in due time// best we can, wit what we got
By: Sharayna Ashanti Christmas
i need yall to carefully overstand with the etchings in that part of you that takes you back. allow me this very valid, very deserved and earned space to be in this beautiful squall of rage.in between being/becoming i close my eyes and imagine what life could be, uninterrupted , unruptured and unfuckin compromising..as I sit here in this 40+ year-old body, a black mother who has endured what seems like the absolute most , a survivor in remission with an ineffable amount of grief, the heaviness of believing in only one way of motherhood and experiencing it 10,000 times differently..
truth be told, i am tired. tired of the breakage centered in this journey, tired of wrestling the cries and screams only to land at the pursuit to repair the perpetual existence of despair. truth be told, i am tired. tired of the breakage centered in this journey, tired of wrestling the cries and screams only to land at the pursuit to repair the perpetual existence of despair.
it is of much dominance for me to recognize that this labyrinth i am trying to navigate, aint finna give much. it is life-long. I am coming to understand that the so called manual I hoped to inherit from Sharon Louise as it would have been passed down from Meta Louise , Nana Josephine or even Auntie Bernice only exists in my memories, my memory of tasting and experiencing what seems like an inevitable way to be with us. you have the kids, you feed ‘em. you gather ‘em , you chastise' em , you must certainly love 'em and we pray, we always pray. there are no partners clearly defined or set at the head or in mutuality …just a village collectively communing, leaning on our ancestors and one another to push through.
we birth a guerrilla-war-like way of survival, a théâtre de résistance… knowing that liberation, as we see it, is a mutual process, yet solely we feast on decision or destruction. what is the panacea as we pursue this messianic path? in due time
i became a mother unbeknownst, unplanned, long before my son was born naturally through a squatting stool on the left side of my bed fifteen years ago. In the 90s ( i was a teen) i recall my connection to spirit kicking in to mother myself amidst fears I could not voice.whether it was the serenity prayer, placing water under my bed or reciting “walk by faith and not by sight”. i began the fight to protrude one's own self. making it home became a triumph. this ritual placed upon me, permeated centering methodical care in my cultural work at muse 360 and beyond, taught me that this mothering framework is armour meant to conjure and nurture a future made alive.
Seer//Both Sides by Sharayna Ashanti Christmas. Meta, Para Lee, Josephine, Mae a fostering vigilant nurturer. Screen print on cotton Mud cloth Film (2022).
if we are to become a menace to our enemies (june jordan), then i understand that the intention behind my work is rooted in the seeds the mamas/my mommy planted deepin me: one hand can’t clap alone, never fall asleep without thinking of how you’ve helped your people. i bear witness to the healing doctrinesses of golden seal , proverbs 91, sassafras, reefer and herbs. i witnessed that gathering is a structural steadfastness, a disciplined devotion. from the movements of the combahee river collective, the numbers writing of my grandmother ,sista souljah, the nbfo /faith ringgold, the earthseed and my mother fighting for the assasantion of phillip pannell, black women that ought to make it past 60 were always takin’ care. this inherited mothering pulses within, forcing we, without hesitation, to see the forest before the trees, fighting to the end of the earth for our people. the reunion of mothering extends like roots, vigilantly safekeeping not just the young but all that is our kin.
toni cade bambara reminds us that the first cultural work starts at home. that is where the arsenal is built. that is where the archive is forged. that is where the recipes are laid so that our children for generations to come can return back to know what protects us, what we know works.
being a mother in and of itself is political. i mother through lack of care , in an inconsiderate disjointed community, through disability and bias , all housed under capitalism.it is a constant confrontation of a hostile battle. there is a grief steeped in the reality of what you thought your baby will be vs. what’s becoming. you watch your child emerge unhoused, self cope, get trapped in perpetual recidivism. if you choose to declare resistance to the consequences of militarist exploitation, you must constantly interrogate the normalization of violence towards oppressed people, towards my people, towards my son.
black mothering is a site for cultural labor , justice and the uncompromising demand for our existence. mothering is never submission.you can’t harvest a generation of freedom fighters groomed in imperialism. we must resist structures that rear passive acceptance of violence.
we are experiencing a disruption, we can’t even conceive, we are embodying a state of emergency. we are not birthing , we are overdosing, regurgitating sameness, producing a pale watered down ignorant people unready for war. this is not a defense. the cultural and epistemic warfare on black ways of knowing starts with the destruction of how to keep on while under siege.
therefore the nurturing and mothering process has to extend in order to take care and prioritize the needs of the people, for they are the ones that name us. this reckoning is not about oneness; the defense must be more than a few. the constellation has to be fortified intergenerationally & without fracture.
the ways in which
we smile, we conjure
feel the wrinkles form in between our eyebrows
worry about the welcomings in our future
oh the pursuit despite
the challenges true and through.
fueled by rage gratitude
the unfeigned colors in mass, breaking forth
i not sure everything will be ok
but if the people are to continue
we will stay anchored
in prayer.
2.19.10
7.01am
7lbs 1 oz
let gods will be done
this lives as a dedication to all the mothers inside my mother I/women who didn’t know they would carry more than one life, more than one burden, but who continued to fight the multiplicities of war anyway. the mamas who were overpoliced and shattered,whose love for their children became criminalized, surveilled and questioned .. we beg..please don’t do this to us .. dont martyr us
It is ok to not want to be in this to the end,for we may be the last before the next ..doin the best we can wit what we got..
Author Bio: Sharayna Ashanti Christmas is a mother, womanist, abolitionist, multidisciplinary performance artist, and cultural worker whose practice exists at the intersections of memory and regeneration. Rooted in Harlem and shaped by more than two decades of artistic evolution, her work treats the archive as a living entity, using choreography, film, and assemblage to chart the temporal landscapes of the Black diaspora—past, present, and the yet-to-come. A dancer for over 25 years, she began ballet training at the Dance Theatre of Harlem at age three and has performed works by Ulysses Dove, Robert Garland, and Geoffrey Holder. As a cultural producer, Christmas has cultivated intergenerational spaces that bridge history and futurity. She founded Muse 360 (2004), an institution dedicated to fostering creativity through civic engagement, artistic training, and Black diasporic study abroad exchanges. In 2017, she launched Necessary Tomorrows, a platform supporting Black and POC artists through advocacy, curation, funding, and strategic support. Her work, grounded in care, liberation, and imagination, has been recognized with numerous awards and featured on national and international platforms. Christmas holds a degree in Finance & Business from Morgan State University.