I Am Tired.

I am not a private person. I find it very difficult to keep things inside or to be mysterious. I’m about to lay it bare so I can have a clean slate for 2026. 

We only like to talk about the rosy parts. When the going gets tough, most of us disappear. I know I did. 2025 quickly went from being one of the best summers of my life to being the most challenging era of my life in a myriad of ways. I've been learning a lot of hard lessons against my will. And I am so tired.

I learned that I was Black. And that it doesn’t matter what type, how good, how respectable, how ratchet, how loud, or how confrontational I am. White people see a Black girl coming and form their opinions REGARDLESS of who I am and how I perform. So I’m hanging up the mask. 

My character and reputation have been assaulted on so many fronts: at school, at my home, in my family. 

I have written extensively about how horrible my time in Massachusetts has been. It doesn’t really get better for me. I started the Black Lavender Collective to tread water, but it isn’t enough when every part of your lived experience is suffocating. I drowned during Fall semester. The worst part is that no one noticed.  I experienced a new, more visceral and palpable form of racism that may have changed the way I interact with folks altogether. 

I have had my heart broken so many times last year and not in the fun ways that first reward you with dates and sex. Life has humbled me in ways that almost broke me because the lessons came at the same time. The lesson: You are Black and lesbian. To most people that means you are untrustworthy. Disposable. A problem. 

I suffered racism in a so-called feminist classroom. I suffered it in my apartment with my landlords. I realized that you can’t function under racism. There is no room for you to be yourself. It shrinks you until you disappear.  I suffered homophobia and neglect within my family. Then, I had a near-death, fatal car accident and received little to no care or consideration.

I’m writing this essay not to complain, but to release it. But first, I have to name all that has happened to me and the private battles I’ve been fighting alone. It starts with a dsespicably racist professor.

Critical Feminist Pedagogies

I need you to understand who I’m dealing with. Imagine a quintessential Massachusetts Liberal, who is all #BLM and Free Palestine and “leads with care” until they have to put their money where their mouth is. Visualize the hippie-esque, bleeding heart leftist who has learned the right words to sell the image of a hard-nosed activist (when you don’t look too closely). A white woman consumed by white guilt, who sincerely believes she has purged herself of all malice and bigotry, only to wield her whiteness whenever she’s questioned or feels threatened. Yeah. That type.

This has effectively become the most challenging course of my graduate experience, and not because of the content. My peers witnessed the open contempt for the marginalized voices in the classroom that didn’t align with or adequately reflect her agenda. The space should have been the richest learning enviornment, full of diversity—there were trans people, queer people, disabled people, non-Western people, and (one or two) people of color. It was supposed to be an enriching classroom with so many valuable perspectives; no one got to share under the tyranny of that classroom.

She would force these boneheaded “check-ins” on us, asking extremely invasive questions we were expected to answer at 10 A.M. She claimed we had the right to share “what we felt comfortable with,” but there was no real space for dissent. The most egregious form was rating our moods on a scale of 1-10, with the expectation of divulging personal details if the number was low. Once, someone admitted to losing a family member and being at a 0, and she expressed faux sympathy and chipperly went to the next person. I questioned the practice, since it was supposed to be “rooted in care,” yet she demanded vulnerability and refuseed to hold anyone through it “for the sake of time.” I acknowledged the discordant nature of the pedagogical routine, and I guess I got put on the shit-list for speaking up for my friend.

I had been made the Angry Black Woman of that class. Once I realized, I made deliberate choices to protect my peace by shrinking myself, although I always engaged, answered questions, and participated in group activity. The professor “allowed” these choices, only for that to be read as combative dismissal and refusal. The classroom was an openly hostile space to those who offered critique or asked questions. I consistently felt othered in the classroom as the only Black American, which reinforces why my contributions feel less safe or not received well. The professor later confirmed this to be true in private despite claiming otherwise publicly.

All of these things might be perceived differently had she the right to claim ignorance to my situation, but I had explicitly told her all that I struggle with in Amherst. It did not factor in to her perception or treatment of me. I am still just Angry and dismissive to her. Thus, that “pedagogy” of forced vulnerability did not result in a caring relationship between the students and professor, it was just exploitative.  In an extremely intentional and intimate act, I even shared my poetry with this woman, hoping she would see something different. The vulnerability I offered did not land as I had hoped, and I was left sorely disappointed and misnamed.

At the beginning of the semester, I believed that my struggle to feel fully present in the room was something personal and unrelated to the course dynamics. Over time, however, the pattern became unmistakable: my presence and contributions, as well as my strategic silences, were repeatedly interpreted through historically harmful stereotypes about Black women.  I was cast as combative or disengaged not because of my behavior, but because of how my agency was read. My attempts to protect my well-being were consistently misunderstood as defiant refusal. The interpretations of my actions were not only painful to receive, but echoed historic pathologizations of Black women’s attitudes, actions, and intentions.

I want to highlight here that silence, for me, has not been detachment. It has been an intentional mode of care for myself that is rooted in preserving both my peace and the integrity of the discussion. Even so, my silence was scrutinized and penalized.

This all culminated in an undeniably racist exchange. I received an email “requesting” that I don’t leave the classroom during check-ins, and that I should not refuse to engage others simply because I don’t like the practice. She went on for paragraphs to diagnose my behaviors in the class, citing what I must have thought and felt for me to be so rudely interrupting that part of class. She said this as though it was routine behavior.

I excused myself to the restroom one time. This gave her license to accuse me of retaliating against her, refusing to engage my peers, disrespecting her pedagogy and classroom etiquette, amongst other insiduous projections. The reason I left? I started my period in class. And the act of taking care of myself resulted in an emailed tirade where she mischaracterized me and accused me of much more than what was happening.

I was going to ignore it. She forced a confrontation when she saw me in the hallway. Begrudgingly, I agreed to discuss it in her office, where she promptly reiterated her points. I explained why I left and she said, and I quote, that it “would have been nice to know.” Not only am I being surveilled under a punitive gaze, but now my grown ass has to report the nature of my restroom breaks to her. How feminist!

I became visibily upset, shaking and trying to contain myself. I bit my tongue and said plainly that I did not wish to discuss it further. By this point, we were 15 minutes late to class. She hopped up and entered the classroom bright and cheery, like she hadn’t just decimated my character. I solemnly followed her into the class, and when everyone turned to look at me, I couldn’t contain myself. I burst into tears. I’m still not sure why. I suppose even the “strongest” foundations crumble under enough weight. And I was defeated. I went to the restroom to clean myself up and returned to the class because I did not feel empowered to leave.

The professor never acknowledged me. I never received an apology. My peers gave sympathetic glances, but also did not offer support. They later told me they didn’t feel like they could; they didn’t feel empowered either.

Sometimes you learn from abundance, but this time I learned from deficit. I learned what I need by experiencing what I did not receive. So, I am leaving this class with lessons I will carry forward into my teaching career about what true care requires. It demands attunement and atonement. It demands trust and respect. It demands responsiveness to the lived conditions of students. Language alone is insufficient; practice must follow. Through it all, I continued to show up. I adjusted. I protected myself. I completed my commitments. That resilience is something I am proud of. But it took everything I had. 

Housing

It is significant to have a safe space to recover from the world; where you lay your head at night should be an indisputably safe space. I was robbed of this too. 

I suffered micro- and macroaggressions in my apartment rental. I live in a house with my landlords and one other roommate. This shouldn’t have been a problem; I mind my business, they mind theirs. That was not the case. 

My privacy has been repeatedly violated by these people. I thought, surely, that wouldn’t happen here, not at the house with the Black Lives Matter signs and the Free Palestine posters and the Pride flags abound. They find it appropriate to enter my room without consent or notice. In January 2025, I discovered my bed had been tampered with and found dog hair and human hair in my sheets. There was human hair in my shower. They had nothing to say about this and minimized it as though I was overreacting.

If it seems inconceivable that I would stay, you should know that I had no choice. I didn’t have anywhere else to go becuase the housing in Amherst is ridiculously expensive. If you don’t know someone, it is very tough to get a spot. It’s even tougher in an emergency situation in the middle of the academic year. So I tried, but I couldn’t move out and navigate the pressures of school in the dead of a Massachusetts winter.

Months later, I come home to find all of my pots and pans missing, most of my kitchenwares gone from the common area. Of course, they knew nothing about it! They even tried to suggest that I might’ve mistakenly packed them with me on my flight home back to Atlanta… Right. 

Then, they began making passive aggressive comments to me about my “energy.” They snidely remarked that the least I could do was say hello to them when we see each other (I always kept it cordial, but I had nothing to say to them) as though I owed them my friendship and gratitude for CONSTANTLY violating me. There have been more incidents that I won’t describe here, but understand that I have been living in hell at school and in my home away from home.

Don’t worry, I have given my move-out notice. 

I thought I could deal with that. If they were isolated incidents, I probably could have. But the apparent problem of my Blackness was quickly paired with the problem of my queerness. My supposed safe haven, my family, abandoned me when I needed them most. 

Family

My parents are going through a divorce. At my big age I thought it wouldn’t affect me much, and I was sorely mistaken. My foundation has been shaken, I have been robbed of my sense of safety and comfort. The people I know love me are fractured. It’s an ugly game of choosing sides. I abandoned myself at a time when I desperately needed to be chosen. I thought the adult thing to do would be to tuck my head and push through. But the human thing would have been to recognize that I needed something from everyone that they couldn’t give. 

The fabric of my immediate family has shifted significantly. Experiencing a divorce as an adult has been surprisingly challenging. My mother and I have found our way through without the support of our “family.” That’s been hard enough, without the added realization that we were easily dispensable. I guess blood is thicker, or whatever. 

The separation made me realize it might be possible, maybe even necessary, for a clean break. It made me wonder if I’m truly family oriented or if I’m simply around them all the time. 

And then, we nearly died. We were both in a fatal car accident that very few know about. As I said, we only talk about the rosy parts. I didn’t want an outpouring of sympathy or to be the subject of gossip without love or care. I was going through enough. 

Finally, once I thought the dust had settled and I was able to process all that I’d been through, I learned something horrendous. Apparently, my uncle believes (and was confident enough to verbalize) that I am, and I quote, “the worst thing that could happen” to my father. Not because of anything I’ve done, but because of who I am as a lesbian.

I won’t lie; that one hurt. This family member who rarely speaks to me, definitively knows nothing about me, and has no reason to say such harsh words, spewed vitriol like that about me without cause. I’m sure he thought it wouldn’t make it back to me; they always do. And it always does. When I least expect it.

I sound the alarm every so often about the deterioration of my mental health while in Mass, but who checks on me? What has “family” done to show me love? Consideration? Support? They come in droves for my accomplishments and the silence is loud through the arduous process. 

I am not as strong as anyone thinks I am; nobody is strong enough to be alone. They shouldn’t have to be. 

I don’t go around begging for acceptance or respect. I demand it, and it’s non negotiable. Apparently my high standards for myself and my unwillingness to bend to niceties or performativity make me disrespectful, uncouth. I give respect when it’s earned. I have grown a thick skin but even the toughest person cracks under pressure of not being loved or seen and deliberately being mischaracterized. 

The homophobic blowback is consistent. It’s like a sulfur in the air that stinks up your space every once in a while. I used to live near a paper plant in Savannah. It smelled awful, not all the time, but when it hit, the stench knocked the wind out of you. Reminders of familial homophobia, reminders that my family merely tolerates me, maybe even secretly hates me or is disgusted by me, feels a lot like that. I can stand it, but when that foulness hits me again, it’s like I have to start all over. That shouldn’t be something I should have to get used to. I don’t have to accept that into my life. 

When I needed my people the most, they weren’t there. When my mother needed support, they weren’t there. When our family unit suffered blow after blow, they weren’t there. I can count on one hand how many people called. Some family, huh? The phone works both ways, it does, but maybe it’s time to hang it all up. 

I believe in love that is gratuitous and free flowing and willing. I don’t want to be tolerated by anyone. I don’t want to force someone to accept me. I hate people who are nice but dishonest. The gracious thing to do would be to leave me alone and stop the charade. I am already alone in the ways that matter. I don’t need empty social media messages and annual birthday calls from people who have nothing to do with me the other 364 days of the year. I want to keep space for my chosen family, the people who love me without concession. Who see me for who I am and judge me for my actions, not my identity. 

I love myself a lot. It means something that I am still here. But I don’t have to tolerate that. I don’t want to be anyone’s exception to hate. I’m in a place now that I’m rebuilding from the rubble and I only want people around me who deserve to share the space. 

I am able to write this essay now because I am pulling myself out of it. I clawed my way through the darkness, but I am out now. I am claiming that this part is over. I won’t shrink myself anymore, I won’t allow myself to wither away. I won’t deny myself love–REAL love. I am awaiting all the beauty, good fortune, love, relationships, and opportunity that is to come. It’s already mine.