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.
blackgirlfree 