Two Weeks After The Presidential Election of Men Who Want Me Dead

Two Weeks After The Presidential Election of Men Who Want Me Dead

1.

I pause
to sit quietly and gather myself back
together, after all of the coming undone.
I’ve been running around with all of my parts
in the wrong places.

My heart in my hands, my guts in my mouth,
my eyes stretched out over my skin
so I can see in all directions –
a panoramic view of potential violence.

Yesterday, I sat next to another
Black woman on the train,
because statistically speaking,
according to the election results,
there is no safer demographic
of people – or more sane.

My brain pounds through my arteries and veins
pressuring my feet to run, to run, to run, to run, to run.
My feet flee without waiting for the rest of me,
to take up residence in another country,
one I pretend will love and shelter me,
but there is no home,
there is no sanctuary.

All of my internal architecture
is shattered and smashed.
I’d patched it back together hastily
with lots of rolls of duct tape and a staple gun
and several gallons of krazy glue.
It held up well for a week or two
while I kept alive the traumatized,
the desperate, the targets of hate crimes,
the ones they want to put on a registry for death.

But, traumatized myself
and with a bullseye on my back,
who will keep me alive
as my insides begin to buckle,
to tremble, to crack?

2.

I sit by the lake
where birds come to take
breadcrumbs from little ones
and dazzle them with their freedom.

A little brown child
in a bright pink bicycle helmet
runs to the edge
of the water, squeaking at birds
and stomping with giggles.
This is still possible, I think.
When will it end?

The geese honk at me.
“They’re coming for you, too,”
I say, seditiously.

Clouds billow and gather all the pink from the sunset.
They make an offering of softness and empathy.
I drink it in. My lungs are where my ears used to be.

3.

I sit in the grass and dismantle myself,
unpeeling the duct tape, prying out the staples,
spreading out the wood and memories,
the broken foundation of faith and hope,
the flesh and all its tenderness,
sharp shards of heart and glass,
the bone and bricks that I am made of.

Blood and bile and fear and panic,
dread and devastation and grief and gastric acid
splash out and drench the grass,
the crickets and ants, the loam.

I give up any hope of putting myself back together.
I surrender to gravity,
the grasp of the earth holding me close
clasping me between her solidity and the spaciousness
of the sky, infinite, and expanding
full of patience and possibility.
I drink in all that vastness with what is left of me:

Flesh, ear, tongue,
Skin, eyes, nose,
Heart, hands, lungs,
brain, brick, bone.

I become all that I behold.

4.

When my feet have been found and returned to me,
I stand and feel the enormity of the earth inside of me
and the vastness of the infinite sky
and everything they know
about patience and persistence
spaciousness and solidity.

Relentlessly resilient, the earth
who has seen several mass extinctions already
and is unperturbed by the possibility of another,
determined to make life emerge again and again,
drinks my tears and drains me of my desperation,
tells me, “Anywhere you go, you are always home.”

Anywhere you go,
you are always home.

In this moment,
I am here and I am whole,
relentless in my resilience.

If my days are numbered,
I will cherish every minute.
If I am imprisoned,
I will cherish every breath.

The birds and the little brown children
dazzle me with their freedom
and draw me on.

11/20/16 – 12/01/16

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When You Are Living In Circumstances of Systemic Oppression, Just Surviving is an Act of Resistance (There is No Right Way)

Do not shame people for not marching.
Do not shame people for not protesting.
Do not shame people FOR marching.
Do not shame people FOR protesting.
Do not shame people who are weeping.
Do not shame people who are silent.
Do not shame people who are removing themselves from the pain.
Do not shame people who are re-blogging everything they can get their hands on.

Self-care takes different forms.
Help each other heal.

–Ashley R. Oliver

For people dealing with systemic oppression, there is some idea that there is a right way to deal with it. There isn’t a right way. There are so many ways. Sometimes living your life and trying to be as happy and healthy as you can is the right way for you. Sometimes trying to make as much change as you can is the right way for you. Sometimes the right way is educating yourself as much as possible. Sometimes the right way is reading science fiction or playing basketball. Sometimes the right way is making art. Sometimes the right way is writing or talking about the situation to everyone who will listen. Sometimes the right way is taking a bath. Sometimes the right way is organizing within your community to meet the needs of the people. Sometimes the right way is to get politically involved. Sometimes the right way is to give up on politics. Sometimes the right way is to protest. Sometimes the right way is marching in the street, sitting in an intersection, picking up a megaphone or a microphone, handcuffing yourself to something inconvenient, annoying people into paying attention. Sometimes the right way is staying home, putting your pjs on and turning the news off. Sometimes the right way is going away where there aren’t any people and reconnecting with the sky and the sea, the earth and the trees. Sometimes the right way involves talking and crying or laughing about it with a friend. Sometimes the right way involves destroying inanimate objects. Sometimes the right way involves donating time or money to an organization you believe in. Sometimes the right way involves putting your fingers in your ears and saying La-la-la-la-la-la-la because you just can’t tolerate hearing about another person who could have been your sibling or cousin or child or parent or lover or partner or best friend being lynched in some way.

For many of us, what is right for us is going to be different on any given day, in any given moment, for any different reason. One day, I need to read every single page of The New Jim Crow or The Warmth of Other Suns. The next, I need to watch Scandal. One day, I need to march in the streets and scream at the top of my lungs. The next day, I need to meditate and for everything to be still and quiet. One day, I need to talk to everyone I encounter about racism. The next day, I need to make love to someone wonderful and make jokes with them about nothing much in particular. One day, I need to read everything I can find about the last person who was a victim of extrajudicial execution. The next day, I just can’t. La-la-la-la-la.

There is no right way.

My friends, my community, may we please honor the different ways that people take care of themselves under circumstances of oppression. There do not need to be divisions between us based on having different strategies for dealing with what has been done to us.

My friends, my community, please listen to the needs of your body and your heart and your spirit and take the kinds of actions that support your being whole and healthy as you engage with the horrors of the world.

You are precious.

When you are living in circumstances of oppression, just surviving is an act of resistance.

 

Take care.