GO TO HELL

(and other things I wish to say aloud)

I want to scream choice words at some of my family members. Choice words that have been rising within me to say for the better part of thirty years. This very willful, prideful part of me wants to scream “Go to hell,” and so many other things to people who I know are grieving, but who I feel deserve none of my empathy. I want to say things that were inappropriate for a child to say to an adult family member, and disrespectful, regardless of what age you are. Lying in wait beneath my surface, bubbling in molten lava heated in the pits of my soul, are words and sentences that would make Stalin blush. I want to say the kind of words that result in physical fights and vows of no contact—and between Sagittarians, that will be the outcome.

I am perfectly comfortable writing the existence of people out of my life. I do not care if they are family or the very best of friends. If I feel a line has been crossed, you will never hear from me again. Some once-very-close friends will tell you they have choice words for me because they no longer have access to any part of my life.

I don’t like that I have the capacity to be that way. I hate it even more that I exercise that capacity as often as I need to. I don’t just walk away. I erase.

Broken relationships are a symptom of a broken world.

I erase any goodwill gained during the course of the relationship. I erase every smile, every laugh, every joyful exchange. In anger, I form a blood pact with grudges. I do not budge. And that is not a flex. It’s a flaw.

Because it isn’t Christian at all.

I am a lifelong Lutheran, like my grandmother, who recently became my ancestor. I have been tasked with loving everyone—my neighbors and my enemies—the way God has loved me. Loving words and actions flow more easily when we are sure they will be reciprocated. It is much harder when there is no response or a negative response to our love instead. It hurts.

And no one wants to be hurt. Living these days hurts so much.

This morning, before getting on the commuter train to work, I screamed on the phone with my wife. I yelled hurtful things about the hurtful people in my life. She allowed me this movement, which allowed me to move on from it, and I went to work.

I checked my Bible App after settling in at my station to find a verse perfectly suited for me today. It is the very same verse my wife and I discussed at lunch when she called for our daily prayer. (We are trying to pray at 12:10 PM together every day as a spiritual practice. Nothing fancy, we just read aloud the Guided Prayer section of the YouVersion Bible App) .

It may seem silly to you. I have been called silly by intelligent people because of my devout faith, my earnest attempts to be who my maker made me to be. But my wife and I have both been through dangerous circumstances, finding ourselves saved through utterly inexplicable means. It has generated within us a deep gratitude for each day we have the opportunity to do it again—even though it seems to be getting harder to do.

Our daily prayer is part of our collective fight against darkness in the world. It is a way we can fortify our lights to shine, right in the middle of the day, regardless of who or what we are surrounded by. At least, that’s our hope.

So I want to offer the same verse that I read today—the one that stopped me in my tracks and reminded me that I am not of this world, I’m just in it. I offer it in the hope that you are able to speak love into the most hurtful people in your life.

I wonder: what would tomorrow be if we all did?

See that no one pays back evil for evil, but always try to do good to each other and to all people.

1 Thessalonians 5:15 NLT

Black women are asked to be this, to do this, with alarming consistency—and often most adamantly from the classes of people who abuse us the most.

It is a symptom of the oppressor to move toward forgiveness before the depth of the pain soaks in. America has asked every generation of Black women born on her shores to “do good to each other and to all people”. America wants her labor, even wants her love, but does not want her to be human—to express anything that does not satiate the delicate sensibilities and depraved desires of capitalism.

In short, my forgiveness is political.

I was first made aware of this by the artist Marc Bamuthi Joseph during a conversation about Black forgiveness. I knew that I was always expected to “be the bigger person,” which meant swallowing whatever I was feeling in order to “keep the peace”—which really meant keeping everyone else comfortable.

I can look back at countless times in my life where my argument was valid, but I was silenced because pointing out the recklessness of that behavior would upset the delicate family dynamic. (No, you should not give a 16-year-old $20 to spend all day on the boardwalk of Atlantic City by herself while you get drunk in a casino. No warning, no nothing. She thought she was going to spend the day with you, and she found out she was really just your designated driver.)

Black girls are asked to forgive unspeakable things in families.

So, yes, my forgiveness is political. What the hell do I do with that? There is how I feel, what I believe, and how my feelings are used outside of myself. What am I supposed to do with that as I grieve, raise my children, and try to navigate yet another economic crisis in my adulthood? (Shoutout to the 80s babies, we really are the strongest generation.)

I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what I do know.

I control my actions and my reactions. My actions will continue to be an extension of who I am, who my maker made. And my reactions will continue to be an extension of who I am, who my maker made.

It isn’t about pettiness. It isn’t about other hurt people.

These are the times we must have a very clear focus on where we stand, what we believe, and what we are willing to fall for. The fascist American state is here. The one we thought could never actually be a reality is. We are living in it. Actively. With world leaders having panicked meetings because of an increasingly erratic, quasi-failed dictator in free housing in D.C..

I have to pray with my wife every day because of days like today. Despite the sunshine (#Cali), the world is foggy, and the way is unclear. What we believe matters. And I have to believe in something bigger and more powerful than me right now, because I know I will drown if it’s just down to me.

So, while I have choice words for people, situations, and this very broken world, I want to leave a few with you:

Thank you for being here.