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?