Repeats + rhymes

All this talk of 2016 has me thinking… I've felt this way before.

Cue 2016, daily crash outs on Facebook, and worried calls from my mother. 

I was reposting every video I saw, fueled by righteous rage and razor sharp rhetoric. My posts went from “How could anyone think this is okay?”, to waxing poetic about the racism hidden under all the “But what really happened?”. Unfortunately, most of what I saw on my feed was racism because all my Facebook friends at the time were my high school peers. I went to high school in a mostly white suburb where even though I was president of a million clubs and made perfect grades– a boy I took every AP and Honors class with (I think he's a minister now?) told me that all of my college acceptances were because of Affirmative Action.

Suffice to say, my Facebook feed was white and irritating when Philando Castile died.

I was still in college, working at a hospital with a mostly white staff. My job was on a unit, reading patient files and entering doctors orders. It was perfect for me because I could use my down time to write papers. Back then I was experimenting with my natural hair a lot, lots of braiding and playing with colors. Every night I wrapped up a new style, I also mentally prepared for what the next day would bring.  

"Oh wow! What kooky hair!", from some doctor handing me his orders. 

I always cringed. 

Although the night shift of nurses was bearable (they were busy managing surgery complications and admitting patients), the morning shift always seemed to have time on their hands and their hands in my hair. I jerked back every time. "Don't do that." They thought I was sensitive, and I told them I would never let shit like that slide.

Eventually I had a reputation for "not receiving compliments well". 

This was the year of the Kaepernick protest, the Orlando nightclub shooting, the Dallas sniper attack, Beyoncé at the Super Bowl, and Donald Trump's campaign. From the hospital to Facebook, I was surrounded by lily white thoughts and mad all the damn time. 

Fast forward 10 years…

I’ve escaped white workplaces and online spaces, deeply entrenched myself in black community, and so pretty much everything about my life looks different.

I’m a proud artist. Lifestyle, mindset, allat.

I’ve traveled to places I used to dream of.

I've been married and divorced. 

Made promises to myself and kept them.

Found myself. 

Turned 30.

A lot of life has happened between then and now.

But I'm still mad: Palestine, Trump (part two), unemployment, Epstein files, gender wars, and they never canceled our student loans. 

It may not look the exact same as before (it’s AI generated now!), but the root is the same. Sounds just like 2016, and 2006, and 1996, and all the years before. Smells like AmeriKKKa.

So, I’m in the thick of it again. I feel hell breaking loose in my body, but I’ve outgrown the arson that is social media discourse. What does it do for me? The way algorithms are set up these days, we’re mostly speaking in echo chambers or airgapped rooms. The only ones who hear were already listening. So, what then? I look to the ones who knew better and did better too.

My friend Dr. Cleo Silvers used to tell me about her days as a Black Panther in New York at the height of the struggle. She told me as much as they struggled, they had enjoyment. Stories of singing and drinking before waking each other up early in the morning to go run the breakfast program. Equal parts dedication and delight.

Toni Morrison says, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work”.

Maya Angelou says, “The artist explains to us, or at least asks the questions which must be asked”.

It reminds me of Marvin Gaye asking, “What’s going on?”. 

What shall I say?

What can I do differently?

Art.

It's a truth I've been understanding about myself for the past year. It’s how I process, perceive, and align with my purpose. I'm an artist, and so I must create. I come to creation with what I have, and it embodies what I need.

Art gives me language.

It’s a foolproof method for community and global citizenship.

One that my ancestors used, and that still connects me to their strength and sacrifice.

Just as history repeats, so will this.