I don’t know anything about golf. Until very recently, it has for me simply been a(nother) way of dividing the world in two; people play golf and people who don’t. It worked because I neither play golf nor know anyone that does. Then I met Dyann.
Let me first say that I don’t think an aversion to golf is unreasonable, especially considering my own positionality. The golf/not golf line may not be as hard and fast as I imagined, but it would be hard to argue that it doesn’t tend to parallel axes of class, race, and gender, of which I fall on the ‘not golf’ side. To any golfers who are reading (and maybe feeling a bit salty about) my take on this, let me be clear; It is not that I take golf as my enemy, only that I cannot deny that the game has symbolised systemic injustices that my bones (ancestral and present day) are heavily coded to resist. In other words, my disinterest in golf is hardwired and this was never going to change without the intervention of something unimagineably irresistible. Enter a Black woman with a bag containing both golf clubs AND revolutionary spirit.
To be honest, when Dyann Heward-Mills—one of my co-founders at Protect Black Women—first mentioned golf, my only response was to laugh and forget about it. I have deep respect for the ways that our work both differs and converges. The complement works well, and I have made a habit of staying in my own lane. As someone not content with making a seat at the table for herself, Dyann also works hard to clear ways and set places for others. I am consistently impressed, not least because I know what commitment and energy it takes for Black women to make ways in worlds—such as corporate law—where we constitute a tiny minority. In my various roles—therapist, friend, colleague—I have listened to many Black women’s stories that speak to the struggles of not only making a way in, but also staying in various halls of power. What I learned, from personal experience in various institutions, is that I am not someone who is willing to practice the patience, vigilance, and resilience required for this kind of activism. These days, as I plan for my one wild and precious life, I try to minimise the ‘getting in’ kind of mission or activity—activity that I have recently taken to referring to as the work of incursion. When I say incursion, I mean the work of entering spaces (organisations, networks, clubs etc) that are—intentionally or not—hard to access. I mean the work of navigating glass cliffs and ceilings—stepping in and stepping up and weathering the frustrations, disappointments, and injustices that also weather us. I do NOT mean the ‘invasion’ or ‘attack’ that one might find in a dictionary definition of the word incursion. While, in the context of the heightened anti-immigration rhetoric that we are having to navigate in this time this definition does touch on trouble, I don’t think it serves us to look away. In fact, when we look deeper, we find the root of the word incur; in (toward) and cur (run); to run toward. When Black women move toward opportunities in the workplace or public life, the nature of the movement is not defined by them alone but also by who and what they meet. We look in the mirror and do not see invaders. We arrive as co-workers, colleagues, and teammates. It is through experience that we learn to anticipate our approach—our running toward—being responded to as if it were invasion. It is what we meet—whether open archways or revolving doors, runways or roadblocks, clearly marked routes to power or labyrinths of fortified and hidden operations rooms—that tells us where we are. Sometimes, on discovering terrain that is hostile, we become rebels with a cause; our incursions become insurgency. Often though, like actress Francesca Amewudah-Rivers, our incursions are not intentional at all; They are more like accidental arrivals and not the work we signed up for. What is it to be simply doing ones job and have others—in this case not colleagues or managers but complete strangers—cast us as invaders and pile abuse on us simply for being in the room? Francesca continues with beauty and grace, both calling for action and refusing to let what she meets to get between her and the work she loves. What is it though, to be someone like me—someone who, after a recce of this terrain, decides to run not toward but away from?
It’s a dry day at the end of a hot August. We arrive at the gate. It is rather imposing. It is also closed. Having never been inside, or tried to get inside a golf course, this does not feel like a good start. One of us takes the lead—gets out of the car and calls through the fence to a group of men playing golf inside. How do we get in? It turns out we are too far away from the gate to activate the sensor. Had we driven closer, they say, it would have opened automatically. I suspect this is a learning metaphor but right now there’s no time to play with its possible meanings. We want to be on time for the meet so why are we walking so slowly (definitely not running) toward the club house? Are we concerned that if we move too fast, we will be mistaken for invaders? Is our consciousness weighted with the possibility that our very presence will alarm the people relaxing on the clubhouse terrace? Should we sit here to wait for the others and risk being told that this is a member only space? Will we survive the humiliation of being told that we are not allowed? Suffice to say that racialised experience engenders its own unique sensitivities and questions. After a few tentative moments, I see other Black women start to arrive—faces unfamiliar to me, yet each one wearing a smile of recognition. We become mirrors to each other’s newness in this place—read; shy, curious, excited. I think of Audre Lorde; Good Mirrors Are Not Cheap and what it means for Black women who have become used to anticipating hostility to see confirmation of welcome; the possibilities of a space where we want to be and want each other to be. The space expands again as Nicola Bennett—another Black woman smiling and our coach for the day—approaches and invites us onto the putting green. What I notice in my body is that an unimaginable thing called golf has begun to feel possible.
Whether our incursions are intentional, accidental, or the projections of phobogenic minds, we are forced to learn how to navigate this territory. Some of us learn to anticipate that the journey is going to be tough—we learn to gather ourselves and come again; to get ready to fight for a seat at the table; to stand and represent; to be where the decisions are made and deals are done. Some of us learn that arriving in the room is not the end but the starting point and rather than congratulate ourselves on being one of a few ‘diverse’ faces, we learn to keep our gaze on who is not present and focus on inequity, access, and justice. Some of us learn—sometimes quickly but often after years of struggle—to turn away. We pivot in another direction, perhaps we choose the margin as a space of radical openness that “nourishes one’s capacity to resist [and] offers to one the possibility of the margin as a space of radical perspective from which to see and create, to imagine alternatives, new worlds” (bell hooks 1989). Or, to draw on more popular culture, some of us learn it’s time to stop getting in and GET OUT; to reapply our energies away from strategies of incursion and toward more excursive possibilities. The possibilities here are infinite because excursions can take many forms. I think of Black girls hike and Peaks of Colour creating opportunities to get together outdoors. I think of the coffee mornings and support groups run by Black Women Rising. I think of artists like Barby Asante whose work includes making spaces to grieve, celebrate, create and perform together. I even think back to the seaside coach trips that I probably took for granted in my youth because I had yet to realise the part that they played in making the spaces of respite where we could practice freedom and imagine beyond the slog of antiracist struggle. Excursion, as I define it, is work or practice that, rather than taking ‘a seat at the table’ as its primary aim, centres the creation of spaces where we can find out more about—and make—what nourishes us.
A soundtrack accompanies our practice. As we putt, the spirit of a little wine/whine enters hips and loosens shoulders. Are the tunes a part of the coaching methodology—part of what helps us develop familiarity with putters and drivers, mid irons and tees? It’s clear that Nicola is a golf coach who through her own enjoyment of the game, understands what joy makes possible in terms of learning. In a few hours, as well as some skills, I acquire some highly practical knowledge (Q: What should you do if you hear someone shout fore? A: Duck and cover your temples, the ball is heading in your direction). I learn, through the personal testimony of others, what golf has made possible in their own lives. I am deeply touched by the experience that Julia Regis, Senior Independent Director on the Board of England Golf, shares of her gratitude to her late husband Cyrille for introducing her to the game that provided a sanctuary whilst she navigated the impact of his sudden death. For Julia, golf is a passion that allows her to be physically active, be in nature, meet wonderful people, and manage stress and anxiety. She is not alone in testifying to the link between golf and wellbeing. Like waiting ages for a bus and then finding that two come along at once (is this a UK or London-only reference?) I have waited a long time to meet a Black woman golfer and now I find them everywhere.
Some of what I learn about golf confirms my assumptions. Yes, sustainability is an issue. While there are golf courses that consider themselves more eco-friendly than others, even they acknowledge that environmental damage is a major issue—particularly in relation to the vast amount of water that golf courses require for their maintenance. Yes, golf and power connect. Golf is more than a game—or at least is a player in more than one game at a time. A lot of business is done on golf courses. Research into the networking benefits of playing golf highlights that 90% of Fortune 500 CEOs play golf. Data suggests only 5% of these CEOs are women and that even fewer are Black. Some research suggests that a “tendency toward gender modesty” and thinking that one has to be good at golf or understand a lot of difficult rules in order to play are among the factors that keep women off of the fairway. This is the context within which the Women’s Inclusive Golf Initiative Clinics (through which I got my first taste of golf) are working to influence change. You can find out more about them at @inspiringgolfinclusion.
Some of what I learn is though, much harder to name or quantify and because of this, is deeply interesting to me (I am after all, a therapist). The closest I can come to expressing this right now is to say that I notice the slow release of a potential for new shapes; the potential for a me that I do not know (yet) whose being might not be traversed so sharply by a line called golf/not golf—a person who could, if she so chose, be a golfer.
The golf excursion unsettled what I thought I knew, complicated the separation between people who golf and don’t. It also unsettled another line that I have been using to guide my actions—that between incursion and excursion. Partly it was incursion—entering and taking up space in an environment that can operate as elite, exclusive, white, and male. Partly excursion—Black women getting out together; a day trip with some singalong tunes, where we learn new moves (drives and swings) and enjoy good conversation. And of course, the vital ingredient for excursions throughout time—a little cooked food. With a few added ingredients, joy is sparked; Incursion and excursion move closer and start to dance; lose track of where one ends and the other begins; forget themselves.
Maybe—like people who do and don’t play golf—incursion and excursion are not separated by a dividing line at all; are revealed in fact, as beyond a binary. If so, this also changes my (our) strategies for navigation. It is no longer as simple as choosing between two distinct modes of activism—to get in or get out. The choice becomes to notice how getting in and getting out—incursion and excursion—dance together across the spectrum of possibility and possible action in which they exist. The choice becomes to notice and reflect on the direction of our activisms. In this way we get to consider the balance required for our precious lives and to decide when and how (and where and with who) to engage these different modes. The spectrum of possibility that a little bit of golf has made visible to me—while complex and not entirely comfortable—is a world where Black women get to choose more; Choose to engage with golf in all the ways that make sense to them; Choose to engage by learning more about golf and where and how it is played; Choose to engage by entering competitions; Choose to engage by playing with friends; Choose to engage by critiquing and taking action to address unsustainability; Choose to engage by supporting the work being done to make golf more inclusive, and less environmentally damaging. Incursion, excursion, a little bit of golf and a long way to go.
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