I WANT OUT! That’s it. I want out. I’ve said it a million different ways. I’ve expressed my frustration, my strangled appeal for deliverance, every day since. . . . I’ve forgotten how long. I’ve begged for freedom in passing jokes with fellow sistah scholars—that community of women of color who love me back to life when I’m so broken that the tears won’t come—when I eagerly proclaim, “I don’t need this shit! I’ll work at Target. I like Target. I look good in red.” This statement is followed by sweet laughter, so sweet, like the Balm of Gilead, ministering to the most present fleshy, bleeding wound. I’ve said it in the heavier moments when the anxiety and fear is so acute that it takes the power of the Holy Spirit to lure me out of bed, when I’m so spent that I can’t muster the words, but my soul cries out for relief.
