On Sisterhood & Solidarity; or, Lessons from a Recovering Irish American Organizer
Recently, I was invited to speak on a panel at the Newberry Library in Chicago. Organized by the Irish Studies Seminar at Loyola University, the event was part of Irish writer Caoilinn Hughes’ tour for her new book, The Alternatives; myself and the other panelists were asked to contribute to a discussion around some of the themes raised in the novel, including precarity, gatekeeping, and sisterhood/solidarity.
Meanwhile, Max had been wanting to test drive a commercial pizza oven at a warehouse outside of Chicago, so my Newberry invitation provided the perfect opportunity for us to make a short trip out of it. Speaking of precarity: as parents who earn a living in the venn diagram where the gig economy meets entrepreneurship, we are often at a loss for what to do with our two small children when opportunities like this present themselves. Most often, one of us stays home; occasionally, we take the kids out of school and daycare and hit the road.
In the car on the way to the Newberry, Max and I talked about what I wanted to contribute to the discussion. I mentioned that prior to my current position as director of Bog & Thunder, when I was traveling regularly to DC and Belfast, working as an advocate for issues related to the Irish peace process, I was surrounded almost exclusively by men–most of whom were quite a bit older than I was. These days, in my travel business, most of the people I work with are women. To be sure, we are talking about two wildly different industries (or walks of life, if you prefer), but to say that my experiences as a professional woman then are markedly different than now would be an understatement. I decided I’d start there, and talk about why.
Max dropped me off about an hour early to prepare while he took our children to the aquarium. Moments later, seated at a small table off the foyer, I suddenly became quite nervous. Shaky, even. I’ve never been a fan of speaking in front of an audience, but I am trying to get over it. I knew I wanted to start with an anecdote, so I told a story about my most intimidating, anxiety laden public speaking engagement, and how I got through it.
Many years ago, when I was the president of the Irish American Unity Conference, I was asked to make a presentation at the Cultural Economy Conference in West Belfast. The topic I was asked to speak on was what Irish America could do to support the peace process, and, in particular, to bolster underserved communities like West Belfast. For those who may be unfamiliar, West Belfast, a predominantly Catholic working class neighborhood, was one of the most marginalized communities prior to the so-called ‘Troubles’--and, despite the promises of the peace process–is even worse off economically today.
To say that I was nervous would be an understatement. I had to get up in front of an audience of about 300 people in a community that had experienced some of the worst violence of the conflict. An estimated 30,000 people were imprisoned during the conflict, the majority of whom came from communities like West Belfast. There I was, a girl from Short Hills, New Jersey, about to speak to the community about what people could do to help.
To be sure, I had written my speech out beforehand. I stood up at the podium and read my remarks, taking it slowly and remembering to breathe and make eye contact along the way. (I definitely did not picture members of the audience naked!)
Afterward, a man I knew in the audience, a lawyer with a practice on the Falls Road who has defended many high profile clients, complimented me on “my steely resolve.” “Remind me never to get into an argument with you,” he commented.
I took that to be a great compliment at the time. I think I still do. I had done it. I had come across as serious, determined. Maybe–just maybe–a little bit hard. I certainly meant everything I said, and I was more than passionate about my work.
A lot of time has passed since then, and as I told the audience at the Newberry, I’ve begun to see that compliment in a different light. I had indeed proven myself that day, yes–I’d risen to the occasion and made a difficult speech. I’m still proud of it. And yet–as a woman, I’m so tired of having to “prove” myself worthy in almost every professional setting I enter into. It’s exhausting. It feels Sisyphean. All the effort and energy that goes into showing up and claiming my right to be there happens before and in addition to the actual work. And as it turns out, it’s something that I don’t find myself having to do in rooms full of women.
When I started Bog & Thunder, I asked myself: How can I choose to cultivate the relationships that I want to grow? Creating my own business allowed me to focus on the type of sisterhood that I want to be a part of (with sisterhood as a concept not necessarily defined by gender). I believe we have a choice–a responsibility, perhaps–to choose solidarity and collaboration when entering into all of our professional opportunities.
I used my remarks at the Newberry roundtable to highlight three women in particular who inspire me, and have taught me how to frame my work in invaluable ways. These are the lessons I highlighted:
Mariame Kaba: Organizer, educator, archivist whose work centers on ending violence. There are (at least) two ideas of Mariame’s which I love. The first is that hope is a discipline, meaning that hope is about being *actively* involved in shaping the future. This is markedly different from “optimism,” which is more like a blanket assumption that things will (just) get better. The second lesson from Kaba that I often share is: “Everything worthwhile is done with other people.” Absolutely, yes! Collaboration is key here–supporting one another and lifting each other up.
adrienne maree brown: Writer, podcaster, organizer, and all-around visionary. “What you pay attention to grows:” lessons derived from leaders like Grace Lee Boggs & writer Octavia Butler. With Bog & Thunder, this translates to dreaming big with our experiences and our budgets–imagining the best possible scenario and working towards it (and trimming back when necessary).
Ora Wise: Catering chef and culinary event producer, organizer/activist: “What are you doing to redistribute power and real resources?” Going beyond building community through food–which is certainly important–to ask how the work we are doing is contributing to local economies and impacting small scale producers, chefs, and experience providers.
For me, the answer I was looking for was found by working alongside people who share my vision, rather than assuming others were already on the same page because we seemed to be working towards similar goals. Despite the obstacles I’ve had to overcome these past many years, I have managed to hold onto that passion, and I’m really grateful to be where I am today because of it.