In a historic first for CASS, we are thrilled to welcome Emem as our third FT staff member in the Programs & Communications Director role! Emem Obot (they/them) is a disabled, Black, Trans, artist, facilitator, heaux, and concerned community member from the Chicagoland area. Below is Emem’s introduction story, written by them.

We are in the process of a shift within our movement, and I pray that with this collective we can continue to build a culture for an alternative to the world we have come to know. I am grateful to accept this historic position as the Programs and Communications Director for Collective Action for Safe Spaces in Washington, DC. This opportunity has come into my life after a time of many necessary lessons about the importance of intentional community. I carry my failures and successes into this space, which come with much wisdom. The greatest lesson I have learned is the role of responsibility and trust within our movement spaces. We cannot and will not build out these visions and ideas for ourselves, and our futures unless we have trust in ourselves and each other. We cannot thrive and rise to our needs individually and collectively until we are ready to collectively rise to the responsibilities in front of us. Rising into this position, I am ready to take on responsibilities that are needed for us to have a community rooted in transformative justice and abolitionist ideology and praxis. 

The Foundation 🌱

My parents are two Nigerian immigrants that came to this country to “provide me opportunities” – opportunities stolen from the future of the land and our people. My mother left my father and brought us to the Midwest, landing in the Chicagoland area. I am a first-generation Black American growing up in the middle of America with no sense of American pride or connection to this country. I had very few spaces to be safe especially as I got older. Music and arts became the only spaces I could safely exist, dream, and imagine. But with the impact of Mike Brown along with my own experience with abuse and racial terror, I became invested in fighting for safety, intentional space, and freedom; not only myself but others like me and around me and all over the world. In 2015, I enrolled in American University, majoring in International Studies with a concentration in Human Rights and Peace, Global Security, & Conflict Resolution. I came to AU with these big hopes of becoming an International Criminal lawyer who would be the first to sue the United States for their crimes against humanity and win. This was a dream of mine in high school that I thought was more than possible… until I learned in the first two weeks of class that the United States never ratified any of the accords or treaties that allow them to be indicted and convicted. 

During my time at American University, I nurtured a keen eye and ability to deconstruct power dynamics through power mapping. When you add history as an element and as a perspective to see the present world around you, nothing comes as a surprise nor as impossible. I learned to walk with history at my side and affirm the path I decided to walk. I started off with direct action organizing on campus which sparked my creativity and spirit. I was on scholarship, so I couldn’t risk being caught doing some of the actions, especially actions that involved defacing school property. I learned the key to strategy, and most importantly – not getting caught lol. But also, I’ll never forget the space that these actions created for others, and that these direct actions are meant to be entry points, not final points and ends. There is so much work to be done after the protests, and if you’re not actively building community and connecting with people on a material level then these protests are empty. 

I learned this the hard way towards the end of 2015. I came back home to Chicago after weeks of heavy organizing and protesting back in DC. The energy felt like fire. I told myself I needed to rest, but then the (Laquan McDonald) footage was released. The people started to erupt, and that sense of obligation kicked in. A friend of mine texted me and asked if I was going. I said, “I wasn’t planning on it, but I think I will.” They wanted us to go together, but later in the night plans changed. My friend decided not to go, but I decided to go on my own. I arrived downtown and joined the protests, and within 25 seconds I was grabbed and about to be arrested. Somehow, I was able to de-arrest myself and ran through an alley. Everything was so hectic that I was able to blend back into the crowd and move toward the back. I knew this wasn’t going to be no lil march around the city. This was a fight. Maybe 20 minutes to 30 minutes later, Chicago Police began to kettle us in, and folks yelled, “Link up!” I ran to the next person I could find before the police officer who was right behind me on his bike. He got off his bike and proceeded to push me out of his way with his bike. I fell to the ground on a metal plate on the street in a construction zone. I’ll never forget him rolling his eyes, and disappearing into the crowd as I hop up and charge after him. I was ready to die that night. That was not the only instance of violence that happened to me that night, but it was the one that left the most damaging impact on my life. 

After that night, my body felt sore, achy, and more pain than I had felt in forever. And I played rugby. I could barely move, but I tried. By the time I got back to DC, my mobility just started to deteriorate. My back locked up, and the pain began to shoot through my spine. For over a year this became my life. I could be sitting down, chiefing and chillin with some friends, and all of a sudden I couldn’t get up. I can walk outside the house during a cold day, and I’m locked and immobile. My body is broken now, but what’s worse is the lack of access I had to support after this assault. I had no access to proper therapy or therapists who would understand movement issues. I had no access to be able to connect with the few folks who saw what happened to me. I had no access to any of the organizers or the street medics that were there. I had no access to a true community that could support me through this transition in my life. I’m barely 20 years old and I’m no longer able-bodied. I lost my autonomy in a sense. Most importantly, I lost the independence that I have relied on for my entire life. This is the beginning of my shift in politics around protesting and disability. 

This place between theory and lived experience changed what I considered activism/organizing and my role in this movement. I’m always ready to buck. I’ll always be ready to fight, but I refuse to be out in the streets and putting my body on the line for a few “organizers” who are using this moment as a launchpad for their ego. Today, with COVID still running rampant through our communities, we need to be more focused on moving with care within our actions and the spaces we’re curating. Our people will be changed forever, and we need our ideas of organizing to adapt to those changes. With that being said, we will also need to be armed with understanding and compassion as well, as there will be moments where the care we move with will fail. Or our care will not have had enough forethought. But we need to be able to distinguish and discern moments of failure from moments of pure negligence, disregard, and ego camouflage by pretty words. I will not support organizations, individuals, or collectives that continuously put people’s bodies on the line with no means of support for folks afterwards. I will not be sharing nor promoting empty marches that have strategy and only risk people’s lives for the photos and egos of a few. Those who invoke the names of our ancestors and dead for grants, recognition, and fame will not receive a lick of my attention.

After the assault and during my healing journey, I had been radicalized a lot and had very little faith in systems, and this only fueled my desire to find accountability and justice through true mediums defined by the people. Justice cannot be found in these systems where immunity and broad shields from accountability are built within its framework and foundation. But this sentiment is what has guided me here. My lack of trust in the system dwindled while my trust in my community, the people around me, their capabilities and potential grew. I believe in my people more than I ever will believe in what this government and its systems can do for me, for us. I believe this because I have seen the power of Black people. I have seen the power of Black Trans people. I have seen the power of poor and working-class Black people. All throughout history and time. I have seen our power, and it is the hope, the light I hold onto during these times. If I lead in any capacity, it is to keep that light alive and pass it onto those who need it, and whose light will only multiply its strength. 

I gained my trust in the power of the people through the Maroon House. The Maroon House focused on having an intentional safe space for Black Queer and Trans people. As a collective, they worked within the community to provide material necessities like food, clothing, educational resources and workshops, all of which worked to build a culture of resistance, self-reliance, people power, and sovereignty. I remember coming to the Maroon House (Peace House then) and just being welcomed with open arms. I’ll never forget Sima Lee passing me that clipboard with some paper and writing my name, email, and then my skills. I was soo stumped. Like skills? “What kind of skills?” “Whatever you do!” they said. I remember being very timid about what I could offer and probably wrote down some vague things. Give me that form now, and I could fill the page. The Maroon House and the programs we created, the business we ran- it showed me the depths of the responsibilities that are needed to fund and sustain a movement and a community. I had never felt so deep in the community until I was in that house. I feel like we all have moments of feeling community and togetherness, but I felt the most in that home with those people. And I think that the moments I started not to feel that way had more to do with my own pain and inability to be open with the people around me. In the Maroon House, I also learned how long this journey of healing is and how much pain I carry with me. More importantly, I was scared to rest. And that rest was what I needed to be a better comrade and friend to the people I love. The Maroon House was a sanctuary rooted in Black Anarchist history. It centered Black Trans and Queer people, but it was a safe haven for many. I’ll never forget the lives we touched. I’ll never forget the lives that touched me. When I think of community, that was it in every sense of the word. 

In 2017, I was blessed to be able to study abroad in Cuba, and I came across incredible Hip-Hop, Punk cultural spaces that lit a fire in me. Around this time, I lost a close friend and went through so many transitions. I connected with so many incredible souls who helped me realize my role within this movement, especially as an artist. I can no longer be the one out in the streets on the frontline. But I can make the soundtrack. I can inspire through my words and my ability to create and curate space. My actions take the form of gentle fans growing the fire. Music became a place for me to live in a way I couldn’t imagine. I had grown up with this dream of being in music since I was 5 hoping to have an influence that could change the world. But now, I have an ACTUAL political voice and vision. I understand now that the influence I wanted as a child was to create space for people to be heard and their visions to be nurtured into reality. My music is meant to be a vessel for imagination and world building, and since then I’ve been focused on trying to use my music to do exactly that. I want a home for myself and others to thrive.

The Future 🚀

I don’t believe in taking this role or position as a role model or leader but solely as a student. I believe that the only way I can utilize and leverage any resources through this position is to listen and genuinely engage with the work, theory, and initiatives to make DC a safer place for us to live. I want to bring CASS, a collective that reaches across the world, closer to the idea and reality of liberation, a new, alternative world order. In this role, I want to create more space for sex workers and their art to be appreciated while continuing to communicate their needs and demands. I want sex worker advocacy spaces to feel genuine and be spaces where folks can share resources or provide access to material resources. I want to detach the ego from this work a bit and focus on being of service and truly listening and learning alongside others. I’m excited to create more educational resources made through collaboration, research, and Spirit. I’m hoping to create more zines and newsletters that add to the conversation around transformative justice, handling conflict, and centering survivors. I’m confident that my lessons and experience will support CASS in building communal solutions to the violence we face in our lives. I look forward to finding ways to be responsive to marginalized Black folks’ needs in ways that honors, affirms, and cares for them, while not replicating exploitative and draining movement dynamics.