This is Me, Releasing.

This world has temporarily robbed me of grieving. Of feeling. Of sadness. Of love. Of laughter. Of togetherness.

I miss you. I miss us. I miss we. 

…

Have you heard? How could you not? 

It’s #trending. 

But suddenly what I post matters more than who I am, or what I’m going through. What I feel? 

Feeling. 

My reaction to racist, inhumane, publicized trauma is instead scrutinized and held under a glass scope. 

Though I face racial struggles each day, I am expected to immediately rise up stronger than my adversary and give my version of the same speech. But I’m too tired, I’d rather sleep. 

I say something. Nothing. Everything. 

The right thing, the wrong time. 

Say it now, no wait–tomorrow. 

Be more sensitive. Be more aggressive. 

Join us. No us. 

Does she even care she’s so…silent now? 

Yes, and I’ll probably be the one to break the latest Instagram thread, every time. 

You see I got caught up in the web of expectations, just not ones I had for myself. 

So I posted, or I didn’t. 

You liked it, or you didn’t. 

I agreed, or I didn’t. 

But It’s always, Pics or it didn’t happen—right?

That’s what social media will tell you. 

…

My phone locks and contrary to popular belief, the world continues to turn.

Don’t get me wrong, there is work to be done there too.

So I move, and force myself into productivity. 

After 3 naps, 2 snacks, breakfast served at a quarter to noon, and another nap…my day finally begins. 

I do just about anything to occupy the time. 

But I’m also stuck. In the same place as yesterday and then again tomorrow. 

Every day a photocopy of the one before. 

So then it’s 2 am and somehow my mind escapes to loneliness. 

Now there are tears, and they don’t fall but they well up–all heavy and dense. 

There’s never enough to cry. 

But it’s kind of beautiful. That stillness. With nothing going on at 2 am. The world around me a soft buzz. 

My fan whirls and the cool air brushes my cheek as I’m laying there, soaking in soft noise. 

I hear music from next door, faded and low. 

And the already slow-spinning room spun more slowly. 

It is muted tones and shades of grey. 

Repetition and unfulfilled thought. 

It is lonely. 

It is don’t do and please do more. 

It is the rush of opinion so loud my mind starts to fail me and I feel lost in it all. 

So I shut it off. 

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Now I’m feeling color.

 If I look beyond the horizon I see the earth as it bends. 

I feel the waves yawn as the morning begins. 

The sun sets and I listen as the rays fall over my skin. 

I smell the moon as it rises, she is loyalty. 

Because the night always returns. 

Speak to me—

The words left the ground and sent a chill through my room. 

I felt love, no I tasted it. Sweet. Smooth. 

These moments are timeless, and yet I’m aging still. 

The tears returned once more, but again they never fell. 

…

Remember being younger and thinking about forever. 

The bucket lists that held:

1. Everything 

2. We ever

3. Wanted

4. To do 

It was Beauty, it was youth, it was bliss, it was—

It was a skate scene. One where the main characters were people I knew. A kind of Saturday you wish you could extend on into forever. 

A moment you want to record and replay each day before the sun rises. 

But you don’t record, because that’s the whole point.

It was a gathering of love. The kind where no one actually says “I love you.” No one even so much as extends a hug or a kiss to welcome in company. Because this kind of love needs no physical marker to claim validity. 

This love is unconditional. So I watched as my cousins and brother skated up and down the street, because I loved them. 

It was home. There was no door. No place for my shoes, and no room where I could drift off into sleep. This home was all-encompassing. Now mobile, because I intend to take it with me everywhere I go. 

This home is family. 

…

You see, these slow moments, these lonely moments, and these at-home memories are some of the most beautiful in this world. One day I will look back on these days and wish for a moment just like them. 

A moment where I can sit in my room, free of distraction, and become so in tune with myself, it’s as if no one exists around me. 

A moment like a night in with family, where no one is in a rush to leave, the night feels never-ending, and the laughter only grows. 

A moment where a year passes in a single day and even the sun is unhappy to leave. 

Though some nights I’m still low, often too far from release, I’ve begun to embrace these feelings instead.

I’m learning to love every part of this film

–even the scenes where I sit alone. 

…

A single tear now hangs on my cheek. Hugs me, as it falls to my chin. 

There it is 

It’s what I’ve been waiting for. 

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The thing about race.

Disclaimer: These days have been dark, murders are publisized, and our hurt is seen as an unlawful overreaction. But someone’s mother is watching this unfold as she brings a black body into this world. A father looks on and wonders if he will one day say goodbye to his family far too soon. Children all across the nation face fear and rage. We are growing up in a world that does not quiet its racial limitations, lack of representation, lack of true justice, etc. The voices in this nation that ignore our need for racial equality are loud. 

And we have nowhere to go. This is Home. 

With all that being said, before diving into this piece if you are facing difficult emotions, or went out protesting in the last 24-48 hours, and just think a break is needed…take it. Come back and read this later. Do not let anyone tell you that you need to further submerge yourself if you are already suffocating. 

Now let us begin. 

…

“What do I say when my people run to war for probable resolution, emotions lethal with a bitterness that’s clouded our eyes.

Let the tap run wild with the blood of my sisters, shooting at my family like you weren’t first a pillaging looter.

So heartless to see a murderer given a badge–a constant sense of validation. You walk into my neighborhood and only service those familiar to you, as you await a new paycheck. 

The violence is aimless because the enemy is a broad cover…the streets turn to rage and we show them they forgot to remember our worth. 

Another life wasted to them is just water down the drain, but every day I wake up and fight for a peace I may never attain.  

This is insanity. 

Black lives matter and it is more than just a hashtag. 

I wear my heart on my sleeve, sending love with every breath, just before my government backstabs me again.”

-Troy Marsh (My little brother)

So what do I say to him, my brother? Because I can’t exactly stop his pain or his fears. 

I think the hardest thing about living in America, aside from being a racial minority, is having to equip your younger relatives with tools of survival before they have even decided to live. 

Yet, I have no hate to give. No anger left in my body. No piercing words to send down the spine of anyone who chooses to ignore what is in front of their eyes. I have nothing left.

Forgive me if that makes me not as strong, but if I dig too far all that remains are tears and loathing. And frankly, I’m done crying. 

But to clarify, for anyone who has lost sight of reality. What is happening on the news, Is much deeper than what the news is showing you.  

If you are wondering why we are so angry, I’ll tell you why. 

But I will tell you from a perspective I have lived. 

…

Junior year of high school, suburban area, just after lunch, 2018:

I sit in a classroom, a room no more special than any other. 

But in this class, I was told I would be learning about history.

I was one of maybe 3-5 other racial minorities, but the only black girl. 

One day in class, our conversation diverted slightly from our typical lesson and we began to discuss some current events. I think any good teacher will agree that there are moments when the curriculum matters less than a potentially life-altering conversation. 

This was indeed life-altering. 

This day, in this class, two years before I would go off to face the world alone, was one of the first moments I understood that no matter what I did or accomplished in the eyes of this teacher, I was always just black to him. 

“Racism in America today is just simply a case of over dramatics.”

Yes, my white history teacher said this allowed to my class. 

So of course, I let him finish his rant, allowed him the creative space to piece together a series of links with facts that validated his claim, and I even let him tell me all about his “black friend”(the one that all undercover racists have)…the one that exempted him from the possibility of being racially insensitive. 

Then I politely rose my hand. Without yelling and doing my best to keep my composure, I very bluntly let him know his place, the disrespect I felt in having to sit through his list of inaccuracies, how it was disgusting for him to pass his own racial opinions onto a class of impressionable teens, and how he as a white man could never and should never make claims on the validity of black trauma because he will never be black. 

But I refused to get angry. I didn’t even so much as raise my voice, I’m sure he would’ve loved that though. Any excuse to invalidate what I said. But I gave him nothing. 

And he never spoke to me directly again. 

Fast forward a few years after receiving my acceptance into Columbia University. A school where I would be able to continue competing on a D1 level and get an esteemed education in one of the most amazing cities in the world. 

And yet I heard whispers in the halls of students comparing my efforts to those of students also attending IVY league schools in the fall–and there were only 2 others, and I was the only black one. 

“Oh, Rachel is going to a lesser IVY though, not as popular. It’s like a lower-tier one”

“She’s running track though, that’s probably how she got in.”

“Yea but ____ is going to…”

“Is she even that smart.”

Doesn’t look like racism or racial profiling, does it? I’m sure they meant no harm in saying what they said when they assumed I couldn’t hear. 

But I did hear…and look how I treated you, as though I had heard nothing. 

I will not compare this to what has happened to the strong black men and women who have met a tragic end at the hand of law enforcement, but I will ask why do you only seem to hear us when we can no longer speak for ourselves?

Do I have to die to be taken seriously? For my accomplishments to not be undermined. For my life to matter, to be important, to be valuable? Will you always just see the color of my skin and the mistakes I’ve made? 

Mistakes. 

It’s funny how the media coverage that follows black tragedy, like the death of George Floyd, is always some account of his wrongdoings while he was still alive. Does that make you feel better America? To know that he was flawed? Did that rid you of the guilt you felt when you realized you may have done something horrific and unforgivable? 

Interesting that even in a moment of death, America does anything to worsen the wounds. Still, we are criminalized, shamed, and blamed for the pain inflicted on us.

Yes, I was recruited to the university for athletics. In doing so I balanced a sport, extracurricular activities, isolation, and undeserved scrutiny from peers and still got the opportunity. 

This is where the anger starts. Because other kids who sit in classrooms just like me are always having to prove their worth to everyone around them. At what point will I reach a level of success in which you will see me as an equal.

…

Oh, and the police…

The power complex that exists among many cops validates this feeling of worthlessness. There must be an immense amount of energy that surges behind the hand that holds a gun.

A sort of power that to them must justify pinning an unarmed man down, despite his lack of breath. A badge that displays honor really means, “Listen to me or I might ruin your life.” Where is the protect and serve? Where is the justice? 

My own heart races. I’m afraid of cops. Why am I afraid of cops?

…

I include my anecdote and bring it up now because at some point the media coverage will stop. We will settle down, a bit. And those who were trying to ignore the situation will go back to life as usual. Its happened for decades. 

But look around you. This trauma is everywhere.

I don’t want pitty support. And I honestly couldn’t care less whether you re-posted an image to your Instagram story or ranted all over social media about how ugly the world is. 

You can’t control the cop. You weren’t there. But that is not the only time racism exists. And that cop didn’t wake up one day and just decide that black lives were expendable. 

Stop it at its root.

Stop tokenizing black people to validate how you view yourself. I will no longer be a trophy to you or proof that you can’t possibly be racially insensitive. This extends to the educational system as well. Calling a certain curriculum “inclusive” because you threw in a few black writers is lazy.

Don’t touch my hair. I never asked to touch yours. Go buy a doll–or something. 

Stop comparing light-skinned and dark-skinned individuals. Not only are you teaching self-hate, you are giving us an extension of your own opinion. I never asked. My skin is beautiful, and all-black skin is beautiful. Any questions?

Stop telling little black girls and little black boys they sound white. It’s like to sound educated, or proper, or to use more complex language is reserved, for…white people?

Don’t tell me that I am pretty for a black girl or fetishize his blackness. Ew?

I don’t care who you choose to build a life with. But if you choose a black man/woman you will bear black youth. It then becomes your job to educate them on their history and what challenges they may face in life. If not, you do them a disservice. 

Don’t ever assume an individual of color got the opportunity to attend an illustrious university or received a job opportunity at your expense. I didn’t take your spot, I took mine. 

…

Do you see now, aMeRiCa?

You let these things slide and think nothing in the moment. 

You miss the tears that follow your commentary. You miss the way black children come home and question their value because you tried to tell them they had none. You force black youth into boxes you see fit because they keep you in power. 

But I won’t prove my blackness to you any more than I will prove to you my worth.

The responsibility to fix these issues rests on all of us. It takes every voice. 

Even issues that seem so small, are important. 

Because eventually, the racism you ignore becomes a death we can’t escape. 

I’m Here to Make You Uncomfortable…

I have thought frequently about this notion of writing. 

Do people care? 

Is what I want to say and showcase valuable? 

Has it already been said?

The narrative…what’s the narrative?

Mostly, I wonder if people feel a lengthy piece of writing is even worth the read.

I had begun to ask mySelf too many questions. Coddling–because it was more comfortable to lead with doubt and be silent, than it was to try something new and risk failure. 

I used this as an excuse for a long time to not try writing at all. 

The problem is, that I have so much to say. 

So many realms I want to explore and so many different things that excite me. Yet, I’ve been told that I need to choose a voice that is my own. This leads me to spiral because I remember being 12 and having goals that seemed endless, no reason to choose. So who am I at 12, that I seem to lose when I turn 19?….20?

I still wonder about my future, and I dream of all the many things I can become. I am thankful because my parents fostered this growth, giving me a sort of allowance for exploration into mySelf. 

Though not everyone has been given that space for exploration, and sadly not everyone will. 

In creating space for my voice, I address my privilege. Among many other things, I was fortunate enough to grow up in a safe neighborhood. I went to good public schools. I had birthday parties. My own car. I even get the privilege of attending one of the top Universities in the nation, where I will graduate with a degree that offers me more opportunity and privilege than most. I never wondered where my meals were coming, or if they would come at all. I will never know what it’s like to watch my parents fall out of love. I will never not know what family is or question its importance. I have never been sucked of my value with words that sting. I have never not known a home. 

Such trauma, if you will grant me the privilege of addressing it as such, creates chains. 

These chains become ideas. Then just like that, seeds are planted before we even know we are growing. A life full of “no’s” creates a mind that tells you just the same. Society and the itch it creates for success doesn’t help. Instead, this pressure to be successful leads many to suppress the dreams and desires that they had at 12, to sustain a life they need at 30.

 I blame us, because we too often make people choose. 

They tell you when you’re younger that you can be anything you want. Anyone you want. Then you grow up and the options seem to dwindle. Those dreams, those desires, those passions that once fueled so many with ambition so severe it could kill–it drowns. 

We kill it with choice: with boxes, molds, and mostly expectation. 

They say: You shouldn’t go into the arts because you’ll be poor. You might not want to try law because the government is corrupt. You can’t leave that job because it’s feeding your kids. Don’t move that far, because then you will be alone. That major is too easy. That major is too hard. You won’t succeed with that idea. This list extends further, as I’m sure you know…

These statements, and the many others similar then leave you and yourSelf nowhere to grow. 

No, before you ask…I don’t want you to drop everything right now and do exactly everything you want. You will one day need a job to pay the bills. Or maybe you already have one that does. Or possibly you are young and don’t yet factor in the job element. 

The reality is you do need to make money in this life, our society demands it…

However, work in any form is not an excuse to ignore the part of you that craves attention. That part of you that came around more when you were younger…that part.

You feel this lack of Self after a bad day because it isn’t there to cheer you up. You heard it when you missed that payment and had nowhere to reach. You felt it’s emptiness when you touched beside you, despite your partner who is just asleep. You feel it every day at lunch, that loneliness that creeps. In crowds. Around friends. At home. It doesn’t matter where you are, if you are ignoring yourSelf, you will forever be alone. 

To build then, who am I?

Though I don’t perform on stage, I am a musician. Though my art supplies are limited and cheap, I am an artist. Though I do not know the full anatomy of a camera, I am a photographer. I run, I write, I sing, I dance, I act, I read, I edit, I pose, I strum, I strut, I paint, I advocate…I learn. And the theme of this movie that I play the lead role in is growth. 

Yet to grow you must explore and you must fail. Then you fight, kick, scratch, and plead for forgiveness to the Self when something wasn’t quite right. But there is no other way to arrive at growth than to sit in it, that failure. To be very uncomfortable and unsettled in it. 

In doing so, you will toy with that sort of sadness that grows and knots in the back of the throat when you have let down the only individual on the planet that matters–you. 

Deciding now then, to open myself up to something I do not fully understand is my first step into a world without comfortability. I reject it, to be frank, the notion of comfort. Now I gladly open my arms to hugs, accept kind words from those I love, and advocate for remaining in close contact with those who understand me–but that is simply not the kind of comfort in reference. 

I reject being quiet because of the possibility that I may offend. I reject the idea that I must submit myself to a standard that was first created to silence my voice. I reject not sharing my ideas and my thoughts because I fear not having anything valuable to offer. I reject this notion that being comfortable is a good thing. It isn’t. I want growth, I want to inspire growth, and most of all I want to highlight individuals who have pushed these boundaries and broken free from the cages that seem so systematically in place. 

I want to highlight you. 

So…I leave being comfortable alone. It just isn’t for me, it’s not for any of us. 

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Visuals by Rachel Marsh