Note: I wrote this on when it was very fresh in my spirit. I decided to post after sitting with it.

These days I often don’t have the capacity to have conversations with some of the few white friends I still communicate with about what we are living through in this country right now. Why? What the conversations often reveal is how much they do NOT witness about their comfortability with their whiteness - and all that it affords them. I brought this up to my friend in Paris the other day regarding a text I received from a mutual friend.

The mutual friend is a white, middle-aged Protestant minister from my Midwest hometown. We have remained friends all these years. He was reaching out to me to “catch up.” But it was the language of his text that pissed me off. Actually, it triggered some deep rage in me.

He asked if we could do a phone call to “catch up”- which we often do every couple of months or so. He said that he was “a bit overwhelmed” right now and “what a mess” the state of things are in this country and “so much you were aware of” months ago. Uhm, why wasn’t he aware? What allowed him to move about his life and NOT be fully aware of what was to come in this country after the 2024 election?

This is what my French friend and I were discussing after I shared the text with her. She said: “this is incredible! Why was he not aware? I learned about Project 2025 and recognized the danger for the U.S. and I’m in France!” I had shared Project 2025 with my Parisian friend well before the 2024 election. She took it upon herself to research, learn more and to share it.

Black people in America learned and sounded the alarm about Project 2025, too. It was on the Internet for all to read. There were condensed break downs and articles written about it. In my opinion, it was a choice by many white people to not “be aware”. Many – not all - white people did not believe this could happen “in America.”

But they have not LIVED in the America Black people have had to exist under. We know and have survived slavery, Reconstruction, Slave Patrols, Black Codes, Jim Crow and more. We recognized and called out the coming danger.

The minister and I have been friends since middle school. Don’t get me wrong, he is a good human being. But “good people” are also being called to account in this current reckoning in America. James Baldwin wrote about this. Dr. King spoke on it.

This morning, I stopped at my favorite diner after my early morning eye appointment, where my eyes were dilated. I was squinting to see as I went through my messages. I stopped at the text from my minister friend that I had still not answered.

After deciding to wait to have a conversation with him, I sent my Parisian friend a message saying that I had not yet responded to our mutual friend. I shared that I did not have the capacity at this moment. The news was breaking about the racist online post depicting Michelle and Barack Obama as apes and the gutting of journalists at The Washington Post. It was more chaos and uncertainty stressing my nervous system.

Add to that this past week was also the anniversaries of BOTH my mother’s and brother’s deaths. So no, I didn’t have the capacity to hear the minister talk about what he was or was not asking his church flock to put on the line.

Then I opened the Substack app and boom! There was a note posted by , exhorting us to trust our “capacity to hold you in these times.” There it was – “capacity.” The Universe was letting me know. I could see clearly now that I did not have the capacity right now to have this conversation with my friend.

I decided to at least respond to my friend’s text to say exactly that. But something didn’t let me stop there. I went IN, which is probably why I initially knew to stay silent.

I asked when were more white people going to stop being comfortable in their whiteness? I said: “We TOLD you this was going to happen and y’all thought: ‘this is America it can’t happen here.’” Yeah, it sure is America. Ask Black people.

Then I said to challenge the mostly white people he leads. Tell them to stop thinking the atrocities happening in this country were only happening to “others.” I said what was happening to “others” will come to their doors, too.

He responded somewhat defensively, saying he had acknowledged my “insights” and that he has “not been passive.” MY “insights”! Mothafucka, (there’s my rage rearing up) Project 2025 was not MY “insights.” It was a plan decades in the making put out there for ALL to read and share.

He missed my point. It was also HIS responsibility to read the damn thing and understand that the coming threat was REAL. I text back to say that I my intent was to point to all white people in general. I said that I hoped he understood why I did not have the capacity to talk right now. He replied he understood.

I don’t have the capacity. Nope. Not today.

My pool exercise class was invaded a few weeks ago. The incident upset me so much that I could not let it go. On the surface, I knew I was really pissed off about white people inserting themselves in Black people’s spaces, particularly Black women’s spaces. But as the anger burned in me, I recognized the invasion triggered something much deeper in me – a story from my family history.

For the past three summers, I’ve worked out with a pool class that is not a typical exercise class. We’re a community of Black women – intergenerational, but mostly middle aged and older - and it is a very special space.

Early in this summer season, a reporter came to the pool to write a story about our unique class and take pictures of us in action. It was an online print story for the regional PBS television station. I’ll come back to those pictures, because they are important.

The pool is a beautiful city pool – in the hood. Across the street sits an abandoned factory with a rusted steel water tower which has been repurposed as a cell phone tower. There are several more abandoned warehouses on the side streets in this neighborhood of Black and Latino residents.

The invasion happened about a week after the online story was published. A white couple - a senior aged woman and man - strolled into the class. The energy in the pool immediately changed. The sistahs started giving each other that “telepathic look" Black folks communicate with. Why would this white couple feel this space - in the hood - was for them? ESPECIALLY the man? Did they see the pictures that accompanied the story? It was ALL Black women in the photos. Nobody looked like them.

The man’s presence really disturbed me. He jumped into the pool, smiling and observing - everything. It felt as if he was taking inventory. I was always taught to be leery of strange white men smiling and coming into my space. I was trained to see that as a red flag for Black people, but especially for Black girls and women.

My mind pictured the images of white men smiling in those photos of white folks at lynching picnics while a black man’s body hung from a tree. Smiling white men with cold eyes. It’s always the cold eyes that reveal the truth behind the smiles.

In this current climate of anti-Blackness and white supremacy and fragility on steroids, I prefer the company of my own people. It’s only logical - to me - to center the way I move – in Blackness. It’s the safety and affirming of community right now that is grounding for me. That does not make me anti-white.

There are plenty of spaces where white people have privilege to be - because they are white. I will say that louder for my white childhood friend who, a few years ago, told me I was racist. He wasn’t used to me being so blunt with the truth. Because he was uncomfortable, I had to be racist. I’m still shaking my head. He later apologized – in a text. I told him I wasn’t letting him off that easily and the issue needed to be unpacked in a real conversation. That still hasn’t happened.

I need to share more about the vibe of the class to give a more detailed picture of just how out of place this white couple was. The article talked about how the class started during COVID and, for the past six years, has evolved into a place of peace, healing and joy for sometimes as many as 40 women in the pool. We even have a 93-year-old queen who drives herself to the pool and does all the exercises. Yes. She. Does.

This is a Black ass class and the pace is “flow”. We are in that pool to move our bodies and to encourage each other. Our instructor makes the class fun by inserting lots of humor. We say affirmations like “we are phenomenal women”; “we are survivors” or “we are beautiful.” Often, the “younger” women walk with and hold a hand of our very senior queens to support their balance in the pool. It is truly a loving act of care and respect.

We sing songs - from spirituals to the club! – in between the reps as we walk to either end of the pool. Songs like “Wade In The Water” connect us to ancestral memory, calling in goddess energy. I believe we evoke Yemoja, Osun and Mami Wata all up in that water when we lift our voices! Many sistahs may not connect to those ancestral goddesses, but they do sense Spirit.

The water calms and we shift the atmosphere to a peaceful quiet. We hum out the end of the song in an almost low moan as if in prayer or meditation. We all know that moan. It’s in our spiritual DNA. We are tapping into the healing power of water. In that water is life, creativity, sensuality and the power of the Divine Feminine.

The day the white couple came to the pool, one sistah had her tambourine in the water and was banging the beat to “This Little Light of Mine”. We have a for real pool choir! I know that white couple could not understand what they literally had jumped into.

I am quite sure they had never experienced an exercise class like this. We have even added our own flava to the names of exercises. Squats are called Bootie Time, and we say an audible “squeeze” when we stand up. We work our core with a “twist and a smile” with a move we call “We Cute” – because, you know, we are.

When class is finished we high five each other saying, “We DID that!” I noticed several sistahs, me included, did not high five the couple. The women were kind and welcoming, but I personally wasn’t feeling them. There are several private membership swimming clubs within a few minutes in any direction from this pool. I’ve lived in this area for years and never once thought about joining those clubs, because they are primarily white. I never wanted to deal with microaggressions and looks of “why are you here?”

After class, I overheard the man asking his partner all kinds of questions about our instructor and how she ran the class. To be clear, she is a certified pool instructor. She is keenly aware of the fitness level and ages of the women. She tells us to do the exercises to the level of our comfort. She makes clear it is a no judgment zone.

Who was this man to be questioning anything about our class? He saw there was not ONE man in the class, let alone white people. Once the couple left, a few sistahs started discussing them. Some were unbothered. But many of us were like “What the hell?” “Why can’t they take class in one of their communities?”

A week later I was still irked about why the couple had come to the class. I decided I needed to write about it to get these feelings sorted. Then one morning when I was in that half sleep, kind-of-awake state – it came to me. It was as if my late father was pricking my memory to recall an incident that happened to him. It was about him. It was about him being denied access to a pool when he was in high school, because he was black.

Daddy shared many stories about the racism he faced growing up in our small, predominately white town in northwest Ohio. There was only one public high school. There still is.

Daddy would always tell the story about what happened to him as a member of the boys’ high school swim team. He was the only black student on the team. A black boy - on the swim team - in the early 1950’s. Let that sit for a minute.

The team travelled to a neighboring town to compete in a meet. When they arrived at the school, the coach of the other team informed Daddy’s coach that the “nigger could not swim” in their pool. He said if the team wanted to compete, Daddy could not get in the pool. Daddy’s coach told the opposing coach if my Dad couldn’t swim, then his whole team would not compete. They forfeited the meet.

The sting of that moment never left my Dad. I have come to understand how the racism Daddy endured deeply wounded his sensitive Scorpio spirit. My Dad was scarred by racism, not just in our hometown, but also while serving in the Army on bases in Jim Crow Kentucky and Oklahoma. My father was also an immensely talented drummer who faced racism in the clubs and places where he played in bands.

For me, the deep trigger with the white couple in our pool was about all those decades ago when Daddy was not allowed to compete in the pool with white swimmers because of his black skin. He was denied access. His belonging on the swim team and his athletic ability didn’t matter.

That white couple dove into our pool without considering whether they even belonged in our space. They did not come back to the class after that day. Maybe they felt the vibe. I hoped so, because maybe they experienced just an inkling of what Black people constantly face. I was actually pleased they did not return.

It’s an outdoor pool so class ends when city pools close. At the end of each summer, we have a cookout! This year sistahs brought wings, hamburgers, hot dogs, barbequed pigs feet, potato salad, green beans, homemade pound cake and peach cobbler and more. I made two cakes – lemon buttermilk and my aunt’s family favorite strawberry cake - topped with fresh whipped cream.

We had a full bar, fire pits and good music. We laughed, took pictures, danced and relaxed in the joyful sistahood! And no, errrrrbody wasn’t invited to the cookout. Hell no.

Good Evening Substack!🌻

I’ve been hanging out in these writing streets for a few months now - mostly reading, commenting on and restacking great pieces. Trying to get the feel of how this all works. I never did social media so this was somewhat daunting for me.

Then I found and a whole Black ass community! I was like woah…this is some powerful ish going on here! Brilliant, thoughtful and encouraging writers. One of the first writers I connected with was the fearless and vulnerable . She is the Badass sistah building the Blackstack community in such a time as this. The second person I connected with was who asked in his chat for folks to introduce themselves - creating community. His writing always moves my spirit. And there are SO many incredible writers in this neighborhood of Substack. It's mind blowing. It's beautiful and it's Black.

What's happening at Blackstack right now is so critical to preserving our history, stories, art, artifacts - everything.

I’ll tell you the reason why I am finally posting - something.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night, for some reason, thinking about my very first visit to the “Blacksonian” - NMAAHC - in Washington DC. Yes, that one. I was remembering how it felt the first time I made my way through all the levels (I've been many times) in 2017. I remembered the emotions I felt as I moved through each floor. There were artifacts and exhibits that literally took my breath away at times.

When you get to the top floor, you can sit at this long curving bench and watch an amazing video on this wide panorama screen. As I sat and watched the video, tears started streaming down my face. I couldn't put into words how full I felt at that moment. I was so overwhelmed at witnessing the brutality our ancestors survived and how they fought. How they persisted and persevered, knowing there would be something better for future generations. For US. I saw the sheer brilliance and creativity of our people. Black people have invented every damn thing! Even if we don't get credit for the inventions. WE are the blueprint.

As I wiped away my tears, I looked around at other Black people sitting on the bench near me. They were crying too! We looked at each other and said out loud: ”Finally. Finally.”

And last night, as I lay in bed wide awake, I broke down crying - soaking my pillow case. It’s all so, so heavy what we are currently living through. The push to whitewash, lie about and erase our history - again.

I remembered the emotions I felt sitting in the museum and I thought how powerful our stories are. How resilient and amazing we are. How we’ve impacted the culture and progress that has happened in this country.

So I’m encouraging all of us to keep writing and documenting our stories, our achievements and all of our art forms. And not just in the digital space. Our ancestors kept physical receipts. And we must do that again.

I decided to call my Substack space A Water Woman's Flow because I’m a Pisces who feels things - everything - deeply. Spirit woke me in the wee hours - when the veil is thin - to have me remember my tears. Feelings and emotions flow through me - like water. And water is powerful and shapeshifts. And oh yes, there’s many depths.

So to the Blackstack community, I say “Heyyy” and stay vigilant. Keep using the pen as our power.

I have piece sitting - waiting for me to get the nerve to publish. I’ll get there.

But somehow tonight - after waiting all day - I found the courage to post this. Something in me pushed this out.

Oh, and please, become a member to the Blacksonian. You can do it for as little as $25. Then go online and sign up for the free tickets and plan your visit. Don't miss what's there - in the way it was intended.

You, too, will be moved. I guarantee it.

More to come…as the Spirit flows.🌻✨