Angela Cobián


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Being Black: At the Airport

It's 9:45 and the bar is closed. How anyone manages to make it through an airport excursion without a caffeinated upper or an alcoholic downer is beyond me. With the coffee shops shut down too, I am the most out of luck. The fact that humans are not wired to experience the airport on neutral makes my ears ring. I brace myself for the full feeling of what is to come. Not only am I stuck in neutral--I am a black woman..at an airport. A black woman with a short afro, a pink jacket, small breasts, a Michelle Obama backpack, and an uncanny ability to be called sir. I step into the airport triggered. Tension holds my body together, willing someone to say something twisted-waiting really. It always happens. Something always happens. As I wait to board the plane, I note that I've only been sir'd once. That's a record in my book. The TSA agent who tipped me of by laughing at those of us lowly travelers who placed our belongings directly on the conveyor belt when no bins wer...
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Confessions.

I waste water enjoying too hot showers. I love everything about my dog, even when she annoys me. I'd much rather read than do actual work. Picking my nose is a favorite pastime. I've desperately wanted Birkenstocks nearly the whole of my life. My partner has a pair and I'm terribly jealous. Summer is the tits. I like crying more than I enjoy laughing. Emotional intelligence is the key to success. I want to live in a van, or a truck, or a really big car. Driving keeps me sane. Working out is something I've done enough of to last me a lifetime. Quitting has more negative vibes than it's worthy of. I close my eyes when I poop. My sense of smell is awful and I'm grateful for that. A good hat can cure the worst of moods. When paired with an ever-refilling glass of red wine. Babies are the truth, reincarnate, literally. Pregnancy is the ultimate beauty, forced on some, welcomed by others. The secrets I hold hurt me on par with the realities they once were. Shame is th...
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Being Black: For the First Time

They didn't serve me. I'm still too hesitant, too fearful, to say that they wouldn't. Are there still places that resist blackness? So outwardly? So boldly? Seated in the back of the restaurant by the white hostess-all others seated in the front. All white customers on one end. Blacks in the back--the way back. Clarification-one black woman seated alone at a table against the very back wall..past the bar, past the stage, past dozens of open, empty tables. Black in the back. After ten slow minutes of isolated waiting, I decide it’s best to leave. Rather than allowing my rage and confusion to bubble over in this New Mexican restaurant, far from the safety and shelter of loved ones, I take my leave. I walk. I think. I find my words, but not my understanding. Does this feeling of displacement, rejection seem ever-present because I'm looking? Am I seeing it, feeling it because it's ever-present? Does my hyper-awareness effect my experience? My blackness is worn like...
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