pleasure as praxis: principles of care
feeling good in my body is not antithetical to doing good. doing good in this world does not have to come at the expense of feeling good in my body, mind, and spirit.
âPleasure activism is the work we do to reclaim our whole, happy, and satisfiable selves from the impacts, delusions, and limitations of oppression and/or supremacy. Pleasure activism is us learning to make justice and liberation the most pleasurable experiences we can have on this planet.â adrienne maree brown, in âPleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Goodâ (2019)
I was invited to submit a creative project as part of an upcoming Fellowship. The prompt for this assignment was: Share an expression of the future(s) you hope for using any kind of creative medium (video, visual art, poetry, music, blog or any other form of your choice).
Out of me, came the following. I hope this cracks something in you, and still leaves you whole.
The future I hope for is pleasurable and pleasure-full.
In thinking about the work of equity and justice, I vision before me clenched jaws, tight fists in the air, and razor-sharp eyes glaring right at me. My understanding and socialization of justice has predominantly been that ânothing good comes easyâ. More than that, the pursuit of liberation and social well-being has, paradoxically, meant that my own well-being is compromised or undermined. I ask myself then, âHow is it that martyrdom has become a pre-requisite for justice?â
The future I hope for has all of us in it; feeling well, and living long enough to see our kin thrive.
I feel cracks and faults developing within my bones. My body is breaking at the weight of self-sacrifice. My soul is pressurized by the immeasurable costs of fighting for something I might never live to fully experience. Amongst our underground circles, in our midnight masses, during our gatherings, and in our group chats planning for the protest, we have normalized our own demise. We have, somehow, become well-acquainted with the belief that âthe causeâ is bigger than our own need for rest, for pleasure, for exhale. We have tattooed our dying wishes on our bodies because every day feels like the last one, and every protest feels like a gamble. I ask myself, âHow is it that my death is an expected outcome for the achievement of liberation?â
The future I hope for is un-resilient.
Some of us have the privilege of hitting the snooze button when the alarms go off. It throws me off sometimes to reflect on how vastly different the pressure of big, black, heavy boots can feel upon our necks. I wonder why oppression is necessary to maintain some peopleâs reality. I am perplexed by how some folks must believe in an illusion of dominance, so as to justify their (in)action. And in the same breath, I am moved by how some of us must, without fail, show up again and again in the midst of chaos, pandemics, and war. Because to give up would render us disposable. I observe that resilience is not a choice for everyone. Rather, it is a requirement for the guarantee of life. We do not choose to be resilient so that our generations remember our names. We are made resilient. I ask myself, âHow is it that some get the privilege of broadcasting vulnerability and get celebrated for it?â
The future I hope for is made for all bodies and minds.
I have come to learn of my own ignorance around disability justice. To glare at my own privilege of ignorance, and remark at my façade of âgood intentions'. I have awakened to the reality that many roads, pavements, rooms, and spaces cater to my bodyâs needs and way of thinking. That my able-bodied persona is well-tended to. That pleasure feels accessible and comes with ease. Yet, becoming aware of this reality does not make me a hero. My awareness is not a worthwhile contribution to the work of justice and liberation. To watch from my front porch as protestors march right outside my house does constitute my participation in advocacy. My voyeurism does not translate to me opening my doors to make room for those nursing the effects of tear gas. My theoretical debates on ableism and disability justice do not magically break down my stairs in place of a ramp. So, as I contemplate the gap between my knowledge and (in)action, I ask myself, âHow can I consciously live with the choice to see through my fellow beings? How can I argue for my comfort at the expense of making you invisible?â
The future I hope for is messy and riddled with fumbling.
For me, engaging with making mistakes and failure is now a sacred practice. I give myself grace by tending to the errors that I make and recognizing the opportunities inherent in my mess. This is not me advocating for complacency. It is an acknowledgment that, in trying to make a change or create something new, we will fumble. Oppression has often forced us into becoming our mistakes; into an unhealthy place where we believe that we are our failures. But we are not our failures, and we are not our mistakes. What we are is a collective of humans who know nothing else but to keep trying, to listen with humility when we are corrected, to take accountability for the mistakes we have made, and to recognize that the impacts of our actions can vastly differ from our intentions. Yet, we will extend grace to one another because we know that the work of justice and liberation requires our messy selves to show up over and over again. I ask myself, âWill I make a commitment to water the seed of compassion within myself? Will I do the same for others?â
The future I hope for hospices endings/deaths.
I have been writing a piece for months now about death and dying. And the fact that it is taking this long to come to life shows me how much more I must care. I often observe how much time and effort we put into welcoming new life to earth, how much we can spend on making sure the seeds in our gardens bloom in the summer, and how much we focus on the beginnings and avoid discussing the endings. I wonder what we lose in trying to force immortality. Thus, when I find myself contemplating on the inevitability of death, I appreciate how Earth has been teaching me to prepare for it. I see how composting is death and life all at once. Creation is preceded by destruction. As part of my practice of tending to the dead and dying, I ask myself, âHow can I make my own death worth living for?â
The future I hope for is care-based.
I began by writing about how many of us, in the work of liberation and justice, are forced to believe that our lives are the necessary sacrifice. I was there once. Now, however, I am realizing that feeding myself, resting, hydrating, laughing, and investing in my pleasure and luxury is part of creating a more equitable and just future. I need to know what feels good in my body first and foremost. I need to make it through this marathon, and still be breathing, and still be standing strong. I need the labour of my mind and body to be compensated and appreciated. Give me my flowers while I still live. So, as I think of the future I hope for, I ask myself, âWhat am I doing right now to ensure that I make it through this day? How am I tending to my own well-being? And how does my own self-preservation contribute to the sustenance and satisfaction of my community(ies)?â
Again, I say, the future I hope for is pleasurable and pleasure-full.
In thinking about the work of equity and justice, I vision before me clenched jaws, tight fists in the air, and razor-sharp eyes glaring right at me. My understanding and socialization of justice has predominantly been that ânothing good comes easyâ. More than that, the pursuit of liberation and social well-being has, paradoxically, meant that my own well-being is compromised or undermined. I ask myself then, âHow is it that martyrdom has become a pre-requisite for justice?â
âWhen we begin to live from within outward, in touch with the power of the erotic within ourselves, and allowing that power to inform and illuminate our actions upon the world around us, then we begin to be responsible to ourselves in the deepest sense. For as we recognize our deepest feelings, we begin to give up, of necessity, being satisfied with suffering and self-negation, and with the numbness which so often seems like their only alternative in society. Our acts against oppression become integral with self, motivated and empowered from within.â Audre Lorde, âUses of the Erotic in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speechesâ (1984)