confessionsofablackgirl
Confessions of a Black Girl
I have a lot of thoughts.... about a lot of things.
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it broke my mind tho
food will never break my heart
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School dress codes aren’t only sexists, but there’s also racist and islamophobic.
I (First Nations, Mohawk) used to have hair past my chest but my middle school forced me to cut my hair because “boys couldn’t have hair past the tips of the ear” (I’m not a boy either, but they assigned me ‘boy’ as a gender) but even when I begged them to let me keep my hair because of spiritual beliefs, they forced me to cut it. A classic move of the white school system against native children. I got a referral everyday for the 65 days I refused to cut my hair. I cried for two weeks after the principal took scissors to my hair. I’m still growing it back.
My best friend (who is an aboriginal Egyptian) was once told to remove her hijab (also a gift I had given her) because “hats weren’t allowed” (a mixture of racism and islamophobia), she reluctantly took it off.
In middle school again, my friend Nemo ( First Nations, Navajo) was told she couldn’t wear her traditional clothing on her 13 birthday, celebrating her reaching puberty. She was sent home and forced to spend her birthday alone while her parents worked.
Tomorrow is my 18th birthday, an important life event in Mohawk culture (becoming an adult) and I want to wear my traditional clothes to school, especially because I’ll have to celebrate all alone this year since I live far away from my nation. Even though my school doesn’t have uniforms or a strict dress code, I’m afraid they’ll tell me that my clothes or very light face paint are “distracting” and tell me to take off my traditional jewellery (headband, choker, bracelets) or wash off the face paint.
I’m sure these are only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to racism in the school dress code, and general school systems. White culture is enforced in everything from the dress code to the curriculum.
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I mean that shit.
Killmonger said, “When I tell you to do something, I mean that shit.” And when I say that I hate Donald Trump and America, I mean that shit. Fuck Donald Trump. Honestly, fuck humans in general.
I truly don’t understand how someone can turn on their TV, see the entire fucking country come out to support an issue, then hop on Twitter and be like, “NOPE, NOT HAPPENING.” I don’t understand how fucking idiotic and immoral you have to be to see mass shooting after mass shooting, child after child murdered in their fucking schools, and just get on the internet and say that there will NEVER be any action taken to rectify this.
We don’t even want to take away your fucking guns. We just want to be safe. We want background checks and protocols in place that will stop mass murders. But apparently, that's asking for too much.
What the fuck type of fucking psycho? I literally just cannot comprehend what the fuck.
(I won't even mention police brutality and the number of black people killed by the police because I know Trump doesn’t give a flying fuck about anybody other than himself and maybe, possibly other cishet wealthy white men)
Also what the fuck? Why is there about to be an opioid memorial put up? Why is it called the opioid crisis? And epidemic? Why aren’t we having another war on drugs? Why aren’t police raiding neighborhoods? Separating families by drugging them up and jailing them? Why didn’t anyone react this positively when crack was placed in black communities? Where the fuck is our memorial?Why the fuck are people trash?
It’s just so tiring. There are so many things to be angry about. So many things that need fixing. I need fixing, America needs fixing, society needs fixing, the Earth needs fixing. Everything is broken and it’s just so stressful. My back hurts and I want to cry. Yesterday I told my suitemate I was tired of everything and she told me that existence is resistance. But I feel like I need to be doing more, saying more. I just don’t know how everything can get better if everything is broken. I learn a new horrible thing about this place every day. Honestly, I lean towards supporting us getting hit with a meteoroid each day. Like, I know we’re already fucking up the planet but if we could get a move on and go extinct already I don’t think it would be that bad.
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Little do you know,
I think about you too.
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Femininity is artificial, it is constructed by men. Women are not naturally meek and submissive, we do not naturally desire to make ourselves small, hairless, and ‘seductive’ according to male standards.
There is nothing natural or inherent about femininity constructed under patriarchy. The designs of our oppressors do not demarcate womanhood, in any sense whatsoever.
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My friend just commented on how I’m the absolute worst storyteller ever but I express myself well when I’m writing and it’s the weirdest thing ever. And, I mean, she’s not wrong…
When I tell stories I like to tell my favorite parts first, then the beginning, then the random part I remembered that leads to a tangent. That’s how all of my stories go and I don’t know how to control it. Also no one ever really understands the point of my stories and it’s never as exciting to them as it is to me. This is why I have to write. To save the stories.
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I’m working on writing more. I noticed that I only journal when something bad is happening or I feel like I’m drowning.
I’m working on reading more. And reading anything. I just bought Anna Karenina by Tolstoy because it has 700+ pages and I everyone’s always talking about War and Peace.
I’m working on eating better. I am trying to eat the normal amount of meals, log them, and not overeat. I bought vegetable juice and a quinoa bowl today. I also bought canned black beans (my favorite).
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Brown skin,
glistening smooth
in the morning light,
reflecting—
copper metal,
tanned sequin.
Glowing with warmth,
fresh out the oven
firewood
burning beautiful
brown skin.
Brown skin,
golden as bent straw
basking in deep
dusk.
Dark like earth,
yet resplendent.
Calm and comforting,
soft blanket lying
crooked on bed
nurturing loving
brown skin.
American, but black.
A new meaning to systematic oppression.
What did we do to deserve this attack?
1619: Brought us here with whips to our back.
New land, new names; unnecessary aggression.
American, but black.
1865: 13th Amendment, didn’t cut us no slack,
legal slaves: our new found profession.
What did we do to deserve this attack?
1916: Lynch us. Burn our broke back.
No time for viewers discretion.
American, but black.
1984: They got us all hooked on crack,
sent our brothers to jail without legal protection.
What did we do to deserve this attack?
2015: Appropriating, but tell us our stuff is wack
and black businesses still in recession.
American, but black.
What did we do to deserve this attack?
(I’m looking through my poetry from a couple of years ago, and I’m like OKAY, I see you Z. But, I think I want to take a poetry class next semester. Actually, I should take only writing courses next semester... It’s a shame life doesn’t work like that.)
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I’m literally never going to forget the embarrassment I felt when my little sister announced that I was wearing a bra to our entire extended family when I first started growing boobs. Good times. Gotta love puberty and loud mouthed younger sisters.
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47th & Greenwood
Reading on the stoop: Inkheart, A Million Little Pieces, We Were the Mulvaneys, Lovely Bones
A house burnt down on an autumn night.
Not tree lined, car lined. Concrete Jungle.
Alexis and her grandmother-- the only trustworthy neighbors.
I nursed a dying chick to its inevitable death.
Snowday, across the street, throwing snowballs at passing cars with Mom.
10 years, low income housing, Southside.
Obama’s never ending motorcade.
Monkey Man, walking diagonally across the street, offering $2 carwashes to any and everyone.
4700 S. Greenwood, apt. 1B
Gun shots, death, sirens.
Farrakhan, Obama, W. Pryor.
Playing in fall leaves, taking the perfect picture.
Friday nights; Kanye, attention seeking, performing.
Stargirl. The Three Stooges. Tiffany.
The mouse.
I went through puberty.
Banging the broom on the ceiling, tell your bad kids to shut up.
Little Black Pearl gallery walks.
“Z go play outside”
Climbing trees, jumping gates.
The laundry room.
Cleaning lists.
Don’t eat the frosting off of the cupcakes.
Annie, Savannah, Ashley.
(I’ve been missing 47th street lately. Reminded me of this poem that I wrote a few years ago)
I made a playlist with E. Badu, J. Sullivan, Lauyrn, India, Jill Scott, and Alicia Keys. That’s a daytime, cleaning day playlist. I should make one for my Friday night attention seeking performances with Justin Timberlake and Kanye.
I should read as much as I did then.
I miss summer time Chi.
Mom’s incense.
I become more like my 10 year old memory of my mom every day.)
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The other day I couldn’t form a cohesive thought but I kinda like how this turned out...
Once upon a time, I wasn’t as vain or as insecure
Wow, I’m really grappling with the fact that people think I’m clumsy because I’m actually very graceful. I just hurt myself a lot.
I’m trying to find peace of mind
I don’t like being
One of my friends told me he was lonely. He said that he was lonely on the weekends and at night. He says he doesn’t want a girlfriend, he just wants to cuddle. I thought about it and he’s probably right, nights and weekends are the worst.
My roommate says she wants a platonic cuddle buddy
Intimacy is good for the psyche
These are the things that people said to me today:
“If you want me to...”
“You are being emotionally blackmailed.”
“I’m disappointed.”
“I love you.”
“You’re really bad at telling stories.”
“Do you want me to help you carry something?”
“Oh wow, you're independent.”
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Geographic Freedom
In California, at my college, I am free to wear whatever I want without worrying.
My mom sent me an Instagram post where this lady was describing how in Miami she could walk around in t-shirts, didn’t need a bra, and “everyone’s ass [was] out bc it [was] hot AF, the people were hot AF, free AF + not giving AF” and on some level I really identified with that.
On top of it being California, with it’s weeklong 110 degree heat waves, I also go to an extremely liberal college. I do walk around in t-shirts as dresses and if I’m wearing a bra it’s probably as an accessory to an outfit more than a functional tool used to hold and mold my boobs and nipples. I think that I take more liberties than the average person on this campus but I feel completely comfortable doing so.
In the Midwest, I wanted to wear what I wanted and what I felt comfortable in but I was forced to listen to a bunch of conversations about modesty. Wearing leggings was inappropriate due to the size of my ass and I was told that I couldn’t wear shorts in my own home.
If I transfer I would surely lose this freedom. And while I care about my greater well being (academic, emotional, mental), my freedom to dress how I want is a part of that.
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She’s right. I love us. Our suite is better than I ever could have imagined (and y’all know I like to dream big). I don’t know what I would’ve done without them this year. Or what I’ll do without them next year.
Also congrats to us for being able to have clear, productive, and mature conversations about things. Her disappointment did make me feel some type of way (sad, sorry, ashamed, concerned), but I was glad we were able to talk it through.
(As for me continually picking up my drunk friends off of my floor in our suite… I have lots of words but the only one I can properly articulate is sorry.)
the suite life
I adore my suite. 100000 x 101000%.
Hearing so many roommate horror stories made me realize just how fortunate I am to not only be compatible with all three of my bathroom buddies but to have the two people who I would consider almost family at this school live right next door to me. kudos to whoever put us all together and I guess to me for not actively seeking a roommate on my own because I’m sure that would have been disastrous.
We went all-out for our cute cheese and cracker night. As in we bought three types of cheese, three bottles of sparkling juice, two different dips, crackers, grapes, and a whole baguette.
I love and hate how over-the-top we are.
Things didn’t go exactly as we planned because one of us ended up having to take care of a drunk friend for the night. Obviously, I wasn’t mad that they took care of their friend, but I felt a range of emotions, the primary one being disappointment, I think.
quick tangent: the word “disappointed” always makes me feel a type of way after my after-school care teacher would use it whenever we did something wrong. They’d say “I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed” and I would feel TERRIBLE. I think I almost cried once because I would feel so guilty afterwards.
I went to bed, overthinking how I would address the night’s events and playing the many ways the conversation could play out as I always do. A lot of times it’s hard to gauge how people will react to confrontation and you need to figure that out so that you can decide on the best way to resolve a conflict.
Thankfully, the conversation went well; we resolved the problem and dissipated any grudges with a good old group hug.
This was when I truly realized how lucky I was to live with these people. These people who listen, who express themselves maturely, who know how to apologize.
a damn sight better than half the people who run this country, honestly.
I am so so so fortunate and I’m worried that my living arrangement will never be as good as it is now. It’s at times like these that I wonder what I must have done in a past life so that my karma is this good. Too many times I focus on the negative and I really needed this day to just remind me how good I’m living.
so, in conclusion:
pesto gouda is surprisingly good
as is goat cheese (especially with grapes)
I can toast a baguette without burning down a kitchen
Trader Joe’s has some quality dips
life is pretty good
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I want to confess something (because I can’t keep a secret for the life of me) but it would end up being a pain in my ass later if I told. It’s something that’s really horrible too. And all of the people that know won’t or don’t talk about it with me and I want to analyze it but it makes them feel some type of way (sad? useless? disappointed?).
There are three people I want to tell but I live with two of them and it would mess everything up if I told them. I don’t know what would happen if I told the other person I want to tell. And really, I don’t know how or why I would say it.
Maybe I’ll learn to quit oversharing.
(Well, lets be clear, I am far from an oversharer. I choose exactly who I share what with and I am always thinking of the consequences of sharing anything with anyone. However, I think that I think too many people should be allowed access to the information I possess. There isn’t anything wrong with any of the people I share with and I rarely regret sharing, it’s just that when the number grows, it’s harder to pinpoint who spilled the beans IF someone does.)
(Also, I can keep a secret if I want to. If I don’t think it’s of any real importance, and I’m amused enough to remember it then yeah, I’ll tell anybody (except the people involved... I know someone who, if you tell them about somebody, will go tell the other person as if it’s a joke) If I think it matters to you or could affect other people and I HAVE to tell, then I’ll only tell my mom. And if it’s my secret... I’ll tell anybody who won’t have any control over the situation. So, maybe I can’t keep a secret.)
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White feminism is a form of white mediocrity.
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Let me tell you something about my 2018 glow up.
I am turning 20. I can easily achieve my peak physical condition and I am wasting it. Therefore, I will be getting abs, maintaining my biceps, and getting a toned butt and thighs simply because I can.
I am getting into college, again, either Brown or USC, and I am majoring in Public Policy.
I will get an amazing summer job or internship, preferably out of town. I will find appropriate room and board.
I am going to master wearing wigs and doing my own acrylic nails.
I will do my work ahead of time, throughly. I will get the best grades I’ve ever received.
I will appreciate myself, both mentally and physically and I will thrive. And no one, not even I, can stop me.
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