Where is that Child, This ain't for you

I went wandering...

Romans 8
14 The true children of God are those who let God’s Spirit lead them. 15 The Spirit that we received is not a spirit that makes us slaves again and causes us to fear. The Spirit that we have makes us God’s chosen children. And with that Spirit we cry out, “ Abba,[b] Father.” 16 And the Spirit himself speaks to our spirits and makes us sure that we are God’s children. 17 If we are God’s children, we will get the blessings God has for his people. He will give us all that he has given Christ. But we must suffer like Christ suffered. Then we will be able to share his glory.

I went wandering...

 Taking a quest hoping for a new way of thinking. Fore a stressed while, I only felt safe enough to live within my thoughts. Never before have I felt so threatened to speak, again. Damn, my voice makes them that mad? Must be something wrong with me. "Free me" ain't English, so let me figure out how to talk to them better. But, some days my mind is just too tired and my  thoughts get weary. Depressed tryna learn how to get you to learn. Internally I became angry and impatient with myself. I did not know who was right. Maybe I am criminal and ignorant. Maybe I am an overthinker, over analyzer, over the top... anxiety said. And I let the anxiety and fear talk to me because I do feel very passionately about what is right and wrong. I cannot stand injustice- it is a sickening sight no one deserves to bear alone. So, for the right answers- to calm me down

I went wandering...

Learning is my escapism, my literal liberation. Quickly we learn that liberation is nothing that can be achieved without struggle, questioning of self, and pain. And I stepped on thorns before knowing what they truly stung like. Adrenalin kept my head up, but numb for about 2 more weeks. But the holes in my feet began to puss. Ain't no such excuse as getting tired when you're wandering. Searching for answers in books, relationships, google, myself, prayer, sex, myself and myself. Still frustrated, irritated by the sting of my wounds. They will not heal I cried every day on the inside. Why does it still burn once the torn has been removed? I begged my ancestors. 

Wandering...

 I began to cry. Outside. In front of people, while reading books, watching movies, receiving good news, thoughtful gifts, and running in the arms of distant family. Crying at the reassuring sight of myself within all these God given things. I cried like hell. Cried at the possibilities. Some nights, I wanted to wander in the water just to get to the moon. Only 2 inches away from the edge. Just a brave foot. There was no strength inside me and I cried harder. And the tears ran down my legs, in-between my toes, reaching the soles of my feet. The saltiness stung my wounds shut. New feet made me search more, in new people, places, and things. Found me some shea to heal my soles and toes. Rubbed it real good in my chest to get to that soul too. 
I wandered into someone and they told me "You gotta have heart." I listened. I can't count how many of my folks told me stuff like that. Oh and "Girl, you better grow some thicker skin." Maybe because Black is an extra layer of skin, and woman is a deeper layer of courage. "What the fuck did I get myself into??" I've been crying since birth. Many tears, but the walk got warmer. Ain't quite seen the light, but God I feel it. God, I found it. A rainbow in my tear. 

I'm calling July 5th, 2016 my liberation day. The day, the time, the heartbeat where I fully decide to commit to the journey to forever letting go fear. 

I wrote to myself: 

Dear Kayla, 

You earned your freedom at birth, do not listen to otherwise. You have the right to say whatever the hell you want. Use your magic, protest and stop whatever injustice that invades your homeland. Love whomever and however you please. Write whatever your Truth moves you to. We good, so you good. 

Understanding My Magic

Here is a piece I wrote for my school's newsletter. Enjoy :)  

I spent my elementary years drawing over my homework, reading outside books about Greek goddesses and mermaids, and then talking to my friends about them in class all day long. I would show my friends “Look! This is the Goddess of Loveeeeeeee, Aphrodite. Isn’t she perfect?” But when class ended, I would close my mouth shut all the way till we got home. My parents would ask me “So how was school?” I wondered what if I told the truth and said it was horrible. Instead I said “good” and closed my eyes to try to recreate my mermaid escapism until I got home. Theories like the Bermuda Triangle were always enticing. The constant thoughts of disappearing. I never wanted to go back to school.

All I ever wanted is to be open, curious, and explorative just like the mermaids in my books. Instead of Western Civilization they learned about spells, swim tricks, and the deep mystical history of the sea. I read series after series, watching these mermaids blossom into adult mermaids- taking on Queen leadership of the sea. My 8 year old life was nothing like that, and that was depressing. I was jealous, yet obsessed on how they were able to go outside in their backyards and find treasure as they had the ability to manifest different worlds with the power of imagination. They were all white girls. And I was a city Black girl with opossums and raccoons in my backyard. At night there were gunshots or maybe a tire popping. Either or, the fear made me stop everything I was doing and surrender my head to the closeness of the ground. When I stepped in water, there was no turquoise fish tail that rescued me from reality. And I hated water for that.

I got scolded for being distracted in class every day, even in high school. I beat myself in the head for truly never connecting with my work. It took college to realize that I could never attempt to connect to Abraham Lincoln, before ever learning about Sojourner Truth. Page after page, no one ever looked like me. There was no citing of magic.

When I started to write my own short novels in class, my teacher confiscated my work and told me I was being disruptive, and to focus.

My 8 year old self needed narratives and truths. My 8 year old self needed to know Black girls possessed magic too just like the mermaids in my novels. I wish she knew about the Orisha Goddess like Oya and Mami Wata spirits of Africa. But now I am 20 years old and I could not think of a better age to embrace such truths. The truth is there was nothing wrong with my rebellion against what I was learning in elementary. Studying African and Black Diaspora Studies was always apart of God’s plan and I am proud of myself for never being satisfied with what my teachers told or taught me. The depth of who I was destined to be was always fighting with the Eurocentric pedagogy forced down my eyes and ears. And the pain, confusion, and lack was necessary in order to be glorious in this moment. Now, I can liberate my 8 year old self as my adult self has been placed in the hands of the Wise. And yes I still oppressive teachers, but I no longer feel sad or unmagical, but challenged.

The Black Women professors I have met at DePaul have truly become the fairy godmothers of my future. Like the blossoming characters I use to read and dream about, but they look like me and have conquered everything that I once thought was an impossible task for a Black girl. My freshman year I witnessed the Black woman magic of knowledge when I met Doctor Robin Mitchell in WGS 100. In her class I found healing, and honestly a new beginning, feminism. Everything is a social construction. There were Black women narratives, but institutionalized racism, sexism, and classism benefits from hiding those things from me.  Then, I met Doctor Valerie Johnson who exposed me to the realities of African American politics, but pushed me with her wisdom to go outside and do something about injustice. She also taught me the importance of self care and preservation after my choice of protest. I had to be in my best mindset before I could take on anything that dismantled systems of evil. Doctor Julie Moody-Freeman liberated me when she assured me that no theoretical work in academia is off limits, and you have to find pleasure in the hard work you do. The realities of Black women lives are violent, but we are still here. Because of our magic.  And our magical narratives have touched every corner of the Earth, and with the help of another we can all bare our mystical lost treasures. (Click to tweet!)