I Ain't Gotta Do Shit But Stay Black and Die

Image: that meme with that instigating white cat.
The screaming white woman's caption: "YOU HAVE TO RESPECT THE PRESIDENT"
Instigating cat's response: "I ain't gotta do Shit but stay black and die"

I have always absolutely loved this phrase, and I crack up every time I hear it, including about this very informative factual ass graphic. But it's hitting me differently today.

It's like this.

Ben Franklin out here saying the only certainties in life are taxes and death. But for me?

I gotta STAY BLACK, and DIE.

And that's fucking real. For every single one of us.

Yesterday I made the mistake of writing something snarky instead of something helpful on someone's FB post. The [white-presenting] original poster rightfully said to me, the older white guy I'd just snarked at, and a white woman who'd chimed in: "if you all can't play nicely, delete yourselves." Totally reasonable and something I frequently call for in my own space. So I apologized profusely multiple times, and thanked her for being an ally.

In my apology, I also pointed out that the older white guy saying things like "the most dangerous thing for a black man in the US, it's another black man" is harmful and painful, especially when those kinds of words are a response to protest and the murder of George Floyd. I said those words made me sick to my stomach, because they do. I said it hurt the movement, because it does. I wasn't aggressive. I wasn't mean. I didn't say, "what the actual fuck is wrong with you, guy?" I just said the things. And then, when the guy removed his comments (although I later realized that he'd simply just blocked me), I shared that I wished he'd left his comments up because this is how dialogue happens, that this is how we learn.

Then the OP said, "[The commenter] is good people, reflect on this before you comment again, because I remember you, I see you, I love you, and [he] will ALWAYS fight for me...
'I have decided to stick with love; hate is too great a burden to bear.'"

A liberal ally just used MLK's words at me to silence my experience.

Can I repeat that for you, just so you have a shot at feeling it as deeply as I did?

A liberal. Ally. Silenced a Black woman. Using the words of the Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, Junior.

Well, damn! Right? I mean, RIGHT? So y'all wanna know what I did next? I bet you can't guess. Go on, ol' KB, tell 'em whatcha did next!

Y'all ready?

I apologized.

That is exactly what I fucking did. I apologized to the OP again. And I thanked her for being an ally AGAIN. 

And she, the ally, the OP, the protestor, responded to that apology with, "I'll read this later, it's too much right now. 💛💛🖤🖤"

It took my people-pleasing diplomatic Black ass all fucking night to realize that I was not the one in the wrong by that point. That my Black feelings were too much for her.

Do you know how horrible this all feels? Do you know how fucked up this is? I would be ashamed of myself, and I was for hours until a friend finally pointed out—this morning, a whole DAY later, a whole day of feeling responsible and guilty and awful and ashamed—that I didn't make myself this way. I didn't cheerfully decide to train myself to over-apologize to white people. I trained myself to over-apologize to white people for both physical and emotional survival. Because we know what happens if I don't.

Do you not know what happens if I don't?

Well, at the very least, if I don't over-apologize for my Black feelings when a white person decides they don't have room for it, then I am just a raging bitch. All women+ — what we go through in terms of being conditioned to apologize? That's expected of Black folk too. I get pegged as a bitch because I am a woman, but if I were a man and just as Black, "bitch" would not be the perception here.

I'll say it again. Do you know how fucked up this is?

Listen, it's not just that I don't *have to do anything* but stay Black and die. Switch a few words around in that phrase and you'll see it: I don't have *anything else to do* but stay Black and die. And even allies perpetuate that notion.

Folks, we all need to do better. And if you don't think you need to do better too, then you are part of the problem. It's a tough burden to bear, knowing you have to do better every day, isn't it? And I have to do better too! I know I started this mess by being unkind in someone else's space. But you know what? After I did that and was politely reminded of it, I did the work to fix the damage I'd caused the OP, and I did the work to respond to the ensuing damage I witnessed. And that damage was not done solely to me. That damage was done to Black people. Period.

So. If you are an ally who wants to help, here are some actionable items in no particular order:

1. You can help by sharing any of the words I or other Black folk write these days—without your two cents attached. We have a hard enough time being heard as it is. Don't bury our voices with yours, even if it's well-intentioned and meant to bolster the words and the fight. You want to attach resources or your thoughts? Cool. Do it in a different post so the Black voices don't disappear underneath it all.  Leaving off your two cents in these kinds of moments is a version of what is called "amplifying Black voices." Instead, say, "here's a perspective worth hearing," or, "here I am sharing the words of so-and-so about X subject," or something along those lines. Throw in a pulled quote if you want, too! But please, please don't hide our words.

2. You can help by writing your own words and feelings in other, separate posts unattached to an already complete Black piece. You can help by speaking out. "Amplify Black voices" does not mean "stay silent." Do you see how this is different from Ol' KB's Actionable Item #1? If you don't see it, please try to think about it some more and talk to another ally about it.

3. You can help by calling yourself out and not asking me or your other Black friends to do so.

4. You can help by calling out other allies, and holding discussions with them.

5. You can help by simply giving a "like" to a social media post from a Black voice, or a comment from a Black voice in an argument. Again, see Actionable Item #1. Do not just give a thumbs up to the apology that the Black person talked a white guy into and applaud the dude for changing his mind. Back up your Black friends. It is an easy and meaningful way to show support, because every time we speak out we are taking on a task that very well might be impossible.

6. You can help by not just "canceling" racists because it sucks for you to deal with. Engage in respectful dialogue. Black folk have been doing it for years and we don't fucking like it. But we do it anyway.

7. You can help by doing your homework yourself. Find resources and use them. They're there. If you are able to read this, then you are able to use a search engine.

8. You can help by caring about this shit when it is relevant—which is literally always. It is no coincidence that people are this enraged at the same time as a pandemic. Most of us don't have anything else going on but social media. And we stare at it all day and get angrier and angrier, more devastated, more depressed. But here's the thing, y'all: Black folk BEEN getting killed. We BEEN angry. We BEEN wronged. Where were all these protests before we were trapped in our houses for months? And why am I the first person I've heard talk about this? The murder of George Floyd is yet another devastating symptom of a pandemic that this country has had since it was "founded." But it took the quieting of the entire world for white people to get angry enough to take to the streets.

9. You can help by not putting your newfound grief or awakenings on your Black friends. We love you, but most of us don't have the space. If you make the mistake of doing so, be sure to leave room in that conversation for an acknowledgment that Black folk—including the Black person right in front of you—are struggling.

10. You can help by listening to the Black experience even when it is uncomfortable to do so. And not  just "even," but especially when it is uncomfortable to do so. If you feel that Black lives matter, then you need to act like it when it counts. Not just on the steps of the Capitol, not just on the streets holding a sign, not just changing your profile picture to all black, not just sharing a post here and there.

Because when does it count?

For me, it counts every fucking day. And it should for you too.

Friendship in the Time of COVID

FRIENDSHIP IN THE TIME OF COVID

a very short play by a very sad person about a very small part of a very large thing

HER

Here’s the thing.

HIM

What?

HER

What if this is an apocalypse?

HIM

Yo, you been smoking too much weed.

HER

No, no, I mean I did last night/

HIM

Yup/

HER

—but hear me out. I don’t mean like, THE apocalypse, hellfire raining from the heavens and God smiting the heathens/

HIM

You mean us the heathens?

HER

YesImeanustheheathens. I mean like, what if this is a self-imposed apocalypse that humanity brought on itself?

HIM

…

HER

Entire countries are shutting down/

HIM

First world ones, so they matter of course.

HER

Right, of course, entire “important” countries. 65 degrees in Antarctica. We have kids in cages at the border, for fuck’s sake/

HIM

Mothers giving birth in detention centers/

HER

Exactly, some stillborn, did you see that article/

HIM

Yeah, and then also yet another Black kid who got/

HER

/murdered, another, right, and throughout all that this cop I know said he literally had to split up a physical altercation at Walmart yesterday over toilet paper/

HIM

Of which YOU have none anyway since you were too lazy to go shopping and now your ass smells/

HER

BUSY. Not lazy. I was really, really busy. Gigs.

(beat)

HIM

I’m sorry.

HER

Thanks.

HIM

…do you need…? Because I could probably move some things around and lend/you some cash to get through—

HER

No. I mean thanks. I mean yes, I definitely need it, obviously, but no. You don’t. Have to. (long beat) I’m just saying. What if this is an apocalypse that we brought upon ourselves? (beat) Because we kind of deserve it.

(long beat)

HIM

I was the one.

HER

Excuse me?

HIM

At Walmart.

HER

Oh for fuck’s/fucking sake.

HIM

No, listen, I was holding that shit on the way to the cash register and this little old lady tried to take it right out of my hands! I said, no, ma'am, I got here first, I said, we already don’t have any at home, I have a wife and two young kids, please/try to understand—

HER

Bro, you can’t be out here fucking fighting old ladies/at Walmart during the gotdamn apocalypse—

HIM

SHE hit ME! I even offered to give her a couple rolls out of the package after I bought it!

(beat)

HER

Did you hit her back?

HIM

Do I have extra soft two-ply in my car?

END OF PLAY

a mostly autographical play by Kyle Boatwright, inspired by a conversation with Michael Garcia,
a show called "Mr. Burns: a post-electric play,"
and a true story heard secondhand yesterday about a cop we know.
Garcia did not actually hit an old lady and would never do so.
He also is lacking in toilet paper.

All rights absolutely fucking reserved.

Please stay safe, stay sane, be kind, wash your hands, and do what you need to do to take care of yourself and others. Creators, keep creating. And love your people. Hard. It's the only thing that will get us through.
Lots of love from another scared, sad, tired human.

What Great Mystery

Hey, been a minute. Do people even write blogs anymore? Should I just put this on my livejournal?

So it's a new year, and everyone's already written their resolutions and reflections on the year.

I have not.

There's so much I have yet to write about, but it's too much, and I don't know which way to go. There is so much and too much to feel. I'm excited, because I have a couple shows lined up, and a lot of new and meaningful art coming down the pipeline, art that will help people. I'm relieved that I finished a work project that dragged on for too long and brought me down pretty far while doing so. I'm annoyed and confused, because I'm changing, and some of it doesn't feel right. I'm kind of proud, because some of that change is really quite right, and it took a long time to get here. I'm carrying a lot of grief that I don't know where to put. I'm excited, cuz Congress. I'm afraid, because hatred. I think a lot about how terrible it is to be in a country that doesn't want you. I think a lot about how easy it is to be toxic to others without knowing it. I think about fortitude and guarding against toxicity from others. I think about protection. I think about culpability, repentance, forgiveness, death, regrets. I think about all the places I could go. I think about all the places I'm already going. I think about my voice, both literally and metaphorically. I wonder if I can keep it strong. I wonder if it even is strong, because it doesn't feel that way sometimes.

So obviously I'm choosing to write about Christmas music.

Y'all probably know I am only about .6% religiously inclined. That said, if you grow up immersed in [Western] classical vocal music, it is impossible not to have some kind of understanding of the sacred.

Add that to four years of altar-girl-ism, the fact that I'm a black woman in America (aka damn near expected to be Christian, if not at least sing about it and "sound black" whilst doing so), and a senior thesis called "God Is Dead"—and you've got yourself a recipe for some kind of vague Episcopalian salad that nobody can really put a finger on. Especially not the salad.

(I'm the salad. Just so we're clear.)

Anyway—one of the first things I do every holiday season is pull out the holiday music. This is NOT Christmas until Luther Vandross tells me it is.

But the most important Christmas album to me is the Robert Shaw Chorale's "O Magnum Mysterium." It was a gift from the incredible Bryce Hayes, my high school mentor, and it helped sculpt me, musically speaking—both he and the album did. It's pretty lovely, the collection, but I'm really only in it for two tracks. Both O Magnums, both so, so holy.

The first time I heard Francis Poulenc's O Magnum—high school—I thought it was hundreds of years old, which is ridiculous. I know wayyyy better than to hear something from the past 75 years and think it's Gregorian. Most adults do, I imagine, trained musicians or no. But something about Poulenc's setting seems so rooted in the actual birth of an entire system of belief. I sang that alto part over and over again, thinking it had been sung in every century that came before me.

Of all the sacred music I know, that one is "the one." It's not just worship: there's an uncomfortable acknowledgement of anxiety and deep rage and fear. What a great mystery this is. The words tell us who the Christ child is. The music asks if it'll all be okay. (Spoiler alert: Piccardy third at the end says it will be.)

The other track is Morten Lauridsen's setting. It's less riddled with pain, more with peace. I don't hear questions when I listen to it.

I hear hope. I hear collective voices telling me that there is hope. I hear acknowledgement, too, but there's acceptance behind it. There's this thought that yes, the pain is going to hit, and it's gonna bring you down into depths you couldn't imagine. And also, there's hope afterwards, and there's beauty in it.

The holiday season is a freakin doozy. You rush to buy gifts and finish deadlines, and you reconnect with people, and you fight viciously with those you love and those you don't, and you mourn those who aren't here to do all those things with you.

Somewhere in there, after you eat too much, you think beyond your own Christmas lights. You donate some canned corn or some pet food or some winter jackets, and you hope for the best. And then the new year comes, and you get to start again.

Today is Epiphany, and without realizing it, I did the things and took down the festive flora and whatnot. It's so interesting how habits and rules and doctrine ingrain themselves in you. As I close out the last day of Christmas, untangle the strings of lights, and put the holiday CDs and fake poinsettias away, the Robert Shaw Chorale is singing through my tinny cell phone speaker, reminding me of the expanse of the human voice.

Happy New Year. May you always have a voice beside you, and behind you too. And, of course, may you always have a voice of your own.

Facts

I'm currently driving cross country again. Yesterday I went to a touristy gift shop outside of Mount Rushmore. They were selling this vest next to the rack of postcards. Nearby was a different rack with t-shirts about the NFL and not respecting our flag.



Also at the shop were other t-shirts of the same ilk. More Colin Kaepernick, Black Lives Matter, you know, all THAT stuff. 'Murica.

This was not a gift shop owned by the government. It was just one of the little souvenir places on the main drag in Keystone. I didn't think to check the name on the shop. I didn't take pictures of the other shirts. The sixth one pushed me over the edge and I got the fuck out of there so I could buy a damn postcard from one of the other half dozen souvenir shops on the block.

Later that day, I went to the Crazy Horse Memorial. There was a middle-aged hetero white couple in the museum, two partners on a road trip or a vacation or whatever, holding hands, wearing fishing hats.

The man's t-shirt read, "SOCIALISM IS FOR F*GS." It had a picture of Che Guevara painting his nails. It was most assuredly not irony.

These are facts. These are things I saw yesterday.

Frankly, I found the dude at Crazy Horse to be more disturbing than the store full of that shit. Here's why: he was fucking wearing it. He, or someone he knew, actively spent money to purchase a hateful, hurtful thing, and then wore it to a place of peace where literally thousands of people would see it. I've been moved to tears every time I visit the monument. This time I didn't cry about history or about resilience or triumph or some kind of forward movement or success or healing. But I did cry.

I don't even want to write about it. I don't want to analyze it. I just don't want to think about it anymore. But this is one of those things where, if I don't think about it, if I ignore it and go about my vacation business, I'm kind of culpable, aren't I?

So forgive me my poor writing, forgive the lack of eloquence or thought. These are just the facts that I'm seeing that I believe are worth knowing. And the things I do want people to know, from my own heart:
-this is not "harmless," as people say a lot with regards to a meme or Facebook. I get the feeling that a lot of people use that as an excuse. It's just the internet, it's just a comic, people are just being funny for the hell of it. But this is how it is. If it hadn't been a meme, it wouldn't be on a t-shirt. And if it hadn't been a real, stupid, hateful feeling, it wouldn't have been a meme. Now it is a hateful thing that is manifested in physical space.
-it is not funny. It is not funny to be cruel. It is not funny to be hateful. It's just that: cruel and hateful.
-it is not brave to state this opinion. What would be brave is if I put my Black Lives Matter bumper sticker on my car. Which I have not done, because I drive across the country frequently, and I am afraid to put it on there. I'm not afraid I'll offend someone. I'm afraid for my well-being.
-while I'm at it, something like a Black Lives Matter sticker is not the same. It's a fucking cry to be heard, and it's one that doesn't happen at the expense of others. We matter. Someone hear us. We matter.

Hatred is alive and well in America. People are selling it. People are buying it. These are facts.

In Which the Real-Life Token Black Tries Her Hand at Justice and Requires Assistance with Internal Struggle

America, I'm having an existential, Black-ass, kinda white-ass crisis. Please help me.

At no point in my life have I ever been unapologetically Black. In 4th grade, my mother bought me a t-shirt that said, "CAUTION: Educated Black Child." She and my father were so tickled by the shirt, but I didn't totally understand what it meant. All I knew was that I felt uncomfortable wearing it at Ye Olde Princeton Day School. I wore it once to appease my parents, and then buried it in the back of my drawer, where it stayed until I outgrew it.

It has ever been an apology, my Blackness. I was very knowledgable and relatively proud about my heritage until I wore that shirt. I'd never felt "other" before. To me, the shirt was a stamp: "This child is different." I'd written 3rd grade poems about slavery and made red-black-and-green friendship bracelets, but it had never been out of fear or a battle for justice. My life was simply a thing where I was Black and my closest friends were white. I knew we had different histories, but every single person has a unique history, so how is that any different from a cultural experience, right?

Fast forward through my life. I was the token Black kid, and I made light of it. My privilege was everywhere (it still is). And it was easy to do that, to make light of it, because the environment of my childhood and college years was primarily engagement with upper-middle class white folks who don't, and can't, know the struggle. I was never angry. I didn't have a reason to be. I learned about history, sure, but the true implications of what it meant to be Black never quite set in.

I did what was probably my parents' worst nightmare: I decided that colorblindness was the answer. If we all would just stop making everything about racism, it would go away. I got frustrated when my grandmother wanted to know if the girl who was bullying me was white. (And yes, she was.) I constantly referred to my perspective as "the Martin Luther King to my father's Malcolm X." I became a mediator of sorts—"I can see where the white people are coming from because..." "Why don't we give them the benefit of the doubt, though?" "Why can't we all just be friends and love each other?" "But don't all lives matter?" (Embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.) I was irritated by many of my classmates of color, even through college, because they WERE unapologetically Black. They were hard, and they were strong, and they took no shit, and it annoyed me that they didn't seem to compromise or be interested in being diplomatic.

Fast forward to now, where the implications of being Black couldn't be clearer. Where the fear is palpable, where the rage is pouring out of us, where we are fighting daily to breathe.

Which brings me to my point: how the fuck are we supposed to have these conversations? And how can I, Kyle, do better?

I KNOW I screw up a lot with this. (Once more with feeling: embarrassing. I'm embarrassed.) And I know I'm not the only one. I'm writing this blog post and asking for input because I know that screw-ups are infinite. I'm still that mediator at heart, and though I'm learning not to be and have made progress, I'm still inclined to find some kind of neutral position to speak from. I'm still so careful with my words in these arguments. I tread on eggshells in them, afraid that I'll upset the person I'm arguing with so much that they'll entirely write off me and my viewpoint and my culture and our struggles. I don't want to do that or to be that. I want to do better. So how can we eradicate these kinds of internal struggles so that we can appropriately contribute to finding and helping provide solutions to the large-scale problems?

Here are the givens that we're working with in these scenarios—

• People on the whole tend not to listen and instead get defensive (or offensive) when they're confronted with rage. 
• Black folk are not responsible for the feelings of white people. 
• Dialogue can honestly and significantly be productive if it goes down in the right way.
• Black folk have no obligation to validate opinions that cause harm to themselves or others.
• Everyone is already incensed, and every conversation needs only a single little spark to ignite an argument where no one is listening.
• Black people are not responsible for educating white people, and there is no obligation to do so just because they ask.

With all that swirling around in my head, I ended up having the following delightful little conversation on Facebook this morning:

Me: "Thinking NFL players are 'protesting the flag' is like thinking Rosa Parks was protesting public transportation." 

Random dude: So you are saying i can take a knee and protest at my job and I won't be fired? lol dream on snowflake 

Me: I'm not sure who you are or why you're insulting me on my Facebook page, but these gentlemen are still doing their job and doing it well in addition to protesting, so... 

Rando: this is not a protest this is a resistance to our President. If any of these players really cared about racial injustice they would be doing something about it other then taking a knee. Sorry but once again liberals lose 

Me: It is a peaceful protest against racial injustice. What would you have Black men do? How would you have any POC "do something about it?" One of the major problems is that we don't have a way to combat injustice other than to protest. Our literal lives are in danger. Kneeling is peaceful and expressing freedom of speech, and isn't that what this country stands for? 

Rando: Get up and actually do something, Go to Chicago and work with inner city kids and try to get them to see that YES there is more to life then gangs and drugs that they can have an education and become something other then a body count after a long weekend...MOST black men once they become successful abandon the neighborhood they grew up in...change starts at home first.

So now we're at the root of the problem within this conversation. And so here's where shit gets sticky, because do I attack him, or educate him, or educate as though I'm attacking? I mentally went through all of the bullet points above, and ultimately chose to say, "But how does any of that take action against current injustice and racism? Yes, those are all valid things to do and I support them wholeheartedly, but those don't combat racism specifically..." 

But what I was afraid to add for fear of him getting angry and not listening at all, and what, thankfully, my friend Alana added later, was the direct thing that needed to be said: "It's not the obligation of 'most black men' to use all their resources to support marginalized communities." She's damn right. Essentially what he'd just said was, "If Black people would take care of themselves, this wouldn't be an issue. There'd be no need to protest if Black people fixed their own behavior and their own communities." And if Black people aren't responsible for white feelings, we sure as HELL aren't responsible for their racist behavior.

The end result of this dialogue—of him coming at it aggressively, and of me not clapping back—was actually a de-escalation. His final line was, "Hey I am not a saint and I know that and I get caught up in the BS. Best of luck to us all." That is better. That is some kind of step. Right? 

But man, was I annoyed with myself for not saying what Alana had said. I'm so glad she said it, because that is information that was necessary for a turning point for him, and I balked at sharing it. I didn't want to make him mad and then have him not listen. He did have his turning point based on the tentative things I was saying, but it happened ever so delicately because my focus was to get his attention in a quiet way. That is the epitome of caring about and catering to his white feelings, isn't it? And then, the flip side—I post these things because I firmly believe that dialogue is an important way out of this mess, and it's usually NOT a dialogue. It's usually people yelling. And dialogue is really, really hard when people use anger, their internal problems, irrelevancies, and insults to make their arguments. And so where this started off as him being flippant and insulting, it ended in some semblance of "respect" gained. Which is a step also. (There are no leaps and bounds here. Let's be real.)

And my latest strategy works, to some extent. I've been using two questions that really make these social media arguments easier: "Can I ask why you're insulting me?" and "What would you do differently?" If I'd thrown that guy's behavior back in his face, the likelihood of the encounter ending as "positively" as it did would be very, very slim. He gave an apology, and though it was probably the worst apology ever (second only to "I'm sorry you're reacting this way..."), it was more of an apology than these kinds of things frequently yield. But of course, then it's a situation of, why do I have to be the one to temper my rage? Why is it me that has to be the bigger person? Why don't I get to rail and gnash teeth and have that be effective? In the real world, marginalized groups don't get to be angry—we don't even get to own our individual emotions, not really—and ideally, we shouldn't have to settle for that. 

Can somebody please help me strike a reasonable balance with this shit? How to dialogue, how to respect, how to educate, how to be unapologetic and empathetic and passionate and logical all at the same time? And how can I get to a point where I can focus on the task at hand instead of this internal struggle where Kyle is always getting in the way? Seriously. I want to know how to do better. The answer may be obvious and right in front of me, but I don't have it yet. (Like I really honestly might be being stupid right now so please call me out on it if I am cuz I got a bigass mouth.) I know I might never have the answer, but it stands: I want to do better. Please help me.

Why Can't We All Just Get Along?

I just spent an hour and twenty minutes on hold with Mass Health—twice in one day—only to be told by some automated bitch that "we are experiencing high call volume. Please call back later," and subsequently hung up on.

Why, you might ask?

Because my health insurance lapsed. No one informed me. No one called, no one sent me a letter. I found out because I showed up at a doctor's office where I typically have no co-pay, and the receptionist said, "Okay, for this appointment, that'll be $80."

And why, exactly, did this happen?

Well, someone at Mass Health arbitrarily decided on June 6th that I make too much money to deserve government-assisted healthcare. Despite the fact that I am on government-assisted programs because I cannot make enough money for health-related reasons. (Not to mention that I am now going to have to pay a fine for this past month for not having health insurance.)

If I do not get a hold of these people, tomorrow I will have to drop at least $100 on asthma medication. ASTHMA MEDICATION. Which I have needed and been using since 1995. Twenty-two years.

I know I am fortunate to live in Massachusetts and therefore have a state health plan. I am a fortunate American right now. But if this is the best-case scenario, then dear God, what is the worst?

The only thing I feel grateful for right now is the fact that this didn't happen two months ago. Because if it had, I would've had to pay thousands of dollars out of pocket for a major surgery and the five days I spent in the hospital. Never mind that even with the health plan I had, it still cost me thousands for the treatments designed to keep me out of the hospital, because it involved pain in my uterus and the treatments "weren't necessary."

What do we do with this? Who is on our side? Who wants this for other people?

About a year ago, I wrote this post about the primaries and how frightened I was, and how Hillary Clinton was the lesser of two evils. The year before that, I wrote THIS post on why "all lives matter" is not productive, and how ashamed I was about saying that phrase and meaning it.

Listen, I get that people change their minds. People grow, they truly do. People learn. That's clearly evidenced in these past few writings I've done annually. I still regret saying "all lives matter." I still regret being staunchly against Hillary. I still think that Bernie Sanders was the better option, but Hillary has always been a better option than people—including myself at one point—give her credit for.

But today, I know this much is true.

If you voted for Trump; if you didn't vote at all; if you voted third party: you better realize that you voted to put people's lives at risk, in more ways than one. You voted to put my life at risk. And this is why "we all can't just get along." Because not having a female president is more important than the actual lives of the people of this country. Because having an openly racist leader is more important than the other people who live here. Because emails were more important. Because money was more important. Because standing by Bernie Sanders in the end on "principle" was more important.

Let me tell you this: there is nothing more important to a country than the well-being of its people. If you don't take care of a country's people, you don't have a country. Period. This includes healthcare. This includes global warning. This includes gun control. This includes immigration. This includes same-sex marriage. This includes all of the social issues there are.

If you're reading this, you likely know me. If you don't know me, I guarantee that you know someone else in this position, or worse. If you did any of the above, you made a mistake. You put my life at risk. You put millions of lives at risk. You knew this would happen. Do you regret it yet?

Do not call yourself my friend. Do not talk about how we should all just learn to get along. There is no peace here.

Fuck. All. Dis. Mess.

First of all, it's been an excellent six weeks and five days without a uterus.

That is where the positivity in this post ends. 

Let me clarify. I am not writing this to change anyone's life. I am not writing this because people need to feel bad for me. I am not writing it so as to create a good piece of writing. I am not writing this for any reason other than I want to fucking whine. So.

WHYYYYYYYYYY

Hysterectomy before 30. Okay. Fine. No carrying children. Fine. Whatever. Surgery was great, doctor is great, hospital's great, I totally recommend Dr. Ruth Pryor for any vagina-related ailment, everything went as well as it possibly could have, very little bleeding, scar doesn't look so bad, no infections, I'm super stoked to not ever need to buy a fucking tampon again since I've already invested at LEAST $1000 in them in the past three years. Whatever.

But here I am, one week and two days before I'm allowed to have sex, and several uncountable weeks before I'm allowed to pick things up. And I have finally cracked. I was chipper as hell for over a month, but I done lost my got damn mind toDAY. What set me off? NOTHING. Literally nothing.

This recovery process is making me even more insane than I already am. I only just started driving last weekend—which, by the way, has been horrible, not being able to take myself places was horrible—and, naturally, as SOON as I got to the street corner, I ran over a chipmunk. First time I'd driven in six weeks and I fucking killed an animal. I screamed my ass all the way to Target and home again.

My friend asked me today how I was doing, and I said something like, "I have cramps but they're not cramps cuz there's nothing there to BE cramped and my muscles are just sore so I wear this abdominal binder brace but it hurts a lot but not wearing it hurts but if I sit upright in the same place for too long it hurts but if I wear the brace to sit then that hurts too but if I stand for too long then it hurts but if I keep lying down like this I'm gonna have a pulmonary embolism and"

And HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO GO GROCERY SHOPPING WHEN I CAN ONLY CARRY FIVE THINGS AT A TIME. Yesterday I came home with ant traps, an ear of corn, a bottle of seltzer, fish sticks, and a pound of salami. WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THAT. Now my ass gotta go grocery shoppin every gotdamn day just so I can make a fuckin sandwich?

And I KNOW there's nothing I can do to make this process faster and everything seems to be going as well as it should, but staying positive about this shit has got my whole self like Tommy Lee Jones's permanent facial expression. 

PISSED. That means PISSED. Or tired as hell. You pick.

People see me out and about and be like, "Oh perfect, you look great! You have so much energy! So are you coming to my show? Can you usher this event? Can you babysit my kid?" Boo boo, I look great because makeup exists. Have me babysit your child and you gone find both of us unconscious on the kitchen floor when you get home.

And yes. I can be out and about now, finally, and I'm grateful! I am! But then I somehow need like 3 days to recover from 5 minutes of eating catfish bites with my girls, and by the time I open my front door to go grocery shopping for a singular box of Total an entire season has gone by. WHAT IS THIS EXISTENCE.

To be clear, this is significantly better than bleeding 24/7/365 and my body doesn't even know what to do because anemia seems to be a thing of the past. And like, yay for not having seven tumors, and I'm extremely grateful that I came out of this surgery as well as I possibly could have and that everything bad is cleared out and that I'm not going to live a life of misery and then die a death of misery but WHYYYYYYYYY

Thank you for your time.

The Thing About 9/11

I'm going to say a thing, and it's going to sound kind of hippie-ish (especially coming from a hard-ass bitch such as myself). It feels a little weird, to be honest. The whole "KB, Hardcore Crusader for Justice" concept has turned into "One-With-All-The-People, Cup Full 'o Compassion." All zen preachy-like instead of HIT IT WIT A SLEDGEHAMMER. #notmystyle

It also seems horribly naive to feel the way I'm feeling about this. And I'm a bit scared to post this, because of how naive it feels. (I'm sure in a year from now I'll write some self-deprecating blog post retracting this statement. Such fickle creatures, we.)

But.

Today has been a kind of mortifying day on Facebook. It's election season—hell, it's open season on a lot of groups, and the amount of hatred is already unfathomable. But today is a day for remembrance and for respect. What did you learn on 9/11/01? Did you learn to attack your fellow countrymen? Did you learn the art of blaming others? Did you learn to keep hatred alive? Vengeance? Is that really what those of us that died would want us to do? This is most of what I'm seeing, and it makes me sad.

"Never forget" does not mean "harbor anger" or "hold a grudge." It means "remember what happened." And, I wager, to most of us that means "honor."

I don't mean for this to be a holier-than-thou situation. Believe you me, I can be just as hateful as the next person. But it's exhausting, harboring resentment. And on a day like today, we could all use a little compassion.

Do grieve and mourn, but please, respect the grief of your fellow countrymen. That includes shutting up about Kaepernick, about Hillary's health, about Trump's idiocy, just for once. We do not need conspiracy theories, we do not need racism, we do not need blame. We do not need any more hatred. We don't. Allow the man his freedom to kneel; allow Hillary to recover from her pneumonia; allow Trump to be whoever he feels he needs to be. Stop calling each other terrorists because of peaceful protests. Stop with the aggression for just a second. All of it matters to someone, myself included, clearly, but that is not the point today.

The horror lies in the fact that 9/11 happened. No matter what each one of us thinks, no matter what political leanings we have, this wretched thing happened, terribly, and every single person in this country has been affected. And we damn well should be.

Just for one day, let all of us be united in compassion. Let us learn to heal from our collective pain, and not inflict more. Let us not point fingers, and instead try to curb the rage, even for only a little bit. Let us appreciate the one thing that all 325 million of us crazy humans out here have in common: we are Americans, for better or for worse. We are each different kinds of patriots; we are Americans nonetheless.

Let us respect the idea of the liberty that each person in this country craves, and fully respect the different ways of feeling it rather than the different ways of acting against each other. Let us try to understand each other. Let us learn. Please. Just for one day, this remembrance of a day where compassion didn't matter at all. Because if we all do this—if we try for some compassion? Maybe it will be a little easier tomorrow.

Goddamn Americans

A year ago to the day (thanks for the reminder, Facebook!) I wrote this post. I'm embarrassed that it even exists, really, because of what it says about who I used to be as a person. In a nutshell: I'd said "all lives matter." Then I checked myself. I checked the privilege and subliminal racism that my Black ass had been harboring simply from growing up and remaining in a primarily white community.

And I continue to check myself. I grow older, I learn more. Sure. I also make it a point to read the damn news.

God knows I don't want to. God knows I want to turn a blind eye to all of this. It's horrible to watch. The world is heartbreaking. I'm already enough of a mess in my little apartment in Podunk. Why would I bring the world, which is worse than my life, into a life I already can't handle?

A friend of mine—white guy, local to the Valley, choosing to not vote this election, and yes, all of that does make a difference so don't even start with me—asked me why I even bother. His reasoning was, what can we even do as individuals when it comes to all of this? When it comes to Florida, when it comes to Black lives, when it comes to Syrian refugees and France and Palestine and Islamophobia and hatred and fear?

The answer I had for him is: I don't fucking know. One of the 8000 tragedies this month (I can't even remember which one) pushed me over the edge. He came to my house so we could go for a hike and he found me crying in a corner on the floor in the dark, smoking a stale cigarette and swirling a large glass of Jack. "He's going to win," I kept saying. "He's going to win. I'm so scared. He's going to win. I'm so scared."

The answer he gave me was so sweet and so genuine that I adored him for it: "It's okay, Boatwright," he said. "You're safe here, today, now. He's not coming after you."

I looked up at him. I put down the cigarette. (I don't even fucking smoke. I found that thing in the bottom of a purse. It had to be at least 5 years old.) And I said, "Wanna order a pizza?"

I saw this on Facebook last night, and I loved it, and I shared it:

If you'd like to see the responses I got on it, feel free to check out the original post on my Facebook page; I made it public. 

I wasn't particularly riled up about any of the responses until someone said, "Such a ridiculous post." 

Okay. Okay.

I wish I were the kind of person who could just get up and take her purse and leave (read: I wish I were Viola Davis), but yes, I took the bait. Pat yourself on the back; you've once again successfully started shit with Kyle Boatwright.

Okay.

At the end of the day, politics are really what you care about as an individual, are they not? Who you gonna vote for? What works for you? What doesn't?

The problem is that if we vote like that, we're just...not very good members of society. Which has been the problem all along.

I get the appeal of a third party candidate. I really, really, really do. But now is not the time, because realistically: it will not work. This country is in a state such that it is literally ready to elect Trump—this country is NOT ready to elect a third party. The paradigm shift that you're looking for is a good one, and it's one that I look for ultimately as well. But it's not happening this year. What will happen if Trump gets elected? What will happen to your sisters, your friends of color, 99% of society? 

I don't know the answer. But I know that it will be terrifying. So yes. Today, I will settle for the lesser of two evils.

I do not approve of the shit that went down with the DNC and Bernie. I do not approve of a lot of what Hillary has to say. 

BUT.

I do not have the luxury of voting third party. Nor do I have the luxury of simply not voting. I am a low-income Black woman in the arts with a very large number of health problems.

So yes, on this blog, on this post, on my Facebook page, it boils down to the vote with self-interest at hand. Who am I gonna vote for? What works for me? Hillary works for me, because at the end of the day, Hillary is not the evil that will take us back to a place where white men dominate even more than they already do. 

And it's far bigger than me. Yes, I am voting in the interest of me not ending up dead or worse. But what does this country need at the end of the day? People are dying in the streets every damn day, our people, American people, and what is being done about it? I can't know how I would vote if I had a different background, of course I can't. But I can't see myself in a different life voting so as to prioritize, say, the economy or my taxes (I'm playing nice right now) over the lives of my countrymen. These are LIVES. Say it with me. THESE. ARE. LIVES.

And you white men who are my friends, you who call my voice "ridiculous," even you who don't care one way or the other: it is what it is, man. You are entitled to your opinion. You are entitled to your opinion, and to everything else you receive on a day to day basis that you don't even notice: that's what white male privilege is. (Please note that this is not me hating you for it. This is me pointing out that it exists. Check your privilege, absolutely. Ignorance leads to disaster. But I am quite aware that you have no say in being born a white male in America any more than I have say in being born a Black female. This is not that conversation.)

Imagine. Imagine being so white, so male, so straight, so cis, that voting for a third party just to prove a point is a risk that you can afford to take. Imagine that luxury. 

Would that I could. Would that I could write in Bernie (who, by the way, is calling for unity within the party, just a heads up...) and prove a point. 

I'm entitled to my opinion as well. I'm entitled to the freedom that you have. I'm a goddamn American.