The city was no exotic landmark for any of us homegrown New York surburbanites, but we still all scrambled for bus seats as we headed to New York City for our high school Fashion Design field trip. We were seniors, caught in that giddy sort of post-exams state, knowing graduation and all that lay beyond … Continue reading blacklisted
After my second time watching Black Panther, my friend and I (both black women in our 20s) could not stop texting each other, overwhelmed by the urgency to unpack the film in all its layers. While we dived into a number of topics (the brilliance of all the kickass black women being one of them), … Continue reading watch your tone as you mourn the body
I saw a spider once. I was 14, absently pushing the lawnmower forward across my front yard, and then I froze. A web hung only inches from my face, suspended between the spiked branches of a fir tree. And there it was--the spider. The size of a glass bead, it watched me with a dozen … Continue reading storm progression
“A man devoid of hope and conscious of being so has ceased to belong to the future.” Albert Camus Last night I committed an act of resistance: I allowed myself to feel. When the hashtags announcing the death of another person of color cease as a trend and become a weekly inevitability, numbness feels like … Continue reading the sisyphus prayer
Jordan Edwards is dead. When I lift my fingers to type, they drum down on the keys with the weight of this--the names of the people Racism has stolen from my communities. They are not just headlines that will pass away; they are not just bodies behind bars. Yet I live in a country where … Continue reading to write and riot: one year later
I've never been strapped to a chair in preparation for lobotomy, but when I saw the horror in David Kaluuya's eyes as his character's desperate situation dawned on him, I discovered that the pounding of my heart in sync with his was not new...it was familiar. I didn't know what to expect when I sat … Continue reading getting out: part I
Frustration sets in as I navigate through my expectations of my white friends and whether those expectations are fair or not. When another race-related event turns up, I find myself waiting for them to reach out to me. I don't need a full conversation or a therapy session with them--just a text asking if I'm okay. I find myself yearning for their acknowledgement that the racism underlying both the daily realities and big, mainstream-worthy headlines affects me in a different way. Then I have to inevitably sort through those thoughts and question if I'm really asking for their recognition of my hurt or for their permission to express it.