i remember when i first learned of death. i was five, maybe six, taking a shower while my mother sat in the bathroom and talked with me. i don't remember how it came out, but i do remember being stunned. how was it that we could no longer be?

i feel guilty for being angry. i feel that i've allowed myself to be overcome by my inner pessimism that i am constantly fighting. it's not that i can't laugh or see the humor in everyday things, but i am constantly aware of the pain/suffering/grief inherent in so many experiences.

i have cried three times in the past 24 hours. first i cried while i was reading an article for class. joan dayan critiqued paul gilroy's the black atlantic for its lack of connection to reality. in a very dense two hundred and twenty-something pages he discussed the aspirations of black intellectuals and performers to address issues of race that stem from a history of slavery. dayan argued that gilroy missed some crucial elements in this discussion, namely that there is a material reality of racism visible beyond intellectual and artistic discourses. she pointed to the prison population of which fifty percent of black males. i couldn't help but look up and think of how few of us there are here at this institution of 50,000. she also suggested that a critique of the black atlantic needed to acknowledge the system in which so many of us are not even given the opportunity address our circumstances. it was yet another reminder that, while i am here dedicated to the study of race/gender/class/etc., there are people in the world dying and struggling to live.

later, on my way to class, i found out that nikia died. you take for granted the relationships that you have, whether they be intimate or in passing. i remember her as a warm, friendly, caring person who always made me feel welcome. i admired her sense of style and her dedication to the history department: all of the times she rolled the tv into class when professors were running late, helping me sign up for phi delta theta, and wearing t-shirts advertising the first annual history day. there are so many images that stand out in my mind...to think that i took them all for granted. i can't believe that she's gone. i can't believe that she was so young. that she went so fast. that she probably never saw it coming. part of it is so very surreal, but the bulk of it is so very real. i pray for the strength of her family, friends, and for spelman.

then, this morning, i read deLaine's blog. it breaks my heart to see how we allow low self-esteem to put us in circumstances that jeopordize our mental, phyhsical, and emotional health and development. i feel like i have come to a place where i am slowly losing faith in black men. more and more i meet black men who prove my stereotypical images true as selfish, self-centered, misogynistic, materialistic, and close-minded people. not that this can't be found in others, but i'm not attracted to them. ...beyond that, i struggle with standing up for what is right, "choosing battles"... there are all of these messages that tell us to back-down. don't fight your teachers who hold your degree in their hands. dont' call people out on their ignorance because they are your future collegues and you want them to like you (but do i really?). don't stand up for the woman being disrespected because they may harm you... do i live as a coward or risk death as woman of morals and ideals?

and yet i am alive to feel. maybe this is good for me- anyone who knows me knows that i am not good with dealing with the emotional aspects of life. maybe this is part of what yolanda adams refers to as "the process." i don't consider these to be bad days or even hard, just overhwhelming. and yet i am so fortunate to be here in this moment and just be.