WHO WILL CRY FOR THE LITTLE GIRL?

(April 2021) Thoughts and Feelings:

Who will cry for the little girl who cries herself to sleep? Who will cry for the little girl who only knows hurt and pain ? Who will cry for the little girl who cries inside of me?

I can’t sleep. It's hard to breathe. 

I feel like dying. But all I can do is cry.

I’m Frustrated. Angry. Sick. 

Literally vomiting. I’m so disgusted.

My dreams are over. My life is over.  Why not just give up? 

I have no power. I am weak. I was strong before this. 

But tonight, I am weak.

In my head, I relive the same truth over and over again: I was sexually assaulted by somebody I know and trust. The same somebody  who stood behind the camera to capture my beauty. The same somebody who stood behind me at my weakest moment months later pushed me down to sexually assault me. I feel disappointed with myself. I began to feel this strong connection with younger me and she is broken, she is crying. She is hurting and confused. She has been here before. No one cared. No one cried. She revisits  again. Will it be the same ?

(May 2021) Thoughts and Questions:

Who will cry for the little girl who dreams big dreams that now feel just out of her reach? Who will cry for the little girl broken and abused? Who will cry for the little girl, the girl inside the woman ? Who cries inside of me? 

I feel like I am losing my mind. I am sick. I’m so sick. Omg, am I pregnant? Can depression make you feel this way? God please don’t let me get pregnant by a man who fucking assaulted me. *buys a test* *checks it*. Okay, I'm ok. I’m still not mentally okay. He has to pay. I’m so scared. He’s powerful and connected. Here I am… just getting started.  What will happen if I expose him on my own? Who will believe me? What will happen to my dreams? God, I just wanted to model. It’s still so hard to sleep!! When I  can sleep I wake up screaming sometimes. I just want to sleep. He preyed on me, what the fuck. He saw my weakness. He saw I was quiet and an outcast in that room and he used my silence to prey on me. 

(June 2021) Thoughts and Occurrences:

I am healing slowly from this. Well, at least I’m trying to.  Someone sends a post to me “…. is being exposed for assaulting multiple women” a tweet on twitter. My friend said “This is him, the guy you were talking about, he’s crazy and fucking disgusting, you were never wrong.” I am shocked. I feel for the other women. I am glad to be able to tell my story, along with the other women. Now I’m angry all over again. Who was there for these women when they suffered? Who will be here for me now that I have to relive this all over again? I feel my anxiety rise  to the roof. All my life I lived a private lifestyle and now I know what I must do and I hate it for my anxiety. I have to put this out. I go to my instagram. In less than 20 mins, I undergo a transformation from the most private person to the center of a public spectacle . I can’t even recognise myself. But it has to be done right? So I can heal, so other women can heal,and for my younger self to be proud of my strength. So many views from people I never knew. Omg. I’m having a panic attack. Kiya, breathe. Just breathe.

(August 2021) Realization: 

Wow, I really had to say fuck my anxiety and put all of my business out there. I never really cared about what others think about me. But now that’s all I could think of. All I want to do is be taken seriously as a model. I don’t want my assault to define me or to attach itself to my legacy. Is this the end of the legacy I was trying to build? What’s next for me? 

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(Jan 2022 NYFW) Wins: 

I will cry for the little girls. That girl who once was me. 

I won. What the fuck, I won. Okay, so this is what happy tears feel like. I love it. I want to feel more of this consistently. I’m literally looking at myself in Vogue, Paper, NY Times etc. The place I was at mentally a few months ago was full of defeat and fear; powerless and depressed  For a moment I gave up. What is for you will never leave your side. It will never allow you to stray away either. I hold my own power to win. I won. No more fighting myself I won… I won. This win will not be my last and neither will these tears. 

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published July 22, 2022

CARBON COPY

picture this:

After years of wondering if your big sister is 

dead or alive,

homeless or housed, 

baby-less or still in custody,

she strolls into your life to hand you a message.

You anxiously get dressed 

but you sho’ you ain’t stressed.

just mildly depressed,

looking to impress the person who didn’t show 

up to your graduation.

And you looked in the crowd, waiting for her.

Another family thanksgiving without her.

Another Christmas.

Another birthday.

I chuckle to myself when I think 

about impressing a person who never cared 

to claim her share in my life.

She sits with you and asks for a drink. 

We watch the ice in her water 

become water. 

She’s a stranger. 

It’s funny when she thinks she can jump 

into yo business before yo eyes

can even blink.

“How’s mom and dad?”

“Same shit different story.”

The same arguments found their way into my nightly skincare routine. 

I mute

myself so my carbon copy 

wouldn’t hear.

Same lack of affection.

Same lying.

Same cheating. 

Same taking him back. 

Same enabling.

Same fake smile when outside comes looking in.

I raise my chin.

To see my sister’s look on her face.

She tries to conjure up the words when she realizes 

the truth of how I’ve been. 

She looks at me with certainty

and says plainly, “you’re nothing like them.”

I didn’t realize it back then 

but that was my moment of clarity.

Peace to when I graduated therapy shortly after telling my parents “You’ve traumatized me, 

friend.”

Shoutout to the carbon copies of women who reflected my mother’s self-lovelessness.

Asé to those cords that have been cut.

Peace to when I asked my mother why she stayed with him and she said it was in the name of a 

love (she never felt).

Shoutout to the carbon copies of my mother and father,

of their codependency, 

of their narcissism, 

with whom I’ve made that same love with.

Asé to knowing the difference between love and shame.

love and abuse.

Love and…

peace to when I noticed 

that the women in my family would rather become 

ill than ask for help.

Peace…

To knowing the exact measurements of my unbeloved father to father and

VOILA!

There goes my grandfather,

 there goes my grandfather’s father, 

there goes my father, there goes 

my father’s father, 

there goes my grandmother, 

there goes my auntie, there goes 

my sisters! 

Shoutout to the carbon copies they made love with, 

without knowing.

Shoutout to my mother and father’s trauma becoming mine.

Asé to heal(ing) from it 

and not being able to recognize my parents

in my love.

Asé to knowing they did the best that they could

and still holding them accountable.

Peace to when I became the carbon copy of my sister 

after my first fight with my father.

Shoutout to my sister’s foreshadowing.

Shoutout to struggling to forgive 

but trying it out anyway.

Shoutout to re-mothering myself,

Shoutout to re-fathering myself,

Shoutout to re/be-friending myself

Shoutout to redefining what it means… to be.

To love.

To leave. 

To grow.

To speak.

To act.

To feel.

To dance.

To nurture.

To create.

To break the curse.

Sister, 

I understand you when you say that it runs in the family and not in the blood.

Asé.

AFROFUTUR(IS)T SURVIVAL GUIDE 🧚🏽‍♂️

i was born. i was born 46 minutes to midnight, during a full moon, on a Friday, to a Leo and a Pisces. i could tell many stories and ink an autobiography filled with truth and dishonesty. But mostly, you should know that i was born. i am her(e), carrying and bearing every day. i was named. Middle name from my mother, and last name from my father. i’ve been consumed by who I’m supposed to be. Obsessed with how i can emulate her. Or how i can be perceived as her. i’ve had to be so many people and things to be seen and liked and loved. i’ve offered my love and food and legs and emotion for men who refuse to do it themselves. And in return i’ve gotten a glance, a smirk, 2 seconds of attention. i have been the glue and am tired of being sticky. I’m tired of being stuck. The younger me who longs for love and the words to express it reaches up from the inside. i think that i am not alone in this. i feel that others are with me.

i was born in Southfield to parents from Pine Bluff and Brooklyn. i don’t remember much of my childhood in Michigan. Maybe that’s a good thing. i remember being perceived as an exuberant, lively, curious child: my talkative and humorous nature warranting changed seating arrangements and the occasional parent teacher conference lecture. i was imaginative: i used to color coordinate my outfits, a different color each day. i changed my handwriting every year. i cried when India stabbed her hand with a pencil. i ate glue and stapled my finger. i was a leader. In the 3rd grade i banded a group of students together. During class we would rub paper and eraser together, collecting the scraps that were typically given a backhanded push to the floor. We molded the small pink scraps into balls and sold the eraser dust as “Sasha”. i started JJJJewelry with Harshini in 4th grade. The business fizzled, as many others did. My venus is in gemini. i would form a new crush every year and tell them on the last day of school (to avoid rejection of course). i still remember their names. i still remember my name. i guess i remember Michigan too.

i moved to Georgia in the middle of my 6th grade year. i adapted. i was funny. i observed people, learned what they liked. i mirrored them, and assumed it meant that they liked me. That’s a hard habit to break out of, being for other people. i think they want me to be me. i’ve been told i have a pure soul. i wonder what they see. i’ve been told i’m quiet. i wonder when that happened. i often ponder who i’m going to be. Or who i was… or both. i’ve come to realize that the solution doesn’t have to be so singular, so binary. i can move forward and backwards. i used to think that to find myself i needed to choose, pick one. Go forward or inward. Or inward then forward. i didn’t allow my growth to be disorganized. i have come to challenge those strict notions of what it means to come into myself. 

Afrofuturism gives me permission to reject traditional suppressive norms and embrace difference, community, and emotion. It is a tool that reminds me to stop questioning self and start questioning system. To start relying on self and not system. Afrofuturism IS. There are a few tools you need to successfully navigate this world through an Afrofuturist lens. Glue, imagination, and question marks to name a few. So maybe it’s better to say you only need one thing that carries lots of things… like a bag or a book. Mostly, you need space: to feel, grieve, and reflect. Journals grant me the opportunity to do all three and more. To press back against confined spaces. The space i take up on the margins is growing uncomfortable. Herein lies not a solution, but a response: an amalgamation of me in different stages of life and learning. i work to honor the space that i take up and use, the many Me’s that make up this community. i think about young Jade. And what she wanted. And i’m proud of what we(she) created. So many of the questions i pose come from my inner child. She whispers, and Afrofuturism yells back.