I AM NOT THE ANCHOR TO YOUR MISEDUCATION
It is here, in higher education, where I am in the minority that I hear me comfortably misjudged. Here is where I feel uncomfortable. Here is where my presence rattles your insides, bubbling up the societal myths you have ingested. And, you spew them at me, like loose grips fumbling triggers with no safeties.
There’s been something nagging at me like a fruit fly nuisance hovering over strange fruit. I’ve been swatting at the nuisance, trying to ignore it, and keeping on. I’m fighting hard not to internalize the unwanted, unsolicited, unneeded nuisances that surround me. As a single mother, it’s hard to cover all the sources that I liken to fruit flies. I will say that they’ve come from unlikely sources lately, even in spaces that I have sought for solace and welcome as a queer Black mother.
Shoo, FLIES
You tiptoe in an imaginary,
between
a pig’s wings,
Black superwoman,
white picket fences,
witch brooms and hats,
& all anchors to your miseducation
I’ve had a goal over the last few years that my work would be less reactionary, that I wanted to seek ways to be freer in my craft and to help widen the Black imaginary for myself and for others. For me that has been living beyond some of my childhood trauma that I carry from living between multiple worlds that normalized Black bodies as strange fruit. Part of the memoir that I have worked on for the past few years has been facing some of that trauma and the systems that has normalized violent cycles for my family and me from the South to the west side of Chicago. I can say that I have found some freedom out of the constraints of reactionary work. But, then, there are the flies, the nuisances, the voices that I have given too much freedom, and that illicit a response as I find my way toward more freedoms within my body, as a woman, as a mother, a queer person.
Shoo, FLIES
You harm me in my realities,
spitting lies:
You can’t be a good mother,
A Black single mother can’t get a PhD,
Your household is not a household,
You are a charity case,
You are a Welfare Queen,
& all anchors to your miseducation
Over the past years, I dealt with so many harmful comments, and increasingly as I have gone further up in my education. It is here, in higher education, where I am in the minority that I hear me comfortably misjudged. Here is where I feel uncomfortable. Here is where my presence rattles your insides, bubbling up the societal myths you have ingested. And, you spew them at me, like loose grips fumbling triggers with no safeties.
I once had coffee with a colleague when we were working on a project together. It was summer day on a beautiful patio. The sun shined. We laughed. I felt comfort in community. As we sipped our drinks, planning our next session, she said, unsolicited, “I would have kicked that baby in my stomach if I got pregnant.” This wasn’t the first time that someone had said something violent toward me because of my being a Black single mother while I shared “safe space”. People say all kinds of things to me, utilizing me as a sounding board for their reflections on motherhood. They rarely invite a conversation. Their talking at me is meant to tear me down, and to remind me of my place, while validating their own choices. So many comments have stacked up and have left me being even more intentional in what I deem safe spaces.
I am not responsible for miseducation. It is not on my shoulders to help people deal with discomfort from my presence. I know that people see abundance in me, like Maya Angelou, like Taraji P. Henson, like U.S. Representative Barbara Lee, and like Claudette Colvin. The same that have been violent toward me, have excluded me, and wanted to limit me have stolen from me and “borrowed” work and ideas without citing me. They have privately told me about my importance, but publicly shamed me. I am supposed to be part of the voiceless. I know my experiences are not unlike many experiences of those single moms before me. And, so many have eaten off us. We make do. We give when we have less to give. We hold it together. Society has sold us a single story about single mothers. So many people and spaces reinforce stereotypes instead of being a village. I hope that my reflection on my own experiences help people approach single mothers beyond the debate on whether we should exist or only when discussing abortion rights. We are here. We are human. Perpetuating myths, especially in spaces that are meant to be “safe” is prejudice. These aggressions, these single stories, are just another nuisance and roadblock that we just don’t need.
And I say again, SHOO FLIES! I’ve got work to do and my child to raise. “IM A MOTHA”
