I try my best to stay away from Gawker. However, I did want to participate in the big cuh (�cousin� for you uninitiated folks) Kiese�s Times Six project. I had to do a bit of memory digging for this one. I ended up in the ninth circle of hell � 7th grade.

Laymon: Tell me about the first time you remember your love for black folks being threatened?

I�ve always been aware of black folks and when they were missing. I have a few snatches of early memories of being questioned about my love of black folks:

4th grade history lesson on Jamestown: �why are the slaves happy? That doesn�t seem right.�

5th grade African American history month program: �Why do we have to stick to February? Aren�t black people doing stuff year round?�

However, my most vivid memory is from sixth grade. My teacher Mrs. Lawn � name changed to protect the ignant � called my folks to talk about something I did on my standardized test. She was concerned that I filled in the �Other� bubble when asked my race/ethnicity. She wanted to know if she should change the bubble from �Other� to �Black.�

I don�t remember if my folks gave her the go ahead to change my answer.



I wasn�t aware of the one-drop rule at 12 years old. But I did know that standardized test bubbles sucked. They had to be filled in a specific way and if you didn�t fill them in correctly your work didn�t count. The exed out bubble was traumatizing. I agonized over proper bubble shading.

However, I didn�t agonize over how I viewed myself as �Other.� I was not overlooking my blackness. I didn�t have a deep-seeded self-hatred that my teacher was trying to suggest my answer revealed. My dad and his parents were country Southwest Georgia Black. My Opa � grandfather � was a Black man from outside of Yazoo City, Mississippi.

I was trying to take account of all my family, including my grey eyed �white� German blooded Oma � my mother�s mother � because, well, if she was German wasn�t I a piece of German too? I didn�t fit properly into that bubble and Mrs. Lawn panicked. My shading was sloppy. I wasn�t hip to diasporic identities or none of that language in the sixth grade. They didn�t have German chocolate cake as an option for racial identity.


Laymon: When you were twelve years old, can you describe for me what a perfect day would look like?

 Sitting on the second stair with my dog Lucky while talking on the phone with my bestie Erica about boys and music. My stepdad�s tacos or Pizza Quick supreme pizza for dinner for the win.

Laymon: If twelve year old you could describe the most exciting thing you did last night, what would she say?

She would probably be wide-eyed and push her glasses up to the crown of her nose while saying: �You spent the night with a MAN?! Oooooh...did you tell Erica?!�

No. No I did not.

Laymon: Can you describe your first memory of misogyny and anti-blackness colliding?

I was in 7th grade. If anyone tells you how much they loved 7th grade they are a lie and a half. Seventh grade was socially painful and awkward: growth spurts, high water jeans, white socks, and trying to get a hold of wearing a bra everyday. I just didn�t understand why covering nipples and only nipples at that point was such a big deal. New menstrual cycles, hormones, and gym class were the devil so hygiene was tricky and a bit of a hit and miss every once in a while. I couldn�t get my awkwardness together.

As a result, I was bullied mercilessly. I was bullied for not wearing the right brand of body mist. I was bullied for not having tig-ole-bitties. I was bullied for my white socks. I was bullied for being a �smart bookworm bitch.� I was bullied for liking Thomas, the most popular boy in seventh grade, because he was �Sophie�s man.� Hell, I was bullied for playing the clarinet instead of something sexy like the Saxophone or Flute.

I cried everyday.

We had to keep an agenda book for assignments and to get parents� signatures for progress reports and the like. One day after gym class my agenda went missing. No one said they�d seen it. About a week later, it randomly appeared on my desk during Social Studies. The cover looked okay. The inside was horrific.

Drawings of spread legs, hairy vaginas, and sexual positions with arrows pointing to the girls� faces saying �Regina� spewed across every page. Taunts of �stank black cunt� and �black bitch� sprawled across two and three pages at a time.

In the middle of the agenda was a large picture of a woman with her legs sprawled apart and flicking me off. Another arrow pointed to the woman and said �stank bitch like your ho mama.� The final page left a devastating message: �You�ll never be shit. Kill yourself you worthless black cunt.�

My chest tightened and a howl escaped my lips that startled the teacher.

At home I showed my mom my agenda. She was angry and said she would call the school the next day.

�Don�t listen to those stupid ass little boys and girls, Gina,� she huffed.

But I did listen to those stupid ass little boys and girls. What monstrosity did they see in me that I couldn�t exorcise from myself? What about my awkward black girl did they not like to the point they egged me on to commit suicide?

Laymon: If you could concretely propose any two new national policies, what would they be?

First policy: mandatory arts and music programs/classes in every school. Writing and music literally saved my life.

Second policy: Mandatory  �consent courses� at every level of school. This is beyond sexual education. We need to address pleasure, explain consent, and teach that sexual violence is not just physical. I nominate Salamishah and Scheherazade Tillet as directors of the curriculum. Make the consequences steep like not signing up for Selective Service: no course completion, no federal aid. For real. Sexual violence has got to stop.

Laymon: How can black lives really matter in these United States of America?

We need to redefine what black life means: black lives are not just straight, male, able bodied, sound-minded, and cisgendered. The idea of black lives needs to be complicated and multifaceted. We also need to push conversations of black agency beyond boxes of generation, class, and privileges. I know folks get mad at the hashtag #AllLivesMatter but shit #AllBlackLivesMatter is starting to look like the move to keep progressing forward.