Black Girl Rising
by Cheryl Parkinson
England
I am in my car alone. I double check that I have indeed dropped the kids off at the bus stop for school. Just in case they see me. I make sure I am driving on a road that is flowing. No no junctions, no stopping. Just in case someone sees me. And when I know I am truly alone. I cry.
I cry and my shoulders shake. I cry and my nose runs, my breath catches, my heart hurts. I cry and my head pounds, my hands shake and my lips quiver.
My vision blurs.
I wipe my eyes so I can see the road but I carry on crying. Not wanting to be interrupted. Not wanting to halt my own therapy. And I let it all tumble out.
All the pain, the frustration and the fear. The feelings of being inadequate. All the loneliness and isolation. All the sorrow. And as I cry, I feel the release.
My eyes outpour pent up anger, frustration and the general unfairness. Feelings of having to pretend to be one way, because I know they don’t accept me any other way. Feelings of knowing that they don’t accept me this way either. Not really. Feelings of having to smile at them. Say ‘good morning’ in that sing-song cheery tone, having to listen to the puce curses of the voice in my head and not let it show on my face. My own special brand of tourettes. I whistle down the corridor. Sometimes I sing a little song. I make jokes with those that I pass. Ask how their weekend was, comment about the weather.
And smile.
And smile.
And smile.
With teeth.
I know everyone by their first name. Offer ‘cups of tea.’ I make myself as friendly and likeable as possible. So that I become as untouchable as possible. Build a fakeness around me to protect the real me. I build my wall with gumption, pretence, faux friendliness and spit.
I check the time. A red wobbly vision. I have ten minutes before I am at work. I reach for the tissues in the glove compartment. Dry my eyes. Check my makeup in the rear view mirror then wind down the window to cool my face. I practice smiling. Too plastic. I do it again. This one is better. I clear my voice. It’s croaky so I cough, clear it again. This time it’s better. I take a deeeeeep breath.
Saying a quick prayer and I put on my armour, and I rebuild. This is the game. I build myself up until the big boss strides in and knocks it down. They ask for ‘a word.’ They ask, but they are not really asking. They are demanding. They are issuing. They are disciplining. They ask for a word, and that word translates as ‘pickaxe’. With a smile they wield their weapon.
And they chip.
And they chip,
and they chip, chip, chip away at my confidence, my self worth. They make me believe that it was me. Make me believe that I have done something wrong, which is why they need this word. Make me feel that I’m not good enough. That's why they need this word. That’s why the complaints are coming in, because I am not meeting the standards they expect.
But I remind myself of the truth:
I did nothing wrong.
I did nothing wrong.
I did nothing wrong.
But my heart cannot feel it.
Their pickaxe is effective.
My truth may have worked the first time, or even the second, but the third, fourth, fifth and the sixth time, seventh complaint…? Even after I prove it was unfounded.
Even after I prove I had witnesses.
Even after I prove I was just doing my job. It chips away regardless. That's the magic of
words. Their pickaxe is effective.
I am empty now. You knocked down my wall. You poured in your poison. You infected me. But I have cried it out. And I am rebuilding. I remind myself that although I feel weak, I am strong. Although you make me feel wrong, I am right. Although you seek to undermine, you feel undermined. Although you try to smother me, I breathe. And as you push me down into the dirt, I remind myself that you feel threatened. Because I am as light as air. And I am a clear blue, cloudless, Caribbean sky. I am crisp and I am fresh and I am passing you by. All on my own. No matter how you try to keep me down, like helium, I rise.
Beware the intelligent black woman. Because
I…
Am…
Rising…
Cheryl Parkinson
Ms. Cheryl Diane Parkinson is a British Caribbean writer/educator from East London, living in Norfolk. She is an educator of 18 years, teaching English Literature and Language at GCSE and A Level and has recently completed a PhD at Birmingham University in Creative Writing. Her publishing history includes the fictional story "The Revolving Door" published in 2018 and a nonfiction article "Racial Biases in Education" published January 2021. As a writer she is concerned with representation of black people within the literary arena and seeks to create characters that others would like to read about. Her debut novella Maya is due for release early 2022.