Not Entirely Fleeting

8 of cups moment

Unlike Zora, I have not experienced a seismic shift; I am and have been colored and anatomically cis-gender female since conception in Spring, 1965. Perhaps this level of awareness should have blossomed in cadence with a bromeliad, native mainly to the tropical Americas. On the contrary, twenty-eight to eighty years of bliss yields far too much potential for assumed ignorance.

I have not always suffered the malaise associated with being a member of the Baby Bust generation, the first to escape labor, yet enjoy the fruits of the Civil Rights Movement. Among other things, I am guilty. I have allowed the assurance of the statute and its regulations to afford a sense of ease. I have refused to stare into the smoke screen. I have naively believed that the persons charged with protecting and serving would naturally extend the same courtesy to me.

Fear is an unpleasant emotion caused by the belief that someone or something is dangerous, likely to cause harm or a threat. Whether actual or imagined, fear is aroused by impending distress, and the feeling or condition of being afraid is real.

I did not always feel unsafe. Admittedly, badges instill reliance upon the integrity and strength of the person(s) carrying said shield. I had little reason to assume that entire municipalities employ persons with historical disregard for their capacity. That changed during Women’s History Month 2020 when the statutory delineation of protection denigrated analogously into an innocent woman losing her life whilst asleep.

For months reports spun the nefarious tales that various reputable outlets took effort to weave. With patience tapering growing anxiety, I watched, and we learned of many similar tragedies involving unassuming women and encounters with no-knock policing.

I do not feel safe in my Country, where there is a Bill of Rights in place to protect citizens like me. I am unsafe within these geographic confines; Malcolm X stated it plainly: Black women in America are the world’s most hated species.

What alternative remains for me? Why is the elixir of being a Civil Rights baby no longer satisfying? Why am I mentally and emotionally impacted by the brutality inflicted upon at least 251 women who remain unknown to me? Why are we characterized as the spawn of Satan’s beast? But more importantly, does leaving all I know behind offer psychological security or any perceived protection I seek?

I am not the first; I cannot be. Liberia was settled by formally enslaved Black men and women, an early version of reparations sponsored by the American Colonization Society. Years later, others like Josephine Baker, and Eartha Kitt consciously disconnected from external limitations rooted in relative racial equality. I do not imagine that my disquiet exceeds their outlook, despite being conscious of the similar innate desire to be free.

It isn’t as though I seek out the issues and instances blasted across every medium, on repeat. Nor am I the sole party in favor of independent journalism and its ability to subvert altered facts related to whom and who does not have the right to pursue the American dream.

Am I selfish? A bitch who thinks she is bougie? How dare I consider tossing it in and moving to another Country? Do I not have an obligation to younger BIPOC women, to guide them through the maze of manmade chaos that the Women’s Rights Movement made evident for all to see?

As my fifty-ninth cycle approaches, I know I am dealing with a special type of melancholy, one compounded by culminations of grief not alleviated by mourning. It has eaten away at me, and I remain marred by the fact that the legendary Age of Aquarius, began with the end of a woman with brown skin, full lips, and a desire to succeed. Succinctly stated, one communal tragedy was the seed, and emigrating out of the United States it must be.

For thousands of years, the Atlantic’s waves have crashed into the east coast of Antigua, creating a natural limestone arch, called Devil’s Bridge. Surrounded by geysers and blowholes that continually swirl, it is said that the enslaved would fling themselves into the waves crashing against the coastal rocks below. Again, I do not imagine that my disquiet exceeds their outlook, despite being conscious of the similar innate desire to be free.

I am certain that I do not need to reconsider; it is a fete requiring significant commitment, coordination, and more than a dash of audacity. I am more certain that some members of my community will oppose and denounce the reality that contemporary acts of cruelty are equally, if not more, severe. I don’t expect   

Although the conflict is external, the protest is internal, and the solution must be unique. I am certain that emigrating is the panacea I have perceived, and I am no longer required to internalize refracted self-hatred. However uncertain of the legacy my decision leaves, it is self-care by active reclamation of a sense of peace.

I’ve weighed the essence of my resolve. Admittedly, the crux is so faint, it is only apparent to those most like me. To date, there is no diplomacy in what is happening. Two hundred and fifty-one lifeless women were denied the fundamental right to our judicial philosophy. Their extinctions are little more than contemporary lynchings; each could have very well been me.

Granted, the flying start remains appreciated. The thrill of attaining the ancestors’ dreams has been glorious. The light was cast and illuminated paths, as well as shadows. In many instances, it is the force that gives recognition to race-based tragedies.

Are we any less? Do we not give birth to babies, menstruate, or pray on bended knees? What about a Black woman’s appearance, even when prone in bed asleep, is threatening? These thoughts muddle and meditation has not proven to be an effective release.

At all times, I am my race. Like every other upwardly mobile Black woman, I emerged from the chrysalis with wet and folded wings. I have not been immune to the prescribed stretching and drying technique: education, hard work, faith, and reaching back to uplift the community.

Although I do not have the power to reverse the ills of the self-described majority, and I do not subscribe to the collective belief that despite my achievements, I do not belong in any space I choose to be. I am better equipped to determine that there is no salve or balm -my inheritance is what masquerades as a progressive society.

The obligation no longer aligns. I am done with being labeled angry because the Strong Black Woman troupe is no longer profitable to the self-proclaimed majority. My body rejects the grief of my ancestors, the pain their cells replicated, and the promise. Emigrating is the cure for what ails, and it is the freedom I seek.