Black Is Bold

Black Is Bold

Living As A Bisexual Black Woman In The South

 

Jessica Felicio|Unsplash

had a friend, a long time ago, who read something of mine posted on another writing platform and ripped it to shreds. Another friend who saw the comment from that friend of ours sent me a text message that said, You are not writing for the minds of those who cannot understand, Tre. You are writing for the cosmos, girl. Since then, I have taken the last bit of her comment and applied it to my life. I am living for the cosmos.

What am I? Who am I? How do I fit into this world that oftentimes does not see me? Black can be offensive to those who are not used to being bold.

Let me break that down…

The very force in which we make ourselves known is too much for some to handle. When we get together and voice our opinions on things that matter, subjects that are for our personal gain (and rightfully so), the passion in which we express ourselves to some is too intense. We are intense. We are extreme. We have every right to stand tall, proud, and be forthcoming about who we are and what we give to a world that still benefits from seeing us ostracized.

Someone asked me recently who I am — how would I describe myself using only three words? I said, “Black, woman, and bisexual.” She then looked at me as if I had two heads, one viciously snapping at the other. I asked, “Should I expound?” And of course, I needed to. In the American South, I have three strikes against me before I open my mouth. I am Black. I am a woman. I am bisexual. To be just one of these three descriptions in 2019 is a struggle, but to be all three? That is a welcome mat for homicide.

Some say, we are living in a forward-thinking age, but we are nowhere near a time that will lend us peace wherever we may roam. I am being reminded daily that I am beautiful. That I am designed just right. That every layer of skin and its tone is what I was meant to carry. This is my cross to bear — I have to search for these reminders. I have to dig. I have to create the space I need for comfort, it is not readily prepared or given to me. I have to take it.

I Am Black’s Beauty…

i am always burning and no one knows my name
i am a nameless fury, i am a blues scratched from
the throat of ms. nina—i am always angry.” — Mahogany L. Browne


dated a guy while in my twenties who said to me, “There’s nothing left for a man to give you, Tre.” I thought it to be the oddest, most ignorant thing for someone to say. The comment led to our first major argument. Do I not need love? Do I not need comfort? Am I not worthy of someone who can step in and just be what I need him or her to be when I need it? He tried to explain to me that his comment was solely to point out that I was independent, in constant survival-mode, stable, and did not need “help” from him. This was before my coming out days, but he knew of my sexuality — he knew who I truly was.

To say that we were “young and dumb,” would probably be apt, but we both knew what and who we wanted and it was not each other. He needed a woman who needed him and often showed it, made him “feel like a man.” I wanted a man who acknowledged my independence, stood by it, and still loved me without measuring what I could and could not do. It was best that we parted ways. That experience taught me that all that I am will not be accepted by everyone. All that I am will not be applauded by everyone.

Black is sweet. Black is love. Black is light. Black is struggling to make ends not only meet but stick together forever. Black is golden. Black is the blues and soul-saving poetry. Black is picking up the pieces, putting them in their rightful place, and moving on.

I am Black. I am a woman. I am bisexual. And in the American South, I am still trying to push my voice out to a world that does not hear me, sometimes does not want to see me, and worst of all, will not understand me. “You listen to me and you listen to me well, the next time someone asks you if you are bisexual, you better damn well tell them who you are.” ©My Mom.

Black is the high road, the road less traveled, the road to all of your yellow brick roads. Black is new. Black is old. Black is learning to step aside and honor the ancestors’ calling upon us. Black is sincerity. Black is bold.

Every single day, I am paving a way for myself where in the past, I felt as though I could not. And in the South, I still feel that I cannot. I may not be what someone wants or expects of me. I may not have what someone needs or expects from me. I may be the very last thing you think about and can only provide a tiny space for in the corner of your weeping mind. But I know this —

I am bold.


This is a more in-depth breakdown of the following piece:

Bold
8 Wordsmedium.com
Originally published via Atomic Babes on Medium.

I Am Not The Bluest

she’s looking for pain
that pulsates in the darkest hour,
I am not on call, I cannot
rush to her aid, but I long
to be her fulfillment, however,
she says my search for happiness
scares her.

I find myself in a riddle, mixed
within markers that bypass a selected
territory. I carry my weight in pain
on my shoulders, eager to take
a chance on this woman who
counts clouds backwards and chews cinnamon flavored gum.
little pet peeves of mine, swept
under the rug, avoided like
the elephant in the room.

she braces herself for sunlight that has been tapping on her eyelids for decades, begging for entry.
there is no safe passage.
she has boarded up her
fragile heart and I collect
salty tears from the edge of
her lids, cup them in my
soul, and pray for forgiveness.

I am not the bluest.
I can only give her part-time
sadness and this… this
scares her.

Justice–Where Is Your Place?

ladyjustice
Pictures of Lady Justice Art

Justice, where is your place
in damned cities and states unsure
of their constitutional rights?
Are you equipped to handle the damaging
tides rushing in and submerging people
under your watch?

Tasked with satisfying everyone
regarding everything, Justice, can you
handle your job?
Will you pass it down to your
offspring or shield them from the heartache
it will cause trying to manage
what cannot be?
Where is your listening ear
when the death tolls rise?

Justice, you used to be punctual.
Lately, you are beating around bushes
and lollygagging with teenagers unsure
of their place in this world.
I was certain that we paid you well.
I was sure that you had everything you needed.

Justice, how many more lives
must be taken for you to see
that the world is less humane
when you’re off duty?
How many more days will pass
without you willing to change and clean
up the messes you have made?

You used to be admirable,
a timeless happenstance that everyone
adored.
You used to be d e p e n d a b l e.
Now, Justice, you are fading from view
and the place you once held is
the place you hide from.
You are homeless,
Void of concern and care
and irresponsible.

Who should we turn to?

Nectar

Aging and Loneliness

Maria Mekht|Unsplash

In the South, if you are somewhat of a loner and you do not surround yourself with what is new and improved or… what is, who is, and how things are trending, it is easy to fall deeper into the grips of loneliness. Ten years ago, I had a knack for busying myself with things that did not matter much, with things that seemed to fill a pressing void, but as I age, there is no nectar sweet enough to ease the ailments that I have grown prone to feeling.

I cannot lean back into the memories of what got me through the horny nights and draining days. Let me be frank, the other side of the bed is colder than a polar bear’s shoulder and I have forgotten how to right that. Every once in a while, I will poke my head out, look up, down, and all around to see if anyone meets my gaze. I cannot find my half. There is no Adam, no Eve, I am no one’s rib.

I am no one’s end-of-the-day highlight.

The older that I become, the easier it is to see that I have settled into a place where rejection often sends the damned for taking chances in trying to find love but have given up. The cause remains a cause but fighting for it weakens me. I want to feel sweet all over, taken… pressed into like a perfect pitch. I want to be a home run. I want to be sizzling bacon, the welcome smell of soul food in a packed restaurant. Is my tea no longer sweet?

Am I lacking sugar?

I want to be and I don’t want to be all at once. That is a conundrum that renders no solution. I have my own shoes to fill and they seem bottomless. Human beings want to love. We want to be loved. We want to share our lovely love with others who love. This shit should not be hard, but it is. And I digress. I want the taste of pineapple dripping from my lips, the delicate corners of apple slices sticking to my fingers, and buttermilk pancakes loaded with maple syrup. I want the ickiness of it all to drown me then pull me up and out of the water, and guide me safely to shore.

Black women are not attracted to me. Black men are intimidated by me. I am too this or too that to be loved by my own and I have no home anywhere else. I am trapped within the ins and outs of aging with no my place of sweetness to call mine.

I am nectar in waiting.

Someone whole enough will come around to take a bite out of me. I know this. I also know that when the heart is dead-set on shifting gears and loving, it wants what it wants.

In the South, I do not stand out. And what’s worse than any of this…

I don’t know how to.


Originally published on Medium

unconditional 

To know the gift of unconditional love is to become one’s true self without fear. This is a milestone and my heart is happy.

My dad called last night. We had that talk about me being bisexual. I had wanted to be able to sit with him and discuss things in person, but according to him last night, he had something “weighing on his heart.” He just came out and asked me after prefacing it with how much he loves me and how he’d never stop, also stating that no matter who I am, I am his child first and his love for me will never change. 

Him being an Episcopalian preacher has no hierarchy over his love for his child. He also said that he’d known for years but didn’t know how to approach the subject, but he’s glad that I was open with him last night, that I shared myself at my full capacity. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, it was like a casual conversation. I’m grateful for that. I believe, this will open up new doors for us. Expressing how this makes me feel has no words. I don’t think they have even been invented yet.

We all have our skeletons. I am happy mine are out of the closet.