by Lindsey Anderson
header photo by Lindsey Anderson
Dear ASATT,
1 year.
365 days.
2,294 plays.
As of late, my bed feels like a ziplock bag.
I retreat to it to preserve my freshness; my sanity.
I wish I could take my bed everywhere; have it near when my knees give way to weariness and I need to be held.
On September 30th 2016, you became that portable bed. A travel-size pillar of comfort that I could turn to in times of need.
We’ve shared space through a painful 2016 and an arduous 2017.
We made space for laughter; screeching about hot comb horror stories and the weight of the words ‘Hold ya ear.’
We marched for our lives; fingertips stained with black sharpie from scrawling ‘I MATTER’ on pieces of poster-board.
When I listen to you, I remember where I used to be; a gold medal Olympian sprinting from my blackness. I think about where I am now and thank god I finally stopped running.
We took sick days when the thought of leaving the house induced a special brand of nausea that could only be cured with Moesha reruns and a 2 hour phone call with mom.
…..Dang….we really survived a full year together……
Our self care toolboxes have morphed into depots; brimming with options to soothe the never-ending moments of soul-fracturing heartache.
This year, I inhaled the glory that is blackness with you.
I existed loudly in the face of white supremacy and continue to do so.
Thank you for a year of growth.
Thank you for holding me through this year and beyond.
Thank you for seeing my blackness & thank you for sharing your blackness.
1 year.
365 days.
2,294 plays.