On business as usual
**Trigger Warning: Violence, Death, Grief**
“ “The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.” ”
On Tuesday I watched a Black Woman get shot in her face inside of her own home
And the officer called her a crazy bitch
And she called THEM for help
And asked them not to harm her
And then I went back to business as usual
‘cause the rent still has to be paid and the groceries still need to be bought
And I didn’t learn anything from that video and I didn’t need that proof to know that Black Women aren’t worth much to America
And on Wednesday I went back into the office and rode the bus with women that look just like Her
and I grew frustrated with the traffic from people going to business as usual, I grew resentful to the finance guy in the metro that didn’t make room for me because can’t you see I need my space right now?
I wanted to ask him:
“If Martha Stewart or Taylor Swift were shot in their face in their home would it be the topic of every conversation in your office today?”
Like WHY doesn’t the world stop when a Black woman is shot in the face inside of her own home (rhetorical question—I know the answer)
(This isn’t the first time they shot a Black Woman in the face inside of her own home )
WHY do we go back to business as usual and act like that didn’t shake us to our core, absolutely destroy our flow, and twist our insides?
I know you felt something after you watched that.
And I appreciate your reposts but can you not open up the store for a day? Can you shut down the department so business is NOT as usual? Can you please cancel all appointments?
I want time to stand STILL
I want us to STAND in front of her nightgown and head scarf with our hand over our hearts like they made us do for the flag
And on the bus Wednesday I thought about how the world requires the labor of Black women (emotional, spiritual, physical, organizational, familial) and I wondered if the women on the bus with me were wondering why the many different types of their labor go unnoticed and under-appreciated
And then I was reminded in the midst of all these thoughts that a Black Woman is currently campaigning to manage the entire country
And because we know a thing or two about labor, she might be the most qualified candidate to date
And I cried on the bus out of exhaustion
because I have also been laboring and it was early in the morning and all I wanted to do was rest
Rest
Where is the rest for Black women?
And this is probably my least put-together blog post but I honestly haven’t been put together since I watched that
It was like each second of that body camera footage untied the knot of order and control that I had tied (tightly and perfectly)
And now I am REALLY out of control
…not to mention I am OVULATING
and I’ve already told you how tired I am and I can promise you I’ve slept so much since Tuesday
But I guess ever since the HOUSE that she occupied and the HOME that she created became her DEATHPLACE, I haven’t really hit REM
and once again, WHERE is the rest for the Black Woman?
SLEEP doesn’t even do it
(There is absolutely a difference between SLEEP and REST but that’s another post)
Thursday I locked my bedroom door, which I don’t really do, but I am grasping for any type of security in my HOME (as if that would stop them)
(I live in an apartment but I cannot put it past anything in this world to become a threat to me)
Thursday I wondered if I should own some type of weapon
Thursday I wondered who I can call instead of the police
Friday I rode around on my rollerblades and this time I went to a new spot and I tried to focus on deep breathing and taking in my surroundings but I smelled guilt with one inhale because *I* was breathing deeply and She couldn’t. And then I thought if I became a victim at any given time I would want Black Women all over to breathe deeply and feed their brain with as much oxygen as possible
because that is such an ALIVE thing to do and Black Women should LIVE
and I know that’s what we’re TRYING to do but the ENEMY that is the STATE hates to see us doing such.
And after my ride I went back to my HOME and felt some relief
And since Friday I have been so kind to myself because I am grieving and I am emotional and did I tell you I’m OVULATING?
and I am trying to retie the knot of order and control but there is no instruction guide
So I read and consume the beauty, life, and serenity that Black Women put into EVERYTHING we touch
and my fingers started tying that knot back up (I wrote this)
which is really just more labor for me
also known as business as usual (?)
Sonya Massey.
how I visualize what I refer to in this post as the “knot of order and control.” this is a Chinese knot called a Caisson knot. It emphasizes orderliness, justice, and harmony.
on mr. nonchalant
To the nonchalant n*gga in my phone:
“Why are you yelling?” “It's not that deep” “Chill out”
Who hurt you so bad that you don't even react anymore?
You hear a joke and smirk. What happened to your laughter?
You succeed and you won't even grin. What happened to your smile?
You keep everything in. Nothing escapes. How do you do that?
Your favorite expression is a shrug. You don't even like hugs!
You text in lowercase. Okay me too. But have you tried emojis? They have one for everything these days.
If you used them maybe I could catch the vibe. I could understand your tone.
But right now I am struggling to communicate with you, Mr. nonchalant.
Because I am chalant.
And Merriam Webster tells me that word does not exist but I can try to describe it to you.
I feel everything!
I saw a dead squirrel on the side of the road and I shed a tear for it. No living being deserves to die alone and have their body lay out!
The last 10 pages of the book I just read had me crying. I was laying out in a hotel beach club in Puerto Rico!
I see couples holding hands in front of me and I smile for them.
I’ve been seeing a lot of robins lately. When I see an expecting robin, I say a quick prayer for a successful hatching.
I saw a very old man on the train the other day. I felt his wisdom. I felt his exhaustion just from getting on the train but I also felt his relief when he sat down!
I stay away from movies about love because I’ll carry the character’s heartbreak with me way after the credits have finished. I’m talking days!
And I am putting exclamation points after all of these sentences because words alone don't get the point across.
I wonder if you’ll read this and add some emphasis on those sentences.
Probably not, Mr. Nonchalant.
And I kept making myself feel less for you. I tried not to take things too seriously. But then I heard the birds. And I felt everything again.
You have found a way to dilute the very things that make us human: our emotions and reactions.
I used to want you to teach me how to do that. But now I pray I’ll never learn.
I want nothing to do with diluting, concealing, suppressing,
or you.
tears for 2023
I didn’t think that any year could be worse than 2020.
I spent quarantine on my knees sobbing and mourning the time that was stolen from me. I felt so guilty for crying when people were dying.
Not many people know that in 2021 I got “Jesus Wept” permanently inked on my inner arm on my 19th birthday to remind me that if Jesus cried when Lazarus died,
and he knew he would bring Lazarus back to life,
then I could cry too.
Even when I knew things would work out for me.
I got that tattoo to remind myself to cry when it’s hard, to let those tears fall because for 18 years not a tear touched my cheek. I had been conditioned to believe tears were a sign of weakness– so I built floodgates and they never came out.
2020 was bad, but then I met 2023.
I cried a lot in 2023. A lot.
I cried walking to class. I cried walking home. I cried to my mom. I cried in the shower. I cried under the covers at 3am then woke up and cried some more.
It’s the last day of 2023 and I am crying while writing this.
Jesus wept. And when he was finished, when he wiped those tears, he did what he said he would do (bring Lazarus back).
And so I’ll wipe these tears off with the sleeves of my sweatshirt and board the bus and go to practice.
Just like how I wiped my tears, walked into class, and still raised my hand.
Just like how I wiped the tears that accumulated on my walks home and still made myself dinner, did my homework, showered, and went to sleep.
Just like how I wiped my tears and still hugged my friends and laughed with them.
Just like how I wiped my tears and still opened up my computer every night to chase my dreams.
I write this post to applaud those moments— those vulnerable, painful, lonely, and tearful moments that won’t get posted in the end-of-year photo dump. Maybe you didn’t have as many of those moments as I did, or maybe you did.
Regardless, the tears I wept in 2023 taught me that true strength is drying off your face, and then doing what you need to do. Doing what you said you would do.
I said I would finish out basketball and I am going to do that.
I said that I was going to graduate from Brown and I am on track to do so.
I am going to accomplish what I said I would…
after a good cry of course.
To 2024,
GK
on beauty
“Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do. The Bluest Eye was my effort to say something about that; to say something about why she had not, or possibly ever would have, the experience of what she possessed and also why she prayed for so radical an altercation. Implicit in her desire was racial self-loathing. And twenty years later I was still wondering how one learns that. Who told her? Who made her feel that it was better to be a freak than what she was? Who had looked at her and found her so wanting, so small a weight on the beauty scale? The novel pecks away at the gaze that condemned her.” -Toni Morrison
I want to expand upon the gaze that Morrison refers to. Pecola Breedlove is “her,” a young black girl whom the community has exiled and pitied because they believe she is ugly. Because we never have a first-person narration from Pecola, the descriptions that we do get from others create Pecola’s image in our minds. The other characters comment on her body, her lips, her hair, and how she dresses. The backstory of Pecola’s parents is included and we even find out what they think of their daughter. It’s terrible. There is not one person who sees Pecola as whole or deserving of respect, and we hear that she goes about her entire life without knowing love and affection.
I know The Bluest Eye is (or was) a commonly used novel in academic settings but I read this for my own pleasure and felt deeply connected to Pecola. I thought a lot about the intersection between beauty and space. Let me explain:
We judge whether we are beautiful or not by the spaces we are in. I have felt less than beautiful in frat houses, or little diners in Northern Minnesota because I know in that space, who I am, all of me, does not fit into what is considered beautiful. In the realm of basketball, I am short and have thick, wide thighs. Even in sport, I realize that I am not the ideal “basketball player.”
Yet, I have also been in spaces where who I am is absolutely perfect and acceptable and desirable–like walking around Southeast DC and walking through the African Art Museum. And I can feel that love. I feel beautiful. I am interested in how we know this? How do we know when we are less than beautiful in these different spaces? It’s not written on the walls or given to us like a wifi password, but we feel it. We feel our bones stiffen up a bit as we minimize our body to protect ourselves. We feel it in our faces because our cheeks warm up out of anxiety, out of recognizing the gaze is on us and how we're the opposite of everything desirable in that space. And then, the most peculiar thing happens. We start to wish for different. “I wish my thighs were smaller,” “I wish my hair was longer,” “I wish I was a little taller,” and in Pecola’s case: “I wish my eyes were blue,” a very peculiar thing to wish as a small dark skinned girl. Do you see how beauty sends us down this path? It is this particular thinking about beauty that hurts us. Especially women & girls.
I now call you back to Morrison’s quote that began this post:
“Beauty was not simply something to behold; it was something one could do.”
So, what are beautiful actions one can do? I can name a few. It’s beautiful when your roommate makes food and puts some on a plate for you. It is beautiful when you’re sharing an umbrella with someone and they point it more towards you, even if it means their left shoulder is now exposed to the raindrops. It is beautiful when someone says, “I’ve been thinking about you.” When someone prays for you. Smiles at you when you walk by them.
After reading this novel I have just a bit more hope that we can teach our daughters and sisters and nieces and the young ones that look up to us that beauty comes out to the world not just in how they present themselves, but when they do beautiful things. We can’t lose sight of that.