2021-A Year of Games, Gratitude and Grounding

 You are the one that you are looking for. ~ Audre Lorde

January was framed by Bob's I Shot the Sheriff. In fact, it was a remix whose production had started in November 2019. As a part of the takeover, the coup makers set an agenda to discredit and gnaw away at the integrity, professionalism, and decades of sacrifice to an organization we called family, home, a feminist space. Let's just say, Bob's lyrics played around in my head as an influencer and confirmed that my feminist analysis of this power struggle in a sea of whiteness was on point. At some point, I needed to get the deputy as well. February was difficult. The contradictions, resistance, and the learned socialization to keep my body, mind, and soul intact while smiling created toxic layers around me. I needed a break and a platform to speak. Funny thing, there was a growing success in manufacturing artificial divisions and silos -a dismantling of a powerful feminist collective-to ensure that we re-enact the Hunger Games. The games had begun, and roles were emerging. Burna Boy kept me going at the gym and home. March was a month of joy. I got the call for an interview. Yale World Fellows Program. It was surreal and I tried to align it with my previous wins-a a round trip ticket to the World Cup in Brazil, a Digital Satellite TV system + a generator, and that chocolate-covered cake at the school bazaar when I was 9. At that point in my life, a prestigious Ivy League fellowship was bigger than the chocolate cake, and I spent the next few weeks on a binge of the Gilmore Girls, an introduction to Yale as recommended by Koc Nyema Williams. April took me to my roots, and I was able to have discussions about Inappropriate Medley in Liberia. We centered on storytelling. Young women representing new generations shared their position, poetry, and platforms of resistance on navigating the Liberian society. It was mind-blowing and cathartic. I realized that the book was the first step in a long conversation on the healing value of storytelling. By May, the Hunger Games had intensified. Parallel universes were created to shock the daylight out of people’s souls. I had my visa and made peace with the fact that I was choosing Yale. The pause would save my sanity and expand my current understanding of the world. At this point, I was wading through murky waters each day, dealing with the higher-ups and custodians of whiteness. It was painful and disrespectful. I was in the doldrums and questioned my every move. Imagine this breakdown and the demand to be prepared for a Yale fellowship. I write this to highlight how institutional racism, power plays, and toxicity can affect our mental health in spaces that are meant to be safe and feminist. I write this because many women let it go despite the impact of this culture on their bodies and minds. Letting go and speaking about this taboo in many settings is difficult. I write to demystify this taboo. May-all framed in Redemption Song. My anthem of calm and resistance. By June, I spread out my earthly belongings on an apartment floor on Othaya Road and invited friends of goodwill (pun intended) to come and make purchases. As the time narrowed down, the most important parts of my life were my sons, cooking jollof rice at Njoki's, and straightening out the kinks of my life. The most important priority was getting my Kitengela glasses to Liberia, where I daydreamed of using them one day. James graduated from Riara University, and again registered that unique determination to achieve. We ate jollof rice and drank champagne at Njoki's house to celebrate him. July was the rush month of goodbyes and hellos. I needed to know where I would live in New Haven. I was not sure why that was so important to me, with my history of living in a three-bedroom zinc shack. In hindsight, I think I had subconsciously associated a living space with safety and comfort, and I needed loads of that after the Hunger Games reenactment. Everything came to a grinding halt on 30 July. I became infected with the coronavirus and could not make my flight to the US. Additionally, I had resigned from my job and given up my apartment. Believe me, you do not want to live with young men who are so cautious about bills that they ask you to cut off the television if you do not give it your undivided attention. On a serious note, it was one of the most challenging 14 days of my life since we had limited information on covid guidelines. I tested negative on the morning of August 14th and was on the first flight that night to New York. August exploded excitingly. I pinched myself to confirm that I was at Yale, living in the historic Chapel Street District. I had access to everything I needed. There were some shocks, but I was glad to be away from the battlefield-fighting for my peace and sanity. I eased into August with gratitude, recovering from covid, ready to join an awe-inspiring cohort of individuals representing 15 other countries, and with the assurance that a safe space of care and love was mine. August to December-the best five months of the year. I learned so much about myself and how my socialization as a feminist guided my interactions. Sometimes, it was about self-recognition and self-awareness. Many times, it was about patience and the capacity to love and work for love. It was about unpacking excess baggage that I had carried consistently and realizing that in many cases it was about sitting outside on a cold day in Sheffield, MA, reading Dr. Jessica Harris’ High on the Hog. That simple life. I gave and took and loved. I entered unknown spaces with humility, and loved my Neoliberalism, Queer Feminism and Social Responsibility seminar. I postponed learning to use the washing machine and dishwasher. The world was not going to end if I did not use them. I cared for myself in such intentional way that I was profoundly proud. My sons made me happy every day. The distance was challenging but we made it! My family and friends were present. I unlearned rigid rules, and gradually accepted kindness and support. I made playlists that I enjoyed and made food that started great debates. And, as I learned new perspectives, some controversial, some fascinating, I did what my friend, Laura Alonso said some time back, I got reintroduced to myself. And on this last day of December, I got the gift I have been looking forward to for the last two years. I met my niece, Avery. My heart is full and my knee hurts from sitting on the floor to make food, check her patients and try to get to the moon, all in 15 minutes. The year 2021 was one that you either wrote a lengthy piece on or just said bye. I chose the long piece because 2021 needed that sort of goodbye and 2022 will be a better year. 2021's losses (friends and bell hooks) confirmed that time is not a luxury. We must use it. Wisely. Friendships nurture us. Do not instrumentalize it. The feminist journey will benefit from our authenticity and love. Love actively as you seek the truth and justice! Thanks to everyone who is present in my life. I remain grateful. Thanks to Yale University (Yale World Fellows Program) and Emma Sky and her team. You helped me keep my sanity. To the universe-your kindness and lessons remain constant! Happy New Year, everyone!