conflict x identities x vulnerability
I’m a black woman. A queer black woman. A bisexual black woman.
I don’t always state my identities especially with two of the ones mentioned in this post being fairly obvious when looking at me. But my world, mostly being raised in Detroit and its suburbs, is clouded by race. I just got back from Portugal (another post about that later) and while being there, while race was a thing, it wasn’t MY primary thing and I liked that. I liked being able to move through the world (albeit tired and blistered because of the hills) not focusing on race because really is a distraction. It distracts me from my writing, it distracts me from moving and getting to my performances, it distracts me from the heart of my friendships and relationships, hell it distracts me from everything else I am.
It also impacts how I navigate conflict. When a situation comes up, I go to race first. I hooked up with a woman last November. After a certain point during the hook up, she tapped out of the exchange and just became a complete receiver of pleasure. She should receive all the pleasure that she desires. Full stop. AND I should not be left feeling as though I’m not going to receive any. Her body language is what left me feeling this way. She snuggled in for a good nights rest. I was still wide awake and frustrated, and my bed was 10x more comfortable so I decided to leave. I got home and stated “I feel like a shitty nigga but I meant everything I said and did.” The next day as I spiraled about it, i sent her a lengthy text talking about black women and giving in sexual experiences and wanting things to be equal and not wanting to feel like i’m being put in a position to simple give because i want to receive. and her response was short, something to the effect of I’m holding all of this. GIRL, I wanted engagement. I wanted a response. I just put all my fears out there about feeling used in a sexual experience and you said little. I was incredibly vulnerable and got little in return.
Did I say too much? What’s too much?
Did I give her too much energy? Maybe it was given to the wrong person.
But now, almost exactly 9 months later, I’m left thinking about how that was a moment of conflict, a rub in our relationship that I dove into. She did not. I’ll dive into rubs, but I see how a lot of people don’t like to, hell I barely like to.
Rubs and conflict are terrifyingly overwhelming and there’s the potential for someone to get hurt more in the interaction. But even the good moments in life could result in being hurt, adding to your baggage, I know some have for me. Moments aren’t so easily categorized and they’re complicated and multiple things can be happening at once. But this fear is two pronged in a lot of my situations. It’s fear of hurting more through the conflict but I also wonder how much of it is fear of being called racist or a misogynist or whatever other label that we all avoid. I bring up race a lot because my world is colored by it. But how many people feel they can’t push back because race or sexual orientation or class is a hard stop in conversations? You listen, you learn, you do better. That doesn’t feel good on my end and reiterates this fear of black womanhood, how we can challenge you and because of a fear of how we’ll respond to conflict there’s little engagement with the difficult, murky stuff.
Or is that you’re afraid of who you’ll become in the depths of conflict? I don’t know.
I woke up with a desire to stop beating myself up at being horrible at conflict, I now have a lot of evidence of what I could/do say and don’t because of this gripping fear that my truth will push people away. I should give them the opportunity to show me instead of participating in the pushing them away later.
Generally speaking, I’m a puddle. Maybe a hot spring, housing this deep body of water surrounded by warmth. A desert that can continue to nourish life because water sits at my core. I usually want to cry during conflict but don’t because I’m great at dissociating 🙃. By the time the water reaches the surface, it’s steam, felt through deep breathes, silences, eyes closed, ears perked. Everyone, especially me, is left confused about where all the water went as my throat croaks, as I ask for water and carry a bottle to make sure my internal warmth is always hydrated. But who do you read me as? Who do you read yourself as?
All things I think about as I talk to statues in the middle of the night. I should do that more often.
