The A(ctivist) Train: Stressing Underground

This weekend I was on the train. It was a train ride like any other. Some guy peddling because he has both diabetes AND the sugar (his words, not mine) A woman shared Cheerios with her daughter. A young man let out a rallying "SHOW TIME" call as he began to start his electric dance.... 

And then the train stopped moving in the darkest of tunnels.  At first, I was cool. I was preoccupied with a "rescued" book from my parents house (sorry Pops). 

But then I started freaking out. Out of nowhere. As a New Yorker who grew up in the pre AND post 9-11 era, I immediately thought that something was going down. Why were we stopped? Does anyone else realize we're stopped? How long have we been stopped? Will we ever move? Is something going down? What's going down? Are we going down?  Did I tell my parents I loved em? Oh lord, who's gonna tell my family I died on the train? This is not Swagnificent at all. How will they find my body in the ruins? What will they say at my funeral? Oh my GAWD, I didn't even get a chance to tell Nicki Minaj I love her! Ahhhhhhh!!!!

And then the train moved. I felt like an idiot. 

 I had a revelation. The train is a great place to have spiritual experiences, you know. 

I feel this way about our current climate of identity politics. It's like global warning in this piece. And the space is heating up... Big. Time. Except we don't have an Al Gore or a trendy color to rock to show solidarity for the cause. 

I'm out here, freaking out in my own little Subway Tunnel. Like, does any one else feel me? Come on.... Cuz this was an especially rough summer to be Black. Black and a woman? Oh, don't even TRY to be a Black woman who doesn't take comfort in labels.  

[Pause: This summer I had several experiences in which people tried to tell me about me. Apparently I'm a lesbian because I identify as a Black Feminist. I don't even have time to unpack that. I'mma just sit that right there on your table. Do as you will with that.] 

Ha. Forget it. Go home. Try again. 

I just feel like I want peace. Like I want a break. The only way to express my unique restlessness is the feeling you have when you're waiting on a train underground. And all the trains on the opposite end of the platform are coming as quickly as Miley Cyrus grew up. I mean, when we moving? I wanna move! Like I'm stuck in this tunnel and waiting on the train to move so I can get to 42 Street. And I ain't got no cell phone service. 

Feeling like I'm not understanding what's next. Why we've stopped. What happens. Where we're going. What I want.  Who I want to be. What role I want to play. What I think I'm good at. What I need help with. How I can be a part of a larger machine that is dedicated to fixing this, whatever this is.

It's just... Passion. Excitement. Pure frustration. A whole range of emotions and experiences.... 

But I think more than anything, I was frustrated because the conductor never made an announcement. Like, never ever. I think that I may have felt comforted had the conductor given us a warning. I may have felt like even though I wasn't in control, at least I knew who was/trusted their guidance (there's a sermon in there somewhere). Yet, I didn't get a warning. I didn't get an announcement. No one told us what was going on. Those 20 seconds waiting in that tunnel were BRUTAL because I didn't know what to expect. 

That's life. We rarely get an announcement. We never know what's happening. The way to get through it all is to breathe. Trust the process. You get through by getting through. There is no secret formula. There is no easy answer. 

I've been reading "Strength to Love" by Dr. King. I caught myself. I said to myself "Queen [what I call myself in my head], where is our modern day King?" 

That was a dumb thought. 

Why are we looking for a modern day Malcolm or Martin? (And why are our figures famous and Male, when we KNOW the movement was also sustained by less-famous sisters) Why do we need a conductor? Why is our instinct to follow rather than to lead from where we stand?  

That's the dangerous part in remembering and memorializing our accomplishments. At some point, we get to a place where we have selective nostalgia about the past. Then we pass on diluted history to our children. It's scary. It's real. It's happening. 

Now, don't for a minute think I'm saying we need to forget who we are or what we've come from. It's scary. It's real. It's happening. But let's not pretend that our Sankofa Stretch is so Strong. We all know "The Help" was an extrapolation on history, yet we awarded it! We praised it! What does it mean to Truth that we award Interpretation? We love to live in the fluffy, perfect past. Produced by Disney and Warner Brothers. Child, bye. 

I still think of Trayvon. I think about this 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington trip. I think of the crazy rates of Black and Latino boys just holding spots in juvenile facilities. I think of my little sisters who grow up in a world that sends mixed messages about their beauty and worth. I think of the ways we're all trying to make sense of our train ride. Waiting for a conductor. Taking time to breathe. Stressing. Breathing. Stressing. 

I'm wondering what's next.... 

The wonderful thing though? The Metrocard is unlimited. You can keep riding the train. Take some time and reroute. Get a transfer. Move where you must. And follow that train all the way to the last stop, stay committed to the movement.... And then move somewhere else! Move! Move! Move! 

The struggle continues. I suppose that's the optimist's understanding of a never ending fight-- you will always have a chance to make this world a better place. Cuz it's always gon' need you. 

SHOWTIME.