The question that’s been scaring me most as of late is “who are you?”. “Tell me about yourself,” and any iteration of the desire to push beyond name, age, employment throws me off guard. Simply because I do not know. I wish I could say sharing these feelings was something new, but those who know me know this isn’t new and are probably tired. I try not to talk about it, when people want to catch up it’s all I have to say really. Young Mugo, the extraordinaire, what have you been up to as of late? I saw you on TV, I saw you in the documentary, I saw you jump in the St-Laurent and how courageous you must have been. I read your work while you were in Windsor. I see you doing work. I see you. And yet. I am not really sure of what it is I am doing and where I am going. It’s been some of the most destabilizing months and years of my life. I’ve lost interest in everything I deeply believed in. I wish I could say it had nothing to do with the feeling of unending futility I am both swimming and drowning in. Nothing means anything really, when you think about it. And once you understand it’s a little numbing. My parents made it out the gutter because by luck of the draw. But they are still victims of the same whip that made their forefathers work and the same whip that makes us work today still, that same one that is now resting on a table to make us believe we are free while staring at it. How am I supposed to have hope or dreams in such a world, such a place. I write for what. I spent ten days on a boat built in 1928 where I was called nigga twice, asked if I was adopted three times, and slept in the bunk below a closet racist who drunkenly argued with me about his right to use the word nigga as I stepped out of the bathroom looking in the opposite direction. I can write about it, but what good will it do? I’ll get 10,000 likes and retweets, will be heralded as the new young Black voice, do the thing, do the thing, make my parents proud, make the people proud but will step out the next day and still deal with the same. What I mean by all of this is that the field I am in, the work I am in, requires deep and unequivocal dedication to peoplehood, the work, growth, humanity, dreams, a better future but I have no reason to believe that will come tomorrow. Come for myself, or my children. Everything I am doing here, today, is futile and useless. It means nothing. Maybe I should cling my hopes to changing the life of a single person instead. I do not know. It’s scary, when someone asks me who I am I start to think about all of these things and I am cornered by the world pointing its fingers at me yelling you must know who you are! You must stand for something or else you will fall for anything! my father always said. Well I am not standing or falling. I’ve been laying in my bed, on the floor, for the past three years. Laying there staring at the stars and watching life go by as people hustle and wrestle left and right to try and leave their mark somewhere on this thing called life, this thing that is self-depleting, self-combusting, regenerating just to disintegrate, once again, making itself just to break, once more, once more, once more, and break the people it has brought along with it.