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E. Nichole

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11.28.2015

When Pens Collide: Be Messy, Complicated & Afraid

I was in the midst of planning my chapter’s 10th anniversary celebration at my alma mater and the anxiety and stress that comes with putting together a banquet on a $0 budget garnered a high level of respect for event planners. It was supposed to be the finale of 2015, a year that tossed and turned me over in 100 ways, and I didn’t want to do anything else because I felt like I did too much. If I didn’t feel like I was, my body warned me, Rob reminded me, the kids inconspicuously told me. But God had other plans and demanded I do one last thing–a usual request when I’m most weary and unorganized.

Tassika reached out to me with a vision, a dream that was bursting at the seams, forcing to be manifested and illustrated with physical bodies–women’s bodies. Black women bodies. Black women writers’ bodies. Deriving from a moment with her best friend, Tass realized creatives were unaware of the impact of their work and thought something powerful could happen if the reader could speak to the writer through the writer’s own words.

When Pens Collide press release

It was a vague proposal with light details that were still in the works of being amplified, but the fervor that exuded through Tass’ fingertips radiated from Maryland to the Bronx. I would be introduced to Sharee of Dorm Room Television and in only a four week interval, When Pens Collide would come together. In pitching the idea to the writers I felt needed to be there, I underwent my own moment of darkness, thinking about how my words would be received amongst a crowd that probably never heard of me or how the sentences I stung together would be articulated from another writer. Low key, but high key, I wasn’t ready.

I don’t revisit anything on this blog.

I write words and close doors and leave behind a piece of tragedy or triumph from my life’s timeline. I don’t ever go back. Because going back and rereading words means returning to pain for just two minutes without ever having to close my eyes. Words breathe. Words live. But that was the point of When Pens Collide–to bring stories to life, to sit in front of your words like a mirror that would cause you to cry, crack, or bring you comfort. When Pens Collide would make you feel more than anything else.

And we felt pain that wasn’t ours entirely; writers have that ability. 

Sneak peek inside When Pens Collide

Tassika broke it down that WPC would “be a raw display of artistry.” I don’t think anyone expected the magnitude of the event, promoted as MTV’s Unplugged for writers–not even the participants or myself as one of the organizers. The breakdown of the event told a story between nine Black women and it was a journey of why we write (The Warmup), what comes with love (Love Language), the dark truths that should have been subdued, but spoken through weighted tears and lumps in the throat (OK, You Need Wine for This), experiencing those heavy moments with someone this time around (Recovery) and coming out with a fearlessness (Fear Nothing & No One) and understanding that these experiences account for something far greater than us (Woman, Life is the Lesson). We were woman from different walks of life with pen names that liven up break up ordeals, sexual assault episodes and frustrations with the Universe affairs.

Ashley was The Sunshine; Shefon, The Ballet; Tamika, The Altar; Lissa is The Journal; Roconia was fittingly The Revolution; Yetti served as the Glass of Red Wine; Tyece, The Grit; Sharee, The Stage; Tassika, The Catalyst; myself, the Curator of Souls.

We were sisters in our heads because of magic manifested on paper. 

Pens piled into one another and a deeper sisterhood between nine storytellers was cultivated. To be a part of When Pens Collide (as a reader, writer, or someone in the audience) was to witness every stereotype of women–Black women, Black women who write–thrown out and shattered. The tears that were left on an old wooden floor at The Draper Space, the courage that spilled out vocalizing someone else’s thoughts, and the genuine love that was felt was because of the impact of our stories. We connected over words and experiences that many feel should have remained in the corners of our souls.

This perfectly summarizes When Pens Collide and 2015:

“You can be messy, complicated and afraid. SHOW UP ANYWAY.”

We came together on Saturday the 21st of November to hear the words we mustered up in our most messiest, complicated and fear-filled moments. We showed up and sisterhood showed out. We proved our best work is born when we’re at our most vulnerable and our pain and passion produces our greatest evolutions. When Pens Collide was a judgement-free zone, a safe space, a place where we would be stripped down to the bare bone to navigate back to him, to the 90’s, to high school, to that night. And coming out this time would be different because the reader, the homegirl in our head, would be there to hug us at the end of it. The event revealed the women that grew up on Maya, Zora, and Nikki and were on the path to having her own name etched in history. “Words are our most inexhaustible source or magic” and When Pens Collide showcased that.

Thank you to everyone who participated and supported the vision (Special thank you to my Hermana, Ysanet, and good friend, Kendra, who trooped it all the way uptown from Brooklyn. Much obliged to you women).

Check out more reviews of When Pens Collide from Tass, Ashley, and Tamika + if you’re interested in bringing the event to your city, email any of the event planners!

Filed Under: Events Tagged With: When Pens Collide

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the miniature version of the blog.

“the instant of birth is exquisite. pain and joy “the instant of birth is exquisite. pain and joy are one at this moment. ever after, the dim recollection is so sweet that we speak to our children with a gratitude they never understand.”⁣
⁣
Kai’s 4th solar return.
did you know your sun, moon, and ascendant signs a did you know your sun, moon, and ascendant signs are that of your paternal grandmother, your maternal grandmother, your paternal grandfather? a wonderful amalgamation of the elements. this is no coincidence. four weeks before your 4th, someone would ask to see your photo + would say exactly what your daddy has mentioned since your birth: that you resemble both of your living great-grandmothers. your eyes spill the secret that you’ve been here before, living lives prior to this one. your face prominent and full tell me that you will have much to say in this lifetime. because you are of them, you will hold what you know in the cornerstones of your cheeks. let it sit there, knowing those who speak, do not know, and those who know, do not speak. your wisdom + how you teach will show up in other ways. ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
in the softness you possess + in the edginess of beings born this season. you are dual and yet, one. ⁣⁣
⁣⁣
in the smallness of your life + in reiterations from readers, i believe that the energies of our ancestors—both living and transitioned—never expire, only evolve. you are living proof that we are here to wake up from the illusion of separateness. you were always the reminder that we are already home. that heaven exists right here on earth. that the stars from above, in conjunction with the love of our parents, make us; that the people before us live within us.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
today, we celebrate your arrival from higher spaces to this one. the continuation of legacies + a love where there are no limits. thank you for choosing me. for simply being a projection of my own level of evolution. for the undefined, infinite joy born on an early evening of january 2, 2017 + beyond.⁣⁣
⁣⁣
𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐛𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐝𝐚𝐲, 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬.
it’s hard to break down the depths of a connecti it’s hard to break down the depths of a connection like this. after a while, how do you put almost two and half decades of friendship into words? i’ve long expressed both the joy + struggle of rocking out with someone for this long. we’ve seen it all. and still in each battle, breakup, or new beginning, it is always you who’s there with me and vice versa. my gratitude goes beyond today to your mother i grew up afraid of. she was something like mine in many ways + we bonded over the strictness that is Black women raising daughters who did sneaky things in the name of finding freedom. in that, we knew that we were single souls in separate bodies. but today, it is these same women we thank for their ways when raising Kae, Kam, and Kai. what a beautiful thing to live some life + to know now what we didn’t know then. 

and there lives gratitude to your father. who drove us to school in the mornings and let us belt out or rap song lyrics in an eerie teenage pitch; harlem shake + be dramatic in his car to the place you probably hated most and i place i found safe. we split off in this way, our differences put to light, and yet, our friendship remained in tact. we got through because of one another.

shout out to your parents for your having you. for raising a Queen. for letting me be the sister you never had. for being the first person i call and never changing your intro: “what happened now?” for never changing your ending: “let me know what you need,” or “tell me if i have to drive down.” thank you for being a friend. my best friend. the perfect fusion of every golden girl there was. happy 33rd birthday, baby sis. don’t let me pull up today + you’re already wine-wasted, please and thank you.

xx,
e.
“if you and your father were closer, do you thin “if you and your father were closer, do you think his death would have caused you to spiral?”⁣
⁣
“yeah, absolutely.”⁣
⁣
how odd is it to want a deeper connection with someone, but also experience gratitude that it didn’t work out that way? i would revisit this conversation and takeaway in the months ahead up to the present time.⁣
⁣
in the days that followed, we grew—together and apart. at the end of spring, we realized it was time for us to become one with the seasons and go to counseling together in an attempt to revive the wilted parts of our relationship. i was living in the memory of what it was to be betrayed, the side effects of worst case scenarios lingering around in speech and sex. he always felt i was never truly over it. the body keeps the score. and in truth, as amplified in virtual sessions with a therapist, i wasn’t. i still held on to the memories of what led to our daughter’s birth and summer ‘18. the problem began with him, but i held on to it. this is how i avoid death—i extend expiration dates and hoard memories to keep them alive. i held on to his words, jotted down as reminders, bullet points, and saved audio notes for memoir writing:⁣
⁣
“how can you give up on something that’s always there?”⁣
“i got so comfortable in his existence. that’s why i lost him.”⁣
⁣
he spoke about other people, not knowing he was speaking of me.⁣
⁣
triggered and guilty, i went back to individual therapy…⁣
⁣
…ironically, on the next day, it would be the last time we’d speak. there was no blow up or argument—just a increase in our empathic abilities and an awareness that we weren’t aligned. for years, i’d hear him relay his granny’s words to our children, “who don’t hear, will feel,” and we heard everything we needed to about our connection through energy. sometimes, the hard work is already done on our behalf if we just lean into and accept the vibrations of a moment. i was learning to differentiate between the sound of intuition guiding me and trauma misleading me.”
⁣
‘sweet 16.’ new, on the blog + in the bio.
the first + only post for the year on 33 and 2020.
tw: death.⁣
⁣
(photo beautifully shot by: mann limburg)
in december of last year into january of this year in december of last year into january of this year, one of the closest people to me was admitted into the hospital for a serious medical condition that led to daily dialysis treatments for 3-4 hours on end. for a minute, for the first time, really, i questioned God, wondering if this was the answer to my request, “please bring me closer to you in the new year.” this wasn’t the way i had envisioned it would pan out, yet, it brought my family together, brought my children into my bedroom to find me kneeling at the foot of the bed, brought my brother back to life. today, i celebrate his 1st saturn return, his rebirth, and his entire existence. ⁣
⁣
to my little big bro on his 29th: i love you just as much as i did on the saturdays we watched bobby’s world + animaniacs together, when we argued over who was better in mortal kombat + crash bandicoot, and the day you saved me from myself back in ‘03. i know how to fight—in every sense of the word—because of you. watching you grow up. watching you on that bed. ⁣
⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
thank you for pulling through.⁣
⁣
thank you for being my first best friend + holding the title since. happy birthday, kid. it’s good to see you on this side.
“are you a princess?”⁣ “she said ‘i’m “are you a princess?”⁣
“she said ‘i’m much more than a princess, but you don't have a name for it yet here on earth.’”⁣
⁣
halloween ‘20.
“𝑤𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑛 𝑐𝑢𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑖𝑟 ℎ𝑎𝑖𝑟 𝑤ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑦’𝑟𝑒 𝑔𝑜𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔.”

𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵. 𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘀 𝗿𝘅.
moment of transparency: when i had my firstborn 11 moment of transparency: when i had my firstborn 11 years ago, i was 130 pounds, a size 7. fast forward to the present + three children later, i’m a little under 200 pounds, fluctuate between a size 10-12. the power of the snapback skipped right over me all three times. shifting between loestrin, depo-provera + the iud; struggling with removing sweets from my diet after being raised in a home that didn’t prioritize healthy eating; and elevated levels of stress throughout the years definitely doesn’t help with my weight loss journey. so as much as i appreciate + understand the wonders of what a woman’s body can do, do i still struggle with my image? absolutely.⁣
⁣
the moment of taking off a sundress came with a small bout of anxiety as i pulled the stripes that camouflaged the belly + back fat over my head. i adjusted my breasts, i pulled the bottom of my one-piece from the crevice of my butt that no longer sits up perkily. and maybe my face gave me away as it usually does, but he trekked over hot sand to grab the dress from the hands that gripped at it as if it were the edge of a cliff.⁣
⁣
“it’s not a towel. it’s okay.”⁣
⁣
as it folded itself up into a mess of a ball + fell on the towel beneath us, he grabbed a handful of a cheek. in a mix of sensual and playfully, he squeezed the jiggly parts where the lines intersect + the dimples started to form. he would lean over, drink in hand, and pinch flesh.⁣
⁣
“you’re drunk,” i would tell him, but was immediately reminded of the ways that we diminish our beauty, our value, ourselves when we use cover up language to lighten the mood or lessen the (emotional or mental) weight of a moment. or in this case, hide how we feel about compliments and our level of self-confidence. it took years for me to realize that sometimes refusing admiration was simply a reflection into how I saw myself…⁣
⁣
new, full article over at members.xonecole.com.
“humanity does not suffer from the disease of wr “humanity does not suffer from the disease of wrong beliefs but humanity suffers from the contagious nature of the lack of belief. if you have no magic with you it is not because magic does not exist but it is because you do not believe in it. even if the sun shines brightly upon your skin every day, if you do not believe in the sunlight, the sunlight for you does not exist.”⁣
—c. joybell c.⁣
⁣
𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤.⁣
𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠.⁣
𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠.
“my mother⁣ is pure radiance. ⁣ ⁣ she is t “my mother⁣
is pure radiance. ⁣
⁣
she is the sun⁣
i can touch⁣
+ kiss⁣
⁣
+ hold⁣
without ⁣
getting burnt.”⁣
—sanober khan
first came the vision. if you know me personally, first came the vision.

if you know me personally, you know i have a tendency to act off impulse + act on any and everything God sends me in a dream. an event centered around Blackness—the totality of my existence—and Latinx sororities—my avenue into uprooting my ethnic identity. 
but life’s changed. i haven’t (co)hosted in an event in five years or so. i’ve been clinically diagnosed with anxiety since. i’ve lived a quieter life. so i couldn’t manifest this. because it would mean revisiting the life i left behind. pushing through panic attacks. amplifying my voice. then i read my horoscope that same morning.
.
“when you make room to speak about what exists, you no longer have to spend time wondering about everything left unsaid. lean on your natural talent for courageous leadership as much as possible right now. invent new voices for yourself. you will have to do something you don't normally do or that you've never done before. your best bet is to roll up your sleeves and do it.”
.
you don’t sleep on double confirmations. you can’t diminish the gift that is manifestation.

so countless people came to mind + when i stopped doubting the gift that was this event, i hit send. women from so many sororities came through with an overwhelming response. “finally, we’re talking about this collaboratively and nationally.”
.
and here we are. i created this event—strategic about the name; who would moderate + that connection between The Divine Nine and Latinx orgs; the panelist selections—to (re)direct many in the right direction through education + always led by (the Black) experience.

Join me + @janelm of @aintilatina for an important discussion on cultural relevance and responsiveness within Latinx sororities, featuring:
• Ysanet Batista of @slu1987 and founder of @wokefoods
• Dr. Ariana Curtis of @omegaphibeta and curator of Latinx Studies at the @nmaahc
• Dalma Santana, President-elect of @chiupsilonsigma and Director of Special Events and Parent Relations at St. Peter’s Prep
• Jelisa Jay Robinson of @kdchi and Black American playwright

indebted to these women for being the pull up-types that rihanna spoke of. have a seat at the table with us on weds? #BlackLatinx
“𝐢 𝐚𝐦 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝.”⁣⁣
— bethanee epifani j. bryant
in 2016, i shared some of the following on fb. rep in 2016, i shared some of the following on fb. reposting w. additional thoughts:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
in 2008, Rob + i had the chance to sue the pd for head trauma, causing his eyes to fill w. blood after being assaulted + arrested for asking a question at the precinct. the sight of his eyes was one of the most frightening things i’ve ever seen. we were told that our family would be targeted for suing law enforcement. there would be a chance we “would be dead before a trial even happened.⁣”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
everytime a case of police brutality hits the media, we ask: what would‘ve happened if we followed through. birth names would’ve been prefaced w. pound signs, including our unborn.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
but something has to give. it’s one thing when it affects your people; when it affects your household, it’s a whole ‘nother ball game. it’s very personal then.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you go hard for Blackness differently.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you pray for Black men harder.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ with intensity.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
you love Black men softly.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
bell hooks said, “black male ‘cool’ was defined by the ways in which they confronted hardships of life without allowing their spirits to be ravaged. they took the pain of it + used it alchemically to turn the pain into gold. 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘩𝘪𝘨𝘩 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘵. it was defined by the ability to withstand the heat + remain centered…defined by black male willingness to confront reality…not by black male denial or by assuming a “poor me” victim identity, but by black males daring to self-define rather than be defined by others.”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
today, i thank God for his words from that day:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣i’ll die for what’s right, but my girl shouldn’t be left without support. my son shouldn’t live without his father. 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢’𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨.
a nurse asks me when do i start having conversatio a nurse asks me when do i start having conversations with my children about being Black + what would it entail.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
i tell her color was a conversation in my house when my sons were 4 + 5. that there really wasn’t a “too early” when it came to educating my kids on race. i wrote about interactions in school that made Kae aware of his lighter skin before his father + i even introduced color as a topic of discussion, bringing to light: “𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘬𝘪𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘯𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭.” ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
so when it was time, that premature in their lives, it was more so:⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣• y’all are going to look different than some of the kids in school.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ that shouldn’t stop y’all from being friends with them.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
• but when you’re older, how you look may have a direct relationship to how long you 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞 on this planet.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
explaining the unfortunate complexities of survival, freedom + fear, to children is fucking hard. you struggle with what’s too much. you give in doses, pray it’s enough. you are cognizant of the fact that race supersedes age—it’s known that america disregards the innocence + joy of youth when you’re Black. ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣now that they’re 10 + 11, it’s weaving in lessons about schoolwork with race: “if the plan says do 5 exercises, do 10. ‘cause when you‘re older, you’re going to have to do 2x as much—if not more—anyway, to get to the destination. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐮𝐦 𝐢𝐬𝐧’𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.”⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
+ it’s not an option for me to educate them later. i will not do the work they are struggling to do now with their children. with themselves.⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
the nurse who pulled her seat up to have this conversation, cut the silence of the ER to say, ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣
“𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧, 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐢 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝.”
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