If there was ever a time for writing to heal, it’s now.
The devastating loss of Vice President Kamala Harris to a felon, misogynist, and compulsive liar is crushing, disturbing, and shameful. Black women are the most educated demographic in America, although they are feared, maligned, mocked, and excluded from a seat at America’s table. I am hurt, but not surprised.
I recognize it’s not helpful to re-litigate how we have let one man hold so much power that nothing he does or says can sway those whose own powerlessness has made him a “god-like” beacon of masculine depravity. He is more force than flesh. His very existence goes against everything we, as humans, were raised not to be.
However, what I must remember in the dark days ahead, is the helplessness, rage, and fear that I feel inside, need a place to go, so I can go on. Venting to friends or drinking it away will never do what needs to be done to heal my ripped-out soul. When I’ve attempted to lament to my friends about how I feel, the echo chambers’ agreement cannot heal me. My dearest friends cannot offer healing words, because at this time, they, like me, have none. This kind of soul-deep despair can only be managed with a personal tussle within. We all need to find our way back to our center.
Only with the privacy of my own words splashed against the page can I identify what I truly feel, to light the path to my healing. In distressful times like these, only my words give me strength. They tell me that I must accept the truth of our world, and who I am in it. As a woman of color, I dazzle and devastate. I am audacity personified.
My greatest heroes have been Black female scribes whom, I imagine would have never been able to find their worth if it weren’t for the blank stare of the blank page. Writing tasks us to spill our hurt, rage, and shame onto the page, so we can discover the rest of ourselves. Being endlessly reviled and misunderstood can destroy a woman without a pen. Imagine in 2024, being publicly pummeled with words of hate and disrespect: “dumb,” “mentally incapable, and “pimped.” Although it was said about Kamala, they were speaking to all of us. Yes, as we witnessed Vice President Kamala Harris running for President, we saw ourselves. In a quixotic trance, we saw acceptance, potential, and justification for our existence. For those precious three and a half months, I believed that I was capable, elevated, determined, and worthy. After this revelatory loss, not only is there pain but genuine fear of a future under a “New World Order” that is bigoted. Never before has there been such a profound sense of rejection that only women of color have been trained to endure.
But what the world doesn’t know is we see America through lenses that have been equally splattered with blood and tears. The more that we’ve endured, the clearer our vision. We see what you won’t see: the ugly truth of our star-spangled nation.
Throughout my life, I have danced on blank pages, always aware of endless possibilities while being constantly tasked to pull out my truth at all costs. When I write, I have the space to dig myself out of the pit of insecurity and self-doubt that America has bestowed upon me. In my clarity, I realize that blaming myself is unreasonable, knowing that scorn is part of the package. Your doubt fuels my brilliance.
Going forward, my life’s work will be to muster up my last crumbs of patience for a nation that has lied to my face while trading, humanity, decency, and truth for tax advantages. Capitalism has no heart and heartlessness is hazardous. Who else but ugly Americans can target African Americans with text messages warning that slavery will soon return?
So, as women all over the world wrangle with what to do now, I deliver the gospel: your light awaits on the blank page. Only there can you grapple with the most dire of circumstances and still find breath in your body. And, at the end of a good empowering written rant, you will hear the whisper of the brilliant, Maya Angelou: “And, still I rise.”