To Get Off At Lawrence

Dear Black men,

Being a Black woman is sitting on the red line going northbound to Howard station,

backpack on your lap and one earplug in.

It’s scanning left and right as a Black man scoots closer,

your attention diverted from the lady staring at your hair to this unwelcomed proximity.

Being a Black woman is instantly becoming hyper-aware of your melanin, and your clothes, and your posture, hoping to not feed into any potential fetishes that he may have with your unprotected body.

But as calloused fingertips soon graze your thigh and hot breath envelops your right ear,

being a Black woman is realizing that you never really were to him.

It’s having your personal space close on the right at Clark and Division.

Having seats open on the left at Fullerton.

It’s when the only other Black lady on the train who had been eyeing the situation gets off,

your last credible witness.

It’s her backtracking, stumbling into the man behind her to advise you to be careful, reminding you that it is Black women for ourselves; we are too complicated for our male counterparts.

Being a Black woman is moving seats at Belmont, yet, him inching closer at Addison, and Sheridan, and Wilson.

Being a Black woman is getting off at Lawrence, seven stops before your destination.

It's that not being the first time.

It’s trying to make sense of the situation, trying to figure out how you just existing could attract such unwanted, unwarranted, undue attention.

But this is what it means to satisfy a different category.

This is what it means to be othered, to be etceteraed.

This is what it means to be magic, yet, simultaneously a disappearing act.

This is what it means to be a Black woman.

To occupy this territory,

where Black men are the only Black people,

where oppression is measured only by incarceration,

where your sufferings are invalid.

Being a Black woman is to be an impediment to the Black man’s progression and the footnote to white feminism.

It’s always having to stay in your lane because Sandra didn’t stay in hers.

Always being cautious of where you are comfortable, even though Aiyana couldn’t help it.

And sometimes, simply being wary of where you stand.

Rekia was just existing.

But being a Black woman is still existing, still thriving;

after all the rallies protesting the treatment of Black boys die down and pick back up again only protesting the treatment of Black boys.

After cultural appropriation, white dreadlocks, and whiter cornrows.

After being called angry despite having everything to be upset about.

Being a Black woman is when your train finally shows twenty minutes later.

It’s sitting on the red line going northbound to Howard station,

backpack on your lap and one earplug in.

It’s scanning left and right hoping that another Black man is not scooting closer.