I didn’t plan on writing this piece about #BlackLivesMatter. I wanted to watch how it all played out without getting too involved. Truthfully I was afraid that I would say something wrong that would make me look unintelligent and uninformed. Then I realized that by being silent about it, somehow I was allowing more damage to happen. I write this from a place of vulnerability, love, and hope. I’m willing to be brave for those whose voices are drowning in fear. I hope to amplify the voices of my black brothers and sisters as they scream, even when it seems no one is listening. I hope to be corrected, as needed, by those whose lives are in danger and whose shoes I can never occupy. I will keep listening.
My mother is responsible for this. It’s all her fault. Mind you, I’m not blaming her; I’m giving credit where it is due. In 2005, my mother’s high school graduation present to me was a sewing machine.
I remember being confused, a little upset, and perhaps a bit embarrassed by it. Not the machine, of course, it didn’t do anything to cause me anxiety, but rather the thoughts that intruded my mind when I considered the unspoken suggestion behind the gift – that I would use it.
Dear healthy people,
Let me tell you about becoming a “sickbody.” I have Ankylosing Spondylitis. Right, just don’t even try to pronounce that. We’ll stick with calling it A.S., yeah? Really all you need to know about it for this blog post is that it’s a chronic immune-mediated inflammatory joint disease. I’ll share a link at the end for you to read more about it. (Here’s a distracting picture of me to help you along)