Lately, I have been coming to understand my own complexities, and how they make me into who I am. I admit I have many faults—but I think the biggest fault of them all is trying to pretend that I’m faultless. 

I think an important fact for me to remember when thinking about death, is that it is actually the foundation for birth (whether that is physical or psychological). Without death, there would be no birth/life, and without life, there would be no death. No matter what, I’m part of this cycle and no better than any other living thing. I was born to die, I was born of and made from the earth and the stars, and to the earth and stars, I shall one day return.

Beyond the physical reality that we are born and die, I also inquire about what it means to have many lives within a singular one. At the age of 23, I have already gone through many rebirths. I “died” when I said goodbye to my childhood, I “died” when I began menstruating, I “died” when I left the only home I have ever known to pursue art, I “died” after my first huge breakup, I “died” when I was sexually assaulted, I “died” when I shaved my hair off. All these pivotal moments in my life awakened a new part of me. I am no longer who I was before, but I know that all these past lives still live in me; they won’t ever go away and they will perpetually feed into who I continually become.

Like an evening primrose, blooming only at night…a part of me arises, which cannot be seen in the light.

Oh, 

The delight….

Of taking off one’s mask

And be comforted by my own

Like warm liquor in a flask. 

I am blissfully alone

And

Contained

Without strain 

I yawn and awake 

Contemplate and escape

Into my own self.

Yet I still desire

For my mysterious grin

To be seen by all.

I want to be let in

And to allow this skin

To be seen by all.

But perhaps that will be my downfall… 

Because I’ve let so many in

Past all my walls

And somehow 

Someway

I get thrown away

so

Burdened by it all

And 

Filled with dismay...

My past troubles seep into

the lovely warm day

As I struggle to be okay

Say….

I know this feeling won’t last

Because I’ll be stronger and a lot more calmer

And this feeling will no longer cast

That shadow in my eyes.

Because I’ll see past the hurt, the pain, and the lies

And just may let you into my disguise.

I think a lot about how, in many ways, people transmute themselves into the things that they do and the things that they create. A chef, for instance, transmutes themselves in a way that you can taste the passion and understanding they have for food opposed to someone with little experience cooking. Perhaps that chef was angry one day, you may not consciously be aware of it, but that plate of food may be arranged in a more “aggressive” manner or maybe it tastes slightly different. More relevant is clay; clay is an incredibly intimate material. It has memory, can hold emotive qualities, and can communicate so much about a person without even saying a word. It holds who an individual is, whether that is aesthetically/stylistically or physically; a finger print, a choice, a direct link inside a person’s inner world.

I think about the hours upon hours black people spent in the fields, harvesting the hardy plant, and how they must have transmuted a bit of themselves into the plant. The testament of strength is shown both in cotton and those who worked in the fields; their capacity of endurance forever binds the two together. I personally cannot look at cotton and not think about the complicated history of the simple plant and its connection specifically to black people. Despite being subjected to intense heat and relentless labor, both cotton and black people, are still vulnerable, soft, sensitive, and fragile. The belief that black people were meant for labor was incredibly prevalent in times of slavery, but we can still see this misconception taking new life today. There is this sense of “strength” that is projected onto black bodies, which in my opinion creates a falsehood of self and of perception. Many black people feel that they have to be strong and to never show weakness; constantly swallowing their fear and pain in order to not be seen as lesser than or weak. We have been attributed to this concept and idea so much so, that when we do step outside of this narrative that was placed and forced onto us, it is a genuine surprise to others. Regardless of the color of our skin, we are still human.

I believe that the world around us is like a big sponge, soaking up our energy to the point where we transfer a bit of ourselves into it, and become it in a way. I relate this a lot to cotton, which is a sturdy and incredibly strong plant that can endure the blazing sun for hours on end. If you ever see a cotton field in your lifetime, especially knowing its significance and history in America, you just may feel the calming yet daunting energy that surrounds it.

In this piece, I explore my connection with cotton through the histories of my own ancestors and its global and local impact. I also explore the importance that black bodies and cotton had in global relations, trade, and commerce. Cotton aided in America’s economy, in people’s everyday lives through clothes and textiles, and became a crop that people, and the government, were so dependent on that they would rather die than give it up.

Like a lot of my work, I want to pay respects to my ancestors that did so much for their future generations. I am the fruit of their labor, and though they never got to see or experience their own fruits in their own time, I am here to tell them that it all mattered. Who they were and all that they did matters.

I wish you were here…

Too often women get blamed, silenced, ignored, or discriminated against when sexual assault occurs. We hear it all the time… ”well what were you wearing,” “You put yourself in that situation,” “she wanted it…”

In 2019 I was sexually assaulted. I held in what happened to me for a year because I was so ashamed, and I feared the judgment of others. I didn’t even tell my family what happened to me, and living with that burden was slowly poisoning me. I had to tell someone…I needed support. Once I finally came out to the person who was supposed to be there for me, he left me 3 days after I told him. I then heard rumors that I cheated on him…

Everything that I feared would happen; I got ridiculed, some people didn’t even believe what happened to me, and others felt like I had it coming. But no one ever asked me what really happened. No one ever checked on me to see if I was okay. No one looked me in the eyes to see my pain, they just judged me from afar. They accepted what was told to them, and I got discarded—literally.