My Own Garden

An exploration of worth and ownership

On stolen land they will never see me worthy of owning the fruits of my labor. 
There are gardens I will never know. 
Seeds I plant, in land I have sown, will be taken once they bloom. 
For I know I cannot pick from “their” garden. 
These fingers don’t belong in “their” soil. 
Unless it’s to make a deposit. 
I must leave a piece of myself, but never pull from the Earth. 
I haven’t the right. 
Flowers I plant earn them ribbons. 
And I will never know their beauty.  

Sometimes, I feel as though, I don’t belong to myself.

Movements not my own.

Feelings not my own.

Should I possess an adequate inner monologue, those would not be my own as well.

I am a resource to those who will take from me and repurpose it as their own.

Made to feel guilt for wanting the recognition that comes from art you’ve created. For wanting more than “likes” and “thank yous,” for they don’t buy buttered rice and fries.

I wanted the space to create bouquets from gardens that were truly mine. I wouldn’t need your roses because I could pull my own.

But nothing is ever really my own here.

Not here. Not in these spaces.

Little Black girls who grow to be Black women are required to share our gifts with the world with little to no recognition. And what we don’t give freely, is taken.

If we don’t tend to their gardens, instead choosing to care for our own, they will reap what they have not sown. Because everything is theirs and they are entitled to it.

This what it is like to exist in a space where your influence is almost everywhere you turn by white people who either condemn you for their deliberate misinterpretations of your work or those who lack the capacity to understand the breadth of what they took.

They take.

They do not give.

They will say “sorry.” But they do not mean it.

They will accept each other’s apologies and speak over those they have harmed.

This have co-opted the movements of those who are overlooked, dismissed, hidden, silenced, and demonized in an attempt to make it their own. But it doesn’t land right. Cause it is not their own. Those stories are not theirs to tell. Our lives are not supporting characters to theirs, and yet we are treated as such.

Do you know what it feels like to know that your words have a different kind of value if they don’t know your face is the one behind them? Perhaps this is why they do it, because they know we wouldn’t be taken seriously if we stood behind our work and words? They are just being nice, right? No, kind. This is what kindness is, yeah?

All rhetorical. I don’t want answers to this, I want you to think. And feel. That’s it.

I wanted to find my feet. I wanted stand tall in my work. I wanted to own my words. It is time. It is past time. I wanted to benefit more from the creations of my mind. So, this space is just one way that I am going to do so.

I will share free emails here, but the meat of this space will be found beyond a paywall. Part of finding my feet is knowing that my work has worth beyond that of a “thank you.” And I will know when I have found my feet when I don’t feel bad about writing that I am going to charge for more creative, in-depth essays and life stories here. Because as of this writing, I feel tremendous guilt. Cause I don’t know if this is the right thing to do.

But I haven’t jumped in such a long time, and I think it’s time to see if I can fly, don’t you think?

If you know of anyone who would like to be a subscriber here, please share this Substack with them. If you are not yet a paid subscriber here (yet), please consider doing so in the future.