I wish that I’d been prepared to deal with racism, but not even overt racism, I’m talking about micro-aggressions. All the subtle ways that I was told by “friends,” peers and social institutions that I’ll never be good enough. Some people don’t believe that micro-aggressions are a thing, but here’s my two cents: they are. I wish I had someone to tell me that “It’s not you, it’s them.” Maybe, then, the apology wouldn’t have felt as necessary, in that moment.

Who would have thought that at 29 years-young I would be sitting in the eccentric backyard of a Calgary cafe, smoking a legal spliff and discussing business opportunities in cannabis? If Curren$y could see me now. It’s not quite a Verde Terrace, but this garden space, this moment, inspires me like Spitta did when he spoke in rhythmic duality; his bars are laced with business acumen.

Colonization is rarely cited as the cause for our climate crisis, when in reality, it’s the origin of it. So while white activists are out here promoting environmentalism (and subtly, their own moral excellence), they’re actually just perpetuating the exact thing that got us into this mess — white supremacy.

I thought that perhaps this phenomenon was exclusive to liminal mixed-Black folks. I eventually met other Black people who loved metal like me, and was surprised to hear that no matter what shade of Black we were, from dark to light, most of us had been treated as if liking metal made us less Black.

I feel freest sporting my natural hair. I love running my fingers through my strands in the shower, feeling the cushion that it is, thanks to its fullness. I enjoy finger detangling with my Jamaican black castor oil, the connection I feel as I run the tips of my fingers from root to end. I miss all the length I would have had, had I treated it with care.