Sleeping in Seattle (Part 3): Black Voices Matter
Trusting an instinctual feeling to find space for my voice has always been the journey. I’ve arrived here at a deep reflection with gratitude for finding a place to call my own in Seattle. Is all that I have done still what I wish to continue to do? What is on the horizon for this evolution of mine?
I took a chance on the decision to stay in Seattle, and with that…In the height of a pandemic at the center of a nationwide protest for equality for black lives, I find myself humbled.
I am taking a step back to re-evaluate all that I have accomplished and have hoped to accomplished — taking a long hard look at how I’ve shown up in the world. Assessing if this is who I am? Will I allow my past to define me, will these experiences be just some [shit to be humble about]?
In this insecure security juxtaposition, not knowing when my last breath of life will be, I realize that everything was always uncertain. Now, waking up to that, I am in a position to create what’s next with mindful intention.
Here I am. In my own space for the first time in over a year. I survived the first month in partial solitude. I’ve ignited the passion for a lifestyle I’ve always wanted. I thought it was to be a traveler, modern nomad. Though, that is part of it, the core of it is something far more intimate. Am I a writer? Do I have the courage to speak my truth? Why has this always been just out of reach? I’ve asked myself this in every venture I’ve ever embarked on, this time, the answer is the clearest its ever been.
I have a ritual of enjoying my meals with inspiring Black Women, commune with them, and seek advice. With me at my dining table, these days is Michelle Robinson Obama. When I read her story of “Becoming,” I feel inspired by her unapologetic account. Reading her words as though she is sitting with me, speaking with me, and encouraging me to express my own.
In light of the most recent protests for Black Lives, I’ve decided to take my rightful seat at the table of expression for my Black Life. What is there left to lose? Facing the uncertainty of where this Pandemic will lead society, millions of people left unemployed, homeless, and shifting into uncharted waters. When would be a better time to find my voice other than now? Now, more than ever is the perfect time to speak out in the sea of voices.
But what if I am wrong? When it comes to expressing myself through writing, that is. What if this isn’t it? Am I just sabotaging myself by not openly sharing what I have on my heart? Or destroying an excellent opportunity for something else by speaking out? Then, I will face wisdom with pride.
I received confirmation in the most surreal of places, the heart of the Capitol Hill Organized Protest (CHOP) zone in Seattle. I had the chance to visit when the space was still peaceful before violence ensued and before the police overran it. My lived experience is my very own; how could that be wrong? I have a right to live.
How could it be wrong to have lived and composed an account of it? Why ought I feel guilty for showing up and speaking my truth and sharing my voice? These are some questions to unpack going forward.
In the interim, I respond as a proud-to-be-Black Woman. I have concluded that the right to humanity should never have been stripped from my ancestors, passing a deep sense of impostor-isms down onto me. I reclaim my existence, refuting any otherness assigned. Hear me. Listen. Period.
After all this time, watching the aftermath of another ruthless murder of another brother and sister, grieving for my American community. I finally gathered the strength to watch the video and witness the will to live of another sacred life exhausted. I cried.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with owning my story. I am here, I exist.
I breathe, therefore I am.
