What are you looking for?
Featured Topics
Select a topic to start reading.
If you are in crisis and need immediate help, please call 1-800-273-8255 (NSPL) or text HOME to 741741 (Crisis Text Line). More resources.
I just finished watching the last episode of she’s gotta have it (Season 2).
The very last image was too intense to describe.
I took a moment to process my thoughts.
To let it sink in. Something felt familiar.
I felt my ancestors.
And then…
The tears came.
From deep within me.
Here I am. Crying. In the middle of my living room.
I want someone to hold me, but I don’t want anyone to see me this way.
I let the tears flow.
I do not wipe them.
I suppress my sobs so the neighbours won’t hear me.
Shit. Mother.fucking. Shit.
Generations. In my blood. Sobbing.
And then…
I think about my principal.
The brown lady that reads bell hooks and preaches about equity.
I think about the mounting microaggressions from HER.
And how SHE is everything I am, and don’t want to be.
I prepare a speech in my head.
Calculating angles, approaches and rebuttals.
I am terrified.
I think about silence.
I picture HER gaze. I don’t think SHE will believe me. I think SHE will pat me on the shoulder, or hold my hand and tell me that SHE’s struggling too.
Or maybe SHE’ll promise that SHE’ll do better.
and SHE won’t.
Sounds like me.
I think about my stolen laptop.
WTF.
What ever happened to Accountability?
I’m holding a spliff in my left hand. Alien Stardawg, from that bougie dispensary on ice boat terrace.
I haven’t twisted it yet.
I can’t, because I’m sobbing, and I can’t stop.
I must hold my hand perfectly still to prevent the weed from spilling.
I walk to the kitchen.
I stand in front of the sink,
and I cry.
While doing so, I briefly contemplate taking my own life.
I clutch onto the sink.
I can’t do this. I can’t go into work tomorrow.
But I have the productions.
Two productions in fact. The ones I put my name beside.
The ones with my name cc’d on all the emails.
The ones that end with – Ms.Munroe, can you look into this?
The children are counting on me.
I can’t be a Bitch.
I twist my spliff as I walk back to the living room.
I put on my grey robe and my black flip flops - the ones I got from the Chinese beauty supply (in Antigua).
I grab my lighter.
I open the balcony door.
I light my spliff.
I take two puffs and stare into the distance.
Everything is blurry.
I sit on the chair on the left, so I can look at the CN tower.
I think about the first time I was silenced.
Steven. Grace’s son. My babysitter.
I can picture his crotch in my face.
I can’t say a word.
Or he’ll tell on me.
So I lay there. Silent.
The thought makes me cry again.
I should’ve kicked him in the balls.
Asshole.
I cover my face.
Should I tell that to my principal?
Will it help her understand who I am?
I decide against it.
You can’t go around telling people that a boy put his crotch in your face a few times when you were 6, and he was 13, and you didn’t him to, but his clothes were on so, you don’t know what to call it.
It’s not that deep,
BUT
It’s actually deeper than I think.
I cover my face
I don’t want the neighbours across the way to see me.
That crazy black lady who cries on her balcony.
That’s what they will say, if they see me this way.
I bury my sobs with my hands.
I make peace with myself. I thank God for that.
I remember my people.
I decide I will tell my story and theirs.
I get up from the balcony. and start writing this.
If you see a comment that is unsupportive or unfriendly, please report it using the flag button.
More Posts
-
My friend is a manipulative, mean, drama queen and IT IS DRIVING ME CR...
Code names: My friend (Emma) My crush (Brody) My crush's friend (Ethan) I have this friend, Emma, and she is being really annoying. We both have the same cr...
-
Meds
It's summer for me and I have not taken my meds really since the end of school at the beginning of may because I wasn't very anxious or had to focus (i have adh...