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Book Written and Edited by Abiola Agoro
Cover Design by Adesewa Adekoya
Art by Abiola Agoro & Artists
Copyright© 2020 by Abiola Agoro
The scanning, uploading, distribution or otherwise illegal sharing of this book without explicit written permission from the author is a theft of the author's intellectual property. For permission to use the material of this book for purposes aside from reviews, please contact the author at fabiabiola@att.net.
Abiola Agoro
SBO Publishing PO Box 150929 :Fort Worth, Texas 76108 TheAbiola.com @meetabiola @ahbeeolah
Originally published as a paperback book in 2020 by Abiola Agoro.
To book Abiola or SBO Publishing for a Speaking Event, please email us or visit us at TheAbiola.com
Book Conceptualized and designed, and illustrated by Abiola Agoro (aside from where indicated otherwise)
ISBN: 978-0-578-74903-7
Printed in the United States of America by a small Black-Owned Printer.
To my mom for always pushing me to share my work and experiences with the world even when everything in my soul feared being put on display.
To those who built me up when I lost the pieces of myself
And to those who's stories remain a part of the fabric of my being
How niuch does the world weigh?
I've always felt like I carried the weight of the world on my shoulders. It's as if I've held the very scales of justice in my hands since the day I was born required to make life changing decisions for myself and others. When you go through life feeling morally responsible for everyone it pulls you in every direction until it either tears you a part or some connection is severed and another wins. It seems as if the only options you have are to either master it or close off a part of yourself in order to avoid being sucked in. I believe I shift between being a master of none and giving in entirely to my feelings, but I know do not experience this crisis alone. I also know there's a middle ground - there is something in between the two that allows for someone to feel everything without it consuming them. There is a middle ground that allows for someone to navigate the world and bear some weight of itnot all - without it crushing them.
I don't know if this is going to inspire you but I do know it's going to make you feel something. Something I have felt and something that I've lived through my entire life. And I hope that from that you'll take something to keep with you.
This book is a collection of my journey and experiences to what it means to bear the weight of all.
I believe that some things are not meant to be spoken, they are meant to be written.
Some of you may have met me, But you've never really met me.
A black southern bell
From a rich family
I raise my chickens
While I raise my glass.
I go mudding in my top down BMW
I play politics with blue dogs in red country
I'm country without the country accent
I've got a mother from south central LA,
But not just LA
It's Watts and Compton
And she'll never let you forget it
I've got a father from London
Born and raised in Nigeria
Filled with an accent so thick you can feel it spitting three doors down.
We shoot guns in our ball gowns
Chase frogs in Louis Vuitton heels
Call someone nigga while in etiquette class
I'll give a speech to a $2,500 plate dinner barefoot
Run point while eating chitlins.
Fly coach with bags full of-prepacked snacks
Refusing to pay for airport food
Scream that we "wish a nigga would" from the tops of our lungs as the air parts for us. as the crowds part from us
I am a complex contraption
A jiggsaw puzzle at it's finest.
I don't fit into petty little categories
I grew as a walking form of intersectionality
Just because you can't shove a name on my experience Doesn't mean my life isn't any less important
Instead of trying to define me into a palatable two dimensional label Instead of calling me the black girl that girl from Texas that loud political girl or a bitch or nigger
Why don't you call me the name my mother gave me
Because you'll never find a label That adheres to me
Better than my god given title Call me Abiola.
They tell me to toughen up but its like telling a balloon to toughen up. How do you become tougher when your skin is woven out of easily breakable material? How do you toughen up
When your skin is sewn of ink-soaked paper. How do you change your very nature without hardening yourself into something that makes you someone else. It changes your very being in your essence, changing who you are. So I've learned the bullets may fly But I'll just tape the holes Back together
My mother always says I should walk with more grace
But what if I was made to be the one to bust in the room?
Gritting my teeth and slinging slurs
What if I am a Malcom X with less precision? With a message That takes a certain stomach to quench? And is grace always effective?
If I stab you in the back while wearing pearls, Am I less offensive
Than if I stabbed you in the neck and looked you in your eyes?
Honesty and brutalness are considered unusual
Packaged in an appearance like mine
But you've never seen me before.
Grace doesn't define the value of a woman's words
So for now
Let me tell you watch your damn mouth when you're talking to a woman
Who bore the brunt of Carrying the lineage of her people in her DNA
Gracious? No.
Effective? Yes.
When did we become afraid of mixing our political views with our fine arts?
I get the response all too often that those who sing act dance speak should avoid using their gifts to change a political landscape because "art is not political"
The philosopher Benjamin said you can't separate politics and art, they are often synonymous they are wrapped up, one in the same
If art . . 1s an expression is a movement is a call to action for something greater than yourself
If art is the representation of a battle Then the artist is the historian
The artist shapes the lens of our society Choosing to move us forwards Or backwards
By giving voice to either the powerful Or the powerless
By amplifying the oppressed Or the oppressors
The artist is the creator
The image mastermind
An influencer of our beliefs
Art is the most powerful architect of our society
So no,
Art isn't political.
Art is politics andpoliticsareart.
7 years of darkness
of being surrounded by dirt 7 years of pain of depression of discontent of hurt
7 years to see the flowers bloom of all my work 7 years of pain to see this moment now.
And I'd do it all over again.
They tell me to toughen up but its like telling a balloon to toughen up.
How do you become tougher when your skin is woven out of easily breakable material?
How do you toughen up
When your skin is sewn of ink-soaked paper. How do you change your very nature without hardening yourself into something that makes you someone else. It changes your very being in your essence, changing who you are. So I've learned the bullets may fly
But I'll just tape the holes Back together
I could look up at this dude and tell him I'm going to take down the leader of a country And he would simply ask what time.
I'm proud. Even though I don't know what's coming I've never felt more prepared for it.
Every new year is indicative of how my actual year will go, every single year without fail. This new years was the most chaotic I've ever experienced. Nothing went according to plan and I eventually had to accept that I wouldn't be able to be where I wanted to be doing what I wanted to do. We were meant to begin to handle not needing a certain space or place to celebrate and make things happen. We were being prepared for rootlessness. We were being prepared to look our ugly in the face and address the hate that molds this country. The inconsiderate nature of our society. Our willingness to kill the few for the entertainment of the many. Our inability to sit and listen to silence. Our broken homes, our ability to put on a smile when we feel like dying
Our inability to allow ourselves to heal our mental health. Our inability to look at our own reflections and love what we see.
This was to get us ready for everything to be upside down and see what we do with it.
This is our chance to right our wrongs, a test of character.
A test of what happens when everything goes quiet and all we have left are the bare bones of what we've become.
A test of the love we give to ourselves and the love we give to others.
Life is never going back to "normal", and I don't ever want it to.
Charitybegi,nsat home.
I don't want to be a hero Heroes die for those they hate Heroes are crucified And then they are forgotten.
to me he is like whiskey rough but pulled together tight shoulders that could melt a girl a mind that changed my light
to me he is like whiskey he is strong but quick to the punch he is golden and beautiful and couldsendme to rehab with a singledrop
I've never seen my dad attack my mother like a nazi traitor that infiltrated his home
To launch a war within a unit, Contained and invisible to those outside
I've never seen my dad scream at my mother like he wanted to use his last words to curse her very existence
To use a tongue to slice out her essence
And destroy the woman she is. But for others, This is a daily reality. A terrifying experience Of being trapped in a home that is always on the brink of a nuclear apocalypse. These are not my stories
But they are someone else's They exist safely only in the cage of their bodies
As the world outside them becomes unlivable
And the fact that I can't stop it Tears my soul in half
Children bouncing from home to home
Never knowing the value of love
As a system used them as a bartering chip
Dangling $67 5 checks to some loving homes and to some broken homes on the lookout for money
Rootless children are bounced around
Carrying everything they have in a trash bag
And what can I do about it? Not enough. And it rips me to fucking shreds.
Hope is a bitch
But sometimes we need a bitch to get the job done.
Haveyou everfought a war withyourself?
Adesewa Adekoya is a New York based illustrator
"As a digital illustrator I am someone who is looking for pieces of myself in several spaces. My art all consists of digital illustrations figures who I see myself in, people who share my anxieties, my sorrow and even my looks. I try to find myself in rooms and attempt to affiliate myself with conversations that may seem out of my reach. By this I am constantly recreating myself in different forms of illustrations with figures who may walk and talk just how I do."
Ashanni Mcclam is a Miami based artist and future architect
"I was asked to create a drawing depicting my interpretation of having the weight of the world on my shoulders. Ironically the process in completing this drawing was reminiscent of my experience. My vision was clear however I lost confidence. I doubted the necessity of my voice as a black women. Even during this prolific time when black women are receiving more attention, I can't help but notice that our pressures are still unmoved. What does it feel like to have the weight world on my shoulders? It feels like mentally, physically and spiritually heavy. To be a product of a systematically targeted community but also not felt love nor acceptance from it. To suffer from childhood trauma that can break most, but is told to not be so aggressive when asking a question. To be over-sexualized, while simultaneously scrutinized for the simplest of clothing. More importantly, to grow up striving for stability only to find that your world is deeply wounded & stability is a lie perpetuated. Nevertheless, if I break from the weight I hold, I am emotional, fragile, or extra. So, just like the woman in my drawing, I will uphold my weight exuding a kind heart, grace, and professionalism in the hopes that my child has a lighter weight to carry." Contactiriformationfortheartistsareavailablein the backef thebook
Hadiyah Oliver is an illustrator
"My Piece is called Atlas, all my work can be purchased through my Instagram account at the moment. Its is inspired by the Greek god Atlas usually artistically portrayed carrying the earth while standing on the moon."
Medium: Ballpoint pen and color pencils
Contactiriformationfortheartistsareavailablein the backef thebook
Repeated racism does something to a child. It takes something that is hard to put back; It opens the eyes of a child to the honest way of the world similar to watching a man skinned alive and knowing that pain and death exists and that death is not a peaceful process It is like looking at your mother and knowing that she suffers and carries the weight of the world, but having no power to change it as you watch her fall from the sky.
You watch your innocence melt from you like a bitter cold rain washing over your naked body on display for all to see the shame you have before you can process it yourself
You are forced to defend yourself, armed only with a 5 inch knife and a spoon against an army of 5,000 that show you no mercy as you fight your way to the shreds of adulthood. You are damaged. You come out alive, but you see the battles replay in your head every waking moment. You are permanently distracted from enjoying the present moment or giving anyone the shadow of a doubt that they come at you unarmed. You become a skeptic of life. You turn your back on this white world in hopes of saving yourself
You are still a naked child, standing before the world without the tools you need to have a fighting chance standing before the world crying, asking that somebody give you a fighting chance standing before the world, fighting everyone, including yourself as they creep up to the battleground seeing the remains of what used to be human. You are yourself no more.
If I pretend
The worldisn't ending
Can I just stay in bedall day And drearn?
I stopped fearing death along time ago staring down the barrel of a skinhead's shotgun on an old country road my heart beating out my chest as the officer screams "nigger" at my mother
skipping classes because children would steal the money out my bag while the teacher somehow had their eyes closed
learning that my skin screamed that I was less than at the site of its shade learning that my skin screamed "second class citizen" to white suburban moms learning I was called nigga behind closed doors at school they love my culture but not my culture on me women clutching to their purse when I walk in the elevator like a 10 year old black girl had the same qualities of a thug
see I stopped being afraid to die the day america stopped being afraid of hiding its disdain for me the idea of leaving this world does not scare me
• - i death no longer clings to me like a broken beat on an empty train ride providing me company through a dangerous passage on the southside of de
I'm not afraid of dying I'm not afraid of the pain of the flashes of the memories i welcome them all the same im not afraid of heaven or hell not afraid of being afraid
Now here's what I fear
I'm afraid of a blind man intentions
Someone who "doesn't see color" I'm two shades too dark for anyone else Even variations are seen in black and white
See,
death doesn't scare me dying doesn't scare me
living every day like its my last doesn't scare me the idea of a bullet entering my skin in and old country road doesn't scare me what does scare me is creating connection on this earth to have it all ripped out of my hand by a misguided round of bullets from a "confused" citizen who was afraid of my breathing body and my will to leave what does scare me is watching my children bleed out on an empty sidewalk
what does scare me is arriving after that last breath wishing it would've been me splayed out on that pavement saying those midnight prayers
What does scare me is hearing mommy one last time right after I arrive
The breath leaving before it's over
Asking god why'd he do it
I'm not afraid of the white hood I'm afraid of the face underneath And every day
As I dig
I am afraid it'll be a childhood friend
Looking back at me
Holding the reigns to me freedom
While they take the life from me.
A snake in my childhood grass
Raised on propaganda
Did they know any better?
I question but nothing changes
My eyes have already gone to the light.
But I won't run
I was born to withstand this
Thank you.
