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Full of Myself: Black Womanhood and the Journey to Self-Possession - Hardcover

Brown, Austin Channing

 
9780593728369: Full of Myself: Black Womanhood and the Journey to Self-Possession
Hardcover
ISBN 10: 059372836X ISBN 13: 9780593728369
Verlag: Convergent Books, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

In a time of rising authoritarianism and attacks on personal freedoms, the New York Times bestselling author of I’m Still Here chronicles her efforts to live as her full self in a society that wants women—and Black women in particular—to do anything but that.

As an antiracism educator and writer leading through America’s cycles of racial unrest, Austin Channing Brown reached a crossroads. “I love my work,” she writes, “and I am tired. We are tired. Tired of protesting. Tired of ‘saving democracy.’ Tired of educating and explaining.” She began to ask, “What do I deserve, not just as a citizen but as a human?”

Full of Myself answers that question. Weaving personal narrative with perceptive social commentary, Brown offers a look at the mechanisms that limit who Black women are allowed to be—at work, at home, in community—and the defining moments when she decided that self-possession is the justice work she had been made to undervalue. From skinny-dipping in the ocean to becoming a mom, she delves into the drama of life and invites readers to begin defining themselves not as empty vessels to improve the world, but as a people born free in spirit, in hope, in joy.

For Black women seeking to understand the true roots of their burnout, or for anyone wondering what it means to live joyfully in a hostile world, Full of Myself is a breath of fresh air and an invitation to full humanity.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Austin Channing Brown is an author and speaker providing inspired leadership on racial justice in America. She is the New York Times bestselling author of I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness, a Reese’s Book Club pick. Her work has been featured by outlets such as On Being, Chicago Tribune, and WNYC.

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Squeals

Under the sun, we are free. Free from our desks. Free from our chairs. Free from the walls with all the rules. Out here we scream and shout. We pump our legs to leap off swings. We flip over the crossbar before flying down the slide backwards. We pluck dandelions from the grass and fashion them into crowns as our fingertips turn yellow and green. We play tag or kick balls or jump rope until we smell like outside. Even with all this unmitigated frenzy, there are few corners of recess more alive than where the Black girls gather to play hand-­clapping games.

First, I watch. My friends at my momma’s house sing it different than here at school. But after one round, I got it. I face Joy, staring into her large eyes, effortlessly sliding my hands between hers, and then we are popping our fingers in succession. When we finish, Tiffani shouts, “Y’all ever do the four-­people version?”

Three other girls have, and they form a little box. I stand next to Ty and become her shadow, miming her movements—­ratatat right, ratatat left, ratatat up, ratatat down. She peeks at me to make sure I’m following. When I get the triple clap right—­Tat-­Tat-­Tat—­she gives me a little tap with her hip. I’m beaming with pride.

Now it’s my turn to jump in. I’m opposite Alecia. At first I’m concentrating hard, trying not to mess up. But the rhythm finds my hips and soon I’m giggle-­singing along with everyone. I’m late when I go left, but I recover without disrupting the rhythm of the other girls. They all smile by opening their eyes a little wider. You did it! their faces cheer. When we finish the final tweedle leet, Alecia takes two steps forward, sweeping me into her arms. “Ahhhhh!” a half laugh, half shock bubbles out of me, as I give in to her exuberant hug.

“Oh! I know what we should do next!” Ty proclaims. And once again we are rearranging ourselves, switching partners and slapping our hands together—­palms to palms, knuckles to knuckles, hands to hips, feet to concrete.

There is a particular magnanimity that happens when you learn a hand-­clapping game with Black girls. If you mess up, everyone squeals and dissolves into laughter. If you get the words wrong because your cousin sings it a different way, everyone squeals and dissolves into laughter. If you barely make it to the end, everyone squeals and dissolves into laughter.

There is no one more patient than a Black girl teaching another Black girl when to turn left and then right, and how many times to clap in between. She goes slowly. She is encouraging. She says, “Here, watch,” and then makes sure you’re imitating. She adds an “ayyye” into the middle of the song when you’ve got it. She asks if you’re ready to try on your own. She wants to include everyone, so we try it with five girls or six girls, as many as we can. It doesn’t ­really work—­except it does, because success is measured by the vibrations of our laughter, and our laughter is seismic.

Next we pair up and play Down, Down Baby, which Nelly hasn’t stolen yet. We clap our hands. We stomp our feet. We tip our heads for ding-­dong. We swirl our hips for hoooot dog. It’s so damn feminine without any of the sexuality that will soon be assigned to any movement of our bodies.

Before recess is over, we have to play Jig-­a-­low. Tiffani jumps in the center and does her version of the Hammer. Half of us shout “Ohhhh OhOh OhOh” as she gets into it. When Alecia jumps in the center, she does the Roger Rabbit, her beads swing in her face, emphasizing the beat by clicking half a step behind it. She seems prepared because her eyes are closed. When Stephanie jumps in the center, she tugs Brooke with her and they do the Bump.

My nervousness builds as we make our way around the circle. Soon it will be my turn. My hands are shaking. I think I’m going to do the Cabbage Patch. I hope no one beats me to it. When I hear my name, my heart is pounding wildly. Still, I leap into the center and swing my arms one direction twice, then I pause and swing them the opposite way, slowly, emphasizing the movement. The girls shout, “Okay!” and my day is made. I am breathless when I rush back to my place in the circle. My place in the circle. Where my laugh is free. Where my heart is full.

This is how we learn to delight in our own genius. This is where we learn to live our secrets out loud. No one on the playground seems to notice our presence here or the lack of our presence on the swings over there. Or perhaps they just don’t care. I’ll never know, because back then it didn’t matter to me at all. All that mattered was us and our unequivocal delight in one another.

This laughter—­this pure unadulterated laughter that blooms inside the cultural camaraderie of Black girls—­keeps us alive. It doesn’t always look like hand-­clapping games anymore, but we know it when we feel it. It always feels like this. I wish it could always feel like this.

Hair Store Order of Service

Announcements

A little bell rings as I enter the store, announcing my arrival. I am immediately made aware of the items on sale thanks to the pink and green neon-­colored, hand-­drawn signs dotted around the aisles. The bandannas are two for one, the earrings are 40 percent off, and there’s an assortment of rattail combs for a dollar. Everyone who walks through these doors does so with faith that we will find what we need.

Praise and Worship

The best hair stores have great music: a mix of R&B, followed by hip-­hop, before switching to a gospel tune. The sudden change should be jarring, but it feels right as we absent­mindedly hum along. We direct an imaginary choir with one hand while searching the aisles and examining new product lines. I can hardly contain myself when a Tevin Campbell song makes it into the rotation, singing the lyrics quietly but definitely out loud. I’m rarely the only one. We wink at one another as we nail the ad-­libs word for word.

Greet Your Neighbor

A short Black woman from the Bonnet Ministry is talking loudly on the phone, entertaining us all with a story of what had happened last night. We try to hide our chuckles at her comedic timing. We mostly fail. She doesn’t mind because we’ve become her amen corner. Bored children pop out from behind racks of braiding hair while we—­mothers, aunties, cousins, sisters, friends—­slide along the aisles, all “How you doin?” and “Can I reach around you?” I have never been ignored by the Black women in the hair store. Our communion with one another is sometimes just a smile. Sometimes just a nod. Either way, it’s all the encouragement I need to get through the day.

Altar Call

But I can do more than acknowledge the women around me. I can also turn to my neighbor to ask for help. I have to find the right hair with the right brand and the right texture and length for the style I envision. But most of all, it must be the right color. Sometimes what I need is an exact color match, in which case I have to take a chance and ask sis next to me, “Do this look like a match?” as we try to find the right light for our analysis. Sometimes I’m not looking for an exact match, just the right pop of color. I know I’ve got it when she says, “Yes, hair!” or “Yes, purple!” In here our choices are not considered weird or ghetto, unprofessional

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Verlag
Convergent Books
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
059372836X
ISBN 13 
9780593728369
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
242
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Convergent Books
https://detailguardz.com/

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