LuSea Bee | Stream of consciousness
A true story - bra(h).
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r. Race against a machine

I always thought of racism as a social construct not just by westerners but by black people who found themselves in the diaspora as well.

I moved to Italy, like “you all know” at the age of 11 *and three quarters*. I never thought racism as a thing. Never gave it time of day or thought for that matter. I mean, I was coming from a place where everyone looked alike, various shades of melanin aside, we were all “Children of the merciful Lord” – apart from the government leading the country at that time. No, not them, God didn’t love those.

I came to Italy because the father had been living here for an absurd amount of time and my mom was oddly fond of the idea “a family gatso live under the same roof”…or something along those lines. In the midst of very light skinned people – *shit, what is that? Your vein is saying hello? WTF is that normal?*-, I never thought of racism. Not even when people as old as my parents would say “If this and that happens, It’s because these oyinbo people don’t want you to be better than them. Like we set out to lick their faces and stain them with the color of our skins”. Even then, I never thought of racism as something that big of a deal. I mean, I know hate, I know misunderstandings but the depth of  skin deep all that and then some went? Na, never gave it that much of a thought. It simply made no sense to me, you know? It’s like the Azande and witchcraft, it’s always the fault of the latter, never their fault.

You wanna know when reality hit me in the face? I don’t know, I can’t remember truth be told. Would I say what people around me had been saying about these “oyinbo [- white]” people had suddenly caught on and influenced my way of thinking? Boy, please. No.

But one (of many) paticular episode shook me to the core made me say: Motherphucker, what did you say?

Chaka Khan | Ain’t Nobody

Felix Jaehn | This other body f. Jasmine Thompson

When my younger sister was born, motherphucker looked like Benjamin Button you know? old as phuck we realised she was anaemic. So, in the beginning, we’d go back and forth from the kids’ hospital, where she got her regular treatments whenever she got her crisis/pain episodes. She was 4 and it was my turn to stay with her whilst the rest of the family caught a break from seeing the same ol’ walls. The girl would always cry ’cause she was always in severe pain, her joints and muscles would hurt and standard procedure: my lil motherphucker would cry. Word must have gone around the small pediatric warden that the little black girl was sick. Might I add, we were, of course, the only black family in that space radius. So, on this particular day, I decide to take the lil motherphucker out of bed, make her walk around a little bit you know? Make her paint, maybe she’d get distracted or something. I mean, I don’t know what I was doing but knowing that there were other kids tryna sleep, I, more than anyone else, know just how frustrating it can be to hear a kid wail at the top of her tiny lungs. So, I take her to play amirite? Plan seemed to be working, she was visibly still in pain but if I anybody knew my lil motherphucker, right at a tender age she’d always been strong and resilient. She’d make annoying little noises while painting and ask stupid questions like: Am I going to die? Negro, shut the phuck up I would reply: “Nah”. 

After sometime though, my plan seemed to not work anymore ’cause she had started crying a whole lot more in the corridor. Out of the blue, came this stupid heifer and I remember her go to the nurse, who was on duty and she asked: Excuse me, that girl is crying. Can you tell them to go back to their rooms? I think her sickness might be contagious.

There was silence. Then there was rage. Then I lost it, then the nurse lost it too.

Now, maybe it’s understandable that a mother is trying to keep her poor likkle (not a typo, I said what I said -wrote rather) kid from all black crying babies of the world but man, I cried, cussed her bitchass out (which I rarely do, I was brought up well) and cussed her out a little bit more. Think her husband came to drag her back into their room ’cause he realised the wife wasn’t making sense after a while.

“Go back to Africa” “I don’t want your sickness”. I still didn’t think of racism then you know but I started to acknowledge it as a probable cause, nevertheless, I never pledged to the race card, all willy nilly.

With this acknowledgement though, there on forward, came a series of unfortunate events that made me reluctantly recognise that for some people “the black skin wasn’t the right skin”. Unless we were talking penis sizes and “rythm in their blood” factor, then all was white aight.

“I have to check your bag” – by an unauthorized sales lady, when I’d just put a used tissue paper in my bag in a supermarket and I had other people around going ’bout their business.

“Take this monkey you call a girlfriend out of my way” – by some man and his lady, when I was walking with someone.

“Is that you King Kong” – bullies, hope they are in jail now with my leopard themed scarf around my neck, on my way back home from school on the bus.

“Hey Nigger, How much?” – usually from older men who would roll down their windows when they saw me walking.

“Thank you little nigger/monkey” – last year, by a small kid I gave Ice-cream. His dad didn’t let him apologise.

For years, I’d been taunted by people for the color of my beautiful skin. I’ve never had a problem with my skin. Maybe problems with my hair, my diastemed-crooked smile, hell even my extremely slim figure but my skin? Never. Hell, when Netlog was still the “in” thing, when Tom from Myspace was still in your Top 8 and Hi5 would do what Hi5 did best – exist, I made friends with self-provclaimed skinhead and racists. I’d troll my trollees and with some, I kept a cordial relationship.

Wanna know when I started having a problem with racism and racists?

When the belittling and racexplaining came in to play. It was with the covert rather than the open, blatant racism. It was with the old lady holding her purse a little to tight to her bossom, when I walked by (something I have started doing now too, can’t trust these hoes). It was the subtlity, the missed opportunities, the sneer, the backroom talk, the  “It’s not racism, it’s just a figments of your immagination” talk- Bitch, whet?  I just want everyone to acknowledge the wrong and the unjust that resides in people. You know?

I was a teenager when I finally acknowledged racism but that doesn’t mean I’m in the wrong for putting people on a high pedestal or rather thinking even though people were stupid, the couldn’t be that stupid. I was wrong. Meh.

This Girl | Cookin’ on 3 Burners ft. Kylie Auldist

This Other Girl | Kungs

 

Ps: My sister lil motherphucker is great by the way. <3

 

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e. El Dorado

Yesterday was a great day.

Yesterday I was lucky enough to advance and age (with grace If I might add). It was great. No panic attacks, no bickering, no remorse of any kind, no anger. I yearned and prayed for peace of mind (amongst other things) by midnight and boy, I breezed through the day like I phucking owned the world. You get to appreciate everything and everyone a little bit more when you make up your mind that dark clouds have no claim whatsoever over you.

Today however, I stayed in my pyjamas, bled through multiple sanitary pads and suffered those menstrual pains and pangs. Like how a true motherfucker would, if he/it could.

And I finally, finally binged watched “13 reasons why..” while at it.

It’s comical. I admit it’s beautifully shot and played but in substance, all I could say was…WoW! Not a positive wow, I was irritated and I’m not even trying to jump on any bandwagon either but wow, it was shite. Even though I’d still watch a Season 2. Makes no sense, does it? I’m as puzzled as you are. True talk. But yeah, it’s a lot to take in. Teenagers are assholes but depicting them as unintelligible creatures that flip and carve so easily to peer pressure (I’m trying to generalize – largeeeeely here folks) just like fucking morons when the situation permits them is just, GAHD DAYUM! Why?! Wake Up!

Giving that the series does brilliantly cover and accurately depict that rhetoric ’bout how “a butterfly batting its wings could create a hurricane – someplace, somehow“, I constantly found myself calling out various characters regardless.

Wow.” “Ain’t you a fucking moron??” “Soz cuz, can’t relate”.”What? No! WTF are these people?”

I’m yet to place my finger on what really pisses me off about the series and the characters that are being brought to life. I mean, for pete’s sake, I like how  it didn’t gloss over human fragility and interpersonal exchanges, the various intricacies of growing up, mental health, depression, sexual assault just to name a few. Still, I found it incredibly cheesy.  Maybe that’s it – it was cheesy. Maybe that’s why I found some things redundant. As someone who has constantly fought her battles to keep a leash on her sanity, I know just how detrimental the dark corners of ones mind could be. It’s a phucking trap man, it’s exhausting. Just merely reminiscing about it gives me the chills. It wears you out man, you are in a real sunken-ass place (all reference to Get Out of course).

Years back in high school, while having my usual rant session with a schoolmate of mine on our way back home, I we came to the realization that the hardest part about being a fully functioning human being wasn’t just about having food on the table, paying bills and being a respectable civilian in a fucked up society. No, it wasn’t just that really. It was really about staying afloat. Staying alive, literally. When this friend of mine and I would touch the grounds of suicide and choices taken concerning life/death issues, we’ve always thought that dying was actually the easiest way out. And no, it wasn’t to shame or fault anybody but when that realization hits you – that staying alive is should be the end game because “death was the easiest part about living” – it made sense. It made sense to us at least. A lot. And that hasn’t changed.

Have I ever contemplated suicide? Aha hah.

Yes. Yeah, I have.

Boy, never really said or wrote that out loud. I thought of how easy it could be, to just – stop. Put a full stop. Period. It was a welcome feeling in the midst of all the angst and anxiety and conflicting emotions racing through my mind and wrecking my soul. It was truly a warm sensation, I won’t lie. And then I snapped reluctantly dragged myself out of it.

Obviously, we all differ. Various shades of strength. We all react differently. Our emotions pushes us to fight, for different things, various reasons. That realization I’d come across years before slapped me when the thought of suicide caressed my mind. It was rough. “Stay. the. phuck. alive. FIGHT FOR YOURSELF – da fuck?“. That is the hardest part of battling with life and everything, anything it throws at us, staying in it. Staying in the chaos, regardless. And it is rough. You see, even the most put together person you know in the room will lose it when certain synapses of the mind can be fingered, toyed with. It’s mind fuckery-ing that no one rightfully likes to dwell on for too long and for those of us who do, there’s no glory or candy o’er here. No one is really got their shit together, you see? Yeah maybe you can be solid with certain things and the world outside but when it’s just you, on the inside? Tête à tête? Fighting yourself, mind, body or soul? Boy, that war is no child’s play. We all survive with masks. Like that Pirandello novel that caught my attention that one time “Uno, nessuno, centomila “- One, No One, One hundred thousand.  Obviously, certain people will make their choices regardless. They are not stronger but make no mistake, that doesn’t make them weaker either. There’s no better than or worse than. It’s just meh…whatever you do, life wins you see? It goes on.

I really don’t know what pissed me off about the reenactment of “13 reasons why..” or maybe I should say that now I have half an idea. Humans are resilient motherphuckers in general but I don’t know man, one can’t simply accept shit (and dish it out too – Hannah was a bitch sometimes too) and just decide to let it all stop. And you do take full responsibility for your actions. The series kept looking for scapegoats, victims and situations to pin the blame on. It was a phucking blame game, this one! Gahd! I mean, there were obvious perpetrators, don’t get me wrong. But they were like what? 2 or 3? Life is twisted, people are bad. Some are great too. Situations are tough but then sometimes they are not too. You know?

One day after school, I remember this aforementioned friend of mine ended our rant session with a “non avere mai paura di chiedere aiuto, L.” – “don’t be scared/ashamed to ask for help”. We were not even talking about something that deep. But she said it, out of the blue. And it stuck. And when that aforementioned thought caressed my mind, know what I did? I shut down. Completely. Then I dragged myself out of that dark hole I had secluded myself and I whispered. Then I coughed a little. Then I talked. And now, with this WordPress thingy? I think I’m fucking screaming.

Ain’t giving up without a fight. Didn’t do it then, ain’t starting now. Ever. I need to remember that.

FIGHT FOR YOURSELF, daily.” There are always 13 reasons why that idea doesn’t really suck.

Bobby Caldwell – Open your eyes

Common

John Legend

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b. Black Rain [pt.1]

Mi ricordo che da piccola, quando mi spazzolavano i capelli capelli di merda, prontamente si spezzava il pettine.

Se. Spezzava. Il. Pettine. ‘mbare!

Non erano capelli i miei, erano nemici con la quale dovevo spesso pateggiare ogni tre per due. Erano i miei Dormammu come per Doc. Strange, ananas per la pizza, olio di palma per la Nutella – esistono e dan fastidio. Sapevo che i miei capelli crespi non erano nella norma. Cioè, avevo attorno persone con capelli soffici e lunghi e trattabilissimi, io no. Non me ne curavo però – ero giovane e tutto era più semplice. Mi trovavo in un diverso contesto sociale e continentale, nulla di strano davvero, vedevo altre con capelli come i miei quindi era tutto regolare.

Poi arrivò il pre-adolescenza e vidi sto ragazzo per cui ebbi la mia prima cotta, si chiamava Davide. Davide mi disse un giorno: “sei carina per essere una ragazza di colore”. Risi, lo mandai anche a cagare se non erro, eppure non capii perchè l’avesse detto. Avevo 12 anni ed ero in Italia da un anno e mezzo.

Ero un maschiaccio, bruttissima a parer mio, totalmente diversa dalle ragazze della mia classe. Erano snelle o formose, avevano capelli corti o lunghi, biondi o castani, sorrisi smaglianti e denti drittissimi. Poi c’ero io – medio alta, snellissima no cazzata, ero un chiodo (lo sono tutt’ora), non trovavamo mai la mia taglia nei negozi, manco nella sezione pe’ bambini! Il naso a patata e denti giganti, storti ma bianchissimi. Mi sentivo strana ma soprattutto mi sentivo un’estranea – ricordo che durante lezioni, facevo comparazioni d’epidermide. Cioè, mi perdevo a fissare la pelle dei miei compagni di classe durante lezioni e guardavo il mio e pensavo: “Mi stai dicendo che siamo tutti uguali? Il sangue è la medesima?? Puttanate!”.

Ad accompagnare i miei anni alle miei erano anche capigliature strane, comprensibili per me e quelli in casa mia, ma fuori è tutto un altro mondo e loro non capiscono un cazzo. Quindi via di nomignoli, altri eran carini, altri – per carità divina!

Poii in mezzo a tutto sto shock culturale, ricordo questa insegnante di Italiano e Storia che mi piaceva tanto – si chiamava Nellina. Nellina era una bellissima donna sui 50 anni su per giù, occhi grigi, capelli bianchi, sempre elegante, c’era una luce bellissima in questa donna. Credo sia grazie a lei che sto pirlo per scrivere (poco importante se sia a cazzo) sia nato. Per stranieri, gli insegnanti tendono a far scrivere di tutto e di più, credo dovrebbe aiutare con la comprensione della lingua (LOL). “Com’è la mia famiglia” “Cos’ho fatto la settimana scorsa”, “Di che colore è la cacca a casa tua” e altre minchiate. Eppure, la mia immaginazione pareva un pozzo senza fine, cosa che, a pensarci, non avevo mai avuto di che confrontarmi quando ero in Nigeria. Tornando a Nellina, ogni cazzata scrivessi, a lei piaceva sempre. Un giorno, durante lezioni, credo stessimo parlando del futuro e del liceo da scegliere subito dopo le medie, ci dava consigli e altro, mi disse che dovevo avventurarmi nel mondo dell’arte. Aveva consigliato il DAMS a Brescia. Quello che mi era rimasta più impressa però, oltre al fatto che pendevo dalle sue labbra e i suoi occhi grigi mi ipnotizzavano, era che mi guardò e dal nulla, mi disse: “tu da grande, sarai una donna bellissima”. Sorrisi. Ero shockata! “Io? Ma mi ha visto? Di cosa caspiterina sta parlando signora mia!?” avrei voluto controbattere, ma taqui e sorrisi, perchè il mio italiano faceva ancora schifo.

Dio se adoravo quella donna!

C’è un seguito, abbiate pazienza. Ascoltate uno dei miei pezzi preferiti di BB King se ciáma Lucille.

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u. Unorthodox Junk Box

It’s Saturday and the time says 2:30 am, I keep looking at the time and I think it’s judging me.

Why am I awake?

No reason, truth be told. I’ve binged Youtube videos of guys doing the most insane mashups and I’m jealous and I just wished I was a jukebox altogether. ‘Cause fuck these talented people that’s why. #Goals.

Why am I really awake?

It happens. Well, It’s been happening for a while now. I entered my twenties being totally overwhelmed by life. And for nothing too you see? Nothing scarred me, even though I must say, I keep having this very vivid flashbacks about my childhood and I can’t seem to get over it but I digress.

1. Because I’m not sure I want to remember.

2. Because I’m not sure I even want to trust my memory to rehash certain events and;

3. I’m digressing.

I grew up knowing two things: I was gonna make food a valuable ally (whilst not toying with gluttony) and that I was am going to work the hardest (and enjoy sweating and kicking to get my goals) and be so damn successful, ‘you’ll see‘ because, if you grew up in a poor environment (shout to my parents, I respect and I see/saw your handwork and grind, especially you mama) and you’ve seen and experienced it, that gnawing sense of imminent failure mixed with hopelessness stops being humbling and pretty once you know shit happens out of the world you are used to. And that has certainly scarred pushed me to aim for more. In everything. I deserve it. My family does.

I stay awake ’cause I have all these dreams and as time keeps ticking and frowning at  me, I feel I’m wasting every God-given second by missing the deadline and not throwing myself out there.

Then I pause.

Where the fuck is ‘out there’ and why haven’t I seen ‘out there‘ yet? Why isn’t it on Google Maps?

God forbid but what would happen if the fire in me fizzled out and I ended up…settling?

What happens to other peoples’ dreams and ambitions? How do they feel in their own body when they don’t hit the mark? Can one die of disappointment in one’s self?

Some people wake up from nightmares. I can’t sleep because my dreams won’t let me. And because I don’t even know what these said dreams are. It’s very exhausting – all this acting like one-knew-what-one-was-doing facade.

Growing up is hard‘ was what I wrote a friend few days ago, he laughed out loud – I wasn’t joking. I need manuals for this shit.

It’s 3.07  4 am. And Ed Sheeran wants to “know the truth before he dives right into….

 

 

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