I have often thought that wearing my heart on my sleeve would make me a target. I've discovered that yes, it can, but I should do it anyway.
Our generation seems terrified by love and all the same fascinated by it—we discuss connection and vulnerability openly online, but avoid necessary and meaningful conversations—and sometimes confrontations—in our real lives. There appears to be two separate camps that believe love should be easy and love should be hard. Some people talk about falling in love effortlessly, and others say we need to fight for it. I'm not sure exactly which group I belong to, but I do know that love is complex, that sometimes the only trail it leaves behind is its persistence.
I was being snappy with my mum the other day because I drove her to the airport on my lunch break from work and there was traffic. She had offered to get a cab but I knew she would be stressed about it turning up on time etc, so I knew it would be best for me to drive her. I felt bad for being grumpy with her. She knows this feeling too. Her father (my grandad) passed away in November and she regrets not telling him she loved him more. She feels guilty about the times she snapped at him or dismissed him. I can see the thoughts hurt her. She is patient and forgiving with me, sometimes too much.
But love has always been present in our house. It's in the way we have to be cautious about mentioning something we like around mum, or else next thing it's death by jaffa cake, or in my sister's case, owls. It's in remembering all our favourite foods and having them stocked, buying everyone oodies in their favourite colours, and making festivities like Christmas extra magical. So where my mum has often been self-conscious that she doesn’t vocally tell people she loves them, I see it—we all do.
My sister and I had a blow out fight on holiday with screaming and tears. I stormed off. But when I came back frightened and crying for a different reason—a man stopped his car and intimidated me—I was immediately embraced by my sister and her words of solidarity: I hate men. I knew we were ok. There are things so much more powerful than rage, yet rage can also be productive.
Solange has been having a renaissance in my music library recently. In particular her album 'A Seat at the Table' which features the song 'Mad'.
I ran into this girl, I said, ‘I'm tired of explaining’
Man, this shit is draining
But I'm not really allowed to be mad
You may recall the infamous Solange—Jay-Z elevator incident. Footage was leaked of an animated Solange, kicking out and swinging for Jay-Z. Though we do not have confirmation on what exactly fuelled the altercation, people's best guess is that Solange was acting out of protectiveness for her sister Beyonce. The internet got whipped up over this event, weaponising the 'aggressive Black woman' trope to criticise Solange's behaviour. But where is the same vitriol for men's violence and anger?
Angry women are seen as aberrations of femininity—something to be rejected and exiled from the likes of ‘nice’, docile women. Their anger is rarely justified and instead explained away as irrational hysteria. God forbid we say that maybe Jay-Z had it coming. I don't want to speculate too much and we do know that the two reconciled at some point, however, it made me feel more connected to Solange and her artistry (please release new music).
First off, I'll point out the obvious—Solange's art is unapologetically pro-Black and I am white. And that doesn't matter to me at all. I'm not necessarily her target audience yet I derive value from it all the same because that's what good art does. It transcends and evolves outside of the artist’s hands. We can however practice humility. I won’t pretend to know how it feels to be subject to racial prejudice as Solange recounts in ‘Don't Touch My Hair', yet I can infer the subtleties of sovereignty in womanhood, and the song slaps nonetheless.
One of my other favourite tracks on the album is 'Cranes in the Sky’, the song always moves me. Solange speaks directly to the urge within us to escape, to be free from the things that hold us back from our potential—both imagined and tangible. I relate to the restlessness; the dissatisfaction that follows us no matter where we go.
Without going into too much detail, I recently had a very negative experience meeting my friend's new boyfriend. Admittedly, she and I reconnected a few months ago and she had been friends with this guy before dating, nonetheless, men can often bring out an unexpected side in our friends. The boyfriend was incredibly hostile towards me and at the end of the night I was left alone with no check-in text from my friend (even still). It seems his hooks are deep and I have now lost a friend because of it. I cried on the journey home and the next day. I hadn't prepared for a woman to so blatantly choose a (rather horrible) man over our friendship. But we mourn and move on.
I'm reminded of the friends who wouldn't leave me. Who take me and believe me at my word. Who express loyalty and respect. I know that part of the problem was because I directly confronted him about his behaviour towards me. A thought passes that perhaps I should have shut up, been more civil and amicable, made myself more placating—what have I got such a chip on my shoulder for anyway? But with only some contrition, I realise that this is who I am; who I have always been.
Too bossy. Too opinionated. Too argumentative. Too complicated.
There are people that love and hate me for these qualities in equal measure (and sometimes a mix!) But I'm content in being a difficult woman if it means that I am telling the truth.
I know that the women in my life do not have to be perfect in order for me to love them. If I were to write a fictional woman, I would want her to be shocking, disagreeable outrageous, contradictory—it makes for a compelling character.
Anything less would be boring, I think.
I was listening to cranes in the sky today!! Nice essay ❤️