My friend Jess shared this with me a while back and in all the sickness and busyness and awayness it kinda got lost for a bit, but i found it again and there is some super helpful stuff in here: 

When Beyonce’ dropped her single, Formation, off her new album Lemonade, I sat in a coffee shop and cried while watching it on repeat.

Not just because I know I’ll never have such good dance moves, but because it’s a provocative music video with images of black women in powerful social positions. From the porch of a Southern plantation, to defiantly standing on top of a sinking police car in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, from the small black boy dancing in front of riot police, to graffiti declaring “Stop shooting us”, the video is an intimate look at the experience of African Americans especially in the southern US.

And of course, what followed was commentary.

So. Much. Commentary.

While trawling through it all, I found this article by Alex Brown which hit me like a ton of bricks…

“To interpret Lemonade in place of black women is to disrespect and neglect the voices of black women. This idea carries over to a reality in our society: white allies speaking over the black community. Far too many times I have witnessed a fellow white person speak above the black community on issues that they have no business speaking about.” (emphasis added)

Woah. Read it again.

I realised how often as a white South African woman I have found myself speaking “over” the experiences of black South Africans. How often have I said, “I’m entitled to my opinions” – maybe especially because I think they’re nice, liberal ones. Even as an ally, the views I have are often not even second-hand stories from black people themselves, but simply my perspective on them. I noticed on Brett’s Facebook posts that when he occasionally asked white people NOT to comment as he wanted a black person’s opinions, they still had to speak. I cringed with the reality that the comment sections and social media rants on many of the racially charged issues in South Africa often come mostly from white people.

Speaking over a black person’s experience.

Entitlement. Opinions.

Not such helpful contributions, perhaps.

The article followed on…

“I have no idea what it’s like to experience institutionalized racism and constant discrimination daily and simultaneously. But rather than speak for black people, my duty as a white ally is to amplify the voices of the black community to help

their messages about their struggles and experiences be heard.”

After sitting with this, I’m trying to move. Two strategies – listening and amplifying. For now, because I’m such a rookie in this area, I’m working on listening.

How?

Well, to start off I decided about a month ago that for a year I would only read books by South African authors. I was inspired by my sister, who spent a year only reading books written by women, and then the following year only read books written by African authors.

Small things are changing, shifting, moving in our home. Instead of listening to fairytale audio books in the car on the way to school, my boys are listening to Gcina Mhlophe’s Stories and Songs of Africa. Instead of listening to 5fm or East Coast Radio, I listen to MetroFm and SAFm.

Instead of speaking to my black friends and work colleagues about South Africa, I’m asking my black friends and work colleagues about their South Africa.

These are small moves, I know. I’ve cried and asked myself why my

ancestors came to this country. I’ve held my boys and fearfully wanted to save them from this pain I’m learning about. In my research, I’ve found lists like this one – 31 Books Every South African Should Read – and seen that FOUR of the authors are black. (What the what?) It’s jarring to face the reality of the dominant white voice everywhere you go. In fact, the first two books I read were written by white men (The Native Commissioner by Shaun Johnson and Cry, the Beloved Country by Alan Paton).

I’m trying better to listen, and so thanks, Brett, for asking me to tell my story here. The irony has not escaped me.

And thanks Queen Bey. I may never be able to dance like you, but you sure are helping me move.