Even though I was raised by old Black women who started in the South, where slavery was ‘legal’ it wasn’t until I went to High School that I learned about it. Even then it wasn’t in a text book it was from a girl I spoke to from time to time. It wasn’t until my 20s and the Internet and access to it was a thing that I understood the day, and it made me ill.

For those unfamiliar, June 19 is recorded as a day when 2 years after the Emancipation Proclamation was the rule of the land that Blacks who were still enslaved were ‘freed’.

This nation I was born in, which “gifts” me the ability to write this blog, be fat and Queer, and not die is so immersed in white Supremacy and Capitalism that they ignored the law and kept people who looked like me bound and unfree. There are stories told of slave owners who opted to murder their slaves vs free them.

I ‘celebrate’ the day by being Black. I mean I am always Black but extra stereotype Black.

In fact there is some watermelon waiting for me now as I type.

After the 46th President came into office it became a National Holiday. It’s why I can type this at noon because I keep bankers hours usually.

It still doesn’t sit right with me and I still get ill when I think of it.

In 2023 though because of events I have to examine things some more. This time last year I was still reeling from the break up, still trying to peacefully negotiate separation while not allowing myself to be overexposed. On the same day 2 years prior I was covered in Black love and sharing thoughts with someone I figured would always be there. We would not eat watermelon together, he doesn’t like the texture, but I was the place he could be Blackity Black.

In 2023 the first series of legalities that happened around the break up are just about over. I take my response up to the courthouse tomorrow and to the post office etc. I’m still thinking about white supremacy though. That I am seeking ‘justice’ from a system which is allegedly blind but is holding scales for a reason. That somehow I am the villain in someone’s story when my only crime was falling in love.

That I still get elevated heart rate when I see a cop car even when I am in the right. “Right”.

That a con man from a reality TV show almost toppled Democracy as we practice it and but for a couple shots to Ashley Babbit’s chest I could be enslaved in the non consensual way.

That the eyes of a woman who says nigger when she’s angry scroll these words looking for…something.

That the racism and sexism and Capitalism I experience here is different than it was on the East Coast but it’s still there. Still there.

I think about how pervasive it is, that which ails this nation, and it makes me ill.

I ask myself do I really want to try to change it in the small ways I can or do I want to watch it burn like a police station in Wisconsin, or a residential street in West Philly.

I think of the little one on her journey and remember her location and pray to a god I don’t think really exists that she be safe because I don’t want to imagine what life looks like without her.

I think about the kid – back and forth in the studio and concerned for his safety.

I think about MY kid, living his best oblivious life. Knowing I can’t protect him from here, and still knowing that I would not be able to protect him even if I were 2 feet away.

I think about him, the choices made and wonder if there is peace since I know there is not happiness, not like we had. Then I remind myself he put a ring on it so what it is well no business of mind.

Today is a day when I am reminded of how Black I am, how Woman I am and how fucking hard it is being both, almost as hard as it is keeping this damn cork board on the wall.

I’m going back to the laundry in a moment but I needed to jot this down – this marked remembering of a day which makes me ill.

When the tasks are done for the day I will sip a margarita and be Black.

I’m not going to give that which I saw space because there is much more to see and do.

Up next Fairfield. I will still be Black when I get there though.