Performance Art

“I was not flirting with you…”

“I was not flirting with you.”

 

He says this for the second time.

 

Honestly, if you were not flirting with me, you wouldn’t have said it… twice. That reveals guilt. And guilty you are, but there is no jury for this kind of trial. This is the court case I find myself in a lot of the times lately. It seems as if all of my cases are dismissed. I do not have enough evidence or grounds to feel the way I feel.

Yet I will still speak my truth… This time, “I am not guilty!”

I’m talking about the case of the male-female interactions and the lack of respect I receive as a women of color in her 30s. My only relationship was in my 20s… 11 years ago.

Society sees me as a loser. But little do they know what’s out there in Los Angeles, California.

Society has succumbed to men lightly touching my back and holding my hand to then go on and flirt with a close friend of mine to then saying, “I’m not flirting with you.”

“Just leave it alone, you’re going to make it worse…” my friend said. Even after all of this she still took down his number. I’m glad she did. I don’t believe in competition. You like who you like, and it should stand open. But, don’t lie to me about not flirting with me and then talk to my friend. No one cares if I’ve been disrespected. Or underappreciated. Or treated as a tool. Oh wait, I’m the fool in all of these shenanigans! But the evidence here may never be enough to really see the matter at hand.

I can’t compete anyways, I don’t have the societal standards of beauty. I have no Kardashian ass. I don’t have much breasts. My Double As aren’t good enough. Perhaps according to society I have nothing physically going for me.

Being black is hard. Growing up I was classified as “Not Black enough.” Who could dare say such a thing? Where is the love in all of this oppressive nature? We call this advanced society. We are so ‘developed.’ Where dating is within a few seconds of a swipe right, some emojis, and maybe… just maybe you will get a date. Either that or a one night stand.

Now the male that made the “I’m not flirting with you remark” did not go for the white female you think he would have pursued as I’m writing this. He still chose black beautiful sista. And that is okay, I am happy he can appreciate all colors. I see the positive, and it’s good; yet it brings a sad sort of comfort to think I cannot use her looks to justify why I’m not picked majority of the time.

It’s like I’m never seen.

It’s like I’m never adored.

Here I go back on trial, configuring the possibilities. To make sense of it all. Could it be I don’t always wear my natural hair out like her? Or because I don’t have curves like a typical black girl? I cannot sing like a typical black girl? My voice is too high pitched or is it too nasally? I don’t have the typical favorable video vixen type of body. And surely, I cannot dance as well as her.

I’m just a mediocre girl. Nothing too special to pick out from a sea of females.

My name isn’t mediocre, nor do I think I am… but the world treats me as such. I’m like the trash the trash man does not want pick up during trash day.  

Sure you can say, “Well it’s because you think that way…” When in actuality… I don’t see myself this way. If I did, I would’ve ended my life by now and called it a day. The fact that I’m still alive still proves I find myself worthy enough. Enough to be noticed, treated with honor, and to be loved. But it seems these days love has cursed me, and someone placed a spell on me. No matter how many times I pray and pray it away, it never leaves my life. I can do the work it requires to heal, and get the same results. Each separate event brings the same broken message:

I do not exist. And if I do it’s only when I’m angry enough to speak my mind. “No, you cannot sit in the back seat with my friend, you flirted with me first… and now you are saying you never did. If you were not flirting with me then don’t touch my body.”

You don’t deserve the right to dispose of me like that.”

I spoke my words, and still I am the guilty one.

How long can someone live through the pain I’ve lived through? I didn’t ask to be born, but here I am. Trying to understand why wasn’t I noticed… again? Why am I in the wrong for speaking up for once and saying my truth?

My truth has been tuned out. It’s all on sound boards, and it echos off the walls. No one hears it. Silence is golden, but also a killer. Not being heard numbs me. And so I write. I write to maybe see someone else relate to the distance of love I can sometimes feel.