Like many of my generation, the murder of Trayvon Martin, acquittal of George Zimmerman, and murder of Mike Brown were key moments in my radicalization. These events happened in my college years, and in some way or another, I’d become vocal against police brutality, social injustice, and anti-Black racism. My vocalization deepened, widened, and evolved the more I grew up, learned, and continued to be radicalized.
For several years, I spoke up and out. Tired, annoyed, far from interested in educating a population for whom I am not responsible. But speaking anyway. Sharing my and our frustration, voicing my disgust, calling for abolition, for freedom, calling for others to pick up the bloody mantle of a battle Black people don’t want or deserve to fight. Calling for relief. For accomplices. At the same time, I mobilized and amplified my profound, radical love for my people. My love and care for humanity. My care and passion for truth and good and what’s right.
I don’t know how much longer I lasted—I can’t pinpoint the time—but at some point, I stopped voicing out loud (read: online) when terrible, racist, inequitable things happened here and elsewhere. When I saw new news of another Black person murdered, or the Supreme Court’s overturning of Roe v. Wade, or Greece’s refusal to help migrants at sea (again), I said nothing. It wasn’t that I didn’t care (I did). It wasn’t that these things didn’t affect me (they did). It wasn’t that I didn’t have anything to say.
It was that I didn’t have anything to say. Whatever would’ve come out could. not. come. out. My mouth was dry. My words breaking off like a loose roof shingle before I had the chance to utter them.
I was tired. Exhausted.
I didn’t decide that I was done. Or taking a break. My body and throat just retired. We had spent so much time and energy and grace speaking. And what resulted? A record of our fight? A transcript?
Of course, of course, having that is important. Zora Neale Hurston said, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” A record is the least we can curate.
But a record isn’t enough (no one is saying it is). Frankly, a record is not all we’ve curated. We have gained nominal changes. But where is the change we’ve been asking for? The change we’ve been demanding? Where is the accountability? The abolition? The ceasefire? Where is it?
Why is the same stuff happening again and again and again?
Why are we seeing worse things for the first time?
Why are old ways resurfacing?
Why are cops getting bigger budgets to do more harm?
Why is Israel genociding in broad daylight with impunity?
So I stopped. I needed to rest. For my sanity. To sustain myself. I could not speak anymore.
And that is why I am grateful for the ones who could. The ones who did.
Those who spoke for me when my mouth was dry.
Like me, they are and have been tired.Like me, they are disheartened at justice not being realized. Like me, they are angry that people and institutions have gotten in our way. They are incensed that people and institutions uphold and embolden harmful systems, people, countries. They are sad to see us revert to times many thought were abandoned. They are devastated to see senseless, hate-fueled loss of innocent life. They are mourning.
And yet, they still spoke.
They continue to speak. They continue to spend so much of their time and energy and grace to push, demand for better.
I’m so grateful to all of them for that.
I’m sure many, if not all, of them wanted a break. To rest their throats. Their fingers. Their bodies. To grieve and lament and scream in private.
But they kept speaking. They keep speaking, teaching, marching, meeting, moving, organizing. They keep doing the work.
There’s no way for someone like me to feel safe in this world. Knowing what I know about it. Knowing what we know about it. But I did feel a version of safety. Not in this country. Not most of the world. But in the community of organizers and activists and movement makers.
I felt a version of safety because I knew the work was still being done. Even though I wasn’t doing it, the work was still happening. The work was happening long before me. The work will happen long after me. (Long after me. The work will last millennia.)
I want to distinguish this from being an indifferent bystander, though whether it’s appropriate to do so is not for me to decide. I wasn’t simply not doing the work of advocacy because I did not have to. I never once thought, “Other people are speaking up, so I don’t have to.” I never thought that I was relieved of my obligation because others picked up my weight.
I was keenly aware that I’d been in the ring of this life. I was beaten, bloodied, and, at the moment, resting on the ropes—but not out of the fight, not waiting for someone else to finish the rounds for me. I was regulating myself, reviving myself, replenishing myself to go back in.
Still, I do not know if that distinction is convincing. Because amidst my relief that others are doing the work, I hold a small dose of guilt in my hand.
I’ve been losing my mind, sure. To go through normal life—dare I say have moments of joy—when we know what’s happening in these United States, in Palestine, the world over, is a madness. Seeing so many people justifying the terror is worse. Over the past decade, I’ve grown numb, yet I know I need endurance to take freedom.
It is incredibly unfair that Black people, Black women especially, are expected to save everybody. It is unfair that we are perceived as having the obligation to undo racism and its progeny when it’s literally not within our ability. It is unfair that oppressed people everywhere must struggle for liberation.
It is unfair that we have to do this work. And yet, I feel bad for not doing it in this moment. For being on pause. On a break.
I feel bad that my mouth is dry.
But as I repost and repost and repost the words of others, as I see the death tolls rise, as I keep myself from crying every day, I say here to those who spoke for me when my mouth was dry: thank you.
I thank you.
I’ma get some water and come back soon. I promise I will.
I’ll meet you there. I will.
For Michael Brown, Jr., who was murdered by police exactly ten years ago today. For Sonya Massey, who was murdered by police a month ago. For every Black person I’ve been forced to know via hashtags and headlines announcing their deaths. For Black life. For Palestine. For Sudan. For the Congo. For us all. For us all. Free us all.
Featured Image: Edward Crawford returning a tear gas canister fired by police on protestors in Ferguson, Missouri. August 14, 2014. Photograph by Robert Cohen.
“I come as one, but I stand as ten thousand.” –Dr. Maya Angelou
My great-great-great-great maternal grandmother was Mary Ann Barrett. In 1865, she was freed from slavery in Palestine, Texas. Her former enslaver was a lawyer. In freedom, Mary Ann Barrett studied under him to become one herself, but she wanted someone in her family to formally study law and become an attorney.
She articulated this dream to her family. My great-great-grandmother, Lena, whom I knew as a child, told this dream to her daughter, granddaughter, and great-granddaughters, including my mother. Interestingly, I didn’t know about this dream until after I graduated from law school.
Today, I was sworn into the District of Columbia bar, simultaneously becoming the manifestation of my ancestor’s specific dream. I am the first in this line of my family to do so. I had the honor of being sworn in by Judge Zuberi Williams, a history-maker himself who also administered the oath of professionalism to my 1L class on our first day of law school orientation. Thank you, Judge Williams, for administering my oath of admission today. It is an honor to have shared this full-circle moment.
The law is imperfect. Indeed, it is deeply flawed. It allowed Mary Ann Barrett and millions more to be enslaved for 400 years. However, the law can be good, and people can use it for good. My great-great-great-great-grandmother recognized the importance of having us in these spaces of power for good, and I hope to honor her legacy by making positive, meaningful change as a practitioner in this field.
Thank you to my ancestors, our ancestors, known and unknown, who relentlessly dreamed and demanded a better life and more equitable world. I am the fruit of their labor. Thank you to God, family, and friends for getting me here.
In the last year, our world remains unchanged. As I think of and mourn the ten victims of racial terror in Buffalo, New York, the majority of whom were Black women, I am reminded (somehow, without ever forgetting) of the work left to do. The work we cannot do on our own.
One year ago today, I published my first academic piece, “#SeeHerName: Using Intersectionality and Storytelling to Bring Visibility to Black Women in Employment Discrimination and Police Brutality,” in the DePaul Journal for Social Justice. In the article, I use critical race theory to discuss the invisibility of Black women and their unique experiences in life and death. This invisibility precludes Black women from enjoying legal protections, social value, and freedom. I argue that Black women’s invisibility is rooted in a historical system of oppression established by lies and omissions and that true liberation can only come by first unearthing and contextualizing those lies.
In a year, “#SeeHerName” has been downloaded worldwide over 500 times on DePaul’s website, made available on Westlaw and SSRN, and featured on a handful of blogs. My thanks to those who have read, shared, and given feedback on the article.
I wish our world improved in the last year. In very, very small ways, it did. For example, and on point with this piece, the CROWN Act is closer than ever to becoming U.S. federal law. But largely, our world remains unchanged.
As I think of and mourn the ten victims of racial terror in Buffalo, New York, the majority of whom were Black women, I am reminded (somehow, without ever forgetting) of the work left to do. The work we cannot do on our own. The work we need them to take up.
I’ve said before that the essence of “#SeeHerName” is summarized in this one footnote, a quote from James Baldwin that says it all so succinctly. More than that, Brother Baldwin’s words underscore my overall commitment to truth-telling and lie-unearthing. We need both to get free.
To that end, I am encouraged by those who have and are doing the work of telling the truth and exposing the lies. The work of hope, which is exhausting. The work toward freedom. For all of us. I pray we get there someday.
Roberta A. Drury, Margus D. Morrison, Andre Mackneil, Aaron Salter, Geraldine Talley, Celestine Chaney, Heyward Patterson, Katherine Massey, Pearl Young, Ruth Whitfield of Buffalo, New York. Rest in power.
It was 2008. I was 13. I don’t remember where I was going––perhaps violin rehearsal at my instructor’s studio or choir rehearsal at the community music school. What I do remember is that, at that moment, my life was about to change.
I looked up and saw a billboard. On it was a woman who would mean more to mean than I knew at the time. She was in front of a flood of dark magenta. Her arms crossed her forward chest, hands clenching her opposite shoulders. She was in some sort of split, in a way I’d never seen before. If her legs were clock hands, the time would be 4:50. At the end of her legs were pointed feet. I knew then that she was a dancer.
Her eyes were fierce. Her face intense. Her curly black hair was above her, revealing something that made the photograph more extraordinary. She was falling––rather, descending. This woman had jumped, positioned herself, and was captured on her way down.
Linda Celeste Sims by Andrew Eccles
This was a brief moment. I only viewed this billboard for a few seconds from the backseat of my parent’s car. Beside this heroine were the capitalized words “ALVIN AILEY AMERICAN DANCE THEATER.” I am sure I’d heard that name before that day, but something about this viewing was different. It stuck. The dance company was performing in my city at my state’s largest performing arts venue, one at which I had and would perform several times. The billboard promoted the show. I asked my mother if I could see it. She said yes and got tickets.
I don’t know how much time passed between my first sighting of that billboard and my first sighting of the Ailey company, but I know that I left the show forever changed.
I sat in my seat and turned to the Ailey section of the playbill/bulletin. In it was that photo of that woman, this time in black and white. Under it, I read the woman’s name for the first time: Linda Celeste Sims.
I watched you, Linda, and the company dance. I fell in love with Ailey that night. I wish I could say I remember which works I took in. I think I saw Love Stories. I obviously witnessed Revelations.
I’d grown up watching dance in various forms, taking in The Nutcracker every year and occasionally managing a Broadway show. But something about this was different. Maybe it was the genre of dance I was taking in. This was the first time in my memory viewing modern dance. Maybe it was the company being made up of members who looked like me––though I’d experienced something like it upon seeing the genius Savion Glover lead Bring in ‘da Noise, Bring in ‘da Funk. Whatever it was about the Ailey company, I was hooked.
That night, after returning home from the show, I cut out that black and white photo of you and hung it on my bedroom wall. The image remained there as a source of inspiration and aspiration until I moved shortly before college. That cut-out is still among some things from my youth.
A year ago today, it was announced that you and your husband, the incredible Glenn Allen Sims, were retiring from the company after 24 and 23 years, respectively. I was so happy for you both and prompted to reflect on your impact on my life.
Linda Celeste Sims and Glenn Allen Sims by Bjorn Iooss
Over the years, I would see as many Ailey shows as I could. I would watch documentaries, find video snippets of the company’s repertoire, and catch interviews and features until I could get my hands on the next ticket. As soon as I’d sit in the theatre, I’d scan my playbill for your name. If I saw “Linda Celeste Sims” on paper, I knew I was in for not only something amazing but something extraordinary. As years went on, my perceptions were confirmed by other reviews: year after year, season after season, you were, somehow, getting better and better.
When I watched you dance, I was not only able to decipher the feelings you emoted, but somehow those feelings, for a time, became mine. I would feel the love, anguish, exhaustion, relief, joy, and whatever else you brought onstage. That transfer of emotions was most effortless when you danced with Glenn. You’ve mentioned before that dancing together is so natural that it’s like breathing.
As a viewer, I felt it. I’m sure more than one person has cited “Fix Me, Jesus” from Revelations. Perhaps, The River. Once, at what I believe was my penultimate time seeing your brilliance in person, you and Glenn danced Christopher Wheeldon’s After the Rain pas de deux. I’d seen that ballet a handful of times, via Ailey or other dancers, but this was my first time watching you and Glenn, separately and together, dance it. Watching that pas de deux was like watching it for the first time. A literal single tear escaped my eye. It was, you are, that beautiful.
I could go on about the new The Winter in Lisbon film released as a part of your farewell––how you, in your longeveity, could still move like that. I could speak on how unbelievable it was to witness the genius up close in the following master class on Zoom. I could say a lot, but what’s most important is that I say thank you.
Thank you, Linda.
My introduction to this company, by way of your tilt, split, and jump photograph, was the spark to discover more. I studied up on Mr. Ailey and have come to respect him and the gifts he brought this world. As years went on, I expanded. I got to know other companies, other dancers––past and present––other genres. I see dance everywhere. Because of you, my world opened up in a way I wouldn’t have imagined. Because of you, I went from an observer of dance who admired it to a dance enthusiast who deeply marveled at dancers.
I use marvel purposely––not only because I’m astonished when dancers move but because, to me, dancers are superheroes. I am in awe, in wonder, when witnessing how dancers leap, contort, and glide in ways others cannot. As premier athletes, you dancers make the most physically demanding things look as easy and as graceful as turning a book’s page is like magic.
Linda Celeste Sims by Andrew Eccles
It has been an absolute joy of my life to fall in love with dance by way of the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, and you, Linda, are an inextricable part of that joy.
Thank you, Linda.
I’ve learned a lot from you on and off stage. Through you, I’ve learned and seen what it looks like to be at the very top of one’s craft and still improving. I’ve seen what it looks like to seemingly be at capacity and making room for more. I’ve seen what it looks like to give your all and then some. Through you, I’ve learned that I should aspire to be my best and then be my best. Through you, I’ve witnessed the power of extraordinary talent and the power of skill. Through you, I’ve witnessed the power of technique, the necessity of mastering technique, and the freedom to bloom beyond technique into something more beautiful. I’ve witnessed how the same stories can be told more colorfully as we returned to them with our new knowledge and experiences. I’ve learned how we can see the same thing differently because we’ve grown up.
Because of you, I look at what I’ve done and ask, “what else?” What else can I give? What else can I do? How can I improve myself?
Through you, of course, I’ve loved this art form. Thank you for sharing your art with us, and thank you for doing the painstaking, unrelenting, and unglamorous work that brought and kept you onstage to share with us. Thank you for inspiring and teaching generations of dancers and non-dancers alike. Thank you for calling us to be better. You are one of the greatest artisans of our time, and I am blessed that God has allowed me to bear witness.
Thank you, Linda.
I hope this chapter of your life is even more fulfilling than your last. More than you could ever ask or imagine.
The Internet may know Anna Horford as the sister of five-time NBA All-Star Al Horford, but she has always been her own person. Anna has never been afraid to speak her mind. She loudly and unapologetically discusses a wide range of topics, from sex and wine to mental health and social justice. However, Anna’s outspokenness, particularly when talking basketball and supporting her oldest brother, attracts many eyes, including those of Twitter trolls and keyboard thugs. Every day, her notifications are filled with mean tweets, toxic messages, and even death threats.
Still, Anna does not back down. Instead, she claps back with truth to cast a light on the dark side of social media. I got to chat with Anna about her family, her relationship with NBA fans, and why she’ll always speak up, no matter what people say.
(L-R) Al, Maria, Josh, Anna, and Jon Horford
I love your family. I’ve known some of you for a long time, and one of the things I love is how you all are so supportive of one another. Were you intentionally raised to support, uplift, and express love for each other? I think the biggest reason we are all so supportive of each other is because of our mom who is a very hardworking, badass businesswoman. She just raised us to really love each other and always be there for each other, and we’ve all become so protective over one another. In our eyes, that’s just what you do for family. Family comes first, so we just try to be as supportive as possible.
You all played sports. Did having a father in the NBA, Tito Horford, then later a brother in the NBA and another going D1, make you more competitive? How did that affect how you participated in sports? Everyone in our family is pretty competitive. This didn’t happen for me so much because I blew out my knee when I was so young, but for my younger siblings, it made things so much harder for them. There was an insane amount of pressure that came with a dad in the NBA, a brother in the NBA, and another brother who played professionally and went D1. It motivated us to find success when we looked at how well our family did, but it also kind of hindered us because of the expectations others placed on us.
Did having a father and two brothers who were successful in sports inform how you consumed sports as a spectator? Definitely. I think that we have more empathy for athletes, and we have more understanding than the casual fan just because we know what goes into being a professional athlete. We know the toll it takes and how difficult it is, so that gives us a more complete understanding.
So Al was drafted in 2007. That’s almost 15 years in the NBA. He’s played for the Hawks, Celtics, Philly, and now OKC. I want to know about your experience––we’ll start with the good experiences––as a sister with Al’s fanbase and the larger fanbases of the teams he was or is on. Al being in Atlanta was a really great experience. The fans were cool, and I love the city. He was the third overall pick, so the Hawks weren’t a great team at the time. As a rookie, he really proved his worth and became their franchise player, their cornerstone. I think he really loved his time with the Hawks and learned a lot. When it came for him to leave, it was fueled by the fact that he wants to win an NBA championship.
Let’s move to Boston. I think Al was well-received by Boston. He played well there. You were well-received. Your podcast, which we’ll talk about later, is hosted by a Boston media company. What was your experience as a sister with Boston fans? Boston was really great for us because Al was really sought after when he signed his contract with them. The franchise and the fans were really excited. One thing about Boston, though, is that you have to prove your worth, and the fans will definitely let you know if you’re not doing that. Luckily, they realized and appreciated Al’s leadership and that he played really well for them. They’re hard on their players, but it was almost a tough love.
The City of Boston embraced the Horford family, so we embraced them back. My sister and I would go to a lot of games, and fans were always so welcoming, excited to see us, and very supportive. I was devastated when Al left and went to Philly because we had made so many friends with the media, and Maria [Anna’s sister] and I would hang out with Al’s teammates. Boston felt like a home to us and definitely has a special place in our hearts.
Before we move on to Philly, I want to touch on the not-so-great stuff. Along with your good experiences, you’ve had dark, hateful, mean stuff coming at you from trolls and fans and whoever else. When did you notice that you were starting to get negativity directed at you? It actually started when Al was in his last season with the Hawks. The Hawks and the Cavs, which was LeBron’s team, had been going head-to-head in the playoffs repeatedly. I was very vocal about being supportive of my brother and his teammates, and Cavs fans took that very personally. I went back and forth with them, and a couple of viral tweets later, I was the most hated person in Ohio. They put one of my tweets up on the big screen at the arena in Cleveland, and the crowd booed, but I was only trying to be supportive of my brother and his team.
People generally hate strong, opinionated, vocal women. Whether people want to admit it or not, the patriarchy is still alive and well, so I think that’s where a lot of the hate comes from. That’s where the death threats come from. I was even put on this rape list; a group of guys on Twitter were targeting women with social media followings. Regardless of whether something would’ve happened to me, the idea that I was put on this list really rocked me.
Do you think, in addition to your gender, that your race plays a role in how people treat you? Definitely. People have said really racist stuff about my siblings and me. Someone tweeted me saying, “Go back to the Dominican Republic.” I’ve seen “your brother would be better off picking cotton.” People have called us the n-word. A lot of people feel threatened by the success of not only a woman but a woman of color. It makes them want to “put me in my place ” even more because they don’t think I should be able to have an opinion or say what I want to say.
I sense being introduced to hateful messages online was off-putting at first. Did you ever want to cower down, or did you stand in your power? I know you probably feel differently about it now than you did in the beginning. In the beginning, it was more of a shock than anything. It didn’t make me want to back down because I’m stubborn and strong, and our mom has taught us not to back down from bullies. But earlier on, it took more of a toll on me because it was so new.
Now, and this sounds bad, but I’ve just become acclimated to it. I’m so used to it that I’ll scroll through my hundreds of mentions, see a bunch of nasty comments, and just shrug and keep scrolling. It doesn’t really impact me as much as it did in the beginning.
Can you really be unaffected by that constantly? You’re getting this vitriol day in and day out. It definitely does affect me because I’m reading it. Things can get kind of heavy, especially depending on the comments. For example, I take threats more seriously. At this point, though, the comments are not detrimental to my well-being or mental health, which I’m pretty open about. I struggle with depression and anxiety and talk about it a lot on Twitter and on my podcast.
I find it interesting how you choose to interact with some of these people by shedding light on their negativity. Some people will say you shouldn’t bring attention to those things. Others say if you don’t bring light to it, people won’t know what’s going on. Why do you do fall in the latter group? Some things can’t be ignored. If I don’t show people what’s being said to me, they really don’t believe what’s being said, how nasty it gets, or that I’m getting threats. That’s why I’ve shown up with receipts. If people don’t know how bad it is, it’s never going to get better.
Ignoring a problem doesn’t eradicate it. It won’t go away; it’s going to grow roots and become even more poisonous.
Speaking of poison, when Al was in Philly, the fans threw extra unwarranted hate at youand your brother. Why? What I’ve learned about Philly is that they’re really hard on their players. I realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t just Al; they’re hard on Ben [Simmons] and Joel [Embiid]. If you’re not living up to their impossible standards, they’re going to throw you under the bus the moment they can. I learned that that’s just Philly culture.
Philly wanted Al because he killed them every year in the playoffs while on the Celtics, but Al did not fit into their system. They clearly had no chemistry, the coach didn’t know how to use him, and I don’t think they had the intention to allow him to play in a successful way, which was really frustrating to watch. Now, Al’s had a bounce-back season with OKC where he looks like his old self again.
It doesn’t matter how talented a player is. If you don’t have chemistry with a team or fit in its system, you won’t produce results. That’s what happened with Philly, and they really took it out on Al––and I’m obviously going to be protective because if you come for anyone in my family, I’m not going to just sit there and take it.
After leaving a chaotic relationship with Philly, what was your experience with OKC’s fanbase? We’re from the Midwest, and people are so nice, almost too nice here. Something about Oklahoma reminds me of the Midwest. People are so friendly.
Everyone was so excited that Al signed with OKC. They fully embraced and welcomed our family, and Al’s obviously doing really well this year. They’re a young team, but they’re fun to watch. The fanbase has been great––no negativity. It’s like night and day from going from Philly to OKC, so I think Al’s really grateful to be somewhere where he’s really appreciated and where people show kindness.
Let’s pivot from basketballto social justice. Why do you speak up about issues in that arena? We were taught to stand up for people and to show compassion and empathy. It might be more fun to talk about basketball or celebrity news, but it’s more important to talk about racial injustice and gay rights and people who are suffering in America’s lower class. It’s not sexy to talk about those issues, but they need to be addressed. Like I said earlier, if you ignore something, it’s not going to help the problem.
All of my siblings try to be as vocal as we can about injustice. That goes back to how we were raised by our mom. She taught us to love people no matter their skin color, religion, age, or background. I recognize a lot of people in Grand Ledge [Michigan], a predominately white area, didn’t have that growing up.
In terms of social media engagement, are you frustrated by some of what people choose to make important versus what’s actually important? It actually really drives me crazy that I can tweet something stupid or something about basketball and get thousands of likes and retweets, but when I post a petition or something for someone in need, I get about ten likes and five retweets. I know thousands of people are reading it, but no one’s touching it. I just want to shake people sometimes and say, “Why don’t you care about this?”
Courtesy of CLNS Media Network
You talk about many important issues on your podcast, Horford Happy Hour. The topics range from the sexy stuff to the not-so-fun stuff. How did you start the podcast, and what has it been like using your voice in a different medium? I started Horford Happy Hour a few years ago. I was going to do it on my own, but then I was approached by the CLNS Media Network in Boston because they wanted to translate how I am on social media into a podcast. A few seasons later, I’m still doing it and loving it. The network doesn’t restrict me, which was really important because I wanted to talk about whatever I wanted to without being censored.
Like you said, I sometimes talk about serious stuff, but we talk about fun stuff like sex and dating. I wanted Horford Happy Hour to cover a wide range of topics, so people from different backgrounds could tune in and find something relatable. I really appreciate everyone who tunes into the episodes, and I hope to keep it going a while longer.
Do you find that Horford Happy Hour has been an educational tool for you? Oh, definitely. I have learned so much. Just being able to openly talk about these different topics has opened my eyes. And that’s why we’re here. What is life if you’re not learning, growing, and adapting? My podcast has helped me do that.
Last question. What would you say to people who may not be in your position but wants to use their voiceand be as unwavering as you are? Be truthful, speak your mind, and don’t give up even if you feel disheartened.
I mentioned earlier how frustrating it is for me that I get less interaction on social media with serious topics than I do with basketball or whatever else. But if I only got ten likes and five retweets on a campaign I shared to help someone who’s struggling, that’s still ten likes and five retweets. You’re still reaching people, and that matters. That’s important.
Even if only one person saw it, at least one person saw it. No matter how much you feel like you aren’t being heard, keep pushing forward.
This interview has been edited and condensedfor clarity.
U.S. National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: Call 1-800-273-TALK (8255)or text 741741
Five years ago today, a reporter from The New York Times informed me that my friend was found dead of suicide.
I was stunned. I didn’t know what to think. I had just returned to the states from holiday, and while I was gone, my friend killed himself. I couldn’t believe it.
The same reporter and I had an hour-long interview in which I discussed my friend and the contours of our friendship. The man I knew was an up-and-coming artist who was imaginative, kind, and generous. He was so generous that once, while I was in university, I sent him a case of tea, and he sent back a DSLR camera because he knew I needed one. My friend was a little eccentric, but everyone is weird in some way.
After my first interview, I hastily got online and read some of my friend’s blog and the already-published articles about his character and death. I was shocked. Again. Shocked by what I read, shocked by who and what I did not know, shocked that I missed so much of what was happening in his life.
I’ve written and rewritten and written again this piece for five years. I originally intended for it to be an elaborate, heart-tugging account followed by a call to action, but I couldn’t escape feeling like I was exploiting the memory of my friend in the name of a great story. I didn’t want to do that––it had already been done––yet nothing I wrote down seemed good enough to share.
Five years later, I realize nothing may be “good enough,” so I’m simply offering my best and cutting to chase.
We need to be seen.
I believe this message, if you would call it that, is particularly timely in light of the current state of the world.
Coronavirus has produced unprecedented stress in nearly everyone’s lives. We have had to stay home––many of us alone––and sharply depart from whatever our normal lives were. Seclusion has forced us, with more time and fewer distractions, to intimately face our demons. Job and food insecurity; grief for the death of tens of thousands of family, friends, and strangers; and fear of our own death are added pressures from this global health pandemic.
In the United States, Black people face another pandemic, as we have had to endure generational trauma and psychological warfare, to start, since this country’s inception. In this contemporary age, we are constantly exposed to videos of Black people being killed by white people, particularly white police officers, for little to no reason. Following the repeated trauma of seeing people like us die onscreen, we see the killers go unpunished. Black therapists have been working overtime since the death of George Floyd. We have turned our anger, disdain, and hurt into protests and organizing against police brutality, an unjust criminal justice system, white supremacy, and violence against Black people. But we are exhausted and traumatized, still, in this attempt to get free.
People all over the world, and right next to you, are hurting and dying inside. We would never know because we never ask. So many broken people carry their brokenness so well that we cannot even tell––but they wish we could tell. It is on us to check in.
How are you, really? How’s your heart? Are you doing okay?
People are wanting to answer. Waiting to answer.
When you notice people, in person or online, venting about their pressures, their negative feelings, their disdain for their family, being bullied, hating life, they need to be seen. They’re dropping cues, hints, often subtle cries for help.
“See me,” they’re saying. “I need to be seen.”
We need to look.
I mentioned that the man I knew was imaginative, kind, and generous. He was those things, but he was also more. When The Times eventually published the 2,000-word story, I felt like I was reading about a completely different person. I learned that my friend, an amiable artist, was also a troubled, mentally-unstable man who acted erroneously. Evidence of his torment is still being displayed, even this year. Though I am not at all proud of his actions, I believe still that somewhere deep down, he was a good person––one who desperately needed help.
Towards the end of our friendship, I noticed some irregularities, but I dismissed them. He’s unusual, I thought. That’s how he is. I wish now that I hadn’t credited my friend’s unordinary behavior to him being artistic and interesting. I wish I engaged him more. Perhaps if I looked more closely, things for him would’ve ended differently.
Mental health is important, and mental illness is real. We have to remove the stigma surrounding mental illness, look for clues that people are struggling with it, and read up on resources to give to others when we encounter them. Until we as a society do the work to educate ourselves and authentically accept mental illness for what it is, those suffering from those illnesses––potentially ourselves––will continue to hide, suffer alone, and go without needed help.
We need to engage.
Engage. Even if you don’t think you have the proper tools. Even if you’re not friends. Even if you’re scared. Even if comforting is uncomfortable. Even if you’re unsure. Especially if you’re unsure. Because being wrong is better than being indifferent. Because checking just in case is always better than simply hoping someone is all right. Because engaging isn’t about your comfort. Engaging isn’t about you. It is about someone else’s life. It is about saving someone’s life.
I’ve tried again and again to write the perfect thing here. Since the death of my friend five years ago, I’ve lost too many others to suicide. Acquaintances like middle school friends and college classmates, icons like Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, others like Jas Waters just two weeks ago. Too many people have died.
I don’t have time to come up with something perfect. Instead, I’ve done my best, and I hope this somehow encourages you to put aside perfect and do your best, too.
Do your best. To be seen. To look. To engage. Do your best.
Your best is good enough. It may be enough to save someone’s life.
If you feel alone and don’t want to be here, please stay. You are good enough. You are loved. Choose life. You are worthy of life.
Wow. Today marks my tenth blogging anniversary. I’ve basically raised a child and had my second-longest relationship* with NIA SPEAKS. Crazy. Here are a few lessons I’ve learned along the way.
When you take your thing seriously, others eventually will, too.
I started NIA SPEAKS at the end of my sophomore year of high school, and by the time I was in university, I hit the ground running. I was in a new city with a new population of people to turn into viewers––an audience that would go beyond the reach of my Facebook posts and promotion in other blog’s comment sections––so I knew I had to capitalize on the opportunity.
I pedaled my newly-ordered, poorly designed blog business cards all over campus. I had three too many fonts on the 3.5×2″ pieces of paper with a Dr. Seuss quote on the back (what?), but I was clear about what I wanted: eyes on my site.
I would hand my cards to people upon our first meeting––in class, in my dorm, at the market. I’d stick or pin my card anywhere I could find space. “Never look down on free publicity,” I’d say when placing my stack of cards next to those of physiotherapists, cosmetologists, and accountants. I had no shame. I had no reservation. I was serious about what I wanted.
That legwork, coupled with me rigorously promoting myself online, paid off. At school, most people who didn’t know me well at least knew me as “the girl with the blog.” The year after I graduated, a student texted me a photo of my blog’s URL on a classroom whiteboard. People knew I was about it, and that hasn’t changed. My viewership has continued to climb.
It’s okay to engage in pure hobbies. Not everything has to be a side hustle.
Monetization wasn’t a goal or even a thought when I started blogging. I simply wanted to create, and many of the people in my blogosphere simply wanted the same. As time has moved on, more bloggers are monetizing, and I’m all for it. Get your money, sis!
I’ve been asked over and over if I ever plan to monetize NIA SPEAKS. And to be honest, I’m good. Don’t be mistaken; I’m always looking for new ways to make money, and I’ve parlayed NIA SPEAKS into other paid writing gigs, but it’s nice to let this space simply be mine. I like that this space is free from the influence of sponsors, purely made from my voice, and unattached to any commitments I don’t want for it.
I think my generation has nearly been side-hustled to death. So many of us are always looking for new income streams, myself included. We take what we love, like, or tolerate and turn it into a business––and believe me, that’s fine. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to enjoy things to enjoy them. It’s okay to let your hobby just be your hobby––free for you to enjoy, free for you to pick up and put down as you please.
You can find friends anywhere.
Some of the coolest people you will ever meet are in the blogosphere. As I’ve said, I spent my super early blogging days all over the web in other blogger’s comment sections. Through NIA SPEAKS, I’ve been able to connect with so many people I would’ve never known. I’ve grown up with longtime followers and friends across the globe. I’ve known some of my blogging friends longer than I’ve known some of my other friends.
What’s more amazing is that bloggers’ connections are not limited to web. Over the past ten years, I’ve tapped into blogging communities that not only support each other online but have real-life meet-and-greets, networking events, and grind sessions. The support, camaraderie, and community we’ve been able to foster have been amazing and the highlight of my blogging years. If you decide to tap into the blogosphere, you won’t be disappointed.
Don’t write to say something. Write when you have something to say.
I went through a period for a couple of years in which I peppered good content amidst what I called “filler content.”
I posted often because I didn’t want NIA SPEAKS to look abandoned. I posted often to meet monthly quotas. I posted often because I saw full-time bloggers posting as often as three times a day. I posted often just to say something. But the filler content wasn’t good. It was only all right. It was mediocre, and I was raised to not entertain mediocrity. I was tired of writing just to say something.
Now, instead of just saying something, I write when I have something to say. Quality over quantity has guided me in these later blogging years. I now can go months at a time without posting, without feeling worried about putting something up. But when I do have something to say, I speak. When I post, it’s flames (at least to me). The freedom in this has been glorious.
Your voice matters even if no one is listening.
When I started this, I simply wanted a place for my voice. I wanted my ideas to be somewhere beyond my mind or the air around my mouth. That Dr. Seuss quote I had on the back of my first business cards? “Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”
It doesn’t matter if 10,000 or ten or zero people are listening to you. You matter. Your opinion matters. Your experience matters. Your voice matters. And as long as you’re honest, your voice will settle into itself. Claim space then take space. You are worthy of space, and you deserve to speak.
So speak.
*My longest relationship has been with my Starbucks Rewards card. Hey, boo.
Tea: Hot Chocolate Type: Pu’er, Black Flavour Notes: Cocoa, rich, sweet Ingredient Origins: Yunnan, China Caffeine Level: 3/5*
Hot Chocolate was my first dabble into DAVIDsTEA, and I was not disappointed. This blend of pu’er and black teas with cocoa and chocolate turns into a sweet, creamy, near-fudgy cup truly worthy of its name. Though I am unsure of what kind of black tea is used in this blend, pu’er (or pu-erh) is all the rage among tea-lovers. Pu’er is produced in the Yunnan province of China by microbial fermentation and oxidation after the tea leaves have been rolled and dried––an absolute star in any cup.
DAVIDsTEA’s Hot Chocolate is truly the most chocolatey tea I’ve ever tasted. If you want to drink hot chocolate without the guilt and with an energizing kick, this blend is for you.
Preparation:
Hot – Use 2.5 teaspoons of tea for every 2 cups of water. Steep tea leaves in 95°C/200°F water for five minutes.
Iced – If an oxymoronic iced hot chocolate is your speed, brew the tea hot and serve over ice.
Latte – Add milk to your hot or iced drink for an even creamier flavour!
Pairings: Rich desserts
Do you like chocolatey teas? Do you have a favourite? Let me know in the comments!
Last week, Kim Kardashian West revealed in her Vogue cover story that she is studying law with plans to take the California Bar Exam in 2022. She will be doing so in an unconventional way––instead of earning a law degree, Kardashian West will complete a four-year apprenticeship before sitting for the exam, an avenue the California State Bar and some others allow.
In classic Kardashian-hating form, people came for Kardashian West, calling her way a shortcut and easy way out.
I’m honestly glad for Kardashian West. Last year, she did an incredible thing in helping free Alice Marie Johnson, and I’m happy she wants to do more. As CNN commentator Van Jones said, “This is the daughter of an accomplished attorney and the mother of three Black kids who is using her full power to make a difference on a tough issue and is shockingly good at it.”
Yesterday, Kardashian West clapped back at her dissenters via Instagram. And I’m glad she did.
In this, I support Kardashian West. I think it’s great that she wants to be a lawyer, and I want her to succeed. And she’s right––nothing should limit the pursuit of anyone’s dreams. I agreed with almost everything she wrote. Almost.
In her caption, Kardashian West stated that her privilege and money didn’t get her to this point.
But that’s not true.
Though her resolve to do more good may have informed her decision to become a lawyer, her determination may keep her engulfed in a tedious study regimen, and her perseverance may lead to her success in this endeavour, money and privilege have still played a huge part in Kardashian West getting to this point.
The path toward becoming a lawyer is, by structure, very classist. In America, most people become lawyers by taking the traditional route of attending law school sometime after university, and to simply be a law student already requires a great deal of financial ability. Many law schools forbid their full-time students, particularly 1Ls (first-year students), from holding jobs during the school year. Other schools limit full-time students to working only 20 hours a week.
The reason for the restriction is that full-time law students take, at minimum, 12 hours of class a week, and the American Bar Association suggests studying two to three hours for each hour of class, so between class and outside study, a law student is studying somewhere between 36 and 48 hours a week. Being a law student is a full-time job. To also have a regular job is nearly unendurable.
My law school is in expensive-expletive Washington, D.C., and with school’s already daunting cost of attendance plus a high rent, I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of ways to stack up enough money to live. (Don’t worry. I’m signing my life away to even more students loans. I’m not crying; you’re crying.) Even still, I’m typing this from a place of privilege, as most of the upfront financial burden will be on my parents. Not everyone can say the same.
People from lower socioeconomic classes don’t have the luxury of not working. Without scholarship, family money, a deficit, or a lottery win, meeting the financial demand of a full-time law student is simply impossible. Taking the Bar costs several thousand dollars. I’m almost sick thinking about it.
Enter my tiny––yet significant––issue with Kardashian West’s assertion.
Becoming a lawyer is not easily accessible. Again, I support Kardashian West’s efforts to become a lawyer. Many may view her route as a shortcut, but I don’t. Though most people traditionally become lawyers by way of law school, several people also do it her way. She’ll be studying just as long––longer really––as any other law student and will take the same exam that any other hopeful Californian attorney will take. As she said, the Bar doesn’t care who you are, and studying the law is a lot of hard work––work that Kardashian West is putting in.
But hard work isn’t the only thing that got her here. Wealth, and its privilege, greatly helped her ability to create her own lane. And though the option is available to everyone, the access simply is not.
Registering for the California Bar Exam, on its own, is godly expensive. Bar preparation tools are expensive. Childcare, to be away to study, is expensive. Tutors are expensive. The privilege of access is also significant here. Van Jones introduced Kardashian West to Jessica Jackson. Jackson and Erin Haney are not just Kardashian West’s mentors or even “regular” lawyers––Jackson and Haney are the co-founding national director and national policy director, respectively, for #cut50, a national organization fighting to reduce the prison population, where Kardashian West is doing her legal apprenticeship.
Wealth matters. Access matters. Privilege matters. Unfortunately, those facts bleed all over the law. A guilty rich person is more likely to beat a conviction than an innocent poor person. Similarly, a rich studier of the law is more likely to be successful than poorer student––not because the former doesn’t study just as diligently or the latter has a lower IQ but because the rich, plainly, have access to more resources.
Perhaps I’m writing this because I just finished reading Outliers, where Malcolm Gladwell, through storytelling and documented research, shows how much access affects success and the trajectories of people’s lives. Perhaps I’m writing this because I’m very broke and trying to figure out how to survive law school without an income. The point is I’m writing the truth.
I’m not writing this to diminish the very real work I’m sure Kardashian West is putting in, nor am I trying to squash her goal or downplay the path she’s on to achieve it. I love the law. I truly can’t wait to become an attorney, and I cheer on anyone who wants to do the same. But I firmly believe it is irresponsible to say “that’s not the case” to those who observe that wealth and privilege play a part in success. To trivialize wealth and brush it off as something that doesn’t matter is not right. To insist that only hard work breeds success is disingenuous, in any situation. Kardashian West and others with the privilege of wealth and access have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps, but they shouldn’t compare themselves to those without boots.
Anyway, cheers, Kim! I truly wish you well on your torts essay and the rest of your law career.
Tea: Front Porch Special Type: Black (Variety: Assam, Ceylon) Flavour Notes: Sophisticated, minty, floral Ingredient Origins: India, Sri Lanka, United States Caffeine Level: 5/5*
I first tasted Piper & Leaf’s Front Porch Special during the summer of 2016 in the heat of Huntsville, Alabama, and I make a point to take a swig whenever I’m in town. A blend of Assam and Ceylon black teas, jasmine, spearmint, bergamot, and cornflower, the Front Porch Special takes a southern tradition and gives it a delicately sublime twist.
Front Porch Special won a Southern Living Food Award in 2015
Preparation:
Iced – Brew 2.5 teaspoons of tea in 1.5 cups of 212° water for 3.5 minutes. Strain, sweeten, then pour over a quart of ice.
Protip: Kick it up with lemonade to make a refreshing Arnold Palmer!
Hot – For every 8-10z cup of tea, brew 1 teaspoon at 212° for 3.5 minutes.
Pairings: Hot summer days
Note: I assumed the tea’s caffeine content based on my knowledge of Assam and Ceylon teas.
Do you have a favourite iced tea? Let me know in the comments!
![Footnote 121 of Nia Langley's article, "#SeeHerName," which is a quote from James Baldwin:
"[T]he people . . . who settled the country had a fatal flaw. They could recognize a man when they saw one. They knew . . . he wan't anything else but a man. But since they are Christian, and since they had already decided that they came here to establish a free country, the only way to justify the role this chattel was playing in one's life was to say that he was not a man, because if he wasn't a man then no crime had been committed. That lie is the basis of our present trouble."](https://i0.wp.com/nialangley.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2022/05/Nia-Langley-SeeHerName-FN-121-4.jpeg?resize=428%2C242&ssl=1)
