Tears Streaming and Chest High

From my friend Robert Burgess on Facebook:

I’d like to wake up just one morning and not relive black trauma at every moment.

It would be to nice roll over and kiss my beautiful wife, hug my exceptional children and have black grief ignore me for just one day.

But that is not today. Probably won’t be tomorrow. Or anytime soon.

Reality is waking up in a thick cloud of frustration, anxiety, fear and anger.

Reality is operating in that volcanic space at work, in conversations and alone as if things are normal but truthfully there is an F5 tornado swirling around my mind.

Reality is layering those feelings with a pandemic, an economic crisis and a white supremacist President.

The weight is enough to break any aware, lucid human, black or not.

Yet...inequality in Black spaces has evolved our ability to persevere despite the traumatic obstacles. Like ocean fins to feet, it came out of the need to survive and lives on.

The indelible resilience of the black spirit.

That despite the forces arrayed against us, we still kiss the ones we love, work hard for our families and tell grief that we will not be moved and if we DO move, we will march in solidarity, vote like our lives depend on it, advocate for our community and take the action that can no longer wait.

Tears streaming and chest high.

I still wake up with black trauma swirling in the air but I am filled with hope. This hope says I will fight until our laws, our education system, our healthcare system, the environment, the carceral system and economic outlook prove Black Lives Matter.

That in itself feels like a miracle.

Thank you, Robert, for allowing me to share this here and for sharing your voice, your vulnerability, and your love with me. Love and Politics on Clemson Road welcomes your voice.

Who’s in?

This is an open invitation to anyone who wants to write a blog on the topic of Love & Politics to contribute to this space. It’s safe here, I promise. You are welcome here. You don’t have to agree with me or anyone else. Just tell us a story. Make a case. Make an effort.

Leave a comment if you’d like to contribute or reach out to me kasie@clemsonroad.com and let's talk.

The 42nd Year is Underway

"Easter is about hope."

That’s what the Australian-accented, boomerang-slinging bunny in Rise of the Guardians says about his holiday.

Easter is about possibility. Redemption. Renewal.

It’s rather fitting that the end of The 41^st Year is Easter week. It’s fitting because when I set out to do this last year, I was really looking for renewal.

On my 40^th birthday, sitting in a bar in New York City, I wrote, “This all started because Heather said, ‘Forty is a motherfucker,’ and, like most things in my life, I decided to manage my expectations.”

Forty couldn’t fuck with me if I knew what I was doing. If I had a plan. A purpose. A mission.

On the first page of the journal I bought in NYC to track The 41^st Year, I wrote, “I know I’ll struggle. I know I’ll focus on the shortfalls and the challenges. I know I’ll be glaringly aware of the misses, the failures, and the face plants.”

So here they are:

I did not visit Papa 40 times. I got to Florence 11 times in the last year. It’s an hour trip and a three-hour commitment. It takes about $20 in gas round trip. I’ve been too broke and too busy. And yet each of those 11 visits filled me with a sense that my Papa appreciates me. Loves me. Is proud of me. So, I’ll try to keep my once-a-month pace and hope that will suffice.

I did not donate 40 articles of clothing or put 40 pages into Hollie’s scrapbook. I didn’t do even one for either of those. I did accept some pieces from my dear friend, Teresa, who has lost weight and gave me the six pairs of pants and four tops that have made my working full time doable these last three months. As for the scrap book, someday I’m sure I’ll wish I had captured every minute with Hollie. For now, though, I’m waiting until she’s interested in helping with the project to really take it on.

I did not submit 40 times. I submitted 27 times but now I have a weekly habit, so that’s a good thing. I feel good about the submissions. I feel like I’m getting used to rejection and that’s part of being a writer.

I did not do 40 runs, in fact I haven’t run at all. Something I regret and something I plan to remedy. Immediately. Let’s roll that goal into next year.

I didn’t get to 40 new places but I did get to 15 including two new cities: Kansas City, Missouri and Toledo, Ohio. It’s hard to travel when you don’t have any money. Some “places” that mattered this year included the Office of Business Opportunity’s Small Business Conference last May at which I was a speaker and the Winter Wheat Literary Festival where I was on faculty. The SCWA’s writers conference in the fall to which I won a scholarship and the Girls Rock! showcase where I saw my daughter play guitar on stage for the first time. I’ll take quality over quantity on that one all day long. We even got to Five Points on St. Patty’s Day which was a big achievement for Hollie and me.

I also wrote in that journal that The 41^st Year was meant to provide wins. Easy ways to show progress and success.

“Say you will and then do it. No fear. No excuses. No boundaries.” Reasonable, achievable things on the list.

Categories where I killed it: Blog posts and books by female authors. I read 73 books last year and have read 28 this year so far. Nearly all of them are by women writers. My blog posts were mostly on the SCWA blog, but I also generated content for Clemson Road Consulting, Unapologetically X, and two clients. This blog, The 41^st Year, has been neglected. But that’s mostly as a reflection of my glaring awareness of misses, failures, and face plants.

So, it’s Easter and this is about hope. Renewal. It’s about opportunity.

There has been so much opportunity in the last few months, really since I started The 41^st Year and started being intentional about pretty much everything. Opportunities are not hiding under bushes waiting to be found like colored eggs. They’re flying past us like dandelion seeds on the wind. I’ve tried to gather them all. Chased them all. Watched them float by and wished they were mine.

Now I’m going to bloom where I’m planted.

This was an important year. A year in which I decided I am the grown-up in the room and it’s up to me to make decisions and take action. A year in which I stopped waiting for others to offer, comply, and play along.

I was so afraid that 40 would be a motherfucker. So, I geared up and took a few practice swings. When they landed, and the resistance gave way, I decided to kick its ass. And what it feels like right now is that I’m just getting started.

It feels like Game On. Bring it, 42^nd Year. Show me what you’ve got.