I just don’t give an eff.
That has been my silent mantra and daily affirmation for the past five to seven years of my life when I have given the most effs. My use of “eff” in lieu of fuck is a pretty clear indication that despite my once daily affirmation, I still give an eff. I’m less benevolent in the effs I have to give, but I’m still generous with the remaining few.
On paper I am raw—unedited, unabashed and largely unashamed. I’m like the ghostwriter for your favorite MC: I write venomous ish with all the braggadocio of a miniature pinscher, or again, your favorite MC. In person, I’m mostly an introvert editing my words and image, working diligently to fit a square inside of a circle, appropriating common pleasantries and using them to become a part of the norm; or worse, too uncensored, too much of myself for fear of appearing inauthentic.
Un-edited is me reconciling who I am with who I’ve become with who I want to be—free. Free to remember history. Her-story. Free to tell the story exactly how it is and how it was, not as it’s been written or how it’s been told. Free from the prison of my mind that shackles my feelings, esteem and the unbridled truth. Free from the prison that awaits black girls embodied with the spirit of intelligence, indignation, and the omnipresent spirits of the many free black girls who have come before her and will come after her. Free to be wild-haired, braless, makeup-less…just less so that we might become more.
Kenya, my literary crush and one half of Un-edited, and I welcome you on the journey to becoming unedited and unloosed. Your comments, your cheers, your understanding, your misunderstanding, your story, your journey is solicited.
Let us be free. It’s a demand. Not a question.