on Beauty on blackness
special issue on blackness in spiritual spaces & personal paths.
One Report is spiritually-minded content for and by young people. This publication is borne from a reflection of the teachings of the Baha’i Faith and many of our contributors are Baha’is, but not all. The goal is for One Report to offer space for people from all faith backgrounds and beliefs to discuss issues of faith and spirituality. In a time of turmoil, One Report hopes to be a source of unity and collaboration. It is an opportunity for young people to learn from one another and share reflections that feel relevant, pressing, stirring, and elevated. Thank you.
One Report is edited by Anisa Tavangar. On Beauty is guest edited by Maya Mansour. Illustrations in this issue are by Anisa Tavangar. Photographs in this issue are by Maya Mansour.
Bitter Water Made Sweet Written by Nneanata Echetebu
The very essence of being black and a spiritual being has always felt innately intertwined. As it is written, the world was made beautiful. Amid this beauty, suffering was always present. In all my experiences, at the intersection of my spirituality, religion and blackness, the cycle of suffering and beauty at times has been indistinguishable. Growing up, others around me gave me conflicting perspectives on Christianity and blackness. Some felt ostracized from this religion that was used to justify the oppression of black people. I grew up in a white church with images of white angels and white Jesus. However, even if I had any doubt, I felt this religion reflected the already implanted faith growing inside of me.
“There is no physical image of God in Christianity. Like Christ, we are of God and therefore are God, or rather, an extension of God’s sake. So, when I look in the mirror to see my features, to see my blackness—I see God.”
I found that the social understanding of religion is different from religion itself. When I studied the Bible in an academic setting, any question of my belonging diminished. I realized that anywhere I was learning about my African history was too an act of worship and spiritual discovery. I discovered Ethiopia was the first Christian nation that produced the first Bible, I learned about the black prophets of the Bible and how slavery was not the first introduction of Christianity to black people. From what I know, there is no physical image of God in Christianity. Like Christ, we are of God and therefore are God, or rather, an extension of God’s sake. So, when I look in the mirror to see my features, to see my blackness—I see God. When I hurt from my own suffering and the sufferings of my people, I remember God’s suffering— Christ himself lynched on a tree, ostracized from the spiritual spaces He belonged to, feeling physical and emotional pain, but still His worth remained. He too felt love, felt doubt, felt community, and joy—the many experiences with which black Christians identify. The Israelites’ plight in the wilderness often consoles me. God gave them a space to be divinely valued. I think of how God gave Moses the power of turning the bitter water of Marah sweet, so that the Israelites who thirsted for three days could drink it. I reflected and felt that this first miracle in the wilderness is what I’ve seen in life as a black person with faith— suffering and doubt, sweetened by God’s grace.
Bitter Water Made Sweet Bitter water made sweet YOUR death the pure, tender surrender that was not defeat i soak my hair to cleanse YOUR feet Bitter water made sweet YOUR tears that flow — grace, pain my face bows in peace, shame — a holy weep my lips press to meet YOUR cheek Bitter water made sweet my love, YOUR love— is LOVE, “I AM” as we SOUL that flies, mine rise, YOU kept, YOU keep me this life of bitter waters made sweet LORD holds me in my suffering
My apartment is a lighthouse, at dawn Written by Bianca Brooks
I cannot sleep in the dark anymore. I used to inch out of bed for Fajr. At 4:50 AM I would crawl to my bedside and supplicate in darkness, murmuring hope that the day would reveal peace and prosperity. “Not even for one second, Allah. Do not leave me over my own affairs for even one second,” I’d whisper, though it was just me. Me and God. Day after day I’d plead for faith in darkness, my thoughts mimicking the atmosphere as my internal midnight competed with soulful daybreak. Soon after I would pull myself back into bed, immediately grasping again for sleep. My apartment is a lighthouse; if I do not catch the last bit of darkness, sunrise will arrest my senses and leave me tired. The Qur’an says do not claim to have faith, just say you will submit and ask your heart to be filled with it. At first it was a matter of discipline, these mornings, to see if I could try for faith with the fervor I put towards lesser things. But then it became this sacred time, an exacted silence in the loudest place in the world. The text tells us morning prayer is God’s favorite, when all others sleep the faithful rise to greet Him. I have found 5:10 is the same across the world— dark azure skies and restless birds. I linger in bed contemplating the day. By 5:40 it is woosh, whoop, beep, shirk once again. I study these sounds, realizing I only hear them because I have learned to listen. The sky burst into cerulean. It is changing. I can only see it because I have learned to see.
Eyes low and unanxious, I await the sunrise. I have learned patience. I trust vermillion and turquoise are soon coming to consummate shamelessly on the avenue. They will give way to a capri that will claim everything, and the world will enter right on cue. I know this like I know my name, and yet I’ve had to learn it through observation. It’s taken years for me to notice the gradient architecture of dawn building itself into day; and yet there it was all along. At 6:12 the sun is here, and now the day that was once a prayer will undress herself before me. I will have to miss it. This is where I take my exit. I need to rest now. I am still tired, and some human problems do not require holy elixirs. I will save my miracles for the second morning. This time I will take my sleep; it does not take me. I close my eyes and bathe in a tainted sunshine trading faith for fantasy. Fajr is done, but I am praying still, “Not for even one second, Allah. Don’t leave me.”
black. jewish. woman. Written by Naomi Ezra I felt like a novelty doll. Something everyone looked at and touched without my permission. For as long as I can remember, I felt out of place. Whether at Sunday school, Synagogue, or my Jewish friends’ Bat and Bar-Mitzvahs, I felt as if I didn’t belong. I was the only Black kid in my Sunday school class, in the only Black family that went to our Synagogue. Living in Portland, Oregon, I had already been accustomed to being the only Black kid in my school, on the playground, or in my neighborhood. But as the only Black Jew in my religious spaces, I felt disconnected from God. It isolated me from my beliefs. I spent weekends in the Synagogue answering questions like, “How can you be Black and Jewish?” or “Did you convert? Because there is no way you were born a Jew.” I felt inadequate in the face of my religion. I wanted to stop going to Synagogue, stop forming a relationship to God, and stop claiming Judaism as a part of my identity. My religious element deteriorated. My Blackness was a burden to my younger self and that feeling intensified in my religious spaces. Despite feeling so out of place, my dad still pushed a BatMitzvah on me. I was mortified. I didn’t want to be the center of attention in the place I felt most unwelcomed. But when my dad taught me my Torah portion, I formed a closer connection to God, my religion, and my dad. My perspective shifted on what religion was and I shed my resentment towards fellow Jews. My dad made me realize that this religion saved my ancestors, that it symbolizes strength and
“I felt inadequate in the face of my religion. I wanted to stop going to Synagogue, stop forming a relationship to God, and stop claiming Judaism as a part of my identity. �
my capacity through those histories. He made me realize my Blackness as a Jew made me a dynamic being. My experience as a Black Jewish Woman began with me resenting God and those in my religion because of how I was treated. But through overcoming that insecurity, Judaism continues to guide me through my course on this earth and holds me to a standard of love, acceptance, pride, and tenacity. I accentuate my differences as a Black Jew and make them nestle comfortably in my soul. The obstacles I faced on my way to this understanding instilled a great deal of strength in my identity. My Black Jewish experience was riddled with hardships that eventually brought me closer to God. Isn’t it supposed to get worse before it gets better?
“Consider the flowers of a garden. Though differing in kind, color, form and shape, yet, inasmuch as they are refreshed by the waters of one spring, revived by the breath of one wind, invigorated by the rays of one sun, this diversity increaseth their charm and addeth unto their beauty. How unpleasing to the eye if all the flowers and plants, the leaves and blossoms, the fruit, the branches and the trees of that garden were all of the same shape and color! Diversity of hues, form and shape enricheth and adorneth the garden, and heighteneth the effect thereof. In like manner, when divers shades of thought, temperament and character, are brought together under the power and influence of one central agency, the beauty and glory of human perfection will be revealed and made manifest.”
‘Abdu’l-Bahá
For the darkest people in the room Written by Maya Mansour
“O thou who art pure in heart, sanctified in spirit, peerless in character, beauteous in face! Thy photograph hath been received revealing thy physical frame in the utmost grace and the best appearance. Thou art dark in countenance and bright in character.� How do you care for your pure heart? Do the others show respect for your sanctified spirit? Do they revel in your bright character? What about your graceful frame and beautiful, dark face? Do they see you for who you are? The most beautiful? Did you know that you are the most beautiful?
“Thou art like unto the pupil of the eye which is dark in colour, yet it is the fount of light and the revealer of the contingent world.� Do the others know that you hold the world in your gaze? That you are the light? That you are the revealer?
“I have not forgotten nor will I forget thee.� Do you feel forgotten? Do they dare forget you? Do you ever forget yourself?
“I beseech God that He may graciously make thee the sign of His bounty amidst mankind, illumine thy face with the light of such blessings as are vouchsafed by the merciful Lord, single thee out for His love in this age which is distinguished among all the past ages and centuries.” Do they know that you are a symbol of God’s bounty on this earth? Do you know? Do you know that God chose you for His love? Do you know?
Quotations from Selections From the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá p. 114
like peter Written by Jacqueline Littleton
i am often asked to affirm the truth of my faith sometimes even three times in the form of an incredulous “are you really?” and “i didn’t know jews could be black!” the popular method for proving my identity comes in a checklist of foods eaten, traditions, languages spoken as if identity can be determined in such a way i know where these questions come from and i know why they are asked if judaism cannot be reduced to a series of shared facial features, practices, geographical locations or languages
then we could be anywhere and that is the fear that anyone could be one of us that we hide in plain sight building communities ominously, somehow in these moments i waver and consider lying for the sake of ease or safety i consider the names of elders and children lost and the many times my people have had to choose to lie for these very reasons and how many have chosen not to at the cost of their lives i find strength in our histories and i find god in the diaspora in the knowledge that we are everywhere
God is love Written by Corinne Graham Creating love is difficult when love doesn’t look like you. Love isn’t tangible. I`m aware that love exists in a form greater than my human mind could ever imagine. However, when love looks like white muscular movie stars, it’s hard to create that intangible love. You see, men who look like them don’t love women who look like me. They rape us, steal from us and perhaps give us the occasional lustful glance. Men who look like that don’t settle my spirit; they stir up genuine fear in my heart. The funny thing about that is, I love Jesus. It is no secret that the blonde haired, blue eyed image we know today has been whitewashed and altered to promote racism and white supremacy. Still, I love Jesus. I love the God who came to Earth to show exemplify altruism and sacrifice. I love the Jesus who comforts me at night when my tears wash my pillow. I love the Jesus who forgives me before I forgive myself. I love the God with the feet of bronze and hair like wool. I love the God who existed before colonists perverted the scriptures to enslave my ancestors. I love the God who tells me to forgive them for they know not what they do. I love the God who is just. When I see God in my head, I don’t see one form. I see many. I see all seven billion people on this Earth. That is God. This is how I learned how to create love. Not through the appearance bodies but through loving all people. Creating love is no longer difficult because I no longer search for it, I am its embodiment.
The MAgic is in our blood Written by Rochelle Wilbun Like many African American girls, my journey with spirituality began in the Black church. In the house of worship frequented by my family, the supreme in the sky was masculine and fatherly. Women were relegated to the archetypes of divine mother in Mary, or worse, dirty, bleeding, and inferior creatures. Patriarchal religious doctrine discouraged me from honoring my divinity as a woman. By the time I began to bleed I saw my body as a betrayal. I was unclean. I struggled to see the divine within myself. Many years after my introduction to Christianity, I discovered feminism, eco-sexuality, and African based spiritual practices. I picked up the torch of Black feminist theory in college, lit by bell hooks and Patricia Hill Collins. I trained in herbal medicine, energy healing, and as a full spectrum doula, supporting people through reproductive transitions such as birth control, birth, and postpartum. Through my art practice and healing work, I come home to myself. I see the correlation between women and female bodied people understanding our bodies and loving them. I see the divine feminine in myself and the women all around me. I see that our intuitions, our vulnerability, and our passions are our greatest strengths. In that realization, I found my power as a Black woman. I don’t quite remember the “aha moment” when all of this fell into place. I do recall listening to Solange, reading Audre Lorde and learning about African deities
like Yemaya and Oshun. Suddenly, divinity had a face with full lips, brown skin, and curly hair. And wow, what a difference to see goddesses in my own image! Perhaps that is what ultimately called me to become a doula. Nothing gives me more joy than affirming for my sisters that we are sacred and blessed. Our reproductive lives are places of extreme sensitivity that deserve affirmation and advocacy. Malcolm X famously said “the most disrespected person in America is the Black woman.� Black women literally
birthed this nation. Why is it that in 2019 Black women are dying during and after birth more than any other group in the U.S.? I urge us to imagine a world in which God is a Black woman and her life, her body, her freedoms, including procreating and birthing, are holy. Our rights are sacred because they can mean life or death. I push back on the narratives that we, as Black women, have been fed our whole lives. I reject everything dominant culture has explicitly and implicitly told me about my value. For those of us who can create humans in our bodies, who bleed every month without dying, who can sustain another’s life, how can we not appreciate ourselves as divine? I see the bleeding woman, the postpartum women, the childless woman, the hoe, the Amazon, the mother, the dancer, the grandmother as embodiments of divine feminine energy. Our womanhood is not weakness. No. It is that which connects us back to Source, which has fortified us and enabled us to continue cultivating joy in the face of adversity. I see the Black woman and I see her spirit shining bright with resilience; I see her dreams; I see her desires. Endless, exquisite and enduring. I see her and she is divine.
Songs on Beauty Playlist by Maya Mansour
Be (Intro) (Common) High Fidelity (Jurassic 5) Forgive Them Father (Ms. Lauryn Hill) Aguacerito (Rio Mira) Superwoman (Where Were You When I Needed You) (Stevie Wonder) Really Love (D’Angelo) A Change Is Gonna Come (Sam Cooke) Superpower (Beyonce, Frank Ocean) blisters (serpentwithfeet)
Listen at bit.ly/songsonbeauty
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