This Will Be My Undoing

by Morgan Jerkins

9

  How to Survive: A Manifesto on Paranoia and Peace

  When you wake up in the morning, thank God, the Universe, or the ancestors that you have been able to see another day. Before your day begins, understand that you opening your eyes again in this world is a triumph in and of itself. Celebrate yourself before you remove yourself from bed, and know that whatever happened yesterday did not kill you, although it might have tried. Your breath may be uneven and your legs may be on the verge of giving out from under you before your feet touch the floor, but you are here. If you can, stretch your arms out towards the ceiling or stretch your smile from one side of your face to another because this time is the only time you have to yourself before you step out your front door. This is your safe space for self-adulation. Let the praise of yourself lather all over your skin like ointment to prepare you for the world.

  Once you stand in front of the mirror, do not touch your hair and face yet. Just look at yourself. What do you see? Do you see your mother’s eyes or your father’s nose, your grandmother’s widow’s peak or your grandfather’s skin? Do you see the ancestors’ blessing upon your brow, how their travailing has brought you into existence? Submerge yourself in your beauty. Do not question. Do not filter. Do not judge. Only experience the essence of yourself like a current. Do not impede it with a dam that is there only to diminish just how beautiful you are. Recognize yourself. You are the only person staring back at yourself. Remember this reflection before you leave it because that is the woman you should endeavor to be mindful of first and foremost before you shame your lineage by comparing yourself to anyone else. When you part your coils or curls, shape your fade, buff out your afro, or run your fingers through your strands, move in the direction that feels the most natural to you. You may work in an environment that tries to tame this part of yourself. That is okay. This moment is even more important for you.

  As you step into the shower, close your eyes and let the water roll down the nape of your neck to the backs of your legs. Water cleanses. Not only must you wash the sweat from your body but also the energies of other people with whom you both did and did not interact the day before. Because you are both black and woman, people want to transfer their energy to your body in hopes that will help them since the body that you’re in relays to them that you are always available. Scrub in and around all of your crevices so that no spot can be left untouched before you step out.

  Clothes. Are you worried that a little bit of leg will make the aunties light-headed even if the only time you see them is at church or at family gatherings? It won’t. They have seen much worse in their days, and they probably have done this themselves. Do you wrestle with the fear that the hint of your breast will have spectators brand you with “whore”? Wrestle no more; they already do. No matter which article of clothing you place over your body, you will have someone think of you as a slut. There is no stitch of fabric that can shield you from them thinking that your body is always available. This is not your fault. It’s not because you had sex outside of marriage and everyone knows it. It’s not because you let a boy feel you up in middle school when he did not make a commitment to you. It’s not because you touch yourself at night. This is an injustice that has been tailor-made for black women like yourself. You just were born into this framework. However, now is not the time to feel defeated before you leave your home. You put on those daisy dukes if you want to. You wear your family earrings or that skirt you feel was not designed with anyone else in mind but you. For what others think of you is none of your concern.

  Here comes the hardest part: stepping out your front door. Before walking too far away from your doorknob, close your eyes, breathe in the open air, and let that fill your lungs to their fullest capacity. You’re gonna need every particle of it, for there will be people who will want to take your breath away in the most unromantic sense. Now you are on the outside of your home. You are susceptible to any- and everything. At least on the inside, you can turn off the TV, computer, or radio if any content becomes too much. On the outside, you do not have this option, so now you will be able to gauge if your self-adulation in your safe space was either enough or insufficient to prepare you for the story of today. Remember your reflection. Remember the way you touched your hair. Remember the water beads purifying your body. Hold on to that like a boat to an anchor.

  As you walk to wherever you have to be, do not lower your head to anyone. They are not your God. You are not their children. You still exist in this world, and that should be a source of pride, not shame, for you. Reject that quiver of fear or intimidation you feel toward someone who society esteems more than you. If this quiver is more like an undulation, you will have to work harder to keep it from infiltrating your mind. This is the daily battle that black women have to face, this centuries-old lie that we are less-than when we have been here and will continue to be here before and after everyone else. If you have not settled with this fact, do it now: you are more than enough. Do you not realize that everyone wants to be you? You have been imitated throughout time and space. You are the arbiter of innovation. When you walk down the street, hold your head high, knowing that what others feign to have, you were organically born with. And they are mad about it because no matter how hard they try, they will never be able to fully consume all that you are. There will always be some part missing, and they recognize this whenever they see you. Regale in this glory.

  You are not paranoid. When a nonblack person is complimenting you on your eloquence and presentability only because you adhere to the norm, this is not a compliment at all but a salute to white supremacy. You passed their test, not your own. We imbue all of our interactions with both implicit and explicit biases. You are being complimented because people do not expect that from you. They don’t expect anything from you but a damning statistic. They treat your presence as a cesspool into which they can pour their insecurities because they know their self-doubt cannot be found in your body because the world could not give any less of a damn about you.

  You are not paranoid. When a nonblack person reaches to touch your hair before asking, they are participating in a centuries-old tradition of conceiving of you as an object, an outlandish thing in the museum of everyday life. You are a spectacle. Dismiss those foreign hands, protecting yourself and your space. You are not public domain. They want to touch you because they are in awe of you. But do not be fooled: this is not a compliment. This is a learned trait of our environment: to touch what we think will not resist or what we’ve conditioned to not resist.

  You are not paranoid. Anytime a person opens the door for him- or herself and closes it when you were right behind them. Anytime a person attempts to cut you in line. Anytime a person interrupts you. Anytime a waiter services white people who have arrived at an establishment many minutes after you. Anytime a person questions what are you doing in a particular neighborhood. Anytime a salesperson does not greet or assist you in a store. Anytime you feel passed up for a promotion. Anytime a person questions your credentials.

  You are not paranoid. Anytime a person “mistakenly” sits on you on the train or bus. Anytime a little white child points at you. Anytime someone’s eyes linger enough for you to be uncomfortable. Anytime a woman tightly holds on to her purse when you sit next to her. Anytime a person changes seats from the one next to you. Anytime you talk and the other person refuses to make eye contact. Anytime someone refuses to shake your hand. Anytime someone tells you to calm down. Anytime someone asks you why you’re so angry. Anytime someone asks you why you are so emotional. Anytime someone believes you’re thinking too hard or overanalyzing.

  You are not paranoid. When another black person’s body drops to the ground before the earth was ready to take him back and you mourn as if he or she were your sibling. When another black person’s body drops to the ground and you constantly check over your shoulder to see if you will be next. When another black person’s body drops to the ground and you fear for the children you have or the children you have yet to co
nceive. When another black person’s body drops to the ground and the rage welling in your spirit stifles your ability to articulate much if anything at all.

  You are not paranoid. When you need to be silent. When you do not want to talk to anyone out of fear that they will take something away from you that you had yet to identify. When you do not want to be around anyone. When you want to be private. When you protect everything that concerns you, from your mind to your tangible possessions. When your eyes ricochet off the four corners of a given space. When the hairs on the back of your neck and arms stand erect when you enter a place or are around a certain individual.

  You are not alone. Whenever you dance with a black woman and the two of you are on beat without any instruction, this is not coincidence. This is solidarity. The rhythm of your bodies is rooted in your shared experience, one in which words are useless and the performance is magic to the untrained eye. You do not need to explain. You do not need to rationalize. You just do. And together, you became one in perfect synchronicity with time and space.

  You are not alone. When you need a moment or several to be in your feelings. When you need to cry. When you are angry at how you have been mistreated. When all you wanted was a thank-you. When all you wanted was someone who cared. There is another who is experiencing this same kind of lack. There is another who is thinking of you even if you do not know who she is and she does not know who you are. There is a cosmic wavelength of our universal spirit. You do not question. You feel whatever it is that you need to feel and remember that someone is rooting for you. You must believe in this with all of your might.

  You are not alone. When you are celebrating your successes, however big or small. You are the pride of us all. You are what the ancestors have prayed for.

  You do not owe anyone anything. No matter how much someone begs and pleads for you to help. No matter who calls on you at the midnight hour to cast their troubles on you. No matter how urgent the request may seem. You do not owe anyone anything. Pay attention when you are tired and have nothing to give, not even your ears. Lie down and rest. The world will be waiting for you when you get back.

  You are not a mule, despite what others may implicitly tell you. Your back should not be used as a cart within which everyone else stows away their bad news and miscellaneous burdens. That is not your job. You are not to work from sunup until sundown. If you need to seclude yourself, then do so. If the people around you are worth it, they will be there for you when you get back.

  The revolution is ongoing. It always has been and it needs you. But you will be unprepared for the task if you run yourself ragged. Do not shame yourself by thinking that you have to fight constantly with little to no rest. You are not an engine. You still have a body to take care of. Do not worry. The revolution will be there when you return.

  Pay attention to what you take into your eyes and ears, for if you are not careful, you will start to believe that you are going to die sooner rather than later, that Death is at your door, beating away at its surface with a mallet until it has you by the neck. Balance with whimsical and silly content to remind you that the world can be and is a beautiful place in spite of all the grotesquerie.

  Blackness is an ongoing experience. You may have known that you were a black woman since before your mind could process identities and labels. You may have always known through your family. You may have learned the hard way through the outside world. Either way, you are arriving. There is no singular person who is the authority of your black womanhood. Your experience enriches what we perceive to be blackness and adds another thread to this incomprehensible tapestry. You are irresolute, as we all are, stretching and evolving towards somewhere. Forget about how much time elapsed before you arrived at the start of the journey that had already been transpiring before you could name it. You’re here now.

  There is no one way to be black. Blackness is not a monolith and you are not someone who is lost in the abyss of uniformity. Blackness is a kaleidoscope where, if you look closely, you will see many colorful patterns within the many reflections in the mirror. There is no one way to be black.

  You are not better than another black person by virtue of your speech, dress, or education. If someone will hate you because you are black, they will do so regardless of your presentation. In fact, that may make them hate you more for trying to become like them. If you believe that you are better than another black person, then you must scrutinize the standard at which you hold them and yourself to see if you are reinforcing white supremacy.

  You are not just “pretty for a black girl.” You are pretty, period. When people qualify your beauty, their mindset has been shattered while looking at your face, and the only way for them to make sense of who they have beheld is to weaken your magnificence. Do not fall for it. Whether or not you realize this, when they leave you, they will be forever changed. That imprint of your face will stay on their minds and leave them in a state of prolonged amazement.

  You are going to be loved beyond measure. You must believe that with every part of your being. There will be someone who will not demand for you to diminish your black womanhood so that they can feel more comfortable, someone who will not believe that your accomplishments reflect their insufficiency, someone who will listen and allow for you to feel the gamut of emotion.

  If you stumble across someone who makes you feel guilty for any of the aforementioned traits, make the decision not to love and commit to them any longer than you have. If they apologize, hopefully they will work towards unlearning. Nevertheless, this is not your concern. You do not have to take up the full responsibility of being someone’s educator. Yes, there is much to learn, but some have to learn by themselves.

  When you make love, nakedness does not begin after your clothes are strewn across the floor. Nakedness begins when you strip every shameful memory about your body before penetration. You are not a fast-tailed girl because you crave to connect with someone else. You are not a slut for having been cursed for living in a black female body. Do you know that culture begins in your body? Do you know that when someone enters you, they are pushing into the ancient? When you come, that is rivers and lakes that stream from your body. When someone feasts upon you, that is strength and energy that no apothecary can provide. There are savannahs around your arms and legs, mountains and hills for your breasts and stomach, a delta, roots from the hair that grows to the stretch marks designed on your thighs. You are the start of civilization, and lovemaking is the pledge of allegiance to all that you are.

  Forgive your mothers and grandmothers. To what extent is your decision alone. If you do not forgive them, that is your choice as well. But always remember that you are battling to live as they are, fighting between being strong and human, assertive and docile.

  If or when your body grows with the expectation of a child, there may be temptation to obsess over the baby’s looks, especially if the child is a girl. You may worry about her eventual skin color and hair texture. This worry may be exacerbated by other black women who rub your stomach and speculate, too. These are legitimate concerns, for we are still living in this world with all of its stagnant racial and social hierarchies. But do not let these concerns stamp out the excitement that you are bringing life into this world, a life that will be just fine if you affirm her excellence as much as you can. That affirmation begins in the home, that safe space where self-adulation is the arsenal before stepping back out into the world.

  When you return home after a long day, check in with yourself. How are you feeling? What have you learned? What are you grateful for? What is something that you need to affirm? You can answer these aloud, write them down in your diary, meditate, confess them in prayer. You need this time. Do it as soon as possible so that your emotions will not metastasize into something larger than the contexts in which they were found, wreaking havoc upon your mind and body.

  When you lie down in bed, turn your face towards the window to allow for the moon to kiss you on the forehead with its light. Clos
e your eyes and take a deep breath in. Allow for your chest to expand as much as it can before you exhale. Whatever happened during the day is done. But you are still here and should revel in that, for this is how you survive.

  10

  A Black Girl Like Me

  There was one black female writer who I admired more than most others. She was a gorgeous and well-liked person who regularly wrote for the Guardian as well as other notable publications. One day, I found out that she admired me, too, for she included me in a list of black female writers whose work she enjoyed. I was elated. Weeks later, I summoned the courage to ask her if she could perhaps talk to one of the editors at the Guardian to convince her that I’d be a good person from whom to commission work or to at least give me some advice. She told me she would talk to one of the editors and get back to me. The next day, I received an email from that editor, asking me if I would like to write a quick op-ed. The piece marked the first of many strides, and I thanked my black female colleague for helping me. But she admitted that she hadn’t spoken to the editor before that editor reached out to me. Maybe she didn’t get around to it. I didn’t press the issue then. Either way, at least she wanted to help me, I thought.

  I yearned to be in New York with the bulk of media and literary people. Despite the fact that I was getting steady work, I still felt like that was not enough. Since I was stuck in New Jersey, I assumed that I was not as respected or visible as my contemporaries because I did not have a 212 or 718 area code. Many days were spent driving forty-five minutes to the nearest Bolt Bus station, another two and a half hours to midtown Manhattan, then another twenty to thirty minutes to interviews for staff writing and editorial assistant positions that would last no longer than fifteen minutes. I knew that I didn’t get the job because of radio silence on the employers’ end, despite many promising me that I would at least get an email. It was the most psychologically and financially draining time of my life. I couldn’t understand why, despite my growing portfolio and Ivy League background, I could hardly get jobs in New York that required an undergraduate degree. But I was still expanding. I found my literary agent, took a coediting job at an indie lit magazine, and wrote widely.