Black Girl: As Is

Writer. Creator. Shapeshifter.


I'm a black girl.  Which means I've spent 100% of my lifetime being told who I am by people who never bother asking.  It means that people feel entitled to my body, my space, my time and my pain.  I've spent 30+ years smiling that smile I wear when I want to disarm a scared/scary white person or lessen the blow of "no".  I've spent years defending my right to questions and discontent.  Now, this has - in the past - made me angry.  Spittin' mad.  It's also made me bone chillingly sad. Radiohead's How to Disappear Completely on repeat sad.  Mostly it's made me tired.  Laid up in the hospital, body holding me hostage tired. 

Folks laugh at me when I tell them that long before 'self-care' was the new pink, I thought it was just something white girls did in movies. They'd be putting on face masks or jogging through their lovely neighborhoods or getting a massage and I'd be sitting on the red shag carpet eating pop tarts and hoping the sound I just heard wasn't danger outside the door.   I mimicked them by scraping the top off the Dove soap and spreading it on my face.   That shit made me ashy as hell.  I pinned a black towel to my head so I could flip it over my shoulder when I performed.  That shit pulled my edges.   It also reinforced that what worked for them could never work for me. 

I did not have a lovely neighborhood. I did not have a handsome crush consuming my every thought and my tears did not move anyone. I had chicken fried trauma. I had madness masked with laughter and fear disguised as strength.   I was also surrounded by gorgeous women who could make something out of nothing.  They made tonics and potions and they all used some version of 'grease' for everything.  Errthang.  These bitches were greasy, flawless and unapologetic.  They made do with what they had and so did I.  The problem is when 'make do' etches itself into your backbone.  When you find yourself holding your breath and your tongue.  When you find yourself rummaging for love scraps.  When you find the one thing you desperately need didn't even make it on your list.  When you put yourself last because that's your place and it smells like home. 

I've decided that's over.  Done.  I am no longer making do, I am making magic.  I am activating all the shit I already hold in the palm of my hand.  I am remodeling.  I am cooking yummy shit and greasing up and soaking in the tub. I am moving my body.  I am taking my time with myself.    As I pursue ascension and falling deeply in love with myself, I'll be chronicling my journey here.  I will be throwing out stories and quips and potentially annoying affirmations. The high frequency vibes don't mean I won't be militant as fuck at times.  It doesn't mean you won't catch me bitching. You definitely will.   

I'm adding self-discipline to my mojo by committing to posting daily.  This means you'll be privy to my procrastination.  It also means no hiding.  I give you permission to call me on my bullshit.  You can slide in my DM's.  You can hunt me.  You can challenge me.  You can tell me I'm pretty.

-Black Girl: As-Is