This Will Be My Undoing

by Morgan Jerkins

  You do not know the impact that you had on the black female student body during my time at Princeton, even while we waited with bated breath for you to return to campus, to no avail. It felt cruel that you would not at least stop by and talk to us. But our complaints tapered off when we more deeply considered just how much unnecessary affliction you endured as an undergraduate. This story of your suffering at Princeton is yours and yours alone, but if we could have known more of it, perhaps we would have felt less alone. Still, we forgot that you aren’t just our First Lady, but the whole country’s, and that perhaps you simply didn’t have the time. We wanted a piece of you to ourselves because whether or not we could articulate it then, we know now that some of the ways in which we see are only possible because of our shared identity as black women. We wanted to hold on to that preciousness for dear life.

  I entered Princeton in 2010, exactly twenty-five years after you graduated, and your ascendance sparked an almost cult-like following among black female students; you provided hope as we obsessed over black male desire. We outnumbered the black men three to one; it was a sort of bloodbath. Statistics told us that our professional success would imperil our chances of ever getting married, and we were quite aware how much the odds were against us at Princeton. There were very few black women who were successful in finding relationships. The perpetually single ones like me overanalyzed this incessantly rather than chalking it up to luck, God’s favor, or anything in between.

  Tell me, did you have these same anxieties while you were at Princeton? Did you date anyone and worry that your dreams alongside the simple fact of you being a black woman made you an unsuitable partner for anyone, black or not? Did you question your worth?

  At least, during my time there, my classmates and I were fortunate to have you, an example of a black woman who excelled and fell in love with someone who did nothing to diminish her. Your story was referenced so many times that your importance became biblical, deserving of a book or chapter of its own somewhere after the book of Ruth and before Proverbs 31. You were never “easy.” At Harvard Law, you dated Stanley Stocker-Edwards, the son of Patti LaBelle, and you later said, “My family swore I would never find a man that would put up with me,” as though you were a nuisance rather than a blessing standing beside a lover. What was it about your personality that anyone would have to put with? What does it say about your family that they thought that the life you sought to live would be met with a scoff from a man? In those moments, did those comments bounce off you like Teflon or stick like molasses?

  In the introduction of your senior thesis, “Princeton-Educated Blacks and the Black Community,” you wrote, “My experiences at Princeton have made me far more aware of my ‘Blackness’ than ever before. I have found that at Princeton no matter how liberal and open-minded some of my White professors and classmates try to be toward me, I sometimes feel like a visitor on campus; as if I really don’t belong . . . These experiences have made it apparent to me that the path I have chosen to follow by attending Princeton will likely lead to my further integration and/or assimilation into a White cultural and social structure that will only allow me to remain on the periphery of society; never becoming a full participant.” This might have been the case when you were at Princeton and later at Sidley & Austin, but what about as our nation’s First Lady? What happens to white people’s eyes when you eschew the periphery, when you become the most visible woman in the world? When they turn on the television, they see you meeting with heads of state from all over the world. When they flip through magazines, there you are smiling and wearing the finest of fabrics created by designers who seek to put the best of their wares on your statuesque black figure. When they close their eyes and think about this country’s direction, blackness is carved and curved into two figures: you and Barack. That is inescapable. It is the kind of upheaval that black people have patiently waited for white people to experience, even if your eight years in front of us are not enough to overturn centuries of oppression. But I pray that they at least briefly knew what it meant to feel like the “other” whenever they saw your smile and the elegance of your stride and that it scared them. Damn, those eight years felt good.

  Do not think that they have not tried to grapple with their inner turmoil, a kind that was collective across the world. Before writing you this letter, I researched images of racist photos of you, and I swore not to look at them the night before I began writing out of fear that I would not sleep. Once I woke up the following morning, I realized that I had made the right decision. There is an image of you dressed in a red gown with your back exposed, your face beautifully made up, your wrists bound and tied together with a thick rope presumably hanging from a tree. The Ku Klux Klan is in the backdrop. Another image is from a Spanish magazine called Fuera de Serie. It’s your face superimposed on an African Guadeloupean slave painted by the French artist Marie-Guillemine Benoist in 1800 and one of her breasts is exposed. This is what they need: to create images of you as an object en route to a cruel, racist death. But hey, at least you look beautiful. At least you have on a red gown or a beautiful headscarf while you’re on your way to being cast out of this world.

  You were the only First Lady to have two Ivy League degrees, you tied with Eleanor Roosevelt for tallest, and, of course, you were black. You were not the kind of blackness that could make white people feel at ease. You are not light-skinned with gray or green eyes, and your hair is not curly. Unlike Barack, you cannot claim a white parent and in turn white people cannot claim any stake in your success. You did not get pregnant out of wedlock. There are no images of you smoking weed or any other substance. You do not have a criminal record. It is a shame that you had to be this spotless, that you had to be, in every sense of the word, perfect.

  Because no one could find any flaw in you, they made you feel worthless just by being in your body. Photographers shot and dispersed images of you with your mouth open while in the midst of a conversation to “show” that you were animalistic. Cartoonists exaggerated your five-foot-eleven frame by adding extra muscle in your arms and bones in and around your cheekbones to make you appear more masculine and Neanderthal. Snapshots of you with your lips pursed were circulated to make you seem like the typical sassy black woman with an attitude. Fuck the Ivy League degrees, the high-powered attorney position, the many accolades to your name. You were still black. And even worse, you were a black woman, and they would never allow you to forget that.

  What did you do to take care of yourself during all this humiliation? Did you pour love into your family, and did they reciprocate? Did you read the works of Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovanni, and Toni Cade Bambara to realize that you were never alone? Did you listen to Nina Simone as you applied a pomade to your skin and hair before going to bed? What did you do to remind yourself that you are brilliant and accomplished despite the efforts they made to belittle and squish you into a narrow prism so that they could live peacefully? What did you do?

  On the night of the 2016 Republican National Convention, when Melania Trump plagiarized your speech word for word, were you flattered, disappointed, or fully expecting something like that to happen? A white woman snatching the words from a black woman’s lips and defended by some on top of that. That’s not newsworthy; that’s history, how it’s always been. I was reminded of a time in high school when I wrote a speech from which a white female classmate read because she was a part of student council and I was not. I stood next to her on the podium during graduation, silent as she read. When Melania recited your speech, where were you? After living in the public eye for over eight years, perhaps you have created a mental armor with a thickness that this offense could not penetrate.

  Then again, I’m very certain that you have grown even stronger, for during Hillary Clinton’s presidential campaign, you spoke with the kind of confidence and vigor that drew tears from the eyes of millions of Americans. Ninety-four percent of black women who voted in the 2016 election voted for Hillary Clinton. Ninety-four percent�
��many of whom probably had family members who were affected by the 1994 crime bill that triggered massive incarceration rates, particularly among African-Americans. This bill expanded the death penalty, obliterated federal funding for inmate education, and motivated states to lengthen prison sentences. While speaking in support of this bill, Clinton called African-American teenagers “superpredators,” and while she apologized for this statement, she still said it. And yet black women rolled up their sleeves and voted for her while white women—53 percent to be exact—decided that a racist, xenophobic, misogynistic man with neither government nor military experience deserved to be president. Now, ain’t that some shit? Hillary Clinton, the patron saint of white feminism, couldn’t depend on them on Election Day, despite all the celebrity support and pantsuit flash mobs. Of course, the immediate response to the rise of Donald Trump is that everyone was to blame for his victory, but the numbers say differently. When white people attempt to generalize blame, it is a tactic that further enables white supremacy, for the rhetoric obscures those who should really be held accountable: white people themselves.

  On Tuesday, November 8, 2016, white people chose white supremacy. They chose to ignore how Trump incited white nationalists and called for surveillance programs directed towards Muslims that were reminiscent of those from Nazi Germany. They chose to ignore the many women who accused Trump of sexual assault. They chose to ignore Trump gloating over doing so. Why? For one, most of his terrifying plans do not affect them. They can turn down their lips and bow their heads in pity, but they will never be targets. They wanted to make America great again by turning the hands on the clock backwards; they wanted everyone to know their place; they rendered the racial and social hierarchies of our country even more calcified. In essence, on Election Day, they chose themselves because historically they always have.

  And as for the white women who voted for Trump, I suppose that they left their vaginas at home before they went to the booths. Again, these white women believed that their proximity to white men would allow them to partake in white male privilege. These white women chose their race without taking into account the implications of gender. In fact, there were some white women who showed up to Trump rallies with shirts that stated that they would love for Trump to grab them by the pussy. Somehow, under this man, under his fascism, they felt protected—even honored. This is a true feat of mental calisthenics. But then again, I’ve never had the privilege of believing that my racial identity can smooth over or compensate for the oppression associated with being a woman. That’s the thing about whiteness: it’s blinding.

  Immediately after Trump became president-elect, there was a push for you to run in 2020, but I’m not sure that America deserves you. I cannot imagine the number of psychological and political battles you fought while in the White House as First Lady, but you mustn’t forget how much we black women loved you. You were not afraid to dance on live television, shoot hoops with LeBron James, rap, and appear at black-women-centered events to remind us that you were still an active participant in our world no matter how injected you were in theirs.

  Michelle, when you said that you live in a house that was built by slaves, something must have crystallized for millions of Americans—the proof is in how many white people tried to discredit your statement. You might have been destined to work in the White House but not to sleep, eat, and host there. The White House was never meant to be your home.

  Everything does in fact come around full circle. The great-great-granddaughter of an illiterate South Carolinian slave whose body rests in an unmarked grave near rice fields was the First Lady of the United States of America. You are not Eleanor Roosevelt or Jackie Kennedy. You are Michelle Obama, the embodiment of a new dream that is characterized by both role reversal and intergenerational revenge. We do not need to be subjected to the lie that is the American Dream. You are the beacon that reminds black women that they can be anything they want to be in this country. You are the beacon that reminds white people that 99 percent of them will never reach where you are: their whiteness cannot carry them there; your achievements lie far beyond their grasp. You are the beacon that reminds us that the ascendance of a black woman like yourself is possible, and what a blessing it was to see you shine. You are not an animal or a man. You may be a terror. But their terror is our delight.

  For you, Michelle.

  6

  Black Girl Magic

  I am one month shy of turning sixteen when my stepfather is diagnosed with degenerative frontotemporal lobe dementia. He is fifty-eight years old, a former lieutenant colonel who received medals for his service in Desert Storm, and a tenured psychology professor who regularly visits local mental hospitals and takes calls from suicidal patients in the middle of the night. One dinnertime, he regaled me with the story of how Lord Byron’s challenge to Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley to write a ghostly tale led to the creation of Frankenstein. I smiled and nodded my head as I swirled my green beans around on my fork, but I didn’t believe him. He is just a psychologist, after all. How could he pull out random literary anecdotes with such ease? Before him, I never saw a black man harness such a talent. Later that evening, I found out via Google that he was right. After that, I never question his knowledge again. Instead, I drop my eating utensils and rest my chin on my right palm while he entertains me with Shakespearean recitations or hypotheses about Napoleon Bonaparte’s rise to power. I have to remember these memories when he becomes unable to string coherent words together.

  How does it begin? I am not sure. One day as I pull my curtains back to let the natural light into my room, a habit that he encourages me to develop as a tactic to ward off depression, I notice that when he gets out of his car, he falls on the ground. This, at first, doesn’t alarm me. He is six feet, six inches tall. That’s a whole lot of human. He gets off the ground, dusts the grass blades off his backside, and starts towards our front door, but the quiver in my heart ripples throughout my body with more intensity when I watch him forget the groceries sitting on the same patch of grass where he’d fallen. I am afraid to ask my mother what is going on, because I am afraid of what she might tell me. And then he begins to forget the groceries at the supermarket, returning home with only the long receipt in his hand, bewildered because his arms are not carrying anything. He paces around the house in the evening, checking, double-checking, triple-checking, quadruple-checking, quintuple-checking all the locks in the house and the knobs on the stove. When he, my mother, and I go to a wedding expo to prepare for my sister Patricia’s impending nuptials, he is unable to figure out which utensils to pick up, and the names of certain hors d’oeuvres. Small giggles underscore his questions, but by now I know something dark is happening. He is embarrassed, but nevertheless I help him make his plate. We do not speak for the entire ride home. My mother follows me into my bedroom and closes the door behind her. It is gray outside, and the drizzle soon starts. She tells me the truth.

  By my sophomore year of college, he has already surpassed the doctor’s initial prognosis of two years. But I cannot think about that right now. I am busy establishing a rapport with my roommate, Denise; I have early-declared as a comparative literature major; I am working on a novel and also cowriting a play for a struggling black-centered arts company. I am not thinking about him—at least, I think I’m not. I am present, but a part of me is vanishing.

  My stepfather, my mother, and I are having dinner at home and I smell something strange coming from upstairs. I smelled it before, but I assumed that it was coming from outside. Now, it intensifies, and I casually walk up the steps to see a full laundry basket next to a night-light, and smoke rising to the ceiling. I yell and immediately grab the basket, dragging it down the steps as fast as I can. By this time, the blankets in the basket are on fire, but luckily, my mother has a large towel to smother the flames. All the while, my stepfather stands there as though he is simply watching a bonfire, waiting for the heat to be just right so that we all can make s’mores. He has a cup of water in hi
s hand and he flings it onto the blankets, but by then the fire is out. He is too late. He is far too late. What if I hadn’t been there? What if this had happened while my stepfather and my mother were asleep and I was back at college? What if the house caught on fire and my mother couldn’t escape because she couldn’t convince him that there was an actual fire? What if I had received a call while I was in the middle of my eleven a.m. Japanese class, the police telling me that their bodies were charred beyond recognition? What then?

  I don’t sleep that night. Something on the inside of me is breaking, splintering in slow motion into innumerable shards. I thank God profusely for making sure I caught the basket in time, but unconsciously something in me shifts. I have to pace around the house, stand in front of the backyard windows and squint to see if any figures are moving around outside, turn and twist the stove knobs multiple times to make sure that the burners are really off; I have to hear the flicker, see the blue flame flare and disappear, and don’t you move until you do this at least four or five times. I check all the night-lights to make sure nothing is near them, not even a dangling phone cord. I turn on the alarm when I leave, but the confirmation beep does nothing to make me move away from the keypad because I have to stay there for several minutes to convince myself that it is actually working, despite the red light indicating that the house is armed. My heart races whenever I walk past an open drawer revealing knives and forks. I am not suicidal. I want to live. But what if, in a split second, I harm myself? What if I drag a knife down my arm, poke at the skin underneath my eye with a fork, press a burning skillet against my thigh? What if?

  I don’t trust myself anymore. Many nights I wake up with both ears ringing, my throat tightening, and my heart sprinting. I don’t know if it is a panic attack or just my new life. It happens to be both: a series of panics. Every night, I set my alarm for seven a.m., but I click it on and off more times than I can count. It does not matter if I see the alarm icon in the upper right-hand corner of my cell phone screen. Did I see it? Did I see it? Did I really see it? If someone were to put a gun to my head and ask me, Are you sure?, could I have said beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was?