Diary of an Ambivalent Black Girl: Log Date 06/04/20
By Chika Ojukwu
Artwork by Chika Ojukwu
10 days.
That’s how long it took me to sit down and write this entry.
Right now, as I write these words down, there is a storm brewing outside. Clouds are gathering, the sky is darkening, and drops of rain are beginning to pound the ground beneath them.
Every time I start to write a new thought and get a hold of what I am feeling, I can’t find the right words. There is a storm brewing inside me with 2 sides battling each other: Do I remain silent or do I say something? Do I act or not act? Speak or not speak? What seems the obvious choice is to say something, right? I’m black and I have a voice. Why not use it?
Right now, there are people speaking out who have much more powerful voices than me, who can say the most impactful of statements and the most moving of stories. People are protesting--people of all cases and creeds--day and night, all over the country. All this is happening while I remain silent with the words in my head running into themselves and tripping over each other.
During this inner turmoil, I’ve been having nightmares; graphic and gruesome ones. Nightmares that haunt me and make me toss and turn in my sleep. These nightmares depict people shouting and pointing their fingers at me, with hands pulling away at my black skin only to peel it off revealing the blood and organs that lie underneath. My rapidly beating heart is the only thing that is moving. My legs remain stationary and my mouth remains closed.
I am having a crisis of identity. I am having a crisis that questions my black identity. I ask myself, “Why now?” It is a time where the very identity of black America is being prosecuted and hunted down by the racism that lies in the core of this country’s heritage.
As the 10th day since George Floyd’s death comes to a close, it feels wrong for me to do nothing. It feels wrong to sit in my house, with fragments of black empowerment surrounding me. These fragments include the rich black skin that grace all the portraits on my home’s walls, to the diplomas that have the names of my mother and father---a testament of what they have done to get where they are today. It feels wrong to just do n o t h i n g.