akoko nan: the hen treads on her chicks, but she does not kill them.

            I spent a great deal of my adolescence finding reasons to resent my mom. She didn’t talk to me the way I wanted her to. She didn’t take the time to listen and hear me. She questioned me like I was on a witness stand, and not laying with my head in her lap. She made me do things I didn’t want to do. She (insert anything anyone could possibly do) too much. She checked my facebook messages and text messages and call log. She checked my twitter, (and still does, if we’re here to be honest). She stopped putting me to bed when my brother was born. She blah, blah, blah.

            And I’d love to say today as a 24-year-old woman, that I get it. I want to be able to understand and process these things, but I don’t believe I will until I’m a mother. I’m okay with that, because what I do understand is that my mother did her absolute best. She never gave up on me, and even sacrificed some of herself, for me.

            My mom became a mother at an age I was barely passing classes. She was 19 years old, in college, and poor. She wasn’t married. She wasn’t self-sufficient. But she was committed to being my mom. At the time, it was against student policy to be visibly pregnant on campus, so she sat out the fall semester of her junior year. I was born on December third, and she went back to school the next month. She had a village of mothers surrounding and uplifting her, taking on her responsibility so that she might be the woman they prayed she would become. My mom worked her ass of to graduate on time, and finish law school. She and my dad lived two hours away from me, and missed one of one hundred and fifty six weekends visiting me.

            She’s told me stories of struggles I—until recently—could only imagine. Even now, when I have pennies to my name, I don’t have the added weight of a child depending on me to make it. I don’t know how she made it. I don’t know that I would’ve made it.

            Around nineteen or twenty, I came to the earth-shattering realization that parents are regular ass people. They were raised, and thrust into the world like everyone else. They have feelings and shortcomings and insecurities like everyone else. Instead of taking this as a reason to admire her struggles and triumphs even more, I was sure it meant that she was no more qualified to tell me how to live my life than I was. I vividly remember thinking, “She’s still figuring this shit out, just like I am.”

Forgive my hubris, Momma. I don’t know what prayers you’ve prayed and tears you’ve shed to become the woman you are today. I don’t know how you make it. Forgive my self-centeredness. Even though I understand that I can’t have a happy life without making myself happy, all I want is to be a woman you can be proud of. I try everyday to be as concerned about your feelings as I am my own. I listen to you more than you probably think I do. And I’m so thankful for what you’ve taught me about living and loving and succeeding. I’m so grateful that you didn’t give up on me, and that you haven’t given up on yourself. I’m grateful for the family you’ve given me. There were days that I felt crushed by your reputation and accolades, but I’m happy for them, too.

I want you to know that I see you as a woman. I see you as a scared 20-year-old with a task I’m still afraid to undertake. I see you as a whole person—not just a wife, mother, niece, or professional. I see you as a Christian. I see you determined everyday, and compassionate. I see you loving. I see you as a winner and a conqueror.  And I thank you for being the best example you know how to be. Thank you for committing yourself to me.

nikan.

The older I get, the more I understand how important alone is to me. I love waking up to a quiet home. I love walking around in whatever I feel like wearing at the moment. I love watching the shows I want to watch, when I want to watch them. I love doing what I want to do, when I want to do it, without any interruption or distraction. Alone also suits me because I have a lot of anxiety. Phone calls from my parents sometimes increase my heart rate. Study group with my classmates is sometimes overwhelming. Going out with my friends sometimes feels like torture.

I made elaborate plans for my birthday, and decided against them the longer I thought about the socializing it would require. But that same weekend I’d initially planned to celebrate, I went to a dinner party where the only person I knew was a magical Black girl I met on twitter. I went to brunch with a friend that always has the right words, and open arms, and two of his friends. Then I spent my Sunday afternoon at another friend’s apartment, soaking up so much love I almost burst. I enjoyed every single moment of it.

Navigating my own psyche is a treacherous task. When I am overwhelmed with emotion, I write down my smile/tears/frustrations. That forces me to face myself, and to try my damnedest to understand. Yet and still, nothing is as satisfying as knowing that someone knows these amazing/terrible/wonderful things about me, and either relates or empathizes. But the more I seek out safe spaces, the less I actually find them.

My boyfriend knows things I will never tell my mother. My college friends know things I will never tell my grade school friends. I’ve shared stories with women in my new home that I will never share in my hometown. But the heavy things that are sacred and have changed who I am, have been shared in their entirety with one person. Over one hundred people wished me a happy birthday, yet the only place I feel safe enough to unload is with one of them. I want to say that’s wrong, but is it really? If that openness is reciprocated, and I am able to leave every conversation lighter than I entered it, what exactly is the problem? For me, specifically, it is the people that demand a seat at the table. It’s the phone calls that ask for updates on your life, but offer no real emotional support. It’s the implied authority that years of knowing someone gives people. It’s the unsolicited judgment from people that don’t know what makes me happy. The problem is when anyone feels entitled to an all-access pass for my life.

But this morning, I woke up to a voice I believe belongs to my great-grandmother saying, “If you do not take care of what you have, you will lose it.” I thought immediately of my apartment and my car, which could both use some attention. Then I thought of my personal temple, and the ways I’ve neglected its well-being. But right now, I am thinking of the relationships I neglect both purposefully and inadvertently. Right now, I am questioning whether losing some of them would actually negatively impact me. Family aside, I can count on one hand the ones I cannot afford to lose.

Lovers Rock

            My grandma is preparing to bury her second husband, and I’m proud of her. I’m happy for her. I’m not saddened by anything but the promise of her coming loneliness. I imagine it will set in slowly like how old people say cold sets into their bones, but also suddenly like the impact of a car crash. Because that’s what uninvited loneliness does. Nonetheless, I’m so proud of my grandmother for being 74 years old with intentions to wake up tomorrow and plan her second husband’s funeral.

            Adrienne Maree Brown published a blog this past July entitled Grief is Not Linear and It Is Everywhere. Josie Pickens shared it on Facebook, and I clicked on it knowing I’d be exposed to the kind Black Girl Magic that gave slaves the courage to marry and raise families. Adrienne’s post talked about loss, and the bravery of those that love all the while knowing their object of their affection will one day die, or simply change their mind about what forever looks like. I read this post as I was planning a trip to visit my lover and best friend for the Fourth of July holiday. It didn’t change me that day, but it has indeed changed me.

            There are stories about my grandmother that I will never fully know. These stories are of feuds with siblings, infidelity, abuse, alcoholism, mental illness, and other fuck shit that just kind of happens. But what I know—what I’ve seen, is that my grandmother has set aside generous portions of her life and reserved them for suffering. She loved my grandfather the alcoholic. She traveled hours to bury a brother that betrayed her during their mother’s funeral. Right now, she gives more of herself to a child who is a slave to a debilitating mental illness than anyone else that knows or loves either of them. She has buried her own toddler, and tormented herself with the thought of her youngest adult son dying alone in an emergency room. I watched her wail at her father’s funeral. My grandma is in no uncertain terms flawed, and even unfair in her judgments. But she is a fucking warrior. My grandma is a warrior because she knows all kinds of hurts and disappointments, and even now as she fights to regain her strength after a heart attack, she’s planning to bury the man she married ten years ago.

            As I sit here typing this, listening to a playlist of songs that make me think of the man I am deeply in love with, I wonder if I’ll ever be the kind of warrior my grandmother is. Granted, many of her heartbreaks could have been avoided had she practiced self-care. I doubt that she doesn’t have regrets. But in thinking of the ways I shut my own sensitive self off to people, I wonder if I’m built the same way. I wonder if I refuse to acknowledge my mother’s father as my grandfather because as much as I loathe him, I’m hurt by his nonchalance where I’m concerned.  I wonder if I sometimes stay in my apartment alone all day, ignoring phone calls because I’m not meant to be the same kind of pillar of strength as the other women in my life.  I wonder if what I’m on the way to becoming will take me away from everything that is familiar, and if I’ll make it to tell the story.  I wonder if when life takes me from the people I love most, I will break.

            Quite honestly, the only thing that keeps me from being dominated by the fear of all those “what ifs” is the relationship I have cultivated with my boyfriend. I’ve said before and I’ll say again, that our relationship has forced me to grow in places I didn’t know I was small. And very recently, for the first time in our relationship, I don’t worry about our fate. Either one of us will plan the other’s funeral, or we will leave each other. Accepting that and standing in it—like seriously, standing in and on it, the same way Christians are called to stand on their faith—has made me the happiest girlfriend in the world. I am loved today. I was loved yesterday. And if that love is gone tomorrow, I’ll have a plethora of stories to tell about the greatest love I have ever known.

            One day, I won’t be able to call the people I love the most on the telephone. I’m going to miss my momma’s phone calls that are full of details of her day that I didn’t request. I’m going to cry bitter tears over the graves of people I should call more often. And even when I get used to their passing, I will grieve their losses like I grieve the loss of my great-grandmother. Considering these things and these only, it seems insane that people open themselves to love and to lose. But people do it every single day. Which means love must be worth the grief it brings with it. Riva says love is warrior shit. And she is correct. Lovers rock.

half-loves, whole hearts, and home.

I was going through the absolute foolishness that is my twitter favorites, and found the tweet that changed my love live. Dream Hampton tweeted a Rumi quote that literally changed my love life on Valentine's Day 2012. It was simply, “A thousand half-loves must be forsaken to take one whole heart home.” Rumi said we had to let go of the love we accepted to ever find the love we deserve. I made no major changes the day I read that, but my Lord, it stuck with me.

A few days before, I'd cussed a boy I once loved for treating me like something he could pick up and put down when he pleased. Maybe then, the change this quote would catalyze had already begun. That boy told me I was wrong to always be a victim. He told me that I was just as responsible for our predicament as he was. I was drunk, and I believe I told him I hoped his son would be a better man than him. I didn't speak to him again for over a year.

A month after reading that quote, on a big Thirsty Thursday, I listened to Adele and sent a text to a different boy I once loved. I absolutely could not understand how we had grown apart after being so close for so many years. We talked about everything, all the time, regardless of what relationships we were or were not in at the time. We'd decided our friendship was real, and that we were truly those once-in-a-lifetime friends who would remain close forever. He promised me that we would, but we did not.

I met these boys at fourteen, welcoming their bright eyes and infectious smiles eagerly. They gave me rides home from school. They spent time with me. We grew up and stayed in contact. They helped me maneuver sticky situations through college. We saw each other whenever our schedules permitted. I've written before, though, that these boys kissed me in my driveway, but never took me on dates. They indeed were my first lesson in small, petulant love that does nothing more than drain you of your divine energy that it never deserved. I believe that although these boys meant me no harm, they had no intention of fostering relationships that respected me as a woman with feelings.

The three beautiful brown boys I have loved all asked if I would marry them in the same week. None of these proposals were formal, but I believed they were all sincere. The first said that he imagined us settling down in four or five years, and that he couldn't see any other person as his wife or the mother of his children. The second suggested I finish college where he was stationed, and that we could travel the world together. The third said that if we were both single in two years, he'd do everything he could to make sure we were together. I asked him if I could have any china pattern I wanted, and agreed to his proposition when he said yes.

But fourteen months after those conversations, I read this quote and it changed my love life. By the middle of March, the only man I spent a great deal with or gave any of my time was a brown boy I called my brother. He invited me to his home to cook when I couldn't afford to eat outside of cafeteria hours. We shared secrets with each other. We were honest with each other. We built the most intimate space I've ever inhabited, and to this day, I'm lucky to visit that place regularly.

One day much later, I found myself, by myself, walking through the shadow of death, and I spoke with one of the brown boys I'd met in high school. I realized that he and I were still the exact same people we were when we made plans and promises we would not live to keep. I understood that the anger I had toward him for lying to me, could quite honestly be turned to myself for believing in him more than I believed in me. We took the time to unpack eight years of emotional baggage. I left that conversation feeling new and light and free.

I acknowledged so many things in the nights I spent in that dark valley by myself. I faced legions of my fears during the day. It took more time than I will admit to forsake my half-loves. Even after I'd stopped actively loving them, I held onto the hurt I'd experienced at their hands. That grudge defined every positive moment we'd shared, allowing me only to learn lessons of the broken.

Right now, I am loved deeply by an enchanted boy that taught me a two-part lesson on how to be alone. By fostering a romantic relationship built on a foundation of transparency, he has offered me growth in places I hadn't found in myself. He took me on a journey to find my whole heart. Each time I see him, he welcomes me home. And I'm still going to get whatever china pattern I want.

safe spaces and the rest of the world.

I am sensitive as fuck. My feelings are easily hurt. I take offense to anything. And this shit is hard to live with. I actually based my whole existence on appearing unbothered at all costs. The first way I did this was through passive aggression. I’d be throwing things, slamming doors, and ignorning people, but swear that I wasn’t upset. Then there was the most melodramatic “Fuck It” era where I threw people away for any, and every reason. I am a Sagittarius sun with a Cancer moon and Pisces rising. This sissy shit is in my chart, bro. It’s my life. I didn’t embrace it until like… last month. So hey, here, I am standing in my truth: I AM FUCKING SENSITIVE.

So what say ye to the sensitive girl that most people find ridiculously gregarious and outgoing, who is so afraid of making a mistake that she spends her days wasting time worrying about what she should do next, thus hindering her from doing anything? How do you help her? How do you say, “Hey boo, it’s cool. You got this.” You could ask my boyfriend or my best friend from college. They’ve actually got that shit down to a delicate science. They ask the right questions. They make suggestions without snark. They offer swift, sometimes shady, correction. They call me on my most favorite forms of bullshit.

But as for the rest of the world, how does this girl embrace her very real need for emotional vulnerability? Where is that space in the workplace, or sorority functions, or even in her closest familial relationships? She doesn’t. There is no space for such. There is saving face, and calling out sick, and panic attacks before Thanksgiving dinner. There is nowhere to fall apart and not be judged. Well actually, there is always a space in which she can fall apart, and that place is not usually met with snark and degradation; but it is most definitely on its way. Maybe it won’t surface until she passes a group of adult-aged high schoolers that may quite possibly orgasm upon hearing of anyone’s distress, failure, or general unhappiness. That judgment might not rear its ugly head until months later when the moment has passed, and the healing is well underway, but someone who loves you that “always has your best interest at heart” finds it necessary to “remind” you of why you can’t do what you’re planning to do.

So what they fuck is this girl to do, y’all? She should spend time in solitude. She should spend time smiling about things she’s only shared with herself. She should invest in her own feelings. She should drive around her neighborhood for 45 minutes finishing up conversations with her best friend. She should write emails to her boyfriend, bringing to life the things she’s too afraid to admit out loud. She should keep to herself everything that is too valuable to share. And some days, that’s everything. Some days, that’s nothing. But she should above all things guard her heart, for from it flows her very essence.

You can find Riv’s post here. She’s also writing a dating series called ” In the Meantime” about all the awesome and sometimes (usually) fuckery-filled things she’s experienced since her last long-term relationship. My favorite installment can be found on Madame Noire  here, but to get the whole story (and you NEED the whole story), you should start with the entries on her blog.

22 Very Important Happenings

 I'd like to say this is a list of the most wonderful, amazing, lovely things that I've experienced thus far. It's not. This is a list of regular shit that's had an indelible impact on a young thug like myself.

1. My mommy told me I could do anything if I put my mind to it. I struggled to tie my shoes. She said, “You can do anything if you put your mind to it.” I repeated it. She practiced with me until I got it right, repeating it as she deemed necessary. I learned to tie the hell outta some shoe laces. This was my first lesson in determination.
2. Aunt Jackie taught me when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em. While my parents left me in Aunt Jackie's care, she treated (and still treats) me like her own. She let me sleep in the bed with her. She did her best to braid my hair. She whooped my little hard-headed ass. Each time she corrected my behavior, she quoted Kenny Rogers. I was 20 before I finally understood that she also gave me a most treasured piece of advice.
3. Daddy bought me Oooooooh... On the TLC Tip. Nobody loves music the way my daddy does, and the way he chose to share it with me will always be one of the most special things about our relationship. I doubt he knew he was placing in my hands the first womanist manifesto I would ingest, critically dissect, and commit to memory. “Bad By Myself” has been my song since I heard T-Boz slap that man down the steps for lying to her face. “Baby-Baby-Baby” taught me that I deserve to demand love and affection and intellectual stimulation. TLC taught me and you will fucking deal.
4. Gramma Hazel told me to be sweet. My great grandma was mild-mannered, soft spoken, and she liked her likka. Clearly, I was named in her honor for a reason. I don't remember a time she didn't remind me to govern myself in an humble, respectful manner. Six years after her passing, Aunt Jackie gave me a special card for Christmas. I opened it to find Gramma Hazel's handwriting and signature. It simply read, “Be sweet.” At the time, for what I was going through with my college friends and in my love life, I needed that message. Gramma always told us we'd attract more bees with honey than with vinegar, and I'm thankful daily for that reminder.
5. My cousins always listened to my ideas. When we played school, I was they teacher. When we played “going to the beach¹,” I was the mom. When we played “head-on collision,” I was riding into glory as they pushed me in my Power Ranger jeep that no longer worked because we left it out in the rain. Basically, my cousins are not only better than yours, but also the reason I'm a boss.
6. I was bullied in kindergarten. I was five. I had a Lisa Frank lunchbox. I attended a small private school. At least five white girls in seventh and eighth grade encircled me a recess everyday for weeks to antagonize me about my hair. I'll never forget the way they asked me how my head grew worms. I'll never forget how terrified I was every time they gathered around me to tease the only hairstyle I'd ever known. Somehow, our teachers and administrators never recognized what was going on. But I'll also never forget the day I gathered the courage to tell them they could kiss my ass. Literally. My mom's little sister told me to say it to them. I'll never forget how enraged my parents were when I finally told them. I'll never forget the satisfaction I felt when they weren't allowed to go to recess as punishment for being the racist assholes they might still be. I'll also never forget the day I thanked one of them to her face for teaching me how to stand up for myself despite being smaller, younger, and outnumbered.
7. Ms. Britt and Mrs. Russell realized I was exceptional and treated me accordingly. In kindergarten, Ms. Britt gave me different worksheets than she gave my classmates. My books had longer sentences and bigger words. In 4^th grade, Mrs. Russell gave me extra assignments and thicker books with few pictures. She let me have reading time alone while my classmates worked on regular 4^th grade foolishness. They hated on me for having all the pillows in the book nook to myself, but they didn't stop my shine. These two educators gave me my first lesson in being the exception and liking it.
8. I ran the Cussing Club. Also in 4^th grade, I was initiated into the Cussing Club by venturing to the picnic table on the far side of the soccer field and saying all the cuss words I knew. I quickly rose through the ranks of leadership, as I was arguably the best cusser the 4^th grade has ever seen (Thanks, Grandma.) At the height of my administration, I had a small conglomerate of Caucasian children buying me snacks and covering my lunchroom duty. Evidently, they felt I was forcing them to perform these menial tasks, while I thought they just enjoyed doing it. Their parents told the headmaster who told my parents who whooped my ass and made me write an essay on why I shouldn't cuss. That shit didn't make too much of a difference in the long term. But at least I'd learned my first lesson in differentiating between power and leadership.
9. I made real friends in middle school. Despite terrorizing my classmates, my headmaster and teachers told my parents I needed to skip the 5^th grade. I guess I had time to dominate because my school work wasn't challenging enough. I met my two first real best friends after changing classes. Granted, we were the only colored kids on the class so we had to stick together off principle. We've now moved past solidarity to lifelong friendships that have carried us through microagressions, breakups, frenemies, and general adolescent fuckery. These friendships taught me I was actually likable as fuck and made it easier to find real friends in high school and college.
10. The boys I liked didn't liked me back. Since the dawn of time, the guys I thought were immensely popular and utterly gorgeous were not checkin' for the kid. I wrote one boy a note in third grade expressing my undying love for him. He laughed in my face. Another never so much as looked my way. Yet another somehow went from my seventh grade crush to some sixth grader's boyfriend right under my nose. I was certain I'd be alone forever. This was my first lesson in rejection as protection.
11. I survived the private-to-public school transition like the fucking boss I am. I went from school with a Pre-K thru 9 population of 112 students, to a 9-12 population of 2200. And I won. I made a solid group of like-minded friends. I made decent grades. I joined clubs, won awards, participated in special committees, and even held a class office. And I only fell in the cafeteria once.
12. I told my color guard instructor she got on my nerves. In 11^th grade, I joined the marching band flag team. Our section instructor was a no-nonsense, no holds barred type that would promise you a punch to the chest if she felt like you deserved it. One day during senior year, she called me out for something I knew I didn't do. I didn't have time to entertain her shit that day, so I threw my flag down and headed toward my belongings because I was going the fuck home. She stopped me, asked what my problem was and I replied curtly, “You.” The whole band was staring at us with the wide-eyed emoji face on. She pulled me to the side and talked to me in a tone that showed respect and compassion, even though she knew I knew she'd punch me in the chest if I got any smarter than I had already. We apologized & I joined my team on the field. This was my first lesson in standing up to the establishment—kind of.
13. The boys that did like me never dated me. I fostered deep, meaningful relationships with boys that enjoyed having me meet their mothers, visiting me at home, and calling me their “homie” or “best friend.” These boys never took me on dates, but they sent me heartfelt text and AIM messages, kissed me in my driveway and were unnecessarily nice to my little brother. These boys were my first lesson in small, petulant love that does nothing more than drain you of your divine energy that it never deserved.
14. The boys I dated and thought I loved were sociopaths &/or generally terrible people. The first man I wanted to marry was a closeted homosexual that preyed on much younger girls since he was a teenager. At 16, dating someone 8 years older than me seemed like a privilege, and I was sure he was my soul mate. The things I've learned about him since our relationship ended terrify me. I could continue with stories of heart break and manipulation, but I'm sure you get my point. Teen-aged ravey was a terrible judge of character and committed to nothing more than she was to falling in love with potential.
15. I went to college without any friends. I left home for Hampton University's PreCollege programs 7 days after I graduated from high school. I was forced to make friends with absolute strangers. Some turned out to be terrible people. Some are family.
16. My college friends called me on my passive aggressive bullshit. My best friends and I believe in iron sharpening iron. We have learned not to criticize, but to encourage and correct one another. We believe in doing what's necessary to strengthen ourselves as professionals and as women. I'd still be a passive aggressive fuck nugget if it weren't for them.
17. I failed class(es). It started spring semester of freshman year. It happened at least once per school year. My final grades were always the whole entire alphabet. These classes were my lessons in not only failing to live up to my own potential, but also that everything will honestly be al-the-fuck-right.
18. I survived sophomore year. I was convinced my friends didn't give a fuck about me. I was in between some of the most terrible romantic situations I've experienced in my adult life. I miserably failed organic chemistry and frantically searched for a new major. Life was a complete shit show. But I learned how to deal with my problems on my own. And how to drink wine.
19. I made friends with an enchanted boy. Sophomore year was also the year a somewhat random classmate asked me to listen to his music. We exchanged numbers via facebook and we haven't stopped talking since. He's shown me life and friendship and love sprinkled in fairy dust and awesomeness. He was my first lesson in not judging a book by its cover.
20. I graduated and got into graduate school and got a job in my field. I did everything I was supposed to do when I was supposed to do it and I've hated every fucking second of it. This was my first lesson in forging my own path.
21. I lived alone, and I lived with a boy. Living alone taught me how precious and beautiful and important quiet, reflective time with yourself is. Living with a boy taught me how serious it is to share my space. I miss both of these arrangements every single day of my Black ass life.
22. I own my raggedy shit. There is freedom to be found in standing in your truth despite how ugly it may be. Progress is a gorgeous process when you really work on it by honestly assessing yourself. “Own your raggedy shit and do better,” tweeted dream hampton. I picked a piece of myself up off the shelf and started doing just that.

Reasonable Doubt

I realized what kind of hurt I've been feeling this afternoon when a White client of mine asked casually, “How was your weekend?” I paused. “Fucking terrible,” came to mind, but that's not exactly acceptable client-caseworker decorum. Finally, I replied with “Busy.” He continued to make small talk as we walked to my cubicle, but I wasn't listening. My mind was occupied with how heavy that question was. This stranger simply asked me how my weekend was. That's it. And not a single response was enough to encompass this past Saturday.

I didn't watch the Zimmerman trial. It was on while I was at work, so I couldn't catch the livestream. I hate the news, so I refused to watch it there. And I'm painfully empathetic, so watching it really would've just been another way for me to treat myself unkindly. When a friend text me to let me know the jury had reached a verdict, I rushed to the television.

The fact that George Zimmerman's acquittal didn't surprise me may be due to my pessimism. I knew he wouldn't be found guilty of his crime. Maybe that's part of why I didn't watch the trial. All was for naught, and I knew it. In my heart where I know my parents love me, I knew he would walk away from that courthouse a free man. I just didn't believe it.

I didn't want to believe that I still live in a country that doesn't place value on my life. I didn't want to believe that my brother lives in a country that has no regard for him as a human. I didn't want to believe that all my great uncles and aunts protested for in their youth was never realized. I didn't want to believe that at an institutional level, we as Black people are not judged by the content of our character. I couldn't afford to think that way. It would have broken my heart much long ago and I wouldn't have recovered. I would have been hopeless and remained that way.

But I don't have to just believe it now. I know it. I know that no matter how educated or attractive or charming or respectful or submissive or affluent or pious I will ever be, it will never be enough to supersede the deep-seated racism and prejudice of these United States. The first time my parents told me that because of my Black skin and kinky hair, I would have to work twice as hard to be half as good as my fairer peers, it pushed me and I excelled. This verdict took me back to that night in seventh grade I cried to my mother because I knew I'd done all I could, but my teacher never rewarded me like she did my classmates. I left that conversation empowered.

The melodramatic, ugly cry that followed the announcement of George Zimmerman's freedom is unlike any I have ever experienced. I sobbed in my living room because I didn't know what else to do. My tears came from somewhere I didn't know was there. They were earth-shattering, heart-wrenching, painful tears for the life a boy that meant everything to a few and absolutely nothing to the powers that be. Those tears were for the lives of the little boys just like him that are still here to face this utter disregard for their existence as anything other than prisoners and corpses. Those tears were for the women that birthed them and raised them and love them as they love themselves. Those tears were for the people so apathetic to the gargantuan role that race plays today that they don't care to even attempt to understand the implications of this verdict. Those tears were for those too uninterested to concern themselves with working to change things. Those tears were for those that weren't moved to act by that verdict.

In my eyes, the way my generation responds to this will forever define us. This cohort of lazy geniuses and self-centered activists has got to do something. We have to fight for something. We have to build something. There are no other options.

My question is and will remain, “What did you do?” When a jury of six mothers decided unanimously that a White man who profiled, stalked and murdered a teenager on his way to from the store with nothing but Skittles and Arizona tea was not guilty of murder, what did you do? When the man that walked free forty-four days after hunting and slaughtering someone's baby and was only charged because of the hell we raised was found to have done no wrong, what did you do? When you found out that George Zimmerman was free to go home to his wife and parents with the gun he used to end the life of a high school kid that had just gotten off the phone with his girlfriend, what did you do?

I hope you protested. I hope you organized. I hope you made your self aware of the legal way to arm yourself. I hope you worked on strengthening your community.

What did you do the day they reminded you that your Black life is worth nothing?