The Shape of *Your* Impact
Dear Montiniquë,
I envisioned something different- an oasis of sorts buried in the foothills of this seemingly impossible to climb (if you're able bodied) campus. I thought I'd find my people and excitedly imagined what it would finally feel like to ... be.
To "be" is less a Shakespearian dilemma and more a practice in performance. I was, and still am, tired of the mental gymnastics - of having to dance around topics, ignore painful -isms, and stifle growing disappointment when colleagues, peers, loved ones, or family dead named Caitlyn Jenner, argued against prison abolition, said [insert racist, homophobic, classist, ableist, xenophobic, or oppressive quip] in response to my profession or values, or celebrated the boundaries I put up with everyone else until those same limits applied to them.
I felt discouraged. Those first few weeks... months in this program left me wondering where I'd feel this evasive sense of belonging. This doctoral program was no conduit to my imagined oasis of like-minded women of color who "got" me. I didn't think I'd be able to take pause from mental gymnastics and resigned myself to being small, to make excuses for the way my peers siphoned my creativity, and keep my hurt silent for the sake of companionship.
And so, I retreated - with good company. With Alice, June, Lucille, Audre, Linda, Paula, Janet, and Nikki, my voracious longing for feeling seen was assuaged with their prose and poetry. Temporarily. I still carried this loneliness in my body. My arms, laden with disappointment grew heavy from holding space for my peers. My throat ran dry from my silence in those classrooms. My backbone, steely with Words of Fire still curved my body into itself on days I felt invisible.
My imagined oasis needed reconfiguration. Healing can't come from age-old curriculum and classroom discussions on what is or isn't racist. This daydream painted a vibrant picture of faceless women of color, as if tones of caramel, black, and brown would bring friendship. I re-envisioned a paradise without academic brushstrokes and colonial palettes. I learned to stretch a new canvas and found new colors to plant a new garden.
Montiniquë, my daydream oasis was incomplete because my imagination could not have fathomed someone as remarkably authentic as you. I traded water (♋️ ) for earth (♍️ ) and found the gift of siblinghood through strife and side eyes set to the percussive feminism of Hip Hop. I found #Money in more ways than one - a friendship wrapped in a wealth of compassion, patience, laughter, and impeccable playlists. I found a friend who helped me be.
To my friend Money, the inventor of yellow, thank you for helping me breathe - for sharing yourself with me, for the laughter, the jackfruit, and Bbymutha. I am grateful for your brilliance, candidness, impeccable style, and for introducing me to the mango sticky rice rolls from Trader Joe's. I've learned to be present, slowly emerge from this facade of self-deprecating humor and admit I bear no resemblance to an iPhone. I am moved by your selflessness, but even more so by your collective spirit as an organizer and advocate. I've bookmarked all the Black feminist work you've shared, added Pretty Ricky to my playlist, and revisited my distrust of cats after RiRi got me together. What I hold on to most, is that your friendship makes room for the both of us and never asks me to shrink.
The shape of your impact is a body more whole, more hopeful, less broken, less performance... more me. Being your friend feels like a daydream imagined.
Your friend and forever cheerleader,
