Dear Diary,
I decided to take a night walk two weekends ago since my sleep schedule was already upside down. Usually, when I go on my outdoor walks, I switch up the neighborhoods. I walked through Franklin Square for the second time, but I also crossed into Malverne this time. While on my path, I chose to do something that brought a moment of heavy discomfort: I walked past my old middle/high school.
The same school where I was aggressively bullied, fat-shamed, and became an outsider. The same building where I didn’t have an upstander, teacher, or principal on my side (shoutout to my old gym teacher, Schiavo. He was the ONLY ONE who actually cared about me). The same institution where my single-widowed mom had to constantly leave her job to deal with the situation of Aaron and whoever he could get to tease and bother me—the same place where I was physically assaulted.
It’s been a decade since I graduated from that high school, 16 years since I first attended Valley Stream North as a 7th grader, yet sometimes the pain eats away at my brain. It haunts me at times.
I slowly walked by, staring at the building with tears in my eyes, asking why all that had to happen to me. But then my inner voice was telling me, "Khaaliq, it’s okay. It’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore. They can’t gaslight you anymore. Feel the pain. Feel your feelings healthily and appropriately, even if it takes a lifetime. But don’t let it overtake your life. Remember, there are people who do love you. There are people who do care about you. There are people who want to see you win. There are people who like and adore you regardless of your race, your body type, your neurodiversity, or your sexuality. You know who you are." By the time I walked right down the street away from the building, the pain and those emotions had dissipated.
I feel like there have been tests this year that the universe has given me to see if I’ve grown and changed for the better from the person I used to be. (Apparently, this is called shadow work, and Saturn returns.) I don’t like to say I’m a new person or that I was the old me. Instead, I prefer to say I’m an evolved person or, depending on the conversation, I’m an evolving person. Words have connotations. Instead of saying that was the old me, I say that was my past version because it should be honored even though they don’t live or take up space in our present or future. We archive it. We put it in a container that lives in my memory's attic or basement.
Anyways, back to the topic. Two Fridays ago, as I was walking to my taxi to take me home from getting the monkeypox vaccine in Jamaica, Queens, I noticed some thugs standing on the sidewalk on Parson Blvd. They seemed to be selling weed, but I wasn't sure, nor did I care. I’m so tunnel-visioned, thanks to my ADHD medication. They tried to talk to me and gave me shady looks, but I ignored them since I had headphones on, politely saying, "Excuse me."
As I moved into the street to the other side where my taxi was waiting, a car drove up right behind me and nearly hit me. The driver, a shirtless white man presumably in his mid-30s with tattoos, resembled Chet Hanks (the son of Tom Hanks, who loves to act... urban). He was there to meet up with the thugs, I guess. As this stranger exited his car, he yelled at me, “Hey bro, you need to lose some (bleeping) weight!” I didn’t want to keep my driver waiting, and my subconscious told me, "Khaaliq, don’t entertain him. He’s probably a lowlife with poor driving skills (or maybe he's under the influence). You know who you are. No response is the best response."
So, that’s what I did: I ignored his unwarranted comments and went home. I felt like a badass. I felt like one of those celebrities who get approached by TMZ and the paparazzi with their harassing questions and statements, casually ignoring them as they hop in their car. I jumped in the taxi, unbothered, and went on my merry way. You’re talking to someone who was the victim of fatphobia from the time I was seven until I was 19 years old.
The other situation was in June when a close male friend suggested that I ditch my dyed hair and piercings to get hired again. I told him no, I’m not doing that, and explained why, including increasing my chances of bringing up code-switching and respectability politics. However, I did acknowledge that I can say this from a place of privilege.
This is a far cry from the Khaaliq who, six years ago in college, tried to join a Black fraternity to finally fit in with other Black men, as they had never accepted my true self throughout my entire life. One of the fraternity members told me that I had to remove my fresh new nose ring, which I had just paid for before the first night of pledging, and I obliged. But that was then, and this is now, and I’ve changed.
If no one will give me a pat on the back, I will always ensure I do.
Please check out these records, which serve as the soundtrack to this post and capture its emotions.
