There are moments in life where time appears to yield itself to wisdom. Those fleeting minutes soothe the soul with an existential balm of joy –this uncanny ability to see God in the midst of chaos. This fleeting space where love lives in this continual loop of transformation never appearing to impact those in power. There powerless repackage love as a trope for suffering while racism masquerades as faith.
This is day two of trying to find the words to write again. I am not sure what happen but something made me stop. The past couple of days, I have been wrestling with one reason: fear. I have done all of the work to get to this moment of starting a PhD. program and now they will find out that I don’t belong. Never has that been something I have struggled with or hindered by until it dawned upon me a couple days ago. Now, I feel like I am learning to write all over again.
It is hard to be creative in a space where fear is paramount.
It has been months since I have made an attempt to write anything. I have wrestled with myself: a lack of things to say or simply fear of critique. It appeared for the first time that I had developed an awareness of the critique. What I had labeled a lack of interesting events was really my unwillingness to be vulnerable. Writing places one’s perspective in a space of judgement where all stand as judge and jury. It is a place where the untamed life restructures itself into a sanctuary of peace –chaos becomes fortified spaces of comfort. I had become too consumed by the hustle of “trying to show I belonged.”
The pressure to write words that preferably I would rather just speak, haunt my soul.
The ever- pressing need to release some level of truth becomes the cathartic peace for the moment.
What I know is that life has places that instruct but it also has places that reshape love –a love that calls for resembling default of authenticity.
Where do I find peace?
I find it: trapped in the brown and black skin of my people.
I find it: laced in the syllables of the words of the elders.
I find it: in the genius of the welcoming known as a pound.
I find it: in the soft kiss of my dark queen.
I find it: through the love of a young daughter’s call of Daddy
I find it: seeking wisdom from brothers who have walked the path of manhood
I find it: in the beat of the drum- Dilla, Premiere, and Coltrane
Where do I find peace?
Honestly, most of the time, peace finds me…God.
I was asked the question: How do I feel? My response…
There is no unity or peace in spaces where my blackness is not appreciated; in a nation where Christianity is the summation of white, rich men who deem it their responsibility to make (a)merica safe. I awake every day with a crisp “Fuck You” on my mind which is manifested as a serene “Lord Have Mercy.” Knowing that most Christians will feel offended by use of f—k but have little concern for how folks are getting f—ed. We live in such a cynical world, “where cynicism is an unpleasant way of telling the truth.” But Maria Popova enlightens us that:
“Critical thinking without hope is cynicism. Hope without critical thinking is naïveté.”
So, we are stuck in this cynical moment of reality, where hope is constantly being attacked by white supremacy. A time when the church has found pleasure and refuge in tropes and colloquial sayings while refusing to attend to the needs of the people. We find ourselves in a posture of resistance with the ever-present stench of fear looming: a fear entrenched by a hope that a racist country will do right by the people. We are not defeated but understand the road is less traveled; it is a road that is spoken about but very seldom walked upon.
How do I feel? I feel more like saying, “Fuck Trump” rather than saying, “Let’s pray for him.” There is no debate on whether it is right or wrong, you decide. But it is honest.