The Revolution Will Be Horny

And you and I, dear, will carry heavy pieces of revolution with us.

First of all, you and I have to lay off the coffee.  We need serene power, not toxic shocks.  Sip some tea and honey with me.  I can’t carry all that heavy espresso in me day after day.  It mixes up my body, sets my mind upside down because it wants more and I refuse to give people more money to get coffee.  Conflicted beans or not.  I don’t want to give in to coffee.  I’d rather try to read the tea leaves as they brew.

I think I can tackle answering your questions with alcohol in me.  Sometimes tea is not enough.

How do we love the woman that gives us life in all her flaws. How do we be young black girl genius searching for more. Will we ever not be horny

One way I love my mother is by having access to alcohol when I am away from home, like now. :-p I’m partially kidding. But one thing this life has taught both of us as young black girl geniuses is love is a full-time job. Love is not a passive, land-in-my-mud-puddle type of activity. Love requires work, diligence, strength, and the ability to compromise when it seems impossible.

I spoke to some friends tonight about the very high likelihood that I would be my mom’s caregiver for as long as that would take. (Drinking throughout the story.) I don’t think I’ve reconciled the duty with the actions yet, hard as I’m trying. But I think part of the “how” is readying yourself for the learning process. And that learning process translates to everything — I think that’s what separates me from you. Sometimes I feel too damned sure of what I say and what I think, and you always find a question to knock me over on my ass. I blame law school for the false sense of surety and certainty.

Law school teaches you a new way of thinking, perceiving, and writing. Yes, that’s true. But it also converts your language into that of an insufferable blowhard. I don’t feel like I can relate to a problem from my gut anymore. I’m always cerebral with my approach lately. I don’t like it. I shy away from my reading and my work with every in-class regurgitation my professors expect from me. I’m at loggerheads with wanting to have an informed discussion and not wanting to mimic back noises and thoughts like I did since I was 2. I don’t feel like I’m learning anymore. Law school doesn’t teach you how to learn, and that’s critical to the field.

You know what peppers my work out in the field? Training sessions! Lawyers are constantly reading, researching, and training for the latest development. Learning law really shouldn’t be in an institutional format unless they really want you to go crazy. Then the “institution” aspect would be appropriate, you know?

But one of the reasons you and I get along so well is we ask each other questions and we ask the world questions. We ask those questions in a world that doesn’t like listening to young black girls much, a world that would much rather we keep running on the treadmills it built for us. A world that spends more time sawing us apart than keeping us together in the face of the pain we’ve encountered and are still encountering. And I feel like if we keep loving the black girls who grew into the black women we love as our mothers, we’ll understand ourselves and where we’re headed a little better. We know why they’re crazy; they know why we’re crazy. We all make it work with the love we’re developing and mixing.

Now, I titled this entry the way I did for a reason. Girl, we will ALWAYS be horny. Ain’t enough sex toys in the world. And if it weren’t for you, I’d still be thinking in terms of holding jewels and testing suitors and princes and princesses and peas and dragon slaying surrounding my virginity. After a few months of thinking about how I want my life to work, I realized that I can’t treat myself like an object in the sexual equation. Not only is that the reason abstinence/virginity preservation is horribly misguided, it falls apart in the face of some lube and a good motorized device. There were no storybooks producing the orgasms there! And there’s an intimacy missing there that no amount of gift conceptualization will reconcile.

I worry about concepts of feminism that politicizes the most sacred and the most mundane of relationships — the romantic relationship. Genders don’t matter. The number of people doesn’t matter. How you imagine the flow of the relationship may not be realistic or practical or conscientious to the ideas and opinions of others — but that’s not what love is about anyway! Sometimes I feel the best test of love is if you are willing to commit to someone publicly the way you commit to them privately. If you let people see that you are open to someone and committed to that person, and when those people aren’t there, the commitment hasn’t changed — that’s a good sign that you’ve found a fellow learner/lover.

I have to be careful because I want to write this whole diatribe starting with “and if the person fucks like God put the spirit in them and they wrestled together until God let them win and they’re gloating about winning the divine struggle while on top of you…” but I think we both understand that aspect of it because we are still HORNY! I mean, really? Really?!

Really?!

We’re not gonna be alone. The revolution is all about sweaty foreheads with droplets easing down backs and muscles etched into the flesh by circumstance and happenstance, not some gym. The revolution is about anxiously tapping feet, bouncing in desk chairs during the 9-5, and discovering a new sensation while you’re walking down the street that touches some part of your life you haven’t lived yet. The revolution shines in the eyes of someone you’ve never met before that moment; but in that moment and contact you know that you and that person can push over a few mountains if you both bend your knees together and start lifting. The revolution is tension in the joints, oil in the limbs, and flames in the economy of movement to change. The revolution is putting in the work and knowing exactly what that work will yield. The revolution is grinding the beans for the coffee and assembling the leaves and accents for the tea. The revolution is all about anticipation and daydreaming and stealing a moment to yourself in a quiet room. The revolution lives away from shoddy substitutions and billion-dollar bailouts. The revolution can dwell in a hovel, clutches its children to its breast when they’ve been victimized, and jumps at the chance to make more children — or to engage in a lot of practice.

Let me say it again: the revolution is all about anticipation. And waiting for the time to move is as important as the movement itself. Economy of motion and thought and love — it’s time.