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Lorde discusses how women respond to the personal crisis of breast cancer. Some women, she notes, try to hide how they truly feel, pretending that the illness has not disrupted their routines. Others, whom she likens to warriors, find a weapon at their disposal. Lorde identifies herself as “a post-mastectomy woman” who believes that her feelings and those of others who have endured her experience “need voice in order to be recognized, respected, and of use” (11).
Lorde tries to express some of her “feelings and thoughts about the travesty of prosthesis, the pain of amputation, the function of cancer in a profit economy, [her] confrontation with mortality, the strength of women loving, and the power and rewards of self-conscious living” (11). She recognizes, however, that the experiences of breast cancer and mastectomy are common in the United States. Though she criticizes the uses of prostheses, she does not want to judge women who have chosen to wear them. She simply wishes to clarify why that choice doesn’t work for some other women.
Lorde has integrated several journal entries into the text, all of which were written six months after her “modified radical mastectomy for breast cancer” and continue beyond her completion of the essays that make up The Cancer Journals. The text, she writes, “[exemplifies] the process of integrating this crisis into [her] life” (12).
The first entry begins on January 26, 1979. Lorde notes that she is not feeling hopeful and frequently experiences pain. She calls out to Seboulisa, a West African mythical figure, to help her remember the cost of all that she has learned. The next entry begins nearly two weeks later. She writes about a young Black man named Buster, a friend, who was “shot down in a hallway for ninety cents” (12). She juxtaposes this with an anecdote about an art gallery show in which she saw “ugly images of women offering up distorted bodies for whatever fantasy passes in the name of male art” (12).
There is only one entry from March, in which she decries the difficulty of finding decent food and the effort not to fall back into old dieting habits. Lorde writes in April about trying to accept her condition, despite her belief at the time that she cannot, and changing her diet and other habits. She wants to accept the pain, too, so that it will not destroy her.
In the fall of 1979, she writes about “the outside world’s viciousness” and “[t]he arrogant blindness of comfortable white women” (13-14). She expresses anger at white radical lesbian feminist Mary Daly’s assertion that “race is of no concern to women” (14). Lorde writes about not wanting to be strong despite having to be strong. She expresses hurt at her sisters regarding her in the streets with indifferent eyes and wonders how to “integrate death into living, neither ignoring it nor giving in to it” (14).
In January 1980, she announces that she has finished her novel. She connects her survival to her loves for both her work and for women. She is 46 years old when she writes the entry for February 18 and is “very pleased to be alive” (15). She is excited for the summer by the end of May, as it “feels like a part of [her] future” and “a brand new time” (15). She writes that she feels stronger, broader, and de-chrysalised—a term that she uses to depict her sense of renewal. A month later, she reports on reading psycho-oncologist O. Carl Simonton’s Getting Well Again. Simonton claimed that relaxation and visualization techniques could treat cancer. Lorde finds his ideas both helpful and infuriating due to his smug tone.
When Lorde returns to the essay form, she describes wanting “to give form with honesty and precision to the pain faith labor and loving which this period of [her] life has translated into strength” (16). Still, she feels fear, particularly when any sign of ill health creeps upon her. A cough becomes a sign of lung cancer; a bruise becomes an indication of leukemia.
It has been 18 months since her mastectomy. Lorde has confronted and survived her pain. All that is left, she concludes, is to share her experience so that it doesn’t go to waste.
Lorde admits that she is sad about the loss of her breast, but her sadness does not dominate her life. Also, though she misses her breast, she rejects prosthesis and finds little support for what, to her, “feels like a cosmetic sham” (17). Prosthesis, Lorde argues, is often another way to keep women separate from each other and silent. She wonders what would happen if “an army of one-breasted women descended upon Congress and demanded that the use of carcinogenic, fatstored [sic] hormones in beef-feed be outlawed” (17).
In a series of rhetorical questions, she considers the lessons of the 18 months since she has had her breast removed. She wonders how she can best nourish her body, and how she can give voice to her journey so that other women can benefit from her experiences. She also considers her experience within the broader tapestry of her work as a Black woman and the even more expansive tapestry of women’s history. Finally, she wonders how she can resist the “fear and anger and powerlessness which is [her] greatest internal enemy” (17).
Lorde concludes that fighting despair does not mean that she needs to ignore the daunting job of effecting change. It also does not mean that she must ignore “the strength and the barbarity of the forces aligned against” women (17). Instead, Lorde decides that resistance means that she must use all of the resources at her disposal to fight and survive. It means that she must identify the enemy inside and outside of herself and position her work within “a continuum of women’s work” (17).
Lorde starts this section, which is a transcript from a public speech, with a poem entitled “A Song for Many Movements,” which she dedicates to Winnie Mandela, a South African anti-apartheid activist and politician and the second wife of Nelson Mandela, the first president of South Africa after the end of apartheid. The poem is extracted from Lorde’s collection, The Black Unicorn. The poem’s final stanza emphasizes the importance of labor over silence.
Lorde announces herself to her audience as a Black lesbian poet who is still alive, though she did not think that she would survive. After all, two months earlier, “two doctors, one female and one male,” told her that she would undergo breast surgery to remove a tumor (19). There was, they informed her, up to an 80 percent chance that the tumor was malignant.
Within three weeks, Lorde was forced to look at herself and her life with urgent clarity. By the time she gives this speech, she is still afraid, but also much stronger. Some of her experiences have helped her clarify what she feels about the power of transforming silence into language and action. Speaking how Lorde wished to speak also meant confronting the possibilities of pain or death. Death, however, is “the final silence” (19). She acknowledges, too, that death may be coming sooner than she had expected. This deters her from continuing to betray herself with “small silences,” always planning to speak someday or waiting for someone else to speak (19). Lorde realizes that her silences will not protect her. She implores the audience to understand that their silences will not protect them either. However, Lorde notes that every time she speaks her truth and connects with other women, she gains strength and is better able to understand what she needs to live. The women who help her gain that strength are both Black and white, old and young, lesbian, straight, and bisexual. All of them struggle against the forces that attempt to silence them.
Lorde asks the reader to think about the words they do not yet have, about what they may need to say, and about the forces that suppress those words into silence. She declared herself “a Black woman warrior poet doing [her] work” and asks the reader if they are doing theirs (20).
Lorde admits to being afraid. Her daughter, Beth, advises her to tell her audience how silence renders Lorde less whole because she is suppressing the part of herself that demands expression. When Lorde ignores that part of herself, it threatens to rise up against her to demand her attention.
Black women, Lorde believes, were never meant to survive in America—not as human beings, anyway. She thinks that, in a way, this is true for many women, even women who are not women of color. She encourages her audience to realize that the things that make them most vulnerable can also be sources of strength. It is better to speak because they will die anyway. They will be no less afraid if they remain silent about the ways in which they and other women are rendered disposable, the ways in which children are often distorted and then destroyed, and how the environment is poisoned.
Lorde talks about how she and her family are celebrating Kwanzaa, an African American cultural celebration, first celebrated in 1966, based on African harvest festival traditions. She outlines the holiday’s seven principles. When she delivers this speech, it is the third day of Kwanzaa. The principle for that day is Ujima, or collective work and responsibility. Ujima reinforces the need to build communities and solve problems collectively. She reminds her audience that they are present because they all “share a commitment to language and to the power of language, and to the reclaiming of language that has been made to work against us” (21). Lorde often reminds herself that, if she were born mute or had maintained an oath of silence for safety, she would still have suffered and she would still die. This awareness has given her perspective.
Lorde tells her audience that they all have a responsibility to seek out each other’s words and not “hide behind the mockeries of separations that have been imposed upon us and which so often we accept as our own,” such as the unwillingness of white women to teach Black women’s writing when, for so many years, they have taught Plato and Shakespeare (21). There is also the criticism from women of color that white women cannot have anything of value to say to them, or the feeling that women with children are not speaking to those without them. Lorde insists that she wants to bridge these differences because it is not difference that immobilizes women, it is their respective silences.
In these sections, Lorde focuses on the importance of using language to express the experience of having breast cancer. Lorde outlines the book’s major points in the introduction, including the controversy over wearing prostheses. She emphasizes the importance of elucidating these experiences and figuring out how to use them constructively. Her sense of urgency reflects her commitments to both writing and activism.
Lorde also introduces her concept of breast cancer survivors being warriors. The traditional image of a warrior is typically masculine. Lorde reappropriates this image, feminizes it, and places it in a non-Western context. In this way, she also revives the lost histories of historical women warriors, particularly those who existed in pre-colonial West Africa. In the text, Lorde invokes Seboulisa, goddess of Abomey. Lorde has mentioned Seboulisa numerous times in her work, including in her poem, “Dahomey,” in which she mentions how Seboulisa’s breast was “eaten away by worms of sorrow.” She mentions the goddess again in “125th Street and Abomey.” In this poem, she addresses Seboulisa directly, as she does in The Cancer Journals. The mention of Seboulisa ties into Lorde’s celebrations of West African goddesses in her work. Seboulisa is also a source of connection due to the idea that she has only one breast. Lorde’s mention of a breast eaten away by sorrow connects to her feeling of mourning over the loss of her own right breast.
In her first journal entry, Lorde shares her thoughts about how her experience with cancer correlates with the ease with which Black lives are extinguished, as well as the convention of presenting women according to heterosexual men’s ideas of what is attractive. In neither instance are women valued as human beings. Instead, their lives are weighed against money and, in comparison, often come up short. Meanwhile, Lorde struggles to improve her quality of life and to perpetuate her existence in a world that is blind toward and indifferent to her pain.
Lorde writes from the tail-end of the second-wave feminist movement. Reagan era, which entailed a shift toward consumerist excess and a retraction of advances in reproductive rights, was only two years away. Lorde criticizes the indifference to race and class that many white, middle-class feminists have demonstrated, despite their dominance of the movement’s public narrative. Lorde expresses her exasperation with this dominant wing of the feminist movement when she criticizes her peer, Mary Daly, who died in 2010. Daly was a radical lesbian feminist, like Lorde, and a theologian who taught at Boston College until she came under fire for barring male students from her classes in the interest of creating safe spaces in which women could talk about their experiences. Daly and Lorde were aligned in their emphases of encouraging women to use language both to clarify their experiences for themselves and to connect with other women. However, Daly’s dismissal of racism as a problem that impedes feminism reinforces the patriarchy that oppresses them both.
Lorde also mentions her completion of her first novel, Zami: A New Spelling of My Name (1982), a chronicle of her childhood in New York and the women who shaped her early on. Lorde’s revisitation of her past through the writing of this novel, alongside her metaphor of feeling “de-chrysalised,” reflects the theme of personal transformation that is key to this text.
Lorde reads numerous books both before and after her mastectomy, including Carl Simonton’s best-selling classic Getting Well Again: A Step-by-Step, Self-Help Guide to Overcoming Cancer for Patients and Their Families (1978). Dr. Oscar Carl Simonton was a radiation oncologist who popularized the mind-body connection as key to fighting cancer—an approach referred to as psychoneuroimmunology. He also created the Simonton Cancer Center to promote his approach. Simonton believed that people with positive attitudes lived longer and had fewer side effects due to cancer. This is a position that Lorde critiques later in the text. Lorde’s reading of Simonton’s book doesn’t assuage her fears about looming illness and death. Instead, she embraces the importance of work, a point that Lorde reiterates in her poem “A Song of Many Movements.” The poem’s refrain, “Our labor has become more important than our silence” frames Lorde’s impetus for writing The Cancer Journals. Lorde describes the small silences that impede women—that is, the hesitation to speak, particularly among those who are marginalized. Small silences are brought on by the fear of being wrong, fear of being ignored, and fear of being attacked. Lorde reminds the reader that silence cannot protect anyone from the inevitability of these events. Instead, silence only reinforces divisions between women, as well as the suppression of one’s full expression of being.
Lorde illustrates her reliance on a community of women who share her feminist goals and commitments to equity. She also expresses a commitment to protecting children and the environment—interests that are concomitant with her kind of feminism. Alongside these social goals is her active reclamation of language. The assertion that she makes in this speech is similar to the one that she makes in her seminal essay “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House,” featured in Sister Outsider. Among the “master’s tools” are the “mockeries of separation,” which reinforce racial and class boundaries, as well as keeping women from sharing their personal experiences and learning from them. To Lorde, the secrecy that exists between and separates white women and women of color maintains a white supremacist and patriarchal status quo.



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