Black Girl In Pink in Paris…with Oxygen
It took me a long time to accept certain things about myself.
A List:
Justin & Me (oh, and her)
That I, as a dancer growing up in the Pre-Misty Copeland era 90’s would always have muscular thighs, regardless of the “type” of body that my classical ballet training treasured.
Co-point, along with #1, that I, as a dancer, was still worthy even though I didn’t begin my dance training until 11 years old, much later than most dancers. Worthy enough to dance semi-professionally. Worthy enough to found and run BalletHaven for 7 years, an organization that changed a community.
That it is ok to be the only Black girl in the room; that still doesn’t mean I have to speak on behalf of “all black experience” because Blackness is not a monolith. And I learned that I still have a right to correct you if you call me “articulate” or “well-educated” in said rooms. That does not make me angry, combative or petty, however it might suggest something about you. 😬
That I deserve to be in rooms that matter to me, even if I am the only Black woman there—rooms about education, literacy, women’s & girls’ rights, dance, equity, the arts.
That being an introvert is not a new and trendy thing, but a deep part of my personality that makes “me” make so much more sense. I would say to my younger self, compassionately, “Be at peace. You’re more than ok.” Also, #LongLiveStayingInAndReadingABook.
That some people will always be visibly uncomfortable with the way my oxygen looks—the way the reality of my illness presents itself. The way it means that this is the thing that will likely take my life. And it’s not my responsibility to make them comfortable with it. (Coincidentally, I would like very much not to have to lug Wallie, as my Portable Oxygen Concentrator is called, around with me. He’s heavy, makes my nose run and makes you painfully aware of how truly inaccessible the world is. But, I don’t get that choice. I would like to breathe, soooo…)
This past October, I remember when we were traveling through France. There was a woman on the train ride from Paris to Avignon. We were in First Class, and I was wearing my oxygen because breathing. She and her partner looked like they were accustomed to traveling in First, but looks are deceiving, which of course is my entire point. What I remember so clearly is the way she kept staring. At me. Conspicuously. Boldy. I don’t know if it was because I was brown (Yes, I was the only one in First.) or because I was in an interracial relationship (Yep. Again, only one.) or because I was the only one with oxygen glued to my face, or because I have beautiful braids with hints of purple and pink mixed in (Yes, I was the only on both of those counts, too.) The point is I didn’t like it. It FELT like she was staring down her nose at me. But as a disabled, Black, interracially married woman, I’ve accepted that I’ve given you lots of reasons to stare. And I may stare back. (Which I did.) 😉
That accepting help, for me, will s̶o̶m̶e̶t̶i̶m̶e̶s̶ often mean that I need the assistance of a wheelchair or scooter. It makes me uncomfortable, and I hate that people stare because after all, I look so “normal” 🙄 without my oxygen on and I can walk. I just can’t walk when it’s for long periods of time (like in museums, parks, zoos, grocery stores, airports, concert halls—you get the picture). So I’m doing what Michelle (THE Michelle, guys. You know theres only one, right?) would do. I lean on my Barack (His name is Justin.). He never makes me feel ugly or small, even in a wheelchair. I mean, look at us in the Louvre with the Mona Lisa! He advocates for me when I’m too tired, angry or stressed out to “people.” I used to think that leaning on someone like this made me a weak woman. I’m glad I’ve grown up from that kind of thinking. And I’m glad we’ve found each other.
That speaking about the freedom of Black and Brown female bodies and minds threatens people. That demonstrating that freedom makes folks uncomfortable. Especially if those bodies are older. Wanna cause a commotion? Be brownish, female, and have something to say without asking permission. If you do it with sexy clothes on (even if you show the same amount that a man shows) you’ll get a bigger reaction. I’m a 41 year old dancer who was told that I would survive to 26—tops—given my diagnosis. So yeah, I’m here for all of the Afro-Carribean, Latinx excellence and thought that went into the 2/2/20 Halftime Show headlined by 2 women who are near-ish my age. I’ve accepted that some people want to argue about it, but I won’t be one of them. Maybe once your body has been through what a brown/black/female/disabled/daily-dying/dancer’s body is subjected to, you wouldn’t want to either.
That though illness meant I had to retire from classroom teaching, and caused a deep depression I didn’t fully comprehend until much later, that wasn’t the end of my story as an educator. It sure felt like a permanent ending when it happened. I felt like I had lost my identity. But there was liberation waiting. I found it in remembering that my heart has always been for the empowerment of people of color and women. I found that my skills were still useful and needed. I remembered what Mufasa told Simba: Remember who you are. Me? I am Mnikesa. I teach people, especially women and people of color, to speak, read, write and listen at deep levels of comprehension because I believe that literacy is liberation.
Portrait of women liberated, lively and fearless. Photo by Getty Images, Hollywood Reporter
