Note: this is just a worldbuilding, freewriting exercise.
It’s a random Sunday night and you’re sitting in a tiny kitchen, shoveling a plate of food into your face. This is Mimi’s kitchen and it’s definitely a working witch’s space. Potted plants hang in coffee cans in the window above the sink. An open mason jar labeled “gold dust” sits on the counter next to the adobo spice powder she swears by when she cooks. She’s barefoot, in a t-shirt and basketball shorts (both stolen from her husband’s closet), thick platinum blond box braids trailing carelessly down her back. …
I keep absorbing blows from people who “mean well” because I’d still rather hurt myself than see them in pain. Here’s a little background.
I gained a whole third family- grandparents, aunts and uncles- when my little brother was born. It was 1994, about four years since my parents split and I was six years old. My dad had made a new life with my stepmom in North Dakota and from the moment we met, they all claimed me.
Up until this point, my world was small. It was my mother’s newly found refuge in church. The house my grandparents…
Deal with it, or don’t; I’m giving myself permission to feel everything.
I have started this post about six times. It’s been a while since I’ve posted anything at all, here. Mostly, because I never know who I’m reaching and I hate speaking into the Void. But, screw it, here goes:
Tuesday morning, I watched a video of a black man slowly dying. And, now my city- Minneapolis- is on fire. And, this weekend, is the 99th anniversary of the Tulsa Massacre. And I am mad as Hell.
There is this burning in my chest when I think on it…
Are you the landscaper they employ to give the finger to climate change by keeping their lawns emerald green?
Are you the teacher getting payed pennies to reinforce a history that casts their children as the righteous victors? Not getting paid enough to nurture that inborn sense of entitlement, am I right?
Are you the cook flipping the emotion-support burger they shame eat because their trainer kicked their butt at Cross Fit?
Whoever you are, just know that this machine doesn’t stop unless you decide to stop it. You fuel their American Dream.
I am an angry and disenchanted African…
Our Unwillingness To Act Costs Children Their Future
December 14, 2012 left me truly horrified.
A gunman had just massacred twenty children and six adults at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT, before turning the gun on himself. I was working retail at the time and a friend of mine pulled me off the sales floor to show me the news. She knew Connecticut was my home state and that I was, and am always, plugged in to what happens there.
As the death toll rose, I felt this sick, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. All…
Unapologetically Occupying White Dominated Spaces as a Solo Black Woman
I’ve decided that- at age thirty-one, I am going to show up in spaces that don’t traditionally include us (women of color)and just stand there.
If I offend you by just existing in the same space as you then tough nuts. My solitary, plus sized black girl magic will add seasoning to your beige surroundings. And I’ll do so without the cosign of one of my (perfectly lovely) white friends standing beside me to justify my presence.
We Are Running Out Of Time.
As I write this, New Orleans is flooding- again.
Tropical Storm Barry is morphing into Hurricane Barry and, if history repeats itself, this storm will cut a decisive path of destruction through New Orleans- and it hasn’t even made landfall yet. The current winds are 20–30 mph and still picking up speed, bringing with them the potential to level trees and power lines leaving vulnerable neighborhoods without power.
But the real danger is in the water.
Three unearned advantages that opened doors for me and how I shoulder that responsibility.
My mother is a quiet force to be reckoned with. She is my earliest tutor in the legacy of black women’s endurance and my gold standard of generosity; the yardstick I use to measure my own good works. My mother taught me to be thankful because, “No matter how bad it gets, someone else has it worse.”
When I was around twelve, she was volunteering to serve on a food truck outside of our church on Wednesday nights before bible study. …
Myself in two spaces.
I am an uneducated, mentally ill, thirty-one year old black woman with opinions on everything. Eleven years outside of the ghetto I grew up in- shout out to the East End of Bridgeport, CT- I haven’t figured out how to navigate the world with ease just yet.
Eleven years spent in the whitest of spaces- the Twin Cities- and a large part of me wants to crawl back to what I know. I’d do dark things for a decent plate of greens and cornbread. Or, a good Chinese food place that’s open past ten. I want…