blackgirlfree

I had the word “fearless” tattooed on my right forearm last summer. It’s in a beautiful cursive script and cost me $25. Getting the tattoo was impulsive. I was supposed to be accompanying my significant other on another tattoo excursion, but I left the shop with my own ink. I tattooed “fearless” as a reminder that I must be the embodiment of the term in order to surpass the goals I’ve set for myself. Fearless is a reminder to avoid complacency, to keep striving toward my purpose — whatever that may be.

I got the tattoo at a time of complete uncertainty. The $25 I spent on it should have been used to pay a debt since money was so scarce at the time, but it was the beginning phases of my relationship, when important shit didn’t matter. I’d finished graduate school, but still had a nagging thesis that needed to be completed. It’s still incomplete. I’d sent my resume and cover letter out to more than 100 companies in New York, Chicago and Los Angeles, hoping someone, anyone, would bite. Few did, and those promises of follow-up calls never came. I was owed thousands of dollars from publications that were avoiding my emails, hoping I’d forgotten about the debt that was way past due. I was tired of writing. Of having bylines in big publications but never being seen as adequate enough for a position with benefits.

That was the summer I returned to Denver. Some of that decision was due to my new love who was eager to explore the Rocky Mountains and inhale as much mile high air as possible. Some of that decision must be credited to lack of other choices. My graduate fellowship had run out. My lease was up. I hadn’t applied for doctoral programs. Denver was safe. My parents are here. My brother and his children are here. My safety net is here.

I got the tattoo as a reminder that Denver isn’t my permanent location. It was simply a place to regroup, to give love and be loved on. Denver isn’t forever. Soon after getting the “fearless” tattoo, I landed an amazing teaching job at a charter school. I was teaching eighth graders about race, gender, socioeconomic class, sexuality, social justice and civil disobedience. I felt like I’d found my true purpose. Writing was cool, but using radical pedagogy to reach underprivileged children was my calling. Teaching was stressful, but it was also fulfilling. I was often exasperated and also excited, especially during that week when I used Tupac’s music to teach civil disobedience. Writing was an afterthought for the very first time.

Then, the charter school network disbanded the class. The CEO’s reasoning was students needed 90 minutes of math in order to perform better on the state’s standardized tests. Like eighth graders of color living in gang-infested neighborhoods need more math and less teachings about racism. Got it. I was disappointed, but the elimination of the course felt like a sign. I could either immerse myself in education or return to writing. I chose the former, which led to depression and breakdown.

Now, I’m back where I began. I’m broke for the first time in a very long time. And I want to be a magazine writer and editor more than ever before. The hunger can’t be quenched.

I was in NYC about a month ago. Being in NYC, living the Brooklyn life with one of my close friends and imagining traversing to Times Square for work every day felt so right. I was interviewing for a gig at a major cable network. It’s the kind of job that could ignite the career I’ve dreamed of having. I want to commission and edit stories about race, feminism, culture and social justice while penning reported features and personal essays for magazines. Having that network on my resume would guarantee the opening of doors that are currently refusing to budge. Every day, I awaken and immediately check my phone, hoping the recruiter who organized my interviews or the editor I interviewed with have sent me an update about the application process. Follow-up emails are being ignored. The waiting game is driving me insane. I want this gig. I want NYC.

So, why am I in Denver, lounging in a beautiful apartment and feeling more depressed than I’ve ever been? It’s senseless for me to be here. Maybe it’s the debt keeping me from taking the leap. Or my gorgeous apartment where I spend three-times-less than I would in NYC. Or my dog, who loves his puppy friends and is accustomed to being able to run free through the park behind our apartment building. Or maybe it’s just unjustifiable fear.

I used to be so fearless. My mother and I were discussing this today as we drove to lunch. I’d secretly applied to college, paid my application and housing fees, and selected classes before I’d ever told my parents I planned to leave. I went to Maryland, and then North Carolina, alone. Today, I was reminded of how I built sisterhoods in these new places while speaking to an older woman in the hair salon. Her daughter is applying to colleges and she is hesitant to let her attend a school in a state where she doesn’t know anybody. Instantly, I told this worried mom to let her daughter go so she can soar. I emphatically told her that doing so will initiate her daughter’s independence in the same way it jumpstarted mine.

When did I stop heeding my own advice?

There’s this famed quote about growing where you’re planted. I think I have. After listening to an interview between Danyel Smith and Rhonesha Byng for HerAgenda, I know that I  would not have a successful relationship had I not moved to Denver in 2014 and left writing for teaching. It was during this time that I found and cultivated the best partnership I’ve ever been in. He even supports the need for us to move to NYC for me to pursue my calling as a writer and editor.

Yet, fear is holding me back. I’ll keep glancing down at my “fearless” tattoo every day until it becomes a mantra of possibility.

Rent is due and I have no job.

The school terminated me because of my crippling depression. So crippling that I could no stand in a classroom and deliver an effective lecture. Late FMLA paperwork guaranteed my dismissal. I’ve never been more relieved. No more dreading looking at my phone knowing another useless email from my useless principal and her useless minions asking me how I’m feeling or if I’ve planned a lesson for the substitute or “what about those progress reports?” I breathed a sigh of relief when I received a termination letter. It was over. I was free. Free to pursue other opportunities that are fulfilling. Free to be a writer. Free.

That freedom manifested in an awesome opportunity that I can’t yet reveal because it isn’t finalized yet. Just know it’s in New York. It’s in Times Square. And it’s the opportunity I’d been praying for. It’s the opportunity that may change the entire course of my life. Opportunities abound now that I’ve stopped teaching and started focusing on what I’m passionate about. Being in New York felt … relieving. It felt right. It felt like where I’m meant to be. As a native New Yorker, I thought I’d never return. The rent’s too high. It’s too crowded. Everybody is overly ambitious and willing to climb over their sister to escape the barrel. But New York is for me. Thankfully, the hub (my nickname for the love of my life/live-in partner) is on board. He and i are both praying I’m awarded this opportunity.

New York is where the next phase of our lives will unfold. And it couldn’t come at a better time. We’re drowning in unnecessary debt in a city where gentrification is driving up the cost of living, but the city hasn’t caught on and employers haven’t either. $12 an hour gets you shit in Denver, but nobody’s bothered to tell CEOs that. At least we can be happier in New York. I can’t be a full-time writer/editor. He can work at a major airport. We can do this.

But today, I am panicked. Writer’s block is keeping me from churning out pitch after pitch after pitch. Depression is starting to seep in. Rent is due and I’m scrambling to secure the funds. My final check was half of what it should be and was put in an overdrawn account, so here we are. Charities are overextended. Banks won’t issue loans to a woman with too many credit cards and not enough income. Pride is a bitch, so I’m not asking for help. Payday loans? Pshh. I have too many already. So, here I am, hoping better is coming but panicked in the meantime.

I know it will work. It always does.

But can better hurry up and come already? Please. Please. Please.

I am overwhelmed.

I knew I would be overwhelmed before the school year even began. As a tenth grade Honors World Literature teacher who is trained as a journalist, cultural critic and researcher, I knew I wasn’t meant to be teaching. And I knew it would be overwhelming to be in a classroom where I am constantly floundering. Don’t mistake me. Teaching is a honorable profession. Being able to reach children through literature can be fulfilling — just not for me. Teaching also requires immense dedication and passion. I am dedicated. I am passionate. I am not dedicated or passionate about the minutia attached to teaching — the planning, the gathering of data, the grading of papers, the using of those grades to determine mastery, the re-teaching of skills, the teaching of skills to pass specific tests, the ins-and-outs of education are so tiring. And I am tired.

I am passionate and dedicated to writing, which was the reason I was spending hours I should have been grading searching for jobs, sending pitches, tweeting article links, attempting to connect with a village and planning an exit.

Yet, I spent such a long time attempting to escape teaching that I didn’t recognize when I began feeling overwhelmed. It started with frequent trips to the staff bathroom to bawl, especially after I received another “You are such a qualified applicant, but we’ve decided to go with another candidate. Best of luck, and feel free to pitch us!” email. It evolved into crying the entire drive home, sometimes having to pull over to let it out.

I felt and feel like such an awful teacher. I’m not robotic as we’re often required to be. I use too many words when I’m delivering instruction. I don’t return work fast enough. Nobody mastered the assessment I offered. Common Core is foreign. Who gives a fuck about standards when I have a student in the 10th grade who’s reading on the 3rd grade level? All of those feelings of inadequacy and sadness and feeling off-purpose erupted last week in an uncontrollable crying fit. You know the ones where snot is running solidly out of your nose and the creases of your eyes begin to burn and you still can’t stop. Yeah, I was crying like that. And I attempted to push through it.

I’ve been so accustomed to pushing through it. I pushed through graduate school. I pushed through ain’t shit relationships. I pushed through stuff I didn’t like in hopes of blazing a trail toward shit I would love. But I couldn’t push through this. The tears refused to yield, even as my boyfriend, my parents and my closest friend attempted to comfort me with soothing words of nothingness about everything being alright and getting through it. I couldn’t get through it. After taking a day off of from work, i decided to attempt to go in the next day. I sat in the parking lot of my job and cried for more than 40 minutes. I, literally, could not coax myself out of the car. My principal had to retrieve me from the hallway I eventually broke down in, and encouraged me to take time off.

This is that time off. I haven’t done much. I’ve slept well for the first time in a long time. I’ve watched some television. I’ve read. I’ve soaked in bubble baths. I’ve gone to counseling. I’ve decided I can’t return to the classroom. My therapist diagnosed me with situational depression that is triggered by the pressures and stresses of teaching. So, what comes next? I don’t know. I’d like to think I have it all mapped out. My counselor’s advice was to freelance write until something more fulfilling comes along. Hmm… that seems tempting, except I have so many bills. I’m drowning in debt. It would be irresponsible to quit my job, especially when the freelancing world is so in flux. Controlling who I write for and what I write about is great, but others being in control of when my checks are cut isn’t at all appealing. There’s always finding a staff writer and weekend writer position. Sounds great. I’ve applied. No bites yet.

So, what becomes a writer who isn’t writing but isn’t teaching but needs to pay bills? This blog is what becomes of her.

I am keeping this blog, black girl free, as a means of a public journal and account of what working through a quarter-life crisis looks like. It is for me, but it is also for all the black girls who know they’re talented and want self-validation but also need external validations as well. It is, as Ernest Hemingway so eloquently writes, my attempt to bleed on the page. It will be witty (I’m so ready to break away from fucking academic writing. ECK!) and real and raw and all about what happens next. I may update every day or once a week or several times a week. Who knows? All I know is by the time I’m done, I’d like to be a black girl whose free from being overwhelmed.