a negro lament

I’m tired, y’all. Tired of reading about everything that’s going on. Tired of being tired of hearing about stuff I know I need to be paying more attention to. Tired of things going back to normal. Tired of weird stares on the street. Tired of being watched on our way to the protest. Tired of feeling the need to participate or to be a part of a solution. Tired of defending rebellion. Tired of historicizing revolt. Tired of trying to think of a way to make my work more about the pressing issues facing people like me in the world. Tired of debating the utility of my work with myself. Tired of ‘deferring to people who know more about these issues.’ Tired of the weight of my silence. Tired of three-minute spurts of social media use before I’ve seen too much. Tired of seeing the same posts reshared.

Tired of strange fruit. Tired of despising black trans people. Tired of not caring about black women. Tired of not hearing black women. Tired of not seeing black women. Tired of wishing black queer people would ‘not be so aggressive’ or ‘in our face.’

Tired of continuing to invest energy in white people, in white feelings, in whiteness, even when you swear you’re doing no such thing.

Tired of feeling compelled to watch videos of Black people getting killed because I watch every single one of them. Tired of feeling that familiar anticipatory numbness, seeing the mist of blood and the vertiginous swirl of the bodycams. Tired of hearing the pleas. Tired of reading the pleas. Tired of feeling hollow.

Tired of the ongoing existential crisis that is being black in an antiblack world. Tired of defending the dead. Tired of the Zong, the Amistad. Tired of Harper’s Ferry, Gettysburg. Tired of Gorée, Christiansborg, Whydah. Tired of Matouba.  Tired of not being able to fly home. Tired of homesickness for nowhere. Tired of talk of return. Tired of the ghosts in my mouth.

Tired like ER Braithwaite when he sat beside a white liberal man on a train in the Northeast United States and become someone else’s negro. Tired because I’m still stuck reading Black Skins, White Masks when y’all are re-re-rereading The Wretched of the Earth. Tired of seeing things from multiple angles. Tired of being diplomatic, apologetic, a devil’s advocate.

Tired of talking. Tired of my own voice. Tired of my epidermalization. Tired of history.

Tired of making myself small for other people. Tired of being the only Black person at the department party. Tired of asking ‘would they have said this to a white person?’ Tired of defending transracial coalitions. Tired of reminding other black people that your blackness doesn’t excuse or explain away your discrimination of other nonwhite groups.

Tired of buying things at the store because if I leave emptyhanded, I’m a thief. Tired of needing a receipt.

Tired of explaining my theory of blackness. Tired of theorizing an impossible world without race or gender or sexuality. Tired of prophesizing. Tired of being read as a pessimist. Tired of expecting my optimism to be legible. Tired of being both Caliban and Ariel. Tired of being Othello. Tired of being my own Iago. Tired of my créolité.

Tired of the word ‘abjection’ at the back of my throat. Tired of being the ‘race person.’ Tired of being the resident postcolonial theorist. Tired of defending postcolonial theory. Tired of postcolonial theory.

I’m tired of being everyone else’s negro. I’m tired of being my own negro. I’m tired. Leave me alone.