Wood Chips and Rope Ladders

Knowledge is power. Power is a burden. Knowledge, when engaged with intentionally, becomes a weight of awareness that consistently positions the knower in a space of decision-making.

There are so many instances where the person with the knowledge has to decide between what it is that they know and what it is that is expected.

I know I want to be free. And it's not a pursuit of this abstract idea of freedom. The free I speak of is the untetheredness to anything or anyone which is within my control — and I'd like to say I do quite well. However, when I speak of freedom, it is in the navigating of other people's relationships with me. Their expectations. Whether or not their engagement with me encourages my understanding of what it means to be an individual.

In short: I don't want anyone to make me the world. I want people to value me and to see me. But I don't want your world-making to include a version of me that cannot explore and expand and exist in a way that is untethered. I'm not talking about anchoring — anchoring is secure. When something is anchored, you know it's not moving, even if it floats. But a tether that is stuck? I don't want anyone to engage with me in ways that make me feel stuck.

A conversation with someone very dear to me today had me really thinking. I worry that I fucked up again. Because what do you mean by "we promised to text each other"? We had a heavy conversation my bedtime. I end up going to bed around 2 AM. I wake up very late, and within the span of two hours I have a doctor's appointment. That day was an emotionally heavy day. The depressive episode hit. It takes all the strength in me to move through the moments. You make it about you. I promiseD to text. I haven't been up all day. I woke up late. I needed myself. I needed my space to be sane…safe.

I have a difficult time trusting the world to take care of me. Depression is a dick. An unreliable one at that. Sometimes, I wonder: maybe I'm not meant for this relationship thing. And I mean all kinds. Not only romantic. Maybe I'll always say sayonara when I don't feel understood. Trauma is a limp dick right. But all you need to do is give it some viagra.

Anyway, I'm sitting in the park right now. I'm sitting on a swing. I haven't sat on one of these since I went to the Volta region with someone I thought was a friend — and yes, we were fucking. I sit here, sun hitting the right side of my face. Wood chips covering the sawdust that has turned into the next thing before soil. You know, when people fall down, they don't hurt themselves as bad. It's better than gravel — sand can easily get into your eye — but these wood chips can also cause damage. Anyway.

I see a man. A Caucasian man wearing a reflective green vest, talking to someone. He's walking from the roadside. He starts with, "You know you fucked up, right?"

I look to see who he might be talking to. For a moment I wonder: me? This seems like a public park. Am I violating any rules? I keep my eye on him. I look behind me. There's a boy running around. I've seen a little girl sit on a slide, sit quietly in the corner. He continues talking. He says, "You're gonna get a tune-up next time." I see the boy still running. I think perhaps he's talking to the boy — why is he running? But then I notice he's not running towards him or away from him. He's just running. And then I see: he's talking to the girl.

She looks scared. Maybe a little upset — as white people like to call it. She doesn't move. She doesn't say anything. I'm still on my swing. I've turned my head. I'm looking at the interaction, and I know that he sees me seeing him, and she sees me see them.

He walks towards her. The slide is blocking my view slightly, but not enough for me to not see what is happening. He asks for her hand. She gives him the back of her left hand, and he spanks her hand. She looks sad. Then he calls for her to come. She's reluctant. She doesn't want to walk. She looks to me.

I'm looking at this girl looking at me, and I'm seeing me in her. I'm seeing my father in her. She says nothing. She looks to me, but in those eyes, I swear I am seeing help me — but also I am seeing I'm scared because you are a stranger sitting on a swing, a black girl in what looks like a traditional African dress, short hair, paint on my eyelids, sitting on a swing looking at them looking at me.

And then I hear him say, "Next time, they're gonna call the cops on me." And then she starts to follow him.

In that moment, my brain processes what happened. I don't know why she ran away from him and came to seek a corner. I don't know what it was that she may have done. He spanks her in a public place — covered enough not to draw the attention of people — and when she seems to want some kind of support or reassurance, he emotionally manipulates. Is that what it is? He is the parent, after all. He is who she knows. He is her safety. But he's also her chaos.

And I feel a part of me saying help her and another part of me saying mind your business. I'm thinking of what I can tell her — or him, or both of them — so that at least there's some kind of feeling of kindness for her. But even if it's okay for her, would it not be short-lived? He is a parent after all. What side do I have?

So I do nothing. I just watch. I just watch. And she walks reluctantly behind, and then speeds up a little bit — or does he slow down? I don't know.

My eyes follow them as they go. They get to the road. They cross it. I lose track of them. I don't know where they are now. As they go, my eyes fill with tears because I see that girl in myself, and I see the relationship with my dad. You do nothing. You say nothing. You want safety, and I remind you who's in charge here. You fucked up. What was her crime? She looks no more than seven years old.

And then, shortly after my tears, I see another car pull in. A few cars come in, a few go out. They walk a trail. I wonder where it leads. Then they walk back. This car has a black man with a durag. With him is a little black boy, perhaps a year or two younger than the little girl I just saw. They walk towards the slides.

I hear a little boy scream from excitement. He wants to meet his friend. He runs quickly and says, "Give me a hug, motherfucker." It's a beautiful little term of endearment between them — a beautiful sighting of vulnerability between kids. These kids are a little older, maybe 12 or 13. Beautiful nonetheless.

Back to the black man and his son: he helps him climb up some of the games in the park. He goes up the steps of the slide, onto a reverse monkey bar — except it's made with rope. A mini obstacle course for a child who wants to explore. He gets to the edge the first time and he's scared. His father holds him and helps him land on the rope — the rope-like ladder. Step by step. He doesn't make it to the end. He gets down. He runs back to the start, climbs up the steps, up, up, back to the rope again. His father helps him. This time he makes it to the other end. He supports him, giving him words of encouragement: Good job, you got this, up, up. And then he slides down and makes it to the end. An obstacle overcome. He tries a new spot and plays around, around, around with his little boy.

The obvious difference between those two kids? The color of your skin. But if I told people back home this experience, they'd be surprised — because the media shows the opposite.