Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault, Depression, Self-Harm
This might be a little messy, in fact, part of me hopes it is. . . .
I have spent a lot of time traveling and performing my art in various communities. So last year when I moved to a new city, I was excited to find that there was a fresh art scene just starting to take hold. A scene that I could become a part of and contribute to. After just a few months organizing with them, I showed up to an event. I was distraught because my most recent foray into dating had ended essentially before it began. The piece I had prepared was about repetition. How after you hear something enough times it starts to lose it’s meaning, like the word zipper, or the phrase, “it’s not you it’s me.” I was annoyed and frustrated that over the years of traveling I had become more accustomed to saying goodbye to people I love than to actually holding onto those people before I left. A little bit after I shared my piece and feeling some closure someone else came up to the mic. They shared a poem about identity, being cast as the other, being asked where you’re from because of melanin and other’s lack thereof, and about indigenous roots. The poem struck me because of the content, but also because of the poet. They were mesmerizing. Gorgeous, enthralling, handsome, so fierce and passionate it almost scared me. Continue reading