When I think of being black and womxn, I think of walking a tight rope
A tight rope situated 200 meters above ground and it requires all the grace and courage that one could possibly master because you cannot afford to fall
You fall to one side and land on “too much”
You land up on the other side and, well, you’re simply not enough
From the moment we realised that there wasn’t really a place in the world for a black womxn to simply exist
That our existence is a form of activism and no black womxn could ever be a passifist by its true definition
We began the impossible balancing act
You could never be too loud because it made them uncomfortable but if you stayed quiet long enough
You could feel yourself becoming invisible – disappearing into the dry wall
Oh, and the impossible dilemma of being a daughter of the Sun and the soil while speaking a foreign tongue
I never quite figured out how to adjust my posture and reassure my feet long enough to navigate comfortably between “too white, not black enough” and “too black, not white enough”.
I have, however, settled myself on the conclusion that being a tight rope walker is an extraordinary feat that nobody is deserving enough to ask of me. There is no reward received once the day is done and the world is done making a circus of us. The world may be your stage or your circus but only on your terms. Be the ballerina or the Lion or both! And if you’re not interested in the show at all because you couldn’t be bothered with the eager crowd and have no use for their affirmation, then your absence requires nobody’s permission and you need not bother with providing an explanation either.
You’re allowed to be “too much” and “not enough” whether it’s all at once and every day or you interchange unpredictably between the two at different hours of the day. You owe nobody consistency. The world should be grateful that you showed up at all.
Featured image by Flickr.com