Today will be a purging of older posts of the past two years. Hope you enjoy. Comments and conversations welcome, it's Sunday!
Leave it to me to get my first car at 32 years old. And for it to be registered in a state whose slogan is to live free or die.
My first weeks here I kept noticing groups of bikers in what would otherwise be a pretty quaint, tame town. I asked a saleslady if there was an underground biker culture here. “Look at their heads, do you see helmets?”
New Hampshire has a no helmet law. Bikers come from all over so that they can live ride free or die. If you take a closer look, you’ll also see that its Buckle Up signs are for those 17 and younger. In the state of New Hampshire there’s no law to wear a seatbelt unless you’re a minor.
This is the state of “I do what I want.”
This is a political state. Nearly every house has a poster in support of someone running for office. I don’t recognize most of the names but, from the commercials, I can tell that some of them are not black-friendly. I’d figured Scott Brown had disappeared after his loss in Massachusetts but he’s back, running for New Hampshire Senate. His commercials warn about ISIS and Ebola and show the President’s face.
This is not a state of subtleties.
I am in a place where I am both invisible and in technicolor. When white people meet me at work, within 10 minutes or so the topic of race comes up. It’s a thing that happens: the presence of a known-but-never-seen other disrupts something among them. I trigger an anxiety. Thankfully, I’m a Leo and I bask in attention. It’s true: the more aware I am of the spotlight the brighter my smile. Not bigger. Brighter. You’re gonna see me, you’re gonna face me, you’re going to fear me. I’m going to love it. I’m going to make sure of this.
Lately, I’ve remembered how my mother admitted to raising me like a man. She raised me to be deeply unapologetic, to enjoy pleasure for pleasure’s sake, to bask in accolades, to treat men as adornments.
But, she’s still my mother and occasionally drops hints of wanting a grandchild.
But, because of growing up turned to face the world on my own two feet I tend to lower my eyelids whenever I see men receiving attention and praise for calling attention to Ferguson or suffering from depression and addiction for doing the same things I’m doing. Sometimes I wish I could cry to my mother that her experiment was a cruel one. Because, any thing I do is, and will always be, marked in my womanhood. And I love being a woman, deeply. The problem is that nobody else loves that I’m a woman who has the balls to do what I do.
My mother’s experiment means I know no other way. It means I’ve drunk a lot, fucked a lot, and achieved a lot and I don’t see anything about it as special. As a woman I guess I should have deemed it as something to blink at, since everyone loves the cool girl.
I love my new home’s slogan to live free or die. I highly doubt the state of New Hampshire finds this to be a good thing.
This is not a state of inclusion.
just some things usually on my mind....