Interview on Surviving Sexual Abuse with Allena Sindler

This interview was conducted in 2018 by a Northwestern University student who was 

using it as source material to create a performance piece. Allen Sindler's "Heal CTA" 

premiered at Chicago's 2018 PEACEBOOK festival and was recently accepted for the

2019 "Mother Moon" festival in NYC. I am honored to have been part of her healing

art. It was also healing for me to reflect on my own journey and theorize

 from a place of pain. 

Note: I made some minors edits to the original transcript but kept it as close to the 
original as possible.

Dr. Sekile Nzinga-Johnson Interview

INNER PEACE

Inner peace, for me, is really not a destination but a process and a practice, it is something 

you claw at everyday. The reason I say claw, is because life is really hard. You have to fight 

to stay alive. You have to fight to decide to stay here. For me, one of the ways I fight is trying 

to figure out what is joy filled in my life. Not foregrounding my pain, not backgrounding my 

pain, but just letting the pain live right there and out loud. I’ve also been really really fortunate 
to have my life since those traumatic events be very joy filled. For me, that’s what has been 

my inner peace. 

I know that I’m lucky because for someone else, they might have had another round of trauma. 

It’s difficult for me now, so I can’t imagine what it would be like if I got hit with something else.

 I live often in a state of terror because I have a daughter, and I say to myself “please don’t let 

anything happen to my daughter,” but knowing there’s a high chance that it could because of the 

world that we live in. So, I live in this state of terror, praying, because that would undo me. 

I’ve put myself together well enough to make it, but if another round hit me, then my fragile 

notion of inner peace would surely be dismantled. 

That's what I mean when I say we have to claw at life and fight at life. I don't know if it’s peace 

so much as it is struggle to stay here. I’ve had some really shitty things happen to me, but I’m 

still here. Right? And I want to live. And if I want to live, then I got to find some other stuff to help 

me stay sane in all of it. I really don’t know, but I can’t necessarily say that it’s a peaceful place 

so much as a place of acceptance and contentment. But I also think that space of inner 

peace is really hard to get to when you’re hit over and over again by violence. So maybe it’s 

not sexual violence but the violence of poverty, the violence of racism, violence of homophobia. 

There are so many forms of violence, and we tend to forefront one or the other, but so many 

people are being hit by so many forms of violence that it’s hard to reach this notion of inner peace. 

There’s a line from this movie called Sankofa and there’s a woman, an African woman who was 

enslaved and her name was Nunu. There was, I think this line she would say, “this is just the flesh, 

you can’t touch my spirit, my spirit is in Africa.” So when she, well I won’t spoil the thing, but I 

remember that really stuck with me. That distinction between what happened to my flesh and

what happened to my spirit. And I don’t practice any religion but I think about that, and I use that 

metaphor in my life. 

When I think about being a professor and what it was like for me struggling to get tenure and all, 

navigating this often hostile climate as a black woman, I would think about what happened to me 

in my childhood. What I was going through and I would put it in perspective. Like actually this is 

not real, this is the Matrix--fiction, a fabricated world! This is not pain, that was pain. Like this feels

 painful because it’s horrible and people are ridiculous and assholes for no reason but this is not 

real right? That was real pain. So I use it, I use the pain to ground me, too. All this other stuff is 

smaller than that. 

I think people can find inner peace by tapping into this spirit and also thinking about taking things 

into perspective. Those are kind of like strategies that I use, but I think inner peace is a practice. 

Like you literally have to practice it, remembering the joy, because sometimes the pain is so big 

and so multifaceted that it can make you forget. And that’s why it makes sense for some people 

to have spiritual practices to kind of remind them, like “what do I have to be grateful for?” And I 

guess the challenge for me in saying what I’m saying to you now is, that some people say you 

should only focus on that. “Well look you’re still alive! Look you didn’t die” So sometimes people 

use spirituality and religion to minimize people’s pain. I don’t want you to think that’s what I’m 

saying. I think your pain gets to sit right where it needs to sit, and no one can tell you where 

you’re supposed to put it because it hurts. Anyone who is like “I wish you could talk about it 

and move on,” No. It takes a lot of work to put that pain in perspective, especially if it’s happening

 multiple times. And for most women it’s happened more than once in their lives. And so they hold 

all that guilt because they think well I did something. So inner peace is very you know um, 

hard to get at. It is an active practice, it is not a destination. And I don’t blame anyone who hasn't

begun their journey yet because there’s a lot of shit that folks are working through to hold onto it, 

you know? Yea. 

HEALING 

Sexual trauma can look different for different people. Everyone has a different experience, and no

two people’s healing looks the same, but I think that healing, in general, from trauma, sexual or

other forms of violence is cyclical and enduring. I don't think that we ever quite heal, I think that 

you can be feeling very well for a decade, and there can be a moment that takes you back to the 

moment of victimization. And so part of it is knowing, and being aware of what your experience 

has done to you psychologically and physically. Having the support to be able to heal and to be 

authentic about what is troubling you and being able to name your pain and to friends and to 

family and to the world, to not be shamed for your experience and to know that that support is 

ongoing. 

The more support we have early on, the more likely we are to be stabilized. The less likely we are 

to have support, to be believed, to be affirmed and to name our pain, I think the longer that 

healing process takes to begin, and to take root. I’m a survivor of sexual trauma, and it is a 

process. I describe it as an ongoing process. There is no end point. I will be living with this pain for 

the rest of my life, and so for me, and for others, I think it looks like trying to figure out how to live 

and hold both your pain and joy in life. How to hold them at the same time. I think that is part of 

the healing process, finding ways to hold both pain and joy and to continue to claw at life and to 

live. Doing this though, you are going to need to be wrapped in resources informal and formal. 

Informal is your family and friends and formal may be therapeutic, or faith based forms of support, 
or it may be your hobbies, or exercise. All these things have to be with an eye on healing. Nothing

detrimental to your experience. But you could enter those spaces for healing and experience 

secondary forms of trauma. So those spaces have to be safe, and take up your quest in the 

healing process. 

So I’ll give you an example of someone who might have survived a rape and might go to the 

hospital to report the rape. And they're interrogated,” where were you?” “Why did you go there?” 

All these questions that begin to target you as the person, you who made a poor choice. What 

we call victim blaming. And somehow all of it has gotten away from the person who victimized 

you, to “what were the conditions surrounding the victimization and what role you played.” And 

so that is a secondary form of trauma. Because now you’re made to feel guilty or question your 

role in all of this. That is an additional traumatic event. The same thing happens when you go to 

the police. There’s often this notion that the police are this safe space, but that may not be true. 

Many women and femmes are victimized at the hands of law enforcement--sex workers, trans 

women, working class women, femmes/women of color, and femmes/women who are 

incarcerated are more likely to be victimized again when they come into contact  with law 
enforcement. These are compounding forms of sexual trauma. Maybe they’ve already experienced 
some form of sexual trauma in their life and then they come contact with this organization that is 

supposed to be supporting them or even rehabilitating them, and it becomes a site for more 

violence. Maybe you go to your minister looking for support, but that becomes a vulnerable space for 
many people who have been victimized. So, trust in that person who is in power, also becomes a 
vulnerable space to be in. So, I think we don’t really talk about that. There are so many forms of 
secondary violence and complex trauma that happens when we are told to go to these spaces 

that are supposed to be helpful. 

SUPPORT 

I feel that we need to be heard, I think we need to be validated, our experiences need to be 

validated. I think we need to know that our communities are safe and affirming and welcoming.

 I think that communities need to hold people who have victimized others accountable. I think that 

whatever accountability looks like it has to evoke their humanity and not compromise it. 

If you put someone who’s victimized someone in a more inhuman setting, we can’t 

necessarily say that that’s going to make that person a better person at the end of the 

accountability process. I would want that person to become a better person. To somehow 

be able to recover and to be able to think through the harm they have caused to the person 

they have victimized, to themselves, and to their community and to think through “how do I 

become a whole person after this?” I also think that person who is a perpetrator is also a 

victim, because they have now compromised their humanity. I think that the person who has 

been primarily victimized needs to be prioritized and protected and needs to be empowered to 

know that they can move forward. We are stronger than we think we are. And how do we 

remember to hold pain and acknowledge that still there is opportunity for joy. But it’s really hard, 

depending on how violent the attack was and depending on how much you trusted the person 

who attacked you. The conditions make it really hard. 

I feel like that person needs to be loved, protected, and affirmed, listened to but we have to be 

really patient with survivors. Because we want people to get over it, we want people to snap out 

of it, but you can’t! It has shaken you to your core, whatever that thing is that happened to you.

And you need time to put yourself back together. If you were told that it didn’t happen to you, 

if you were told or received societal messages that said it was your fault, it can take a really long 

time. If you haven’t been given the resources and you have to show up at work or school the next 

day, if it happened to you at work or school--because we’re assuming that these things are only 

happening in dark alleys and parking lots. No, it’s happening at home, most people who have 

been sexually victimized are being victimized by their partners, or people they know. Married 

women are victimized by their partners, girls are victimized by their boyfriends, right? Children 

are victimized by adults that are supposedly protecting them, teachers, priests, coaches, parents, 

aunts, uncles, older siblings. Then you get to college and it happens on a date or after a party. 

So I think that there’s also an assumption that its only happening once in someone’s life, or that 

we should get over it when it’s really persistent and chronic. And so if the attacks against our

 humanity are persistent and chronic then I think the affirmation in support of our humanity 

has to be persistent, consistent and loving. 

Rerouting...

Captain's Log: 11.16.15

I need to write this now. Before I know the outcome. Before the celebration. Before I even know if there will be a celebration. 

Before the possible disappointment of not getting the call. 

I'm feeling joy in this moment. I am feeling on edge and fearful but I am joy filled about taking a risk professionally. Besides all the shit talking I do, I'm not a big risk taker. 

Never been entrepreneurial. Never gamble. 

Never share all of me with any one person. 

Never say what I think and how I feel when it needs to be said and especially to those that have power over me.

I play it safe. 

This may be hard to believe for some but I'm very cautious. I fear failing. I fear falling. I fear making mistakes. So I am hesitant and over process everything in my head and with others. I worry a lot. 

What if I listen to myself? What if I change course? What if I make a mistake? What will others think? What if I say, do, or write what I actually think and feel?

 I wake up full of anxiety most days and I stuff it down or breathe through it until it subsides. I do what others say I should be doing although I often silently protest. I resist in the forms of ambivalence, avoidance and being "under" productive.  

But today I await the response to my recent risk taking. I listened to this loud little voice inside me, it was Monique, reminding Sekile what her life goals had been way back when. She wanted to be a social worker. She wanted to serve her community. She wanted to help girls and women. She asserted herself, forcing me to not settle for another's life quest. 

My child abuse and incest trauma directed me towards a profession that was founded on helping others in crisis and transition. Yet, as I continued with my studies and came in contact with folks who questioned and critiqued my life choices, I cowered and shrunk in the light. I changed course to be like one of them. The intellectuals and scholars. Their eloquence demanded respect and I loved the way they commanded others' attention. I also wanted to be like the well off middle class folks. I didn't want to financially struggle and kept hearing "you won't get paid a lot as a social worker". I knew I couldn't go back home and be a dependent in an unsafe and violent house. No, I refused to return to that hell.

But mostly,  I wanted to be seen and heard so I plowed forward on their path thinking it was my path. I worked hard at trying to be them and even when I thought I had perfected emulating them, they still shunned me for not doing it right. I contorted and disguised myself and the toxic process exposed me anyway. Today I thank them for helping me see me for me, for I have been wearing a very heavy mask. 

I have been off my path for so long, I almost forgot who I was and what I set out to do with my life. This year, I felt myself cracking under the pressure and began to come undone. The mask was heavy and I needed clean air in my lungs. 

So I had  a choice to make, go deeper into this false life or take a risk and retrieve myself. 

I am no less afraid. I am no less unsure. I am no more clear of my path...but I took the risk and it feels electric! My joy feels bigger than the nagging fear of failure that is ever present. I do hope my phone rings with good news of a new position but I want to cherish this "before" moment of joy. This moment of choosing to do the unthinkable. This moment of not walking away but of choosing to walk toward my light.

this quote helped to propel me forward

Captain's Log: 4.16.15

It's been exactly 5 months since I drafted the post above. I decided not to publish it because it would have publicly revealed that I was on the job market. Well, I never got the call I was waiting for back in November. The university offered to position to another deserving candidate. Instead, I propelled forward and committed to searching for a position, whether inside or outside of higher education, that would bring me joy. There was more disappointment along the way and my emotions have been heightened and conflicted in ways I did not know was possible. I think my turning inward and moving away from many of the activities and people I loved was in some ways acts of self preservation. I just needed to steer all my energy in simply staying alive and staying stable psychologically.  By the end of 2015 I was emotionally, psychologically, and physically drained but my spirit is strong and I am determined to live.

It's been 5 months and in those five months I have not only become clearer about my path, I have found another job!!!!!!  I remain afraid of the unknown but I feel unstuck and spiritually free. I am living through both my pain and joy in this moment and accepting their coexistence. This is my journey and I have chosen to reroute. 

Mother's Day: My glass box of emotion

I feel every emotion on this day and no one feeling outranks the other. It is this day that leaves me emotionally drained every year. every year. Nonetheless,  I remain eternally grateful for the JOY of these three rays of sunshine!! The polka dots make me smile, too. 

If you or someone you know is feeling similarily by the heaviness of Mother's Day (and/or Father's Day) as a child abuse survivor,  here's a validating read. (Please note that some of the content can be triggering for some) http://www.slate.com/articles/life/family/2013/02/abusive_parents_what_do_grown_children_owe_the_mothers_and_fathers_who_made.2.html

Warning: Incoherent free write/journal entry posing as a blog post

My final post for 2014 is a strained one. I suppose the easiest thing is to reflect on my year using the checklist method. The joys and the pains. marathons. travel. new professional collaborations. family achievements and intimate moments. joys. check. global injustices, inequity and unrest. strained and toxic work relationships. time off from teaching disappeared. my love of carbs and disgust with gyms. no publications. pains. check. 

 I struggle with this format, though. Highlighting the joys, which have been plentiful, feels like I’m minimizing the real struggles that I face day to day. feeling my actions toward righting the world are not transformative/impactful enough. insecurity. self doubt. feelings of incompetence. fear of failure. fear of rejection if I share my real shit. Yet, noting my pains makes me feel trivial, whiny, privileged. Not saying anything leaves a gaping hole of silence. So I sit here unsure of what direction to go in. Maybe listing is the best strategy. But I can feel myself also wanting to make sure the good and bads of 2014  are balanced. But life is messy and uneven. there is no balance. I keep trying to impose structure and order on this mess. I attribute my lack of discipline as failure. I struggle with following tasks  that don’t feel good in the moment. I am not sure if that is an inability to delay gratification or if it has become my survival strategy. If it doesn't feel good, i stop. I usually do what feels good as long as it feels good, when it feels good and for however long it feels good. i steer away from pain and struggle, especially the kinds i have cannot see as part of a longer journey towards joy.

I feel so much pressure as the year ends. Such a sense of failure although I have been successful on many fronts…especially in the eyes of others. Yet, there are other others who I have given power over my fate. This has produced a level of anxiety that seems to be consuming me. sucking the joy out of my life. I fight it daily, ordering myself to not let it/them/the game/the matrix consume me, shape my sense of worth. It works momentarily but it is an active and exhausting practice of holding my head up. I quiver at the thought of them judging me. Also of me having to figure out the what next. To be cast out of a play I don’t really feel a part of anyway.

********* blog post is becoming sidetracked*******other thoughts and emotions are surfacing. am i  journaling?

I need a safe space to speak. to share my darkest secrets. To have long  sustained conversation with. I feel like I am living such an inauthentic life. A life that I have crafted. One that others would be proud of. I feel like a hypocrite. A fake. I don’t belong here. How did I get here? Why do I stay? When will I exhale and get free? Who will be hurt by my actions? Yup, I’m coming undone as 2014 winds down. I have a lot to meditate on. 

I hope that being still will bring me relief though I fear it will just put me back together until the next pity party/break down. I seem to live from break down to break down. I need better self care practices in place. Key Ray read me way back in 1996. I hold it together and melt down at the end of each semester. Like clockwork. 

I need to take my 5 good minutes. I need a once a week phone call with my girls. A monthly massage.  A regular journal session to share these thoughts, feelings, haunts, and dreams. A committed exercise routine. I need to establish a healthy relationship with myself. All of this needs to be on the calendar. A mentor of mine charged me with an important task. She suggested that whenI began developing a semester plan, document what professional supports I need in place given the semester I have ahead of me. I am going to craft a plan of general self care and supports that extend beyond my professional reality. I say loudly and quite frequently that I will not let my career be my center yet it continues to be a key source of my stress and anxiety. Impostor syndrome alive and well. black. woman. working class. first generation. spousal hire. you name it. I also need to acknowledge that its demands are not the only sources of my inner turmoil. The things that make my hands tremble the most are buried deep inside, they are the struggles that I cannot yet document. Until I am ready, I will at least find respite in building time for myself for release and regrouping…for my world is a stage and I am performing to keep the peace.  

Depression and anxiety are real. I’m swimming as fast upstream as possible to not let is consume me right now. Karen, I hope you are resting well. Although I did not know you, I feel your pain and joys. I feel connected to you as a black woman. So many of us struggle even as we make others smile. I get you. I feel you. I will wear red lipstick on NYE in your honor. Praying 2015 helps me to break off another piece of this mask so I can get a little more free. 

Eyes up...Dis/Recovering My Body

 When our bodies are free we can move mountains.

I completed my first marathon on October 12, 2014. I finished the Chicago Marathon in 5 hours, 49 minutes and 12 seconds! Not bad!! I was out there with 45,000 other runners, walkers and wheel chair racers---each of us at the start line for different reasons but all with the same tools at hand....our bodies, minds, hearts and spirits ----and the same goal in mind...to get across the finish line. 

As I trained this summer, especially during the longer runs past 13 miles, I became fascinated by what my body was capable of doing. Sometimes I got distracted by what my body was “supposed” to look like but I was truly impressed by what it could DO! Each weekend I would look at the weekly run schedule and think “Damn, that’s far!”. But then I would lace up and sure enough about half way through the run I would realize that I was doing IT.  I also came to enjoy listening to my body. If my heart rate was too fast, I'd slow down. If I became excited because the finish line was near, I'd speed up. If I was struggling, I'd speak up and ask for help. If I felt uncomfortable, I'd tell my run partner the pace doesn’t feel good. If I am slacking, I’d acknowledge it and recommit. If I needed a break, I'd take one. This distance running journey was a testimony and tribute to being in a sustained conversation with my body.  Respecting when my body says No! and responding when it says Yes!!

The conversation continued along the marathon route on Sunday. I checked in with each body part. 

        mile 13: “Toes & toenails, how ya’ll doing?" 

mile 15: "Back, you alright?" 

mile 18: "Lungs, ya’ll getting enough oxygen?"

                                     mile 23: "Bladder, girl, you are doing marvelous!"

mile 24-26.2: "Legs, you betta' work!!!" 

My spirit continually tapped me on my shoulder along the way and reminded me to take it all in. The sights, the sounds, the smells, the energy, the support and the LOVE were all there giving me life and propelling me forward. 

And yes, at times I begged each body part to cooperate and they did, but in their own time and on their own terms. I had set a finish time goal of 5:25 but my body pushed back and said assertively, "I am finishing in 5:49:12!". 

My body, my will, my desire moved mountains that day and another piece of me got free as I crossed the finish line. When I got across I didn’t cry. I just smiled because my body had survived real pain before and this was not pain, this was joy.                                                    





                                           Pure JOY!

This is 11

I wrote a poem in 1993 entitled, "she was only 11". It was a poem about my father sexually molesting me as a young girl and and my mother's failure to protect me. It was poem of violence, trauma and abandonment. It was a poem that tried to make sense of what had happened to me as a girl decades before. 32 years later, 11 visits again.

Today, my 11 year old daughter and I were trying to make it back to Illinois after an action packed weekend of fun at a family wedding. Our return flight had been cancelled yesterday but today we made it to our connecting flight so there was hope. She was anxious because she wanted to return to make it to her friend's birthday party. It was the first one she would be attending in middle school with both girl and boy guests.  She wanted to look special for the occasion so she had on the dress she wore to the wedding but not too special so she edged it up a bit with sneakers. 

Our flight had been delayed twice so I left her side at the airport briefly to grab us some lunch. I got her gut wrenching tearful phone call as I waited for her sub to be prepared. Our flight had been cancelled for a second time and now she was going to miss the party. To make matters worse, we are stuck in a random city for the night. 

She was hysterical on the phone. I could hear an older black woman asking her if she was OK in the background. I told her I was on my way and left her sub at the restaurant. I walked as fast as I could back to our gate as I tried to calm her down. She was inconsolable and at moments accused me of not helping matters. (Side bar: No matter how bad I felt about the situation, I was not having that kind guilt tripping and quickly checked her on that behavior). I'm her mother, not a punching bag! Still, I hung on the line until I reached her and then held her in my arms when I got to her. I was weary. I knew we needed to get to the ticket counter if there was any possibility of us getting to Chicago or a nearby airport today but she was a wreck. She didn't care who was watching or what needed to happen. She needed to fall out for a bit. So we sat, she cried and I held her. When I wasn't enough, she called her dad and cried to him. 

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, I told her we needed to get new tickets. We were pretty much the last ones to get into the ticket reissue line. She wiped tears the whole time we waited. I held my bladder and my emotions. I got our tickets and then she collapsed again as the full reality set in that we were not getting home until tomorrow. 

She kept asking me to fix it and saying she just wanted to go home and to see her dad who had been traveling for the past 10 days. I reminded her that I cannot simply fix things I have no control over. She swallowed that pill bitterly. 

She eventually calmed down and even began to smile and laugh bit. We settled into a hotel and had lunch and played a few rounds of checkers. She had another crying episode and I, at my wit's end, decided that she had shed enough tears on the matter of a "missed birthday party". I reminded her that this is a small bump in grander scheme of her life and there were girls her age that were dealing with real shit. Rape. Abuse. Homelessness. Poverty. War. Dangerous unaccompanied border crossings without their parents. Yes, I went there. Because the girl was working my nerves and seriously, it was just a damned party! 

She finally cried herself out and fell asleep. I am lying in the bed across from her looking at her beautiful perfection and shaking my head at the intensity of her emotional expressivity. Yes, it's going to be a long adolescence but I am happy to be on this journey with her. 

I remind myself that she is ONLY 11 and suddenly I am realizing that our 11th years are significantly different.  My daughter  is dealing with petty disappointments that are age appropriate. Not sexual assault as I did at her age. My daughter asks for her father when she is in pain and he comforts her and supports me.  My father was the primary source of my pain. I am listening to my daughter and assuring her that she is capable of surviving her pain. Although my mother did assist me with aborting my father's baby she did not respond to my terror or assure my protection because she stayed in relationship with him. My daughter is empowered and embraces her budding adolescent sexuality when she decides to wear a dress to the party but I had mine taken from me violently. My daughter is allowed to express her feelings openly and publicly yet I was silenced by fear for decades. At age 11, my daughter  is spending a night in a hotel with me because her flight was cancelled. At age 11, I spent a night in a hotel with my mother the night before a late term abortion that had to be performed out of my home state. As her parents, we are actively trying to keep her (and her brothers) safe. My parents provided for me and my siblings but we were not safe with them. 

This is 11.

As I lie here, listening to her heavy breathing as she sleeps, I also began thinking about the interactions my daughter had with my extended family members this past weekend. Everyone adored her. All weekend she heard "you look just like your mother" and "you spit her out". I think she felt bad for her dad and said to me "I have dad's nose and hair", which she does. But to the Wilkersons, she was "little Monique" and was hugged, kissed and squeezed to death! She was both tickled and overwhelmed by the unconditional love that came at her from every direction. She seldom gets to see our extended family but they loved her like she was my 11 year old clone. I was loved up, too but I truly enjoyed watching them love her up. It deepened my sense of feeling loved by them. They loved her because she was of me but they also loved her because she reminded them of me at her age. It was an out of body experience for me and for a moment, I did live through her. I was retroactively receiving the love that they didn't know I critically needed 32 years ago. 

Bearing witness to them doting over her--grandmothers promising her sweets; uncles giving her all the change out of their pockets and letting her cut in the buffet line to get a 3rd helping of macaroni and cheese; aunts giving her peppermints, telling her she is beautiful and embarrassingly talking about her getting breasts. I too, received that extended family caring and praise as a girl. The early safe space created by my extended family has truly been a latent aspect of my survival that I had not given much weight until now. While I may have been facing hell in my household, they had already affirmed me and built me up.

It is important for me to also note that she is both privileged and blessed. In the midst of her tantrum it was my responsibility to remind her to put her life in perspective--missing a party is disappointing but it is not traumatic nor life altering. She should recognize her privilege is that this momentary upset was her greatest pain. 

But I do also appreciate that she is also a child--and children deserve to be heard, validated and loved. They also deserve the freedom to express their feelings of both joy and pain. She had prepared for joy today but she experienced pain. Yet, she is blessed to have both glowed and crumpled under the warm quilt of her immediate and extended family this weekend. 

This is her 11...

...and my 43 year old heart is swelled by the vast ocean that separates our life experiences. 

Homecoming: On finding a "good man"

Recently, I was exchanging a round of texts with one of my dearest friends. We were debating on the importance of men in our lives--in the realms of romantically/sexually and emotionally/psychologically. She felt that women represented feminine energy in a relationship and that a man complimented that feminine energy with masculine energy. She also felt that a father nurtures a child in a unique way, maybe a more masculine way. I feel that we all embody both masculine and feminine qualities and that we are whole without  another person. I see others as enriching our lives. Intimate connections with others affirm us but that we must gain affirmation of self independent of others. I also see the role/duties of a father as being indistinguishable from that of a mother. I know I will get a lot of push back on this but a nurturing parent is a nurturing parent. period. I have witnessed my son, 29 years younger than me, step between myself and my daughter when I was not parenting effectively. He essentially was the voice of reason and ultimately comforted my daughter and gave her what she needed in that moment. What she needed was nurturance and he provided that for her, regardless of his gender and/or age. There is nothing biological about my mothering. I am learning as I go and there is nothing about my gender identity as a woman, my predominantly feminine expression or my biological femaleness that aids me in this process. Children need caring adults in their lives. Whether those adults have penises, vaginas or some combination of both doesn't matter. Who does that parenting doesn't matter. Your birth parents or those in your community can stand in the gap. Yet, my friend raised a point that I’m still chewing on. Maybe once we have been abandoned or abused by our mothers and/or fathers, we have holes that we feel need to be filled and look to other adults who resemble these identities to heal us. 

I am not sure if I ever looked for a father figure to replace my father. I simply walked away. I did not see him as essential to my life journey. I never felt a deep loss. trauma, yes but I did not feel a deep loss of a father in my life. I DID feel a sense of abandonment from my mother and I spent about a decade of my young adulthood trying to attach myself to older black women. But they ultimately disappointed me. Not because they were bad people but because I had painted this idealized portrait of what I wanted out of my relationship with them. I wanted a “do over” mother but they were my grandmother, my mother in law, my supervisor, my dissertation chair, or my mentor. They were not my mother. I eventually learned that I had placed unrealistic expectations on these women, to heal me, to love me in the ways I felt I had not been loved. I learned to mother/nurture myself. I learned to redistribute the weight I had placed on certain romanticized relationships with older women. Why are parental relationships given more weight that peer relationships? Why were parents defined as the singular sources of our nurturance and not ourselves? These questions have helped me love myself when others did not. could not. should not. 

But is loving ourselves enough?

My father did not love me. He failed at his adult duties to keep me safe and not harm me. He failed. Most of my professors at Morgan State University were men. They were intelligent, progressive, kind and witty Black men. They were not my father nor his replacement but I suppose they did help me to heal. They were all respectful and did not make me squirm in discomfort when I was in the room alone with them.  They gave me an alternate perspective of relationships between adult men and younger women/girls. between those with power and those who were vulnerable under that power. 

I recall being in Dr. Daryll Tally's office in the social work department in my junior year. We were talking about graduate school. I was telling him how I wanted to go to grad school in Baltimore because my boyfriend at the time was from Baltimore. He quickly retorted, "Don't plan your life around a man! Baltimore will be here when you get back. Go to grad school.". Thank you, Dr. Tally.  I listened to him. My boyfriend at the time broke up with me our senior year and I went off to Ohio State University for my masters degree. Dr. Talley's words stay with me today, I try to place myself first in my life plans. I try not center my life around a man—even the one I am in love with. Dr. Tally was not a father figure but he did what wiser adults should do—give sound advice and challenge us to defy our self-made boundaries. You are a good (hu)man, Dr. Tally!

I also recall being in Dr. Elmer P. Martin’s social work practice class. He required  us to write a paper on object loss and object constancy. The purpose of the assignment was to reflect on something that was tough/traumatic/distressing in our lives and what kept us whole during that same time period. I decided to write about my incest survival. I think I still have the paper. It was the first time I had put pen to paper on the issue. It was emotionally draining but I think it was the best paper I had written at Morgan. On the day the assignment was due he asked that we share our topics with the rest of the class. I was horrified. I tried to find the words but erupted into tears and buried my head in my desk for the remainder of the class. Too soon. Still too raw. It took me two weeks to return to class. Dr. Martin shared his own story in my absence. It was about his father molesting his sisters and his mother pressing charges against him. It was about surviving having a father who had been a sexual predator and being a child of an incarcerated parent. I missed Dr. Martin’s story in class but I gained so much from him for discussing his personal life with our class. Thank you, Dr. Martin. You taught me that it was OK to be vulnerable in front of others. I continue to try to live by your example. You were a good (hu)man, Dr. Martin. RIP

Mr. William Carson, Sr. and I crossed paths in 1992. I walked into his office saying I wanted to go to graduate school. Over the next year he would read my admission essay, drive me from Maryland to Ohio for black grad student visitation days at Ohio State, give me a bike to get around campus, attend my graduation from my MSW program and take pictures of the event. A couple of years after that he would drive my friends down to NC for my wedding and take pictures of yet another special day in my life. He never asked me for one red cent. Four years after that, he’d be there for me again for my and my husband’s graduation from our PhD programs. He and his camera captured our big day yet again. Words cannot express how his unassuming but constant presence in my life has meant to me. I’ve come to learn that I was not a special case, Mr. Carson treats everyone he knows kindly. I am so pleased that I was able to thank him publicly at his recent retirement party from Morgan State University. After 30 years he was finally “graduating" and moving on to indulge in his life’s joys—traveling, visiting his family and yes, taking pictures. At the dinner, I thanked his son for “sharing” his dad with us Morganites. Thank you, Mr. Carson for all that you have done for me professionally and personally. You taught me that sometimes we just have to be there for other folks not to seek praise but because it is the right thing to do. I try to channel your professionalism and dedication when I interact with my students although you have very big shoes to fill! You are a good (hu)man, Mr. Carson!!

I am probably a professor because of the positive influences of my undergraduate professors and administrators at Morgan. My fair Morgan...it was a safe haven for me that gave me the space to remember who I was outside of the abuse I had experienced in my family home. 

So where am I going with this? 

I’m not sure. I am thankful that I had other men to interact with who were not predatory. Yet, I never imagined that they were father figures nor held expectations that they were replacing my father when they helped me along the way. At the end of the day, it was not their gender that shined through, it was their humanity. their caring spirits. their sage advice. They were/are good humans. At the same time, I do acknowledge that they were indeed men and having positive experiences with men is something I cherish as well. 

But through it all, I am learning that we heal and flourish from having good people in our lives, starting with ourselves.

Q: What's in a name? A: freedom

I am the first born daughter of Deborah Wilson and Wash Wilson, Jr. They named me Monique Antionette Wilson. I liked my name growing up, despite being called almost last at every school event and ceremony because my last name was at the end of the alphabet. I also tolerated being corrected by others because my middle name, Antionette, was spelled incorrectly since my version had the "i" before the "o".  My name sounds French and that made me feel fancy and sophisticated. I had many nicknames, some I loved "Cover Girl" (my older male cousins Butch & Teddy said I was as pretty as a Cover Girl! I love me some them!) and some I grew to despise "Crow" (because of my skinny bird legs). Then there were the school years of being called "dead eye" because I have a lazy eye and being called a "slut" behind my back. Ahhhh, names, they carry weight. 

Over the years, I created physical distance between my sexually abusive father and me by going to college and not returning home, but I found myself still wanting to "free" myself from his surname. Initially I thought that I could easily just change my last name to my mother's maiden name of Wilkerson. It would mean just adding three letters, KER, in the middle of Wilson. Simple enough. I was also reading more and more about the Black experience in the US during that same time period. I had recently read Kwame Toure's (formerly Stokely Carmicheal) book "Stokley Speaks: Black Power Back to Pan Africanism". It included a speech he gave at my alma mater, Morgan State University, that resonated with me politically. I also read "The Autobiography of Malcolm X". He too, changed his name from Malcolm Little to Malcolm X to El-Hajj Malik El-Shabbaz as part of his political and religious journey. "Assata: An Autobiography" by Assasta Shakur (formerly Joanne Chesimard) crystalized my understandings of the gender politics within the Black Panther party as well as the criminalization and surveillance of Black bodies at the hands of the US government. These revolutionaries and authors sharpened my emergent thinking on black and Pan African politics but they also influenced my thinking on naming.

I learned that your name is yours. I also learned that your name can shape your identity and your politics. Or did I learn that your identity and politics can influence your name? This is a cart-horse debate that I don't wish to take up here but I do believe that my search for self, a self independent of my father's unwanted advances and a self free of white men's chains were emerging simultaneously.  I descend from a long history of racial and gender oppression and a long history of black women pushing back against these histories in an attempt to chart their own destinies.  Although, I lacked the sophistication to name exactly what I was doing when I decided to change my name at 23 years old, I know that these histories informed my act of resistance.

So, while I was in my master's program, I went to the Black Studies library at Ohio State University one day to do research and checked out 2-3 books on African names. I eventually found two names I liked Sekile (again with the missellings, I think it is actually spelled Sakile) and Nzinga (also spelled Nzingha and Njinga, sigh). I had decided I would change my sur/last name to an African name but I was not sure which one to go with. Sekile/Sakile was from the southern region in Africa, a Zulu name that meant "peace" and Nzinga/Nzingha was the name of a fierce 16th century, warrior queen who ruled a region in Africa, which is now Angola. http://www.blackpast.org/gah/queen-nzinga-1583-1663. I liked both names. One evoking peace and one evoking independence, resistance, and strength. Monique Nzinga? Monique Sekile? I liked the names but neither had a ring to them when combined with my birth name. I mentioned my struggle to someone and they quickly suggested, why not use both? Nzinga Sekile? Sekile Nzinga? Sekile Nzinga. yes, Sekile Nzinga!

I shared my name change decision with one of my childhood friends. Interestingly, her name was Monik (pronounced, Monique), too. She was actually in the process of changing her name to Akilah Njeri. We cracked up at the similarity of our name choices and at the coincidence of our timing. Our friends and family weren't as amused. As I shared my new "radical" name with friends and family, I was met with backlash and disapproval by some. "So, what do you think you're blacker than me?!", one friend asked defensively. "I understand you wanting to connect with your African ancestry but what about your white ancestors?!", a family member quipped. Those were the statements from those who were brazen enough to have face to face conversations with me. Eventually, most came to call me "Monique..I mean Sekile!" and then later, just Sekile. Anyone over the age of 60 got a pass, my Grannie still calls me Monique and I still answer to it.  I never told anyone that I was changing my name not only to identify with my African ancestry but also to symbolically sever my connections to my child molesting father. 

Over the next few years, I met co-workers and former classmates who were going through the same name changing process and they encouraged me to not just "go by" Sekile but actually change my name legally. I married in 1996 but had not begun the legal name change process.  So our marriage license says Monique. However, my pregnancy with my first child served as the catalyst for my official name change. I wanted my chosen name on his birth certificate and filed the necessary paper work at the court house in Prince George's county in Maryland in 1997. 

It was at that time that I made the difficult decision to also take my husband's name. I had just spent the last 4 years claiming my independence from histories of violence and trauma but in this case, this was a man that loved and respected me. This was joy. It was a confusing time, so I succumbed to the societal pressure that most US women face to take their husbands' names. My partner said he didn't care but I was not sure. He loved me and I wanted him to know that I loved him.  I became Sekile Nzinga-Johnson legally in 1997.

I feel like I lost a little of myself in that decision but I later began to appreciate having a name that was connected to the Black experience here in the US. That is where my closest ancestry lies and I am deeply indebted to all those ordinary blacks folks, like the Johnsons of Mobile, Alabama, who worked hard, struggled to stay alive and contributed to this society with little recognition. Maybe this is me rationalizing my heteronormative decision so that I feel less gendered but that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I am still in the process of healing from my child sexual abuse. It is lifelong. I have accepted the infinity of its pain. Yet, in the past year, I've also have found myself circling back to appreciating the name Monique. Monique lives. Monique symbolizes the innocence that should have been my childhood. Monique is joy. She coexists WITH and IN Sekile. Yet she has stayed hidden, dormant within until she felt safe to come back out and play. It's taken years, decades for her to feel secure in this world. As Sekile, I find myself calling upon Monique quite often these days. Monique reminds me what real pain is and to not let the small things in life take up more space than they deserve. Monique reminds me that I need and deserve time to play and be free. Monique makes me speak on it and act on it. injustice. speak, Sekile! Monique, with her working class reality, reminds PhD'd Sekile to remain wild and untamed by middle class respectability politics and fired up about inequity. I am Sekile. I am Monique.

Been thinking about another name change these days....Sekile Monique Nzinga-Johnson. I know, it's kind of a mouthful! Until then, I'm going to go drink a glass of sweet tea and hula hoop with Monique.

-Sekile M. Nzinga-Johnson

p.s. 2/10/20. I recently dropped the Johnson from my last name although I kept my partner of 26 years. Nzinga-Johnson is still my legal name but Nzinga is what I will use professionally and socially. I continue to evolve into myself and he continues to be the man who is secure in his masculinity with no need to "own" me or mark me as being his possession. Freedom lives here.

--Sekile M. Nzinga

p.s.s. 3/28/24 My new SS card and my new license came in the mail today. I am now officially/legally Sekile M. Nzinga, a free assed black woman. 

(Not a ) Mother's Day Post: Happy Our Lives Day!!

I keenly remember seeing a school video of myself in 6th grade wearing a green leotard top and thought that my breasts and stomach looked big. I was pregnant but had no recollection of having sex. I did have a recollection of my father coming into my bedroom at night fondling me in my sleep. I did recall waking up one night and being wet between my legs. I did recall waking up and seeing my father’s penis in front of my face. In hindsight, I’m thankful that I do not recall the details of my impregnation. The brain protects the spirit. The spirit protects the brain.

After several tests and an ultrasound it was revealed that I was pregnant. I then had to tell my mother about my father. She did what every women who feels the need to upholding an institution that judges women and demands them to stay “for better or for worse”. Obviously, she took this literally and protected my father over me. She never turned him in but instead coached me through a series of lies regarding how I got pregnant. My deepest apologies go out to the Latino men in my community who may have been wrongly harassed by the police as they searched for “3 Latino men who gang raped a 11 year old black girl”. In hindsight, I am not even sure the police cared enough about my innocence to actually investigate the “crime”.

My mother then asked me what I wanted to do. I could have the child and she would raise it or I could abort it. I was 11. 11!!!!!!!!!! But my spirit and brain joined forces again and helped me to get free. I chose an abortion. I had no desire to be a mother. I was 20 weeks pregnant so I had to travel out of the state of RI to NY for the late term abortion.

Here are my nuts and bolts of a late term abortion. The saline solution was inserted into my abdomen with a long needle. That induced contractions. The roomful was of other women and girls going through the same experience. The moans. The moans. All night long. Seeing the fetus. The painful removal of the placenta. My spirit was challenged that day. Even witnessing what I witnessed and experiencing what I experienced, I’d choose that abortion again and again and again. I had little power in the world at age 11. But that day that I chose to have an abortion was my assertion of power over my life and my body!!!!!

5 years later, when I was in 11th grade, I had unprotected sex with my then boyfriend. He convinced me that my bc pills were still “in my system”. Smooth move and clearly my brain was not fully engaged that day. But my spirit was intact and I knew that I did not want to become a mother in that moment. I made a uninformed decision (I did actually believe him and at the time I had not developed the highly political skill of telling a boy NO when it came to sex) but I had no desire to pay for it for the rest of my life. I shared that I was pregnant with my mother and told her I wanted an abortion. I had a 1st term abortion. She accompanied me and used her health insurance to pay for my procedure.

A year later, the summer before I headed to Morgan State University, the same boyfriend and I were having sex. He told me to climb off but I didn’t. I was just beginning to enjoy sex and it felt good in that moment. Sadly, my newfound moment of sexual pleasure landed me pregnant once again since I was doing so unprotected. In some ways I felt punished and betrayed by my body and my brain. How could I be so stupid!? I was finally making it out of my abusive household and I had fucked up. Some might argue that choosing an abortion as my reproductive decision at this point was selfish. But I disagree. I had power over little in the world but I knew I had power over my body and my future. Caring for the self is not selfish. So I walked right past the anti-abortion protesters with my head held high and I had another 1st term abortion. I moved into the freshman dorms at Morgan State still bleeding and recovering 7 days later. I didn’t share my decision with my mother this time. I no longer trusted her with my body nor my future. I was charting my own course and after 18 years in my bio family’s unsafe and abusive household, my spirit and brain were steering me towards my freedom. I did use our family’s healthcare insurance and while both of my parents worked for Blue Cross/Blue Shield, the company had a confidentiality policy that protected my privacy even as a teen, even from my parents. The anti abortion PNA laws that require pregnant teens to notify their parents are both dangerous and restrict their reproductive freedom.

I share these reproductive experiences on Mother's Day to demonstrate the wide variety of reasons why girls and women (and trans men & non-binary people ) choose not to biologically reproduce/parent/mother. Sometimes it is because of rape/incest, sometimes it is because we don’t know how to (or can’t) say NO to our intimate partners, and yes, sometimes it’s because we may have engaged in risky behavior by having unprotected sex. Add 1000 other sometimes to my aforementioned 3. No matter the circumstance, we all deserve access to legal, affirming, safe, & confidential abortion care. I am so thankful I had these healthcare conditions for my 3 abortions. My abortion history is part of my trauma history. Yet my spiritual and intellectual assertion of power over my life, my body, and my future during these—at times horrific and uncertain moments— is also central to my history of joy! So this Mother’s Day, I chose to celebrate the moments when I/we choose life…MY LIFE/OUR LIVES over motherhood.

Most importantly, on this and every other Mother’s Day, I remain politically committed to demanding that the state continue to respect and protect our reproductive decisions and make reproductive healthcare (including abortion care) accessible to all.