living in violence
I am violent because I came into a violent world, violently. When my mom was eight months pregnant, my older brother dove into a dumpster and cut his cheek with a jagged shard of metal. My mom took one look at the blood and went into labor.
My first breath was violent; the cord wrapped around my neck stunted my growth. Everyone is aggressive when you’re a short black woman. I started fighting at four. I’d watch my father hit my mother and my mother hit my brothers.
I’ve cussed out over 3,000 people, daring them to talk shit just so I could punch them in the mouth. So nonviolence is not my fairytale because my life is violent so I am violent. I live violently. I love violently.
But I also know what love is. I know what peace is; I know how to protect it.
My peace is in my home; my peace is in my children; my peace is in my lover. But I make sure my children fear me. I’m the little voice in their heads that reminds them that there will be consequences when they fuck up. Because you’re supposed to grow up knowing that someone is always watching.
But they know I love them. And that’s what matters.