some personal words

Dear friends,

If there’s a time to get more personal, I believe that time is now. And if you continue wanting to hear my takes on decluttering, creativity, and everything in between, then I thought some of you might also want to know a little more about the person behind the digital screen. Because beyond any accolades or helpful advice, I’m a human being struggling to find each next step in life, just like everyone else.

I was born in 1978 in a primarily-white, affluent suburb of Connecticut. Life there looked like a J. Crew ad and I was desperate to fit into it. I was raised there by my Black Antiguan mother and my much older Queens-born Jewish father. We were not exactly white and not exactly affluent. But it was home.

On one level, being the not-affluent ones often didn’t matter. I still got to tag along to the country club pool, jump on friends’ giant trampolines on their parents’ private beaches, get lost in mansions on playdates. The “good life” was one degree away. And although it wasn’t designed for me, I could rent it—chaperoned.

From pre-school through 8th grade, I attended a private school on a partial scholarship. I had friends. I had foes. I had frizzy hair. This hair nearly killed me. In fact, it often felt like the damned mess of frizzy curls on my head was the one thing standing in the way of me and worthiness, me and belonging. Because even if we didn’t have the money, I could fake this whole thing so much better...if only my hair was straight.

This essay won’t include the specifics of the racism my family and I encountered when I was a child...partly because I’m trying to keep the word count low; partly because I’m currently doing a lot of self-work and private writing about my experiences (and therefore not yet ready to share more); and partly because I don’t know that this exact moment in time is entirely appropriate to focus on the hardships of being a mixed kid, especially one who often passes as white and “enjoys” white privilege most hours of the day. But I will simply say that walking through the world holding my mom’s hand...well, odd looks and racist behavior were as common as the sun coming up.

As of this moment in time, I identify as a Black, Jewish, Queer Cis Woman.

My greatest fear is that this newsletter will come across like I’m making this moment about me. Gosh, I really f-ing hope not. But many rich connections and conversations have grown from the past several weeks. I’ve had requests from friends to know me and my history deeper. I’ve had a dear friend admit she didn’t know I was Black until 15 years ago. (We’ve known each other for 24 years.) While this moment in time is and should primarily be in service to those whose bodies are darker than mine, the fact is that much has risen to the surface for many of us who identify or are seen in different ways that are not white. And to that end, this moment is of course also about all of us who are willing to listen, learn, and change.

It seems my journey on spaceship earth is inexplicably tied to identity and finding where I fit in (or creating that place for myself). Unfortunately I’ve had repeated experiences throughout my life where I was told I’m not enough—not Black enough, not Jewish enough, not Queer enough. I have been told this by both children and adults—even by some who love me deeply.

When I started writing songs around age thirty, I finally started to release the pain and rage and depression inside of me. Many of my first songs were about bottled up childhood shit around identity and race. “Black People” is kind of an odd specimen, a song that centers around a dreamscape that I knew I belonged in, but felt off-kilter about.

My partner is a white cis man. He’s awesome. Sometimes we wish our one-day child would have black skin. We know this is unlikely unless we adopt. But it’s interesting to dream about. I can’t completely formulate why we feel this way. But two years ago, I wrote the following as a future song lyric or spoken word piece:

“i want black children / so they can be more me than i was me”.

This identity stuff is my stuff. Like the deepest, heaviest baggage we all have? This is mine. This is my inner clutter. I carry it with me very tightly. It creates stress in my body and stress in my heart. I am working on it and through it. Who am I? What am I? Where do I fit in? Well, right now I fit in inside my own newsletter.

I don’t have any other resolutions about it right now. I’m healing, I’m on the path, I’m imperfect, and I’m learning.

I am also full of gratitude for my gorgeous life. And for the dialogues I get to have with other human beings.

My experience is not to be compared to anyone else’s. There is no competition. There is nothing to pity or praise. My story simply IS. And it is not over yet.

I would love to hear your stories, too. Always feel free to drop a line. While I may not be able to reply to all, I will absolutely read every one.

Thank you for reading, listening, and engaging. There’s lots in life to declutter right now—things we can see and things we can’t see. It feels good to share the journey in any way I can.

Love,
Fay

June 2020