Blessed to be Black
To be Black is a blessing. Always a blessing.
Never a curse. Never will I despise God for painting my skin a cool caramel tone. Never have I, nor will I, ever wish my Blackness away.
Black skin is oh so beautiful. Every shade, from the lightest of light to the darkest of dark, is dripping with diamonds and gold.
Black hair is regal. Natural crowns placed upon our heads by God. I comb and brush my kinky tresses, but never tame them. They were met to be free, reaching for the sun like my ancestors on the slave ships grasping at light between the wooden boards of the main deck.
Black culture is rich. Why else would others emulate it? Rich with laughter, rich with joy, rich with love. It is why we never age. It is how we grow fruit to nourish future generations. How else could we have survived this long?
My Blackness is the greatest gift I could ever receive. Thank you, God, for adorning my being with Black skin, Black hair, Black culture. Thank you for creating me in the likeness of my ancestors. I cannot fathom a more perfect lineage.
Photo taken by Jerris Franklin
Mourning Morning?
I recently found out that my maternal grandfather passed away. Many would see this as a sad event. Many would shed a tear. But I don’t feel anything for him. He was not a good man. I have no emotional ties to him…unless anger and disgust count? I am angry that he didn’t apologize to my mom for everything he did. Closure is bullshit, but she at least deserved reasons for his actions and a chance to recover from her childhood trauma. So, I’m not mourning him. I am mourning my mom’s lost opportunity to get answers and the connection with her dad that she craved. For that I can never forgive him. My mom deserves better and I hope to God she can find that within herself. I plan to burn some sage and play some healing frequencies to help my mom begin her healing journey. Pray for us, send positive vibes, but most importantly mourn the losses you refuse to acknowledge. Begin the healing process for your own sake. Give yourself the better you deserve.
“Is that your real hair? ... Can I touch your hair? ... That's so ghetto ... No offense but Black girls aren't my type ... I thought gay girls secretly wanted dick ... Wait, you're gay?! Do you think I'm cute? Would you fuck me? ... Why would a woman ever be president? ... Bitches always complain about cramps, just get on birth control if it's that bad ... You're pretty cool for a dyke ... So, you've never wanted dick? Like ever?! ... Are you having chicken at your graduation party? ... Geez you're bitchy today, is it that time of the month? ... I need 2 forms of ID ... Don't all Black people smoke [weed]? ... 2 girls can't have sex! There's no dick! ... She's only wearing that for attention ... All Lives Matter ...”
—Microaggression, the list goes on
Lonely…
Explaining my loneliness to my boyfriend was difficult. I could tell from his crestfallen expression that he was defeated. Tough conversations just have to be had sometimes. I love him with every ounce of my being. My boyfriend is my life partner. I am certain of this, I just know it to be true. But the desire to have a connection with other queer Black women forever lingers in the inner most crevices of my brain. A platonic connection, a friendship with someone (or a group of people) who understands me because that person experiences similar situations in everyday life.
I understand that validation must come from within. I believe self-love and self-appreciation is the key to mental peace. But I also know feeling validated, heard, understood, respected by someone else is comforting. It is imperative to my survival as an individual with intersectional identities. My boyfriend has made great efforts to provide validation and respect for my queerness, he really has, but I do think it is hard for him to step into my shoes and to care about the issues that are important to me because they are not issues he deals with.
There’s only so many podcasts I can listen to, only so many books I can read, only so many Twitter and Instagram profiles of queer Black women I can follow. Nothing compares to an in-person connection with someone, a friend you can vent to, rely on, cry with, and understand.
You see, I’ve felt this loneliness for most of my life. A lot of people don’t understand it. When I got the chance to finally have that connection with another girl like me, she took advantage of my vulnerability. I gave up hope on finding a genuine connection. But now that I’m secure in my love for my boyfriend, I feel I’m ready to stop being lonely and have a friend who looks like me, hurts like me, advocates like me. I can be patient. I know it will happen, it just might take time.
To live as a woman takes patience.
To live as a queer person takes confidence.
To live as a Black person takes strength.
To live as all three takes everything you have, and then some…
yet I take the risk to simply live.
All Black Lives
Tonight I pray for healing.
Tonight I pray for understanding.
Tonight I pray for peace.
Tonight I pray for patience.
Weary is my mind.
Weary is my heart.
Weary is my soul.
Yet still, I carry on.
I want justice for ALL Black lives. We cannot, I repeat, we cannot obtain true liberation if we leave some of us behind. Black Trans Women deserve better. Black Trans Men deserve better. Black Queer People deserve better. Black people with intersectional identities must be listened to, must be cared for, must be represented in our movements.
Black family, we must. do. better.
#ALLBlackLivesMatter #BlackTransLivesMatter #BlackLifeMatters
Credit: Black Trans Advocacy Coalition (BTAC)