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Sweet perfection.
Pure soul.
Something that calls to me.
My history does that.
Black history.
It’s like a siren song. Something I’ve been chasing for years and years that keeps flitting out of reach. Dousing myself in the past, in the tiny victories, the horrors, the determination, and the struggle of my people keeps me sane.
During college, I tried to pretend it was different. A simple fad. A one-way ticket to the cool kids table. Activism was hot. The ‘in thing’. Then I realized that I really cared. That black history wasn’t just a socially conscious excuse to pick up hot guys.
That it meant something.
Meant everything.
My parents didn’t quite understand my obsession. They were loving. Supportive. Everything I needed. Why did I keep diving into a past where it would have been illegal for them to adopt me? A past where a black girl in their house would have meant they owned me? A past so far removed from my present, loving home?
Why didn’t I just bury my head in the sand and focus on the present? On the now? On the tomorrow?
My response: I don’t know.
The past clicks with my soul.
No rhyme.
No reason.
It just is.
Like the melanin in my skin.
Like the curls in my hair.
Like the brown of my eyes.
To be honest, I wanted to please my parents. I considered being a lawyer or some kind of professor. It was a sensible way to live. To make money while pursuing my passion.
My parents would have helped with everything. They’re both well-connected and respected. It was a smooth, open road before me, but it didn’t appeal. I didn’t want my words dictated by someone else’s curriculum. I didn’t want to spend my days in a courtroom.
I wanted to research. I wanted inside of those books, those old buildings, those quiet, dusty halls that had been forgotten by the people who were struggling to make it through today and too terrified of tomorrow to think about their past.
But lofty goals and passion don’t always equal success. After I graduated, I struggled to find a job that suited my ideals. So I settled for temp work. A few weeks as an assistant. An unpaid internship. A research gig that barely offered compensation for all the work I put in. A few weeks living off Mom and Dad.
Last year, I got a call from the African American History Initiative. Sure, it wasn’t exactly the position I dreamed of, but it was close enough. It was more than I thought I’d get without being a lecturer.
Then the project got pulled.
No funding.
No interest.
No one cared.
After that, I gave up. Figured that I’d just throw in the towel and admit that I had absolutely no chance of making it in the African American research field without getting a teacher’s license.
Mom and Dad encouraged me to hold out. To follow my heart. To let my feet take me where I wanted to go instead of trying to force my way down a thorny path.
