vanesha.mcgee

I was the closest I’ve ever been to a bullet; my heart made easy prey of my rib cage. Sitting across from three white women, only a tray of 22 caliber bullets on the table between us, I noted the way the air began to pull away from my ears. My arms were floating, but my body stayed put. I realized my world became fantastical when suddenly I was inside, seated in a different, more plush chair, staring at the darkness of my hands. I thought my dog might be a comfort, but she seemed a bit frenetic in her movements. My big-hearted, black pup held my energy in her bones, rattled in my eyes. I’ve never shared space with a gun, visible to my eyes, yet was wildly discomforted by the sight of casualty around such destruction. I never have understood the fascination with guns, guns for sport, for play. Guns are weapons, hotly debated because of this playful attitude many carry inside these steel traps. Guns have stood between life and death, ushering black bodies to another realm, sometimes br...

I dreamed I had a baby. It felt real. I was sweaty and in pain. I pushed and you were there. I was afraid it would die. It lived. He lived. I think we named him Bruce. That felt weird in this dream, I remember. But I was so happy. I gave birth at home. A different home than our home, yet still ours. I left after the birth. I felt I had to flee, to give him a chance. You stayed with him and when I next saw you there was silence. I cried, knowing he had died. But he lived. There was shock, I think. From you and from me. I cried and cried and you told me he was alive. My heart lifted, joy grew. In my dream, I won 400 dollars. I didn’t care. I had a baby. Something bad happened to Carol in my dream. No one would say what. There was a meeting about it. I missed it, talking to my brother, about the baby. I came in, to that meeting room, a cafeteria I think. I was happy, but you were sad. I didn’t understand, so I moved on to someone else. I told her I had a baby. It was Julie. She was thrill...

2017, you took away my father. I’d like to call you a thief, but he was never mine to begin with. You nailed the coffin on an irretrievably lost hope. You turned my fire to ash, creating a pond of all the things I had never wanted, all the things that had destroyed me. Things started to sprout from that pond. Dark spirals, unseen roots. My soul grew tense, fighting against an expanding fear of these mysterious sproutings. As mystery flourished, I remembered the beginning, 2017. You brought a newness to that old feeling of rage. You taught me that clenching my jaw caused more than just a physical ache. I learned that my body is in a constant state of rage. Black rage. I learned that black rage is different from all other forms of rage. Black rage has deep roots, it is dark, it breeds in ash. 2017, you brought me freedom-tethered to fear. You let me roam in my existence, just enough to show me that I needed a way to untether myself if I had any hopes of survival. You opened a door that I...

This week marks the first days back to school. And as a teacher, I will be absent. I made a clarifying decision to leave the world of teaching and to enter into the world renewed, as a writer. One of the hardest decisions I have made in some years, it is also proving to be one of the most breathtaking and rejuvenating. I am a writer, always have been. In high school, I tried to take an advanced writing course. It seemed the perfect way to learn better skills for something I loved, to dig deep into reading and writing in ways previously unavailable to me, to grow intellectually in a field I desperately wanted more from. I was denied entrance to this class. I was devastated. The teacher told me I had to be a better writer in order to take part in this class. Perplexed, I asked myself how I was supposed to get better if I could not be pushed, advanced. This moment stayed with me. I took writing classes in college - loved every single one of them, never considering for a moment that this w...

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...

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...

Long before we were granted the citizenship right to vote, blacks were considered to be 3/5 of a person...and even less before our skin color was thus written on official government documentation. Rights were not granted, considerations were not made, we were not of the people-for the people-by the people. Today, I cast my ballot in the local Denver election. This holds great meaning. My vote represents the wholeness of my person. My vote represents my blackness. My vote represents the power I have as an individual citizen. My vote represents those who tirelessly fought for my black skin to represent equality. And although my vote does not change how all others view me, my vote does bring clarity to representation. Because with one vote, I show my power in being whole.