In an age of recorded Amy Coopers and murderous police

Last November I wrote about an all too familiar experience I had with white women’s tears taking a room hostage during a Seminary conversation.

Although the piece rings true for thousands of readers, the Seminary’s reaction to my freedom of speech revealed a foul and churlish underbelly of evangelicalism that simply does not like when Black people aren’t smiling Jemimas and Bens that live to serve them.

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In the end, I was hurt by the Seminary’s reaction, ill-asked questions, assumptions and deafening silence but here’s what went down.

When I published in November I felt a glimmer of validation from people knowing exactly what I was talking about when I brought up White women’s tears. They’d experienced the same thing in school at every level, in their break rooms at work, during meetings, in principals’ offices, in interviews, at dinner tables, and between roommates and partners. It seemed only a phenomenon to white women that their tears were historical ammunition for subliminal racism and manipulation. …

And it starts with ownership

I’m from Miami, Florida. I have a favorite Publix, I went to Miami Palmetto Senior High. I was taught information in public school about the Everglades and how to run away from alligators that I never used. I’ve memorized my own version of the city’s Fair theme song, and have strong opinions on very Miami things like pastel shorts and the adoration of Chipotle which I think is the bottom compared to Chicken Kitchen. But since leaving Miami for Chicago and only visiting Miami for Christmases and Summers, whenever I return home I feel oddly like an outsider.

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Image courtesy Saatchiart

I think it has something to do with the amount of rampant racism within a city famed for its exoticism and melting pot diversity. Yet, in the wake of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd’s murders, Miami doesn’t prove as much of a learned or woke society but instead reminds me how much Black lives and people aren’t valued by the city’s majority. …

1910 and 2020 are looking sorta similar

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Courtesy of Netflix

Miss ‘Rona has had me and, I’m sure a majority of the U.S., watching a lot through streaming accounts this past week. The latest seasons of The Real Housewives of Potomac, Series of Unfortunate Events and All American proved distracting albeit entertaining binges for sure. But last night I watched season one of Self Made: Inspired by the Life of Madam C. J. Walker and frankly it has me in my feelings.

Like most things lately I started watching because of mixed reviews on Twitter. Everything from imploring prayer for Octavia Spencer as some deemed the show was simply not it, praise for the representation itself, as well as paragraphs of disappointment from what seemed like yet another unnecessary story of colorist black female rivalry between Madam C.J. …

Two weeks ago I walked into a Seminary conversation on human sexuality.

As a short and succinct background, a Midwestern centered christian denomination recently annexed one of their, now former, churches and pastors because of their affirming stance on the wider breadth of human sexuality. The conversation two weeks ago was on the effects of this denominations decision.

The Dean of the Seminary gave an introduction and I noticed some of the twenty-three or so people in the room grow antsy for the opportunity to chime in on their thoughts and concerns although the invisible talking stick had not yet been passed although 10–15–20 minutes had already gone past. …

From thoughts and experiences two years prior, I still consider black face as an abhorrent crime against Black communities worldwide.

I was home in Miami with a group of friends talking about the shows we love, the shows we recommend, and the shows we’ve all seen and re-watch for the heck of it.

One of my all time favorite shows from my teenage years into early adulthood, is 30 Rock, created, written by, and starring Tina Fey who I had a huge admiration for. She was the type of comedian I wanted to be: smart, quirky, and creative. I read and reread her book. …

During an early 2000’s summer, my mom signed me up for swimming lessons. I liked my lessons and the only thing I hoped to avoid, as an already germ concerned child, were the bathroom showers with puddles of muddy water tracked in by dirt stained feet.

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During one of my lessons a girl, I’m sure I wasn’t actually friends with, wanted to play mermaids. Mermaids was and still is the game that has rules that which are made up on the spot with all functions of the happening within a body of water. As soon as I approved and ducked underneath the surface, this girl holds my head tight to and forces me down, leaving me scrambling to come back up for air. …

Sometime this past June I left my only surviving pair of glasses in Miami after a visit home. During the weekend I was searching through bags, purses, medicine cabinets, suitcase pockets, old wallets, and “emergency contact purse(s)” until I gave up.

A days later I realized I only had two sets of contacts left and two days after pleas to my contact provider, I had no glasses, no contacts, and no idea how I wasn’t going to trip in the middle of the street. I thought of the cringe-worthy scenarios I envision of tripping in a cross walk during rush hour and they’d become reality. …

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The Black woman in the workplace ages five years in three months.

The Black woman in the workplace is complimented on her hair that “always changes”.

The Black woman in the workplace works with her head down when she walks or at least with her eyes to the floor.

The Black woman in the work place is invited into White conversations, perhaps for sport, and spoken over, cut off, or interrupted when she attempts to speak.

The Black woman in the work place becomes demure and quiet.

The Black woman in the workplace goes home and has to stretch the muscles of her face because they have been set in place from the time she walked in the building to the time she she leaves. …

From reflections/thoughts almost a year ago

I grew up with Sunday school coloring book and back of bible illustration white Jesus. His hair was either brown and flowing or blonde and bright like the sun. His light light arms were always stretched out, perhaps just moments away from stroking the perfectly symmetrical mustache connecting to a beard he adorned. His fit was always white, or off-white, with a primary colored sash. His nose bridge always narrow and his cheekbones consistently high.

His index and middle finger usually chucking up what I used to assume was an early form of a peace sign, A.D. His eyes dark brown or crystalline blue. His lips a rosy pink with the corners of his mouth almost curved into a blank but all knowing smile. This was my first image of Jesus. …


Seanna Wong

Avid fiction reader and movie goer. Contact/Booking:

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