vanesha.mcgee

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.

Fortunate . That's what I instinctively connect to the word regret. I am fortunate in feeling I have little to regret. It is possible that somewhere out in the universe someone believes I should regret more. And, as I read the dictionary definition of the word I come to understand that regret means much more than my brain had previously informed me of. regret: feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over  (something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity)  I suppose I should rethink what I hold as regret in my mind, in my heart. In looking back, I shall share my regrets in the truest sense-the ones I held in relation to my own definition. The call for help that was not to be.  I sat curled tightly in my bed, pressed against the wall that heard everything. Frozen in my disbelief. Rattling with anger. Glued in place by my need for understanding. She was on the other side of the wall being beaten by her lover, by the man who came into our ho