thoughts of deconstructing black queer: introduction

Welcome to the Thoughts of a Deconstructing Black Queer.

It is I- aforementioned deconstructing black queer. I’m glad you’re here. Though, to be honest, this series is really more for me than anyone. Call it selfish, if you want. I give you permission. Either way, still glad you’re here.

Now let’s get real.

July 2018 I was sexually assaulted. And yet, it wasn’t until the following September that I’d realized it. And even then, I refused to use that term- rather, I’d refer to the experience as a “violation” but not an “assault.” Because that word was big. Dramatic even. And my thing wasn’t big nor dramatic. You know what’s big and dramatic?

Rape.

I wasn’t raped. If anything, I’d initiated it. I thought I wanted him. I did want him. And yes, I changed my mind- yes, I moved away. But I didn’t say no. Maybe if I had been more clear. Maybe my body language wasn’t language enough. Maybe if I’d spoken- why didn’t I speak? Why was I so quiet? Why am I always so quiet?

I spent months pondering these questions. Later in therapy, I was given another,

“Why do you feel so compelled to side with your abuser?”

His name was Mahal.

Sometimes, I see his face in other people. Sometimes, I flash back to the moment our hands intertwined. Sometimes, I mistake the gentle touch of a loved one as threatening.

Those days, my spirit and body detach themselves from each other. The last time it happened, part of myself never fully returned. I’ve spent the past year trying to get her back. I’ve prayed. I’ve worshipped. I’ve journaled. I laughed in rebellion. I danced in hope. I refused to stop fighting for self- I committed to wait for her as long as she needed.

“No rush,” I said, “I’ll be here when you get back.”

But last night, I got tired of waiting. I got angry. I’ve been trying so hard. Where was I? How long did I need? In that moment, I gave up. I succumbed to the wave of trauma- in it was grief, frustration, anxiety, loneliness.

I didn’t ask for this. And still, I’m the one who’s going to spend the rest of my life unraveling and managing and tending to this pain. I hate it. Truly I hate it.

But let’s talk about Hope. How tender She is. How unwavering. How constant. Because despite all this shit- maybe even because of it, Hope sits softly singing sounds of love. She tells me how good I am. She tells me that things always end where they begin. That they always begin in goodness. That this too will find its way to redemption.

And so, I write. I write words like these on days like these, holding on to the belief that,

This too will find its way to redemption.  

And so I pray. I worship. I journal. I laugh in rebellion. I dance in hope. I refuse to stop fighting for self- I commit to wait for her as long as she needs.

“No rush,” I say, “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Masalam