As I sit here with steady streams of distraction in the foreground, my mind can’t help but to fixate on my helplessness.
How am I supposed to graduate on time when I can’t even focus on completing courses (much less a thesis)? All the red-tape is making it difficult to see any end-game.
It is like a mobius strip of red-tape, here in higher ed. It’s hard to sleep, hard to focus on anything until I find the proverbial scissors.
What do I have to do to prove that I’m worth the amount of debt I’m begging for?
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This distraction and more cause stress and anxiety, depression and feelings of haplessness; all of which are distracting from all the grave, tragic, and violent oppression going on around me.
[Trigger Warning for the links (which is why I didn’t include more)] All of the hypocrisy, all of the violent death, all of the vicious murder. All I can focus on is the bureaucratic bullshit that I am having to deal with; with no way to speed the process, no way to accomplish my goal on my own.
It’s times like these that I feel like quitting. It’s times like these that I have to painfully face my double-consciousness. It’s times like these that I fail myself in every moment.
It’s times like these that I force myself to reach out. It’s times like these that I rely on the love and support of those who came before me and those living and active in the struggle around me.
I’d like to share a poem that gives me energy every time I read it these days.
PowerThe difference between poetry and rhetoricis being ready to killyourselfinstead of your children.I am trapped on a desert of raw gunshot woundsand a dead child dragging his shattered blackface off the edge of my sleepblood from his punctured cheeks and shouldersis the only liquid for milesand my stomachchurns at the imagined taste whilemy mouth splits into dry lipswithout loyalty or reasonthirsting for the wetness of his bloodas it sinks into the whitenessof the desert where I am lostwithout imagery or magictrying to make power out of hatred and destructiontrying to heal my dying son with kissesonly the sun will bleach his bones quicker.A policeman who shot down a ten year old in Queensstood over the boy with his cop shoes in childish bloodand a voice said “Die you little motherfucker” andthere are tapes to prove it. At his trialthis policeman said in his own defense“I didn’t notice the size nor nothing elseonly the color”. Andthere are tapes to prove that, too.Today that 37 year old white manwith 13 years of police forcingwas set freeby eleven white men who said they were satisfiedjustice had been doneand one Black Woman who said“They convinced me” meaningthey had dragged her 4’10” black Woman’s frameover the hot coalsof four centuries of white male approvaluntil she let gothe first real power she ever hadand lined her own womb with cementto make a graveyard for our children.I have not been able to touch the destructionwithin me.But unless I learn to usethe difference between poetry and rhetoricmy power too will run corrupt as poisonous moldor lie limp and useless as an unconnected wireand one day I will take my teenaged plugand connect it to the nearest socketraping an 85 year old white womanwho is somebody’s motherand as I beat her senseless and set a torch to her beda greek chorus will be singing in 3/4 time“Poor thing. She never hurt a soul. What beasts they are.
I have to acknowledge the distractions in order to be able to quiet them. There is movement going on around me. This movement needs as many people as possible to keep life within it. I cannot continue to allow these distractions to be on the foreground while people continue to risk their lives for this movement. I hope this resonates with with someone reading.
Until Next Time,