Where imma go?

Being Black American is such an awkward feeling.

I don’t feel like I belong here.

And if you ask the right people, they would agree.

And as always, my response will always be:

WHERE THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO GO?

Africa, you say?!

Well, I’ve never been to Africa.

I don’t know much about it there.

I’ve only experienced as many of us have, through pictures in books and movies and the people I have met who were born on the continent.

Like, are there corner stores there that greet you with the sounds of instruments that feel familiar but the lyrics belong to another language?

Do they sell cheesesteaks? Or at least an equivalent?

Would they accept me as one of their own even though I was taught to pledge allegiance to a flag that represents so much generational trauma?

Cus, most of my lived experience is shaped by the hoods on the Eastside of America.

It’s kinda all I know.

I mean, there was this one time that my mom tried to move us into the white country.

But that was some of the most opressive, depressing, shit that I have ever experienced in my life!

Ain’t tryna do that dumb shit again.

We did have grass.

And a drive way though.

And what, would seem like, a peace of mind.

You know.

The kind of peace of mind where you didn’t have to close your eyes and focus real hard to hear the birds sing.

But this was all at the expense of our freedom to ride down the street without being surveilled by the ops because of nothing more than what we looked.

That “peace of mind” seemed to only exist if we remained in the confine of our own little communites.

Making sure never to tread the line of what belonged to them.

We, the Black folks, didn’t even talk about it.

It was just known and understood.

Fuuuuuuuck that.

(But don’t fuck it too much.

Cus the wrong move will get you killed.)

No matter how much news you stay away from in an attempt to save your mental health –

– there is still the power of this thing called social media.

You could be scrolling down watching puppies play with kittens.

Or watching somebody try their new fried chicken recipe on live.

And then, boom!

Here comes another dead Black face that has been turned into a meme and a hashtag.

Cus they dead.

Not of natural causes neither.

It’s cus somebody done killed them.

Shits fucking depressing, man.

It’s exhausting.

I done seen where the [Black] people could be chilling at home, what’s supposed to be their sanctuary.

and STILL murdered by the police.

Nobody arrested.

I done seen where you could be respectfully speaking your peace.

Yes sir’ing it and everything.

and STILL be shot up by the police.

And somehow you gone always end up in the wrong, because you should just do what they say, black american.

I don’t think people really understand how much of a toll this takes on you psychologically.

You learn to always question yourself and your worth.

Feeling like you always have to live up to be just as good as.

You learn to question your own intention and your esteem consequently suffers.

Cus, if someone accuses you enough, you might start looking for the truth in the accusations.

Tip: It takes a lot of work to counter the negative talk. But YOU CAN DO IT. “I am good. I am great. I am a Queen/King. I am not what other people think of me …”

I mean, that might not be in everyone else’s experience.

But I can for sure say that it has been mine.

But I hate it here.

And when I say here, I mean Earth.

Cus I don’t even think “going back to Africa” could make me unfeel the sometimes inexplicable pain that I have felt being born a Black American.

What not to do: Don’t clump a whole bunch of people into one category because it benefits you to do so.

God gone get y’all.

+ Ci Ci +