(Un)believable
I was told I was lying. I was told no one would believe my story. I was told people would turn on me because my rapist was popular in school. Some said it wasn’t rape because there was no penis involved. But I knew what I experienced. I knew what happened. I knew I said “No.” I knew I said “Stop.” Yet others tried to tell me what really happened. Survivors already deal with so much. Why must we also have to prove that our bodies were stolen from us? Most people don’t know the painful healing process you must go through to reclaim power, to reclaim control, to reclaim your body.
I was scared to wear bathing suits. I refused to look in the mirror while getting dressed. I covered my body in hoodies and sweat pants. I started shopping exclusively in the men’s section of clothing stores because I liked a “baggier” style. I said I was going to become someone new, someone who would never be taken advantage of again. It’s painful to think you have to completely change yourself to survive. I watched more and more of myself wash away down the drain as I got ready every morning. I felt my joy seeping from my joints with every passing day. Eventually I was lost.
It wasn’t until I participated in a #TakeBackTheNight peaceful protest march at my undergrad that I started to find myself again. This was an event that spotlighted survivors of sexual assault and encouraged them to regain control over their lives. I was too afraid to disclose my experience or label myself as a survivor because I did not think I would be believed. Although the experience was empowering, I knew that it was only the first step of my healing journey.
10 months after marching, I found the courage to read my poem Healing Is…Healing Isn’t to a small crowd of strangers (and a few friends) in a tiny coffee shop. As I performed my poetry, I felt an intense, positively-charged connection with my audience. People cried, people laughed, people smiled. For the first time in a long time, I was seen, I was heard, I was believed.
I know I am believable because my story is true. No one can silence my truth.
Year 24
God has blessed me with another year of life! Cheers to 24 years! This year was my ‘golden’ birthday, too, because I turned 24 on the 24th of July! *Cues Golden by Jill Scott* I’m looking forward to this chapter of my life story.
If you would’ve asked me 10 years ago where I would be now, I would’ve told you I’d be married with kids and going to school to become a pediatrician. Welp, none of those things have happened, lol. I’m not rushing marriage or kids (at all!) and I have a new career path. I’m in my second year of a Clinical Mental Health Counseling program and loving it so far!
I just moved into my first apartment, my very own space that I can enjoy and somewhere I can entertain guests. I do love having company but I am also starting to appreciate and value alone time for the first time in my life. I guess that kind of awareness comes with each year that passes.
In short, I am officially 24 and this will be my Golden Year! I am manifesting this until next year when God blesses me with my quarter-century year!
*Live everyday like it’s golden*
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