Kenyatta Muzzanni, 2023
I know that not everyone is going to like me. I understand that. I get it.
It’s perfectly reasonable. It makes sense.
That doesn’t take away the sting when it happens, though.
***
Over the weekend, I witnessed an elder in our community ask a friend about her sister’s whereabouts. When my friend responded that she didn’t know if her sister was out and about, the woman walked off without so much as a good-bye.
My friend remarked on how many people in our community talk to her about her sister, rather than talk to her about – well – her. My friend is merely a waystation, a stop on the journey to her sister. She’s never a destination for those people.
I replied, “I’m sorry that happens to you. But know that you’re not for everyone. We’re not made for everyone and that’s ok.”
She shrugged, rolled her eyes, and drank some of the tequila I gave her.
I downed my own drink in silence, and wondered why it tasted like arrogance and a hint of hypocrisy.
***
On my For You page on Instagram, I saw a meme that read, “What up, I’m a Libra, and I still don’t how to accept the fact that not everyone is going to fall in love with me.”
The laughter that erupted from my throat almost completely covered the embarrassment underneath it. Pride moved my fingers from “Share Now” to “Save for Later”.
I’m sure it will make its way to my Close Friends story in the future. Maybe during Libra season when my confidence is at its peak, or when we’re further away from Cancer season and the tears aren’t on standby.
***
Sometimes I catch myself.
Yearning. Desiring. Performing for love.
When I do, I ask myself, “What am I missing? What love am I looking for? How can I give that love to myself?”
Those questions are a new thing for me. Not a perfected habit by any stretch, but something I’m cultivating.
A habit that’s cultivating within me.
Maybe the habit is cultivating me instead of the other way around.
***
An iron rule in community organizing is: no permanent enemies, no permanent allies.
I firmly believe this to be true. I’ve witnessed it. I’ve lived it.
Lately I’ve been wondering how many other areas of my life this extends to.
Does that mean I’m for everyone and no one at the same time?
***
“I’m looking at a thousand versions of myself. And we’re all fine as fuck.”
Janelle Monáe’s unwavering voice bounced off the walls of my tiny bathroom, and I’m sure my neighbors are tired of me yell-screaming in the mornings (and afternoons and evenings).
But I need them to understand that the louder I yell, the easier it is for me to believe that we’re all going to be fine as fuck.
***
Over the weekend, in the quiet space I’ve created in my mind, I asked myself, “Who’s looking for love?” I sat among the many versions of me and asked, “Who needs to be loved up on?”
Seven-year-old me, so used to stifling her energy, responded that she needed love as play.
Seventeen-year-old me, so hard already to the world, spat that she needed love as listening.
Twenty-seven-year-old me, so consumed with the false idea that hard work equates to love, said nothing. I told her to just exist and see what comes to the surface.
By the time we were done playing and listening and existing, I remembered that while I am not for everyone, I am unequivocally for myself.
Kenyatta Muzzanni (she/they) is a Brooklyn-born, Black, queer, writer, organizer, and multidimensional being. You can read more of Kenyatta’s writing at Muzzanni’s Multitudes: muzzanni.substack.com.
