A Warrior Rises: The Self-Determination of Walela Nehanda

Poet and community organizer, Walela Nehanda. Photo courtesy of Walela Nehanda.

By Jaimee A. Swift

A community organizer, leukemia warrior, and poet, Walela Nehanda (they/them/theirs) is for the liberation of their people. And in the movement to free Black people, Nehanda has proven time and time again they will always rise to the occasion.

Walela Nehanda’s interview is a part of ‘Voices in Movement’ December 2019 theme, ‘On Belonging.’ To read the descriptor of ‘On Belonging’, please click here.

Every time I read an article by Walela Nehanda or an essay, an Instagram post, or even a tweet, the power of their words always seem to reinvigorate me to continue to fight––to fight for liberation, which means fighting for others, and which also means fighting for myself. It is as if Nehanda is constantly speaking to my current situation. The odd thing is, I have never met them or spoken to them before this interview. It is kismet that through time, space, and place, Nehanda, through their words, always gives myself and countless others a word. I believe this is because Nehanda is guided from a divine and ancestral space to articulate resistance and sovereignty––even if the aesthetic and physical situations are shrouded in and by defeat. But just as their name suggests, what is most certain about Nehanda is that even in situations that seem to signal despair, their words, work, and praxis is to always encourage their people that through the spirit of self-determination, they will rise––and rise they shall.

A non-binary, queer community organizer, activist, poet, priestess, and self-described “leukemia warrior” hailing from Tongva Territory (Los Angeles, California), Nehanda is certainly a force to be reckoned with. Using the power of spoken word poetry as a means to address and cope with sexual assault at 19-years old, Nehanda uses their art to advocate for individual, collective, physical, and spiritual radical, transformational change and consciousness. Their words have been featured in publications such as such as Nylon, Vice i-D, Jubilee, Unbound, and Instyle Magazine. Moreover, they have performed their work at various events and colleges and universities across the country including Tree People, The Hammer Museum, Black Lives Matter, and at the University of California, Los Angeles (UCLA), University of Southern California (USC), San Diego State University, New York University (NYU), and more. Having experienced houselessness at 22-years old, Nehanda would later be diagnosed in April 2017 with phase III chronic myeloid leukemia–advanced stage blood cancer. Once again, through the power of their words, Nehanda has been very candid in their experience with cancer and has been very vocal about medical apartheid, medical racism, and the white supremacist capitalist ableist and patriarchal disposability, criminalization, and tokenization of Black disabled and poor people.

As a community organizer with Spit Justice, a Black-centered arts-based grassroots organization that promotes artistic expression, emotional literacy, leadership, and social justice led by predominantly Black, femme, working class organizers in South Central, Los Angeles, Nehanda is working towards a radical world where Black people can choose their own destinies and have autonomous control of what their future realities will be and look like.

But until that reality comes––which it will––Nehanda rises, resists, and rises again and again.

I spoke with Nehanda about what Belonging means to them; the ancestral connection to and importance in the process of re-naming; how “inspiration porn” is a ableist tool to tokenize the trauma of Black disabled people; and what a Black non-binary radical means to them.

In a white supremacist, capitalistic, patriarchal, ableist, and heteronormative society and a world that constantly seeks to thwart your existence and your humanity, how do you define Belonging as a Black non-binary, queer person?

WN: “I think belonging at its core is recognizing where I am located, which is in Tongva Territory, a settler-colonial state. I am not meant to belong here, so I have to figure out what belonging means in the long term, especially in terms of freedom. To me, freedom means the ability to choose my destiny and the ability for my people to do the same. Sovereignty and self-determination are ultimately the core of belonging for me. Obviously, what I am defining is not happening tomorrow or even next year –– it is a process that we have been working towards in the Black radical tradition and we will continue to. In the meantime, it is community and finding ways to create spaces where we can try to work together to create the world we want to see. With this, I think about Spit Justice and the mutual aid programs, healing circles, and the popular education events we do. We are very intentional about what we are combatting, the culture we are trying to create, and the politics that are informing the culture so that in this space, we can imagine and see what true freedom looks like. There are so many great people who are doing this work like Cooperation Jackson, where they are trying to create their own solidarity economy by having a town that is run by Black people. So, for me, at its core it is about creating intentional space to ensure younger people, people my age, and people who are older than me have that type of space. Community organizing has definitely offered me a sense of belonging –– it is the only place that I have ever felt that way.”

“To me, freedom means the ability to choose my destiny and the ability for my people to do the same. Sovereignty and self-determination are ultimately the core of belonging for me. ”

You are a self-described “leukemia warrior.” You have written extensively about your long-term battle with cancer, its emotional and daunting toll on your mind, body, and spirit, and on the dehumanization and survivorship. How do you find belonging and define belonging in and with your body and spirit at this time?

WN: “Damn. You are coming with the big guns. [Laughs] I think one of the biggest things is acknowledging the material reality we are living in and the historical context of it. The saddest part––and that is where a lot of us feel depressed or have this doomsday mentality––is because we know our reality is what it is. So, of course, I want to belong and I want to feel safe in my own body and that wherever I go I am taken care of. And the reality is that: this is not true. For me, it is really acknowledging my current state as the first step to figure out my feelings. I spent the first years of my diagnosis doing that –– acknowledging my current state and processing my feelings. Now, I think the way I have been able to find belonging with myself, especially in a world that does not care about sick, Black people, is returning to the source as far as my ancestors, what they practiced, and convening with them to receive the element of support that does not exist in our current medical system. The medical system is not holistic whatsoever. I think that has been the most sobering aspect of having cancer: is having to find ways to be present with myself as possible. For me, that is spirituality and reconvening with my ancestors.”

“I think about belonging again as it goes into organizing and mutual aid because community organizers are not only giving out mutual aid––it is a reciprocal process. I have had people that I have served who have helped me in times where I am in the hospital or need help moving. Those types of reciprocal relationships have allowed me to feel as if I can be here for longer. It is really isolating dealing with these oppressive systems but when you know your community is there for you, it reinforces the will to stand in your power within your body.”

“Now I think the way I have been able to find belonging with myself, especially in a world that does not care about sick Black people, is returning to the source as far as my ancestors and what they practiced, and convening with them to receive the element of support that does not exist in our current medical system.”

Walela Nehanda. Photo courtesy of Walela Nehanda.

You wrote about your experiences with medical apartheid and almost dying because of it. A lot of Black people have seen first-hand the racial injustices within the medical system. How have you navigated that system, advocated for yourself within that system, and knowing your worth in a system that does not see you as ill, let alone human?

WN: “One day, I realized that if you are Black, mostly everyone has had a family member that has died in the hospital unnecessarily. It is very normalized. I realized that it wasn’t normal and there were patterns because you see it happening consistently within more so working-class Black communities. For me, I have to study what does not want me here. I started studying medical apartheid and medical racism and tracing it from chattel enslavement all the way until now. I studied the ways in which medical studies have been botched to create policies that are not helpful to Black people. Knowing all this information has oddly empowered me to know what I am dealing with when I show up at the hospital. When you read about medical racism, it makes you absolutely infuriated. Once you become radical and you read and know certain information, you cannot go back to who you were before. This has emboldened me to fight for myself in a way that has been unprecedented. I know the reality. I know I am not trippin’ –– they do kill people.”

“My goal is to live. If my job is to myself and to my people, I cannot do my job––which is dedicated to community––if I am not alive. I do not know if it is the anger of my ancestors or the people I read about but I know reading and studying allowed me to link medical apartheid and medical racism with the importance of self-determination and the importance for Black people to feel safe. In with self-determination and feeling safe, the question I think about in the meantime is: how do I emboldened myself and those around me?”

What gives you joy these days?

WN: “Coming home to an apartment that is mine. I never had that before. I have been struggling with a lot these past five years especially, so coming home to a place that is mine, is spacious, and is designed the way I have always wanted is a privilege. It is something that a lot of people are not afforded in life and something that I am lucky to have. Also, what gives me joy is lately, is when kids reach out to me saying that if they had not found me on social media or if a friend had not told them about an event I was organizing or Spit Justice was doing, they wouldn’t be where they are politically in understanding the world. I really do not like to see myself as a self-important figurehead ––I really shy away from that type of individualistic shit. But having people tell me face-to-face about how my work has impacted them and they are crying is a very sweet thing that has overwhelmed me with joy.”

You have written extensively about how people have tried to tokenize and dehumanize your trauma and make you into “inspiration porn.” Do you mind sharing how you navigate these issues?

WN: “Several people want to act like theory is only for the ‘Ivory Tower’ but studying theory has allowed me to see contradictions in how I navigate these issues. One of the contradictions here is: why would anyone want to humanize me as a Black disabled person? Where is that going to happen? Obviously, this is not okay and that does not mean it isn’t problematic nor does it mean it doesn’t make me upset. In studying theory and looking at how I am tokenized or dehumanized allows me to see how politics come into play and this is when I decide how I want to move forward with navigating and addressing these issues. At first, it would make me very upset and undermined in my struggle, as if my cancer was only to make able-bodied people to feel better about themselves. However, when you look at our world which is super ableist and if your physical labor cannot be exploited then you are disposable, of course, my existence––quote unquote––should be in service to able-bodied people. Of course, that is the line of logic. What has come from understanding this is challenging my own ableism and how I have treated other people like ‘inspiration porn.’

“I think if you are Black and you set boundaries, it is unheard of you to do that. People think you should not do that. If you exercise this small amount of agency that technically you should not have, it drives people to resent you. When you set boundaries, many times it irks something inside of people that is essentially rooted in dehumanizing Black people.”

“At first, a lot of the process was self-critique. Now, how I navigate these issues is that I simply do not have time for it. [Laughs] It is something that requires a lot of boundary setting. I think if you are Black and you set boundaries, it is unheard of you to do that. People think you should not do that. If you exercise this small amount of agency that technically you should not have, it drives people to resent you. When you set boundaries, many times it irks something inside of people that is essentially rooted in dehumanizing Black people. The more that I realize the importance of boundary setting as a form of asserting my humanity, the more I am okay with kind of getting buck with it. If you look at me now from when I first was diagnosed with cancer, I am two different people when it comes to that conversation because at the end of the day, my comfort is of most importance because my health is tied to it. So if you are stressing me out by trying to put me on a pedestal and trying to make me this inspirational porn and not making me feel as if I am a human being, you got to go.”

Can you further explain what ‘inspirational porn’ is?

WN: “Inspiration porn is usually pushed by the media and they promote the message of: ‘look at these disabled people, who despite the odds, who can do something an able-bodied person can do.’ I think a good example is the show, America’s Got Talent, and there was a blind, autistic man who could sing very well and Terry Crews quote-tweeted the video of him and said something on the lines of, ‘Look at him, disability doesn’t mean anything when you can do this.’ So when it comes to disabled people, inspiration porn promotes the logic of how much can a disabled person appear to be abled-bodied and therefore, an inspiration. People will do this to me by asking questions or making statements such as: ‘Wow, you are still organizing?’ ‘You still have your hair?’ ‘You do your makeup so well.’ ‘You look so normal’ or ‘You do such normal things.’ They say that ‘I am an inspiration’ because they think technically I should be dead. So, it is this way of having a very static way of treating disabled people and not treating them as dynamic.”

You are a poet. How has poetry provided a pathway to not only your resistance but in your personal survival?

WN: “Poetry forces me to challenge myself. Poetry forces you to have to be really honest with yourself and what comes with honesty is admitting that you are not the best writer or even the best person at times. There was a point in 2016 where I was really dissatisfied with my poetry; a dissatisfaction that I had not experienced before. To me, that told me that I was being dishonest and discontent about something. I have this weird relationship with poetry that has allowed for the foretelling of my life. In 2015, I wrote a poem about having cancer and it was really strange because at the time I didn’t have cancer. Two years later, I was diagnosed with cancer and it turned out that around that time frame, I actually had cancer and it was going undiagnosed. Poetry is very spiritual for me and I have a connection to my ancestors and to another realm with my poetry. The ancestors speak through me in my poetry. So if something feels off with my poetry, something isn’t right. In 2016, I was performing at colleges, I had a booking agent, and I was getting good money doing poems about people dying and police brutality and it felt very wrong. Here I am getting a check but I have to go back home and there are people still on Skid Row and South Central is still struggling, but I have a nice check. It just felt very off. Through community organizing, I now understand poetry as a vehicle for popular education. Poetry is a vehicle that tries to shift consciousness.”

“Poetry is very spiritual for me and I have a connection to my ancestors and to another realm with my poetry. The ancestors speak through me in my poetry.”

“For me, I thought poetry at one point was therapy. [Laughs] But then you do that for six years and then you realize you are still fucked up and it is time to go see a therapist. [Laughs] I think poetry has been an archival of my life at best, where I can see patterns come into play. When I go to therapy and to my psychiatrist, I actually look to my poems to help me figure out what is going on with me. I think that is a beautiful thing. For me, poetry along with organizing, is my legacy work. If I am not here, that is what stays. This is why I continued to do both poetry and community organizing through my illness because it is a way to continue to live on.”

Who are Black Radicals that inspire you?

WN: “I find inspiration in a lot of people. Audre Lorde, Nehanda Abiodun, Nehanda Charwe, and Assata Shakur. I am inspired by them because I know there is a connection to the divine. When you are doing this work, it is hard to do it at times because you are so far removed from who our families and people were. What I appreciate so much about Audre, Assata, and Nehanda, was there was this name change and a stepping into yourself in a completely different way. I also find that sickness and chronic illness often catalyzes this re-naming in a lot of ways and something about this process made them interrogate who they are and their place in the world. When I got sick, I also changed my name, too. I see a lot of similarities and parallels to my life with these people. I never like to think I am as special as them or anything like that but it affirms for me that all people who are colonized, specifically those of African descent, we have special gifts and purposes and I believe it is because our direct connection to our ancestors and to the divine. I think this is the only life line a lot of us have.”