Greetings from Charleston, where everything is relative
Right now, I am in Charleston, South Carolina.
I feel weighed down by the assignment I came here to do. Being a professional is something I pride myself on. I paid actual money for my journalism skills. I learned shorthand (thanks, NCTJ), and I know the questions to ask, and how to frame arguments. I am a more than competent writer, even when the subject is difficult and unwieldy (and on this score, I remain indebted to my editor, who is superb in every way). But this last week and a half has been hard. I have felt raw and itchy the entire time I've been here, and it's not necessarily getting better, even as I get used to it. People on Twitter have been so kind and thoughtful about this particular endeavour being abnormally taxing. I appreciate it all, even as I bristle slightly; after all, I chose to be a journalist, and I specifically requested the opportunity to cover this story. The content of this particular story—Dylann Roof, the massacre of nine black people for no other reason than their blackness, the American South and its history/legacy of white supremacy, the psychic torture of hearing offensive, damaging and deeply hurtful language, the trauma of seeing black bodies in undignified and senseless death and so on—makes these messages from strangers on the internet expressing concern so very welcome. But I can't like, it still chafes a bit. Look, even articulating this makes me feel ungrateful and bratty. I am journalist. This is what I do, even when the work is hard and soul-crushing. God, what do I even sound like.
I am sorry. But I am not sorry. I am thankful. I am so tired.
He was found guilty on all 33 counts. Those nine people are still dead, though, and I wonder how much comfort their families and friends can find in this verdict. I have to hope.
I found myself listening to two records while I was in Charleston: the Hamilton cast recording (probably due to all the war iconography in this city) and Solange's A Seat At The Table (probably because in places it sounds like peace and black joy, and I needed that urgently). Cranes In The Sky is still lush enough to withstand several reloads, but this week Weary really came into its own for me. It reassured me, and made me feel the weight of my body as an almost holy thing.
This week, I needed to feel solid and unshakeable and like I belonged to myself and Solange really helped. I also got Childish Gambino's Awaken, My Love! but I'm not going to listen to it until the plane enters New York airspace. Even memories have memories, and I refuse to let the specific geographical misery of this past week taint what I've been told is a beautiful record.
Thank God for black women who write. They may well (write about who will) save the world. All I know is: they're saving me.