005: black girl in the trash
too much, too little; never good enough
***Trigger Warning: Suicide, Abuse****
Hell’s Kitchen, Midday - February 2022
Trash: “You’re just too…”
Me, bracing myself for it again: “Too what?!”
Trash: “Idk, too woke. You care too much.”
St. Louis City, Nighttime - June 2, 2024
Kinda Trash: “I just don’t have the capacity for the serious stuff.”
I appreciated the focus on self in his delivery. I still heard, “You’re too much. Too serious.”
St. Louis City, Around 8 pm - December 30, 2018; Top 2 worst days of my life
My younger sister’s face was in a twisted rage. My family (my mother, grandmother, grandfather, and then 3-year-old playing in the distance) were behind her.
Sister: “You’re fucking crazy! Ever since your dad died —”
I screamed.
Partly to drown out their explosive hatred, also because I’d hit my limit.
I asked, maybe minutes before, that they respect my boundaries and stop bringing up my father’s horrific death in arguments. They only evoked his memory to gaslight me into a painful silence.
Not sure if it happened little by little or all at once, but they’d found a way to villainize me for grieving. For them, it meant I loved him more than my mom. Proof that my expression of emotion - no matter how valid - illicit anger from the people who should be the softest with me.
I left with a black eye that night. And, an indestructible belief that something is wrong with me.
My best friend cried when she saw my face. Maybe that’s why I can’t get over New York, it was quite literally my place of escape.
5:52 am - September 2, 2010
Daddy: “I want you to know it’s hard for me to talk to you because of my situation. I don’t feel like I deserve to talk to you because of the way my life has turned out. I want you to know I’m so proud of you and love you very much!!!”
My freshman year of college had just started.
32 year-old me looks back on this exchange with enough dread to cradle the Earth. 17 year-old Bri had no idea what her life was about to become.
I found the Facebook message odd, but I told him I loved him and hoped things got better.
I really need to believe that they did.
Edwardsville, Late Morning - September 27, 2010; The worst day of my life
Bottom’s Up by Trey Songz woke me up. I picked up my Android before looking to see who was calling. It was my mother. They were in the lobby of my dorm - she’d used the words “we.”
Naively, I thought my family was here to surprise me with a car.
I’d still been in my brown blazer, pink infinity scarf, skinny jeans, ugg boots, and last night’s mascara as I ran past my reflection near the door.
“I’m gonna look so cute driving my car,” I thought to myself. She was so cute, I miss her.
Not fully broken Bri skipped down the stairs full of wonder, excitement, and —
“Is there somewhere we can talk?”
My mom was avoiding eye contact and I could tell she’d been crying.
“Cortez died,” I prepared myself mentally.
Nicki, my furry best friend, had just died earlier that year. Cortez was so sad, we thought he was going to die from grief.
Inside the social lounge, my mother sat to my left, my sister’s father to my right, and my grandmother straight ahead.
“It’s not Cortez,” I realized as my mother’s lip started to quiver.
He lived another 6 years until we finally put him down.
The moment before she delivered the news felt like getting choked out. I heard stars as the edges of my vision grew darker.
“It must be Grandpa Sam —”
Mom: “Harold passed.”
It would take about an hour to fully process those words. My brain couldn’t handle it - it still can’t most days.
I’d forgotten to breathe, so I started hyperventilating.
It’s only in this moment I realize my mother had to comfort a child grieving their father. Please universe, keep that evil away from me.
Me: “…how?” I manage between gasps.
My grandmother says “suicide” so matter-of-factly it fucking destroyed me. She launches into her theories of foul play and my memory stops there.
This is (hopefully) the worst thing that’ll ever happen to me, and I was lucky enough to experience it at a time when self-awareness and empathy were concepts at least 5 years in the future for my peers. So, fun.
I was now the girl with the dead dad and I couldn’t even drink.
Venus Cafe, 10:47 pm - September 24, 2024
Friend: “ADHD is ruining my life.”
Me: “What are ways it shows up for you?”
Friend: “Not to be graphic, but I find myself masturbating to not only procrastinate but…feel something. It [ADHD] makes my depression really bad.”
Immediately, I thought about him and his partner.
His boyfriend had just made dinner for us in their new home. They have two cats, a backyard, and an understood love for one another.
I looked at their Polaroids on the refrigerator and felt so happy for them. They’re cute as fuck.
He let me hit his weed pen (guys, the technology is blowing my mind) and I hacked out my lungs before admitting, “I think I’m autistic.”
Autism runs super deep in my family. As in at least 4 people are non-verbal.
Friend: “Hmm, why?”
I explained how socializing has always been extremely difficult for me. It was only when I moved to New York, especially after I started bartending, that I learned how to human.
More importantly, there has to be something to explain why I’m so unloveable*.
One of my earliest memories is of a classmate calling me weird. Can’t remember why, but that feeling of being othered severed a piece of my nervous system.
I oscillate between too much and too little.
Too loud
Too serious.
Too political.
Too serious.
Too serious.
Too black.
Too feminist.
Too rigid.
Too hard.
Too soft-spoken.
Too quiet.
Too independent.
Too sensitive. Way too fucking sensitive.
Too fast.
Too ambitious.
Too pretty.
Too smart.
Too stupid.
Too something.
Once my too’s started contradicting themselves, I knew it wasn’t me, but my body.
My body is too loud.
My body is too serious.
My body is too political.
How tragic, my existence is taken as a political statement.
This devastating pressure pushed me (and many other black girls) into a state of “excellence.”
We have to be smart, financially independent, community leaders, empathetic, self-care queens, carefree, domestic laborers, culture shifters, loud for others, and silent for ourselves.
Above all, we have to be comfortable being disposable.
I am not allowed to break, crack even! We’re forced into perfection, then labeled undesirable for it.
If we settle, we’re shamed.
If we have standards, we’re bullied.
If something happens to us, we’re at fault.
To this day, if I make a minor mistake around my family, it will eclipse my humanity. All the good I did yesterday? Be serious bitch, you’re a sum of your mistakes.
The amount of intellectual labor it takes to convince myself there’s nothing wrong with me? That’s the silent power of systemic oppression. Without my consent, despite my cries, my thrashing, it’s infiltrated my body.
My scared place, my mind.
Fuck you.
Watching other black girls suffer is the worst. My friends are brilliant, yet are frequently discarded or overlooked by people who’d prefer a different body with the same message.
That feeling of being easy to leave shakes a person.
Over and over, I’m shaken. Shaken out of safety, love, support, and companionship.
When I claw myself out of the bin, fingers bloodied from the fight, the moment I rest my back breaks against the metal floor. Then, I have to restart.
Over and over, I restart.
Let us rest.
Signed,
An angry Bri.
*People with Autism (I’m people) are not unloveable. I say this to describe my difficulty moving throughout social spaces.
Hi!
I really loved this piece, especially right now it was just what I needed. I have been feeling so disrespected lately and SO ANGRY and I think its because a)the disrespect is actually happening b) it has increased because I'm older now and perceived as a Black woman rather than girl and c) because the more I learn about anti-Blackness, the more I can see and feel it--like you said its infiltrated our bodies.
You made me cry with this post, and I wanted to let you know that I see and hear you, even and especially when the disrespect and abuse comes from family. There are two amazing quotes that your piece reminded me of. The first is from a tik tok that a Black creator shared, who said that Black autistic women are some of the most joyful people there are, and the world takes an autistic Black woman and rips the joy out of her. And the second is to remember to include yourself in the category of the Black girls you are fighting for.
This resonates very deeply with me. "My body is too loud. My body is too serious. My body is too political."
Hope this message receives you well and thank you for sharing!
I resonate so much with this piece. I am so sorry for your loss, I cannot imagine the pain you feel. Compounded by an unsupportive environment, it is too much to bear alone. I relate to feeling of needing to be excellent to be seen as human and valuable. Whenever I tell ppl I feel unlovable as a black autistic fem, they list out all the things I need to work on. I am done working on myself, it is this world that needs to change. This system is rigged against us, but we march on anyway. I pray for more peace, love and reprieve in your life 🤎 You deserve it. Thank you for sharing.