"When you watch a documentary called…idk what it’s called but, ‘White folks’ are sooooo pressed. Look at the early writings of the day…passages from Darwin to Sanger so intentionally crafted to describe the ‘Negro’ as less than, worthless, and lifeless…yet declaring they’re NOT PRESSED…*clears throat* while looking over shoulders, creating systems to guard their own existence, constructing lies to build false foundations now ain’t that a fairytale of a reality…?"
You ever already know you know something…like you’ve acknowledged your knowing and it is now housed in your very being, it forever effects you and no matter how much time has passed it remains substantial and just as necessary as it was the first day you came to know “it.” Picture yourself, patting yourself on the back while cheering dannnnng, shoutout to my curiosity and yearning for knowledge that has set out on a quest just to make my head a home for some real good real good smart stuff…just me? (Insert ego)
Well, that’s how I feel when I get to thinking about how essential representation is. Think about it like this as a person of color, I would suggest it safe to say, living in our America there has been an occasion where you/I have entered into a space and quickly, almost instantly shaped our own existence in that space based on how many faces that look like your/my own are looking back at you/me or how few.
That pure joy, I can only describe as shea butter shinin’, slayed edges having, extra five dollars in the wash finding, adulterated happiness with a side of you can’t say nothing to make me mad today……is generally my response the sum of my feelings when i see an abundant melanin glow shining back at me. () black people make me happy, like genuinely proud to share a heritage so strong and resilient the thought alone is an inspiration…
I think about how interactions like those are like fresh breaths of air, a boost to my soul, an understanding meets around locked eyes and head nod exchanges and that understanding just is and we let it be.
And then I think what if you/I lived in a world where you see you everywhere, on tv, you hear your stories, your voice falls on listening ears, your history writes you the victor, you are the captains of America and the theme music, the pursuers of happiness penned on that old page…how does that shape your psyche, how hard is it to quiet down your monster, how easy is it to dismiss the beast…perhaps too easy, and the collateral damage of power becomes an ugly, ugly thing.
2:
"I have to say a lot of people have been asking this question. No, really. A lot of people come up to me and they ask me. They say, 'What's 2+2'? And I tell them look, we know what 2+2 is. We've had almost eight years of the worst kind of math you can imagine. Oh my God, I can't believe it. Addition and subtraction of the 1s the 2s and the 3s. It's terrible. It's just terrible. Look, if you want to know what 2+2 is, do you want to know what 2+2 is? I'll tell you. First of all the number 2, by the way, I love the number 2. It's probably my favorite number, no it is my favorite number. You know what, it's probably more like the number two but with a lot of zeros behind it. A lot. If I'm being honest, I mean, if I'm being honest. I like a lot of zeros. Except for Marco Rubio, now he's a zero that I don't like. Though, I probably shouldn't say that. He's a nice guy but he's like, '10101000101,' on and on, like that. He's like a computer! You know what I mean? He's like a computer. I don't know. I mean, you know. So, we have all these numbers, and we can add them and subtract them and add them. TIMES them even. Did you know that? We can times them OR divide them, they don't tell you that, and I'll tell you, no one is better at the order of operations than me. You wouldn't believe it. So, we're gonna be the best on 2+2, believe me."
I’m at work, not working…do I enjoy what I do, as a program coordinator, yes I really do.
Do I love it? I don’t know. I don’t know much of what I love these days.
I have to find my niche, something I can do and something I am willing. The ability to work hard is here so somewhere between what I can do and what I am willing to do is the sweat equity and it’s ready to be paid.
I want to tell the story. I have always been interested in so much, good at a variety of things, but I feel like good has been my retaining wall. Just good.
I want to tell the story.
I’m good at design. I can make cool stuff. I’m good at writing. My poetry can be witty and my knack for composing language has a flowing style, can be prettily propped up from time to time. I’m good at performance…well, I’m ok. The stage doesn’t frighten me, but doesn’t always feel like home either. I’m good at singing, but most days I only do it to entertain myself and I’m ok with that. I’m good at being pleasant. I’m peaceful and optimism embodied…most days. I’m hopeful and thoughtful and just enough out of the way to be left alone. I’m in constant thought these days…I’m longing and I’m weak. I’m strong and always reminding myself of it.
I want to tell the story.
I want to be excited and effect change and know it. I want to help people. I want to feel all of this uncertainty and assuredness. Though it is ripping and pulling, I know it’s necessary. I tell myself this. I want to be honest and naked …vulnerable, until it hurts bad enough to know that maybe I’m not being truthful.
I want to love, but honestly think I much better at just like.
I am stretching and growing into all things beauty and blood.
I haven’t been painting or writing or creating purposefully lately, perhaps I have dismissed the necessity of these very things. They feed me. I am looking and changing and standing still and running through my thoughts. I think this is just living. It stirs up and settles, perhaps it just has been too long since the dust has blown around.
Be faithful. The dust will settle…await the moment to employ a swift swipe to clear my shoulders of the residue. The story is always being written.
“Victims of childhood abuse, rape survivors, and victims of domestic violence – or what I prefer to call domestic terrorism – are really good at one thing: feeling guilty. We can feel guilty about everything, particularly things that aren’t our responsibility. Victims are taught to feel responsible for the actions of perpetrators and, as a result, feel guilty about everything. And I mean everything.
When I got the restraining order against my mother, the relief I felt at not having to deal with her anymore was strained by the tremendous guilt I carried. Even though she was disruptive, disturbed, and dangerous, I still felt like I was hurting her. Although at time I claimed no specific religion, I was still steeped in a strong religious tradition and the fifth commandment, “Honor thy father and thy mother that thy days might be long upon the land which the Lord your God hath given thee.” Even two years after the restraining order, I was speaking with a friend who knew the details of the depths of my mother’s depravity, and I told her that, even though I had no plans of seeing my mother again, I felt like I owed her an apology. I felt bad for hurting her. My friend thankfully pointed out that I owed my mother nothing. I see now that the guilt I felt was really a fear of my mother’s wrath.
This guilt seeped into every aspect of my life. I felt guilty when someone would do something good for me. When I was in my twenties and living in Atlanta, I was in a car accident. Even though I walked away without a scratch, the car I was in was totaled. I remember being in shock and apologizing to the paramedics who were attempting to treat me. I remember saying to one of them, “I’m sorry for bothering you.” I called a friend of mine who came over right away and brought my dinner. I apologized to her for messing up her evening. She stayed with me until I went to sleep. The paramedic was doing his job, and my friend was offering me nurturance in a time of need, and yet I felt tremendously guilty and undeserving.”
[Headline image: The photograph shows a young black woman with black hair and dark eyes. She is wearing a brown top with a white blouse. She is resting her chin on her right hand with a serious expression. ]
