My Feminism is Black

It has taken me months to even articulate what this feels like.

November stung, more than I anticipated and yes, I cried like a baby when Donald Trump was announced the 45th President of the United States. I was scared, more angry then I am used to feeling and my anxiety draped over me like a heavy blanket as I had to muster up the courage to face reality.

Because after all. All of the odds are against me.

I am a WOMAN. A product of a BIRACIAL marriage – my father is BLACK and my mother is the daughter of a Filipino IMMIGRANT.


I am fearful for black lives, muslim lives, women’s lives, LGBTQ lives. Some of my best friends make up these communities. Why don’t we matter?

But then the Women’s March came. A march that I had mixed emotions about attending and/or supporting, initially. A march that would be looked at as just another “protest” in Oakland, California. While I am fully here for equal rights and pay for women, I am hurting for the 258 black lives that were taken in 2016 by police officers. I finally realized where I stand in this mess – I am a feminist because of my blackness.




Saturday, January 21 2017. I woke up with a fire inside of me, and I am so thankful that I listened to it. I marched through Downtown Oakland with two women that inspire me most. Two women that have valued education, independence, and equality. My best friend’s mother (left) and my mother (right).

I held my mom’s hand with tears in my eyes, and got to experience a moment so special to me that I will never forget. The entire city of Oakland chanted “Black Lives Matter” and “Yes we can, Yes we will”, and our solidarity was louder than ever. For the first time, in a long time, I wasn’t scared.


Saturday was magic. 


And while I skimmed through jarring headlines just 24 hours later, January 21st will always be magic. I pray that we continue to stand together as allies, and that as a nation we always stand up for what is right as a human race.

Because after all, love is love is love is love.





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