Beginning of a New Year, End of an Era

We jumped up and down on my mattress, like two toddlers. Beyonce’s “Drunk In Love” blasted as I tried to soak up every bit of what I knew would be our last moments together. That was one thing that I always loved about her, her youthfulness. Plastic 2014 sunglasses adorned our faces. The glasses were as cheap as I knew our night would be, once we fucked. It was the beginning of the year, but definitely the ending of an era.

It was only a few hours earlier that I had damn near begged her to come to Brooklyn to bring in the New Year with me. She didn’t feel like making the trip from Queens, but somehow I convinced her that I was worth it. We were worth it. We were worth spending the last hour or so of 2013 together over a hot meal and frozen drinks. I figured it was the least she owed me after a year and a half of uncertainty. According to her, her heart was in a “bind.”

During what was left of the night/early morning, we did what was inevitable. We fucked, which felt more like an obligation out of pity than something natural between two people who were highly attracted to each other. We both knew that was it and it was also the reason why she didn’t want to come over in the first place. 

I woke up at the crack of dawn and prepared a lunch for her to take to a training that she had that morning. She slid through my cracked apartment door with her lunch in tow and that was the last that I saw of her physically. I was left to make sense of it all and to make peace with the fact that we had just ended something, that had no business beginning.

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Who Is Going to Fight For Us?

Yesterday, there was a report of another Black woman committing suicide. Her name was Simone Battle. She was a singer in the girl group G.R.L. I didn’t know her but I cried in the library for about 30 minutes. I thought about Karyn Washington and how many other of our sisters are suffering in silence. I thought about myself and other family members who I know have suffered with bouts of depression or have been clinically diagnosed.

To add to the infliction of reading about Simone, I watched a video of now ex-Baltimore Ravens player Ray Rice, knocking his then fiance, now wife unconscious in an elevator of an Atlantic City hotel. I cried for about another 15 minutes, eventually leaving the library because I could no longer focus on the work I had came to do.

I thought about the new initiative, “Black Lives Matter” and I couldn’t help but think,”Who is going to fight for us?” Do Black women matter in this equation? Who is going to stand in solidarity with Black women, besides Black women?

When we’re tired of fighting everyone else’s battles and our feet are too tired to march for our own circumstances, who will lead the way? Who will speak for us when our already-muffled voices are mute?

Will we speak so loudly on behalf of our brothers that our issues and concerns will never be heard? Will we continue to suffer and suffocate in silence? Will our grievances finally be heard once our corpses are good and cold?