Tag Archives: racism

Here, at the Top, is Where We Belong

At the beginning of this new year (2024), I had the chance to travel to our nation’s capital to meet new colleagues and do some good work. On the occasion of the 2024 Martin Luther King Jr. holiday, I was thrilled to be in the presence of many interesting people, especially beautiful black and brown people.

In particular, I met some beautiful black women, just like me, women of all ages who have made incredible contributions with their skills and intellect to the places and communities where they live. Most of them, younger than I, were super smart and quite capable.

Just as Harriet Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Fannie Lou Hamer, Pauli Murray, Alice Walker, Toni Morrison, Shirley Chisholm, Barbara Jordan, and many, many more gave of their time and talents, they are striving to make a difference with their labor. I could feel their power converge with mine.

All I could or can say, in the words of the R&B song, is keep “risin’ to the top.” Beautiful black women: keep doing good deeds. Use your voices and your skills to serve others, and act as co-creators on this place we call Earth. It was a total joy to be in the car with a younger, beautiful black woman and hear her say, “Is it okay if we listen to AfroPop?” Is it okay??? LET’S GO!!!

The world needs us beautiful black women; not to twerk or exploit our breathtaking features, but to assert and embrace the beauty of our humanity in a world that is littered by greed and selfish people who intentionally bring harm to the Earth and all its inhabitants.

Living in Kansas City, I do see many black men and black women in places of prominence, but unfortunately it seems to me that many do not want to embrace blackness as much as the generation before me once did (Baby Boomers). In other words, for some, “making it” or being successful in life or in one’s occupation has become synonymous with selecting a white spouse or partner; as a means for gaining social and economic validation or acceptance.

In Kansas City and beyond, it is not unusual for me to observe black Millennials, Gen Y’s, and Gen Z’s who aspire to look and be like Jennifer Aniston, Jennifer Lopez, or Brad Pitt, but not so much like Martin Luther King Jr. or Nina Simone. This is quite apparent to me when I turn on the local news. I am glad to see so many black journalists in the city, but the sound (voice) and appearance of them, in my opinion, culturally white, for the most part. Apart from skin color, cultural blackness, is not very apparent.

In professional circles, the ontology of blackness has historically been whitened or lightened “up” in order to be deemed beautiful or “appropriate” by the public. In social and professional circles, this is also apparent. Even when I am hanging out in the city I can see that many black women and men aspire to present themselves as culturally white and whitened; this is most articulated in day to day choices of apparel, and especially when it comes to the grooming of our hair. Likewise, we see the personal embrace of whiteness demonstrated in the choices that many black male professional sports players make off the field.

Historically, no one has wanted this dilution or accommodation of blackness more than those who are not black. I suppose this functions to make them feel better, more superior, about who they are. However, clearly this trend is changing in spite of the passage of more than a few “Crown Acts.” For example, today a black woman is often considered most beautiful if she has the bone straight, yet flowing hair of an alleged mermaid.

Hopefully, I do not need to remind you or anyone that the state of Missouri does not have the best track record as far as black people are concerned (as in the 1857 Dred Scott decision), and I am sensing it more and more – particularly in professional circles – where I do not see as many black women and men in Missouri who are at the top embracing and loving blackness, unapologetically, when they are at home, and with the partners they choose to share their beds.

I just took the time to watch the movie Killers of the Flower Moon, (all three and a half hours of it) and needless to say, the steady, gradual erasure of black cultural identity through eugenics or selective breeding has been a subject that has interested me for some time. I was heartbroken to learn how whites deceptively used marriage and relationships with indigenous Americans to gain economic and social wealth. Like many African Americans, I have roots with the indigenous people of this land and their descendants. Among other cultural influences, my paternal grandmother was unmistakably indigenous in appearance. Sadly, she was the only living grandparent that I ever knew.

Some black women and men might “talk black” all day, but that is about all that it is: TALK – because loving blackness is not what they do or practice at home. What they love, at home, is whiteness. Therefore, elevating and privileging white cultural identity is what appeals to them; the look and beauty of whiteness – or getting as close to the look of whiteness as possible – without embracing cultural and physical representations of blackness, is what they do. Aesthetics aside, this is also a type of “passing;” a way of gaining social and economic credibility (and benefits) through association or marriage.

When I see black women and men who are proud to be black and who are willing and able to love black people wholly and embrace cultural expressions of blackness, day and night, then I must acknowledge it. I intentionally take in “the blackness” (a lyric in a song from The Sounds of Blackness in the 1990’s) and the natural cultural characteristics and expressions of black people when I see us embrace ourselves and each other without feeling the need to replicate white standards of beauty or appearance.

Before leaving Washington, D.C., a place that used be known as a sort of “Black Mecca” before Atlanta took first place, I took a long walk on the United States National Mall and stood silently for a moment in front of the monument as my 2024 tribute to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I love that the sculptor gave Dr. King strong African physical features and expression – and that he emerges from the rock or the earth – even as he is wearing a suit, which is fashion or style created as an expression of white, European culture.

This April 2024, it will be fifty-six years since the assassination of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and as I stood there feeling the power of his image and the look on his face (pictured above), deep in my heart – or maybe it was coming from my Spotify playlist – I heard the lyrics to the song, “Risin’ to the Top.”

Risin’ to the Top, originally performed in 1988 by Keni Burke, was a jam that I definitely grooved to when I was an undergraduate student pursuing a degree in Political Science at the former Clark College, which was soon to be Clark Atlanta University. It has been sampled by quite a few musical artists, in particular Mary J. Blige.

Today, when I look around and see so many hateful, materialistic, and selfish black men and women operating in ways that tear themselves and others down, and making choices that keep them from experiencing happiness, it saddens me (and sometimes it rightly angers me). Is this us? Collectively, is this who we have become: devaluing and holding blackness in contempt like our oppressors did to our ancestors?

No, on this trip to Chocolate City, when I had the chance to talk with these beautiful black people and to perhaps make some new friends who are living out their lives with dedication to building themselves up and helping people in need, I was truly INSPIRED and once again proud to be who I am: A BLACK WOMAN.

Thank you, beautiful black people for reminding me and all of us of who we are, and of how important it is to “keep rising to the top, giving all we’ve got!”

Here, at the top, is where we definitely belong.

© 2024 annalise fonza, Ph.D., MURP, M.Div., MPA, BA

Updated 03/03/2025

“Who Do You Think You Are?” Look at Where You Come From

Hands down, one of the worst episodes that I experienced with a rageaholic happened on the telephone. One night, about 9:00pm, I received a call from a man that I loved and who claimed to love me. He asked me about my day.  As I began to share the events of my day, and expressed my disappointment about the delivery of an item that I had purchased online, he went into a rage. From out of nowhere he was yelling at me, repeating the words: WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???

As he raised his voice, assaulting me with his words, I stopped talking in mid-sentence. I was totally stunned and mentally searching for a way to understand what in the world was going on. It was an episode that was terribly unexpected, uncalled for, exhausting, and traumatizing. His outburst was the last thing that I expected in that moment as he was clearly out-of-control and using his words and his “smartphone” to go off on me about an experience that had nothing to do with him. I was just sharing information, as requested, about my day.

The next morning he texted me to apologize, but the kicker was that he justified his yelling blaming it on “our lack of chemistry.” Not one word about a totally ambushing me emotionally with outrageous and unacceptable behavior caused by who knows what and by some very hostile, even hateful words aimed at me. Just days before, he told me how much he loved me, but yelling “WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE” for no reason at all is not how you show someone that you love them. Frankly, that tends to disqualify any claim of love, for me.

Indeed, I could not let him get away with acting like nothing obscene happened the night before. In response to his so-called apology, I simply texted back and rejected any claim that the incident had anything to do with me or with anything that I had done. In fact, the words that I used were: that was all you. As expected, there was no response, except for complete silence. He took absolutely no responsibility for his words and actions the previous night.

Nevertheless, I knew that I was not to blame for his unacceptable behavior. I was a victim of his words and actions, but I did not need to become victimized by his silence. What he was doing to me was totally incredible, but, sadly, it was a reflection of the hateful perceptions that he carried within himself about the person that he had become in response to the events of his life and as a result of his poor choices.

In the past several years, I have learned enough about addiction and alcoholism not to let a person who is struggling with his own identity or sense of self accuse me of not knowing mine. Under no circumstances would I or should I take responsibility for another person’s outrageous behavior, nor would I be an emotional punching bag for someone who was controlled by their fears and addictions.

Thankfully, I have learned how to give myself what I need when others break my heart or show me that they cannot or will not be kind to me or be there for me, emotionally or otherwise. It was a very troubling encounter, yet one that I will not allow myself to forget. Several years before the phone encounter, my friend admitted to me that he was a wounded man because of his experience with childhood trauma; in fact, the word he used to describe himself was “broken.” When I first heard him say this about himself, I did not want to believe him, but the more that I experienced him, the more I could understand how a person’s brokenness can cause problems for everyone with whom they come into contact. This is why it is important for those suffering from the memory of childhood trauma seek help in adulthood as they become able.

As I sought the help that I needed, I learned many valuable strategies and lessons that empowered me to respond, or not, to the toxicity of an emotionally abusive partner or entity. For instance, following the call, I allowed myself to acknowledge and feel the pain that he caused. I took the time to feel the trauma of his words move through my body; I did some stretches on my exercise mat; and then I made myself a cup of hot tea. As I sat down in silence, I took at least three long, deep breaths. In that moment, I grieved, and I was kind and loving to myself.

In that moment, I gave myself the compassion and permission to be deeply present to myself. This quiet, solitary exercise empowered me to embrace my feelings and own my feelings and thus my power in the moment, even as my assailant was no where to be found, nor did he seem to care. But I knew better than that: I knew that his silence was filled with his shame. Today, when I remember that incident, it still stings; still hurts, but I know what to do with the hurt when it comes to my awareness: I feel it, acknowledge it, and I send it back to where it came from. 

WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

I share this memory for two reasons: 1) because telling my story enables me to heal; and 2) as we head into a new year, I want to say that the words who do you think you are are significant for all of us.

When COVID-19 first made its onset, I remember saying to another friend, “Is the whole world going to shut down?” A few weeks later, it definitely seemed to me that the whole world was shutting down. Everything was changing, and super fast! As time went by, like everybody else I knew, I had to think long and hard about the shifts that were happening in plain sight. The world was changing, and sooner or later, we all had new and renewed ways of working, loving, and being.

As an urban planning academician, I teach courses about ethnic identity and the relationship it has to the history of place, as well as to the practice of urban planning. This year, I found myself emphasizing the intersectionality of identity, place and urban planning more than ever before. Currently, most of my students are non-white: they are predominantly Mexican-American or Asian-American, and I have structured the course to explore how specific narratives about cultural identity of black, brown, red, and yellow people, as it pertains to place, have emerged as a central aspect of placemaking in the U.S. Each of us has a cultural identity or heritage, which has everything to do with the expression of who we are, individually and collectively.

When I introduce my students to a concept that I and urban planning scholars call “emancipatory urban planning,” I reference the work of Dr. Gabor Maté. His recent best-selling book, The Myth of Normal: Trauma, Illness and Healing in a Toxic Culture is already a best-seller, and I am savoring every word. Yet, one of Dr. Maté’s best presentations with Diederik Wolsak and Sat Dharam Kaur ND, where they explore the importance of self-identity and self-awareness – is one of his best conversations online, as far as I am concerned. My takeaway is that if as individuals we think that we are worthy and valuable of love, then we will act that way: we will treat ourselves and others with compassion, love, and respect. On the other hand, if, deep down, we believe that we are not worthy of compassion, love, and respect, then we might mistreat ourselves and others, or we might rage and scream and point the finger at everyone else and make up all kinds of twisted and justifications for  out-of-control behaviors, just as described above.

I teach my students that before they go out into the world to work with communities as urban or regional planners, they must first know how to love, respect, and value themselves. In other words, before those of us who are in the business of sustaining communities and thus empowering others to be co-creators in making and remaking communities, we must know who we are and from whence we have come. We have to know and acknowledge our histories and cultural heritages, which are as different as we are. We are all human beings, but culturally, we are quite diverse. Becoming aware of our cultural heritages, and how they enable us to survive and even thrive in the world is essential for professional urban and regional planners. 

Over the years, I have endured terribly abusive verbal attacks by those who express hate or rejection of who I am (or how I self-identify) in various forms, including passive ones. In previous blog posts, I have written about the insults and verbal attacks that I have experienced by others because I identify as an atheist and as a womanist. Because our world is dominated by patriarchal and theistic thinking, many women, believe it or not, perpetuate patriarchal, theistic beliefs, consciously and subconsciously. Being on the receiving end of a woman who articulates toxic patriarchal ideas and norms is just as difficult as it is for me to be confronted by a black man who has internalized self-hate due to racist or white supremacist thinking and takes it out on me. Indeed, I have learned to anticipate hateful responses to my being an atheist and a womanist, yet because I anticipate them does not mean that I am comfortable with it when it happens.

At times, I must consider whether to take action against those who express hate or exclusion of me when they learn that I am an atheist. Sadly, there are times when I must take formal action to protect myself when people threaten to do harm to my person because I am a woman or for any other reason. There are some forms of disrespect and disregard that I simply do not tolerate. However, when my person or my mental health are not in danger or under threat, I have overcome abusive and hateful encounters by focusing on my breathing and on what I am feeling. Aside from the use of external assistance for protection from an abuser, like a restraining order, breathing has empowered me to keep my mental health in tact.

I am also usually willing to listen to others even with they have false or wrong perceptions, such as the false belief that an atheist does not have morals or has an alleged allegiance to an alleged being that is called “the devil”. For the record, I do not believe in any gods or supernatural beings, including the one that is called “the devil.” As long as it is clear to me that a person is not acting willfully to disrespect, devalue, or harm me, I am willing to entertain a conversation about what it means to be an atheist for the sake of definition. But, these interactions usually do not go much further than that.

I am very thankful for what I have learned about the power of mindful breathing from the teachings of Thich Nhat Hahn. A few years ago, I became intrigued by the Buddhist notion of the “bodhisattva.” A bodhisattva is more than an enlightened person. In the words of Thich Nhat Hahn, a bodhisattva is someone who “will allow another person to empty their heart,” even when that person has wrong perceptions or hurtful things to say. A couple of years ago, I began to incorporate the way of the bodhisattva in to my day-to-day interactions. When presented with the opportunity to listen, I allow the people that I love who intentionally make wrong or false things to empty their hearts, to an extent.

Everyone is not willing to aspire to be like a bodhisattva. Some could care less about listening to the pain and anger of their loved ones, but the more that I listened to Thich Nhat Hahn, the more I wanted to embrace bodhisattva practices. I wanted to listen to people that I cared about, even if what they said lacked validity or even truth, so that I could understand them. It was difficult at first, but learning to listening to others who express wrong or even angry perceptions – for the purpose of gaining an understanding – without trying to correct them nor taking responsibility for their thoughts – is an exercise in the power of love, which is the subject of my 2019 e-publication Rebuilding Black Communities, With Love.

As I continue to experience hate and rejection, I would rather be like the bodhisattva than anyone else. To some degree, I am even willing to listen to the pain of my loved ones, although they may refuse to listen to me, because sometimes it is just about being present, not about creating a teachable moment. Although I am an educator at heart, it is not always about education or agreement, rather there are times when assuring others that they have been heard is all that matters.

Perhaps, as Dr. Cornel West would say, I want to be like a “wounded healer, not like a wounded hurter,” because although repeatedly wounded or hurt or abandoned by many worldwide, black and brown people have taught the world how to heal, and we have done it through the unapologetic and authentic embrace of our heritage or cultural identity; through the creation of the literary and musical art forms such as the blues, jazz, and gospel music, for instance. Indeed, I have come from a people that have survived unthinkable hate and rejection simply because of the color of their skin, and yet have nonetheless created all kinds of beauty in the world.

There are many aspects of my cultural heritage that have enabled me to understand myself, even in the face of abuse or hate. In 2012, I published an essay in a peer-reviewed journal about the dialectical relationship between womanism and feminism in the planning profession, as I see it. In that article, I reference Alice Walker who asserted with her 2001 book, The Way Forward is with a Broken-Heart. As a woman who proudly identifies as black, I know first-hand how black people have experienced personal, social, and spatial heartache in a world that does not respect or value us. For instance, there are numerous black women writers and artists, such as Bernice Johnson Reagon and Toni Morrison, who lived with the pain of alienation caused by wrong perceptions of who they were and what they stood for. Yet, they moved through the heartache with mindful breathing and living, and sometimes without saying a mumbling word.

When I was in elementary school, I observed the elders in my life live mindfully and in silence. For a short while, one of my siblings and I walked a short distance (less than a mile) to the babysitter’s house everyday when school let out until our mother could come to pick us up when she got off work. My babysitter went by the name of Bachi (I have no idea how to spell it) and we called her husband, Granddad. Granddad was a chauffer for a living and they lived a quiet, simple life taking care of their children, grandchildren and other peoples’ children, like my siblings and me.

Bachi was very sweet to us; she always provided us with something good to eat (a habit that I tend to do whenever I have visitors). Granddad did not say very much; most of the time he moved without uttering one word, but he almost always managed to smile at us. When he arrived home daily, he sat in his chair amongst us (there was only one living room); and usually he fell asleep while we all sat and watched television. The memory of Bachi and Granddad is quite memorable to me because they taught me the importance of quiet dignity and the significance of living simply and with a sense of purpose. Their house was full of children and love.

When it is appropriate, and when my person is not in danger, I endeavor to employ the power of this type of self-lovingkindness. Breathing deeply and focusing on my inner peace or serenity is one way of tapping into the power of who I am. It is certainly what I do when I go for a daily two-mile walk or bike ride, which brings me back to the truth of who I am; these quiet moments do not make me think of a god or a higher power; they are acts that situate me at the center of my being, and they cause me to get in touch with all that has made me who I am.

Surely, there are times when I speak up and stand up for myself or others, but sometimes, I remind myself, that it is best to be like Bachi and Granddad and move in simplicity and silence using only my breath to remind myself of who I am. It may look like I am not doing much by breathing, but it is a powerful act of self-love if I am able to be wholly in the moment and totally aware of what is happening within – in the present moment. This gives me strength. Of course, there are times that my choice to breathe instead of responding with words may also be my way of letting others know that I have had enough. Choosing to act in this way – with mindful breathing and self-care – is one of the powerful ways that I have seen responsible adults and elders in my life manage painful moments and realities; breathing deeply is a practice that is inextricably tied my cultural heritage, or growing up as a black girl in what seemed like white America. Thankfully, I do not believe that this land belongs to any one group of any one group of people. In the words of Dr. Paul Ortiz, “the United States is a nation of ethnicities.”

If you have not done so already, I hope that you use this new year to come to a better understanding of who you are and where you came from. You can do this by looking at the way you value yourself and by the way that you treat others, everyday. If you were taught by the people who raised you to truly value and respect yourself and others, that will help you to answer the question who do you think you are? On the other hand, if you were taught to devalue yourself and others, that is probably who you will be, everyday, unless you do something – yourself – to change that, because who you think you are has an awful lot to do with where you come from, how you grew up, and of all the people and places that made you who you are today.

© 2023 annalise fonza, Ph.D., MURP, M.Div, MPA

Updated 09/18/2024

My First (Self-Published) Project is Now Available!

Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. Writing has become a central part of who I am and recently I published my first solo publication! You may find it by clicking on this link.

This brief e-publication, which is only available in digital format, will soon be available to library patrons as well. In addition, it is a womanist planning proposal, and it summarizes what I have learned (over the last twenty years) about the rebuilding of former black ghettos and predominantly black neighborhoods and communities in urban cities. It is both, a proposal and a love letter, as I reflect on the motivations and business legacy of Ollie Gates in Kansas City, Missouri.

It is also a book that I have dedicated to the memory of John Lee Johnson, who was a major catalytic force in redeveloping the North End of Champaign-Urbana, or an area where black residents of Champaign-Urbana were “allowed” to live. The North End is/was also spatially situated right across the street from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign (UIUC). I had the privilege of following Mr. Johnson for about two years, when I was working on my master’s degree in urban and regional planning at UIUC. I learned so much from him, first-hand, about community and economic development.

If the development of former black ghettos, or predominantly black communities and neighborhoods is something that interests you, then this is definitely worth the read. And, it should not take you more than an hour to read it! I made it brief on purpose.

In addition, if you are someone who has supported my writing over the years, thank you, once again, for taking an interest in what I have to say. If you are new to this blog, then welcome to my world!

I look forward to publishing more in the future!

©2019 annalise fonza, Ph.D.

On the Spelling of My Name and the Seeds of Change

I have been spelling my name in lowercase letters for at least a decade; come to think about it, it has probably been closer to two decades than it is to one. All these years, embracing the spelling of my name has been my signature, my trademark. Looking back, I was first inspired to modify the spelling and thus the visualization of my name on papers and publications to lowercase letters because of bell hooks. Her critical thoughts and writings on feminism, love, men, power and many other issues had such a profound impact upon me that I decided to put my newly recognized consciousness out in public – and as a passive but powerful way of identifying with feminism as a way of thinking and being. At the time, I must admit, I really did not realize the power of what I was doing.

Recently, I was “advised” by someone associated with an academic organization that I needed to use the uppercase A and the uppercase F if I anticipated my name being publicized or in print. This directive, made by a white woman (who I knew formerly and casually) did not sit well with me. And that it came via email didn’t help matters either. Initially, I thought, was this advice or a threat? I wondered why she felt the need to tell me what to do with my own name. And, I wondered what was coming next. Maybe, I imagined, she would feel familiar or superior enough to me to tell me what to wear or where to sit. Since she knew of me from academic circles, it baffled me that she needed or wanted to tell me what to do with my own name; as if somehow she thought that I did not know. Of course, I responded to her just as boldly and confidently as she came to me, but I also thought that perhaps it is time for a blog on the spelling of my name, just in case others were having similar thoughts or urges.

First, the spelling of my name is mine, all mine. I don’t expect others to use lowercase letters to spell my name. But, every chance that I get to control the look (and feel) of my name, I use lowercase letters. One of the first public experiences that I had with this was in Springfield, Massachusetts. I had just given a lecture at what is now the Lyman and Merrie Wood Museum of Springfield History and a local newspaper reporter asked me how to spell my name. In addition to getting the spelling correct, I also asked if the “A” and the “F” could be written in lowercase. Much to my surprise, and at least for that particular local journalist, using lowercase letters was not a problem, and so he published it as I requested. Seeing my name published in the local newspaper the next day in lowercase letters was very important and very powerful. It was an affirmation of my own identity, and it was a declaration, one that let other people know – in a very public or political way – that the spelling of my name was and is ultimately up to me.

Aside from the”bell hooksian” influence on the spelling of my name, there are a few reasons that I have continued to spell my name in lowercase letters. The first is that spelling my name in lowercase letter is a visual reminder to me of all the seemingly insignificant things that I did in life to get to where I am today. By no means do I think that I have done all that I can do, but I have accomplished a lot. I have also had the awesome privilege of traveling alone in and out of this country and taking charge of my own future or destiny. Sometimes, when I look back at those little things, including the places where I lived or worked, I am blown away. I have been through many ups, downs, stops and starts, and, of course, I did not get there all alone, but seeing my name in smallcase letters always brings me to a deeper appreciation  of my life’s journey and of the power that I have because of that journey.

Another reason that I spell my name in lowercase letters is related to the connection between the personal and the political. The more that I spelled my name in lowercase letters in print, the more that I was asked about the spelling of my name. Who knew that such a small thing could have such an impact! Consequently, the (re)spelling of my name brought me to the realization that even the smallest change to the social order of things or the status quo is always noticed. Indeed, I know how to construct a grammatically correct sentence. I know that breaking the rules with the spelling my name in all lowercase letters will be seen by many as incorrect, improper, and perhaps, need I say, DISOBEDIENT! And that is it precisely. Spelling my name in lowercase letters is a type of stand or attitude; it is a personal manifesto that speaks to popular thinking about women and identity. Spelling my name the way that I want to spell it is simply a way of accepting and loving myself. But, it is also my way of letting people know that I am not a follower, although I am totally capable of collaborating with others on various projects and programs. I don’t always need to be out front and in charge, but I have always been a leader. I have always been womanish in attitude and expression, or, as Alice Walker says about womanism; a womanist is “serious and in charge!” Others may disagree with me or reject the spelling that I give my name, and they may make it “proper” for personal or institutional purposes, but at the end of the day, I am in charge of my life, my actions, my body, and, of course, I am in charge of saying or determining who I am. How I spell my name is up to me, alone. Yes, it may seem like such a small or unnecessary thing to say, but control over my name, the power to name myself and thus to know myself is a powerful freedom, and I take that freedom very seriously, just as other black women, like Audre Lorde, have done without shame and without apology.

Most people don’t break the rules. We live in a society where conformity is the name of the game. People keep the peace; on the job and beyond, they often engage in groupthink and peacemaking. Even with all that women and men have been through, especially black women, by and large, people don’t “rock the boat.” Spelling my name in lowercase letters is a passive yet strong way of saying that I am not afraid to break the rules. I am not afraid to walk down a new path if necessary. When I look at people who cling to the rules without a willingness to question them or perhaps change them, I see followers. This is both sad and disappointing situation because a great many of the rules, laws and practices that govern us actually need to be changed or broken. Many of the rules that dictate our living and our being, at the least, need to be challenged, or at least questioned. When people express a desire to control how I spell my name, it lets me know that they are probably not willing to make a change, not even in the small matters of their own lives. And, if they are not willing to start with changing self, I doubt very seriously if they will be willing to challenge the order of things when it comes to bigger matters, such as sexism, such as racism, such as heterosexism. When people do not model change or plant the seeds of change when it comes to their own affairs, it is doubtful that they will do it for others.

I should not have to say this, but one of the things that the world  desperately needs is people who really are willing to be the agents of change. The world needs bold, brave change agents, not the so-called change agents or change makers who merely appropriate the rhetoric or talk of change during election season in order to get votes. Today, many are appropriating the word “change-agent” or “change-maker,” but there is little doubt in my mind that many of those very same people would also be the first ones to tell me or others to “go along to get along” if they could. If they could get away with it, I believe they would tell me and others – the ones they may attempt to control –  to know and stay “in our “place.” Yet, the place they want others to stay in is often the place that makes them comfortable or secure in life. And, what they tell others to do is often a reflection of their own self-esteem or self-image: stuck.

By contrast, I don’t require others to spell my name in lowercase letters, but I don’t let others tell me what to do or how to spell my name so that they will feel better about themselves or what it says about their day to day choices. Fortunately, we live in a country that allegedly values “the freedom of speech.” And, that freedom applies to the spelling of one’s name. I feel free to model that freedom to name myself in my personal and in my public life, which are very interconnected. In the (re)spelling of my name I also model what it means to be in control and accountable for who I am.

Last month I watched the politicians and pundits claim to be the agents or makers of change. Yet, I don’t see how they are much different from who or what has gone before them. To be an agent of change you’ve got to be willing to change yourself. If you are not willing to change, if you don’t know the power of changing things on your own, how in the world can you expect or require change from anybody else? And, if you are quick to tell others where to go, what to do and what to do when they get there, then I doubt that you will allow yourself to get out of place for a worthy cause (and perhaps not even for an unworthy cause). These days, there’s a whole lot of talk about change, but that talk is often just what it is: talk.

Oh how I wish that more people would be willing to break the rules and get out of the places that people and society have constructed for them to be. I long to see people who lead and from a place inside of them that is authentic and thus political (or socially responsible). Donald Trump, for example, is the antithesis of authenticity and accountability. He uses the rhetoric of change yet promotes the ideas and nostalgia of a troubled American past. What former greatness does he want to revive or replicate? Yes, there were times in my past that I was pretty good, but the person that I have become today is much better, stronger and confident. There is actually no part of my past to which I would like to return. Indeed, I look back and I learn, but life is moving forward, not backward. My being who I am today is based on my ability to grow and  learn from my past mistakes and successes; yearning for something that I once did, for the person I once was, or for the life I once experienced would indicate to me that there is some preoccupation or unfinished business that I have with regard to my past. Perhaps, in some weird, twisted kind-of-way those who want to go back and revive the past, like Trump and his followers, really are preoccupied by something that is back there. Clearly, for better or for worse, they have some preoccupation or attachment to the persons, places or things of the past that they remember. Maybe they want to fix something that was broken in the past; or, perhaps they want to repair some damage that was done in the past, or maybe they have regrets. As far as I am concerned, I cannot fix the past; no one can. But, what I do with the present and what happens in the future depends on my ability to interpret the past accurately and then to plant the seeds of change that will bring forth powerful and better futures.

To the would-be and rising change agents out there, I must say that you cannot bring forth better futures if you keep looking back, longing for what was once there. To feel the power of change, to be a powerful agent of change, you have to be willing to break  the rules, to cross lines and usually that means you will be in the minority and perhaps alone. Don’t be fooled by those who merely talk about change, because to be a  true change-agent or a change-maker you’ve got to be willing to be in a new place, not the old. Indeed, it is not easy being in a new place, or being in the minority. But please know that today, more than ever, if we are going to create powerful and better futures, we desperately need those who are bold enough and brave enough to spell their own names.

© 2016 annalise fonza, Ph.D.