From Whispers to Wisdom

This piece was written on June 22, 2020 about a fuckboy who I caught feelings for during the beginning of the pandemic. I am not an option.  I am not an option. I am not an option. I need to make myself understand this and remember it. This blog post is reflective of the disappointment I feel at the moment, but more importantly, it is reflective of the fact that I will be okay. I’m a dope-ass-person! And I deserved more than the way I was regarded during this entire period of COVID-19. For months I watched someone who I cared about, start to see me as an option. In the beginning, I got a taste of what it was like to be one of his priorities. The quality time was dope and highly enjoyable. I saw him often. Homeboy was cute and really affectionate. But then Corona hit. And less quality time was had. He would say it would be different “when things go back to normal…” At that point, no one knew it would be a three-month quarantine stretch, and counting. I missed him a lot, but I was ho...

Black pain seems too difficult for America to consider. How it travels through our blood lines  until white folks started calling it  anxiety. depression. bipolar disorder.  Black pain sounds like blood rusted chains against shin.  Sounds like the crack of a whip,  the cries of a child torn away from their mother.  Sounds like silent death of black-girl-dignity up on auction blocks. Black pain sounds like howling bellies and field hands.  Are you deaf to it, America? Too much cotton in your ears?  Our pain sounds like church gospels.  Like black mothers singing hope harmonies.  Sounds like wading water and escape. Strong brown feet desperately pounding the earth. Praise our black feet. Praise our black spirits.  (I get mine from my mother. It stay weary, but alive at the same time) Our pain sounds like trumpets and rhythm.  Like blues and soul and prayer.  Like hip hop and jazz....