The Inner Monologue of a Black Woman Walking Home.

Updated: Feb 27

Finally almost home.

This bag couldn’t be heavier.

Bus driver was nice enough.

I wonder if he thought I was nice for saying thank you.

Toronto people don’t seem to do that like back home.

Maybe I’m trying too hard to be nice.

God this bag is heavy.

What if someone thinks that means they can push me around.

Who cares what people think?

Unfortunately people who think girls look nice,

Like they can be pushed around,

Get followed home.

Look mean.

Look tough.

Put on your “don’t fuck with me” face.

But then men who you might want to approach you will think you’re a Scary Black Bitch

Who do I want to approach me in these streets? The Greek grandpas?

Maybe the cute boys and girls down at the café but not this close to home

God this bag is heavy.

Is someone behind me?

Do I risk turning and making eye contact?

Would that aggravate someone or encourage them?

Just peek while adjusting your bag.

Okay, Just some girl and her dog – cute.

I shouldn’t be so anxious.

It’s only 7pm, and sure it’s dark out, but I’ll be fine.

God this bag is heavy.

I wonder if it’s worse

To be a Black man at night?

I’m worried about getting hurt

But people do dumb shit when they’re afraid of dark faces.

No one is crossing the street to avoid me

I’m the one on high alert.

God this bag is heavy. I should take out my keys.

At least if anyone thought I was weak I could jab them with the key.

My only weapon.

But then they know I live around here and what if they follow me,

or stalk me?

What are the odds people are stalking you?

You’ve only just started liking the skin your in

Who’s following you because of it?

God this bag couldn’t be heavier.

Finally home and I can set down this bag

And yet I still feel

Even heavier


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