Culture As Career

Racialized self-regulation ensures I’ll never retire.

I was born Black and female, so I work. My work is to quell the rage.

I am permeable, and this is the work. To allow the toxins of trauma to seep from my pores in a palatable way; to seal my orifices to keep social poison at bay. My melanin is a marker of my vulnerability. I am a pincushion for public outrage, a target that bears the wounds of historic and present-day violence.

I wake up and wrestle. I squeeze my eyelids shut to stave off the disquiet. There is no evading me. I am. And to exist while Black and female is to work.

There was a season before my present-day occupation — a blissful childhood full of nourishment and kindness. Two high school sweethearts from South America achieved their version of the American dream in a northern New Jersey suburb, far from the colonized villages they’d left. Their cherished boy and girl were smart, capable, and worthy because they said so. I was beautiful, loved, and celebrated not because of what I could do, but because of who I was. Of course, moments of doubt would sometimes arise, but they were immediately followed by unflinching, confident rebuttals and reassurances. Both of these beautiful caretakers had weathered gale force winds they hoped would soon become a lilting breeze for their children. Adjust your sails, they’d say. We…