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. 

you can have february back

Carter G. Woodson created Negro History Week to put our names out there, but now our names flood the headlines as victims of the latest act of violence committed by the police.

Now, the week has expanded to the shortest and coldest calendar month in honor of our history. For 28 days, Target puts corny fake liberatory statements like “Curl Power” or “Young, Black, and Gifted” on their 100% cotton T-shirts. For 28 days, Good Morning America will put a black person in front of the camera and ask them questions like, “what does Black History Month mean to you?” or “are you proud to be black?” 

They’ll call that “doing their part” as if the other 337 days aren't spent circulating images of black death & exploiting black men & women.

They say the month is spent celebrating us…but I still walk into a room full of white people and don’t get my standing O…so I’ll believe that when I see it. 

As a matter of fact, y’all can have the whole month back.

My hands are sore from gripping onto those 28 days too tight. I’ve carried the burden of filling the auditorium (and your timeline) with black figures for too many years. I’ve been asked what the month means to me one too many times; I am giving it back. 

In return for the month, I’d like all of us back.

“Us” being the ones taken from this earth too soon. “Us” being the little black boys & girls who still had growing up to do, and the black men & women who had growing old to do. 

I want them live and in the flesh. Having a barbecue. Attending graduation. Baking a pie. Shopping. Getting a car wash. Having children. I want them back to living mundane lives in exchange for this mundane month. 

What good is this month for a “celebration” of black history when police departments are making their own history for the most killings in one month? 

So take February back & let our people come out of a traffic stop alive. 

I can do without the sales, the limited edition BHM sneakers, the performative Instagram posts, & the special episode that airs on Feb. 1st. 

I’d like long, full, and warm lives rather than the shortest, coldest, and pitiful 28 days.

“So take February back & let my people come out of a traffic stop alive.”

semester recap fall 2022

I am proud to say I’ve had my best semester yet and haven't even gotten my final grades back. 

First, each of my four classes was crafted by professors who put a lot of thought and effort into the content of their classes. I learned theories created by genius black women, and I applied them to my life. Having that knowledge made it much easier to go about in the world. At least I knew what to call the phenomena I was experiencing. I also spent a lot of time “unlearning.” This means, what I previously held to be true and pure and right was flipped left. It was like my professors had a special flashlight that allowed me to see the truths that are hidden in the dark. I took an art history class with my good friend and spent a lot of time contemplating the role of art in our world, and in my life. I read Assata Shakur and fell in love. She’s everything I want to be. I went (multiple times) to an art show with artworks created by previously incarcerated artists. I was required to find my position on the criminal justice system in a one-page paper and wrote it in 5 minutes (no joke I had a lot to say). I developed a high school curriculum about the Kent State shooting and pondered how to teach young adults about censorship, revolution, protests, and grassroots movements. 

Beyond the classroom, I grew close with one teammate and built a friendship I’ve never had before…it's really girly. We talk about boys, we go out to dinner with just ourselves, we go shopping for just one thing, we text each other about the slightest inconvenience, we ask each other for outfit/hair/nail opinions, and we give into each other’s delusions. I think that is what I was really missing these last years in school, just a real friendship. It makes sense that when I got close to her, I had a lot more fun. But she’s leaving me. Doing a semester in London. I am in awe of her determination to see the world. She’s the most independent person I know. I look up to her because of how she carries herself. I know she’s going to take over London & soon enough she’ll be telling me about the man that fell in love with her or how she got a full-time job in a law firm over there (her dream). It’ll come true. 

And lastly, I worked really hard on treating myself with kindness. This looked like getting a coffee after a rough day, having a self-care night, or even reminding myself that I have good things coming in my future when things feel like they're falling apart. I most definitely haven’t perfected this skill but this semester I loved myself a lot more than I ever have. It was easier to live with myself and sit alone when I had love for myself. From me and only me. 

May I always remember the lessons I learned this semester. May I never forget the knowledge I worked hard to uncover. 

Fall 2022,

THANK YOU!

on hope

For the first time in a while, I am hopeful.

Let me explain.

I used to be so scared to lose hope because someone along the line told me I wouldn't find it again. I thought that hope was like a charm, small enough to fit inside your pocket. You had to make sure it was secure at all times because once it was gone, it would be excruciatingly hard to retrace your steps and find the little charm. 

I can't really pinpoint when or where I lost my pocket charm but I did. Maybe it was during covid, or maybe my freshman year of college. I didn't even bother retracing my steps either. It was gone. 

So without my hope, my purpose got a little blurry. I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel in a lot of things. I hated movies that required the main character to have hope to solve their problem. Because they had it and I lost it. I stopped looking for solutions to problems. Maybe I even believed there were no solutions. To my core, I am not a pessimistic person. Promise. 

I am sitting here writing this blog post with the most excited heartbeat–I have a hopeful heart. I see the light in everything there doesn't even have to be a tunnel. Whoever told me that once hope was gone it was lost lied to me. I have a new outlook on hope:

Hope isn't a pocket charm it’s more like a boomerang. It always comes back. It finds its way back to you. My hope has come back to me after who knows how long. And I had forgotten how good it feels to be hopeful. 

With hope, I can find solutions. Sometimes in the classroom, they say, “there is no answer to this really big question” or “there might not be a solution.” But in the amount of time it took for the teacher to finish their sentence, I’ve already found a couple of possible solutions. I’m hopeful as hell. 

Too often they say “just don’t lose hope,” as if it's the worst thing to ever lose (it's not, losing your purse is worse). But I lost it, then it came back, and I learned a lot in the process (life is one big classroom isn’t it?)

If you are hopeless, your boomerang might be on its way back. It always does.