Two WOC Walk for Coffee in a Progressive City





A white man quietly leans against the iron fence of the coffee shop patio, near the main entrance. You, young black woman, and your Latina friend are walking up the sidewalk, chatting away as y’all head to well-known coffee chain. As you two get closer to the man, maybe 3-5 feet away, he begins to spew hate from his mouth loudly.



Fuckin nigger. You can’t take my quarter. [inaudible] cunt [inaudible]


What the fuck? Who is he talking to?


What the actual fuck. I can only assume he was directing that towards me since he was silent up until I got close to him then went quiet again once we were past.


Your body stiffens and heart pounds. You do not turn your face towards him because you have no idea how he’ll react. You’ve already quickly calculated that by the silence and whiteness of pedestrians waiting at the bus stop that these are not your allies, and you and your friend should not be forced to take down one white man. You do not engage with him. The whole moment lasts maybe 5 seconds, maybe 7, no more than 10 or 15. You were less than 5 feet away when he said you couldn’t take his quarter, his obviously metaphorical quarter. You wondered what specific stereotype he held about you without knowing you. Did he assume you were a graduate student? Doubtful. Did he believe you were the “welfare queen” folks wrote about in the past? Did he believe you were taking someone else’s job, their quarter, that you didn’t deserve? Did he believe you an immigrant taking the higher education seat and employment of a deserving white woman, or more likely a white man like him? Who did he think you were the moment he felt empowered to demean you in front of 10 or more strangers waiting at the bus stop right in front of him? In what society do you live?


Your friend locks arms with you as you two continue up the street.


It is only 4:45. The sun has not yet set.



Are you okay?


I’ll be fine.


It’s okay if you’re not. I’m here for you.


Thank you.


You want me to go back with a weapon? Maybe we can get a knife from Starbucks.


[lightly laughs]

I’m sure they only have plastic knives, and we don’t know what he may have on him.




Thanks though.


You are standing at the corner, waiting for the light to change so you can safely walk. Safety is a social construct, right?




You are sitting on plastic sheet-covered public toilet, silently crying, alone and afraid, staring at a yellow stall door. You blow your nose and wipe your eyes with single-ply toilet tissue, the same kind your granny buys from Walgreens back home. You wish you were home. You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to live here.




Rain lightly falls outside. You clean your tub. You consider making tuna noodle casserole, just to use the milk before it goes bad, but you haven’t started the process yet. You found the basic recipe online, just to make sure you remembered it. You consider making what one friend called a “hearty Midwestern meal”- cream of mushroom over chicken breast with white rice. You could finish off the milk with that too, but is one can of soup enough to cook both? Doesn’t matter since you haven’t attempted to cook anything yet. You’re not sure that you’re actually hungry, but you know you should eat since your last meal was around 2:00 this afternoon.


You decide that at the least you will take a bath, use a bath bomb you bought from an awesome black woman at the mercardo in November, you might burn the sage bundle that your friend made for you, and you will allow yourself to dissociate despite how often you fight it. Your anxious, depressed, trauma-ed self deserves to dissociate in the comfort of your own place instead of in public. Just this once, you do not have to be in your body and the world does not have to feel real.




Special shout out to my friend for being there with me, for keeping me on my feet when I felt sick to my stomach and afraid as we continued to walk up the street today, and for being much stronger than me on most days and a positive light in my life. Now I shall listen to a favorite Tupac jam.


[girl, where you been: a brief update]

Hello, friends. It’s been awhile since I posted an essay. Clearly I’m behind on my #52essays, but you may understand why without much explanation. I will admit that I attempted to challenge myself to write about a difficult experience for Week 2 that I’ve struggled to write about for months, I am still unable to complete that essay, and I need to allow myself to be okay with not being ready to share this just yet.

I’ve been remotely involved in a number of fights for social justice in recent weeks, in two instances preparing to join my friends at the frontlines, but maybe it was a sign from God that I was not mentally prepared to be physically present. I’ve accepted that, for now, my role is to be a support and resource for my friends, offer safe/healing spaces, to check in with people every so often, to keep tabs on news updates when possible, to provide food/water, and to remain vigilant. Until I manage my anxiety (which I know has increased for most of us, but I know a number of folks like myself have always operated with higher levels at baseline) and become compliant with my PT knee exercises again, I am essentially dead weight on the ground. In light of recent events, I must refocus my intended essay topics and content as well.

My return will be soon, my friends, soon. As usual, I look forward to all of your essays in the meantime.

Woman is a Word

I’ve been drafting an essay on my identity and forced socialization as a female since birth, and the complications that go along with that– this isn’t that particular essay.

This new year, I hoped to start off strong, motivated, on-task, which somewhat happened. I returned to my practicum on Tuesday after winter break, catching the earlier bus like a boss to arrive on time. On the bus I thought more of my intentions for the year, which included being more assertive, stop apologizing when unnecessary, and allowing myself to feel again and stop becoming numb to things that hurt. I haven’t honestly felt strong emotions in months, mainly in the months following my increased alcohol use. The day moved rather slow until Women’s Support Group. As usual, I got much more out of it than expected, allowing myself to flow into member rather than intern. We all grow together.

There were new attendees searching for advice and support, either as new clients to the agency or as women looking for a new group to attend. A running theme for most of us is mistreatment (an understatement) by men and reaching a point where we accept the bullshit no more. We are all vulnerable, living with various behavioral health struggles, but we are in recovery and ready to fight.

I’m only an image of what you see
You don’t know me

[He reunited with his ex after calling me the personification of our favorite 2016 album, is that convenience? He ended our not-relationship over complications that couldn’t be explained to join her in exclusive-but-not-committed union, is that moving from casual partnership with me to forced partnership after a drunken hookup with her? He said he didn’t mean to kiss my neck and that he didn’t have time to start something before leaving for the summer, but it later hit me that every girl he’d seeked prior-to-present was much lighter than me, is that anti-blackness? He said to just screw these guys then leave, but wouldn’t that make me just like them? These are men I call friends (yes, He, He, He, and He are present friends of mine, which is a whole other story on forgiveness and arriving at peace when a friendship is a better fit). One of the above said that he couldn’t tell if I was actually interested in him then asked what I wanted. Oh sweetheart, my feelings and wants no longer matter once you decided to choose her, can’t you see? What am I supposed to do, beg for a partnership that never was? How pathetic am I to grasp at the hands of an uncertain man? He couldn’t understand my form of protection.]

A hurt woman in search of connection builds a chain link fence (some of us brick walls) with barbed wire above, around her heart and soul. You can reach through the fence and touch her, but she dare not show her feelings too soon because your actions and words are not what they seem. Whisper sweet nothings, offer limp wrists. That fence is our protection because we know you’ll leave, we believe in that because that’s what we’ve been dealt before. A month prior in group while discussing healthy relationships, someone mentioned how this form of protection can inadvertently hurt us because we dismiss/hurt those who actually care about us, who actually don’t intend to leave us alone. But is it worth the risk to continue being so vulnerable?

With roughly two hours left to the day, we got a call about a potential client needing help with paperwork. I decided to go out to the lobby, taking a break from researching in the office and happy to talk to more clients. What I thought would’ve taken maybe five minutes turned closer to twenty-five in total from the time I greeted this potential client to the moment I returned to the intern office after taking a moment to recollect myself and pretend not to be shaken by this encounter.

I was face-to-face with a manipulator who’d already successfully manipulated the other front desk assistant. I picked up on this fact early on when he claimed that I was the first person to really listen to him all day, which I can dispel by the very fact that we were meeting in an office to discuss his issue with paperwork. I wondered if I would need to do a risk assessment, hence the reason he wanted to be more honest on his forms. As he began to speak though, his purpose for assistance unraveled more and more. He kept trying to bring up topics that were best suited for a therapist, his future assigned therapist, not me. So I continuously enforced boundaries instead of discussing these topics- “This would be something to sort out with your therapist once you complete our intake process” or “I’m not here to discuss that, I’m here to help you with paperwork” and eventually “That’s not what we’re here for. This is a behavioral health agency, and we’re here to work with you to manage your mental/substance use disorders. If you’re looking for nice meaningful connections, you may make some good friends in one of our groups.” This guy didn’t budge, nothing I said stopped him from attempting to push and cross these boundaries.

Then his affect shifted. I noticed the pen rolling in his hand, and I grabbed the one closest to me. Did I think he’d use it? No, but I couldn’t take any chances. I was worried about more. His breathing changed, and I knew that sound. He licked his lips out of hunger and thirst. I couldn’t decide if I should vomit or punch him first, but I knew the latter would not go over well for my future at the agency. As his hand started to float to touch my thigh, I backed away from the desk and told him that it was time to go and we’d let him know when he could try to go through the intake process. I stood up, and he hesitantly followed. I kept my back to the open door, trying to get him to leave the room. I looked over at the front desk assistant who was keeping an eye out, and the lead Crisis/Safety Manager stepped out of her office as well. We were using an office within one of our secured areas (which I am so thankful for), and I eventually opened that door once he was next to it. The Crisis Manager told him that it was time to leave, he stood in the doorway to the secure area and wouldn’t move, then he started singing. He started moving closer into the area again, Crisis Manager called over one of our on-site cops and another Crisis Member. He eventually walked in more and got close enough to touch the other Crisis Member who responded by saying he could be charged with assault if he moved any closer. The cop asked him to leave nicely, said he didn’t want to have to get aggressive. The guy kept singing. The cop started to count, and the guy finally said that he was just trying to get attention in hopes of getting into services faster. He walked out calmly with the cop, I shut the door behind them. The Crisis Manager applauded my work as she could hear me in the office redirecting and reinforcing boundaries (I left the door ajar, plus she’s also next door). “I emailed your supervisor to let her know that you were meeting with this client, and I was prepared to go in there if it went past five minutes,” she told me afterward, which filled me with much comfort but not enough to kill my anxiety and my anger.

While debriefing with my supervisor later, I gave her a rundown of the experience, and though I’ve only been there three months, she’s already gotten to know me quite well. “I notice you laughed, but I can tell it wasn’t because that was funny. You had the upper hand but at some point the power dynamic flipped, didn’t it?” I nodded. I couldn’t shake him. I couldn’t get him to quit his game. I felt hopeless but thankfully not helpless. I told her that I wanted to punch him but knew I couldn’t, I admitted that. Obviously she agreed that I made good judgment by not punching him, but she was supportive of my feelings as this is tough work, being a social worker and being a woman.

I’m only a woman if woman is a word

I have no control over the way I’m seen, and that makes living difficult quite often. To be objectified, to be touched with little to no regard that you are another human who controls their own body, it begins to feel like I have no agency over me, no agency over my version of womanhood, no agency over simply being a woman in general, no agency over existing. I’m exhausted by being confined to expectations I didn’t agree to. Someone told me that I’m stronger now since pushing through that incident, but I think my heart just grew colder.


Title inspired by Empress Of’s jam, which a few lines are italicized between two different paragraphs and you can listen to the song here.