I committed a millennial sin about a month ago and here is my confession. I went on a vacation to a tropical island and I didn’t bring my camera. Not only that, I left my phone in my room every single day. And finally, I went on this vacation alone. Not with my crew, not with my squad, not with my gang, not with my fraternity, not with my family, not with my brothers—just me. And I wandered, I had savory authentic dishes, I got scammed, I declined several propositions from prostitutes, I was myself mistaken for a prostitute and propositioned (That was interesting. Must have been my shorts), and I had conversations that made me question my stance on my country. All of these things made my soul expand yet I don’t have one picture to prove it so therefore it never happened.

I’m fine with it. That’s the portion of it that concerns me the most. I don’t care. I’m wondering what’s the purpose of confessing to a sin that I don’t feel sorry for committing. I guess this means I’m doomed to spend eternity in millennial hell. A place with no Wi-Fi where porn only comes in actual magazines and I have to listen to entire albums the whole way through and actually physically turn those albums over. If that be my fate then so be it. I’m beginning to guard my experiences more. I share them on social media less and less. I don’t even feel comfortable writing down which island I went to. I will say that it was one of the ones filled with black people. And they spoke a language other than English—except when they were talking to me. I will also say that I wouldn’t ever go back. It was an awesome experience but I felt an enormous stigma as a tourist. I wasn’t in an all-inclusive resort so I realized within hours of touching down that I was the economy. Everyone there depended on me to feed their families and I didn’t like it. I hated that the whole island is being raped by foreigners. There were billion dollar hotels and multimillion dollar carnival cruises that docked on the bay and none of these businesses were owned by any person from that country. All that they could do was work in the service of tourists or flee to a country like the one I was born in. I had come there for escape, for paradise, to have an experience akin to those I’ve seen on Instagram—I was a fool.

I took no pictures. I wished I could turn my critical thinking skills down enough to Turn Up the whole time I was down there but I couldn’t. I saw beautiful women and I will always remember them. I learned about the great prophets of that island and I won’t forget them. I felt the water of the ocean against my toes while the seaweed tickled my ankles. I embraced the fact that I was wrong about a lot of things after futilely fighting for their individual truths in conversations with islanders who knew better. I realized that I, even in my black skin, have privileges. I accepted that though I am the descendant of American slaves. Though one could argue that I am still in bondage—and often times I do—I am still an American. America is all that I know. Everything I have learned has been filtered by my government. Even the things that I believed to be radical I only was able to learn because my country allowed me to.

When I stepped onto that island I lived a different truth. A truth that couldn’t be captured in a photograph. It couldn’t be validated by X number of likes either. Therefore I didn’t partake in any of those practices that have set this era apart from all those preceding it. It was a sin that I committed intentionally and a sin that I will commit again.

She was very insecure but she ought not to have been. Her lips were as full as the moon. Her hair was deeply tangled yet beautiful, just like the history of humankind. At 22-years-old she was fine as hell. She knew she was fine. All the boys told her so but far too many times there was an asterisk. “You’re fine for a dark skin girl” they would say. She was pretty enough to be a stripper but not pretty enough to be a model. When she got all dressed up she was a bad bitch and not a gorgeous woman. No one saw the pain that was spreading behind her high cheek bones. No one was aware of the self-doubt that had burrowed its way into her body, they were too preoccupied with the way that she walked into a room and stood in the middle of that thang arms akimbo until she found her girls, or a seat, or the bar, or a place to dance. And while she waited she breathed in deeply as if she was inhaling the hatred of the women and the fantasies of the men—then she exhaled slowly, dramatically, seductively. She was the center of all dirty thoughts without ever trying to be. She was viewed as Hottentot Venus but she wanted to be The Birth of Venus. She wasn’t insecure about her culture, no not at all. She was just beginning to be consumed by all of the ways in which her complexion was permeating her dreams. Dreams that used to be sacred and unbound were now tainted by the perceptions of both strangers and loved ones.

She thought of escaping quite often, but to where? She had heard her sorrors tell vacation stories in which natives of Germany, France, and Mexico adored dark skin women. These stories were entertaining but she didn’t want to be anyone’s primitive little fetish. She didn’t want to be chosen in an effort to challenge mommy and daddy’s expectations. She just wanted full credit for her radiance. She had a reoccurring dream of being the queen of the Dahomey Kingdom in the 18^th Century.  She was training to be a female warrior until the king of all of Dahomey took her to be his wife. And since it was her dream the king never took on another wife, and she only bore one child for him because she didn’t want to have too many stretch marks and it was very important that she hold on to the ability to keep her lady parts tight—and the king understood. The king spoiled her with gifts publicly and in private she was the one who made all of the important decisions. Also in the dream were all the people who had abused her in real life. Like Matthew who used to call her blacky in middle school. Taylor who laughed out loud when she decided to go natural in 10^th grade and called her a fake ass Erykuh Badu. “Erykuh Ba-WHO?” he said with both arms in the air resembling a W in a questioning manner. Light skinned Monica who won homecoming queen over her was also there. And with a snap of a finger she had them all captured and sold into slavery, and she never felt bad about it until she woke up. The level of pettiness that she had descended into inside of her subconscious mind concerned her. Since marijuana upset her stomach she decided that she needed therapy. Preferably a dark-skinned black therapist that her sorrors recommended and one who was happily married to a black man. She would send a message of inquiry in the group chat immediately.

YB

It was her sentence structure that amazed me more than anything. Each sentence fit into the story so perfectly and each one seemed to have equal importance. She was so measured in her approach. She never caught the holy ghost, as writers tend to do, and carried on about a singular topic while neglecting others. Her passion was always evenly distributed throughout her work and she always used a high level of characterization with each character that she created.

As an artist, my literary heroes impress me in different ways based on their style. From Hurston and Dunbar I always appreciated their skill at writing black dialect. From Baldwin I marveled at his strength of translating the experience of African-Americans into beautiful but still very confrontational intellectualism. And from Toni Morrison I learned patience. From her I learned consistency. From Toni I learned the confidence to slow down and trust that your audience will slow down with you. I learned to believe in the fact that your readers actually want to believe in you as a storyteller. Toni Morrison made blackness the default in all of her books. She made white readers feel their otherness without even trying. She carried her blackness with such an awesome regality that it was infectious.

And I will miss her the same way that I miss my father, my friend Sean Scott, my friend Ronnie Kidd, and my grandmother. The same way I miss all of my ancestors who I have never met but I still ask them questions every day. I will cherish her words until the day that I die and I will continue to walk down the road that she cleared for black writers. I love you Toni. Rest in eternal peace.

-Roger Porter

Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com

Let the sun shine down on the pavement. Let the rain wash away all of the blood. The gunpowder residue is still on my fingers. I’m not thinking about escaping charges, I’m only thinking about who will have the power to tell my story.

If they told you I was a depraved killer would you believe them, even though you have been knowing me since my childhood. When they whispered into your ear what they found out, would you question them or would you go along with the lie? Would you smile as they carried me off to prison in an effort to protect your social standing while shaking your head slowly and dramatically, uttering softly but loud enough for your colleagues to hear; “I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.”

If you came to see me after the judgement came down and I spoke my truth, would it matter? Would you place my voice over that of the journalists, the prosecution, and the alleged victim? Would you give me your faith? Can you believe in something that you have not seen when everyone else tells you that it is a lie? Are there any limitations in your love for me? Is there anything that you would sacrifice me for?

Let me know the answer right now so, if need be, I can sever myself from the all of the memories that I have of me worshipping you. I hope that you will never be totally aware of all of the ways in which I used to lionize you when I was young man. I spent my whole childhood looking for you. I probably regarded you as some kind of prophet in my undeveloped mind, but to you I was just a follower. And now you can no longer prop yourself upon my bowed head. This boy has now grown high enough to look you in the eyes. I look into them and see no prophet, nor lion. I do not see a revolutionary nor do I see a rebel. I only see a man with a loud voice and a little heart. I do not know what will happen with you. I do know, however, that I will be serving my sentence alone. These are the terms that I must embrace.

-Roger Porter