Have You Heard Lions Roar?
I am writing this at almost midnight and I am drunk on exhaustion. I keep telling myself that this work I do does not have to define my life but in my stupor I am brutally honest; this work I do does not define my life but rather my life depends on my fight for survival. And the one steadfast way I know how to fight for life is to write. It is a reassurance of my humanity and a statement to the world that I am leaving something behind that eclipses my heartbeat. Or at least that is what I pray for when I lay my head down to sleep.
May God hear me and hold me tightly.
I come from the motherland, Africa. Born under Kenyan skies, familiar with the Kenyan air and red soil between my toes I grew up an answer to prayers. I am adopted into America by white parents and twenty years later the impact is hitting me. Us, I mean. We are together in so many ways, connected by love and legalities- family. And what a wonderful one I have fallen into. But I am coming to realize more and more that we are standing a distance apart now and always. Love all we want and all we do but our race will never be the same. My death is not theirs. What I mean is, my liberation will not mean their liberation unless they see it as such. Whereas their liberation is already here and if they chose to not fight for me they will stay living. What a decision they have to make then.
And for my parents, they have intertwined their life with my fight. With the fight for Black life and survival. But I know not every white parent with Black children makes the same decision. I know not all interracial families make the same decision. Promises of love ring hollow when held up to a microscope of anti-racism. I am learning that excruciatingly hard lesson- the letting go of family in order to survive, to not be left behind while my people fight the fight I need to join them in. It hurts. But I need to keep moving. If they follow me down this path I will see them on the way. If not I will keep making my way to the finish line, slow and steady and sure. This is what I am doing with my one wild life. And what a way to spend living; I am indebted to the activists and creators that came before me and I vow to extend the work. The work, of course, will continue whether or not I’m involved but I feel my heart telling me that it would be a shame if I were to live and not contribute my gifts to the movement. And so I write.
However, writing has been a struggle here of late. When I go to put pen to paper I feel sick. Or depleted. Or both. It often feels like my words tumble into the void and are lost forever. And I just kept vomiting into this darkness and now when I go to pour out all I do is dry heave. For days I sat and begged the darkness to return my insides. And it stayed silent to my requests and immovable by my tears.
Today I started reading again. I say again because it’s been a couple of weeks. Today was my rebirth from the pages of Audre Lorde, Toni Morrison, Assata Shakur, Bell Hooks, and collected essays on radical Black feminists. Today I was birthed from lions.
My exhaustion has not faded and my fear has not quelled but my words are back and I will tell the truth as I know it. It is the only thing I can do. To stay stagnant or revert back means demise. My liberation, the liberation of my people will not come because I will it to. It will not come because I insist on leaning on prayer alone. It will come on the heels of revolution- rage in its mouth, empathy its underbelly, and courage in its paws. It will come heralded by Black women and Black LGBTQIA+ people. It will be intersectional or else it will be thrown out as false.
So tonight I write. Tomorrow I rest. I read. I will find my pride and lie in wait, hunting this change.
Have you ever heard lions roar? When you do, know that’s me and mine.
Audre Lorde said that women of colour who do not learn how to live with their anger and use it to fight for life do not survive.
Assata Shakur called herself a reluctant warrior who fights because she is committed to life.
Here I am baptized in these words
revival at the sound.
my life a prayer answered
a prayer told.
I’m trying to harmonize with the rage and rise in the struggle.
My lips are suckling at freedom's bosom trying to get every last drop.
Photography by Katelyn White