Last week, I told you all about a teach-in on campus—those were the seminars, free for students to learn about culture or race or just start a dialogue on how different topics present themselves in our lives. I enjoyed it all and it got me thinking a lot about identity and how I define myself as a whole. But there is something we learned about that I hadn’t heard before and it was a huge thought process to look into… Chances are, you haven’t heard about it either.
The more I think about it, the more I question the reason I do all of these things, the reason I feel like I need to; I finally realized why the term “black excellence” isn’t just about pride or ability.
It’s Black History Month and this is one of those books that I felt was important to bring a bit of attention to. As Acevedo’s first novel, this one is special because it tells a narrative, but through poetry.
I’ve been working on a lot of different things lately, from screenwriting and prose writing (which are incredibly different, something I did not prep myself for) to tutoring and redecorating my walls (multiple times). But I have also been forgetting to notice the things that have come full circle.
I would like to think that if something is working well enough then we can leave well enough alone. Then again, just because I would like to think this doesn’t mean it always holds up. That would be far too easy.
But, like I said, I’m not always good at being human. Because humans need other humans, for support or love or laughter or company… We need each other. I know that. I’m just not great at living like it.
Last week, here’s what I did: I kept moving. Just like I think we all do. I went to class, to work, did the homework I could remember to do, and I put one foot in front of the other. Because one thing I realized, at least for my situation, it could have been worse. So, so much worse.