Queenie

by Candice Carty-Williams

Before I got off the bus, I made an internal list of people who could touch my hair: Me A hairdresser That’s it, that’s the whole list

“It’s all right, it’s not your fault,” I snapped. “These things happen. It happens a lot in my culture. Us black girls, we’re always meant to know our place.” “And do you think that you’ve trapped yourself in this message to the present day? Do you think this is how you see yourself? As having to stay mute, to know your place? It certainly sounds this way,” Janet said sympathetically. “Perhaps that’s why sexually, you go along with these acts, so as not to rock the boat, and—” “How could I not be trapped in it?” I interrupted. I was on one today, apparently. “Well, Queenie, I think that you’re taking on a burden that isn’t yours. You can’t carry the pain of a whole race.”

But that’s me. I’m an option for a man to fuck, but not an option to love.”

the more tired you are, the more likely your defenses are to be down. Doesn’t mean relapse, means you’re adjusting to working again. Rest at the weekend.”