Stanley is concerned about her health but doesn't want to wait to love her body. The title comes from when Stanley tried writing that yoga yokes people together but instead mistakenly spelled it “yolk.”
The self-described Black, fat, queer yoga instructor tackles topics ranging from her weight, white supremacy, cultural appropriation and Blackness. Pandering for the amusement of White folks is the same respectability politics in new clothing.Jessamyn Stanley (Cornell Watson) This article is more than 1 year old.Īuthor Jessamyn Stanley's new book " Yoke" is a series of honest, challenging, humorous and poignant essays about her life - mostly seen through the lens of her yoga practice. Just like them, I’ve found a connection to my spiritual identity via the White man’s approved version of spirituality.Īt what point should I consider myself a minstrel show? Is it only because I don’t wear blackface that I’m able to ignore the comparison? Is the line drawn at inspiring others? Does inspiration negate a minstrel show? At what point do I accept the spectacle that I’ve allowed others to expect from me? Yoga has led me to question everything. They found refuge in the versions of Christianity that least offended those that imprisoned them.
What does it mean for the grandchild of African slaves to find solace in an American yoga practice that’s firmly rooted in the soil of White supremacy? My ancestors were beaten and murdered for indigenous spiritual practices that frightened their enslavers. Her heart leaps when events are sold out weeks in advance and she’s not bothered when her class attendees are predominantly White, even though her liberal arts education has made her all too aware of how exoticization and fetishization should be included as budget line items for their clear effect on her profit margins. She wants to be proud that White people come to her yoga classes.
She wants to be proud of what she’s accomplished. The part of me still desperately craving a seat at that table isn’t seeking any further inquiry into any of my stank-ass baggage. I thought there was a seat for me at the White kids table and all I needed was to muster up the confidence to sit down.
God, that sounds disgusting when I say it out loud, but it’s true. And, well, if we’re all admitting things, I can admit that I used to seek approval of White folks. It’s hard to feel chill when no one wants to acknowledge the big-ass racist elephant in the room. What does it mean for the grandchild of African slaves to find solace in an American yoga practice that’s firmly rooted in the soil of White supremacy?
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