Words Bleed

“It’s that Black girl up there. Black people suck!”

Peter and I were twelve; he was white and I was mixed. We met in kindergarten. We were neighbors, only one house separated us. We sat across from each other on the bus, enjoying each other’s company. We giggled with each other until our lungs ran out of air. We annoyed some kids on the bus and we could tell that the ones sitting in the back were getting mad at us. Their words rang through the bus and echoed in my ears. Sinking deep into my seat, I could feel my skin melt into worn out vinyl and I wondered how many kids had dissolved there before me. 

I was unable to move, to speak, to think. Their words swirled around in my head, hexing me until I was sick to my stomach. Silent, I got off the bus. Somehow I was able to call my mom and tell her everything that happened, and she quickly came home and held me. My tears curdled and dripped down her skin, absorbed without thought. All I wanted was for my mom to hold me until the end of time. 

The next day, I was called down to Principal Tite’s office. She calmly explained that I was there to report on the bus incident. This was standard protocol; all I had to do was recount what happened. A blank form glared at me. I felt like I was in a hospital, performing surgery on myself for the first time. Her desk was an operating table and I was holding a scalpel instead of a pencil. Placing my right hand in my mouth, I opened wide and used the blade to sweep my tongue out of the way. The blade slithered down my throat until it reached my vocal cords. I could finally look at my voice box, and I promptly cut it, letting blood pass through my airway onto the sheet. 

god i’m making such a mess. no you have to do this. but i’m pulling everyone into it. they’ll call all of my friends down to the office. everyone’s gonna hate me. it’s nothing major, they just said black people suck. yeah and they’ll never say it again if you fight. keep writing. keep going. you’re already bleeding. just bleed on the page. yeah there you go, let the words flow. that’s how you’re gonna heal. you gotta hurt before you can heal.

***

“How are you so dark if you’re only a quarter black? Oh, it must be that Arab in you.”

I was fifteen. My school nominated me to attend a leadership conference at Utica College alongside other tenth graders from upstate New York. I was beyond honored to be a part of this cohort, and I was quick to adapt to my new environment. 

okay, a lot of white people. nothing new. don’t be too loud. they’ll think you’re obnoxious. oh god, why are they staring at me? maybe they’ve never seen a person of color before. just smile and wave! yeah, good job. they smiled back. don’t be too closed off. they’ll think you’re a monster. but don’t take up too much space! you’re too big, too loud, too much you’re too much you’re too much.

After some mandatory orientation meetings, it was time to mingle with my peers. The positive energy in the room was infectious. Hundreds of kids riled up on adrenaline, we were all eager to bond with each other and explore this empty college campus in the middle of nowhere. For a while, I was just myself. I was Angelique with no labels attached. Then I wasn’t. 

Ignorance from Ben’s lips smacked me across the face. I knew that I had to tell him how wrong he was, but that required me to open myself up again. Once the shock passed over me, I found myself on the operating table once again. Cracking my chest, I made an incision right through the middle of it. Blood spewed out of me, but once I pried my ribcage apart my heart was easy to reach.

Exposed, I was able to show Ben exactly what was wrong with what he said. Skin color is not a matter of percentages, it’s a game of chance. I was made up of the same things he was: flesh and bones. I was not Arab or only a quarter black. I was not a monolith or a case study. My body was beating along just like his. And I'm sure he promptly forgot about everything I told him at that moment. My identity was entertainment for him, just another fun puzzle to play with. 

 Cutting myself was what I needed to do to lead a conversation with love, not outrage. Showing my heart allowed me to share myself with Ben, to tell him how he was ignorant without breaking his heart in the process. Stitching myself back up after failing to teach him, I thought about how many more times I would have to open up and leave with more scars than I had before. But I can’t fix everyone. No matter how much I explained myself, he wouldn’t have been able to understand where I came from.

***

“I’m not really into Black guys, I just don’t find them attractive.”

I was seventeen. Stunned, my mind raced with unspeakable thoughts. Murder was quick to take the lead. 

stop it, do not panic, did she really just say that, oh my god, she has no shame, i could slap the white off her, it’s okay it’s fine, until she’s flesh and bone, until she, stop it, do not make a scene, until she melts into bone marrow, a hollow honeycomb, calm down it’s not even that bad, until she feels her words branded onto her skin, would she be ashamed then?

Instead of spewing insults at Emma, “What?” shot out of my mouth without warning. Despite my anger, at my core I wanted to understand where she was coming from; I wanted to blame Emma’s behavior on someone else, anyone other than my friend.

At first I thought her parents were the primary culprits. White, they had little reason to talk about race with their kids when there were barely any people of color nearby. But Emma’s parents weren’t trying to be racist. At the very least, they showed me just as much love and care as a family member. I was back to the drawing board, and I was already running out of ideas. 

If the problem was not at home, then maybe it had to do with the town Emma called home: Vestal, New York. Rural upstate New York has been known for its scenic nature preserves, small businesses, and rampant racism. How could I expect Emma to know any better when she was never told otherwise? 

What started off as a lighthearted conversation at lunch turned into an intervention. My friend Grace and I tried our best to show Emma how wrong she was. We listed off all of the attractive Black actors we could think of. Idris Elba. Michael B. Jordan. Jamie Foxx. Emma said no to all of them.We talked about how everyone in Emma’s circle firmly believed that love knows no race. Emma said she would only date a white guy. We pleaded with her to step outside of herself and take a critical look at what she said. She refused. It seemed like the only word she knew was no. 

Needless to say, Emma and I are not friends anymore. We drifted apart and this moment was the first ripple. Looking back, I sometimes feel like a failure. But now, I feel like I have to just let go and let myself heal. Weak, irritated, and inflamed, my scar tissue peeks at me when I look in the mirror. And it’s beautiful. It shows all of the places where I have bled and all of the places where I have healed.

***

“What are you?”

 i am at my limit, out of this world, destined for great things, fourteen rats in a trenchcoat, cursed by a wizard, a figment of your imagination, your mom, the messiah, constipated, i don’t know, what are you?

I am twenty. Whenever I find myself in a new setting with strangers, people never hesitate to ask that poorly worded question. As much as I want to plead the fifth and let my lawyers handle it, I just say I am mixed to avoid any objections. Turkish and French-Creole. Black, white, and Middle Eastern. Some other race. Other. Labels never fit me well; they either cut into my skin or swallow me whole. But these boxes serve a purpose; as soon as I check off “Two or more races,” I am caged in. Trapped, I transform into a spectacle, something to decipher, peel apart, and dissect until the connections in my body are severed and put on display.

These labels serve another purpose too; they let me navigate my heritage with confidence. Pride flows in my veins like a river. I am not “Other.” I am Turkish delight and Crawfish Étouffée. I am New Iberia and Istanbul. I am the Bosphorus and the Bayou Teche. And I am loved for who I am and for the person I am becoming. 

what am i? i’m just a person. i am someone. i have a voice. yes i do. i really do have a voice. it’s a beautiful one, deep and thunderous. i can make lightning with my words.

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