The Lost Files: December 2015

A while back I promised you guys I would publish some of my thoughts I wasn't brave enough to share with you in the past. I'm making good on that today. So here is an uncut, unedited entry I started on December 13, 2015 and never quite finished. Perhaps because this story is still playing out on cell phones, laptops, and TV screens across the country. Enjoy.

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I should be asleep. I want to be. But I can’t. I have thirty seven names running through my head, reminding me that threat of terrorism is now my way of life.

3SB:

• I was in tenth grade when 9/11 happened.
• I went to a hoity toity prep school in Gates Mills
• I lived in East Cleveland.

The juxtaposition of my ‘normal’, neighborhood life and the brave new world that was Hawken was never made more clear than on September 11, 2001. I was sitting in the computer lab when an image of the blazing twin towers enveloped the screen. We all thought it was yet another cleverly executed prank pulled off by our then anonymous student hacker- a disruptive f*(@ you towards the establishment of regimented block scheduling and standardized testing.

By the time the second plane hit, we realized this was no laughing matter. I should say my mind went immediately to the safety of ,my family- my Aunt worked downtown and Cleveland had been listed as a potential target city, but I was sixteen and in love with the idea of love, so my first thoughts were of Jerry X, a businessman’s son with a poetic soul who was doing his senior project in New York City.

My concept of the world was embarrassingly small at the time. New York City to me meant right next door to the Twin Towers, maybe even in the Twin Towers. Jerry’s Dad was an Important Man, so his finance internship had to bring him to the Twin Towers on an almost daily basis, my juvenile mind reasoned.

My campus was locked down. Terrified parents were demanding the school send us home, but for our safety, we were confined to the building. Cell phones, which were still pretty much a new thing, were down. No one knew anything except that the TERROR ALERT was red.

School lifted the lockdown eventually and sent us all home. Jerry X was fine and so was my aunt. Our trip to the International  Choral Festival in Prague was canceled due to safety concerns. And there was an evening, and there was a morning, a new day.

Life went on. At least, it did in my neighborhood. There was no fear of terrorist retaliation in EC. We knew our worth as victims was equal to our worth as citizens: zero.

Even at sixteen years old I was able to grasp the simple concept of relative danger: I felt safer at home than I did at school.

Fear is an interesting thing: the amount you feel is directly relative to the perceived feasibility of the threat to you and your close associates. For white America, the fear of foreign terrorism is salient. Their status as default Americans makes them likely targets for the mentally disturbed subset of extremist ideologues to vent their hatred on.

For black America, the threat of domestic terrorism is much more primary than foreign extremism, the probability of being killed by police in one’s own neighborhood far more tangible than the imagined peril of being blown up by the owner of the local bodega.

This is MY ISIS, and it’s nothing new.

Your terrorists are hunted down through means ethical and unethical. Ours are placed on paid administrative leave. Think about that for a minute. People suspected of domestic terrorism are actually paid by taxpayers while their involvement is decided.

Yeah, that just happens. Everyday.

Where is the paid leave for Syed Farook? Oh wait, he’s dead.

His voice is just one of the forty I have haunting my brain, the unnamed masses that have been killed by police this month.

Did I say thirty seven earlier? Oh yeah, it’s gone up since I started writing.

I have a friend, a mother figure of sorts, whose nephew was killed by police a few days ago. I went online to find out more details about the case, having heard about it through another friend and not wanting to pry secondhand. I wanted to find his name so I could pray for his family and friends.

Instead, I found forty pair of sightless eyes staring at me in accusation.

As I wrote down the names of these men and women aged 18 to 66, the quiet seething storm of rage began to brew in me.

Prayer was not enough. Writing their names not enough. Blogging (even outside the box), is not enough. Justice, like international terrorism seems a distant dream when faced with stories like that of Robert Hinton, a former Rikers inmate who was awarded a sizable settlement when correctional officers hogtied and beat him for fun.

Hinton’s case led to five firings and nearly half a million in cold, hard cash from the city. Unfortunately, Hinton was killed just blocks away from Rikers, weeks before he was to receive his remunerations check.

He was a father. He was a fighter. He was a nigger.

Only I am too. How am I supposed to sleep knowing the terrorists are out there, laying in wait for me and my people,  with guns and the full support of the United States government?

I can’t. I promised to Choose Change, but in the face of such insurmountable odds, beneath the clouds of structural racism, what woman can see the silver lining?

The forty men and women who have lost their lives at the hands of police in December are victims 1088-1127 since January of this year- eight times the amount of people killed in the Paris attacks. How much more are we supposed to take? Which black body will be the last straw, the spark that sends a deeply racially divided country up in flames?

The issue seems too large, and the more I discover, the less I realize I knew. I’m spiraling out, or, as my bestie would say, going down the rabbit hole. I find myself on the FBI vault, reading reports about how white supremacist organizations have been infiltrating police stations since 2006 using a technique the Feds call ‘ghost-skinning’. To further complicate matters, the same prosecutors that depend on police cooperation to win cases are responsible for bringing charges against the very officers who ensure their paychecks.

The system has not been corrupted, it is corrupt. Policing in the United States is rooted in the control and dominion over brown bodies. According to encyclopedia.com, the colonies relied mainly on a system of community policing called night watches.

“In addition to night watch systems, there were sheriffs appointed by the governor and constables elected by the people. These individuals were responsible for maintaining order and providing other services. [Researchers] Nalla and Newman have described the following as problems plaguing colonial cities that were considered the responsibility of police: controlling slaves and Indians; maintaining order; regulating specialized functions such as selling in the market and delivering goods; maintaining health and sanitation; managing pests and other animals; ensuring the orderly use of streets by vehicles; controlling liquor, gambling, vice, and weapons; and keeping watch for fires.”

Note that the primary responsibility of our earliest police officers was to control black and brown bodies. The racial residue from the institution’s inception persists in modern day, reminding me that black and brown bodies have not been criminalized- they are (and always have been) criminal.

The highly militarized tactics we employ in policing black and brown bodies have become the proverbial ‘backfiring gun’ in America’s face. Out of the 1,140  Americans killed by police so far this year, more than half of them were white. Most were Christians. Eighteen were children. This is not Justice.

I’m used to fighting the system. I’ve been doing it all my life. Reality has tempered my idealism to the point where I am no longer surprised by Pyrrhic victories. But I have no idea what to do when the system itself is the problem, when there is no victory, hollow or otherwise, to be had. If White lives don’t matter-- if Jeremy Mardis’ life doesn’t matter, black and brown lives don’t stand a chance.

I’m ready to give up when a scripture comes to mind: ““Be strong and courageous, and do the work. Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord God, my God, is with you. He will not fail you or forsake you until all the work... is finished.” (1 Chronicles 28:20) .

I chose change and I’m sticking to it if the police it kills me. I don’t have any answers yet,  just a burning feeling in my gut and plenty of questions. I force myself to lay down, zen out, and get some rest before sunrise. I’m going to need it. I’ve got work to do.

12.30.15

I walked away from this hoping that prayer and a steady diet of positive quotes would make things better. I even started another post about women and politics (my number two and three favorites to write about) and why Hillary will never be President.

I had the best of intentions, I promise. But then the Sandra Bland verdict came out. I am reminded of Roxane Gay’s eloquently condemning op ed for the Times last July where she said: “As a black woman, I feel this tragedy through the marrow of my bones. We all should, regardless of the identities we inhabit.”

Two days later, the Tamir Rice verdict was released.

This visceral loss is no longer something I can continue to ‘wait for an appropriate time’ to discuss. I am both unwilling and unable to be that patient.

Writers like Roxane Gay and Ta Nehisi Coates have the cloak of publicity to shield them from recompense when writing about the physicality of racism. Somehow, I doubt my meager readership qualifies as sufficient insulation. So when I speak about Sandra Bland, I do it with full cognizance that I am Sandra Bland, that if I am killed, no justice is forthcoming for my corpse, and that in some ways people will feel that I was asking for it.

I’m going to do it anyway. I’m going to keep at it because while death is a certainty, living free is not.

... And now, back to your regularly scheduled psychobabble

As the six of you who regularly read my little column may have noticed, I struggle with depression. I was officially diagnosed in 2011, although I probably should have been outed somewhere around 2005.

Anyway, fighting depression is about having the mental discipline to feed your mind only positive information, the physical discipline to exercise your body enough to keep yourself in a constant state of endorphin induced euphoria, and the spiritual humility to beg for mercy and guidance when all else fails.

It’s like being on Paleo while doing a crossfit 30 day challenge.

Except my cheat days generally end with me crying in the shower.

So I apologize if you were totally unprepared for my last post, I was too.

I have been pretty dissatisfied with my life lately and finally decided to stop whining about it and actually do something about it.

I’m thirty one. I know what I think I should be doing right now. Kicking ass at business. Taking names on the dating scene. Changing the world with wry prose and witty peri-apocalyptic romance novels.

Instead, I find myself sitting in the basement, holding a pity party of one, frantically refreshing my Etsy inbox, hoping for a sale.

Well I refuse to squander my gifts any longer, and I refuse to live my life in any kind of box-- not even one of my own making.

An old friend helped me come to this realization on Independence day.

I know what you’re thinking.

And yes, as a matter of fact, we did  go to middle school together.

CK, my gorgeous, crazy, amazingly intelligent and funny Blendian friend has the kind of hair black girls dream about. It’s dense yet fine, soft, with lots of body and fluffy ringlets when air dried.

#hairenvy

No heat damage, thanks 2 GGC

So of course, she loves it when I straighten it.

I’ve gotten a lot better at taming her mane over the past ‘sixteen years. Still, she was in my ‘studio’ long enough for me to decide that I was definitely going to finish growing my hair out, that I had amazing products that truly worked miracles, and that I had to be more aggressive about going after the things I wanted-- in all aspects of life.

So I joined Bumble, made a seven page life plan, strapped on my big girl panties and waded into the murky, questionably toxic bay that is life.

I’m determined to be open. And I actually kind of love Bumble (I already have a date!).

I am taking advantage of the beautiful Cleveland summer by getting out there and participating in as many vending events as possible (I have ten shows this month so far).

Unfortunately, so much time spent living life outside the box gives me considerably less time to write about it, so necessity dictates that either the quality, frequency, or length of my posts will suffer.

I’m choosing length.

I refuse to give up on my writing or squander any of my numerous talents. So while I’m no Polonius, I’m going to give that brevity-is-the-soul-of-wit thing a try.

You’ll get shorter posts, more often.

I’ll get to have a life worth writing about and less shower sob-fests.

It’s a win-win.

Social Media Does Not Cure Depression

The funny thing about social media is how it allows you to be both completely transparent and remarkably full of shit simultaneously.

I blog about life (in general) and my life (occasionally and specifically). I write the things I cannot stand to hold in any longer without hope that someone else will read them or understand them. I don’t care if you agree them. I don’t even particularly care if you understand.

But I need you to read them. And I need you to try and understand.

If you knew what a hot mess I really am, you would leave me. Hate me. Leave this page, and pity me, shame me.

I feel ashamed now, even thinking me.

If you knew how hard it was for me to get out of bed every morning, you would consider me a miracle.

If you knew how abysmal my finances were, you would tell me to get a job.

If you had to wear my skin, keep my secrets, bear my burdens, you would jump.

Most days the ledge is long, the horizon is far, and the shoreline within sight.

But today I am sinking, eyes half filled with tears I have forgotten how to spill. The lies I tell myself to keep going are harder to hear today.

I would unburden myself with these small truths, but, the truth is, they are not mine to tell.

My lie is constructed and interconnected with others like a house of cards built atop a jenga game. One false step and we will all come crashing down.

My secrets are not 1600 Pennsylvania avenue secure, they are 1655 Cumberland insecurities. I could tell you, but then I would have to kill myself.

I can tell you this:

Sometimes when you see me and I have bags under my eyes, it’s because I spent the night crying. I have two periods a month and they suck ass.

I have severe anxiety issues that make it hard for me to eat.

I know a lot of people, but don’t have a lot of friends.

I live below the poverty level.

Where does depression hurt? Every-fucking-where.

Choosing Change Part III: Thank God I’m Black in America

The title of this week's post may come as a surprise to my regular readers (all five of you). That’s because, typically, I use this space to rant about life’s injustices, racial disparity, false faith, and generally all the way that it sucks to be black in America.

But racism, like all types of suffering, is relative.

Last year I promised to choose change, to try and be a better person, and to look for the good in the world.

I’m not always up to it, but today as I was working on my business plan, setting goals for my future, it suddenly occurred to me how profoundly blessed I am to be black in a country where owning a business can be more than a pipe dream, where people who look like me have adequate buying power to be considered a market segment, and where people who don’t look like me enthusiastically purchase and promote my brand.

When you think about it, being black in America, as bad as it is, is significantly better than being black most anywhere else in the world (except maybe Canada. Canada rocks!)

Don’t believe me?

Let’s look at the facts.

We already know that 62 people make more than half of the world combined. Now let’s look at where the poor people live:

Urban population living in slums:

Slums. Not ghettos...

Slums.

Now look at where people live on less than $2 per day:

Now look at where people are starving:

Now look at where people don’t live very long:

Seeing a pattern yet?

But Ajah, you might ask, what about those countries that are always in the Blue or Grey? Surely it can’t suck to be black everywhere!

Hmm, ok.

Let’s take Italy for example. They have a concept of Esterofilia, or a love of all things foreign. Yet it didn’t stop them from creating this awesome(ly racist) cartoon:

[Hint...teach your children racism from the cradle. It sticks better that way!]

Esterofilia is also some small comfort to Cecile Keyenge, Italy’s first black government minister. Fellow members of government threatened her with violence and likened her to an orangutan. Citizens threw bananas at her on her way to work on building a better Italy.

This article profiles a Bolivian writer and filmmaker in Australia and the racism she experienced while living there. If a hot, smart Bolivian wasn’t feeling the love, I doubt ‘chocolate me’ would fare much better.

I won’t even discuss blacks living in Asia, where pale skin and waiflike physiques are the standard of beauty.

Even in Brazil, where blacks are the majority of the population, discrimination is rampant, and hate crimes against black trans women are everyday occurrences.

Chew on this: Brazil is 51% black. Yet they have ONE prime time TV show with black leads.

We have Scandal, Blackish, the Carmichael show, Empire, Rosewood, The Daily Show, The Nightly Show, Little Big Shots, Truth Be Told, CHicago Med, Chicago Fire, Orange is the New Black, How to Get Away With Murder, Underground, and many, many more.

They have: Mister Brau, which is basically an evening soap about Brazil’s Jay-Z and Beyonce.

Sisters living in the UK routinely pay up to $20 for a single pack of kanekalon braiding hair.

Outside of Canada, no (developed) country seems to love and accept black beauty as much as the United States.

Don’t get me wrong, we have our problems-- the black community still doesn’t have much significant power in the States, but we do have influence, both locally and globally.

When America is at his worst and I wonder if it’s worth it to keep fighting (versus immigrating to Canada), I remember this:

Black and Brown people across the diaspora look to me and other Americans of African descent to forge a path, shoot for the stars and fail like lightning; dream; defy; demand; debate; to be beautifully, loudly, unapologetically black.

To be free.

Baby, You're the Greatest

I’ll return to the Lost Months shortly, but today I want to focus on the here and now.

We lost someone this week. The Greatest. A man who knocked down people and racial barriers with equal alacrity and used sarcastic humor as the ranch dressing that allowed whites to stomach the freshly tossed salad of bitter truth that was existing in America within a brown body.

As a child of the eighties, I confess my level of engaging with Muhammad Ali was more as a Father than a fighter. As a muscular brown girl who would never be considered ‘dainty’, Laila Ali was an icon-- an attractive woman, sexy even, who could and would knock a bitch out. She existed on her own terms, KO-ing gender stereotypes in the way her father took on racism.

She was the woman I thought I could have been with the support of a loving father.

Not a boxer, mind you, I have rubbish hand-eye coordination, but a fighter, a woman who lived life on her own terms and was secure in her skin, flaws and all. Hollywood glamorized the relationship between ‘The Greatest’ and his baby girl to an almost Disneyesque degree, and I bought in hook, line, and sinker.

I have since had the opportunity to get to know my father. As the rose colored glasses came off, I learned the reality of Father-daughter relationships: no one is perfect, your parents are not superheroes, and a Father is still a man. And men tend to be dumb.

Well, you are. #sorrynotsorry.

I love my Dad. But I don’t idolize him. Although my father is not a three time heavyweight champion, he is a bit of a Hometown Hero. He plays piano at church, coaches pee wee football (in the south), and, along with my Grandmother, feeds the homeless every Saturday. He is a good person.

Yet he is far from my fairy tale vision of a perfect father. So far in fact, that at times it is difficult for me to reconcile the man others tell me about with the man I know. It’s not that he’s secretly a monster, it’s just that I’ve never seen him as a saint.

He’s just my Dad-- the guy who doesn’t call enough, Facebook bullies my boyfriends, drinks juice from the carton. He’s the guy who after one too many Margaritas will hit on the waitress-- in front of my stepmother (see? DUMB).

So which version of himself should a father be judged by? His truth or his legacy?

Last week my pastor’s father passed away. He preached a sermon on how all barriers to unity amongst the living disappear in the face of death (which you can listen to here). The gist of it is that death has a way of clarifying things for us; there are no Muslims or Christians, blacks or whites, lesbians or straight girls. There are only dying and dead.

Death reminds us of our own mortality. It inspires us to do something worth being remembered by when we are gone. It hurts, no matter if you lose a parent or child, spouse or sibling-- the separation is permanent. And it is agony. Yet it is in these times of common suffering that we come closest to King’s beloved community. By remembering our own pain we are able to better empathize with people who have values and backgrounds that are vastly different from our own.

I called my pastor to see how he was doing. In private we spoke about his father, the man, and how from an early age it had been impressed upon him to live up to his family name. Educational attainment, social activism, and human dignity were at the core of his familial expectations. Although we were decades apart, races apart, and raised completely differently, his daddy expected the same things of  him that mine does of me.

I thought again of my own father, whose last name I don’t share. I thought of Muhammad Ali, who threw away his family name in favor of one that honored his ancestral roots. I thought of my niece, whose father is incarcerated, and my other niece whose father is embroiled in a multi-state custody battle that allows him to see her during summers only.

Perhaps that is why Ali’s fathering inspired more admiration than his fighting in my young soul. In the Black community, fathers are just one more privilege many of us are forced to go without.

Yet whether by their presence or absence, our fathers shape the people we grow up to be. Their legacies become the building blocks for our children’s expectations. And when we lose them, a little piece of us dies too.

My heart goes out to Laila Ali in this moment, knowing that even as I grieve with her, as the world grieves with her, that we are not grieving the same person she is. We lost the legend, while she lost the man.

Regardless of what Muhammad Ali’s truth was, his legacy is one that his daughter can be proud of. He called on us to boldly confront the issues of our day-- to stand and fight injustice in its strongholds- the institutions that so enslave our minds that we stumble about ‘mentally dead’, spiritually defunct, and morally bankrupt.

Instead of giving up on understanding each other, Muhammad Ali called us to dig deeper, push harder, think bigger, and be greater.

If God in Her infinite wisdom is kind enough to give me forty-three more years on this earth, I hope I use mine half as well.

#RIP