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In her essay, Luvvie Ajayi Jones chronicles the shifts in her name throughout her lifetime. She was born Ifeoluwa Ajayi. “Ifeoluwa” is a Nigerian name that means “God’s love,” representing the hope of her family and her culture. When she began attending a majority-white school in the United States, she was asked to tell the class a little about herself and her background. Uneasy at the thought of convincing a room of white strangers to learn to pronounce her name, she quickly chose the name “Lovette,” and for the rest of her time in school she identified herself as Lovette Ajayi.
Jones describes her journey to accepting her name and her culture. At college, she found a new community of people who took an interest in her Nigerian background, and these friends called her “Luvvie,” so she began to identify herself in that way. She started a blog during college and enjoyed writing, and Jones shares how that led her to start a new blog post-college where she could talk about issues more important to her, such as racism and feminism. The blog, “Awesomely Luvvie,” was named as an homage to the nickname her friends had given her. Jones did not see herself as a writer, so when her blog became a relative success, she ignored it and continued to devote most of her time to outside pursuits. However, her blog continued to garner attention, and Jones began to see herself for the writer she was. When she met and married her husband, she faced a new challenge with her name—whether to include “Jones” at the end or not. Ultimately, she decided to add it, because it represented this new chapter in her life. Jones concludes that each name marked a period of learning and growth.
Shawn A. Ginwright, an expert on youth development and activism, opens by describing his uncle’s love of the blues. Ginwright explains that the blues are about dealing with and confronting shame and taking big emotional risks. According to Ginwright, Black youth understand the blues; they can feel it whenever they encounter the many ways society attempts to oppress and define them. Ginwright advocates for vulnerability as a way for young people to find well-being, but he also explores how vulnerability can be especially difficult for Black individuals. While running a summer camp in 1989 for Black teens, Ginwright met young people who were living with persistent traumatic stress disorder. Their lives were marked by chaos and violence, in contrast to post-traumatic stress disorder, where the danger has passed.
Living in an environment like this severs individuals from their emotionality. Ginwright asserts that young people need safe spaces where they can identify and voice their emotions. Healing-centered engagement uses a collective and communal approach to pursue well-being. Vulnerability is the key to healing-centered engagement. However, vulnerability can be difficult for Black people, especially in a society when vulnerability has been forced upon them: “Some of us can afford to be more vulnerable than others” (105). Ginwright advocates emotional vulnerability as the key to breaking down structural vulnerability. He poses three questions that help adults think about the role they play in building the emotional vulnerability of youth. All three questions center on the choices the adult is making: whether the adult is practicing vulnerability; whether the adult has created a safe space in which students can share; and whether the adult is willing and able to commit themselves to this difficult work.
Kaia Naadira’s writes that throughout their life, their default emotional expression has been rage. Experiences with sexual violence and assault were especially impactful, and created a desire for vengeance, but their adherence to anger meant that they were also adhering to shame. Part of this shame was driven by the fact that Naadira had assured their assailant that they were fine, even hugged him. When they were hurt, they felt they needed to make the person who hurt them feel better. After leaving an abusive relationship, Naadira felt shame for being in the relationship in the first place, and that shame was tied to their reaction to the harm of others.
Naadira describes how they began working as an exotic dancer at the age of 21. Through sex work, Naadira felt empowered and reclaimed their story, learning to let go of shame. For the first time, Naadira witnessed someone who had hurt her experiencing consequences for his actions, when a customer crossed a boundary and security guards beat him up and escorted him outside. Naadira states that they learned to let go of shame, the thing they had been clinging to for so long: “Shame can feel like your greatest enemy and your only friend” (115). They replaced shame with joy—joy about their body, their life, and their sexuality.
These three chapters explore different elements of youth and shame. Luvvie Ajayi Jones describes a process of learning to dispel shame about her identity and cultural heritage. Kaia Naadira details their relationship with shame as a young person who experienced sexual assault. In both essays, the writers highlight the way white supremacy and political context contributed to their perception of the self. Jones struggled to lay claim to her name in a school that created a framework for assimilation. Naadira carried shame for being Black and queer, two identities marginalized by white, patriarchal culture.
In his essay, Ginwright examines processes and strategies for healing, especially for younger generations. Ginwright, who has devoted his career to supporting Black youth, understands that young Black people must navigate complex systems that seek to undermine them and suspend them in a state of forced vulnerability. He argues that Vulnerability as Resistance is a way for young people to reclaim their autonomy and to reject shame. Ginwright makes a point to call attention to the way white supremacy forces vulnerability on marginalized groups and how structural vulnerability differs from emotional vulnerability. Structural vulnerability is about oppression. Emotional vulnerability is about freedom. For young people to embrace vulnerability, they must have it modeled for them by adults in their lives.
Ginwright suggests that emotional vulnerability can be difficult for members of Black communities. He also explains that trauma can make it difficult for people to access their feelings, further complicating vulnerability, writing, “The most egregious consequence of living in a persistent traumatic stress environment is the inability to feel” (102). Ginwright recommends that adults take the mantle when it comes to vulnerability. By being vulnerable themselves and creating a safe environment, young people are more likely to engage with emotional vulnerability. Both Naadira and Jones exhibit this idea. As Jones began to share her story on her blog, she learned to trust herself and see herself as a writer. When Naadira stepped onto the stage, they took back their sexuality and power. While emotional vulnerability can be scary and alien, Ginwright sees it as the key to unlocking shame, and in this way it becomes a mode of resistance.



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