I Didn’t March Because I’m an Overwhelmingly Displaced Black Woman
Looking at the images from around the world it’s hard to stay focused and not be erratic in a thought process that includes the reality of a wealthy buffoon — sitting in the highest seat of power — laughing like a ballooned sissy as he takes in all the ruckus — erected on his behalf.
Yesterday was shit, the day before that was even shittier and today and tomorrow is and will be the shittiest.
As I fluttered through my timeline in the days leading to the events that are now transpiring — there was a sense of guilt that reaffirmed something that I wasn’t quite able to diagnose until I stumbled upon threads by Black women that expressed exactly what I had such a hard time expressing — until now.
I am fucking exhausted.
I remember sitting in the coffee shop I frequented daily in New Orleans — situated on Magazine Street — a stretch that seemed to go on for miles. The community was mostly Caucasians and literally every family resembled a work of art finessed at some warehouse tucked away from prying eyes.
Blonde-haired figurines skipping in and out with her flaxen-haired parents casually observing and enjoying the show that they helped cast.
I moved to New Orleans in the fall of f 2014 to find myself — and ended up losing everything that I believed in. I had broken free from the chains of corporate America and assumed that my emancipation would play out like a creative experiment in the confines of Southern comfort — with the assistance of talking trees and the inspiration of the sweet Louisiana breeze.
I was wrong on all fronts — except one. I did become the writer that I had hoped to be because I had nothing but time on my side.
Turns out that my White friend who encouraged me to ditch the LA idea for NOLA — cutely forgot that I am a Black woman, which means that her reception was not going to mirror mine.
Her quaintly layered neighborhood with boutique stores, fanciful rustic restaurants and prim outlets turned out to be the antithesis of what I needed for my roaming mind. Instead of the dream come true that armed me with the distribution of a welcoming wave of opportunities and inspiration — I was greeted with cold stares and the inability to secure employment.
During my last week, after I had decided to high tail it back to New York City, I had lunch with a lawyer from Lafayette who considered New Orleans his main hub. We met at Whole Foods and while we dined he divulged the kind of information that would’ve been helpful to me before I made the ill-advised decision to move my shit to a home that was racked with the effects of an emotionally perplexed hoarder.
His stance was as clear-cut as the lunchmeat peaking out of our sizable sandwiches. White and Black don’t mix well in Louisiana so, if I planned on sticking around — I would have to channel my pursuits towards outlets that would reciprocate my ambitions. I would have to work for exclusively Black companies, which explained why garnering a job within a reasonable timeframe, proved to be an ,impossibility.
I thanked him for his time and wisdom and secretly thanked myself for making the decision to leave after my former friend asked me for rent money. I was also bitter and ashamed that I had not done the homework needed to ensure that my proposed host and hometown would be compatible with my spirit.
But, weeks before this brutal revelation — I was slowly but surely constructing my label as a culture writer. My Nigerian heritage and American citizenship gave me lots of material for composition and I was utilizing those resources to the best of my ability.
Then, the racial killings and searing injustice sweeping the nation with the aid of social conscious buttons on social media gave me another purpose. I was infused with the rage of my surroundings and the overall environment that seemed to legalize the idea that Black people deserve to be gunned down or snatched away — and tossed into cells until whenever because that’s just the way it goes.
From the year 2015 and on — I naturally drifted into the realm of social issues that were specific to race. Most of the pieces I have curated capture the frustration and acute anger of the deaths of so many including Tamir Rice, Sandra Bland, and Philando Castile who was fatally shot in his car by a White cop — with his girlfriend Diamond Reynolds and her toddler daughter as witnesses.
Diamond Reynolds is the All-American Hero Nobody Wants
Diamond Reynolds watched her boyfriend Philando Castile get shot. While he bled to death and spent his last moments…
Of course the rage of White America against Black America didn’t begin in 2014. It has been the norm for longer than we want to calculate.
That is why the epic documentation of The Women’s March that has become an epic demonstration that will be historically lauded and presently tallied — breeds a convolution of instinctual contempt and unique admiration.
I totally get it. These are trying times that demand a swift and effective response. Our rights as women are at stake, but most of the ladies crowding our nation’s capital voted for the Monster-in-Chief because as you know — 53% of White women voted for Trump.
That’s a very high percentage! It’s not surprising but it definitely gives me pause and more than explains why White women don’t acknowledge the magnificent struggle of Black women — and even worse — refuse to include it in their narrative of things that dim the lights of equal rights.
It’s absolute bullocks that the likes of Madonna and Charlize Theron who both have sons of color — remain silent when Black America grieves yet again for another bullet-ridden body — bleeding in the streets or the grassy stubble of neighborhood parks.
Suddenly it’s required for every woman to march in the name of justice. Why does justice have to come in a package that is desirable and easy to digest? The truth is that many of you will fade away in the coming weeks. You wont extend this movement past your social media handles and the authority to be assigned as a revolutionary who gave the middle finger to the ultimate asshole in full view of the media.
I honestly feel like I get more done with my words than privileged White chicks with their band of discontent that only stretches far enough to keep them safely involved.
It’s also former President Obama’s fault.
As much as I adore him — and I truly do love that man — he and Michelle Obama could’ve done more to give the widows and other victims of injustice — a public forum to weep and display the dire consequences that come with being born in a hue that doesn’t translate well for the “Traditionally American” populous.
I can’t march because I am emotionally displaced.
I don’t find camaraderie with my White counterparts because they remained silent when my people were being scorched relentlessly and they purposely gave their votes to a White man who was born to graze the ground I walk on.
Black women are tried of the shit and we expect to be shitted on even more in the years to come and that’s not a scary thought because after Sandra Bland — we are pretty much ready to vanquish the bastards into oblivion.
Sandra Bland Lives In Tragic Technicolor
Sandra Bland was found dead in her jail cell in Waller County, Texas on July 13, 2015. She was twenty-eight years old…
My march is a mental odyssey into the pockets of truth without the Instagrammed pages splattered with decorated signs and the numbers that respond to colorful narcissism.
March on my sisters! But, understand that I will always be the Black Sheep of the family. If it bothers you, ask me why — and I will tell you.