I became a writer at a time when faith in humanity was diminishing.
A global pandemic drove people into their homes for unending months where we became captive audiences to the racial injustice that we were too busy to address.
Civil unrest erupted tearing our countries apart yet uniting black & brown bodies across the world in collective exhaustion. The nuances of historical marginalization were finally being recognized by popular culture that, up until then, told us our personal experiences were a figment of our imagination.
I don’t think writers are trained authors. I think a writer is born out of necessity. A story wells up inside their chest which they spend their entire lives trying to get out. I was in my fourth month of maternity leave cradling my son, staring at his beautiful brown skin, when my life as a writer began.
My entire life I, like so many BIPOC people, lived with the quiet understanding that life would be unfair. We kept our heads down if police were nearby, knowing our skin would be enough probable cause to be accosted. We crossed the street lest a white woman’s tears led to our own open casket funeral. We worked ten times as hard for positions we were overqualified for and existed with a sense of paranoia that questioned whether our merit would be recognized in a room where we constantly tried to blend in. It was the summer of 2020 when the world saw BIPOC’s struggle and fear of mistreatment as valid, yet struggled to constructively talk about it.
That was enough for me. I was motivated by the newfound attention to the black community and encouraged it would draw attention to other groups that history also tried to bury. But like any trend I knew it would fade. Once the pandemic claimed enough bodies that it became mind-numbing, and immunizations emboldened people to venture outside, eyes would be torn away from BIPOC narratives, in search of normalcy that typically pushed tough issues back into marginalized communities to resolve internally.
So I decided to write.
To write about how I felt.
To write about my son and a future I prayed would look much different than my current reality.
I write and create content with an urgency, trying to hone the tools of change. I know the world lacks a framework in which to process the BIPOC experience. It’s not enough to just know slavery is bad, segregation is illegal, and Jim Crow was cruel. I write to educate the world about how old terms have new definitions; how lynching happens with more than nooses; how citizenship is bastardized by political forces hell bent on keeping us ignorant of the vote; to reimagine the purpose of police power; and to modernize local activism in a world crowded with short attention spans.
My purpose is to help build a dial that points us in the right direction and keep our moral realignment alive.