Fearfully, Wonderfully Made — and Tired of Your Tables

I had my first print publication. My writing featured in print.

I haven’t seen it yet. It hasn’t arrived at my doorstep, but I have seen the cover.

The organization that printed this publication is phenomenal, but like every organization, it has its thing.

Because, after all, isn’t there always something? Okay, usually something? Oftentimes something?! Sometimes there’s something!

Thing, such a nonspecific but all-encompassing word. Thing is the equivalent of interesting — two words I am actively shunning from my vocabulary. What do you mean? Thing? Be more specific! Interesting. What do you mean? Be more specific!

Let me be clear: the organization I freaking love. It has helped shape me, and they have loved me — the people that I have met, the love that I have received, the support that I have gotten from this organization. I cannot state that clearly enough: It has changed me.

And yet, here’s the… Thing.

I saw the cover, and nearly immediately, anger arose from within me.

Perhaps it’s not surprising — or maybe it should be — that the very piece I wrote for this publication was about how our voices are silenced.

I Wrote Something That Set Me and Others Free

I wrote such a world-changing, beautifully dynamic piece.

Not a piece, but a movement. A reclamation. A declaration. Something that said: do not fuck with me. I am not one to be fucked with. I have been fucked with enough — by men, by ain’t shit ass men—

I have been fucked with by men. Manipulated by men.

I have been raped by a man.

And no motherfucking longer will a [wo]man fuck me over.

My body is my home, and there have been times that it has not been my own.

And here’s the thing:

The church is made up of people. It’s not a physical place. Yes, we know that. And here’s the thing about the church:

The church says, Be who you are. And it also really says, be who it is we think God wants you to be. Not be who it is that God made you to be. Those are two completely different… Things.

And so I wrote a piece that I couldn’t publish in this publication, because I just knew. I knew that the swearing, the cursing — well, this good Christian organization, they did not have the room and the heart. They did not have the capacity, and perhaps even the strength, to hold the weight and magnitude of my words.

So instead of sharing a dynamic piece, a powerful piece — a piece that moved the stars and shaped the earth and even made the sun shine brighter and made my heart lighter. A piece that when I shared with other Black writers who are women, through tears they said I needed this. A piece that is ready to change lives — I knew that they could not handle me, because they could not handle my language.

And then yet again, here I am: What is supposed to be this beautiful moment, cursed down.

On my left hand, beautiful — my first printed publication.

And on my right — what do you mean? What do you mean? What the fuck do you mean?

If there’s no room at the table, create your own table?

The anger rose. The righteous indignation rose in me like the sun rises predictably in the east.

What the fuck do you mean build another table? How many more tables do I need to build? I am not Jesus. I am not a fucking carpenter. I don’t build tables. I build fucking rooms. Because this room, this home, is for Black women. And when you say build another table, get another seat — I don’t want a seat at a table in a room that was not built for me. I don’t want another fucking table in a room with people who hate me, with people who do not honor who I am in the fullness thereof.

No.

Fuck you. Fuck your tables. Fuck your chairs.

This Is Righteous. This Is Holy. This Is Rage.

This is not about what I want.

This is not about what the fuck I, Joval Webbe, want.

No — this is about what God wants. This is what the I AM THAT I AM says that I fucking AM. The God of I AM THAT I AM said that who I am and how I am is good and beautiful and fearfully and wonderfully made. That I am bold and courageous and unafraid. That is who I am.

And so it is with great diction: that I say to this organization that has helped shape me as a writer —

No. No, no — they didn’t shape me. But they loved me.

To this organization, I say with great thanks, with a heart of gratitude: I thank you.

And to this organization and others who cannot hold me — to you, I also say: I no longer sit at your tables. I no longer am eager to come into your rooms.

To this and other organizations like it, I simply say:

Hi, my name is Joval.

I am angry.

I am a Black woman.

I am not an angry Black woman.

I am also not a carpenter ready to build more tables, because I, after all, am not Jesus.

I am, however, an architect —building rooms and homes for those eager to sit at tables that fit, to actually come as you are.

Language doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matters is heart.

And the only prerequisite to enter the room is one.

Many are called. Few are chosen.

And the chosen look like me.

A Prayer for Every Black Woman Whose Anger Is Holy

Love,

We start with gratitude for the freedom to reckon.

The injury of conditional inclusion — the kind that welcomes our presence but censors our fullness. We locate it. Name it. Breathe healing into the hurt.

Cover and protect Black women’s bodies. Their violation. Their reclamation. Their sanctity. My body is my home is not metaphor. It is testimony.

Thank you that I AM, too — building Rooms. Language and all. The prerequisite is not respectability. It is heart. It is melanin. It is love.

We are angry. We are Black. We are women. We are not angry Black women. Our anger is holy. Righteous. Entirely warranted.

“Many are called. Few are chosen.” And the chosen look like me. Like you. The new rooms are built. And thank you that as we raise our hands to knock, the door is already open.

Amen.