To The Black Woman

I am an American woman.  Of African descent.  Of the diaspora.  I am proud of my melanin.  I am proud of where I came from and proud of who I am.  It took a long time to be able to say that.  A. Long. Time. 

pexels-photo-1038172.jpeg

It took a long time to understand who I am and I did it in spite of what I was given.  A lot of opportunities, I found on my own through hustling through research and being willing to talk.  My path has not been given to me and quite a bit of the encouragement has been my own.  I have been my own cheerleader.  I have been my own friend.  I have been my own lover.  I have had to do a lot alone and I am comfortable in that space now.  It has become my default space to be in because there was nothing else.  I understand that it was necessary for my path to experience life in that way to help others in the highest way possible.

However, I know that my experience is not unique.

As black women, we have done a lot for ourselves but the pain is so great.  And healing can look crazy sometimes, especially to people who "have it all together" (this is in quotes because there is no such person).  When you are not afforded the grace to move through your pain, it tends to (will) compile it.  It gets bigger and bigger until you can't hide it anymore.  Your triggers are more easily reached.  Your pain is worn on your sleeve.  You begin to not care for yourself in basic ways because your are IN trauma.  Actively.  IN TRAUMA.  There is no time to get to PTSD because it doesn't stop.  It is all re-occuring.  Whether you are on the front lines of it or reading the story of the trauma experienced by a fellow black woman - you feel it.  At least I do.  

And the latest story of Chikesia Clemons.  My heart aches. Literally.  It aches. That could have been me and my best friend at age 25, at the Waffle House. Throat chakra open.  

Her only weapon was her mouth and that got her thrown on the floor and sexually assaulted.  My weapon is my gift of oration.  How am I different than Chikesia?  I'm not.  Would my fancy degree have saved me? No. Would my job title? No. Anything? No. 

pexels-photo-573317.jpeg

The fact that the actions of the officer were deemed justified was the green mucus that came after the proverbial spit in the face. 

With that said, #1 - FUCK YOUR WAFFLE.  

#2 - Sister, make the care of yourself, your priority. This is a "put your own oxygen mask on first" time. We need you healthy and strong for this is a marathon and not a sprint. We have our children's children to think of. This shit ends now, the ripples take time to reach every vibration.

And #3 - Forgive your sisterhood. Is whatever you are beefing about really that deep? If so, carry on. If not, squash it and move on. You don't need your energy taken by stupid shit. Focus it. We have each other to lean on when the chips are down. Create a sisterhood circle and commit to helping each other. Be your sister and not your sister's keeper. Heal first. I love you.