We’ve Always Been Here

I am working on something. A piece or a collection of pieces about BIWOC existing in spaces invisibly.

I’m not yet sure what form it will take, and I’m sure this will take me quite a while to put together, because it will take MANY interviews, stories, and exploration of experiences. But I am writing my intentions to help me stay committed to the process.

Invisibility is something I am quite familiar with.

I call myself a social chameleon. By this I mean my empathetic, Libra, ENFJ personality drives me to connect, collaborate and create balance. I can morph and mingle with the best of them. However it does mean I take a hit in visibility. You don’t create consensus by taking charge directly. You do it slowly and authentically by uplifting quiet voices and softening loud ones. You add in voiceless ideas and planting grains of thought.

But invisibility has led to a slew of articles complaining of the lack of BIWOC in specific spaces, with little or no acknowledgement of those of us who have existed here happily and continue to do so. So I want my angle to be illuminating and resolute and contemporary

So. Stay Tuned

We’ve always been here.

Disarming

I disarm people sometimes. And I won’t deny that sometimes, I do that on purpose. When asked where my family is really from (meaning have I traced my roots back to Africa)?

I respond- Ireland (full stop).

There is a pause, and I can see the gears turning in my inquisitors mind… (if I push and ask any follow up to that– will I seem racist? But there is no possible way she should be Irish, she doesn’t even look mixed).

Honestly, I don’t know exactly where on the African continent some of my ancestors are from. And the chances of you knowing anything at all about any region or nation or country or custom on the entire continent of Africa is probably null. So if i knew, and if i shared…your blank stare would remain.

But most importantly, I don’t believe you care. I do know that it makes you squirm to think about my enslaved ancestors being whipped on plantations down South, way before the colonies joined together to create the United States. And I do know you’ll rack your brain just a little bit trying to figure out where I get the Irish from.

Our Remains

Sometimes love is a whisper of defeat

clinging to your threadbare bones

so exhausted

so depleted

the skeletal remains

hardly resemble love

at all

But woven

deep

into the dried up

brittle marrow

peeling from the inner ivory

shell

is destiny breathing shakily

Sometimes love

survives the night

by burning blue

and conserving whats true