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I Hate Not Being Young In The Age of Trump

My knee is shot. It’s literally throbbing with anger because somehow I assumed that I was still 32. I thought I could run up and down a hill and then round a curved path at increased speed without butchering my kneecaps.

I was wrong.

But, I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately. I can’t seem to form a single thought without an extended mental review. I take a picture and fall into a slumber filled with images of how much better I would’ve looked a decade ago. My body refuses to relax at midnight and so I stay up — scanning the new releases on Netflix and then end up falling asleep to the testimonies of Sister Wives — imprinted on my phone. The purring of my heat beats out my usual tendencies towards comfort in my own skin.

I hate looking at the camera because it fucks me over time and time again. I also hold my breath when media platforms obey my pulse and distribute the news of the day.

When I was younger, fresh faced, confident and in charge, there was a method to the madness. Anything crazily delivered without focus was easily regulated to the sidelines — because there was no time for fodder.

I can lay in bed for hours and scan the brilliance of a generation that benefits from what passed me by. I can wonder how I would’ve flourished if only the “onlys” had refused to power me into regret. I can treasure the moments that were stolen under the light of selfishness — and the man who can’t be replaced with the stroke of headshots smiling back at me — as I sit frozen with the disease of middle age.

I hate not being young. But, I really hate suffering from this lifelong status under the reins of President Trump.

The deplorable human who will address a Joint Session of Congress on a day that leaves me in physical and emotional pain. The correlation is dangerously confusing but nevertheless it exists.

You’re older and we accept that the best days of your life are pretty much over. The hot guys that used to check you out with wonder are now politely accommodating. The aged and unfortunate acknowledge your presence and you’re so grateful for the attention. The bag of photos that used to torment you — somehow vanish without a trace because the gypsy life has a price and you failed to stay current.

The president you loved and scolded is gone but he represented the window of a time when there was promise for his kingdom and your 5-year span.

Your time is up.

The future is uncertain and the poems you wrote are being read back to you. The chilling precursor to what has now transpired. Everything is shit. It stinks that Trump is in charge. The timing is tragic because I’m a Black woman with insecurities that challenge my capacity.

It’s all shitty because America’s Commander-in-Chief is assigned for White America — not for the population that doesn’t reflect those features. Tragedy is striking at rapid pace. White people with scrubbed faculties are abhorrently snuffing the life out of the folks they consider “less than.”

The MC we hired to rule over us is silent.

Two men of Indian descent were recently brutally gunned down. One survived and the other perished. The White man who fired the shots thought he had targeted two men from Iran. Silence.

The photo op with leaders from HCBUs — scheduled just before the cut off that features Kellyanne Conway straddled on a couch, which means nothing at all in the grand scheme of things especially since she was crouching to take a picture of Black people in the White House— symbolizes the essence of how effort can be tried and refuted in the same breath.

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Say Cheese!

The loudness of knowing that almost half my life is over and I spent it carelessly believing that good times last forever — overcomes me into silence.

Will I ever be defiantly able to hold a stare without blinking the assurance that the years are still on my side?

The answer will come when I’m older.

For now, I’m furnishing the negligence of my decisions and matching them with the one we made in November when my face still resembled my memory and the age of Trump was unfathomable.

Back then, I was young…

Written by

Juggling Wordsmith. I have a lot to say!

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