Sorry, Mom

 

Sorry, Mom.

I typically tell my parents before I go to protests or vigils of any kind. I did it before I went to D.C. that one time, marching amongst hundreds of thousands of people to demand a free Palestine at the imperial capital of the world. I did it again this past Friday, before I went to the #StopScholasticide Vigil.

The conversations are never too involved, and sometimes I do leave out details. For one, I left out that I would be painting my backpack (adorned with what I attempted to be a fishnet pattern and a question in response to Aaron Bushnell’s message) like I did in this picture and walk around with it on my back across campus. I had spent all morning on it, and I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t afraid to wear it. And I knew my parents would probably not like that I was wearing it. But that fear didn’t win out.

It’s the same lectures again and again. My dad is always asking about the other side, not that he supports it, but hoping that I find humanity on both ends—that I recognize the loss of life everywhere and really value it. “What about the Israelis who lost their lives. Are you going to their vigil, too?” And every time I have to remind him that I mourn loss everywhere, but I will not support the use of mourning to systemically eradicate an entire colonized people.

Conversations with my mom don’t really have the two-sided element, but more so a focus on myself. Where I fall in all of this. “This has been going on long before you, Elyana. And it will keep going long after you’re gone.” Dear Lord, I hope not. “I love your passion. I love that it drives you. But you need to slow down and step back. You need to graduate. I don’t care about Palestine or Israel. I will blow up the entire world if something happens to you. Do not become another hashtag. You’ll trend for a day or two and everyone will move on to the next. I will burn this world down for you, Elyana. You hear me?” I try not to show my eyes rolling, my tears, or any other visible displeasures. “Don’t just ‘yes, ma’am’ me. Do you hear what I am saying to you?.” I do, momma.

A big part of this project—Yani Reads—is the idea that I know and then I do. (And I hope I inspire you to do the same.) I’m starting to tear up as I write this, because there is an overwhelming fear that my parents feel every time I do. My parents have no trouble with me knowing, but it’s when I do what I know that scares the hell out of them. They know just as much as anyone how dangerous knowing then doing is, not to mention knowing and doing AND being a young Black woman. They know how far people will go to stop me from doing. Just see what they did in Palestine. 

I just can’t not do, Mom. I’m sorry. I know y'all worry about me a lot. And, to be fair, some of my doing I have to blame on you and Poppy. Y’all can’t say you didn’t raised me this way! I can remember all the times Poppy used to tell me to "defend the weak, protect the poor.” All those morning speeches from you—“Elyana, you are a woman of courage.” And I am so sure that y’all didn’t mean to do it in this way. But what other way is there? What good is there knowing to be good to others, to defend others, to protect others, and not doing so? What good are the blessings I got from y’all stopping with me?

I expect after this we’ll have a long talk. And I’m not sure my position or drive on things will change. What can you expect from the girl y’all would call Angela Davis? Whose cousins would call her Harriet Tubman? (To be fair, what I did in comparison to them pales very deeply in comparison.) But just know that I will always be sorry and that I love you so so so so much. I’m a revolutionary with a dream. I gotta see us through!