Today, when I reflect on the American month of February, I feel exhausted and overburdened by how far we haven’t come. Lately, I’ve been referring to “the Big Lie” in my life as American Race. To distinguish it. To make it more recognizable. And to help remember its artificial nature. It’s not naturally occurring. It’s synthetic. Perhaps that’s why it causes cancer.
“Well, don’t eat it then. No one’s forcing you too.
Smile, girl. Don’t you know you’re beautiful when you smile?
You ugly as hell when you don’t.
You oughta die screaming if you don’t smile at me, gal.
You better fucking do it if you wanna live.
I’m just playing.
You might never get a chance to live, no matter what you do.”
I’m so tired of what other people don’t know and can’t fathom about what I’ve endured every day of this life. I’m so tired of what I still don’t understand about it. How much history I don’t know. How free I don’t even know I’m not. And how every confusion compounds and spreads this incurable virus, destroying all of US, whether we know it or not. It’s so fucking absurd to be consumed by imaginary, but real, cancer when the world is so very large, and naturally occurring, with or without my black ass.
“Black History” is remarkable for the ugliest reasons there are. “Black achievements” are among history’s most magnificent, but their distinction only functions to keep the worst in us alive. Caste. I don’t want to “celebrate my people” in front of anyone else but them, and not even that because my celebration wish is just to motherfucking BE. This black history month, just mark me present.