Growing Up: Oluwatoyin Salau

I couldn't sleep last night and this is what my brain had to say:


As a girl, growing up can be tough. I do realize that life is tough for all of us, but I don't want to do you a disservice by attempting to relay them all. Only mine. There are so many expectations of you and who you will become. Some people have high expectations of you, some none, and others just have the expectation of being able to do with you what they want. Without consequence. Without shame. This can be anybody.

  There is so much going on right now and it's hard to manage. In managing these times, one can't help but to reflect over ones own life. Reflect over what was right. Reflect over what was wrong. Reflect over the times you felt unprotected. I keep thinking about what happened to Oluwatoyin Salau. I think about how Salau reminds me of my name. The part that only those close to me know. Which is strange because her assailant knew her by this name, so I guess it's not strange at all because those closest to you often hold the power to do the most harm. We know that these things happen more often than we are aware or more than we care to acknowledge.

  In thinking about Oluwatoyin Salau, I am reminded of all of those time when I was made to feel discomfort, shame, or fear from men who had no shame in sexually harassing a young girl. I think about how soon I developed, and how soon men were ready to view, and treat me, as a woman. I am reminded of how my mama tried to protect me as best she could by keeping me in and denying all of my requests for "fun", but I know now that she knew what I didn't yet understand. She knew that some men had predatory tendencies, as she had had her own experiences, but they always found a way to circumvent her protections. Plain as day, I remember being outside, right in front of our apartment window, when an older man who had known my family for years, complete with his own wife and kids, told me that he couldn't wait until I, a 13year old at the time, turned 18 as if he was entitled to "dibs". I'll never forget his since of confidence and entitlement to a body that I wasn't even sure of yet. I remember being in 3rd grade and older boys grabbing at what wasn't theirs to grab, and having to fight somebody's son everyday about it. I wonder what they had been taught that made them feel this entitled.

  Unfortunately, more often than not girls, and women, experience this and are left to defend themselves against it all. It's tiring, but men want to argue about who does and doesn't deserve their protection when it could all be so simple. Simply start by checking the people in your immediate circuit who have the tendency to harass women. Period. It's weird that men believe that they are the exception in a group of predators. "I don't do that." Well, we can't tell. Much like men who lump women together and assign certain labels, the same, my dear fellow, applies to you. Birds of a feather right?

  Anyway, all of this has been freshly relentless on my mind since the start of all of this and to add insult to injury a group of men throw a woman in a trash can and another hits a woman in the face with a skateboard over his ego and the "friends" just laugh and record. Again, it's tiring. I'm trying to be on my #KevinGates and not get tired, but I am tired because I always think about my sisters coming up behind me in this ridiculously crazy world. We are going to have to of so much more harder for the girls in our lives. This current state is unacceptable. It's touchy, but what's the cost of not touching the subject at all? A book could be written about all of my own experiences.

Oluwatoyin Salau was a baby in my eyes. No matter what we are conditioned to believe about turning 18 and being grown, that's simply not true. She was 19, but she still needed to be loved and protected, and I don't think that was too much to ask. She wasn't done growing up.

Buried...

When I went to view my sister’s body, the day before her actual funeral, they didn’t want anybody to touch her.  They even went so far as to put a poorly handwritten note, not even typed, on her body that said as much.

Don’t bury me in white.

Circa 2017

I Am...

I Am...
Black history and her story.
Trap music and hot wings.
Tupac and Ella.
Lorraine and James.
Literary greats and subject of white hate.
Watermelon in the summer.
Chicken after church.
Laugh until it hurts.
Praise and rage.
Rage, rage, rage!

September 3, 2016