x. Starting Over

My cousin and sister stole the tortilla I was about to eat and beat me with it. (They didn't like that I was eating a tortilla by itself)

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In an effort to get me out of the house, my family continues to stage events in which I would have to get dressed up. An offer I cannot decline. 

Yesterday, we got to see a car show. They have it every Sunday, but I got lucky enough to see it this time. There was a group of boys on their motorcycles, and it reopened my obsession with owning a bike, so I'm currently studying for both my driver's test and my motorcycle licence. 

Being around black people again felt so comfortable, like I was missing out on something my whole life, which I was, since I spent most of my childhood and adolescence in suburbia. It felt nice not being the only black person in a room, to see a community of creatives with different cars, food, music, dancing, hair, age, and style. It was something I could only see if I was here, now, at this point in time, which makes it all feel so much more special. 

It's hard to explain how it felt. Seeing girls dressed up, children screaming wildly as they chased each other around the park, lesbians with their wives selling candles and soul food, men playing cards and dominoes, and R&B and rap mixing together as we walked around. It felt so surreal, as if I could see my past, present, and future in one scene. 

We were only there for a little while, as the police showed up to shut everything down. Nothing was happening, really, just cars. I think that's what made seeing the cops so upset was what hurt the most. There was this woman cop, she was clearing the area, and she looked so visibly disgusted, as if our existence was in itself something to be ashamed of. And only for a second did I see the view from her perspective. For a second, I was 8 again. I was 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. I saw something unclean, reckless, ghetto, poor, and somehow, less than what I was. I heard the rapid spill of my own vernacular, and somehow it felt foreign. 

When we got home, the neighbors were talking outside, gathering and talking outside as they drank, swaying to music that was no longer playing. I had to be introduced to everyone. They tried to make small talk with me, and tried to talk to everyone, and the first thing they would say to me was "you're so bubbly." I was sort of embarrassed with that; being seen as cute or energetic isn't really a standard in the black community. Children are cute, adults are not. 

I quickly stopped talking until I got to meet another girl. She stumbled towards me, stared before leaning on me, laughing in place before staring at me again. She muttered something before laughing again and saying her name was Nyla. She stared at me, and I stared at her, not yet registering to me that I had to respond with my name. She was beautiful. She was light-skinned, she smelled like weed and alcohol, her hair was long and tied up in a puff on top of her head and her eyes were so sparkly. It's as if all the lights that lined the streets caught at the same time, which made her eyes shimmer. She rolled her eyes and gestured me to say my name and I was so fucking awkward I'm still so embarrassed I'm gonna cry. I said my name, and my voice broke. She just nodded, offering the little bit of alcohol she had left to me, which I declined. She shrugged and stumbled away, laughing hysterically with another girl over nothing. 

I just stood there, my skin felt so hot. I don't know what that was. I felt so strange, like meeting someone I was already supposed to know. Not in a "I'm falling in love with her" kind of way, but it a way that I've known her before and we have met again.

I'm thinking of making her a dessert later.