Woke up to a Massacre, and Now I’m Godzilla
I am so tired of trying to write through tears. I know there is no light without darkness, but sometimes it’s just too much to bear. My heart hurts for my fam, murdered for living in their truth, loving and being love. I been to Club Pulse, and had I visited my friends in Cocoa Beach like originally planned, we might have ventured to Pulse to celebrate life and love and memory like we always do when we get together.
When my fam, my LGBTQI brothers and sisters get together, we turn UP. We celebrate. Mostly on some Lucille Clifton shit.
But instead of celebrating, we dying. We dead in the club, ghostly ring tones of phones that will never be answered. Frantic text messages the only evidence of life snuffed out. And the shit hurts.
Mina Justice's 30-year-old son Eddie texted her from the Pulse nightclub when the shooting occurred. He said he ran…usat.ly
It hurts to be so hated. It hurts to be deemed less than, to be sentenced to death by word and by bullet.
In my frustration, I resign to all this shit and be all, “Why you hate me? I didn’t choose this life.”
I didn’t make myself black. I didn’t make myself a woman. I didn’t make myself gay. I didn’t wake up one morning and say, “you know what would be dope as shit? To be hated for the rest of my life for my skin color, my uterus, and the way my heart works. Yeah. That’s the jam.”
I’m just here. I just am. And I’m sorry you wish I wasn’t. Or maybe I’m not sorry. No. No maybe.
I am not sorry. I am not sorry. I am not sorry.
And maybe I did choose this. No. Not maybe. I did. But not the way some of you think.
In some spiritual leanings for example, there is a belief that we choose our own destiny. That we, or our spiritual heads, sit with God and choose who and what we’ll be in the world. So, it would be that I chose to be black, I chose to be a woman, I chose to be gay before I even got here. And with that choice, which my head knew would be difficult and frustrating and wrought with challenge, came a great responsibility. A calling…
To wreck shit. To fuck up everything you hold dear about what you think you know about life and love, about humanity. I chose to live my life every day to show you what it means, what it takes, what it’s like to be honest and intentional and full of so much love you question what you thought love was, what it could be.
I know. My existence makes you uncomfortable. And you don’t really want me here, but guess what?
Here I am. I ain’t going nowhere. And I won’t be quiet.
My homegirl Slam said it best: “I gave this world five reasons to despise me. I’m black. A woman. Educated. Dread headed. And homosexual.”
I see your oppression, your murderous, hateful words and actions, and it just makes me want to be blacker. Womaner. Smarter. Gayer. And with longer dreads.
That’s right. I said, “womaner.”
I see your attack, and all them beautiful brothers and sisters of mine call out to me to be more everything I was yesterday.
Every day, I’mma give it to you raw so you will know, now and forever, YOU WILL NOT WIN.
I’m gonna flaunt my shit. Shine so bright I’mma hurt your basic ass eyes, burn them retinas with my truth, my identity, my existence. And I’m not alone. I might have thought I was a long time ago, but not anymore and never again. I got my people with me, ancestors and chosen family, and all them souls you unleashed from their mortal coils. We gonna blow up your spot.
There is no “agree to disagree.” Your disagreement is ammunition. Your “love the sinner, hate the sin” is an indictment, and the sentence is carried out by that quiet dude in the corner nodding to every word you say as he orders machine guns on his smartphone.
To “disagree” with my identity is to disagree with gravity. It is. I am. The club going up, but you can’t tear us down.
We showing up to your house in dashikis with Warrior ileke and the Bible, Torah, and Koran on a Kindle. We’re bringing our wives and our husbands, boyfriends and girlfriends, one night stands and late night baes, and we gone introduce ourselves to your mama as whoever we please: The Misters, boothang and baby mama, studsband and wife, shit, we gone be Mrs. and Mrs. Bad Muthafucka. Have you seen my wallet? It’s leather and overflowing with slave owner singles and Tubman twenties.
And just when you think there can’t be any more of us, just when you think you’ve had your fill, more of us gone pull up in an electric Hummer with Monster Truck wheels. Horn blasts like the trumpets in “Spottieottiedopalicious.” We jump out and the whole block shook.
It’s time to pay the piper. That thump is just R. Kelly trapped in the trunk.
Fuck your closet.
Here we come.