in a long time (really, probably just a month or so) that I am allowing myself to sit down and taste my food. No, I don’t have COVID; lately, eating has become a chore, less important than writing or editing or dancing with Akhilah or cleaning or reading or visiting a park or drinking coffee…
Tis the season for American politics.
Conservative, liberal….liberal conservative? Conservative liberal? Radical? Centrist? What role does race play? All these labels, all these differences we’ve allowed to sow disharmony as we cling to our biological need to belong to a group within which we can feel comfort since often within groups, our opinions and biases are confirmed and confirmation makes life less…
The hardest part of this blog
is figuring out what to write. How much of my personal life do I share? How do I tie myself and my experiences to a larger, relatable picture? What of what I share can be used against me? And who would use it and for what purpose? What amount of paranoia is healthy? Because, as much…
The black consciousness movement
is the direct result of American slavery.What do I even write after such a statement? Where do I even begin. It will, perhaps, forever astound me how black people, no matter the nation, remain at the bottom of the human ladder. How much reading must I do to discover the origin? Many these days point…
On my quest for knowledge,
I put myself in some peculiar circumstances, often dangerous and perhaps avoidable if I gave myself the space and ability to learn without experiencing the circumstance firsthand. I’m thinking especially of toxic and sometimes abusive relationships. Having ended what should be my last one, I find myself constantly asking, “How do I so easily get involved…
The last five years of my life have been weird.
I gave birth to a human and spent most of the time convinced all white people were evil white supremacists. Somehow, I had lived for 23 years oblivious to the acute and painstakingly present differences of socially accepted behavior towards black people and nonblack people.I was angry. It was easy to access this anger. Anger is perhaps…
I’m here as a poet named Schyler.
For many years, I identified as a black. Now, don’t get it twisted; this isn’t some Rachel Dolezal or Rebecca Skagg mess. My father, while his complexion is light, is black, as are his parents. There are a plethora of black people on my mother’s side, though I wouldn’t consider her or her parents black.…
