Charleston Is Bleeding, And I Am Tired.

It seems like I only ever come on this blog when bad things happen. One day that might change. For now, you know what they say: bad news travels faster than good.

By now I'm sure that all of you, if not most of you, have heard about the atrocities committed on the hallowed grounds of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Charleston, SC. For those of you who have not: at a Wednesday night Bible study, a white man walked into this historic church, sat among the members for an hour, said, "I'm here to kill Black people," and opened fire. Nine people are dead. A 5 year old child played dead to survive.

For nine people to die in such a way on any given day hurts me. For nine people to be murdered in the house of God does something a little worse. As a Christian and an AME, I am saddened. As a South Carolinian and general human being, I am incensed. As a Black woman, I am tired.

You read right. I'm tired. I'm tried of the shooting and the violence, I'm tired of "All lives matter!" turning into a telling silence, and most of all I am tired of the shock and surprise. "If we can't go to church and be safe," I hear the people sighing, "where can we go?"

It makes me curious. When have we ever been safe in our worship? The answer is never. We were not safe gathered in the fields of master's plantation, or in the meeting houses of antebellum America where the sparks of the Klan fanned to flame, or at the tent revivals of the '40s and '50s. Three little girls were not safe in Birmingham, Alabama in 1963, yet today in 2015 you begin to feel the danger? No sooner than white men forced us to convert did they start using the church to do us harm, but only now are you afraid?

The city of Greenville conspires to turn my historic church into a parking lot for a baseball stadium. Thursday afternoon during a community prayer vigil on our grounds we received a bomb threat. Tell me, when am I supposed to feel safe?

Long before we could not wear hoodies, or live in "good" neighborhoods, swim in pools, or play on the playground, we could not go to church. I wrote these words sitting on a pew Thursday night (Choir Anniversary practice, you know), and every few words I put down my pen to check the doors.

Were I to play 6 Degrees of Separation (or Kevin Bacon, if you must) with any of the 9 victims of the Charleston shooting, I would reach them in 3 steps. Three of them I can reach in 2.

And what of the conversation that no one, no news station, seems to want to have? Who will talk about how this shooter, this terrorist believes himself to be right because America has taught him as much--America that has sanctioned 400 years of ethnic cleansing and upheld this violent, poisonous culture of white supremacy. Thursday, the confederate flag flew at half-mast in our capital, and they have the nerve to say that it was in honor of Emanuel. The irony is a smack in my face and a pat on his back.

Charleston is bleeding, and I am tired. I am tired, and I have nowhere to rest.

The Clemson CRIPmas Party: a response from a Pro-Black Girl alum.

In case you don’t watch CNN or FOX News, my dear old alma mater is in trouble, its students accused of throwing racially insensitive holiday parties. No, I'm not talking about the Blackface Party Fiasco of 2007. I’m talking about CRIPmas 2014, otherwise known as Clemson’s second major (reported) racial incident in less than 10 years. Sigma Alpha Epsilon, an SAE fraternity, threw their annual “CRIPmas Party”, where frat members and sundry sororities get together in their best Gangsta Themed clothes, sing along to Biggie Smalls albums, and play beer pong. Or, you know, whatever it is that they do at those types of frat parties. I never went to any because you don’t always have to bite the donut to know that it’s sweet.

Or, in this case, you don’t have to go to the party to know that you really don’t belong there. I'm not a party girl in general, but racist frat functions definitely aren't my cup of tea. These good ol’ Clemson kids certainly seem to like them though. After all, it’s an annual CRIPmas Party. And then there was the aforementioned Blackface Party Fiasco of 2007. And all those lovely Yik Yak posts about the Die-In protests last week. You know which ones I’m talking about. “Stay safe, blacks are attacking whites nation wide.” Whites a minority?! Haha. We’ll always been the superiority.” “Clemson used to be a plantation with slaves. Atleast be happy we gave u freedom[.]”

Nothing will show the character of an entire geographical region like anonymous social mobile apps, amirite? Thanks, Yik Yak!!

And what does Jim Clements, Clemson’s newish president, do in the face of this ignorance and poor grammar/syntax? He writes a little letter and puts it on the school website, wherein he basically says, “Guys, this is bad, okay? But y’all need to calm down about Ferguson. And Eric Garner. Let’s not get violent here.” I would say I’m disappointed, but I knew that blame-shift was coming. ...nah, I’m still disappointed. He started out so well! And begging your pardon, Jimbo, but disenfranchised white boys upset that they couldn't play ultimate frisbee on Bowman because of die-in protesters drew first blood with, “Damnet do I have to put a sheet on and go scare the people in front of Tillman away[?]” That sounds like violence to me. Did y'all know that intimidation is a crime punishable by up to 30 days in prison under the South Carolina Code of Law? Because it is!

I’m going to be real with y’all, if that’s alright. Is anyone really surprised that this happened? Because I’m not. Clemson has been wiggling its way out of messy hate crime allegations for a long, long time. They’re old pros at this by now. Same shtick, different day. Tomato. To-mah-tah. To-mah-to?

“Now Lyssa,” you may be saying, “dressing up and having a party is not a hate crime. You might be offended, but it’s not a hate crime,” to which I say, isn’t it? This CRIPmas Party is basically a form of Black minstrelsy. You know what Black minstrelsy is? It’s a type of “performance art” used by white people to mock and otherwise demean Black people and Black culture. The most common form of this is what we know as blackface, and I think that mostly* everyone agrees that that’s bad. It’s psychologically damaging, promotes negative stereotypes of the Black community, and bolsters beliefs of white superiority. In short, Black minstrelsy is a racialized form of violence, and do you know what racially based violence is? That’s right, my friend. That’s a hate crime.

“Lyssa,” you may now be saying, “no one was actually in blackface!” To this I say, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you were thinking of white people every time you heard the word Crip/Blood/Folk. My mistake. Do carry on with your day.”

Sip on that tea for a minute. Or, if you need something stronger, keep reading.

I’ll be fair. It’s not just the SAE, IFC, and NPC men and women running around campus with their TuPac t-shirts and fake butts in miniskirts and brown face paint, though they’re the best hands down at getting caught. Bravo, Sigma Alpha Epsilon, Alpha Phi, and all other Greek-lettered individuals who actually participated in this disgusting display on being a disgrace to all of us Greeks and on being so spectacularly mediocre. But this is not your burden alone. I had plenty of self-proclaimed liberal, GDI white friends in college who voted for Obama in 2008 and were also low-key racist and full of microaggressions. My homeboy that “wasn’t attracted to Black girls” (a problematic statement in and of itself, but we won't talk about that today) had an undeniable crush on one of my few Black girl friends that he denied every chance he got. Another guy I knew didn’t see a problem at all with The Blackface Party Fiasco of 2007, because, you know, “people dress up as rich old white guys all the time.” He was on student council. I used to see my friend’s parents, Clemson alums themselves, on campus at sporting events I attended with him; they were very nice, but later my friend would chuckle as he told me how his dad had asked him, “You’re not dating That Black Girl, are you?” after I left. I knew 2 guys who made jokes about Black people being on tv because it was MLK Day. One told me I was “being too sensitive” when I called him on it the next day (a staple retort learned in Racism 101), yet still thought he was better than his sister who thought that “only a fully white person should be president.” An RA from another floor once talked to my RA and some others about a white girl she knew that went by “Gel” instead of Angelica. “Are you sure she wasn’t Black?” because that’s an easy thing to mix up, and then, “Shh! A Black girl lives right there!” They were standing outside my door. There was also the staff who never went forward when I reported being called “the dark one” and other racist names by my friends’ RA who couldn’t seem to decide if he hated my Black guts or wanted to notch his belt with me, and then just decided to multitask. My friends thought he was funny. One friend who met my family later only seemed to remember how, “It’s so funny how all of you say ‘Mmmhmmm chil'!’" And those are just the ones I care to make examples of right now. There are plenty more.

You want names? Come talk to me. I’ll give them to you. I keep my receipts.

Like I said. This isn't just a Greek Life problem. It is fundamentally a Clemson University problem because these people were RAs, student council members, student organization leaders, and athletes. This whole “One Clemson” family thing is a lie. There is Black Clemson, and White Clemson, and Sri Lankan Clemson, and Korean Clemson; White Greek Clemson, Black Greek Clemson, Service Frat Clemson, and a lot of other Clemsons, plus a few brave souls who dare cross the lines outside of class. Let us not forgot that Clemson doesn’t have the greatest history with race relations in general, no matter how hard they push Harvey Gantt in our faces. Talk to your elders from the area and see what they tell you. Read a book. Google it. Remember: Clemson was founded on plantation land by a plantation owner’s son-in-law who was so influenced by Benjamin Tillman--a US Senator that did some cool stuff for agriculture, I guess, but who was directly responsible for a lot of white supremacist legislature and a vocal proponent of Lynch Laws and Jim Crow--that he made him a chairman of the (then) college and named the clock tower after him. You know the clock tower. It's that pretty red brick building you see on all the commercials and postcards and paintings.

Do you see what I’m saying? Respect for Black students isn’t in Clemson’s culture. It wasn’t there from the very beginning, and many of the non-Black students that the school attracts act accordingly. This bigotry was put in between the brick and mortar of Tillman Hall itself. It is a vicious cycle of hate and iniquity that dies with every graduation ceremony and is reborn with each incoming freshman class. Jim Clements thinks that Clemson is “better than this,” but is it? Is it really? Because this seems to keep happening, and it’s not those same kids from 2007 that are making it so.

Here's some more realness for you. I’m both a pro-Black girl and pro-Black girl. This does not mean that I am anti-non-Black, anti-white, anti-Black man, etc. It means, in the words of  Malcolm X, that I am Black first. My sympathies are Black, my allegiances are Black, my whole objectives are Black. I’ve been a pro-Black girl so hard and for so long that in high school when I asked for college recommendations my French teacher wrote that I was “dedicated to disproving stereotypes.” I’m so staunchly pro-Black that when I studied abroad one of my professors approached me about helping him teach a two-part seminar on Black History in the United States (and I did). It is because I am a pro-Black girl that I cannot like Clemson University, much less love it. How dare I love a place that hates me, and still claim to love myself? The short answer is that I can’t. The long answer is this:

I do not want to sing your football chants, I do not want to rub your rock, I do not want to go to your alumni parties (will there be blackface there too?), I do not want to wear orange on Fridays. It makes me physically ill to set foot in that godforsaken hill country where the Blue Ridge yawns “I’m racist!” Let me be plain: I hate that place as much as I love myself and my people. It’s not a safe, healthy, or good environment for our Black and brown children to enter into, and honestly I mistrust any Black or brown person that likes the orange and purple too much. That means I give a lot of side-eye at a lot of people I love. I give it to some of my former classmates, to my friends, my sorors, my old professors, my uncles, to anyone with a paw print or orange flags flying on their car. I pity their babies with their big purple bows and little orange overalls and their cheerleader outfits at tailgates. My Black children, who will be Black to this country regardless as to whether or not their other parent is Black, white, Thai, Montenegrin, or Indigenous Australian, will not be Clemson alums, so help me God. I will not take them on walks around Bowman Field, or to 55 Exchange for ice cream; they will not come with me to homecoming because I will not be going. Not when it is my job to protect them. Not if I don’t want them to look back on their college years like I do: with bitterness and hate and regret.

Some time this week, I am finding out who to call to get my name off of the alumni donation solicitations list and I’m calling them. I’ll even ask them nicely to take me off. I only ever throw that stuff in the trash anyway.

If Clemson doesn’t want to respect or value my Black personhood, they sure as hell don’t deserve my Black money.

The Clemson Experience

Clemson is all about this thing called “The Clemson Experience.” To the university, that means that every student is the happy, football loving 20-something that gets interviewed for polls in the Princeton Review. They wear orange every Friday, turn up every Thursday, and show up drunk on camera on game day. I am not that 20-something. And this is my Clemson experience.

In class the other week, one of my classmates went off on a rant about poor service he received at a bank where he wasn’t an account holder. Someone had written him a check, he had gone to their bank to cash it, and the teller had the audacity to tell him that the bank’s policy required a $5 fee on transactions like his. In his own words, “it got ugly in that lobby.” Part of his tirade? “I know you don’t want these Hispanics,” he spat the word like venom, “from [a plant nearby] coming in here cashing their paychecks, but this check was drawn on this bank!” He called the bank manager and the regional manager. Apparently being a non-Latino white male means you don’t have to pay to get your checks cashed at banks where you have no account. He laughed like he was proud of himself for being so clever.

As this happened, my professor, seeing that I was offended, offered me an apologetic smile and a nervous laugh. Racists, you know? They’re just so cheeky. What can you do?

When I was freshman, I dealt with a lot of harassment. Racially insensitive jokes. Predatory sexual advances. General disrespect. I reported my friends’ RA for these things. The university never did a thing about it.

When I was a sophomore, I was talking with friends about that MLK Day Black-Face Party from 2007, the year before we matriculated. One of them was lying with his head in my lap and said, “I don’t see what the big deal is about [the party]." When I reminded him that white students painted themselves Black and stuffed padding in their skirts he said, "It’s just a party.” I left the apartment. I don’t think I ever spoke to him again. It’s a shame, really: he was smart, and handsome, and had a beautiful voice. If he hadn’t had such terrible views on my culture as costume, he’d have made an excellent trophy husband.

I had a roommate once that treated me like a maid. Left her food on our table for days, and her clothes strewn all over the floor because I had nothing better to do than pick up after her. I remember asking her once, “How long are you going to leave that basket there? It’s in the way of the closet.” She glared at me and said, “Why?” Once, she came home from a frisbee game and left grass and mud in the bathtub. We had been friends before. She moved out at the end of the year without saying goodbye, and never spoke to me again.

When I was a junior, talking to friends about the way Belgium pushes its immigrant population into slums on the fringes of Brussels, one of them said, “Lyssa, you just need to go find Blackville.” I stood there, stunned into murderous silence. Realizing what she had said, she turned red and apologized. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you!” Hadn't she? Was that meant as a compliment to Matongé, the Brussels neighborhood populated by African immigrants? “Well you did,” I snapped. I’ve never forgiven her.

When I was a senior, I was talking to a professor about the reasons why I didn’t like Clemson. I began with the story about my friends’ RA, and when I mentioned that the university failed to investigate my complaint, this man--a man with a wife, a mother, with daughters--said, “Okay, but that can’t be it.” I hope the things that were said to me are never said to his little girls. Babies, this is the sympathy you will get from your father.

Last year, my marketing professor used the Confederate flag as an example of a “confused positioning error.” You know, because history is so confusing.

These are my memories of college. There are more like these. There are more like these than there are of anything happy or good.

The people in these stories have names and I remember all of them, though I doubt any of them think of me anymore. I let them stay anonymous today because their names are not the point. The point is that while there have been a few bright spots in my educational experience, I look back on my college years and see a dark, dark cloud of otherness, loneliness, and not belonging. I see six years in a place whose culture was not my own, whose values were not my own--a place full of people who couldn’t understand why I didn’t feel grateful to just be there in the first place and who clearly didn't think I should be there at all (except, of course, as the maid).

This is not the experience Clemson will tell you that its students have, but I know I’m not alone. How can I be? I am not so special.


This is not the experience Clemson thinks it is capable of, but it is mine.

The Valentine's Edition

It's Valentine's Day, y'all. Some of you have had Valentine's Day all week because you've been snowed in and were boo'd up at the house. Good for you. I hope you're happy.

(Ignore the implied bitterness there; it was a joke.)

Happy Valentine's Day! I sincerely hope that those of you who were trapped in the house with your significant other all week are not now so sick of them that you're thinking about returning those chocolates, or whatever it is that the Boo'd Up buy each other on V-Day. I am not boo'd up, nor have I ever been, so I have no idea.

(That wasn't bitterness per se; more like the deep breath before the plunge)

This year, I'm single on Valentine's Day. For that matter, I'm single every Valentine's Day. No one make comments about how sad that is. I honestly don't care. At the same time, there comes a point in a girl's life where she has to wonder if it's normal that she'll be 25 in 8 months and has never crushed on anyone less famous than Joseph Gordon-Levitt (seriously guys he is so cute). It's easy to buy into the unmarriable/unlovable Black woman trope when it's been a quiet understanding from the last few guys you might have been into that you weren't what they were expected to bring home to Mama. Y'all know what I mean. It's easy to feel like you're doing something wrong in your life when you're the last single cousin and your relatives tell you every chance they get, "I can't wait for you to get a man; you'll feel so much better."

But that's not me! Not today it's not! Y'all post all the cute "Look what bae got me" pictures on Instagram that you want. I'm going to get myself a new book to read now that the roads are clear, I'm going to pick up something cute for my mom, and I'm going to flex my culinary chops in my really great but underused kitchen. I have 3 words for y'all: Turtle. Brownie. Pies. That's right. Be jealous. Again I say happy Valentine's Day. And since literary humor is fun....

The Problem with Apathy

Two weeks ago, I applied for graduation and it didn’t feel anything like I remembered.

There was no sudden lightheartedness at the weight of college being lifted off my shoulders, no urge to cut cartwheels all over the house, no overwhelming joy. It didn’t feel like anything at all. It was like I was one of those women on Say Yes to the Dress that expects a big, teary-eyed AHA moment when they find the perfect gown, and then they get to Kleinfeld’s and nothing happens.

I remember exactly what it felt like in undergrad when it sank in that I was finally graduating. I had spent the 24 hours previous running all over hill and country trying to get a last-minute class substitution (because it’s never as easy as your adviser says it is), and was up all night rewriting an old paper leftover from engineering to make sure that class got substituted. I’m pretty sure I cried for 9 straight hours because there was a serious chance my request was going to get denied. I remember that the sun was shining that day and the sky was blue. It felt like cold relief.

Nothing like that happened this time. I just hit submit, closed my laptop, and watched Duck Dynasty for the next 4 hours. (I can see y’all judging me, and I’m telling you right now I don’t care)

My lack of reaction was disappointing.

I have fought Clemson tooth and nail for six long years. I hate the place. You guys know that. And all of that hate needs to manifest itself somehow, because it can’t stay bottled up inside of me. Most often it appears as snark and anger, both fueled by too much caffeine since I'm not much for drinking. It never wells up and dissolves into 4 hours of Duck Dynasty on my couch. I didn’t think too much about it at the time, but some time last week I had a horrifying thought.


Is apathy what happens when you stop caring and start settling?

The Easy Let-Down

Earlier on this week I thought to myself, “I have no idea what to write about.” I was drawing a blank. Nothing exciting, infuriating, or otherwise important had happened, I was fresh out of rants, and I was feeling, well, boring. Then I walked into work this morning, and as I was being laid off I thought to myself, “Well there’s a blog post for you,” and here we are.

This morning, I got laid off.

I’m not upset about it. I’m pretty sure the ones letting me go felt worse about it than I did. That’s not to say that I didn’t like my job--I’ve said over and over how much I surprised myself by liking it as much as I did. It just means that I’m practical. And I saw it coming.

Honestly, I’m glad it was me because I’m a 24 year old kid without any responsibilities. I live at home with my mom. I don’t have a mortgage, or rent. I paid for my car in cash, so no note there. My student loans haven’t kicked in because I’m still a student. The only bill I really have is $160 in car insurance every month. And tithes. Can’t forget that 10%. I don’t have credit card debt. I don’t have a spouse to support. I don’t have kids (thank God). I don’t have any of that. Let it be me who goes home today without a job.

So here I find myself suddenly with a lot more free time. A lot more free time. And I’m kind of at a loss for what to do with it. I have so many personal projects that I’ve let fall by the wayside just because I haven’t had the time to work on them. I was learning to sew. I was learning Spanish. I was learning Mandarin. I was running several blogs outside of this one. I was practicing my MBA-ness on a family business. I was reading roughly 2 extracurricular books a week. I was doing my eyebrows on a regular basis (excuse you that is WERK). And now I have time to do all of that again. That’s my plan, and I’m sticking to it.


But, uh, if y’all come across a job you think a BA-toting polyglot and future MBA would be a good fit for.... Let me know.

Surgery, Stress, and Other Words That Start With S (but mostly surgery)

Last week was tough, y’all.

I got a call from my mom on Monday saying, “Don’t freak out but I’m taking myself to the emergency room,” which, of course, made me freak out. On Wednesday, I had a doctor’s visit and got told I need surgery on my face. On Thursday, I had an accounting test. Have y’all heard me talk about the last accounting test? It was only 6 questions, and I only got around to answering 4 of them. Well, 4.5. Whatever. It was awful. That’s all that matters. See why I had a rough week?

Some of you are probably going, “Lyssa shut up about accounting; what do you mean surgery what’s wrong with your face?” Glad you asked. I went to the ENT last month to see what the heck is up with my sinuses and the ENT sent me to get xrays. Apparently, those xrays show that I have a mass of bone growing into my sinus cavity. If you hadn’t guessed it, that mass of bone isn’t supposed to be there so I have to get it taken out. In the words of my doctor, at least it’s growing up and not out so I don’t have any weird lumps or protrusions. At the same time they take out the bone, they’re also going to correct my deviated septum. My uncle, who’s a dentist, says that this is very normal and not harmful and happens to a lot of people and there’s nothing to be nervous about.

Unfortunately he told me this AFTER I had already had a nervous breakdown in the doctor’s office. I should have NEVER asked cute doctor to explain to me what the surgery entailed. That was horrible.

To be fair to myself, I managed to hold off on the nervous breakdown until I got out of the doctor’s office (but barely). No sobbing in front of the cute doctor, please. But when I say “breakdown” I mean “broke ALL the way down.” It was embarrassing. But seriously, how else was I supposed to react to, “Oh you have a bone chunk-callous-thing in your face that we’re gonna have to cut out; see you next month!” THERE IS SOMETHING GROWING IN MY FACE. I FEEL LIKE I’M IN A SCI-FI MOVIE AND AN ALIEN’S GONNA POP OUT AND SMITE THE EARTH. THIS IS NOT OKAY.

Pretty sure cute doctor knew I was about to freak out, too. I got a very sympathetic pat on the back as I left.

I also may end up with braces after this because my other uncle had this same issue as a kid and he had to get braces. I am not pleased. People already think I’m still in high school. This will not help. But braces or not, I will be out of commission for about a week in December. I actually need to go ahead and call to schedule it, and schedule a consult with the oral surgeon too. Scheduling. That starts with s.

Oh, and if you’re wondering, I got a B on that accounting exam. Success!! That’s another word that starts with s. So does Sleepy Hollow!

Tell me I’m not the only here who watches Sleepy Hollow. It’s on Fox’s Demand channel, so after I got home from the ENT on Wednesday I just kind of fell on the couch and turned it on to make myself stop freaking out. I watched 3 episodes in a row and I’m really impressed with the story building and Nicole Beharie’s acting. Orlando Jones is in it and I love him (he’s from Mauldin!), and John Cho, and I just read an article that Amandla Sandberg is going to be in upcoming episodes as Orlando Jones’s daughter and there are just so many good people in it! I’m excited, okay? I need a new show to replace OUAT and True Blood since those were really the only things I ever turned the TV on for and both have gone to pot.


Also this is super late, but thank you to everyone who wished me happy birthday! A mes amis belges/français, merci d’avoir me souhaité un bon annif!