INTRO

So, back to taking small steps.

I’ve got to figure out how to execute a challenging (and controversial) calling with zero funding, especially as many churches—be they “anti-racist” or not—refuse to engage with a darker-skinned woman whose work concerns addressing skin tone bias and abolishing the framework that upholds the damaging and diabolical invention of race.

To be rejected by churches, Christian platforms or Christian publications for months on end for seeking to exercise what you were born to do, plus, to keep pushing for a space to be heard despite the numerous abuses, hardships and biases you’ve endured on this traumatized planet is not easy, or soothing to the ego.

Last summer, I spoke to a professor from my undergraduate years who reiterated that I’m custom built to be in media due to my passion, gifting and unorthodox view of the world.

He is one of the very few men I’ve known who believes I’m an intelligent being who is ahead of my time, so much so that he claimed one day, a well-resourced human being will see my value and offer me the opportunity of a lifetime that will allow me to execute my calling at full speed.

My professor, whom I first met in my early twenties, stated that he hoped to be around to tell me, “I told you so.”

Until then, he suggested that I continue doing something (e.g., writing), while putting out feelers.

He also noted that some of us are meant to take the “scenic route” on life’s journey before we can execute the crux of our calling, and most of the time, we won’t know why until we’ve hit the destination. My professor believed I’ve been divinely placed on such a scenic route, and so needed to practice more patience—plus keep the faith—because my unusual calling was greater than me.

In thinking of this deeply disappointing scenic route I seem to be on, I appreciated that Polite asked Pastor Gramling to elaborate on the “desert seasons” he’s encountered en route to his divinely-directed destination. (Timecode 24:09)

After explaining a setback regarding a church plant opportunity in Little Rock, Pastor Gramling stated that “…G-d had a plan all the way…It was the roundabout way…I’m sure there’s some [listeners] that are on that path, and it seems like they’re going in the wrong direction and it’s taking too long. And maybe, they’re really discouraged…The enemy likes to make you feel doubt and fear…, [but] just keep taking steps. Keep trusting G-d, keep living out your faith and you might be really surprised at where you end up.” (Timecode 26:21 – 26:51)

In the spirit of transparency, I’m running on empty. And, I feel like I’ve been on the wrong path for a while.

As a darker-skinned virgin who is demonized by Christian and non-Christian men for my carefully considered sex stance (whereas the attractive beige-skinned women I’ve known with the “good hair” and “nice eyes” who remained virgins until marriage were placed on a pedestal by men), I had hoped to be married by now. But, I’ve never succeeded in meeting a man of G-d who liked the combo platter of my personality, my principles (namely, waiting until marriage to engage in love-making), and most importantly, my phenotype.

As a visual storyteller who has been photographing my peers since 1993 A.D. and interviewing phenotypically diverse strangers since 1994 A.D., I had hoped that my previous storytelling platform would have done as well as that of the racialized White men who boasted that they lacked experience as visual storytellers, yet somehow succeeded with their platforms—platforms that predominantly captured stories of racialized White women and men. But, from 2014 A.D. to 2024 A.D., I’ve never succeeded in convincing a digital audience to take note of darker-skinned women (with non-straight hair) who passionately strived to tell the stories of hue-mans through visual storytelling.

As a bias researcher and writer who has studied race mythology since 1994 A.D. and knows what the hell I’m talking (writing) about, I had hoped to convince Christians—especially beige-skinned pastoral leaders—to not sweep matters of skin tone bias under the rug, as I believed there were earthly and eternal implications for willingly exercising self-segregation by skin tone. But, I’ve never succeeded in convincing a percentage of lighter-skinned Christians that I’m an intelligent being who doesn’t believe that phenotypic diversity—and division—are a coincidence in our wounded world—a world where the Master of Deception is l-o-v-i-n-g that so-called white supremacists are a united front, whereas professing Christians around the globe are severely divided by an imaginary pigmentocracy and ethnocracy.

You know what else sucks?

Being the daughter of two hyper-intelligent and successful immigrant parents who’ve proudly noted that you’re a failure they should have aborted, as you didn’t turn out to be the prized offspring they expected. This sentiment stings the most, as I wasn’t supposed to be a failed writer. I was supposed to be a successful physician.

I used to think men humiliating me in conversation for being a virgin was the worst feeling in the world until I realized that, one day, I will die knowing that my parents never loved me, because I was a massive disappointment to them in America. (My parents do not understand the challenges I face as an anti-bias writer in the secular or Christian sector. So, my collecting piles of rejections from racialized White editors for years on end makes it appear as though I’m the inherently idiotic adult child—amongst two male siblings—who can’t even succeed in my discipline.) And, I don’t believe I’m ever going to stop feeling bad about that reality, no matter how many times I tell myself, ‘I’m over it.’

Roundabout way or not, when I look at where I’ve arrived in life (neurological illness included), I can tell you—and I can certainly tell G-d—that I am bitter.

I am frustrated. I am sad. And, I am starting to slip into a darkness I had escaped years ago.

Even with the “highly abnormal abuse” (to quote my former therapist) I survived at home and continue to survive in society, I am not proud of my resilience—a resilience that is slowly diminishing.

Even with the advantages I hold as an American citizen—advantages that millions of women in my homeland would die for—I feel that, after 35-plus years of paying my subhuman dues to America, this “Christian nation” has never thrived on anything but a culture of pretense and phenotypic preference that heavily contradict the capstone of the Gospel, a.k.a. the alleged Good News.

To reach a point where it looks like I was born a mistake—and to reach a point where it looks like my calling is a mistake—isn’t a feel-good sentiment, but it’s my present truth, as hopelessness has become my friend.

At this stage, I’ve stopped expecting that life will get better tomorrow, be it on the marital, parental or professional front.

I’ve had to suspend the belief that I will meet a “Boaz” who won’t go all out in insulting me for being a later-in-life virgin.

/ Note /

To any heterosexual man reading this who believes they’re a “good guy,” if your auto-response to a woman—especially a darker-skinned woman—is to engage in a debate immediately after she mentions that she has long decided to not have sex until she’s married, then I would advise you to honestly explore your wounds or insecurities. If you ask me about my sex life and you aren’t thrilled about the reality that I’ve never had a sex life, then kindly dispose of your irrational rage elsewhere.

I am a critical thinker, and unlike many men and women I’ve known—who have or have never had sex—I am not so naïve to believe that life will not continue to throw more pain my way just because I’ve opted to have sex within the context of marriage.

Meaning, I am extremely conscious of the fact that I am not immune to a potential husband cheating on me if I save sex for marriage. I am not immune to being divorced if I save sex for marriage. I am not immune to birthing a baby that could die within 24 hours if I save sex for marriage. I am certainly not immune to dying while in labor if I save sex for marriage. I am not immune to my spouse dying unexpectedly, or having his face and body half-burned from a housefire if I save sex for marriage. I am not immune to being diagnosed with a terminal illness within one year of marriage if I save sex for marriage. I am not immune to dying in a car accident if I save sex for marriage. And I am not immune to being raped if I save sex for marriage.

I hope you’re beginning to understand that my choice to refrain from having sex until I’m married has nothing to do with the delusion of living a pain-free life, whereas the majority of couples I’ve met—married or not—actually assumed life would be a utopia once they got into a romantic and sexual relationship with “The One.”

Also, I’m well aware that women of my complexion are globally assumed to be sex addicts, so perhaps that’s where the bias is coming from with men who are shocked I’m still a virgin and thus feel a strange urge to belittle me.

Regardless, if a man tells me, “My goal is to sleep with at least 500 women in my lifetime,” then I have no desire to debate said man. I accept it’s his body and he can do whatever he wishes with it. And then, I keep the conversation flowing with whatever other topic is on the table. The end. No covert judgment. No hurt feelings. It’s that simple.

I’ve known men who’ve bragged to me about the orgies they’ve engaged in, because they know I’m not going to judge them. Yet, for some bizarre reason, I receive h-e-l-l from 99.99 percent of men—Christian and not—who find out I’m still a virgin at my “old” age, and that I plan on staying that way until I’m married, or until I’m dead if I never marry. Like, I sometimes wonder if these same men are going to curse out a nun to her face for choosing to be celibate for life.

For the digital record, let it be known I have 100 percent respect for the very, very, very few men I’ve met who happily prefer to sleep with as many women as possible, and yet, have never judged me for my sex stance. All this nonsense to state, a lot of so-called good guys really need to inspect their fragile egos by questioning why they desperately feel the need to dictate what a darker-skinned woman should do with her body, as it relates to sexual intercourse.

To borrow a quote from a nun whom I read about in an essay, “My vagina isn’t going to blow up if I don’t have sex.” I would also add, the Earth will not stop spinning on its axis and Jesus will not rescind His offer to return if I die a virgin. I know these two statements may be super tough to believe for some of you “good guys” out here, but you’ve gotta trust me on this one.

/ End Note /

I’ve had to suspend the belief that my parents will love and accept the “failure” that I’ve become at my age.

And, I’ve had to suspend the belief that a divine door will open tomorrow that would enable a team of creative professionals and I to launch one, two or three initiatives that address skin tone bias within Christian communities through storytelling, Scripture and some serious healing.

These last few weeks, I was borrowing a bit of faith from my professor; three Christians whom I’ve communicated with via Zoom but have never met IRL; one clergyperson who expressed that being ahead of my time was a “gift”; Polite’s encouraging comment re: her interest in my essays on skin tone bias; and as of late, Pastor Gramling.

And now, as the years continue to pass with no hope in sight for a better tomorrow, I have nothing left to lean on, especially as, for the last 2.5 years, I’ve been living in a loveless and restricted environment that agitates my invisible wounds (wounds that last year, I wrongly and regrettably projected onto a man whose humanity I cared about), therefore, healing becomes a delusional task.

My prayers this month are lasting less than one minute. (I still make room for gratitude.) I now have to push myself to read the Bible. And, I have to force myself to write for this platform—a platform that daily proves it will never reach the audience it is intended for.

The easiest and most rational step for me to take right now is to give up, completely. That is what I want to do, because this step would ease or erase the pain.

But, instead of giving up on life completely, I’ve decided to partially give up on life.

That means, I will permit myself to cry a lot more for the life I dreamed of that never transpired—the life that reminds me all aspects of one’s social and professional existence can be exceptionally harder and horrific when you are inwardly perceived as a so-called nigger. And so, I will think of at least one person or thing to be grateful for each week.

(In this ever-increasing evil world, I am aware that there’s much to be grateful for, even in my sadness.)

I will remind G-d that the trust is decreasing. And so, I will tearfully ask my kind Father to “help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:23—24)

I will write words that will have no impact while I’m alive. And so, I will finally learn to accept that some of us writers were only meant to write for ourselves, our G-d and an audience of 10 humans.

I will continue to reach out to churches to alert them of this platform. And so, I will risk rejection, so I can tell Jesus that I tried.

I will launch a secondary visual storytelling project—unrelated to faith or skin tone bias—that would enable me to be compensated for my creative work. And so, I will wonder about what it might be like to earn a little salary that would allow me to permanently leave a residence that is not conducive to my wellbeing.

Finally, I will surrender to the unknown, even if that means life won’t get any better for years to come.

If a divine door opens at some point of what’s now proving to be an empty, tiring and meaningless journey, you’ll be one of the first to know the play-by-play.

For now, I’m letting doubt take the lead in this depressing dance called life.