The Dithering of a District Diva

If you’ve seen ‘Middle of Nowhere,’ then you already know that Ava DuVernay is a master. She is on the next level with her latest film, ‘Selma,’ starring David Oyelowo as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Both she, Oyelowo and the film itself are nominated for Golden Globes, with much-deserved Oscar buzz, and you should go see this movie. It is excellent.

But this is not a film a review. (You can find a good one, here, though.) This is more like an outpouring.

I spent much of the film weeping. To see police beating and killing Black people not only with impunity but by direct permission of the State, from President Lyndon B. Johnson down to Alabama governor George Wallace to Selma police chief Jim Clark, it stirred up in me an intense anger that nearly choked me, because the film is not just a snapshot of a moment in 1965, it is 2014, and 2013, and every year since European theft, terrorism and murder of Black people in this country.

The fundamentals, the systemic racism, exploitation and dehumanization of Black bodies upon which this country was founded and still functions, has not changed. And that has made me unfathomably angry and frustrated and scared and lonely and DESPERATE and terrified and all such in-kind emotions.

To me, 2014 has been a year of falling skies and veils and masks. It’s one thing to know intellectually that your country is morally bankrupt and inherently unjust. It is another to see it unfolding in front of your face, just as blatantly as it did in 1965 or 1765. I’ve been writing and marching here in New York for justice for Eric Garner, teenager Michael Brown, 12-year-old Tamir Rice, Miriam Carey, Rekia Boyd, 7-year-old Aiyana Stanley-Jones, Ezell Ford, and countless others who have been killed by police who will face no consequences for these killings. I’ve witnessed the police treat us in New York and especially our brothers and sisters in Ferguson like criminals for walking in a group, chanting, trying to be heard.

In the most intense march I’ve participated in thus far, the night of the non-indictment of the cop who killed Eric Garner in Staten Island, rows of police cut hundreds (at least) of us off at Times Square, wearing riot gear, tailing us with helicopters, flashing spotlights on us from above, like we’d just robbed a bank and were trying to get away with something besides the right to live. They criminalized us, arrested hundreds of us all over New York that night. Pepper-sprayed some and used sonic weapons against others. From 1965 into the coming 2015, what has really changed? What did our ancestors die for?

“They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace.”

Some upwardly mobile Blacks feel a tremendous amount has changed. Heck, at least some of us have a chance to sit at the table–something unimaginable in 1965! If there is a chance, no matter how slim, of being gifted with equality, an invitation to join in the oppression and exploitation of others, then, Hey! We’ve come a long way, baby.

Except famed Harvard scholar Henry Louis Gates was still arrested for “trying to break in” to his own home; Harvard Lawyer and first Black president of the United States is still a nigger to about 65% of the population, and Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., the utmost of respectability, was still shot in the face in his suit and tie. So, good luck to you, New Black people.

That’s what it seems it will take for us to survive this world: luck, chance, the mere grace of God. None of which are promised.

It is no wonder that this year I’ve felt the weight of utter despair. I’m seeing what’s real and who’s real and that’s showing me who I am and what I’m capable of, good and bad. As I’ve written about recently, with all of this discontent surrounding me and built up in me, I’ve been searching for something–anything–to grasp onto. Something permanent and lasting and real in a world of complete uncertainty. To not feel alone. I’ve been desperate for it.

That’s why as soon as I moved to Harlem in August, I joined a church right away. I didn’t pray about it at all, I just saw a popular church whose music I liked whose preaching seemed sound and I joined. I wanted so desperately to belong any place with anybody who would have me and teach me and see how much I wanted to serve and how talented I am, that even when the pastor neglected to open the doors of the church for new members, I went up to the front anyway.

“Excuse me, Pastor, I’d like to join the church today.” I told the man, after the service. He turned slightly away from his conversation and pointed to a deacon across the way and said, “That man can help you,” and turned back around to his conversation. I felt totally dismissed, unimportant and certainly not valued, but I would not be deterred! Like a fool, I went across the way and joined the church.

Just two days later at a Tuesday night livecast Bible study, this same pastor sought to humiliate, shame and silence me for respectfully disagreeing with his ahistorical and quite shallow interpretation of an excellent essay by Dr. Brittany Cooper on why we need new Black leadership, and why the pastor’s good friend Al Sharpton isn’t it. The pastor-worshiping audience hooped and hollered at his every straw-man argument and basically booed me out of the church for daring to disagree with the Dear Leader. Who would’ve thought that in a Black church, with Black people, being unapologetically in defense of Black lives and our inherent humanity and right to live (irrespective of whether we pull up our pants or litter or commit a crime, or run away or walk in the street, or drive while Black, or breathe while Black) would get me booed out of a Black church?! Needless to say, I have not been back there.

So I was without a church home and still desperate for leadership and mentorship, a place to belong, people to belong to while I am far away from home, riding trains in the city where on any given day, a person will literally sit on me or run directly into me because they ‘didn’t see me there.’ It’s one thing to know I’m valuable and smart and talented and have much to offer the world. It’s another thing to keep knowing that in the face of daily devaluing, erasure and invisibility. So the desperate search continued.

I found a mentor via Twitter, because most times, Twitter is life and life more abundantly (get you some). I’ve made wonderful friendships through Twitter since 2009, but this mentor situation did not turn out to be one of them. Though initially encouraging and helpful and really validating, this mentor/”activist” turned out to be just like any other who is a slave to his male ego. After I mildly criticized his Facebook status update (seriously), this “mentor” called me up within 60 seconds of my post to lecture me on his storied history as an activist and to tell me I didn’t know what I was talking about and–best of all–to demand that I take down my comment “RIGHT NOW!!”

lol.

After his aggression, bullying, tone-policing my response to his aggression and bullying, deflecting and using emotionally manipulative tactics didn’t work on me, he just deleted my comment himself and blocked me on Facebook. He’s old enough to be my dad.

And I didn’t pray before I took him on as a mentor, either. So, you get what you pray for.

Fortunately, his true colors came out quickly, just as the pastor’s true colors came out quickly, and I did not invest significant amounts of time or money or hope in either. I can’t say the same for the super unhealthy relationship I got myself into during all of this spiritual turmoil but I won’t be saying anything about that…for free.

The point being, these are desperate times. Desperation is a natural, normal and totally valid response to what’s going on in the wider world outside the self, not to mention the internal struggle. This upheaval and terrorism by the cops, the politicians, the prosecutors, the grand juries, the entire systems which support and defend their kill-first tactics, not to mention the countless other ways and systems through which the world lets us know that Black lives actually do not matter–young, old, male, female, non-binary, LGBTQA, abled, disabled, NONE OF YOUR BLACK LIVES MATTER!–all of these things have created an atmosphere of unrest, distrust, desperation, restlessness, anger, frustration, sadness and fear. These are all valid emotional responses to trauma.

What’s important to know right now though is that during these times of extreme emotional, physical and spiritual vulnerability, you need some support to make it. You need mentors, friends, loved ones, family– people who genuinely love you in order to survive this thing. But when you are this vulnerable, like me, you may make some hasty decisions about who those people are. In your vulnerability, you might let some people into your life who never had any business there whatsoever.

The Bible says, “Above ALL else, guard your heart, for it is the well-spring of life.” Everybody that comes into your life blowing smoke, offering praise, is not for you. A person who does not love you will take complete advantage of your vulnerability and you must know: there are so many people in this world who just.do.not.love.you! Guard your heart.

These people don’t see you. They don’t see how awesome you are. They don’t register how inherently valuable your existence is beyond what you can do for them. They have no concern for your spiritual well-being. They do not care about the condition of your soul. They do not love you. Be on your guard!

This is not to say never trust anyone or let anyone in or be vulnerable with anyone. That’s an emotional death sentence. Just use discernment about who to trust, knowing that even those who love you are still fully human and will absolutely fail you and you will fail them.

That’s life.

Just pray before EVERYTHING you do. Get under holy spiritual leadership. Fast. Meditate. Read Scripture. Get in the Spirit so you can discern what’s true.

And if no one else has told you today, I love you. Jesus loves you. God loves you. You are not alone. You are inherently valuable. No matter what people, politicians or entire institutions say or do to make you feel otherwise. Recognize a lie when they say it and a truth when you hear it.

We’ll be all right.

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