I have a sister, an 18-year-old who’s a wizard with witty comebacks in the heat of battle, a monster when hungry, the best person to take care of me when sick and whose favourite colour seems to change after a life milestone. She taught me sisterhood. And while the other women I name, I cherish their sisterhood, my sister and I give each other a sisterhood beyond memory and condition. She is my life partner. I can’t remember life before her…probably because I was only about three years into life, but you get the heart behind my statement.
Then I was eight years-old, standing in my class line on the first day of third grade. Little did I know the Black girl in the line with me, whose parents knew mine (something her parents shared with us for the first time in that line), would be my 12-year-long friend and counting. She has seen me through years of evolution. I consider her my second life partner.
In grade ten I joined a high school program where I met a Black girl with bright red locs and an even brighter smile. We connected well and quickly; at a speed and depth that makes you feel like God had set us apart to find each other. She’s one of my biggest inspirations, showing me how limitless life can be if you believe in your ambition. We’ve been friends ever since.
In my first year of university, I had my first roommate that wasn’t my sister. She claims that back then, she knew we’d be friends eventually. She made being away from home easier. I see us as comrades in arms, in the war of adulthood; we’ve fought many university-life battles together. The laughs we’ve shared have been healing those life-caused wounds from the first day of we stepped on campus.
Oh and let me not forget my mom, her mom and mom-in-law. While the bond of a mother and daughter seems to exist in its own universe, as I’ve gotten older, I see the sisterhood in it too. No, neither three of these women is “one of my little friends,” yet, the love and lessons of womanhood and Black womanhood (as I will die on the hill that the two are not the same) they teach and model for me are priceless and essential to my survival.
They show me how to fly.
to fly together
As a part of their life cycle, monarch butterflies migrate together. Each butterfly may have their unique journey, but to survive that journey, it must fly with other butterflies. As a group, they can travel further and protect one another.
I’ve been learning a lot about collective care recently and what it means to be in community with others. To see each other and say, “I’m not sure what your journey’s been like, but let’s fly together.”
I was sharing with someone I feel this sisterhood with, that to me, Black sisterhood is not a thing of friendship. Friendship is earned and forged over time. But Black sisterhood is about seeing another Black girl, another Black woman. And I mean seeing her. To see her existing boldly, to see her trying, to see her joy or her pain and then showing up for her.
A butterfly may not start the journey with the same butterflies it ends it with. It may not spend the whole journey flying next to the same butterfly, but in the bustle of travel, it can fly next to many different butterflies even for a passing moment.
I find the same is true with Black sisterhood.
I was sitting, passing time before heading to my tutorial, when a Black woman came up to me. She set her bag on the table and pulled out a worn copy of bell hook’s ‘All About Love.’
“I know this is weird,” she said. “But it’s such a great book.” I had my freshly bought copy of the book that my mom got me, set on the table—I wanted to get a few pages in while I waited. Maybe she thought her randomly coming up to me was weird or that she just happened to have the same book as me.
I found nothing weird.
I found it beautiful.
Beautiful that a book by a Black woman brought two strangers, Black women, together just for a moment.
“It’s so good!” I responded after gasping from her grand reveal. “The book is just neon now.” I flipped through my copy showing all my highlighted marks and notes.
“Yeah, you have to take notes with this book,” she said. “It’s changed how I see everything.” We exchanged quick laughs about how we never really knew love before reading the book before she left.
Part of me thought about getting her Instagram or something a second after I got her name (a name I’m not confident I remember so I’m not going to repeat it now). But then I decided to let the moment pass. To let the moment be exactly what it was: two butterflies on their journeys, flying side by side and then back to the winds of life.
When I finally finish the book, I’ll think of her though, wondering what her thoughts were after her first read. Who knows, maybe I’ll see her again and we can talk about it then.
(Note: I’m so down to start a book club, just for this book though, cause it’s actually that good).
To me, though short, that was Black sisterhood. Not because we both happen to be Black women—because Black women, just like any other human being, can be wicked (I’ll always show love to Black women but fact is fact)—but because she chose to see me. Literally! You know how many people walked past me, like the regular stranger that I am. She chose to fly next to me, even just for a of couple minutes.
That is the beauty of Black sisterhood: a split-second decision, that can cause a split-second moment, that is as impactful as ever.
The sound of wings
I watched a video of this guy watching the monarch migration. He travelled to the spot in Mexico where all the monarchs fly to, their final destination. In the video he lets the viewer know that the sound they’re hearing isn’t wind but the sound of all the butterflies flapping their wings.
When you look up the symbolism of a butterfly, a word you’ll probably see is “transformation.” It’s quite impressive how enough butterflies can transform the sound of a place.
I feel Black women can do the same.
For this example, I’ll use the place of my life.
There are two Black women in particular that I feel Black sisterhood with, both of whom I met when on the Her Campus Exec team last year. We bonded over sharing Black girl stories, supporting each other when our articles got published and working together. They were instrumental in supporting and helping me develop the first year of the We Write History Campaign (plus another Black woman too). It meant a lot to me to work on the project with Black women. It was a “For Us, By Us” moment I’ll never forget.
Though I’m a journalism student and talking to people comes with the territory, I was finding it challenging to connect with people—I found that to be the biggest difference between young adulthood and childhood: the socializing scene. So it was nice to make connections with them.
Then it was time for me to engage in some more intentional Black sisterhood. I invited them to a Black hair event I was co-hosting this year on the first two days of February. I’ve been meaning to connect with them outside of something school/work related. I was raised in a family where I was taught to show up for people, and while the beauty of the event was enough to get anyone to come out, it meant something more to see them in the crowd. For them to accept my invitation and show up.
I saw a few other Black women there too who I feel sisterhood with. Black women who I just want to see win, who inspire me, and who I support. To feel and hear their encouragement during that event was a unique sound.
Like butterfly wings, these Black women changed the sound of my life in those moments. Consuming and awe-striking. I fail to find the words to describe the encouragement from one Black woman to another. Maybe it’s like that guy in the video – to fully appreciate the sound, you have to be there in the midst to experience it yourself.
Can we fly together?
While Black sisterhood can be a quick moment, it can also be a longer flight. But that requires an invitation, a simple “I’d like to fly with you” or if you’re me, a “hey I’m co-hosting this event and I’d love for you to come.”
While a monarch butterfly’s migration is individual, they are international about forming groups to survive the unpredictable and harsh conditions that travelling can present. Survival cannot be pinned on fleeting moments of flying next to another butterfly; instead, they must actively seek out and form communities to ensure their personal survival and longevity.
Like this, Black sisterhood must follow this example. We can’t survive on fleeting compliments or briefs exchanges of “I love your hair,” no matter how fulfilling, to sustain us. Like monarchs, we must also extend invitations to fly together—forming intentional bonds that nourish, protect and uplift each other.
Again, this doesn’t equal friendship. How close you fly is up to you. Inviting someone to fly with you, in your group, not matter how close, matters. It matters to know that you have butterflies surrounding you. From your closest friend and life partner to someone giving you some extra encouragement and support.
The group I fly with
Let me start by saying, not every Black woman I choose to fly with me, I fly with. For example, Angela Davis, Assata Shakur, Nina Simone, Erykah Badu, Missy Elliot, bell hooks, I’ve chosen them to fly with me but they don’t know me, so I’ve never flown with them. But what they teach, stand for, and model for me are enough to make me carry them in my journey (they show me how to fly too).
Now, let me second that by saying there are levels of sisterhood, as I’ve tried to convey. There are Black women out there that I choose to expend sisterhood to who might not consciously extend it back. Let me explain.
“Celebrate People” is the seventh law of my Life Constitution. So this naturally includes Black women I see doing the dang thing trying to live their best life. Black sisterhood cannot be reduced to transactional relationships. For many Black women, engaging in Black sisterhood is a conscious choice to extend love and support to other Black women, based on the type of person they want to be. Looping back to my earlier point, just because someone is a Black woman, doesn’t make Black sisterhood an inherent or automatic practice; it’s a personal decision that can be made by each individual.
I chose to engage in Black sisterhood. I choose to feel it too. I much rather hear the sounds of butterfly wings than the harsh belted cries of the wind. I’d rather be butterfly wings than turbulents in someone else’s life.
Acknowledgements: Flowers to my fellow butterflies
I’ve come to learn that naming, the act to giving flowers, is important. Even if it seems silly that I may name people who may fall in the two categories I previously explained. Today, I choose to show them a little love…so I guess, what’s silly about that?
Regardless of how it seems, I list these women to say: I see you and I’m rooting for you to win.
Kimberley, Breanna, Dream, Melissa, Racquel, Daphne, Eugene, Teni, Hailey, Shannon, Shaira, Kazzia, Cassy, Jaia, Kayla, Charlize, Keeva, Erah, Fate, Nifemi & Maya, Ashley, Kingsley, Marie, Rylie, Anya, Gizelle, Sieanna, Layla, Jessica, Deonna, Alyssa E., Malaya, Eunice, Dominique, Titi & Beck, Marilyn, Nonso, Oluchi, Amoya, Shailyn, Sha, Kenza, Yanaminah, Farrah, Zeeggy Mercy, Elisabeth Priscilla, Sarah, Sandra, Mya F., Zee, Ariel, Teyah, Marlayah “Miss McLeod”, Lydia, Teju, Kayleigh, Ifeoluwa, La’Kayla, Ruth, Amyah, Olivia, Leila, Marleigha, Sierra…
All my aunties (I cannot fly with out)…
All my cousins…
All the Black women who save some love for me in their heart…
All the Black women rappers, singers and writes I love who taught me about boldness, authenticity, and the world…
And to all the Black women who have ever seen me.
It is an honour to fly next to you.