Defining Sanctuary
Nakesha Renee Moore / Photo by Lashona Delivuk (Eye for Ebony)
Nakesha Moore is on her way to becoming well known in the world of contemporary poetry. Currently a featured artist on The Speak Life Tour, Nakesha is sharing her work with audiences all over the country. She started writing as a child and her poetry has grown with her. Each poem reflects real life experiences. She refuses to water anything down. This makes her controversial yet relatable to the masses. A tortured childhood, abusive relationships, and grief are all subjects Nakesha has chosen to delve into honestly. With a raw openness that few possess, she skillfully manages to make you feel every emotion. When asked by a local reporter why she writes, she answered “Because I am a writer”.
EDITOR'S NOTE/TRIGGER WARNING: This blog contains a personal experience with loss and death.
Sanctuary is defined as a place of refuge and protection. It’s a gift, given to us by our belief system. For some it’s God, or Yah, or Allah, Jesus, Jehovah. Forgive me for any names I neglected. Religion isn’t a subject that I’m particularly well-versed in, though I did attend church in my youth. I remember Sunday School and bible studies. Church was actually a staple in my family life until my parents divorced. I was 12 years old. I won’t use the word “shunned”, but let’s just say after the divorce, we weren’t welcome at our former church. After all, divorce is a sin. I don’t recall ever having a conversation with my Mom about that. I just know we stopped going to church. I was confused. I understood that divorce was supposed to be wrong. But when considering my dad was an addict and abusive to us all, how could it be wrong for my Mom to leave him? I did pray about that. I never heard back.
At times, I’ve longed for the sense of faith I see in my friends.
There is the seemingly unwavering belief that God will make everything alright. Maybe for them, God is, in fact, their sanctuary. I can’t help wonder where that God was when my body was violated on my sweet sixteen. I remember praying before I blacked out. I never heard back. I thought I had healed from that one, though the fact I’m including it here might suggest otherwise.
Maybe I should pray about that.
My largest request for peace, for sanctuary was 11/20/2002. That was exactly 7 days after my firstborn, Steven Jr. was born. He was born 17 weeks early on 11/13/2002. Instead of celebrating him being one-week old, we had to plan his funeral. I remember praying the first time I had him in my arms. I asked God for a miracle. I even envisioned it. I saw my son’s lifeless body, that was still warm, gasp and come back to life. But that bit of sanctuary never really happened. Because he had been immediately placed in an incubator at birth, the first time I was able to hold my son was after his death. There are many gaps in my memory after that. I couldn’t function. Though I have very few kind things to say about son’s father, I’m grateful that he was able to make the decisions. My regret is that my baby is buried in Farmville, Va and I rarely get to visit his grave. But I must admit, I do feel somewhat better after I’ve cried and cried and given myself to the soil lying atop the grave. Is that the sanctuary that I longed for?
Somewhere along the way I think I gave up on the church. I often ask churchgoers and pastors the same question. I’m convinced that when I receive a satisfactory answer, my faith will be restored and all will be well. My question is “Why does God let bad things happen? Why do babies die?"
I’ve yet to receive that answer. I even prayed about it. I never heard back. I learned to find my peace elsewhere. I’ve found sanctuary in nature. In the gardens. On the trails. In my pen. In my notebook. In my children’s’ eyes…. But only recently have I found sanctuary within myself. As a black woman….
OK. TIME OUT.
I know that there was probably a collective sigh or shaking of heads as you read that last sentence. “Again? Is she playing the race card again? Why is always about race?”
I understand.
It must be exhausting for you, to have to hear the same sob story over and over. “Poor black people. Slavery was over centuries ago. Why won’t they let it go?”
I understand.
You shouldn’t have to carry the burden of what happened in the past. You shouldn’t be discriminated against because of what your ancestors did. You shouldn’t have to deny your history to appease anyone. “Why is it cultural appropriation just because I like it?" I understand. You should be able to wear your boxer braids, quote Eminem, and eat as much hot sauce as you want. You should be able to hang out with your friends without being accused of suspicious behavior. Your lack of melanin shouldn’t make you a target. “What if I wanted a month dedicated to white history? Why can’t I be white and proud?” I understand. How dare anyone make you feel like your life doesn’t matter! Trust me, I understand. I empathize. Sometimes I even feel like I’m being too black. Always looking at things through a perspective of race.
Even now, why is it that the color of my skin has an impact here? What does the invention, that is race, have to do with sanctuary? Because, as a black woman, the concept of sanctuary is almost akin to the same genre as fairy tales and unicorns and me meeting Idris Elba - damn near impossible. When your skin is brown in America, there is no safe place. There is no running through the church doors and throwing yourself at the mercy of clergy while the bad guys accept defeat.
This isn’t a movie.
No matter who and where you are, your skin is still brown. And that means your life is at risk. The truth is, I feel safer in the “hood” than I do in the suburbs, even though I’ve spent most of my life gravitating toward the latter. What if I walked on the wrong sidewalk or down the wrong street? What if a resident decided that was the day they would stand their ground? Would raising my hands and requesting sanctuary save my life? I think we all that know the answer to that.
I am 35 years old and only in the past few months have I known what it is like to feel peace within myself.
Photo by Sydney Jackson on Unsplash
Even in midst of chaos swirling all around the world, I found my true safe place. And it was in the place I never thought to look. In the mirror.
I fell in love with myself.
My wide nose, my big lips and massive forehead. I threw away the detangler. I realized I don’t need it. My hair isn’t tangled. It’s curly, and wild, and beautiful. Water, coconut oil, and shea butter works wonders.
(Why is spellcheck saying “shea” isn’t a word? I digress, I’ll save that one for another post I suppose.)
As I was saying, (before red lines reminded me that racism is literally possible from any direction) that external thing that I have been searching for, no longer matters. It was never there, it was here. As cliché as it sounds, my true sanctuary has always been inside me. There, waiting for me to accept it. I had to look in the mirror and be still. Silent, and open.
I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, or the next day, but I know that my peace is my power. In fact, I argue that sanctuary isn’t necessarily a noun. Sanctuary is an action. It’s a choice. It’s acceptance and it’s love. There can be no peace without love. If you need a safe place, this is it. Here, you are welcome. I’m not leaving the light on for you, because my electric bill is high enough already.
But I am here, willing to listen. Willing to talk. Willing to share. Willing to feel. Willing to heal.
Sanctuary = where real meets real. The door is open, next move is on you.
(FYI, that invitation isn’t solely for Idris, you’re all welcome. Just call first.)