______

It's hard to keep a blog going when you run out of words.

Right now, I'm hurting, I'm mad. Mostly because I'm watching so many people around me who are hurting, too. And because this isn't a new feeling.

I don't know what to say anymore.

Black Love in my Life

We gon’ be alright.

It’s a motto. A testament. Maybe even a lifestyle.

It’s also a line from the song that, for me, transformed an office into a haven, a community into a family, fear into hope, pain into strength. It’s the epitome of the strength and resilience that explain my first year at CSU.

It’s the transformation of my identity; my fresh start; my renaissance.

I’ve been trying to sum up the past nine months from me. The beginning of a new journey called college, stepping into new, extremely unfamiliar spaces, stripping my identity down and rebuilding it, strengthening it, solidifying it. How do I sum it up? Well, I don’t, not really. But I’ve been looking for those things that can capture this first step into a new world. I’ve been looking for that something, that burned into my heart, stuck with me, kept resurfacing in different ways. Then I found it. It was a question—a Real Talk discussion topic—that really resonated with me: what does black love mean to you? And that captures the essence of year one.

Of course, now, I can’t articulate it as well as I would like. Here’s what I got:

- Raising a child in the only way known: with an extra shield of armor, intense pride and fiery passion, yet still under a blanket of shielding and protection

- The love passed down generations, taught through actions, instilled in the very being, sewn into the soul

- The countless chances, unending forgiveness, unconditional attempt to understand

- The reminder that the external standards are always too high, and you're still okay if you don't meet them

- Providing and finding a space to be heard without expectations of elaboration or perfection

- The embrace of a stranger that carries the weight of the world, and for even just a moment makes you realize that it’s going to be okay

- A silence that captures exactly what must be said

"It's good to see you" and "I'm glad your here" elicit a new depth of gratitude that we made it one more day 

- That universal head nod – “I may not know you, but I know”

- In actions, in words, in shared feelings, shared moments, shared spaces

                    Pain, like joy, is shared

                              Struggle, like triumph, is shared

- “I love you” manifests itself in more than a physical way, more than any level of physical or emotional intimacy can ever demonstrate

- The intangible but pervasive power of love

               Fear

                         Hope

                                     Faith

                                                Love.

Black love isn’t distinct from love as we know it (assuming we know what love is—not sure that I do, not completely). It’s an enhancement. It’s the unspoken but understood connection that we must hold on to one another, lift each other up, be in that light at the end of the tunnel (no, it’s not a train). It’s this additional piece of love that has nothing to do with the nature of the relationship; it’s there, unconditionally. It’s in the day-old friendships and lifelong relationships.

It’s an extra layer of strength that we shouldn’t have to load onto our shoulders, yet we do. But it’s a chance to share that load, to find someone that’ll get it.

It’s having someone let you know that “I got you” and we gon’ be alright, without ever saying a word.

More than anything, Black Love is what kept me going and got me through.

Year One—done.

"Great America"

So the USA is headed deeper into this wonderful Master Narrative that confirms "whiteness" to be the definition of "American", so anyone who is 'Other' is indeed not an American. 

Welcome to "Great America," where anyone who doesn't fit the concrete mold of heterosexual cisgender white christian able-bodied male is less of a human being, less deserving of a life/a voice/a choice, less deserving to be coined as human.

Welcome to my "home," where the intersectionality of my identities is invalid, and my identities are instead reduced to one category: minority. Welcome to a place where to be institutionally marginalized is a myth and to speak out against it or any other injustice is to be unamerican (not that it's a constitutional right or anything). Welcome to a place that's more likely to stick with party lines and ignore the experts and majority of voices saying, "something is very wrong, and here's how to change it."

Welcome to a place where the "American Dream" is broadcasted to all but only meant for a few. Your right to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness are not as unalienable as they seem, and the notion that all men are created equal is not a self-evident truth, but one that we still are trying to prove. Welcome to my country that preaches freedom and unity but has never completely achieved either.

Welcome to the land of alternative facts, unanswered questions, and unfulfilled promises.

If you ever find yourself here in the Great US of A (assuming you can pass the vetting process to prove your not a drug-dealing rapist and/or terrorist), be ready to fight for your right to survive .

Your Education is not My Obligation

There's a common misconception out there that it is okay to direct all questions and concerns about an oppressed group, as a whole, to one individual who identifies with that group—

It's not okay.

Let's take my identity as a Black individual.

I might be your "token black friend" (that shouldn't be a thing to begin with), but I am not your walking, talking, breathing encyclopedia on everything Black. Sure, I'll have a conversation about my experience as an Black American, but I cannot speak on behalf of the entire race. I cannot, do not, and will not generalize my personal experience to explain my entire race, because my identity is mine and not anyone else's. I am black. Yes. I am also a cisgender woman. I grew up in a suburban middle-class environment. I was raised by my married parents, both of whom have Master's Degrees, and jobs with good benefits. Think about all the ways that those could be different, and understand that each combination of varying identities is what keeps me from generalizing my experience. My blackness might stand out the most to you, but it is not all of me, nor is it all of someone else. Each identity plays a role in making us unique, and I will not ever deny this. Before you ask me about what it is like to be black, in any capacity, be aware that I AM UNDER NO OBLIGATION TO EXPLAIN MY BLACKNESS TO YOU, and my answer is not generalizable.

"Well, why aren't you willing to talk about your racial identity if you keep preaching about the role of education in changing society?"

As stated, I'll talk about it. But when you ask me what life was like for "us" during the Civil Rights Movement, I'm going to tell you that I have no idea. Because I was born in the 90s, not the 60s. Sorry. That’s what Google is for. That's what textbooks (kind of) are for. If you want to learn about Black history, be my guest. Just don't rely on me as your only source of information. I cannot give you an all-encompassing answer, even if I want to. In the case that I do find myself having an deep, intellectual, probably heavily opinionated conversation with you about current race relations or any aspect of systemic oppression, don't expect me to sugar coat it or "white wash" it just to make you feel better. I'm going to tell you how I feel. I'm going to say things you don't like. You either have to be willing to suck it up and take it, or figure out whose side you're really on.

So here's a thing that's really making me feel some type of way—

Constantly having to explain myself and my actions or thoughts, or what my black peers are doing/saying, can be exhausting, overwhelming, even impossible sometimes. You constantly asking me questions or expecting me to clarify something about my culture is insinuating that my black skin—which I cannot take off or escape—is nothing more than an all-access pass for you to validate your "wokeness". My black body is in a state of constant vulnerability where I cannot be sure at any point that I am completely safe and free to live and express myself how I see fit. You asking me, "can I touch your hair?" or "where are your people from?" or "yeah, but don't all lives matter?" confirms my fears and frustrations. I am never free from my skin, safe from my own black body. It's hard to articulate what it is really like to be physically/emotionally exhausted from just existing. Every day that I leave my home, my haven, my sanctuary, I know that I'm stepping into a world that ultimately does not accept me because of my biological composition. I hope you can let that sink in. I have already lived a good portion of my life in discomfort or genuine confusion about why I don't belong, why I get side glances or "special" treatment, why people only kind of speak their mind around me. And there's no other way to explain how I feel about it than to say: I'm tired. I'm tired of being ashamed and fearful. I'm tired of catering to your needs so that you can stay comfortable, so that your values are never questioned. I'm tired of being hyper-vigilant about everything I say, because any wrong word out of my mouth, or any action that doesn't please you, could very well be my last. I'm tired of my black body being constantly abused and contorted just to satisfy your privileges. I ' M  T I R E D.

If you're not willing to step into my skin (shoes can be removed; skin, well, that's a tighter fit) and feel that discomfort and challenge, to question your identity and values, to change how you eat, sleep, and breathe, then don't say you're willing to learn, to take action, to "right the wrongs of history". Your apologetic guilt will never make up for the centuries of oppression and abuse that defines my heritage, my history. It takes more than marching with us on Martin Luther King Jr. Day. It takes more than just saying, "Black Lives Matter" and "No Justice, No Peace". It takes more than sharing another viral video and labeling it with a fatal hashtag. I'm not saying I don't want your help in this fight. I'm saying find a different way. Don't leave me in a position of constant defense and using my thick skin to absorb the harsh, cutting words in the world around me. Stand up for me when I'm not there. Ask questions that make you uncomfortable, address the elephant in the room, under whose weight I have been trying to hold my ground. Put yourself in a position of vulnerability and self-sacrifice so that we can grow together. Don't selectively join the fight. Be all in.

This is just one of my perspectives. It does not address my full identity. I chose to go down this avenue because of how salient my Black identity is to me, but also how clear it is for you. I hope you can recognize that the pursuit of social justice is about acknowledging the many, many different perspectives that comprise the oppressed identities. I hope when you reach a point, like me, when you are all in, that you recognize or privileges. Use those privileges to bring others up with you. Acknowledge the discomfort, unhappiness, and even guilt that come with the privilege of not being oppressed in that way. Challenge the norms that hold us back from progress. Fight the systems that are outdated and wrong. Join the movement to help us take back our bodies, minds, and voices.

Educate; Inspire; Motivate yourself to be the change you wish to see.

Thank You, Mr. President.

Dear President Obama,

November 4, 2008: My family and I sat on the couch in front of our TV, intensely watching the election count and your subsequent acceptance speech. I didn't understand everything it meant then, but over the years I would come to understand that not only were we witnessing history in that moment, but we were (and still are) living it. In the process of growing up in this historical period, I also got to witness the growth of our country--economically and socially. In eight years, society as I knew it was completely transformed.

Over these past eight years, I learned a lot from you, but what struck my heart the most was how you constantly emanated hope, and preached change. More importantly, you matched those words with actions. You showed so much humility and grace, through every hardship and every success. Ernest Hemingway said, "courage is grace under pressure." You are living, breathing evidence of what it means to be courageous. 

No words can truly capture my gratitude for how you have carried our nation, but I figured I'd try.

Thank you for inspiring me every day to do my part in bringing about positive change in this society. Thank you for reminding me that optimism, forward motion, and learning from history are more important than dwelling on the negatives. Thank you for restoring my belief in the power of an individual citizen in this country, while simultaneously teaching me that the most powerful change is found in solidarity and collaboration. 

Thank you for restoring hope I didn't realize I had lost. Because of you, I have not given up. I have not given up on myself and my potential to make a change, or on this society and all those who make it what it is. You said it yourself: "Regardless of our differences we're all in this together; we rise and fall as one." Eight years ago, you brought the nation together with the message, "Yes We Can." What you have shown in your last months is that it is never too late to take action, that the fight for change never ends. Your determination and perseverance, working right up to your last day, is a reminds to us all: we are all capable. You have shown us how to turn angst into growth, fear into progress, hate and anger into forgiveness. 

Thank you for the reminder to keep hoping, keep believing, keep dreaming in a better future. Thank you for leading the cause for change. I vow to keep the faith, to keep moving forward, so that all that forward motion is still a reality. 

You said, "believe; not in my ability to bring about change, but in yours." Truth be told, it was my belief in you as our leader that brought me this far. So now, it's our turn. We will pick up this fight, standing with you, as citizens who love this country and want nothing but the best for this world. I'm ready to fight for change that will better our society and carry it forward. [We Got it from Here...Thank You 4 Your service.]

Thank you, Mr. President. 

You changed my life.

You changed the world.

You, sir, are my president.

Solidarity

DACA Student Support Rally - November 14, 2016
If I had to describe the experience in three words: humbling, empowering, uniting.

For all the disenfranchised people: I see you. I am with you. I understand the pain, the fear, the anger. 

Now is our time to make ourselves seen, heard, believed, and validated. 

now. is. our. time.

I stand with you.

I will stay by your side

I will fight your fight,

I will endure the pain,

I will take the weight from your shoulders.

Show me your fight

so that I can pick up 

when you feel like you can't go on.

Share with me your strength

so that I can carry you

when they try to break you down.

Lend me your voice

so that we can say it loud

say it together, 

united as one

With a fist held high;

with a stone cold expression;

shouting at the top of our lungs,

or in silence when the words run out;

marching and stomping,

screaming laughing crying,

making our presence known--

I stand with you.

And I will not let you fall

We stand together.

We fight together.

We survive together.

We will not fall.

W E L C O M E.

For those of you who are feeling afraid because of where our country is headed, welcome to the club.

(This is my one rant. Just for the record.)

Those feelings you have are the same that so many minorities have felt in this country for decades, maybe even centuries. The anger you are feeling is what fueled eras like the Abolitionist Movement, the Harlem Renaissance, the Civil Rights Movement, the Feminist Movement, the Chicano Movement, the Black Lives Matter Movement, the LGTBQ+ Rights Movement....

you get the point, right?

We have been fighting for so long. What you are seeing now is the blinds of privilege being lifted, leaving you vulnerable and exposed.

Welcome.To.The.Club.

Unfortunately, what you feel is still only a fraction of the pain that we, as the disenfranchised, have been feeling all along. For us, it is heightened. I know I personally feel uncomfortable and on high alert walking across my Predominantly White Institution . I find myself looking at people thinking, are they racist? Do they see me as a threat? Do they see me as a target? Do they see me as a problem?

My black skin is crawling.

What really sucks is that this would be our opportunity to help everyone see this, but clearly there's a majority of this country who are totally cool with sending my gay friends to conversion therapy, sending all the immigrants "back" to Mexico, taking women's control over their bodies from them, marginalizing racial minorities to continue the cycle of poverty and inhibit any chance of breaking down that image....

newsflash: not.all.minorities.are.pooruneducatedunemployeddeadbeatparents.
newsflash: you.cant.pray.the.gay.away. You can't shock it away either.
newsflash: planned.parenthood.does.more.than.just.abortions.
newsflash: look.up.the.definition.of.NATIVE. Caucasians are immigrants too.
newsflash: not.all.immigrants.are.Mexican. In fact, most aren't.
newsflash: not.all.immigrants.are.undocumented.
newsflash: not.all.immigrants.are.rapistdrugdealingmurderers.
newsflash: not.all.documented.citizens.are.good.

newsflash: It's 2016.
newsflash: your labels will not limit us.


So here's the thing. Our fight is not over. It never stopped. You are welcome to join us in an effort to bring about some overdue change.

Just leave your privilege at the door.

If there is one thing I've gathered from how our society has already started to change, it's that our forces must be stronger than ever.
So keep fighting. Don't put your head down. Don't sit back and take it. If someone's acting ignorant or disrespectful, put them in their place. Call them out. Expose their privilege. Let them know why they're wrong. Have the conversation. Don't suppress it anymore. Don't worry about hurt feelings or losing friends. The ones worth keeping will support your cause.

Speak up. Stay strong.

I am hopeful that the fear will end. I am hopeful that the pain will end. When that happens, when the clouds finally part, things will be better. Just fight until we can get there.