Image via CNN
“I cannot put into words how heartbreaking it is to see grown adults that I know and love decide only now to take to the streets. I’m glad you’re doing something. But…weren’t we worth it before? Why weren’t we reason enough? Where have you been? And where will you be once this doesn’t impact you directly anymore?”
On Saturday, Olive and I joined millions of other women around the world at the Women’s March.
Heading into last night, it seemed incomprehensible that Clinton would win by the close margin all the polls predicted. There was no doubt in my mind that a landslide of voters would come out to cast their ballots against someone so inflammatory, ignorant, inexperienced, and hateful.
I sat there last night and watched the numbers roll in with absolute horror.
“He’s going to win.” I texted a friend in disbelief, “He’s going to fucking WIN.”
And he did.
Photo by Neil McElmon
On Friday night I found myself crushed into the middle of a dia de los muertes themed dance floor, in a club for the first time in Beyonce knows how many years, writhing along to too-loud music and trying to escape the bump and grind grasp of sugar-skull-painted dudes behind me.
I was there to watch my little sister Claire perform with her dance group Subscura, and it was unreal. Watching this person I’d seen grow from a newborn to a toddler to a child to a teenager, always strong, often lost, finally come into herself onstage as a lithe, vibrant and incredibly powerful woman – I have no words. I just kept screaming “That’s my SISTER!” over and over again. I was so, so proud.
I have many thoughts about Beyonce’s new visual album. She released it as a one hour journey through song, video and spoken word.
The first words out of her mouth on the very first track are
You can taste the dishonesty, it’s all over your breath.
I was not prepared.
So much of this album wasn’t written for me, sung for me, or performed for me. It’s steeped in rich black culture, flooded with strong black women, I recognize that and I step back from that. (if you’d like to know more, this is a fantastic read)
The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman, the most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.
That first line, however, began to uncoil something for me. Those song lyrics interspersed with poetry by Warsan Shire.
Something don’t feel right
Because it ain’t right
Especially comin’ up after midnight
I smell your secret, and I’m not too perfect
To ever feel this worthless…
Lookin’ jealous or crazy? Jealous or crazy?
What a wicked way to treat the girl that loves you…
I’ve been a big fan of the internet for more almost two decades now. Ever since I can remember I’ve been absolutely blown away by the sheer volume of information it contains – even in its earliest days.
I was an early adopter of blogs, too – I had a GeoCities page back in the day, complete with sparkling jellybean background and gif overloads. Over the years I transitioned first to Blogger, then Tumblr, then WordPress, then the self-hosted site you’re reading now. I enthusiastically embraced Facebook and Twitter and Instagram as they emerged onto the scene.
Although I’m quite social and outgoing, too much social interaction drains me. I need to recharge by retreating and having a few days to myself. As I grew up and realized this about myself, online interaction became a way to continue communicating and interacting during these down times without getting that overwhelmed “too much” feeling. It also became an amazing tool for a fledgling writer who desperately craved an outlet (and an audience) for all her dramatic prose and overwrought poetry.
The poetry has gone (thank god) but the blogging has remained, and since September I’ve been fortunate enough to share my words on a larger platform via my column at The Guardian.