the scorcher
By Kay Brown
Content warning for sexual ass*ult.
There’s something to be said about suffering alone. Especially, about choosing to suffer alone when there is a community of people to support you. For many, choosing this lonesome path is a result of not wanting to be a burden to the ones you love. Simply wanting to get through it and continue to be there & show up for them in the same way they did before. That’s the reason why I chose to suffer alone.
I sat on the left side of the black speckled couch & listened to my family converse about the traumas each had experienced throughout their life. I sat silently during our family meeting; as my blood boiled. I listened as 6th,7th, & 8th grade tumbled from their pinched mouths explaining when a boy to press their putrid human flesh against their own. When a boy used threats as a last resort because their ego was throbbing uncontrollably and their limited power wavering with it. When a boy wanted to look down at the wet lashes of a young girl, hugging tightly to her cheeks so they didn’t see what he was forcing inside of her. When two boys believed that they only existed for their salacious gazes. When my two younger sisters were sexually assaulted.
I left the meeting with tears stinging my eyes as I walked to my room. I suffered alone to be there for my family & so they wouldn’t have too. But suffered silently for years. My sisters were masters at masking that something rotten was attempting to destroy them internally. While, externally presenting a smile when asked about their day. A family masquerading to protect one another; to be the typical family we once were.
My tears didn’t overflow until weeks later after a grocery trip with my mother. When I told her, “You can’t compare trauma but hers was much more detrimental than what we went through”. She then informed me that of the words that tumbled from their mouths that night, some details were excluded. That one of my sisters was forced to do a degrading act for this man posing as a high schooler. It wasn't degrading because of the sexual act, itself, it was degrading because it wasn’t her choice. My face was red & hot to the touch as acidic tears streamed from my bloodshot eyes. I screamed & grabbed my blue denim romper over my heart trying to clinch or comfort the violent pain lodged behind my sternum.
I chose to clinch. On my three-mile runs, I beat personal records, minutes ahead of my dad. As I imagined stomping out men like the roaches I now see them as; hearing their exoskeleton break with each step. When my neighbor looked too closely at someone leaving the house, I had visions of stabbing him repeatedly without an ounce of guilt. I imagined going to the park & finding the man who assaulted my sister, pepper-spraying him, kicking, & cutting off his right hand that clearly couldn’t do the job.
Stares from men breaking their necks out of cars that I normally shrug off were met with acid-filled slanted eyes. I was at war & there was no room for pleasantries. There was no twinkle from my pupil catching the golden rays of the sun because it only caught the heat. When those men looked at me they felt acidic heat scorching through them and melting their car. I would take their ashes, pour it into the jewelry I made from their honda civic and wear it as a prize of war.
My heart & my eyes continued to clench my world view as I grew to believe that men are trash. And by default, the world is beyond saving. I realized the truth at once; both of my sisters and myself--to some degree--have been assaulted, and it is repetitive history. According to the National Center on Violence Against Women in the Black Community, 1 in 4 Black girls will be sexually abused before the age of 18, 1 in 5 Black women are survivors of rape, 35% of Black women have experienced contact sexual violence in their life, & 40% of confirmed sex trafficking survivors are Black. Yet society, continues to hypersexulize Black women from a young age, strategically placing us within a hostile, predatory reality where we are systemically hunted. So much so that the state of being both Black and a woman led to the term Misogynoir being coined to emphasize the increased discrimination & violence associated with this state. Yet, I love everything about it.
From my cinnamon blonde locs to the gorgeous glazed doughnut hue of my skin, being a Black woman is a beautiful state of being. But I’m left with the burning question of how Black women can own our sensuality without falling victim to the real-world consequences of Misogynoir & hypersexualization. The first step is to hold our hearts not only when our melanin is glowing in the sun but when we are suffering silently in the shade. Being more gentle with ourselves & allowing space for shared internal healing by moving through the pain together. While knowing that we’ll experience pain influenced by people’s assumptions of our identity. I wish someone would’ve held my mom’s heart, sister’s heart, held Oluwatoyin “Toyin” Salu’s heart, held my heart. I wish someone would’ve seen us as people with beating, bleeding, hearts that feel.
How can we breathe if we clench our own heartbeats at the expense of unwanted notions of Black womanhood? Black women aren’t responsible for saving a world that never loved us. Saving a world that only clenched our hearts in order to engrave misinformation of who our sensuality was created to serve. When in truth, it serves only ourselves. A Black woman’s sensual power can create a new world order & destroy the old one, without ever opening her legs. If we do choose to save this world, it only takes one slanted look to start again. That’s why it’s called Black Girl Magic.