I understood that as a black woman, I would face the darkest of dark, the most sad of sadness, the most bleak of horrors and be expected to deliver day to all those who begged it from me, from those who wanted to tear God from my skin. What’s most harrowing about it all is the journey, a nearly indescribable transformation as a consequence of blackness, that forces every black woman to fight for her life, in some or many ways — to suffer the thrashes of a multi-pronged oppressive system and to continue, as both an act of resistance and revolution. I like to think that my technical skills are a reincarnate trait inherited from the women before me, callous hands picking cotton and tobacco in fields, akin to these hands now, typing in the dark and anxiously answering emails about my app, pausing to check the weather, hovering over a keyboard in between thoughts.
…orgotten daughters. I've been taught how to swallow tragedy and spit out seeds, soil, and sunlight. Unfortunately, the understanding of godliness exists only in the realm of service and charity when it comes to black womanhood. Ingrained in the very cells of my skin resides perhaps a sequence of matter that stimulates my desire to overachieve, to defy in any small and conceivable way, the cages of a world fueled by black bodies and anguish. Perhaps colonialism and slave trauma is woven so deeply into the fabric of my family lineage that in attempting to extract it all, I will shred myself apart. Disgustingly, the same fear of death is also the same drive that keeps so many, pushed beyond the limits of human comfort and spiritual reconciliation, alive.