The Pilgrimage

I did this crazy awesome thing called ChoreoFest where I stayed awake dancing all night and got up the next day and performed the dance that we made. It was a blast. While we were building the piece, we were asked to write about a journey we'd taken. I liked what I wrote enough to post it here.


On Christmas Day when I was sixteen, I put on the new cream corduroy slacks I unwrapped that morning. I had an Angora sweater that matched, perfectly. I braided one long, thin braid in  my hair. I slid a pair of nail scissors into my pocket. I checked my reflection, testing if you could see their shape through the thin fabric.

I went downstairs and put on my coat. I felt the weight settle heavy on my shoulders, the black hem brushing the floor. I wore black ballet flats. There was no snow.

I got in the car with my mother. My grandparents stood in the door. My brother didn't say goodbye.

The car took a long time to heat up. We drove in silence. I pressed my hands into the pockets of my corduroys. Under my coat, I pressed the point of the scissors into my thumb so hard I thought I would surely break the skin. Puncture the film holding the air in my body, the air in the car, pressure valve, sudden release.

I thought about Sarah McLaughlin songs. I thought about snow on gravestones. I watched the empty roads roll by.

I couldn't press hard enough to break the silence.

The car stopped. I couldn't remember making the turn into the hospital parking lot. "Okay," my mother said, soft. I thought she might ask if I was ready.

"Be careful when you get out, there's ice on your side." I nodded.

We walked slowly up to the doors, trying not to slip. The hems of my slacks dragged along the ice and I could feel them growing damp and grey. We entered through the side doors and passed the donor wall. I paused to read the names.

"Robert," my mother's voice loud in the quiet corridor. I turned to see my uncle shuffling toward us. He seemed too thin, translucent in the florescent lighting. The skin beneath his eyes shadowed like a bruise.
We said things. I can't remember now. The words kept shifting away from me. I remember:

"They told us we should leave"  "When did it happen"  "He was awake"  "They won't move him yet"

I drifted up the hall. The family waiting room, tv always on; the hallways full of quiet noises. Whir. Beep. Shuffle.

I remember the doorway, but not the walk. His face. His body. Beneath the sheet. The sheet the color of my clothes. The scissors in my pocket. Pressing not hard enough. My mother leaving to find a nurse.

I remember my father.

My father with skin like paper. My father with eyes like glass.

I remember waiting for his chest to rise or fall. The feeling of cold flesh over bone.  My voice too loud and too little in the silence. His body like a monument. His eyes like empty houses.

I remember no snow.

Not Easily Explained

words by me
 
I once had a discussion with a friend

whom I admire and respect 

during which I asserted "I am Black."

Our conversation stuttered
she uttered, incredulous, "What?"

and I, suddenly less sure, said

"My grandfather is African American, and so am I"

only for her to scoff out "That's only a quarter, that doesn't count"

How dare you

I didn't say

Yes I am

I didn't say

Who are you to decide

I didn't say

my words turned to molten metal in my mouth, sliding down my throat and burning out the bottom of my stomach, radiating red liquid heat into my skin

and then 

like a hot iron plunged into cold water 

I knew

She didn't see me.

I once described my experience of my life as liminal

as occupying the space between spaces

my racial identity is quicksilver 

mercurial at best

changing with the angle and the hour and intensity of light

White girl in Brooklyn

Weird girl in Long Island

Black girl in the lines of my palms

the shiver in my bones

in all the places hidden by my skin

Black girl

Invisible.

I didn't understand why I was so upset

at first,

with my friend,

who didn't see me.

I didn't have the language or experience to frame what I felt.

That came later, with time and reflection 

a degree of self awareness that pierces
like daylight through darkness

that curls around your heart and your lungs and your mind

that cuts to the core of what you think you are

I was upset because

If we met on the street and had a conversation about the weather and the traffic

and I mentioned the Black Lives Matter protest happening that day

"I'm all for racial equality" you might say, "But-

-Do they have to be so disruptive?"

you might say

-What's the problem with all lives matter?"

you might say

-I'm sick of the racism police"

you might say

-Just between us White people"

you will say  

with your wry half-smile and the conspiratorial tilt of your head

and I might say

Nothing

and you would never know that my skin 

is a lie

that my hair

is a lie

that my eyes and my voice and my clothes 

are lies that allow me to pass 

Unseen

I was upset because my race is 

Complicated

because my identity is 

Other

because the validity of my identity

can be challenged

can be picked up and put down at will

can be ignored

discarded

disregarded

divorced 

because the ongoing oppression of my people

is not my lived experience

and my position is not ally

is not oppressed

is not easily explained

is not easily lived 

but I do.

Every day

I swallow down the guilt of being

too White

I swallow down the guilt of not being

Black 

Enough

I swallow down the heat in my throat 

and my eyes do not water at the pain

Every day

I stare into the darkness

I stare into the daylight

I stare into the mirror

I ask

Do you see me?

That one time I was an angry feminist BALLER

So yesterday, I was in a really spectacular mood as I was walking home along the bike path from Davis Square. I was looking at my phone as I passed these two young men sitting on the side of the path, and I noticed their conversation stop, followed by a whistle.

I stopped. I turned. They were both looking at me, and when they saw me looking back, their faces shuttered, their posture shifted, tensed. "What?" Said the one kid, "I was just whistling"

"No," said the other guy, shaking his head, "keep walking".

If they'd kept their mouths shut, if they'd looked away, if he'd said anything, ANYTHING else, I might have moved on.

But I was having a great fucking day.

And you, you little piss-ant mother fucker, you don't ever get to fucking tell me to keep fucking walking.

Smiling wide, arms outstretched, I walked right up to them, and replied, "You don't have the right to harass me. You don't have the right to talk to me and expect me to not talk back."

"You don't seem like a happy person", says bad of dicks 1.

"I'm a fantastically happy person. The sun is shining and it's a beautiful day."

"You look like you've never had a problem in your life" says fuckface 2.

"I have tons of problems, I just don't let them weigh me down."

"Yeah? I bet your daddy could bail you out of all your problems" says skuzz guzzler 1.

"HA! I'm broke as shit dude, and my father is dead."

"So what it's a crime to whistle?" continues douchecanoe 1. "I could be gay, what then?"

"Actually, being gay does not absolve you of street harassment"

"You think this is harassment?" retorts misogynist moron 1, implying that 1) this is not harassment 2) that harassment is something much worse, always, and 3) I could show you what "harassment" looks like.

"Why yes, in fact, this is in fact harassment."

"Lady, you need to just keep walking," interjects asshole 2, talking over me, as they have been this entire glorious, terrible time.

"Keep walking? I need to keep walking? MOTHERFUCKER YOU CAN GET YOUR ASS UP AND KEEP FUCKING WALKING. GET UP. GET THE FUCK UP MOTHERFUCKER. YOU THINK YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO DO WHATEVER YOU WANT? TREAT ME HOWEVER YOU WANT? SAY WHATEVER YOU WANT TO ME AND HAVE ME BE SILENT? FUCK YOU. WALK AWAY. WALK AWAY MOTHERFUCKER. WALK. THE. FUCK. AWAY."

I was in their faces. I didn't back down. I caused a disturbance. I was making a scene at noon in Davis Square and I was so. Happy. They got up. They tried to intimidate me with their size. But I was louder, and happier, and righteous in my fury, and they were angry, and defensive, and uncomfortable in the extreme. They walked away from me, pretending that they were done, confused and unsettled by this girl, this woman, they tried to make an object of their lust, who dared to make herself a participant, an opponent, equal, human.

"You're real fucking brave doing this in Davis" said who the fuck cares "You wouldn't do this in Roxbury." Implying 1) that in Roxbury you could get away with assaulting me in public? 2) that in Roxbury I'd be too afraid to stand up for myself.

Out loud I said "I would do this in Brooklyn. Where I grew up. Until I was 8."

In my head: No. I wouldn't. Because I don't live there. I don't know the area. I don't know the distance to the nearest store, I don't know if I could sprint to a residence or a business with a phone, that would open the door, that would let me hide. I don't know if anyone would stop to help me if things when south. I don't know where all the alleys and dark, hidden places are where two men bigger and stronger than me could catch me, drag me, hurt me, rape me. I don't know if I'd survive. Which is why here, in the sunlight, in my neighborhood, in my home, I'm telling you to go straight to hell, you pig fucker cock monglers.

By this point, they were calling me retarded, walking away, hurling insults, calling me stupid and crazy because I didn't let them treat me like a piece of semi-sentient sexy meat.

So I said "I'm done with you losers. Bye Felicia" and sauntering away, invigorated, resplendent in my fury, with a two finger salute, exclaimed "My god, it is such a BEAUTIFUL DAY."