An Ancestral Trait


Over the course of many years, I’ve spent a lot of time quietly musing on the specific ways my blackness refuses to to accept grief, anger, and their ilk as they are; when it touches me, it often gets transformed somehow.

In most cases, this turns into song or writing or movement. Like dancing. Like salsa. Like my friend died last week and my response was to go to a salsa class instead of feeling all ten of the years I knew them and the pain of having their lives suddenly snatched away weeks before one of the rare moments that I get to see them.

Like the president continues his war against every non-white person everywhere and I listened to Arirang for hours on repeat.

Like I have been avoiding the clarion call of my journal because I’m weary of bleeding, but I’d have to refund my melanin to actually stop my emotions from hemorrhaging.

Like my response is just music and not just any music, but something ancient. Something far. Something that runs so deep I can actually find it in other tribes. Something just as much metaphor as I have to be because saying things in a concrete gets me no further than, “Well, actually…”

And a rather shallow well at that.

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