Black American Woman
“Are you white or are you black?” The question made me feel trapped. Yvonna had offered me two doors and two doors only. She looked me in the eyes, hands on her hips, awaiting my answer.
Read MoreSuffer with me
Suffer with we
Who wrote our names in pain
And rose again
To write the word
To right the world
I know you even though I don’t know your name
You are my mother, my sister, my auntie, my friend
When I rise, I rise up on your shoulders
When I fall, I am healed by your touch
Read MoreOpen your lips and sing until all the dead things have come streaming out.
Purge your esophagus of all the bile that swirls around in the back of your throat
Choking your capacity to taste and see.
Arresting your ability to see and know…
Read MoreDo I hold a grudge against an elementary-school-aged boy whose name I can’t even remember? Of course not. Because at the end of the day, what left the strongest impression on me wasn’t even the words that he said. It was how he said them. His self-assuredness chipped away at my own sense of security. His boldness made me feel intimidated. His aggression made me retreat.
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