Joy = Protest

In the middle of a global pandemic....I protested. I'm tired. I'm exhausted. I've been Black in America my entire life. I've dealt with overt racism (called names, looks/comments when out with my white partner, pulled over while NOT breaking any law), microaggressions (you sound "white", told white privilege doesn't exist, asked "can I touch your hair" while actively trying to touch my hair) and of course systematic racism (too much to really get into). Growing up in a highly charged  constant political climate,  I actively don't engage with other about my political stances. However, racism isn't a political issue. These last few weeks have been a culmination of years of adjusting how I act, mindful of what I wear, alert to who I am around. These last few days I've been protesting. Marching. Screaming. Crying. 

And though it feels brand new...I've been protesting my entire life. 

Every time I found joy. Did something different. Woke up. I gave myself permission to laugh and be loved. Every single time was an act of protest. Sometimes that was the only act of resistance I could muster. 






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