Sick and Tired; Woke and Worked Up!

The past week has been filled with events, commitments, appointments that kept me away from my work-in-progress.  So I vowed I would write today. But, before I can write fiction I have to address today’s reality.

I’ve been angry for the last eleven months.  Walking in disillusionment, discouragement and rage.  It’s a stressful way to be.  Like many other Black women I said to myself: ‘Well America, you made your bed now you can sleep in it.’

I had washed my hands of Latino men who sided with the MAGA ideology, and shook my head at Muslim voters in southeastern Michigan who cast a ballot for Trump. How could they not see they were voting against their own self-interest?  

I was discouraged by young people who sat out the election because a single issue made them believe they couldn’t support the broader goals of democracy. 

I was pissed off at those who were so frightened by the misinformation spewed by fringe “media” outlets, that while admitting they didn’t like the guy’s demeanor, language, and incivility, they cast their vote for a narcissist because they felt he was fighting for their place in the world. Come on people. When does a narcissist fight for other people’s needs?   And, why can’t or won’t you allow yourself to ask if that disconnect between your head and heart isn’t covert racism?  

So, for many months this year I shook my head, clucked at the TV news and commentary, and watched the consternation from the sidelines.  Because, frankly, Black women deserve a rest on the sidelines.

Haven’t we put our bodies on the line in all of America’s cultural and political movements?

Didn’t Black women—in so many areas of endeavor— try to shout the warning, pave the way, crack the glass ceiling, and lead the wave of change? 

Isn’t it our time to let others do the heavy lifting? 

I think of Kamala Harris, Shirley Chisholm, Maya Angelou, Anita Hill, Barbara Jordan, Fannie Lou Hamer, Sojourner Truth, Angela Davis, Nikole Hannah-Jones, Michele Obama, Harriett Tubman, Stacey Abrams, Marsha P. Johnson, Ida B. Wells, Rosa Parks, Roxanne Gay, Isabella Wilkerson, Octavia Butler, Toni Morrison, Gwendolyn Brooks, Alice Walker, Ntozake Shange, Ruby Dee, Lena Horne, Josephine Baker, Nina Simone, Eartha Kitt, Leontyne Price, Patrisse Cullors, Alicia Garza, Opal Tometi, Tarana Burke, Oprah Winfrey, Zora Neale Hurston, Toni Cade Bambara, Audrey Lorde, Frances Harper, Lorraine Hansberry, Mary Church Terrell, Dorothy Height, Phyllis Wheatley, Bell Hooks and hundreds and thousands more.

I’ve left the sideline.  I’m writing the letters, marching in the protests, sending in my donations, convening my neighbors.  I can’t watch masked, pseudo-law enforcement goons drag Latinx people from their cars, churches, daycare centers, and court hearings without shouting ‘FOUL”.   I can’t watch the brave women who are the victims of child sex abuse be dismissed by a cowardly group of legislators who are the sycophants of a corrupt President. I can’t watch other Americans lose their lives and livelihoods because a handful of uber-wealthy white men want to dismantle Democracy so they can make more money.

I have to be engaged because I can’t afford not to be. Because I am woke. And as a Black woman, I know I’m only a half step away from every egregious injustice America can wield.

Okay. Now that reality is off my chest.  I can write fiction