Crashing Out For Democracy

I guess we poured some out for the homie

I’d be lying if I said it was easy for me to return to the page. I just talked about how important it is for me (and others) to face ourselves in this way. I had gotten in such a good groove being in New Orleans. My writing practice thrived. I felt good about the headway I was making and what I was writing. Returning to New York shook my life up. I don’t talk about politics much, and frankly I don’t like to. This isn’t to say one should or shouldn’t, but outside of what I’ve deemed safe spaces I don’t talk about it much. I—like many others—thought I knew what we were up against. I thought as a country we cared more about keeping our human rights, but I was wrong. In the days and weeks leading up to the election, I wasn’t anxious at all. I knew who I was voting for from the moment she announced. In my mind, there was no other option. I wouldn’t say I was thrilled but I accepted that my freedoms—especially those as a woman—would be protected in some ways with that choice. The closer we got to the election, the more I felt in my spirit that maybe we were indeed ready to sing a new song. I think that feeling came from my group texts, seeing how energized people were, and consuming way too much content online. 

I flew back on Election Day to cast my vote. There were times during my trip I wished I’d planned to absentee vote or vote early since I was cutting it so close, but I got back to NYC with three hours left to cast my vote. (This is a right I plan on exercising as long as I can, and won’t be having any spirited conversations with anyone about this choice.) I missed crazy New York and hectic Harlem. The streets were alive and so was I. I had a couple of hours to vote and make my way to a friend’s watch party. If they hadn’t planned this elaborate party, I too would've been home, likely in bed, as the results rolled in. Instead, I was taking shots of tequila hoping what we were seeing were results that were too early to call and subjective predictions. The tone in the room changed as it got later. There were some friends who came in with no hope, but I on the other hand held firmly to the thought that this could turn in our favor. It didn’t. I refused to accept it through the wee hours of the night. Was I that naive? That hopeful? I didn’t think so. Clearly I was.

Bathroom break at a friend's 2024 presidential election watch party.

There are a lot of hard pills to swallow in this life, but the one that night, and the days to follow, was that to be Black and to be a woman is to be hated. I kept thinking, “they really hate us.” To be adored in some ways and hated in others. To be overqualified, but still not enough. That’ll never be easy to accept. I was pretty stoic. I wanted to have an emotional, maybe visceral reaction even, but I was numb to it. If anything, I was in disbelief. The day after, my friends and I chose chaos. “Cancel everything, we’re crashing out for democracy,” I said to them. I knew it had to be bad if everyone I asked obliged. From one restaurant and bar to the next, Prosecco, tequila, frose. Spoiler alert: the hangover was bad. One of my friends shouted “democracy is dead” about every 10 minutes and someone would follow up with a joke, a salve for a fresh and open wound. I watched the concession speech with tears in my eyes from the edge of one of my favorite bars. I was breaking. It sucked. It sucks. That day I had many conversations around how I was feeling so I didn’t think coming to the page was necessary, but someone reminded me, it’s always necessary, especially if this is my form of resistance (and release).

I am a Black woman, I consider myself smart, fly, interesting, (you fill in the rest lol), but nothing feels quite as demoralizing as knowing that none of those things matter to some people. To feel like you have so much to offer the world and that will only be met with hate over something you can’t control is just…something. Like I’m never not going to be Black woman. We are a resilient people. Black women especially, and I hate that that’s what we have to call and rely on like we always have. We don’t have the luxury of being mediocre or giving up. I’ve read some think pieces (and had to stop because it was too much) about how this is our time to be selfish, to focus on our art, to be in community, and to be self-reliant. I don’t know if I agree or disagree but I’m allowing myself to just be. I’m allowing myself to continue to dream because I don’t know how not to. Whatever may come I’m holding firm to who I am, whose I am, and the things I want to come out of this life. 

I went home Wednesday and stayed under the cloud of despair until Saturday. Even though there were beautiful fall days on the other side of the window, everything felt dark. How life just continued the next day was baffling. Parents still have babies to feed, work still has to get done, and everything that makes the world go round is still in orbit. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. 

So, life goes on. I persisted. Zoom calls, Word docs, etc. It is what it is, right? Right. I’m really grateful for community. Our crash out was ridiculous but we processed in real time together and I don’t take the ability to do so lightly. It reminded me of a funeral repast. Or actually, not a repast, but that moment after when you’re at family or a friend’s house in your regular (read: relaxed) clothes, finding comfort in each other. The food, drinks, laughter, and tears that soothe the soul after an emotionally draining day. I can’t imagine processing that alone. The days that followed felt like I was experiencing and witnessing the stages of grief. I guess now we’re at acceptance. 

I reference music on my Substack a lot because I simply love it, and after college I really wanted to be a music journalist. Actually, I think y’all know that because I said I wanted to be Sid Shaw in Brown Sugar which I will reference whenever I can. Cleo Sol’s latest song, “Fear When You Fly” is the perfect soundtrack to this post. I hope you’ll give it a listen wherever you like to enjoy music. Like it actually couldn’t be better for what I’ve shared here, in regard to persisting while feeling, letting go, and having hope. I actually need to watch her interview with Zane Lowe so I’m going to watch that after I get this out.

For some the dust has settled, and for some it’s just getting kicked up. I hope no matter what your beliefs are, you’re taking time to process and take space. 

After 12 years in NYC, I finally made it to Storm King Art Center. I desperately needed to get out of my phone, the city, and my mind. It was time to touch grass. The experience served as a timely reminder to:

1. Never forget my place in the world: The sprawling grounds reminded me how vast the world is, how much there is to see, and ultimately, the role I play. 

2. Never lose that inner child:  I was able to roam free. I could run, jump, cartwheel, or sit with my legs crossed as the clouds shifted from East to West. I was so uptight, disappointed, and upset, that I needed to remember that little girl inside of me who dreamed of days like this, remember how a park, a cold lemonade, and a hug from my mom could fix anything. I took in the art. I took in the sun and the moon that were competing for my attention. I smiled at the kids running around who gave me hope for the future. 

3. It’s okay to take a beat: I needed a break from many things. It’s okay to disconnect. Turn the phone off. Release the tension you didn’t realize you were holding. Try to think about absolutely nothing.

Sculptures at Storm King Art Center, New Windsor, NY.

I like sharing excerpts from Violet’s life when she was younger. It takes me back and sometimes that’s the escape I need to realize how far I’ve come. Today, you’ll get a glimpse into more of her pre-Katrina life. (P.S., I am struggling to figure out what to name Violet’s mom. Nothing feels quite right and Anne ain’t it. Please give me some ideas!)

Violet liked her life near Lakeview. She took ballet classes in the neighborhood at a recreation center, she found a snoball stand she loved that had one of her favorite flavors, Tigers Blood, and she and her mom found themselves in Lakeview Fine Foods weekly. It was almost a boutique grocery store—not big enough to compete with the local chains but not small enough to be on a college campus. It was a sophisticated grocery store with a hot deli selection better than most. 

One day while Violet roamed the store taking stock of the new baggers—one of which was dating her friend—she noticed a sign that said the store was hiring. Violet snaked the aisles searching for Anne to tell her the news. “Ma, Lakeview is hiring! I’m going to apply. What do you think? I can get a worker’s permit.” Anne shifted her gaze from the rice assortment to Violet standing tall in gym shorts and a hoodie over her black leotard and pink stockings. Anne leaned against the shopping cart giving Violet her full attention, “I’m listening.” Violet shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, moving her bangs out of her face to show how serious she was. “Think about it! We already spend enough time over here. You shop here. I have dance class around the corner. I can figure out how to get here after school and you can pick me up later. I’ll even work weekends. Allowance is cool and all but imagine what I could do with my own money,” said Violet. “Hopefully not spend it in one place,” Anne responded, peering at Violet over her glasses. “So can I get an application? We can talk about it more at home.” Violet stared at Anne with her eyes. Those pleading eyes Anne only saw every now and then. “Yes, Violet.” Violet sprung up on her toes and skipped to the front of the store to ask for an application. That day she left with a paper application, treating it like an egg she was assigned to keep in one piece for an elementary school assignment. 

No inspo this week, I’ve kept you long enough! Thank you for reading, as always.