On Reparations, Resistance, and Black Joy

Reminders on How to Live in a World Built for Your Demise

Once More with Feelings is an in-the-moment experimentation in writing celebrating second, third, and fourth chances in a world that is endlessly unforgiving. From general musings to deep dives on the emotional heartbeat that makes us us, Once More* is for you, loves and lovers. And your readership means more than you can imagine. Let’s Try Again, yeah?

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My friends,

You already know what day it is. Many of you are off of work today. Blessings to us all for the opportunity to rest and recoup.

Even more so, many blessings to those for who this day is intended.

Juneteenth signals the end of slavery in America.

It is worth celebrating and remembering the work of all of those who fought for such a thing to be true.

With this, slavery of the black body and mind is still alive and well in this country.

I wrote this piece to commiserate with my people but also to carve a way forward in my mind and your own.

Shit’s out of control these days. We can all do with a wake up call with a wee bit of joy.

Per the usual, I can’t promise it will be a completely fun read but I do think it is worth it.

Drop me your thoughts and excuse the typos.

NOTE: THIS PIECE INCLUDES A RACIAL SLUR THAT IS USED TO DEMONIZE BLACK PEOPLE. IT HAS BEEN RECLAIMED BY MANY BLACK FOLKS. IT IS USED IN THIS PIECE CAREFUL, INTENTIONALLY, AND PURPOSELY TO CONVEY THE WEIGHT AND REALITY OF THE MISTREATMENT OF BLACK AMERICANS. IT ALSO USED TO REMAIN TRUE TO THE STORY PRESENTED. IF YOU CAN’T ENGAGE WITH THAT WORD AT THIS TIME, FEEL FREE TO BYPASS THE ITALICIZED PORTION OF THIS PIECE OR THE PIECE ALL TOGETHER. <3

My eyes glazed over as they often did during honors geometry. At 14, I had no interest in shapes and angles. The math like most things at that age came easily to me. I had already taken a particular interest in poetry and the sciences. Anything beyond those subjects were of no interest to me. Because of this, I sat quietly in the thick cloud of conversations happening across the room without my presence.

I had transferred into the local public school system in the third grade from a small private Christian school where I was one of two black children. The racial demographics didn't improve when I got to the elementary school mere minutes away from my childhood home, but the instances of racism grew. Despite having progressed at lightning speed through self-directed learning at my previous school, my mother had to fight to get me into the honors program. Teachers and the administrators had "doubts" about my capacity to excel in a "new environment." This set a precedent for the rest of my time in that school and all others to follow.

Unlike the other children, I did not start each school year on even ground. My journey was a steep and sharp race to prove my worth and intelligence. How quickly could I academically outpace the kids in my class? How many reading levels above my peers could I demonstrate? How fast could my legs churn on the track to smoke the stampede of white children on my heels? It took three years of sheer effort, right before my entrance into middle school, to prove to those around me that I might have what it took to participate honors classes. The administration begrudgingly gave me entrance and I continued my journey as the singular black kid in a sea of white.

I learned the ropes of middle school quickly. My mind circled the drain of protective thought daily. These thoughts were spells I cast for safety and guidance. Keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, keep your grades up. Play sports but not too well as to not draw attention to your athletic talent over your academic prowess. Join every club you can, be eager to participate, bow to the group members. Be ten times as good as everyone on any team. Never point out your excellence, let them do it instead, and smile/nod/thank them when they do. Be just black enough to gain respect from your black peers, but not so black that the white kids in your classroom see any difference between you and them other than the color of your skin. Fly under the radar and pray you make it out alive.

Of course, after three years of middle school, three years of biting my tongue and and tasting the iron of that bite, I would sit in honors geometry without a care to participate in a social economy built for my destruction. With my head pointed downwards, I skipped ahead in the textbook looking for more difficult problems and my ears searched the room.

It doesn't take long to clue into a discussion you are not supposed to be apart of. A group of white boys behind me were having a thrilling conversation about hunting. Go figure. As they talked about getting in their fathers' trucks to head deep into the woods that weekend, one mentioned unwelcome characters on his hunting land. Coated in Southern drawl, one described the black men that were in an outpost nearby. Shocked rippled through the group as they leaned into his words. This is the moment when I should have tapped out and cued my listening into any other conversation taking place in the room, but I am a person of great curiosity and so I dutifully titled my head backwards to hear more clearly.

It might have taken 30 seconds for the word to come to the surface. A word my mother had warned me about years before. A word my father oftentimes called me endearingly or in moments of great trouble. A word they wielded against my ancestors as they whipped the men beneath the Alabama sun and cast out as they raped their wives in privacy of plantation home rooms. Slave n*gger. House n*gger. Good n*gger. Bad n*gger. N*gger hanging from a tree near the cotton fields for all of the other n*ggers to see. A word, [redacted], I will spare you from reading again and one you surely would not say now (I pray) danced freely on the edge of their tongues.

The weight of its history rung out as the word assaulted my ears and pierced my personhood. I exhaled. I steadied my body against the seat of my desk. My throat went dry and sweat broke out in the palm of my hands. Heat rose in my body as I fought anger. The word was thrown back and forth, a game of catch between mouths. I closed my eyes, breathing out then in. The story continued. They snarled. They prayed for the downfall of a [redacted] who dared to step foot on "their" land. They spoke of guns. They mentioned grandfathers who were part of the Klan who wouldn't let a [redacted] like this breathe near them. They lamented. They wished the [redacted] dead.

I imagine that my stillness was read as suspicious as one of them tapped me on the shoulder.

Remember: keep your head down, keep your mouth shut, keep your grades up.

I turned my body towards them.

Remember: play sports but not too well as to not draw attention to your athletic talent over your academic prowess.

One asked me what I thought about the [redacted] who was on their land.

Remember: Join every club you can, be eager to participate, bow to the group members.

I blinked twice and pretended I did not understand the question. I said I wasn't sure. I said I didn't hunt. I said I was sorry that happened, an apology I knew I should not give but needed to for survival.

Remember: Be ten times as good as everyone on any team. Never point out your excellence, let them do it instead, and smile/nod/thank them when they do.

Two whispered to themselves, secret words feathering ears that weren't my own. A nod produced another question. One leaned forwards, the smell of his breath inches from my nose, and asked if any of the [redacted] I knew could even afford land. This gave way to laughter that crawled over my skin.

Remember: Be just black enough to gain respect from your black peers, but not so black that the white kids in your classroom see any difference between you and them other than the color of your skin.

I laughed, too. I said I said I didn't know. I apologized again. My eyes glanced between each of them and I hoped for an exit path to appear.

Remember: Fly under the radar and pray you make it out alive.

Time became infinite. I looked at them, a jury holding my safety in their hands. I coughed nervously. Panic sat on a launchpad inside of my stomach. We were suspended in silence. Both parties plotting the best course of action.

The stalemate broke as someone spoke. One of them, the kindest and most sensible of them all, called attention to everyone in the group. A white boy I had known since I entered that elementary school six years previous looked at me with great intensity then a smile broke out across his face.

"Don't worry. We know you aren't like those [redacted]. You are different. You aren't one of them." He smiled again and the smoke of tension dissipated amongst his peers. One shook my shoulders with a wide grin. "Of course, we do!"

I turned back to my seat. Sitting in a daze, I replayed the situation on a loop until the school bell rang signaling an end. Gathering my books, they each patted my back as they left them room. The nice one leaned towards me on the way out and said quietly, "I hope you know we're friends, yeah?" I nodded. I laughed. I apologized again. "Of course, I do"

Last night, while standing in group of white men who are much taller than me that also happen to be my friends, I joked that they should all send me reparations today. You know, because...they are white men. The words flew out of my mouth quickly without any ounce of seriousness. As a black person, I do not expect much from anyone. This extends even to my friends and even more so to my white male friends.

Imagine my surprise this morning when I woke up to ten bucks in my Venmo account from one of them.

Instead of joy or thankfulness, I immediately became insecure. I feared I had harassed them. I worried that I had fractured my relationship with them. No longer the good negro, but another black person who wanted something from them. I did not question the intention of the funds. I knew they were pure in intention, but I couldn't help but think that I had done something wrong.

Isn't that the magic of racism? It takes even the nicest act and twists it into malice colored by a history of mistreatment, oppression, and violence against yourself and others who look like you.

To be honest, I don't know why I felt so guilty. I don't know why I felt so unsteady in my own blackness. I have no idea why shame fell on me.

I LOVE being black.

It's probably the coolest thing about me and I didn't even have to elect into it!

People lay out in the sun for hours to try to achieve hues like my rich caramel skin. They tease out hair with the hopes of getting close to the texture of my own. They work out for hours to get rich curves and muscular vascularity that comes naturally to me.

Black people are the definers of culture, the backbone of America, the seasoning in a Western culture that would be stale and boring without our presence.

There would be no NBA, NFL, no MLB without black people. No country or rock and roll or jazz. No fashion. No culinary excellence. No literary depth.

It might sound like I am saying that black people are the reason why America exists. You'd be right. I am. If anything, we are the first instance of American "greatness."

Since they snatched us from our homes and stored us away below ship decks, we have been keeping this country from sinking into the earth.

And, in return, we have been punished for it. First from slave ships and now with incarceration, chains have been latched to ankles and wrists binding us to their own guilt and shame. Whips brandished the skin of my ancestors and this caused us to take up belts and switches against ourselves, a legacy of violence carried out from generation to generation.

They have killed us in the streets, in our homes, in our schools, in our churches.

Hatred and persecution of the black body has been the M.O. of America since its inception.

And, nonetheless, we persist.

For the last few years, I have been collecting white friends like Pokemon. Each one of them is beautiful and valid and loving and caring. I wouldn't have them in my life if they weren't. They celebrate me whenever possible and for that I am thankful.

Even still, there is nothing like the camaraderie of blackness. The shared, unspoken understanding of what living this life under the American regime has looked like, will look like, and can look like.

The black imagination exists in the realm of the supernatural. We carve out constellations of truth, excellence, and glory. We are holy, well, and good.

WE are the movers, the shakers, the change makers.

And, don't get me started on the fact that black women are the salt of the earth and the protecters of all things righteous.

I think back to my time in that classroom. How I forced myself to laugh with them. How I apologized to them. How I shrank myself and my being to survive.

I refuse to it again. If they want to harm me, they will no matter how compliant I am. This is the black plight. No matter how "good" we are, we are never good enough in America's eye.

I write today's piece as a note to self.

A reminder that my blackness is never an opportunity for shame or guilt.

A reminder to love my blackness as deeply as I love others.

A reminder that every instance of my being is stunning.

A reminder that those who came before me did all that they could to give me any freedom I have today.

A reminder that is my responsibility to honor that with my life.

This is for Malcolm and Martin.

For Maya and Langston.

For Nikki and James.

For bell and Audre.

For the ones who paved the way,

So I could find my own.

Happy Juneteenth.

Venmo your black friends.

-E

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