– Cole Arthur Riley Black Liturgies
I did what I previously would have assumed was a rather ordinary thing Saturday night…I put a pot of water on the stove to boil. Although it wasn’t unusual that I was prepping this meal on Saturday instead of following my family’s traditional Friday night fish fry with spaghetti and a choice of Red Hot or Louisiana hot sauce, what made the moment extraordinary wasn’t the day of the week or the menu. We now had more reason to question the safety, sanctity, and sacrality of the space in front of my stove, in my kitchen, in my house.
My great-grandmother Kizze always had a pot of something on her stove—stew, soup, greens. My grandma Mandy’s pot held everything from pot liquor to coffee. Not at all uncommon for me to remember the innumerable times I placed a pot on the stove to boil water to make grits or prep macaroni. I immediately recalled the months that a pot remained on my stove day and night after night to warm bottles. Our first baby had a bottle warmer by the side of the bed, but by the fourth, we knew nothing else warmed as quickly and thoroughly.
And then, I was suddenly altogether undone at the thought that just an hour away, a similar cascade of preparation in her day and evening would lead to such tragedy there in front of another Black woman’s stove. And I am troubled at the thought that any otherwise ordinary act even within my own home—sitting on my couch, sleeping in my bed, a request for help cautiously shared with those sworn and deputized to deliver such could render my magic invisible, silent, disappeared.
I am ever grateful for the witness and blessing of Black women—our magic, our endurance, our perseverance—the world stands in awe of and constant need of it—AND if I am entirely honest, I know the tension that pervades that magic—to be so also renders, requires us to to be yet unseen, to be dangerous, to be impervious, to be irrational, to be illogical, too everything and at the same time, not enough, super- and still in-human. Incredibly unable to be vulnerable, experience pain or need, and certainly not request help. I have been raised and reared and loved and mentored by Black women who lead, who empower others, who govern, who give, yet I also do not know many who know EASE—yes, some struggle AND also know comfort, agency, rest, wholeness.
Sonya Massey’s final words—both malediction and benediction, even in her absence—mirrored the familiar experience of too many Black women. We find ourselves alone in naming, confronting, and rejecting the evil before us, being frustrated and desperate in need, and extending a request for help only for that to be misunderstood, disregarded, or blamed for it. We have been needlessly sorry in too many moments for more than what was ours to hold or be accountable to or for.
And in my most recent journeys, I have encountered so many, too many Black women, women of color, people of color, who are beyond stressed, beyond tired, beyond -tized, and words, albeit sometimes compelling, sometimes brief but full, still often fail. I recently supported a group of women of color considering and amid transitions to senior leadership roles. The hope and joy witnessed in our learning and reflection were palpable for sure and yet insufficient to meet sometimes still insurmountable challenges. We created and held spaces that nurtured and healed and further troubled, if not also complicated what was also perpetuated and exacerbated—the Black woman as a leader cannot, does not, nor should she be expected to immediately right, resolve nor conclude an organizations’ challenges with race, power, Black women. We conjured worlds and crafted words therein to document and conspire to align values, implement transition plans, and transform culture; some of those failed, too. Spaces filled with the promise of transformation were and (at the same time were not) spaces that cemented antidotes to illegitimacy, disqualification, deficiency, and defeat.
And sometimes, when the words in the webinar, circle, church house, prayer house, or meeting space all fail, I have always found a salve in my grandmothers’, in my momma’s, and in my own… kitchen. Even when sparse, if there was a meal, something served up there—a spicy stew rich with a lot of love and peppered with a pinch of wit and thickened with some get-me-together, I found enough until…
In the spirit of the kitchen table, I make an invitation—what would it look like to create a version of this gathering—a safe, nurturing space—in our own homes, workspaces, teams, and families? Whether virtually or in person, we could create gatherings like those centered around a meal prepared with vulnerability, love, and collective care. We might incorporate spiritual practices, moments of play, peer support, and coaching. These nourishing spaces could focus on the needs of those present—whether yourself, colleagues, friends, or family members—blessing Black women through community, connection, and whatever healing is needed. Non-Black folks can create time, space, opportunity, and other supports needed for Black women to connect fully (fund the network! Offer the space and time!). What would you need to cultivate this kind of space for yourself, for others?
More will certainly come, but for now, I welcome your thoughts and requests for such a space and a few parting words…
Beloved,
May the grace of our sister ancestors walk before, within, and beside you.
May the love and wisdom of the elders guide you.
May you always know that you are seen, cherished, loved, and so worthy.
May you always know your beauty and power.
May your voice be heard and respected.
May your future be figured.
May your heart be filled with joy and peace.
May you find places to restore and receive solace and strength
Tenderness
Abundance
And may you find, and know, and keep…your life and its fullness therein.
