Toni: The Revolution Will Be Long, But the Revolution is Here
Toni (she/her) is a Black woman reproductive justice practitioner and advocate, and a worker in movements that are invested in liberation (including, but not necessarily limited to, the abortion access and reproductive health, rights, & justice movements). She is a Helpline Volunteer for Carolina Abortion Fund (CAF), and is a CAF Intern for the Spring 2024 term. She is a native New Yorker, but has recently made a home in Charlotte, NC.
It’s my last blog post of the term y’all! I’ve always known the general theme that I wanted to write about for my last post, but the journey to it has changed. The journey of writing this post may feel messy and nonsensical, and I’ve decided that that’s okay. Be sure to pay attention to the end, which serves as inspiration for the post and a message to readers (shout out to Yellowhammer Fund). And thank you for being on this ride with me!
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I’ve always called myself an advocate, because I felt like I wasn’t protesting or lobbying in the streets, or being physically present with those in the community, to be classified as an organizer. Not only is this idea ableist in nature to myself, and not representative of the pandemic-world that we’ve been living in since 2020, but it also puts limits on organizing that make it exclusive instead of inclusive. I’ve always thought of myself as someone who deeply cares, and thought that was just a personality trait as opposed to a superpower. After being in space with my co-intern Chasyn and internship supervisor Camille weekly, developing deeper relationships with other CAF staff members, and thinking of the wisdom and care that my fellow volunteers on the Helpline hold, I can’t help but think: How are all of those people not organizers? And if I’m one of them, how am I not one too?
Do we not try to form community by strengthening relationships and partnerships? Do we not pull from, refer to, and utilize every community resource at our disposal to help others? Do we not educate, so that we can both inform in the present and protect in the future? Do we not act as our own megaphones by amplifying the people’s concerns and the solutions that they so clearly see? Do we not create systems, sources of support, and networks when we see that the community deserves more than what it’s being given? And do we not bring our minds, our bodies, and our hearts, to the fullest extent possible, to the work?
If we define the word “organizing” as “bringing two or more things together,” then all of these things would classify as organizing. In a country with dwindling reproductive rights, our short-term goals and day-to-day can look really different; but while I’ve been weaving, imagining, and strategizing with Black people the last few weeks, I’ve noticed that our long-term goals have always been the same, and I feel the connections across our work so strongly. Our talents and desires for change feed into each other.
But the last few weeks have been really hard for me.
Throughout the duration of this internship, I’ve still been unemployed; and although I’ve felt free because I no longer work a job that caused me deep misery, I’ve still faced many oppressive moments. I’ve been holding those oppressive moments, while fitting in space for disability maintenance, job interviews, moving my body, volunteering on the helpline, internship responsibilities, and a large internship passion project. After a few interesting sexual experiences (as detailed in my last blog post), and less-than-straightforward answers about sexual health resources in Charlotte, I felt like I had to think creatively to get access to free condoms–and really, no one should feel like they have to scam or jump through hoops just to have safer sex. When this internship opportunity arose, it felt like the universe was telling me to take the extra time that I’d been given to turn a vision into a reality. I wanted to build a safer sex supplies community outpost program in Charlotte.
And because my people are always thinking of ways to meet the community’s needs, and always thinking of ways to tap into our collective power, I brought my ideas to a CAF staff member and found out that groundwork had already been laid down by other members and in other parts of the Carolinas. In other words, I was going to do this work in Charlotte, but it was never going to end with just Charlotte (which was actually another goal of mine!). This filled my heart but also activated my worst fears of this program growing too fast and my doing too much in a short amount of time–and that’s exactly what happened.
I tried to make sure every corner (and every non-corner) of Charlotte was covered, so that the community wasn’t left with any sexual health deserts. I’ve spent so many hours looking at the Google Map of Charlotte and researching brick-and-mortar locations to prospect. I had compiled a very long list of businesses to reach out to, with a well-written outreach email that I’d drafted; and after receiving absolutely no replies from any of them, I branched out to organizations as well. As of June 20, 2024, I have received interest from only 3 potential partners, and 1 occurred only after walking into the business and personally introducing myself to the owner. I thought that way more people would want to be involved in sexual health access and reproductive justice, regardless of their personal motivations for it; or at the very least, would truly want to make a difference in this city. But most importantly, my vision-turned-reality of a strong and expansive community network has gotten smaller and smaller, which has left me exhausted and with results that I don’t love.
Ironically, this experience of slight burnout has now made me feel like a community organizer. Because the burnout has led to my reflecting on this program’s significance, I’ve come to these realizations: I don’t just want to give out free sexual/reproductive health supplies; Carolinians actually should have access to free sexual/reproductive health supplies, and our collective public health depends on it. This program (and its many participants) is a collective response to the national and local governments’ lack of community care, which has resulted in a paring-down or completely-nonexistent social services infrastructure, where community members’ needs aren’t being prioritized. And forming networks of support–when they should already be present–is a lot of work, and this work moves slowly because it needs a lot of investment.
Community weavers see a problem, and not only find a solution but action it themselves; and boy do I respect our ambition, but it’s tiring. Trying to save the world, while incurring damage from people in it simultaneously, is tiring. Steering the boat and keeping others afloat, while pieces of it break apart, is tiring.
I’ve had to take days where I don’t think about this project at all, and the related impacts of a lack of sexual and reproductive health access, because I’m so tired. But I will find my moments of relief, moments of breath, moments of life, and moments of healing, and I’ll come back to myself and try something new–and it may not always be a linear path. And as I write these words, I’m starting to understand that community organizing is a process, not a path, so this program’s progress won’t be linear either. Oppression is convoluted, and curves us like a motherfucker. But despite it all, I’m a community organizer, and luckily I’m not the only one.
The South is a revolutionary place–because as long as those who live here weave revolution, a seed of change gets planted, and the revolution can’t be killed. I’m grateful for the co-conspirators and the ancestors who have brought me here, to this moment in time. We’re the ones we’ve been waiting for.
Sources
https://www.instagram.com/p/C8PZgsbtmz8/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igsh=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==
