How to be weightless...
Flying Africans, sandbags, and becoming unbothered
I wrote about flying for a recent review of the exhibition Cake by Wura-Natasha Ogunji. In the piece, I explore how the flying Black people in her works seem weightless and unencumbered to me. They’re not bogged down by systemic oppression and so can lift off the ground whenever they please.
Flying African mythology continues to endure in African American culture. The story goes; after European men shuttled African peoples onto ships, or even once those newly enslaved peoples arrived in Virginia, New York, or New England, they would see or have premonitions of the hardships they would face on this unfamiliar land and then fly back over the Atlantic, a reverse Middle Passage. Stories about Flying Africans abound in the Federal Writers Project, which documented the stories of formerly enslaved Black Americans.
In the story, I mention the two versions of the Igbo Landing. In 1803 a slave ship docks at St. Simon’s Island, Georgia. Before arriving, the Igbo warriors took over the boat, sending their captors overboard. Despite their successful resistance, these warriors knew their freedom would quickly be stripped away once in this new land. The Igbo warriors walked back into the water once they landed the boat, still locked in chains. Now the ending of the story is where versions depart. Most historical records call the incident a mass suicide. The people drowned themselves rather than become enslaved. However, Gullah’s oral history provides a different conclusion. These people walked back towards the waters that brought them over; when they couldn’t walk anymore, they flew.
Flying as a trope in African American culture is everywhere. Beyoncé references the film Daughters of the Dust and the Igbo Landing in the “Love Drought” music video. The characters in Faith Ringgold’s children’s book Tar Beach fly. It might be a bit of a stretch, but Falcon was the first African American superhero and flies. Yes, a lot of superheroes fly, but not a lot of Black people.
It’s part of the lore, actually. Because of their African heritage, Black Americans can fly but cannot easily access this ability in the States. Black people can fly if they learn to unshackle themselves physically and metaphorically. It’s a lovely metaphor and had me thinking about the things I can do personally to myself a bit more unbound and less tied to what does not serve me.
But what are the things that bind me?
I have pretty bad anxiety and IBS. Some of my triggers include dairy, fibrous veggies and legumes, coffee, and alcohol. However, while those foods and liquids can trigger a bad tummy day, my stress levels keep me primed for a flair-up at any moment.
Depending on the situation, I often fret about whether I am overly or not friendly enough. I think a lot about my place in a group and whether I could fit in. As a fourth grader, I used to visualize myself in a group as a drop of oil in a sea of water, repelling those from being able to bond with me.
Besides just being overly concerned with others’ perceptions of me. I am also a recovering “good daughter.” I did a lot of things to please my exacting dad. Not pushing back when he would criticize me or keep me from being a typical teenager— socializing with anyone other than him on the weekends I stayed with him or not caring about applying to only Ivy League schools just because it was prestigious. I got into Brown, his alma mater, early, which stopped the argument before it could progress. I could go on and on explaining the times I’ve tied myself into knots over analyzing people’s perceptions or expectations of me.
All of that stuff, possibly the dairy included, weighs me down! It shows in my writing. I am creatively blocked when I consider how others will interpret a line or whether I can control how an audience reads my work.
I feel weightless when I meditate before falling asleep. I’ve learned breathing exercises to help mitigate my symptoms while slowly tackling those root causes. I am not always consistent. But sometimes, when brushing my teeth, unwinding for the night, or standing over the stove, I’ll take a moment to breathe in for four counts, hold for four counts, then exhale for six or eight counts. Each time I do that, I’ll try to unclench some part of my body.
I learned my favorite visualization in catholic school. I envision my body like a doll filled to the brim with sand. The sand makes my limbs bulge and stretches out my encasing. Each exhale coincides with a small pin poking a hole to let out some sand. I start at the heels and work my way up using the inhale the find the next pressure point to release. Between breaths, I take a beat to appreciate how the emptied limb feels against the rest of my tense body. By the time I reach my head, my doll-like body is cleared of sand. It could be picked up and carried by the wind.
A few nights ago, I had a nasty bout of anxiety. My body felt paralyzed and heavy with unprovoked fear. So, I moved to the middle of the bed, put my phone on my nightstand face down, and started my exercises. I released my ankles, the underside of my kneecaps, my hips, my pelvis, my heart, my shoulders, the creases of my elbows, my wrists, my jaw, and finally, my third eye. For a brief moment, I swear I floated a millimeter or two off my bed.
Rapid Fire Thoughts:
📚 Some of these Kindle Unlimited books feel like the female version of alpha podcasts, but they’re addicting. I did finish Sula (more on this soon).
🎶 I’ve been listening to Janelle Monae’s album on repeat, and “Champagne Shit” is probably my favorite song.
🏠 I was home alone a lot this week, and I love that I can live at home and be supported by my family, but also silence is nice.
✊🏿It’s Juneteenth on Monday, but also if you’re in New York and New Jersey, you should learn about the holiday Pinkster and its history.