I Extend My Hand Out to Myself

I wrote this piece at a time when it was true for me—when it seemed like the only truth in the world. While I have the privilege to say now that I no longer feel such a way, I maintain that this rhetoric surrounds us. It is what has viciously infiltrated the lives of little Black girls like me.   

To be loved in a world that stands opposed to Black joy, love, and delicacy can only be understood as an incomparable reverie, one that is killed when we wake up every morning. And how I wish to define this state of “being loved” is in the bell hooksian manner, a definition I have always held close: “An active, intentional, and continuous will to extend oneself for the  purpose of nurturing one's own or another's spiritual growth.” Who would choose to continue to try to find this love when every morning, night, and everything in between, you are punished for your existence?  

I longed to be held gently in hands that see me as I am: a Black queer woman, carrying the fullness of a culture which is entrenched in this experience. I also longed to be held gently in someone’s hands which believe strongly in my eminence. However, this society has made a religion of seeing through little black girls. It is our innocence and ability to be soft that play the unwilling role of the sacrificial lamb. Is the lamb still soft when it is slaughtered and bloodied?  

Regardless of this reality, I have always believed that love is the single most powerful force we hold. It, much like hope, remains a feat which I believe can never truly be destroyed.  Although I concede, society has continually attempted to crush Black women’s hopes to be loved purely—romantically or platonically—we often forget that we still hold all the parts to put it together. We must find the hope to put it together. 

*** 

It is 10:33 p.m.  

Something’s happened. Nothing's changed. It is the same fears, the same ache you feel settling there. You hold trauma in your hips. Fold your body into yourself. Maybe if you bend far enough, you will forget that it is your hands that hold you and not another's. Give your body away to take it back.  

Back pains. You wonder if it is written, truly, for you. There is something wretched inside you that needs it so badly. You’re embarrassed to admit it, but I know. I know because it has made a home inside me too. To be loved is all you have wanted. How often have you been made to believe you are nothing other than a resting spot for the true lovers?

Love and the act of loving consumes you. Rejection stands at the corner you will always turn. And still, every cell in you animates to spell her name. Dying, then born again, constructed of adoration. You are unrecognizable now. How much of it left is truly you? 

You cannot help but point the finger inward. When will black girls be chosen? When the finger is bent far enough, it will break. It is a pain that will echo. Do you hear it? 

It is powerful. It is unstable. You are unstable. How can you be when you were born in an uneven field? You have a pain in your neck that will never leave you. You think and you think, but for once you must feel it too. 

Two times you've sold a pound of flesh. Three times you are punished, regardless. You must live your life on your bloodied knees. Walk, run, soar, plead. Please, please. Hands pressed together eternally. Your bones begin to grow against one another. You have melded yourself together.  

“Come sit beside me.” You are really pleading—let me exist besides you. It is pathetic,  but you are begging, and debasing yourself seems the only way. You are waiting. You are ready.  And still, they pass you by. Can you feel it yet? 

Something’s happened, yet nothing changed. The snake bites itself again.