Me, Undone

It has taken shape in the back of my mind, that moving freely as a black lesbian loving other women of color, is an act of rebellion. We are the forgotten ones. The mules of the world. The bodies for which white women write their narratives against. Mirrors. Perverse inversions of womanhood. Fleeting cultural experiences. Backgrounds. There are no amber alerts for brown bodies gone missing. No righteous indignation. Our parts are purposed for sexual amusement and exploitation. Take the money and run. They scar our flesh, then shame us for our tears. Mock our anger. Tell us our lives are of little value. But My love for you will start a revolution. Speaking you. Naming you. Indulging you is a simple act of treason. I reach out to take off your mask. Stretch against my walls. Push out. Take up space. I will worship you, forever. In me, find all those things denied to you. Personhood. Wholeness. Agency. The merging of consciousness. Be not afraid of the gaze, for I am of ...

I lost hearing in my right ear--the culprit, wearing clay earplugs to bed. After several hours of irrigation, prodding and silent tears I resigned to my fate—my ear was completely blocked. For awhile, my little “condition” was a sweet blessing. It fed my isolationist tendencies. I didn’t have to consciously block people out—I really couldn’t hear them. I retreated into my innermost self. The more contact I lost with the outer world, the more conscious I became of my body—my heartbeat, my breathing, the sound of my voice, for it is my inner voice that I most prefer. My center shifted. After awhile I started thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be deaf in one ear. I mean, look at the great artists of our time—Alice Walker is blind in one eye, Vincent Van Gogh lost his ear, Sylvia Plath was manic depressive. Maybe my physical impairment would give birth to creativity or a new way of thinking. Unfortunately, acceptance of my partial deafness faded when I walked out into the worl...

Last week I was forced to participate in a tedious orientation for my summer internship program. I am a bit of a recluse—the thought of socializing in a large plastic group had me reaching for a bottle of Xanex. The first day of training was as expected—students anxiously fielding generic questions like, “what law school are you from?” --completely uninterested in the answer. I chose not to participate in the social banter. I’ve been labeled as reserved and aloof. I am what I am and I feel no obligation to prove otherwise. I sat there pretending to find interest in the disheveled papers in front of me. Just before the first training began, a beautiful girl with a flawless complexion and sexy sway came to sit next to me. She turned to ask me a question, thus beginning our conversation. After only a few minutes, I came to learn that she was not as beautiful as she once appeared. I listened to her go on and on about her accomplishments, her possessions, and the people she knew—by the end ...