available. He impishly pouted and insisted that this meant I had to come to Harlem for dinner soon.
A few weeks and many conversations later, I drove to Harlem. I got lost as I approached his neighborhood. He called me and was noticeably agitated. I wrote it off as the New Yorker in him. When I finally arrived, he got into the passenger seat of my car and directed me to the parking garage where he kept his car. He gave me his spot, and we got into his car to go to dinner at a soul food restaurant in his rapidly gentrifying neighborhood. The evening was pleasant. There were flashes of what I now believe to be narcissism. However, whenever he read alarm on my face, he flashed his $50K smile and transitioned into jokes and more banter.
He was good at this.
He knew it.
We dated for just a few months. He asked me if I would be willing to meet his 4-year-old son. I suggested we wait until we had known each other longer. He agreed and said that his “crazy” ex, the child’s mother, would probably respond to that better.
We continued to meet over long weekends and planned breaks. He never came to Philly; I always went to him. The nonprofit he started did not have a board yet, and he was working from his Harlem apartment doing everything from fundraising to public relations. We would hang out between conference calls and walk to neighborhood spots for lunch. He asked me if I would consider moving to New York and working for the organization. “Imagine how powerful we could be together,” he would say. I never responded directly.
Eventually, he suggested that we share our electronic calendars with each other to make arranging our time together easier. Part of me thought he wanted to prove how busy and important he was, but most of me thought it was a sweet gesture. One day, I went to check his calendar to plan for a visit, and there was an entry that read “Family trip to purchase wedding bands.” He had accepted the invitation. I did an internet search for the name of the person who had created the event. She had a blog where she mentioned Davis* as her husband and referenced their 4-year-old son together. Upset but not all that confused, I sent him a short text, something along the lines of “So apparently you’re married. Great. We’re done here.” In responding, he practically refused to address the issue. He only wanted to know if I was still driving up that weekend. It was like a text version of that $50K smile. When I refused, he insisted that the calendar entry was a “bad joke” from his “crazy ex.” When I insisted that I was done with our budding relationship, he responded: “Drop dead, bitch.”
What followed for the next 6 months were periodic texts from him telling me about how I had ruined everything: us, the movement, the potential of his organization, the summer he could’ve enjoyed. He also added insults about my self-worth and sexuality, and accusations about my intentions and motives. He never acknowledged his marriage, his lies, or his threats, which were just thinly veiled enough not to be illegal. Looking back, I often wonder if my work in the field of domestic violence was a welcomed challenge for him. But, then again, that would require an acknowledgment on his part and that his behavior was abusive. I stopped responding after the first few weeks. Eventually, he stopped texting.
He never went away though. In the fall of the following year, I began working for a prison education organization. On my first day, we were planning a conference celebrating the organization’s upcoming anniversary. We were discussing potential keynote speakers, and someone suggested Davis*. I stopped breathing. I began to silently identify and name objects in the room, a tactic I use to prevent anxiety attacks. The meeting ended with folks agreeing that we should invite him. I could not speak.
Months later (before any invitations went out), I confided in an older male colleague about my experience, including that I had been too ashamed and afraid to tell the group. He knew Davis* casually and said “I’m not surprised. I’ll handle it.” The invitation did not go out.
For the duration of my employment with that organization, I spent a lot of time wondering if Davis* would be present at events I was obligated to attend. I would ask other colleagues to go in my stead when Davis* was on the program, without explaining why I wouldn’t/could not go. When I did go, I vigilantly surveyed the room for the exits, just in case he showed up. By then I did not fear as much for my physical safety. Not because I trusted him, but because I figured his care for his reputation would not allow him to act out in public spaces. My fear was for my emotional well-being. Could I even breathe with him in the room?
Davis* would go on to give national TV interviews and appear in groundbreaking films about incarceration in America. He founded a successful movement to close a notorious jail in the state of New York. He received honors and awards as an advocate for human rights.
He was good at this.
And he was unavoidable in the work that I now knew was a critical piece of my calling.
Besides family and a few close friends, nobody knew about my experience with this man. This leader in the community. This voice. Few knew how I’d cringe when I would stumble upon him on TV or a popular podcast. How I prepared myself to encounter him in critically acclaimed films. How I hadn’t been able to visit Harlem since that spring.
I considered speaking out a few times. But I struggled. I didn’t know if it would matter. And I couldn’t quite name what I had been through. I hadn’t been sexually assaulted. I hadn’t been physically abused. I had the language of “emotional abuse,” but even that didn’t feel like… enough. What I felt was more convoluted than that. There was this element of feeling terrorized within the spaces in which I needed to be present in order to do what was necessary and just.
Aside from struggling with the words, I struggled with wanting to maintain my privacy. To not have my name attached in any way to this man and his behavior. And to not have his behavior attached in any way to the movement. We were both doing important work, and I didn’t want something so messy to detract from that. And I didn’t want people to be able to point at him and make sweeping generalizations about currently and formerly incarcerated people, many of whom I love and admire. I decided to remain quiet. For myself, for the movement, for the people we were all collectively trying to create space and justice for.
And then I heard whispers that he’d resigned from the organization he had founded. No details were offered. But my spirit shifted. I knew. A few days later, a friend who I’d confided in showed me an article in the New York Times. Davis* had been accused of “sexual misconduct” by at least 3 former employees, one of whom had been paid $25,000 for her silence (she later decided to breach the agreement to stand in solidarity with the other two women). She said she hadn’t spoken out before because, “I thought I was going to harm quote, unquote the movement.” I decided to speak.
My story isn’t the same as these women’s stories. But it’s related. And it’s relevant. And telling. And justice requires, for me at least, that I share my piece of the story.
Too often, Black women and femmes in social justice movements are given this false dichotomy of choosing between ideals: Are we down for “the cause,” or are we down for making sure activist spaces are safe for everyone who shows up? I decided I’m tired of choosing.
This is the work of washing Black women—of removing the layers of disrespect and disregard with which the world desecrates us at every turn. We wash Black women by standing up for (and with) Black women.
“Those closest to the problem are closest to the solution but furthest from resources and power.” Women who are harmed by powerful men within social justice movements are often rendered powerless. But we are our own resources. Our collective voices and our willingness to tell our stories create a reckoning that cannot be ignored.
What good is a movement if its people are immobilized?
We have begun to speak. And we will not stop.
*Name has been changed, not to protect the subject, but to give the author peace and agency.
[An earlier edit of this piece first appeared on Medium.com.]