How Microaggressions Helped Me Own My Power and Hone My Writing Voice by Danielle Jernigan
I didn’t think that I’d have to defend my choice to write a book targeting Black mothers and women who are healing complex trauma in motherhood. But here I was facing an all-white panel that would decide on whether my book and expertise in this area would receive the majority vote. I thought surely in the world of words and ideas there was a safe space for all voices and all experiences. Yet when I shared the why of my book idea the feedback reflected something different.
One person said, “I mean your book could be for anybody.” Another responded by saying, “I’ve had postpartum depression with all three of my kids and I’m not writing a book about it.”
Imagine my shock when I was faced with these statements, that on the surface, seem harmless. It was my feelings that alerted me that something was not quite right. Self-doubt and imposter syndrome, my old faithful companions paid me a visit and asked for a cup of chai tea with almond milk. So I began the downward spiral of negative thinking and questioning myself. Who am I to write this book? My book could be for anybody. They were more experienced, one being a published author and the other an experienced book coach. I was new to this world. Maybe I should acquiesce.
I emailed my book coach and told her that maybe it wasn’t a good idea for me to write this book. Actually, what I said was I quit. However, instead of allowing me to give up she quickly scheduled a Zoom call with me, and we talked about what I experienced – two racial acts veiled as attempts to help yet really were microaggressions.
Microaggressions are subtle and at times covert acts of racial violence in contrast to the more overt acts that my parents and grandparents grew up witnessing and experiencing: lynchings, being spit on, called the N-word to their face, and even hit, punched or kicked just because they were Black. Microaggressions are mostly verbal statements that are seemingly cloaked in curiosity, wonder, and intellectualism but are born from racial bias and possess all the poison and hurt of a violent racial act. The prefix “micro” in the word suggests that they have no impact but they have huge impacts just like the accumulation of cholesterol in our arteries from a poor diet that leads to a massive heart attack years later.
I was green when I committed to becoming a writer, published author, and book coach. I had never even thought about the possibility of this happening in the publishing world. I had let my guard down and perhaps life had desensitized me toward this form of racism altogether. Living as a Black woman you learn to ignore things said and done to you and your family that are quite hurtful. You suck it up and move forward. We call it surviving. And yet it’s the subtle, ubiquitous character of microaggressions that make it, in my opinion, the most dangerous form of racism. How do you defend yourself in the face of an invisible enemy whose sole strategy is the sneak attack?
Call it by its Name
I didn't know I was hit with a microaggression until I felt thrown off balance and started to become disorganized and mentally cluttered. These feelings are aligned with the research that shows how microaggressions can impart PTSD-like symptoms such as depression, anxiety, and anger in those that experience them. I didn’t know how to properly cope, which leads to crippling self-doubt and reduced productivity. I found myself questioning my place in the publishing world, my confidence in my book idea, my writing ability, and my own voice. I even had trouble writing this paragraph as reliving the experience brought up all the feelings as if it just happened.
I’ve found the best defense against a microaggression is to call it out. Racism is insidious. And microaggressions are even more so because of their subtle nature, you must call it by its name. I have a really bad habit of ignoring my feelings. Of letting things slide and not holding people accountable or making the excuse that they don’t know any better. But that isn’t helpful to anyone, especially me. Whether the person was intentional or not, it didn’t lessen the impact. Because I know I have this habit of letting people do what they want to me and questioning myself, I turned to my book coach because she was a witness to both acts. But you don’t need a witness because your word, your gut feeling, and your emotions are all you need to validate the act. Talking to someone allows you to process what just happened and release the toxic emotions that come to the forefront for you.
I know for me that when I can’t talk to someone, the page is always my friend. I grab my journal and pen those feelings on the page in excruciating detail. For me writing about traumatic experiences brings the healing and clarity I need (and there is scientific evidence that backs this up). And once I can acknowledge the experience and feelings on the page, it's easier for me to translate those lessons into boundaries and new rituals.
Create Practices to Manage the Emotional Fallout
The microaggressions I experienced during that group coaching session served as a trigger for all the other times in my life that I had experienced overt and covert racism and had not addressed them. One example in particular came to mind.
I was in college and lived off-campus in an area where parking was limited. I left to take my son to school when I realized I had forgotten something. I circled back and parked in a spot behind the building. As I got out of the car, what we now call a Karen (someone who represents a specific type of middle-class white woman, who exhibits behaviors that stem from privilege) approached me and told me I needed to move my car. The Karens of the world are the type of people who ask to touch Black people's hair or to speak to the manager to demonstrate her privilege, insists that you move your car because the parking spot “belongs” to her, or makes a comment about your book being for anybody because she can’t fathom that it could be written without her in mind. I explained to her I would only be a second. And that was when she lost it. Her face turned bright red and the next thing I knew she was in my face calling me a Negro wench in front of my then 6-year-old son.
Instead of punching her like I wanted to, the only thing that stopped me was my son who was dressed in his Tae Kwon Do suit. Instead, I smiled my “if only you knew smile” and walked away leaving my car parked in the unreserved parking spot and left Karen standing there perplexed at my response.
While I kept it together in front of my son, I remember entering my apartment, stomping up the stairs, and having a moment where I had forgotten what I came back to get. I was throwing papers all over the place, slamming desk drawers. I eventually found it and when I went back to my car I was sure Karen would be standing there waiting to confront me or with the police and a tow truck, because she couldn’t get over the fact the this Negro wench didn’t succumb to her white privilege. While to others I may have responded with tact and appropriately to the situation, I was disappointed in myself. I demonstrated to my son that you have to grin and bear these traumatizing acts and then keep moving for the sake of survival.
Now with experiencing these latest incidents I reached my breaking point. I decided long ago I would not move back into survival mode. But to go forward I had to figure out how to manage the emotional fallout.
This decision led to creating a ritual that focused on shifting my mindset, moving my body to release those long-held emotions, and putting it all on the page. I practiced yoga more than usual (I actually own a shirt that says I practice yoga, so I don’t punch people). I bought myself a new journal and began to write daily affirmations of empowerment because my self-doubt surrounding the project, my expertise, and my writing skills had increased. I meditated. Took long walks and took drives with my three-year-old daughter. And I cried a whole lot. Two weeks later after I “quit” writing my book over 6 times, corrupted my proposal file, and missed an important deadline (all acts of self-sabotage) I decided to move from self-care to self-recovery.
Mine the Incident for Your Growth
A few days after the incident I received an apology from the person who made the second of those two statements. She sent me a message on Slack. In her apology she owned her white privilege, limited thinking, and attitude towards me and my project. She gave the excuse that she wanted to help me own my expertise but admitted that she approached the conversation badly and failed to take into account my personal experiences and journey. She even thanked me for the gracious way I handled the conversation.
When I received her message, it solidified my commitment to my work as an advocate for maternal mental health, as a writer whose work centers on the experience of being Black and a mother in America, and a book coach whose goal is to help others heal through writing and share their powerful stories of transformation with the world.
And my response to her apology? Silence. I said and did nothing to console her. I didn’t send her a thank you or even attempt to open a dialogue. You might think that this is cruel, but by the time I received the apology I had processed what happened and implemented daily self-care practices that resulted in the following:
I learned that it was okay NOT to make anyone who hurt me in this way feel okay about it. I wasn’t angry or unforgiving. I just decided that holding a person accountable in the moment and then taking care of me was the only option.
I learned to own my voice as a Black woman, mother, and especially as a writer. In recommitting to my project, owning my expertise and personal experiences I became crystal clear on why I do the work I do, and I can articulate it with confidence.
Self-care does NOT translate to self-recovery unless you find a way to grow from the experience. I set new boundaries, honed my voice, and I learned how to pitch my book with confidence. Growth as a writer and a professional is mandatory in this industry. And we must use every opportunity – the good and not so good – to transform ourselves and use our platform to help others do the same.
Writing and sharing my work in this space requires me to be diligent about my self-care because racism will unfortunately remain – this will not be my only experience with microaggressions in this industry or in the world. In fact as we push for more inclusive and diverse spaces we will recognize it as normative. I’ve accepted that I will always be seen as Black before I am seen as a woman and writer, probably for my lifetime and my writing career. I must clarify here that I don’t see being Black as a bad thing at all. I’m simply stating a reality in which I live.
It's hard to imagine that a seismic shift in our culture, where Black will no longer be my moniker, and racism no longer exists in any form, will happen in just a few decades. So I choose to stay consistent with my self-recovery rituals and take solace in the knowledge that we writers are also activists. When we share our words, thoughts, and emotions on the page we help others raise their voice a little louder, stronger, and prouder because we have first raised ours.
Danielle Jernigan is a doula, writer, and trauma-sensitive book coach who helps Black mothers and women who have experienced complex trauma transform their pain into power through writing and sharing their stories with the world. Her nonfiction writing has appeared or is forthcoming in NYT Parenting Newsletter, Madame Noire, Your Tango, and Literary Mama. Her current work in progress, which has been described by her agent as a love letter to Black mothers, is going out on submission in Fall 2022. She can be found online here, on Instagram as @daniellejerniganauthor, and on Twitter as @danniejernigan.
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