What happened to Black Radio?

When I tell you I grew up loving my hometown radio station KIIZ 92.3, I mean I woke up to it. But not on Sunday. It was gospel until like …

I don’t even know…

It’s taken me a while to write this one. I’m over my one week deadline (as my husband kindly reminded me this morning.) I’ve known I wanted to write about this since it happened, I just kind of don’t know what to say.

So the other day, I’m at the gym. You know the purple one where you can’t grunt or slam the weights down or breathe loudly for fear of a loud siren going off? Yeah that one. It’s a nice place with nice people. I’ve been going there for a few months just because it’s right by my house and it’s inexpensive. I traded my old gym for this one because I moved and it’s been nice to see people who aren’t all 85 year old retirees with way too much money to spend on plastic surgery.

Here everyday is normal. My fellow Texan checks me in and I go straight to whatever machine I’m working on that day. I casually glance around and see who’s in the gym. One because I’m nosy and two because I’m looking out for people that I can be friends with in my mind. (I’m shy what are you gonna do? )  The third group I’m looking out for are pervies. I never want to pick a machine in front of or next to a pervie. I always feel like people are staring at how hard I’m struggling at the gym. My hormones are shot post pregnancy so I sweat like a pig. (Do pigs really sweat? No clue. Google. Nope, not really. Back to the topic.) I am always looking around to see if anyone notices my struggle. Unfortunately, when I’m looking around I notice all the other people looking around too. In a way, that’s comforting because we’re all struggling. Then I notice there are some who are looking a little too hard . Yuck! Those are the pervies I stay away from.

On this particular day, I am sizing up the people and looking for my machine. I notice there are several people on the ellipticals. They are all spread out two machines apart. However, there are no more consecutive open machines. This, unfortunately for me, means that I have to be the one who chooses to break this unspoken rule and pick a machine next to someone. This is equivalent to choosing the stall next to someone in the bathroom when there are clearly other stalls. Ugh. Wait, someone leaves. Score! I get there and the cup holder is broken. My stainless steel water bottle falls through and loudly clanks several times against the machine as it falls to the floor. I’m embarrassed. I quickly move to the next machine. I look up and see a guy. He’s white, older, maybe late 60s early 70s. The first thought in my mind is, “Does, this guy like Black people. Is he going to be mad that I’m next to him.” UUUGGGGGGH!!!! I hate that this thought even crosses my mind.

Context: this is like a couple of days after the Portland stabbing so I’m reading stories and facebook posts about that and all the other craziness going on in the world (like hanging nooses in museums   that along with growing up Black colored my thoughts that day (no pun intended.)

Now, he didn’t do anything or suggest that he would do anything. He may have been a nice guy completely unbothered by my presence. But the thought was there nonetheless. So I began looking around again trying to spot the racists. Surely there had to be some in there, right? The way folks are coming out of the woodwork these days, I’d say there was probably at least one. I couldn’t spot them. I didn’t want to either. So I stopped trying. The fact that I had this thought and began looking for racists bothered me. It still bothers me.

Fast forward to this past Sunday, the hubs and I were in the blue grocery store. Not the super one, the neighborhood one where they don’t sell bikes and barbies just food and pharmacy. We are checking out and he says there’s a white lady with a Black Lives Matter shirt on. I jokingly said, “You should go give her a hug.” He looked at me like,” Nah, I’m good.” I then asked, “Is there a joke on the back of her shirt.” He replied, “No.” looking at me as though he was surprised. “Too cynical?”, I asked. “Yep.”, he replied.

I like to believe I’ve always been the optimistic one. Always looking for the good in people. So I’ve been struggling with this. I’m struggling with the fact that I have these thoughts at times. I’m not sure what to do with them. It was pretty cool that a white woman is randomly wearing a Black Lives Matter t-shirt. That can’t always go over well where we live. It obviously in no way equates what it is like to live with Black or Brown skin but it’s a conscious choice she made to show solidarity on a regular day while she is buying her avocados.

I don’t have any answers. What I know is this, I am not unchanged by the events of this world. They color my worldview and always have. We all navigate this world through different lenses some more than others. Some days my woman lens is at the forefront as it is when I’m dodging pervies at the gym. Other days my American lens takes over but  lately my black lens has been working overtime. I see everything through it’s filter, even when I don’t want to. I make decisions to ignore it at times and keep doing what I’m doing. Other times I heed it’s warnings and move around. I’ll never know how many times it may have kept me out of trouble or danger but I know it has.

In this case, I recognize my black lens for attempting to protect my optimism from dissolution. I suppose in a way, it’s like getting to the punchline before someone can make fun of you. If I assume there’s a joke on the back of her shirt and there really is, I don’t have to feel upset or shame when I see it. If I joke that my husband should go give her a hug, I don’t have to feel bad about not giving her a pat on the back for something I feel everyone should be doing. Then again, this is the same store where a different woman walked up on me in the “ethnic hair section” and said “That shit don’t work!” Followed by something about poor black girls with thousand dollar weaves and Chris Rock’s documentary. So maybe Miss KnowitAll needs to see the lady with the Black Lives Matter t-shirt and engage in a sensible conversation with one of her own.  It would likely be more effective than anything I had to say to her in that moment.

I’m still figuring out my place in all this mess. Acknowledging my own challenges is a where I am today.

Have you figured out your place yet?

*You guessed it, I’m still posting recklessly to get over my fear of writing. Forgive the oopsies. 

Just Write Already…

So the thing is, I don’t write. Not because I can’t. It’s just because…I don’t know. I just won’t. Who writes anymore? I mean aside from the random Facebook rant or snarky tweet who really needs to write? I mean if you can convey a something humorous, educational and snarky in 140 characters you win the internet every time.

Well apparently, we should all be writing something. The other day I was browsing job posting and one of the requirements was to submit a writing sample. Say what? Why? Isn’t my cover letter a writing sample? Ha. I wrote it! Needless, to say I’m annoyed, so I text a friend whose former job was in career related things. She assures me that normal and that I can just submit one of the blogs I wrote on my last job. I literally LOL. No seriously, the thing is on my last job I was SUPPOSED to write blogs. Like it was in the job description. Could I have done it, sure! However, I am a super talented top notch delegator! So my graduate assistant was studying creative writing… DING! You know how the rest of that story goes (Hey Peter!) I was in that position for a few years (which was far more than blog writing by the way)  and I never wrote a blog post. I edited a few, uploaded a few, but never quite wrote one.  It didn’t help that the grad assistants were always creative writers. I always told myself I would write something one day and then I’d convince myself I couldn’t write. I’m not a writer. I’m an imposter.

I have multiple degrees which means I’ve had to do my fair share of writing and have been told on numerous occasions that I write pretty well. I always nod and say thanks but assume that’s just something you say to people to be nice because what else do imposters assume? So here I am years later and the last thing I can honestly think that I wrote that wasn’t a cover letter of a script for a presentation is my final paper during my grad program. I can’t attach that. It’s like six year old. So did I write something? Ha! No. I just didn’t apply for the job. Bloop their loss!

A few months ago, I posted something on Facebook about wanting to be more involved in the Movement for Black Lives but not knowing what to do. At the time I was a new stay at home mom and struggling with what to do next. I’ll tell you about that another time, assuming I get the courage to write again after this! Some friends shared some great ideas and organizations to get involved in. One friend suggested I start a blog. My insides cringed. I thought no way, who would want to hear what I have to say. I’m not smart enough, I haven’t studies enough. What if I say the wrong thing? Everyone will know that I don’t know what I’m talking about. All of that passed through my mind in a nano second and before I knew it, I had responded that there are enough smart writers out there who are doing it really well. I’m not needed in that way but I’ll figure out how to use my talents. This is a very common thread I see in my life when it comes to my “talents.” I always shut them down.

In my mind, I’m my own biggest fan but the truth is I’m more like my biggest critic. My husband is hands down my biggest fan and the reason I wrote this today. He is always in such disbelief when I doubt myself saying things like, “But you’re the smartest person I know.” Listen, I know he is partially required to say that but I can also tell when he means it. UGHHHH! He’s so sweet.

Now, some of you have already picked up that I suffer from imposter syndrome. YEP. TOTALLY. I KNOW. So that’s exactly what I’m doing here. I’m writing to undo the harm I’ve done to myself which friggin sucks. So I’m committing to writing something once a week. Not for a job or as a career but as a way to overcome an irrational fear I have of being a fraud. I’ll write about anything I want so if you want to come along for the ride, I encourage you to do so selfishly for my own sanity and maybe every now and then yours too.

Oh hell…I have to push publish…oh hell….here we go.

 

Disclaimer: I kept telling myself to go back and edit this. I haven’t as you noticed. It’s been three days and I won’t read it. I know that once I begin editing it I will edit it until I decide to delete it. So I’m sharing it in it’s raw form so that I actual get over myself and share it. So in other words, forgive my oopsies.