Equinox

This year I’m going to try something other than pathologizing my winter doldrums. I’m going to accept them. I’m going to try to reach a peaceful accord with them instead of fighting back. You can’t fight the inevitable; resistance is futile. I read an article earlier today that shed new light on an old concern (after an extensive google search which involved the keywords SAD + Black People + Vitamin D).

The piece argued that there is nothing wrong with our body’s reaction to the disappearance of the sun every winter, of the death of trees, of the freezing effects that these changes have on us. If anything, there is something wrong with a society which demands our constant happiness. If you are not happy, something is wrong with you. If you don’t try to fix what’s wrong with you, something is seriously wrong with you, and that thing will only continue to progress until it consumes you. Fix your shortcomings or die in the slow flame of self-pity.

There is something greatly wrong with our culture, this irrational tableau of capitalism and terrorism, this never-ending criminalization of black skin, of active erasure of black experience, of paternalistic condescension towards anyone who doesn’t accept their oppressed lot in life. This place, this way of being, wants us (by which I mean The Souls of Black Folk), to capitulate to oppression.

It wants us to help it oppress us. It exists in reverberations of multiplicity, a multiplicity which is projected like summer movies in the park, a park which is surrounded by poor neighborhoods of color, neighborhoods which are flocked to by rich gentrifies of pallor, a pallor which pretends it doesn’t notice the generational destruction surrounding it. All it knows to do is reach for the popcorn and chew absentmindedly. This is America – this is whiteness – and it lingers on your tongue like tasting burnt gristle.

This winter I vow to be kind to my entire being. I promise to surround myself with the best of company. I will do my best to maintain my routine, one which I’ve slowly cultivated since last spring. I moved to the big city to escape another isolated winter. I made friends and social connections in all the spaces that move me – religious, athletic, creative, educational. I have scheduled activities almost every night of the week. I keep myself busy now because I know that busyness will save me. The power of habit is undeniable. The power of prayer need not be spoken. Prayer is action, heart, intention, words. Prayer is a melding of the concrete and abstract; our bodies submit to God in the action of worship while our hearts and minds submit to Him in the abstract as we reflect on the wonders of His Majesty.

Last winter, the only thing that saved me was my connection to Allah SWT. Every day my small-town prison walls closed in on me. My roommate was never home and my apartment was in the middle of nowhere of the middle of nowhere (on the other, smaller side of that very small town). It became a challenge to get out of bed every day, and to not go back to bed as soon as possible, often in the middle of the day. My body folded in on itself, escaping the cold, collapsing on top of collapse. Internal combustion, minus the spark. All I had was fasting the odd day and praying like it was my last to keep me moving. I wished I had friends. Sometimes the place you find yourself in is not the place you’re meant to be. And how it hurts.

The seasons in Minnesota are sudden. They give no warnings, no easing into one another; they change, abruptly and without warning. This is what happened when last winter hit, my first in Minnesota – my moods changed almost overnight. And when the summer returned, because there is no in-between here, my mood flipped back like how a bed-wetting child bed flips the mattress before his mother can see. This place is cold, but for some reason, it’s where I thrive. It’s like the unannounced back and forth of seasons keeps me bobbing on my toes as I stand in the middle, trying to hold the two competing ends as my tethers to reality.

I’m aware that the cold is coming. I know that my moods will be unreliable from this point on. I accept it. I’ll do my best to move forward despite my oncoming heaviness of heart. I will write a ton of poetry because that’s what worked last winter. I will read a lot more poetry than I write because that worked last winter. Fiction and long-form nonfiction are great for the summer, but Poetry is the heart of winter. There are blessings in disguise everywhere. I’ll be sure to get a gym membership sooner rather than later. Lifetime, anyone? I have my basketball shoes. I have my Nairobi-thrifted jersey in the Denver Nuggets colorway with the Kobe Bryant logo on the chest and the Chinese writing on the back above the number 13. I always wondered who it belonged to and if we ever walked the same streets.

I also have the memories attached to that jersey; memories from 2 years ago, of wandering near Mombasa Road after walking from South C to the Nairobi City Water and Sewerage Company in the Industrial Area. I walked in there and demanded a settlement on a routinely overcharged water bill, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t get it, because Kenya = Korruption. I walked out disappointed and with lighter pockets; I walked towards the nearest Matatu stop and stumbled on a pop-up thrift shop tucked into an inconspicuous corner. I took my time wandering through the various stalls, avoiding the hawkers trying to get my attention in Kiswahili I didn’t understand, occasionally responding Hapana, Hapana – No, No — one of the only words I knew. I only had a few hundred shillings, but I needed a new running outfit. I found it and pretended not to be very interested in the jersey. I began to tsk-tsk and wag my finger no. I was haggling like a Kenyan, though my American accent betrayed me. I learned to fake a Kenyan accent on my English and kept my responses short to avoid detection. I rolled my R’s along with my eyes. I went in.

“Ehhhh,” I said, “My friend! These prices are outrageous. You cannot be serious. I will give you 200 Bob, final price.”

The man went back and forth with me, playing the game we both knew so well, and eventually settled at 300 or 350 Shillings. It was worth it. But that was then, and this is now. That was warmth, and this is about to be snow. Wrap that comforter around you tight to keep the cold out, but not the loneliness. There’s nothing wrong with being alone. The loneliness keeps some of us company. The quiet keeps some of us sane. The peace is found only in solitude.

Lastly, I want to thank you, my audience. I’m not sure who you are or where you’re from, what you believe in or what you do, but I thank you for reading along. Writing is a two-way freeway with a divider in between the two lanes. It’s great that you can read a writer’s thoughts and have no way of challenging them. Writers write because their voices aren’t strong enough to fend off reality. This is my experience, my abstraction of the world made concrete by adjectives and nouns, and your job is to take it or leave it. There’s no in-between. That’s Somali as hell, dawg. That’s American, too, and if you don’t like it, you can geeeeeeet out.

Alright. That’s all for today. I hope you’ve readied yourself for Seasonal Depressive Disorder. My advice to you is don’t fight it, accept it. You’re going to need all the kindness you can get to make it out in decent spirits. You’ll survive, of course, by the will of Allah. Remember that you only need to worry about November, December, January, February and most of March. Maybe a little bit of April, too, but the snow should be gone by then. The sun should be back. I mean, the sun will be back. And even though it hasn’t left yet, it’s on its way out. Take care of yourself, dawg. Be easy.