I was embarrassed by it. I was painfully self-conscious then. The coat, and the fear of the reactions I'd receive for wearing it, reminded me of the part of myself I hated most.
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In 2013 I turned twenty-nine-years-old, and my birthday felt long…my birthday this year felt the same way, thanks to my generous sister and friends.
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"Good luck with it," the pharmacist said. An expression hidden behind a blue mask; mine behind a toile one.
"Oh, yes, thanks," I said before turning and walking back home.
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You can imagine how quiet I've been lately, especially now that conversations about race are everywhere, and often I am the Black-person-in-the-room who should say something. I feel a little like a kettle gathering heat, I have very little to say until the conversation ends. Then I start a conversation with myself of everything I could have said.
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This is coming out quick -- while I'm still feeling angry and hurt -- so it won't be eloquent nor all-encompassing. I'm only writing to echo one sentiment from every Insta post and meme circulating about the Black Lives Matter movement and "being an ally" that means the most to me: the concept of being uncomfortable.
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Last Monday, February 3 I flew to Paris and met a series of sunny and somewhat-warm days. I stayed at the Hotel Therese, on a quiet street next to the Palais Royal. I revisited a few of the places I knew from the first time I went to Paris, back when I was a frightened little 20-something. There are still things I am afraid of, sure, but now, they feel dwarfed.
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I also love early mornings in midtown. I was wearing my new coat, stepping confidently in the crowds towards my destination. I looked up at the gray sky and could smell the damp snow on it's way. My friend Felix was in town from Paris, but only available for breakfast before a conference.
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