More often than not, I wish my life was like a Shondaland series.
To be specific, I wish I was more like a high-powered, fast talking, power-suit wearing, no nonsense taking boss-bitch character in a Shondaland series. From Olivia Pope, Papa Pope, Christina Yang to Michaela Pratt and now, Kate Littlejohn, the list of inspiring fictional people who own the spaces they’re in, makes me want to find me an old(er) privileged white man/woman with entitlement issues, buy wine by the crate and break dialogue with an unnecessarily long monologue that’s purely because I want to be dramatic as dramatically possible.
Forget that we’re currently living in the golden age of TV, it feels like all you have to do nowadays is turn on the news and you’d swear we were living in a badly scripted, B-grade reality show where an undeserving and untalented troll is running things and the only way out is if the entire thing gets cancelled and we start over again with an entirely new cast. The last time something like that happened, entire species were wiped out and I don’t know if anything (other than the roaches) would survive the reset button this time around.
So instead of worrying about where and when the next bomb is going to go off, I’d rather pretend like I have my shit together, amidst the mess that is life, that I have faults and challenges that make me endearing, but at the end of the day, I’m a badass who has the world at its knees.
They have capes; Shonda Rhimes and her team of writers have this ability to create people who are so dynamic, and so intrinsically fearless that they cleave from within you a side that you know you possess, or at the very least want to possess. They create living superheroes that look, sound and bleed like us and it’s amazing. It’s like they look into the hearts of their viewers, they cradle their desires and they fashion a living, breathing, giant slaying human from them, and it gives you hope. That’s what it is; hope. You feel it in the way they tackle issues that would otherwise cripple the average person, but at the same time they make you feel like average people have that within them as well.
So I guess what I really want, is to feel hopeful. I want to feel like within me lays a Meredith Grey, who can survive shootings, plane crashes, fires and losing loved ones year after year and still feel hopeful.
I want to feel like I can be a gladiator; I can fight injustice, I can build empires and I can tear them down because I have that within me.
Maybe that’s what we all need. Maybe, in the midst of this B-grade reality mess that is life, maybe what we all need is to feel like we can…WE CAN.
It was easier to sit back and allow the world to label me as they so choose; easier to play the victim, to wait for life to happen, for the universe or cosmos to favour me and for someone to save me. It was easier to allow my value to be determined by men and women who know nothing of my struggles, who know nothing of the places I’ve been, the things I’ve witnessed and the dreams I have.
It was easier to remain palatable, to be a comfortable shade of black or a pleasant personality where I remained an asexual, racially and culturally ambiguous, omnipresent observer to the thrills of another’s success, another’s life.
It was easier to not make a noise and not be seen, when all I wanted was to be seen.
Turns out I was never designed for easy.
I was never meant to sit back and allow others to dictate the trajectory of my life, to speak on the value of my existence or contributions for their benefit.
I was never meant to remain complacent, to not experience life, to not reach for the stars, to not be loud and obnoxious and present.
I was meant to make a splash, to be seen and heard and revered and desired and put first, all while I celebrated the blackness that so clearly defines a very large part of me.
I cannot wait, I will not wait; I am more than enough, more than capable, more than incredible and more than any one person can handle.
I have fielded worse rejections and will celebrate greater acceptances than you will ever know.
I am dramatic, eccentric, mysterious, a gladiator; not just a gladiator, but I own the whole damn arena.
I’m not the entertainment; I’m here to show you how it’s done.
I found a voice today; a voice to help narrate the worlds I want to create, the lives I want to build and break and a voice I need to move past the island I’ve been stranded on for the past, I don’t know how long.
Not my own, no; I don’t trust my own voice to convey the kinds of emotions these future souls need to inherit. My own voice doesn’t fit; it doesn’t have the range, there’s a vacant lilt to it that does nothing for fertile earth.
This voice sounds like it used to belong to another, much wiser, considerate and cautious creature with a secret. That’s what it is, it sounds like every sentence is poised for attacked, coiled and at the ready for a lethal strike just waiting to happen, and only it knows when.
The moments I have with this new voice will be fleeting, that I know of. It’ll come, it’ll give willingly and take with it whatever it desires and it’ll go. To whom it’ll appear to next, I don’t know, but I will treat it kindly, respect it dutifully and use it for as long as it is willing to be used.