Ep 18 | Please Don’t Ask If I’m Okay
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Description
I had to take a week off of the podcast to collect my thoughts and quite frankly grieve. A lot. I've had a few breakdowns, a few uplifting moments, but overall this year has been unbelievably overwhelming. But I'm sure I don't have to tell you that. I had one moment in particular where my grieving was kind of put on display, in public (without my consent) and it completely unravelled me. All my emotions and tragedies that I was still processing all fought at once for my immediate attention. And many of those who witnessed it decided to ask me if I'm okay. Instead of responding with, "Do I LOOK okay??" I recorded this episode.
full episode transcript
INTRO
Hey friend, coworker, facebook follower, random girl I think I either went to high school or college with.
Hey.
You’re looking for the right words to say. Something that will better represent your heart, your intention, maybe something to exude that you are ‘safe.’ Something to take the edge off. Something to comfort, to inquire, to support.
I get that. I hear it coming.
Maybe, because of recent events, you see me a bit differently now. Maybe you see the world a bit differently now. Maybe you even see yourself a bit differently. That’s a lot.
Maybe you even feel like you have to say something for fear of what it might mean if you don’t or just because you think that’s what Jesus would do. #WWJD
I see the question dancing in your eyes, sitting on your lips, waiting for it’s chance to erupt. You take a deep breath, will yourself, soften your heart, ready that text message.
I know, this is a hard one. Because the world is exploding and viruses are spreading and somehow black people are still being targeted, but now all of our eyes are on it. And I know you mean well, I know you may genuinely care, but please, today, on Loose Change, Please do not ask me if I’m okay.
PART 1
The short answer is, I’m not. There are protests in my home and protests in my home away from home. There’s a dumpster fire of sadness and change and anger and disbelief and progress on social media. I think I even saw a Martin Luther King quote on Pinterest and not the ones they taught us in school to pacify the blacks. More like the ones that made the FBI stalk and target him.
And since everyone wants to talk about it now, since you now want to talk about it, I get no respite. Think about it, for all intents and purposes, I may be one of three black people you come in contact with on a daily basis. But I am swimming in a sea of people that don’t look like me and they are all watching the news, horrified or awakened or I don’t know, in denial? You want to know how I’m doing. And I hear your heart behind it, but what I’m going through is traumatic, and I’m not exaggerating this. I’m part of the collective grief that my community feels. It’s heavy and deeply rooted. It feels like it clings to my veins, running up against my muscles, weakening me and I can’t scratch it out. And it’s way too traumatic to be going there with you and you and you and you any time you ask. Because I don’t want to lie to you. But I don’t want to have this conversation. And if you raise your eyebrow at me one more time and ask, “Are you really okay?” ...
PART 2
The long answer is, I don’t know. What even is ‘okay’ anymore? I can take my husband losing his job, but as soon as my headphones die on the train, I’m hyperventilating. And I’m not strong in the way that people assume all black women somehow are. Sometimes the days have felt so dark and lonely that I can’t even pray. I know, I said I’m lonely and yet it sounds like I’m asking you not to reach out. I hear it. It’s complicated. But this is the long answer so, let’s dive a little bit.
I had struggles before COVID. There was police brutality and black men, women, and children dying in the States before the world exploded. And living in Hong Kong, I would have to deal with that alone, with my husband and remotely with people back home. Which is isolating, feeling the people around you spew joy while you are grieving. But if we take a step further back, when black people, black children were facing tragedies at the hands of law enforcement and I was working for a major company in Atlanta, joy was still being spewed around me and I still felt isolated and left to grieve on my own. I found myself thinking, “A little girl was just thrown out of her desk by a grown man. The world is ending. Why are you all still so happy?”
I’m struggling with where I want to belong and who will have me. Where can I go where I don’t have to explain parts of black culture that I don’t fully understand with people who get that I’m a mom, but I still love going out and taking an uber home at one in the morning.
So there’s that.
And my closest friend right now, the one I don’t have to explain much to, the one I sometimes share a brain with even though he is infinitely smarter than me is leaving. Soon. Really soon. I’m not dealing with that very well, to be quite honest. And I’m afraid of what it will look like when he does go. And I’m so freakin happy that this is finally happening for him. And I’m embarrassed at my desperation to soak up just a little more time with him. And I worry that I won’t get to worry about him properly when there are multiple continents between us. Some little asshole in my head is going, “ha, you think you’re lonely now…”
And also, right now, we don’t know what comes next for our family. I just have nothing but questions. Should I be worried? Are we staying in Hong Kong? Can we? Do we have to move back to the States? Where will we live? Where will we work? Will our girls be safe? Will it be safe for them to go to school? How do I explain this to them? Will my husband get pulled over? Who will I be?
And I’m still growing and going through change. And I like that about myself. I’m making my own goals. For better or for worse I’m being challenged at work… but work… is not a safe space. That’s the place where I want to show the best version of myself, where I can develop my skills, help build something, not… be reminded of my trauma. Be confronted with it. Be made to lay it bare. Feel isolated in a crowd of people. And then be asked, if I’m okay.
OUTRO
Being human means that you have to deal with all of these changes in your life and find ways to get through it. Being black means that you have to deal with all of these changes and find ways to get through it and then you see another black person was killed for no reason. Then you have to think about or talk about that all day. Or don’t think about it and numb yourself. And everyone has an opinion on it or doesn’t care. It’s a constant emotional war. Quinta said that best.
But I realise this leaves you in an awkward situation. If you don’t say anything, will I think that you don’t care? Or worse, that you’re racist? If you do say something, are you risking making things worse? So what can you do?
Look, the thing is I’m tired and I’m not okay. Much of the world feels really unsafe. I have to be discerning with who I can let share this grief with me, figure out who will inflict the least amount of harm. I don’t love you any less, but I have limited capacity to comfort you right now. I still have responsibilities, people who depend on me. I have a job that won’t stop just because my world is on fire. I don’t know if I’m Damaya or Syan or Essun. I don’t know if I’m doing any of this right.
I can’t really tell you what I need or what you should do, what you should say. If there is one piece of comfort that I can offer you, is that I do have people that I can talk to, a God that I can talk to and even a podcast that I can talk to. And while I don’t know if that’s enough, that’s where I’m at. So you don’t need to ask.
If this still feels not enough to you, I could encourage you to try using something other than your voice. Use your money to donate to BLM and COVID relief efforts (don’t worry, we can walk and chew gum at the same time.) Use your time to read some critical literature about racial injustice. Send me flowers, that’s what you send a person in mourning, right? Oh but whatever you do, please do not hug me. And try not to ask me if I’m okay.
Dear Listener, you may not be the person I was talking to directly in this episode. You may be a black woman yourself, so this entire explanatory comma might not have been necessary for you. None of this is news to you. But my hope is that even though this episode kind of turned into a personal lament, that you may be able to see yourself in it and some of the things you have been holding on to. Not that you need it, but you have my permission to feel your feelings. Express them to whom and where you feel safe. You are not alone. I feel it, too.
Season 2 was supposed to be 10 episodes and this is episode 8, but every week has been harder and harder to produce. I want to say there will be a new episode next week, but I really just don’t know, so bare with me. In the meantime, if you are looking for more content, you can check out my husband’s podcast Toon Lure Done Right, if you need a laugh, check out The Read, if you need help or support, check out Therapy for Black Girls, if you want to learn something, check out NPR’s Code Switch. If you want to be inspired, check out Flourish in the Foreign.
Okay? Nope, not even a little bit! But we’ll talk again soon. Love you. Black lives matter.
If you are looking for a break, glimmers of hope, or simply more content, try these podcasts, all hosted by BIPOC:
The Read
Therapy for Black Girls
NPR’s Code Switch
Flourish in the Foreign
