Nik Nicholson's Blog, page 8

draft 18 of 5r

Maybe it’s mercy.
To stay,
I would have hardened.

That’d be barely surviving.

Leaving, my spirit is strong
Though pride’s infamy whirls down a drain of wounds.

Rewind. Fast forward. Snippets play smiles that were licked chops.
My conscience is clear
My heart is full
Of all the opportunities
I had to love strangers
Who embraced me, too.
For a moment.
Maybe this isn’t an end
but beginnings.
Hopefully, wisdom arrived
To turn me away
From abandoning  and alienating myself
Because I’ve lost
Some thing.
I, always, have, me-
If I embrace the path
My spirit is making
I won’t act forsaken
Some beginnings
Are salvation.
The rest revelations.

Draft 17 of 5r

Maybe it’s mercy.
To stay,
I would have hardened. That’s barely a surviving.

Leaving, my spirit is strong
Conscience is clear
My heart is full
Of all the opportunities
I had to love strangers
Who embraced me, too
For a moment.

Maybe this isn’t an end
but beginnings.
Hopefully,
Wisdom has arrived
To turn me around
And abandon alienation from myself
Because I’ve lost
Some thing.
I will always have me
If I’m embracing the path
My spirit is making.

Draft 15 of 5r

Maybe this is mercy.
I would have hardened
to stay. That’s barely a surviving.

Maybe this isn’t an end
but beginnings.
Hopefully,
I’m finally wise enough:
To turn around
And abandon
Alienation from myself
Because I’ve lost
Some thing.

…. draft 14 of 5r

Maybe, this is, mercy?
I would have hardened
to stay. That’s barely a surviving.

Maybe this isn’t an end
but beginnings.
All l feel is endings.
Hopefully,
I’m finally wise enough:
To turn around
And abandon
Alienation from myself
Because I’ve lost
Some thing.to shift my perspective,

And embrace my self.

And support my self

Moving

Forward
up, ahead. shift my world,
up, ahead.

…. draft 13 of 5r

Maybe this is mercy. I would have never left a toxic and hostile environment. I would have hardened to stay. That’s barely a surviving. My spirit is soft and pliable. Maybe this isn’t an end but one more beginning when all I feel is ending, endings.  Hopefully, I’m finally wise enough to just shift my perspective, up, ahead.

Social Distancing… Distance

I don’t know why I’m just getting stir crazy. All of my friends have already had a breakdown. Maybe because I’m an introvert. Maybe because I have more hobbies than the average bear. Maybe because my mental health meds are a nice cushion for life. About a week ago I woke up anxious. I wanted to do something, anything. I missed the family I created. I mean, we’ve all been real cautious. Which means there haven’t been any get-togethers or anything since this global pandemic was acknowledged.

I’m an artist, writer and performer. I’m not to into the performing, but I love seeing other poets perform. I love late night meals and conspiracy theories. I like history lessons at 3am in the morning. I like discussing solutions to oppression and racism. I like laughing until I’m exhausted. I like getting to know my people in and hearing their stories unedited for a trusted audience… So next time they perform a piece, a few of us will hear it on a deeper level. A few of us won’t internalize their words and search for ourselves… We’ll see each other deeper.

So, I called Keith, a man we call The Griot in poetry circles. He created this poetry space that has existed I think 3 decades. During the pandemic they even tried to make it virtual so people could still get their fix. Still, it was hard. We were afraid. Wearing masks. We were grateful to see each other, but we were also afraid.

Since we talk about everything, we couldn’t help but talk about who we knew that died of Covid. Yes, we discussed the conspiracy that too many deaths were attributed to Covid. Still, I don’t know how much we believed this. As we each gauged how to interact with each other. Some of us were so terrified we stayed to ourselves. Others, as always, were hugging and eating at different tables…

After that we didn’t get together any more. We didn’t talk about getting together. We, artists, aren’t big phone or even social media people. We all buried ourselves in each of our individual tribes. We focused on our loved ones who shared our household. We didn’t text. We didn’t do check ins. Someone would send a group text of a project and we would exchange supportive comments.

Then it happened. The cure was finally here. I hate needles. I remember Tuskegee, COINTELPRO and J. Marion Sims. I wanted to see how this cure would be received. Also, since I don’t like needles, I was going for the Johnson and Johnson version so I didn’t have to take two shots.

Weeks rolled by, precautions were removed and many of my loved ones returned to life as they knew it. They were vaccinated. They were travelling and celebrating the end of this… But then, the numbers of infected people started climbing again. We learned the vaccine was a cure like other vaccines that eradicated diseases. Vaccinated people, living their life like we weren’t in the middle of a global pandemic started getting sick too.

My city, whose economy centers tourism opened up to the world and said we didn’t have to wear masks if we were vaccinated. Now we’re a hot spot for Covid and a hot spot for vacation.

I still live like we did in the first months of Covid. I don’t hang out or go over people’s house. I wear a mask with everyone and everywhere. I stay to myself. I cringe when people coughed and weren’t wearing a mask. Sometime I gave them the look of death… IDGAF if you are vaccinated covered your nasty mouth. Haven’t you heard people can be carriers without symptoms? Haven’t you heard people are dying?

So I like I said, I called Keith, The Griot. I just wanted to sit with someone I loved. I was willing to wear a mask. I realized that at work I was seeing strangers every day in a mask and I hadn’t caught Covid. So I wondered why I couldn’t hang out with a friend. But now writing this, my friends are probably not doing Covid cleaning like my job. They aren’t wiping door nobs or sanitizing everything after they touch.

Doesn’t really matter, Keith wasn’t up for hanging out. In fact, he was in quarantine when I reached out. He noted, he’d been vaccinated but had still caught Covid. More importantly, he was still very ill and was still recovering. On top of that, his wife had tested negative but she was in quarantine as a precaution. He was so ill he couldn’t even text.

After he informed me he was waiting until this was all over, because things were not working out how he anticipated it kind of broke my spirit. I followed all the rules. I have hand sanitizer everywhere. I’ve started to think more about how I interact with the world. A friend posted that she washes all her grocery before putting them away. After I carry all my groceries up the stairs to my place, I celebrate actually putting them away before the ice cream melts. Now I’m expected to wash everything before I put it in a cabinet or in the fridge? I’m going to DIEEEE!!!!!

I started thinking about how I worked in grocery with gloves on and touched all sorts of things while putting up canned and jarred foods. I think about how sometimes weird things spilled in the cooler and probably poisoned the packaging on things… Then it felt like the world was closing in on me. Every where I went all I could see were germs. I’m a pretty upbeat person, so this negative perspective that we’re all capable of killing each other wore my spirit down.

I’m up at all times of the night. Tired of watching entire series… I didn’t actually start watching TV until like 2018. So streaming all these different shows made me feel lazy and like I was letting my life slip away. Isn’t there something I should be doing? I’d get up and pace all over thinking of things to do and then being to tired to do them. And then being angry at myself for not using all this time at home to get my life together. So I have to berate myself. It’s only right. Then I have to remember I am my own best friend and then I have to be nice and understanding.

So I treat my lazy ass to some ice cream, even though I’m lactose intolerant, I’ve gained back some of the weight I’ve lost… But then I soothe myself with promises of joining and going to the gym regularly once this pandemic is over. I avoid all mirrors. I wonder how something so delicious is not good for me. Then I make a mental not to buy pills to take before I eat dairy… I actually buy those pills but never take them because I don’t like taking pills. Then I find a lactose free ice cream. I haven’t tried it yet.

All this ice cream I’m eating reminds me of my editor, Claudia, who loves ice cream. She’s naturally slim and has to work out to gain weight. She use to eat a bowl of ice cream every night before bed. She’d call me to talk about whatever project we were working on and I’d hear enjoying that ice cream, and it’d piss me off. The word ice cream puts weight on me. Not to mention, no one enjoys anything like an artist. I mean we really love things and express it in “oohs” and “ahhs.” Don’t be in person, we’re a whole commercial for whatever we are in love with at the moment.

Anyway, I called Claudia, to see how she was doing. One of the things this pandemic has got me in the habit of doing is calling all my love ones who are not in the same city. I try to have a couple long conversations a week. Well I did initially. The problem is when I call, they are bummed about the pandemic too. In the beginning, I would cheer the extroverts I love up. I’d be telling jokes and giving all that bullshit new age advice… Now, I’m up on a ledge imagining I’m a ballerina. Up on my toes. Arms out. I’m looking over the edge and wondering if the shock of dropping will kill me before I have to feel the impact.

So now when my friends call as I’ve gotten them use to… I’m avoiding contact because I’m too sad to lift anyone’s spirit. I have a dark humor for folks I’m forced to see for survival… That’s work and the grocery store. OMG!!!! Walmart is using this pandemic to make us all volunteer cashiers when they aren’t punishing us for using cash. GAWD!!!! Cash is the devil now, but I’m broke. So I take out my allowance. Once it’s gone it’s gone.

Now when I was a kid allowance meant fun things, like movies and pizza with friends. Now, allowance is what I buy my basic necessities with. Yes, I’m poor. So I’m buying grocery with my allowance. I’m buying gas to drive to the job that makes sure they don’t give me enough hours to qualify for benefits. Yes, I’m looking for a job, but not aggressively. I mean, I’ve got all this stuff around my house to do that I’m not doing. I don’t have time to harass employers. What? Between my sleeping, moping and eating ice cream when should I look for work, huh?

So anyway, I wrote all this hoping you could relate. I wrote all this because my heart is heavy and I needed to release. I wrote all this because I’m too anxious and sad to cry.

Oh, let me not forget this… So Walmart has 15 checkout lanes, but only two or three cashiers. But here is the worst part, they have tons of self check outs but you can only use them if you are paying with a card. So I’m standing in line with my two or three items, behind eight families doing their grocery shopping for the month. Oh and another thing. One Walmart I went to a month ago outside of my area, didn’t have a single cashier. They only had self check out. There were disabled people and elderly people struggling to check their own selves out. I mean the staff was so light I asked what time they were closing. Now as a person who works retail, it’s crazy to get off work and then go work somewhere else…

See how I’m complaining… This is why I don’t talk to people. I wanted to use the self check out but I could’t because I had cash. Then I found a Walmart that only has self check out and it pissed me off. I should mention, I was doing my shopping for two weeks. So I had a lot of grocery and I had just got off work, then checked on a sick friend. All I wanted to do was have an actual cashier ring me up and bag all the stuff I purchased. On the positive side. Less hands to worry about infecting me with Covid because I don’t wash my groceries off.

Anyway, thank you for staying to the end of this long rant. My heart is still heavy but it’s a lot lighter than it was when I started this post.

I hope your family is well. I hope you are cooking really great food since you’re home anyway. I’ve been making some really good unhealthy shit. So yes, I prolly won’t get Covid, but diabetes and high blood pressure are seducing me with ice cream, microwave popcorn and dipping lobster in hot butter. I’m hungry… So I’m going to go.

Love is life. Live

Glenda The Good Witch

My favorite publisher, who shall not be named, has deserted my pedestal. Years ago, a blue-blooded white woman got a degree in creative writing. Blue blood means she came from old money. She didn’t need a “real” degree. Her parents didn’t care if she became a doctor or a painter, or did nothing at all. Her living was already made. Can you imagine, attending a college and just paying tuition? No loans or eating cups of instant hypertension. A beautiful loft in Manhattan with large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city as you do yoga and get in touch with your chi.

Sorry, I digress. I started imagining a life where I owned my time. A life where I’d never starved or wished for things. A life where I never realized I was poor. Or that all the little foods I thought were cultural were really ends meeting.

Anyway, she opened a publishing company. She already knew other blue bloods. So naturally she had all the right connections. It wasn’t like all of us poor writers opening our own publishing companies to get into competitions that didn’t allow self-published writers. No, her publishing company had an office space in New York, staff, letterhead, a website she paid monthly without feeling the guilt of throwing money away on a dream when reality and survival demanded all of her resources.

She gave voices to Black and Latino writers. She produced their work through major distributors. Then got tons of copies out to press and larger-than-life critics. She had the resources to create audiences. Which landed complete unknowns in major bookstores. Not to mention paying them a wage for teaching their craft to other hungry writers. She sustained writers who would have abandoned their dreams for survival. She was a wild magic I didn’t know I wanted or needed.

I stalked her company’s page for opportunities. They were printing important literature, literary fiction. In a time when publishers were downsizing and choosing soft sex short reads, or trash by well-established celebrities… Her publishing company was writing to our souls’ deepest desires. This was light in an otherwise bleak writing reality. You could submit entire manuscripts without an agent or a call for submission. I thought this was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.

I started to collect the books out of her publishing house. I followed the writers on Twitter. They were all literary gladiators. The writers were tangible, their freedom palpable.

Surviving, I didn’t have a whole book to submit. I’d already self-published. So I promised myself I’d start making time in exhaustion to write. I swore, the next manuscript I finished I’d submit. I dreamed of going back and forth to New York. I dreamed of meeting writers I’d grown to love.

Then today, I checked the submittal page. It was closed. You need a known agent now. They are not looking for new unrepresented writers. They are like Random House or any other established publisher.

They are no longer giving opportunities to nontraditional artists… Well, unless someone already established represents them and says they are amazing.

I’m salty. Hopeless. And a little inspired to dream about something else now.

Steal Away, *Stowaway

Premise: Two white women; a blonde and a redhead plus the tallest Asian man I’ve ever seen are on a mission to cultivate Mars for human life. A black man is found lost and disoriented. There is only enough oxygen/ life support for three people. The black man who must be taught how to be useful on the mission is endangering the whole crew just by breathing. Not to mention he’s been ripped away from his family and is dressed like a slave.

Listen, Iain saying Imma do it. Iain asking you to do it for real, but… Let’s just threaten to break up with Netflix for trying to play us. Gone try to hide that racist bitch in a big budget. Don’t y’all know, my ancestors left spirituals, folk and blues. Tools to make the man dance to being undermined.

A decision must be made. The Black man doesn’t even understand the gravity of their mission. To be honest, he doesn’t even know where he came from or how he got here… Sound familiar?

No one wants to die. It’s not fair, life is not fair, but what if we… just do the work and hope it all works out. Or do they kill the Black man to survive?

High Hopes

Are you trying to gain anyone’s approval? Have you ever wanted someone’s approval? If you don’t want anyone’s approval, were you always this way? If you once wanted approval and stopped wanting or seeking approval, can you share when, how, and why?

I recently realized after a huge failure, I was seeking approval, validation. Over the years I’ve battled my mental health. Sometimes I won, other years I lost. These defeats were sometimes public, always personal and gut-wrenching. I spent entire years recovering ground lost. Rebuilding people’s trust if they were open to me making amends. If I was courageous enough to ask and face their disappointment and possible rejection.

Now, older, I try to be clear about my limitations… challenges. (Also I’m actively shifting my language and my internal conversations.) I try to be open about my ability to do a lot of things. I’m always fighting this battle of being high functioning, adaptable, strategic, personable, compassionate, loyal, witty, motivated, bubbly and a workaholic…

While at the same time, having episodes where I don’t know if it’s 5am or 5pm. Where I don’t know if it’s Wednesday or Friday. Where if I’m off a lot of days, I start anxiously checking my online calendar to keep up with the days. Episodes where there are no days or nights, just moments when it’s dark out and then light. It’s crazy how evening and morning feel like the same time with different levels of noise.

In these moments, I sleep when I’m tired, eat when I’m hungry, draw and write when I’m inspired. Other times, I do little projects and teach myself things. For a moment I was learning Spanish. I’ve got to get back to those lessons, I’ve forgotten so much of what I learned. Other times I’m sewing or building furniture. Hopefully, I have a job that starts at the same time every day. This gives me a baseline and puts my body on a schedule. But if it’s a job where my hours are being constantly changed, I’m in a constant space of confusion. I try to get all mids, all mornings, or all nights but some jobs need you to swing. The way my mental health works, when my work schedule swings I swing.

Here’s the thing, when I’m on point I’m thorough. I have this great way of motivating people to do their jobs. I am excited about any project I take on because I don’t half do anything. In many cases, I’m a perfectionist. I usually improve systems and streamline things. Over the years I’ve come to understand that I understand things in cycles. This means I know everyone’s job including mine. I need to know how things affect people. Also, I like to get in good with all the different people on my path. People love me. Then, when I’m falling apart they hate me, feel betrayed and misled. Episodes have me being excessively late, forgetful and distracted (missing details). This is a huge problem because people tend to rely on me. I’m a natural leader, until I break down. Then they take my episodes as an affront.

In the last few years, I’ve started to discuss my mental illness so people are not shocked when I am less than what they expect. I feel huge amounts of guilt, beat myself up and which causes me to spiral. After I spiral I get super depressed and my anxiety goes through the roof. Which adds to my confusion. Then I can’t adapt, and I’m anchored in all my feelings. When I was younger I used to get fired. Now, I force myself out of bed and show up physically. I’m always juggling so many balls, it doesn’t take long before several fall.

In the last few years, I’ve stopped being late by being extremely early. I tell employers I’m cool with not being paid. What I don’t tell them is, I just want to show up for myself and get organized. I like to set up my day and calm my anxiety. I’m trying to keep from spiraling… But I’m on the edge sometimes, dancing and spinning on my toes.

In a world where you don’t clock in, people are weird about you coming in early, but they are fine with you staying late. Maybe I don’t have enough degrees for this to be considered a good habit. I also like coming early because then I’m ready when it’s time to leave with everyone else. Otherwise, because I’m a workaholic, I end up being in the office long after everyone else leaves… I also kind of feel guilty, because I deal with other people who have mental health challenges. Theirs’ are severe, they aren’t able to function as well as I am… people think.

I relate to them, so they trust me and tell me deeply personal things. Sometimes, I see how I could have become them. I just recently became medication compliant in the last few years. So I definitely wasn’t going to get hooked on street drugs. Me? Taking anything every day on time is hilarious. I haven’t had my meds today, and it’s 2:30 pm. I got distracted finishing this blog.

Anyway, I had this huge business idea that helped all these people. It also would give me the ability to make my own schedule. Then I could come in as early as I want. I pitched the idea to a few investors. I got funding… I thought.

I worked my butt off. I worked this horrible job, where they don’t give you enough hours so you can never get health benefits. I worked this horrible job where they sometimes text you your schedule or send you home after you show up. The job doesn’t pay jack, but I can at least pay for breathing. Plus, I had plans to do more and this wasn’t permanent.

Then the funding fell through with one investor and then another for different reasons. And for two months I have been so heartbroken all I can do is go to my crappy job and sleep. I’m already on an antidepressant and antianxiety meds. I’m frustrated. I’m exhausted. I feel like this huge disappointment.

My family is aware that I have mental health challenges. At the same time, I move to cities where I don’t know anyone and I build a family of friends. I live alone. I write. I get published. I perform. They’ve been to my performances. I win awards. I’ve driven cross-country, alone, too many times to count. My great aunts married their first boyfriends. They are still married and have been longer than I’ve been alive. My aunts, cousins all are in long term relationships and have huge families. They can’t imagine being alone.

Because I accomplish things, it’s weird when I can’t accomplish something. It’s weird when I ask for help. Also, I thought learning how to communicate how I need help would help. Like, I need to be communicated with clearly. I can’t do any kind of poetics. I’ve taught myself not to be sensitive and open to all criticism. When I’m alone I will process whether it is constructive or destructive. Some of the best advice I’ve gotten has been from people angry or trying to hurt me. Some of the worse advice and criticism I’ve gotten has been from people who love me and didn’t have the heart to tell me the truth. The truth is a gift and I want it even when it’s painful. Especially because one of my shortcomings used to be a lack of self-awareness… Now people tell me that I’m aware of myself and that I bring them into a deeper awareness of themselves.

Anyway, today, I realized why I was so upset about my business plan not having funding. It hasn’t failed. It literally can’t. There are too many ways to make money. I just have to keep pushing. I’m researching other funding options. I’m also looking into getting other investors. Back to what I was about to say… I am upset because I wanted to finally make something of myself.

I thought that this business being successful would validate me. I didn’t have any particular person in mind… well that’s not true now that I think of it. Still, over all, I wanted to make my parents proud…Well my mom. My dad loves me. He’s got pictures of some of my greatest accomplishments. He literally said, I’m not sure why every time you’re on the brink of something big things happen. For moment, I agreed. Then I remembered, hello, I have mental health issues.

The truth of the matter is, I sometimes don’t understand why I can do 100 extraordinary things and not two are three basic things. In the last two years, I’ve started to love myself more fully and make allowances for my shortcomings. I hire people to handle the things I struggle to complete. It worked out beautifully.

After all these years of beating myself up, I realized tearing myself down wasn’t helping. I also realized loving one’s self doesn’t mean, loving the great you. It means loving the lost you, the confused you and the discouraged you. It means creating ways to bring yourself back to peace. It means creating a path to WELL BEING.

Still, I’m here. Struggling. Angry that I didn’t have a different life. That I don’t have savings. That I don’t know anyone who could lend me 20K. Well, actually I do, but she lent it to another friend who started their business in 2019.

I’m here, beating myself up because I wanted to prove to all the people who disregarded me, that I’m worthy of love. While, I am abandoning my own self and thinking I am not worthy of love. For some reason, I still believe love needs to be earned. For some reason, I still think love is only for others because I haven’t… I don’t deserve love. And, when people treat me like I’m a nutcase it feels like condescension. On the other hand, when they treat me like I don’t have any issues, I feel like a nutcase pretending something is wrong. I’m so capable it feels like pretending when I can’t make myself.

Now, when my psychiatrist asks how I’m doing, I always say “fine, but frustrated.” I don’t tell him I hate my life. I don’t explain how anyone in my shoes would be depressed. I don’t tell him adjusting my dose isn’t going to change my life. Because the truth is, a pill has allowed me to see life with a different perspective. My anxiety meds allowed me to sleep after I hadn’t for years. I didn’t even realize I hadn’t been resting when I slept.

Before I felt like I couldn’t change my life, now I’m noticing all the barriers to me changing, but I don’t feel it’s impossible… even though it feels this way often. I want my life to look different and feel better. At the same time, I can’t figure out how to do it. I think I’m spiraling. I’m hoping rock bottom is salvation for me the way it is for addicts. I hope there is a light at the end of this tunnel.

Mercy Mercy Meeeee

 

Years ago, a client called saying he was terrified of his children. He believed they were planning to kill him. He described them as monsters and noted they were gritting their teeth at him… You could hear them laughing and playing in the background.

At the time, he was at home alone with his four children, all under 8 years old. He had a rare history of violent episodes. Usually with other adults. It was immediately decided, not to call the police because he’s a 6’5 dark-skinned muscular black man. Instead, a therapist played along with his delusion, convinced him to lock himself in a bedroom, as someone was on the way to “save him.” Meanwhile, every case manager on our team was literally rushing to his house.

I can’t remember if he had been off his meds. Or if something triggered the mental breakdown. To be clear, people without mental health challenges experience episodes. For instance, people with no history of mental health issues are struggling with this pandemic. Let me also point out, some people still have mental health crises on meds which is why all people with mental illness should be checking with a psychiatrist every three months at the least. Not to mention, eating grapefruits or drinking a little grapefruit juice each morning can reduce or completely stop your meds from working. Grapefruit is a powerful fruit. I digress.

I’m sharing all this to show how a mental health episode could make someone a stranger. On a normal day, this man is a dedicated father. He works two jobs and picks up odd jobs to take care of his children. He often has all his children with him. Naturally, he’s a very compassionate, funny, friendly, wise, protective, and helpful person. I’d even say he’s handsome and charming. He didn’t have his first serious mental breakdown until his late 20’s. At the time of this episode, he was in his late 30’s.

On top of taking care of his kids, working long hours, he was always helping somebody move, or fixing someone’s car for free. He loves his children. He loves people. He is an important part of the black community.

I’m sharing all this, because people are saying it is ableist to dismiss Kanye’s behavior because he’s always anti-black… Him wanting only light-skinned and mixed women in his videos, definitely colorism, which is just a euphemism for self-hate or internalized racism. That’s a separate issue that all black people in America are on some level struggling to overcome.

Him screaming and crying on the “campaign trail” and saying, “Harriet Tubman didn’t free the slaves.” That’s “my children are monsters and I have a knife talk.” Oh, earlier I forgot to mention my client had a butcher’s knife and was threatening to kill his own children. The children he loved and worked himself to exhaustion for. So when Kanye screamed about his father wanting to kill him as his reason for changing his stance on abortion. Then became too choked up to speak I couldn’t believe the media was recording this… much less reporting this as news. West admitted his wife might divorce him because of his behavior… Does he hate her? Everyone? Does he hate himself?

One year (I’m not going to stop my train of thought to research it), I think 2018? There was a mass shooting almost every day in the U.S. It was so bad, other countries issued warnings advising their citizens not to visit America. 98% of those shooters were white men. I didn’t hear about it every day. I didn’t hear white men being condemned. I never saw daily reports about white men killing literal strangers. White men had to successfully kill large numbers to get a mention.

Meanwhile, I was getting black on black crime reports and statistics. Actually, white on white crime is almost identical statistically as black on black crime. At the same time, white people actually kill more white people than black people kill black people. In fact, white people kill more of everyone when you include mass shootings. Still, no one is asking why white people won’t stop killing each other and everyone else.

At the same time, elementary through college started doing school shooter drills. White men started to talk about their mental health and feeling oppressed. Then America started to talk about the mental health crisis.

We (black people) say, that black people need to be treated with more humanity. While we as black people are the first to ignore each other’s humanity. We are the first to take other black people to task. We have to lead in loving us. We have to lead in being compassionate to us.

Kanye’s “campaign speech” literally broke my heart. I saw the press filming his mental break down like I would if they filmed him having a seizure… It felt like another indignity. Reading all the drags break my heart. Some folks are saying it’s ableist to dismiss his comments. I’d argue it is compassionate, empathetic and human.

I think that being an artist and being bipolar he may be open to evaluating systems, rules and ideas many people are afraid to examine. Give him a mic during an episode and he could be self-hating, anti-black, personally destructive and a financial liability.

I am overwhelmed at times with oppression. I hate the way it has shaped my family’s reality. I hate that I know people who hate their own dark skin, their own nappy hair. WTF is shrinkage? Your hair didn’t shrink. It’s nappy!!! Any black person who says they haven’t taken a white measurement to themselves or someone else is lying.

I’ve definitely felt frustrated about having the same conversations black people in America have been having since the 1500’s: equality, access, respect and freedom.

I’m frustrated by black classism. I’m tired of bougie black people talking over working people’s heads with the micro and macro of racism. I’m frustrated by questioning if black men are actually being lynched or killing themselves in my lifetime. I’m frustrated by Breonna Taylor’s murderers not even being considered for charges by a black district attorney. I’m frustrated by people saying don’t play the victim when we are literally being killed by the police in our beds. I’m frustrated by people saying racism is over.

I’m frustrated by black people saying ignorant shit like, “why doesn’t BLM care about gang violence and black on black crime?” I’m tired of the most critical people being the mofos who aren’t doing shit. And you know how we know you aren’t doing shit? Because you would know BLM cares about ALL people, ALL black people and values their allies. But again, you’d have to get off the internet and actually go to a BLM action to find this out. I’m tired of people who aren’t doing shit waiting for someone else to speak for them, to save someone else or them.

If you are black and want to reach out to gangs, get your ass off the fucking internet tearing down folk doing the work. BLM is ALL of us. But a few of us can’t do it all. BLM’s agenda is our agenda. If you want to center a specific concern: gang violence, community clean up, black unemployment, farming, food or medicine deserts… Put a program together and let’s go!

My grandmother, aunts and uncles participated in the Civil Rights Movement. My mother went to segregated schools. Oh and while we’re on this, I’m tired of white people not knowing basic American history. Post slave law, The Black Codes AKA Jim Crow didn’t end until 1965. Post slave law has only been over 55 years. Black colleges are where black people were forced to attend because of segregation. Black colleges are historically black because of white laws. Black colleges were not exclusive to black people they were including black students in education. White people have always been welcome in our spaces. I said all that to say, I’m tired of white people saying “what if we had white colleges wouldn’t that be racist?” Um Harvard, Princeton, West Point and any college bragging that it was established before 1965… Even after the Civil Rights Acts, some Universities still didn’t admit black students. And yeah, whit colleges are totally racist.

I’m tired of reading posts about black people being in a constant state of victimhood… A law of attraction person I unfollowed said black people are suffering because they think about being victims. Meanwhile, we are literally dreading teaching our children how to survive traffic stops. Or the first time they become aware they are being excluded or mistreated because of their skin. Statistics say we earn less, are promoted less but are also evaluated more harshly.

Last year, the Federal government voted we could wear our natural hair in corporate settings? Black journalist wearing their hair the way it grows out of their scalp are considered unprofessional, radical and revolutionary. As a result, it limits their career growth. Some of us black women have been straightening our hair so long we don’t even know how to deal with our natural texture. Black women are putting perms on 3-year-olds. We’re literally thinking about our proximity to whiteness even when we aren’t thinking about our proximity to whiteness.

I know older black beauticians who have no idea how to deal with actual black hair and are not trying to learn. They are still perming hair which research says causes cancer, fibroids and birth defects just so that black women can be barely accepted in mainstream society. Some random white person on Twitter looked at my profile picture and teased me for having locs. He said my loc updo looked like a pile of shit on my head during a debate about whether racism is real or a figment of my imagination. Then he compared him getting a haircut and shaving to me endangering my health by straightening my hair to be “appropriate” for work.

Speaking of locs. Locs, loctician, colorism and too many words shaping my life are not in the dictionary. I can’t find a black shampoo that doesn’t have detangler (small amounts of perm/ straighteners) in it.

My mother and all her siblings attended segregated (black) schools because they were excluded. My grandmother participated in the Civil Rights movement. This means, some of your white grandparents hung black people, terrorized black people, burned churches. Some of your grandparents attended lynchings, have postcards of lynchings and still say racism is imagined.

I’m tired of white people slipping up and saying the N-word. I’m tired of feeling like I slipped because I said he N-word. I’m tired of black people telling me they don’t like or use the N-word. We are the only culture of people who can’t have anything to ourselves… Other races have slang terms they exclusively use. We are the most inclusive race on earth. A black judge hugged a white woman police officer who killed a black man eating ice cream in his own apartment.

I’m tired of Black Americans acting like we don’t have our own foods, poetry, music, literature, dances and culture. I’m tired of us acting like every other culture of black people is better. I’m tired of explaining I intentionally speak chop because I love how we Blacks talk when we are alone with each other. I love it so much I want to wrap myself in our language. I love it so much I risk being accused of cooning when I use the words I heard on my grandmothers’ laps. I repeat how I said a thing wrong that made you laugh… Same way my Italian, Mexican and Columbian friends quote their elders’ broken English. We all speak the King’s English when we’re not home. I’m trying to be at home in myself which means everywhere.

[image error]Most black people don’t know about their own spirit guides, ancestors and inherit power. I am just now starting to learn mine.

We Black people are reared in anti-blackness. I’ve said, felt and done some anti-black things in my right mind. For instance, years ago I was telling Mina, this beautiful loc’d elder, admiring my hair that I twist my locs often because I need to see my scalp, I don’t like my hair nappy. Then she told me ever so gentle and lovingly, “You black, it’s spose to be nappy.” I mean, I brought European beauty standards to locs, do you hear me!!!! My edges USE TO stay laaaaaidddddd. This unlearning of self-hatred is a process… I was hating myself thinking I was loving myself.

This passion, frustration, soul hurt, fear, hopelessness, power, determination, freedom, hope, courage, curiosity, need to be all spirit not what is projected on my flesh, this need to feel loved, wanted, connected and necessary might get distorted if I’m mentally ill with a mic and an audience. Especially when the media editing and shaping my narrative is the same media that put Trayvon Martin on trial for his own murder. The media who went silent on mass shootings happening daily committed by white men all over the U.S. So, I hope, my own people will give me the same compassion white people give their mass shooters.