All posts by micahariel11

Fade to Black: A Black Girl’s Guide to Walking on Water

by Micah Watson

In my Best-Man-esq group text, I’m definitely the most likely to be Harper. Of us classmates-turned-lifelong-friends, I’m the dark skinned writer with glasses and a swagger that transcends decades (okay, maybe that last part is Taye-specific). The important and illusive part in that is “writer” (even if I don’t plan on writing a tell-all novel). It’s an identity that I’m learning to claim but has always marked my journey as an artist. My dear friend posed a question to the group, “What do you think you’ll be doing at 35?” Some responded with jokes. Almost all responded with plans of children, jobs, and places they would call home. But for me, in the first days of attending the grad school of my prayers, my attempt to hold back guttural tears while watching this conversation was almost comical.

You see, all I know is that I’m supposed to be a writer. I have desires of being married with kids, repping a city that lets me flourish with my people, and rocking an afro the size of Wakanda. And I know that if I actively love the Lord, he wants to give me the desires of my heart. But the only promise that I’m certain of is that I’m going to tell stories. So far, being an artist is the only thing my heart wants that also seems to align with God’s will. All I want to do is let His promise be enough.

But sometimes I’m really bad at it.

Now that I’m here at NYU, the task of actually writing feels daunting. The pass/fail structure of this magically rigorous course load means that I don’t get praised for being the smartest or the Blackest; my work will have to stand on its own. That’s like learning to love your naked body. Now that I’m here in Manhattan, the task of walking home from my favorite soy chai spot before sunset is frustrating. Singleness is an annoying gift, particularly when I haven’t found a new community to walk and laugh with me through it all. Now that I’m becoming a real adult, I don’t have the external surety that my friends have.

Suffice it to say, I did not succeed in holding back the water works. But somewhere on the floor of my studio, God met me once again in the form of a Kings Kaleidoscope track and a recollection of Truth and reminded me that He’s all the surety I need.

With wavy faith, peppered with facetiousness, I responded that at 35 “I will be somewhere writing and making things, holding on to God’s promise and a dream. Probably somewhere in the US. Learning to walk at Christ’s pace and better at it than I was 12 years ago.”

And yet, I still walk on water like fat-legged toddler.

With my new mantra, courtesy of Transformation Church’s Michael Todd, I’m learning how to “stride” instead of “strive,” meaning that I’ve got to walk at the steady pace that Christ has planned out for my life, instead of strenuously running to make my own moves. The thing about striding, though, is that I have to walk. Like actually keep moving. For someone whose default settings are hyperactive-creative-energizer-bunny and in-my-feelings-debilitated-procrastinator, walking at a steady pace is easier said than done. It takes a particular trust that just because I’m not exerting concerning amounts of energy, doesn’t mean that God ever stopped working on my behalf, stopped loving me, or stopped being the noun good himself. I’m learning how to move within His grace with diligence and even more trust. I spend my days plotting and perfecting scripts—stories of people’s lives and actions towards a greater goal—so sometimes it’s hard not to look at God sideways when he tells me that I don’t get to plot my own. While I’d like to know every turn of my life, the only direction He’s given is “follow me.” He says, “come.” That’s my cue to respond, “yes.” I’m not really an actor anymore, but before these two years are over, I’ll be off book.

And I’m on my way.

Years, maybe even months ago, a text like that, this blow of uncertainty and lie of inadequacy would have kept me down for a few days, if not in my room, at least in my head. The blessing here is that I got up, started my homework (which may or may not have included watching Insecure), woke up the next day, analyzed another TV show, caught up with a college friend (who’s been the blessing that I didn’t know I even needed), wrote a couple of movie pitches, and took a meeting. And not once did I feel like I was out of breath. I didn’t drown.

I finished the day in Sabbath, by taking some time to read from my first Intellectual Lover, Ta-Nehisi Coates. Even in the midst of very real uncertainty, God not only gifted me with a moment of restful floating, but also with cerebral rejuvenation. What I learned from Coates is that writers write, and they read and they stumble. And being the writer that honors my ancestors is going to take curiosity, discipline, and a daily commitment to facing the fears that cause me to question my purpose. I will have to work at articulating my inspiration; that is the joy of the craft. I’m learning that this piece of my journey is about learning how to listen to God, and I mean really listen.

So many times I’ve made fun of Hillsong’s “Oceans” as a white nondenominational cliché. But when they sang “spirit lead me where my trust is without borders, let me walk upon the waters, wherever you may call me” at the church around the corner, I felt that thang. As a young Black woman, the fear of new waters is as real as it was for my ancestors who were crushed by them. Being “twice as good” is and will be a part of my new challenge, but it can’t be the heart of it. Somewhere in the lies of systemic racism, we were told that our value is contingent upon our external success and that our worth comes from proving that we’re not the women that stereotypes say that we are. The weight of that makes it feel like constantly running to shore is the only way that we’ll keep from drowning in a world that doesn’t see us for the complicated gems that we really are. But running is tiring and sea salt was never good for our edges. Walking on water is much more efficient, and peaceful, and scary, and Instagram-worthy, and new. The core of who I am becoming—as a writer, as an artist, as a Black Girl—must be about working towards something that I cannot quantify and cannot see. Walking (not running, sometimes grinding) towards Freedom is mad abstract, but it rests in my soul like an unsettling spiritual. And if it’s true that I wade the same waters as generations of ancestors, then enduring those waters is just as vital. I am committing to letting the Lord shape me into something new, something smelted, something faithful, something fearless, something whole, something ready, through this Atlantic I’m calling New York City.

I’m out of the boat now. Assignments aren’t always easy, because I’m doing things that I’ve never done (literally the whole point), but I know, I mean really know, that I’m meant to do it. In just four weeks, I see my work growing and I feel like I’m closer to hitting my stride. I’m working on a project that feels like a promise and praying for continued sparks of inspiration. I’m approaching my calling as “artist” with specificity, learning how to don my purpose as “writer” with the same internal fierceness as my braided bob.

Now this being a writer thing isn’t just a Dream. It’s the promise that I hold onto as I workshop scripts and eat takeout curry alone. Besides my necessary commitment to paying off these student loans I’m accruing, the real commitment is going to be staying out here in these waters, knowing God wouldn’t put me here without purpose and provision. I’m looking upward and forward, not inward—for His strength is made perfect in my weakness (flex one time God!) I don’t know where the heck I’ll be at 35, but I know that I will have an MFA from NYU and be inside of God’s will and the dreams of my ancestors.

So, how do you walk on water? Girl, I don’t even know. But I’m learning how to trust the One who does.

Fade to Black: Take 2, Food for Art

No, y’all, I have not started grad school yet. But I’m still a Black Girl and they gave me a column, so…read on!

I’ve come to realize that my artistic practice is HEAVILY dependent on reading. I like to think my writing style is similar to improvisational jazz or freestyle rap—words and images sort of just flow out of me with no rhyme or reason…until all of a sudden they do. If you know music, you know improv and freestyle take skill. You don’t just start off spitting ten minutes of off the dome lyrics like Black Thought. That takes mad skill. Yes, you’ve gotta practice. But you’ve also got to consume a lot of ideas and cadences in order to have enough “stuff” inside of you to regurgitate in an innovative way. Let’s call it artistic vomit (or maybe not…that was kinda gross). The same goes for me. I hit my dry spells and notice distinct differences in my work when I’m not reading or taking African-American Studies classes. When I feed myself intellectually, my art makes connections that my brain doesn’t realize until 2 weeks into editing or rehearsing. Since I figured that might be a good place to be before beginning my NYU journey; ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my [SPOILER FREE!] summer reading list:

Citizen // Claudia Rankine

I told myself that I was going to take a writing break this summer (to rest up before grad school/the rest of my life). If you know me, you know that I pretty much suck at resting because I can’t keep my brain still. This summer, you can thank Citizen for my accidental creative frenzy. I had this beautiful moment where I was sitting on the porch, looking at an orange Kansas sky, just reading because I finally had time. Suddenly, I was taking notes and pausing to imagine; and before I knew it, I was at my laptop typing up ideas for new projects. I felt free. That, my friends, is the mark of a good read in my book (Ha. Ha. see what I did there?). Citizen is essentially a long form poem. Its nonlinear structure uses lyricism, narrative, and imagery to create a collage about what personhood means for Black bodies in America. Because this is how my brain works, I can’t help but compare it to Kahlil Joseph’s short films or Kendrick Lamar’s albums. It’s a hyper-visceral, non-linear reading experience. Rankin’s poetic chops are un-freaking-deniable, but let us not forget how fine-tuned her critical analysis skills are, too. My favorite chapter was on the Queen of Everything Magical and Black, Her Royal Highness Serena “Slay Me With A Racket” Williams. It’s not a long book, but will absolutely go down as one of the most important contemporary texts I’ve read thus far.

Swing Time // Zadie Smith

This novel tells the story of two London dancers: an unnamed biracial Jamaican and her friend Tracey. While one of them reluctantly takes a transatlantic journey, the other follows her dreams of stardom.  When I first read the back cover in the 57th Street Bookstore in Chicago, “Black,” “dance,” and “bodies” were enough to catch my attention. I’d heard really great things about Smith’s White Teeth, so I was pretty excited to start my summer reading with Swing Time. I’ve gotta say, though, I was kind of disappointed. It began with some very nostalgic moments that reminded me of my childhood as a little Black girl in ballet class, and tackled issues of celebrity and colonialism.  While there were some really lovely, vivid moments in the text, I kept waiting for the whole story to come together, you know? I kept turning pages and reading sentences thinking “okay, THIS is why she chose to tell this story; THIS is going to make these 300 pages worth my time.” That moment never came. It’s not that the story was confusing—I think Smith did a great job of articulating the mundane in enlightening ways; I just never found the “why”. Why now, why these characters, why this structure? There was so much bubbling under the surface, I just needed a single sentence, or even a single word that would make this experience satisfying. I wanted this novel to dance in the same way that its characters do, and while there are sparks of that, I didn’t feel Zadie Smith’s soul.

Eloquent Rage // Brittney Cooper

Cooper begins by telling the story of her feminist awakening, and goes on to explain the ways in which this new lens has informed every crevice of her life. This book is smart. Cooper is smart. But this book isn’t academic in the traditional sense. Yes, she is absolutely making well researched and thorough arguments…but it feels like you’re hearing all of this from your “woke” auntie instead of your professor. It’s mad real. While I couldn’t agree with all of Cooper’s arguments, I understand why this book is important and enlightening. What I found really successful was her ability to expound upon the struggles that I feel every. single. day. as a Black girl, and validate them with academic prowess. Her analysis was broad and thorough—she cited everything from Beyonce, to scripture, to Michelle Obama, to DuBois. I vibe with this because she takes the many things that she’s been feeding her Black Girl Mind with and uses them to make sense of and condemn violence that I’ve come to see as normal—being at the bottom of the dating totem pole and being the token Black girl, for example. If nothing else, Eloquent Rage has given me new awareness of what it means to navigate the world with my Black Girl body. Chapters of this text, particularly the ones about police brutality, Michelle Obama, and Cooper’s relationship to white feminism, also informed my own work this summer. Oh, did I mention how I LOVE the way she capitalizes Black Girl every single time? Yeah, that’s about to be a thing in every script I write from here on out.

Long Division // Keise Laymon

During my last semester of undergrad I wanted—more than anything in this entire world—to take a class called The Black Voice, with UVA’s new hip-hop professor A.D. Carson. I signed up and went to the first class. Unfortunately for this artist, I had to drop the class because I was shooting two films and putting up a play. But I kept all of the books and am determined to get through the entire syllabus. Long Division was first up and I’ve gotta say… It’s wonderful. And I mean that literally—filled with wonder. Laymon is somehow able to lead us through a story that simultaneously feels deeply familiar and otherworldly. It’s one of those novels where I can’t say much without giving it away (yes, it’s one of those!). But what you should know is that it follows a teenager in Mississippi as he discovers the power of his own voice—the power of words. Maybe we can call this book science-fiction, but it feels too…real to be put in that category. Maybe afrofuturism? Or maybe just intensely imaginative. I think my favorite thing about this book is the descriptive language. Perhaps there are some TMI moments, but through the voice of our protagonist, City, Laymon lyrically articulates the mind of a really smart, but really suppressed, rural teenage boy. I found myself wanting to enter that world time and time again.

Telepathologies // Cortney Lamar Charleston 

I picked up this book while I was in Chicago shooting my Emmett Till film; an eerie and beautifully appropriate scenario. Telepathologies is a collection of poetry that explores what it means to walk in fear and danger as a Black person in America. You know when you’ve been listening to a song and for the first time hear a lyric in a different way. You rewind and you say to yourself (or, in my case, very loudly) “BARZZZ.” That was pretty much my entire experience in reading these poems.

I read, watch, and write a lot of stuff about death (…maybe we should unpack that)—it’s been my way of mourning and trying to make sense of lost Black life. But these poems felt fresh. They felt raw. They felt delicate. They felt intentional. As I read, there were so many moments when I thought I’d figured out Charleston’s style and mode of thinking, but then he’d take me for a turn and I’d have to stop, breathe, and ponder. I’d come out of my trance with a billion questions, yet I’d still just want to sit and keep rereading the same line that made me stop in the first place. A new perspective on the familiar. That is what I need from a poet; that is what I desperately come to the art form searching for, and Charleston delivered. I recently found his twitter (after realizing that there’s no “u” in his first name)…so he can look forward to tweets about how badly I want to make his poems into films.

There you have it! I didn’t meet all of my reading goals this summer, but I have We Were Eight Years In Power// Coates and Meridian// Walker in my camera bag, and lots of train rides from theatre conferences to film festivals. I’ve got a stack of books ready to ship to my new place in New York, five more that I found at this delightful outdoor used bookstore in Connecticut (check out Book Barn, y’all!), and at least two years worth of subway rides in my future. Needless to say, I’ve got plenty of artistic fuel ready to take me through this next phase.

P.S. If I had to make a playlist with all of these books in mind:

Swing Time—Chameleon x Leah Smith

Citizen—Rollcall For Those Absent x Ambrose Akinmusire

Eloquent Rage—Blk Girl Soldier x Jamila Woods

Long Division—Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik x OutKast

Telepathologies—FEAR. x Kendrick Lamar

Take 1: NYU Bound

You’d think after two years of pure hype anticipation for FINALLY being qualified to write for this blog I’d know how to introduce myself. But I don’t. My name’s Micah… I like making playlists. I make films and wear space buns. I love Cheerwine and I write plays. I’m about to graduate from UVA and you can’t convince me that Jesus was not Black. But, most recently, I’M A BLACK GIRL [ABOUT TO DO] GRAD SCHOOL!

The past six weeks have felt, in a word, brazy. I’ve gotten recognized three times by the Kennedy Center and accepted to three graduate programs of my dreams, all while making two films and staging a play. I also got baptized again—I’m especially happy about that. Everything has felt so incredibly surreal. I mean, literally. I walk around UVA’s grounds and people want to congratulate and interview me and I always feel like they’re looking for the wrong person. Like my communities have crafted me in their minds as some artistic prodigy. Sure, that sounds great (and tbh this entire paragraph is obnoxious), but it feels really bananas when I’m focusing on making sure I sleep and editing scripts and trying not to fall in love with Jonathan McReynolds. So I don’t really know who it is that everyone is asking for a quote from, but I’ve just been eating my pb&j and grinding. The present is all that’s felt real to me.

But today I feel infinite. And exhausted.

So why now?

One—because I’ve been promising Ravynn I would write something before I even put the words grad and school together.  Two—because I actually verbalized the phrase “I’m going to NYU.” this week. Three—because this is the first time that I’ve been excited about the future. I mean really excited. I’m not saying that I’ve been dreading the future, or that I’ve even had low expectations for myself (I mean, have y’all even met my God yet!?). But until this week everything has been so abstract. It’s been me trying to articulate myself into a statement of purpose. Or wiping spit from my ear after some nice church lady tells me that “God’s got plenty of plans for you.” Or my collaborators telling me that they’re gonna ride my coattails (stop it y’all! We’re in this grind TOGETHER.) But throughout this entire process, the future felt sometimes achievable, but never tangible.

Speaking of this process, let me run that back for y’all real quick:

In a very distant way, grad school has always been a part of the plan. Not as something that I necessarily wanted to do, but as another box on the “Twice As Good Checklist.” I didn’t really want it for myself until my second year of undergrad (l said “undergrad;” Am I a grownup now?) when I watched Ravynn and Kelsey go through their application processes during The Black Monologues. I wanted to love my work so much that I had to pursue it. That’s been reinforced by my hourly conversations with Ravynn about Blackness, literature, art, superheroes, film, afrofuturism, Buzzfeed quizzes. We’ve become so intellectually hungry together. I’ve gotten to a point where I have to satiate that desire. Add on to that my cohort/squad/family of Black artists at UVA that make me want to continue working with collaborators.

So I decided to apply to MFA programs in screenwriting and/or playwriting. The process didn’t go as smoothly as I would have hoped. Against the wishes of my brilliant mother/life advisor/future agent, I procrastinated attacking these applications until eh, say, October? Mind you, my first app was due November 1st. I figured that I’d already written the [copious] play and screenplay samples and could write a personal statement in my sleep, right? Wrong. I didn’t realize that this process would require so much of me. Not only were the apps more involved than anticipated (@Common App, I miss you, babe), but they also required me to bare my soul in a way that I wasn’t prepared for. I had to be able to tell the world in 500 words who I was and who I wanted to be. I don’t even think I’d even worked that out with God at that moment.

But I did it. And waited. And prayed. And fasted.

Then my acceptances came in and my life started to feel like the season finale of Grown-ish. All three programs had incredible things to offer. Honestly, I would have been happy attending any one of them. But there was one place that just felt…right. It’s the place that God had been showing me in prayer, the place in which my community envisioned me, and the place that I just haven’t been able to get out of my head. It’s the place that both scares and excites me the most. So just so we all know what I’m talking about: next fall, I will begin pursuing my MFA in Dramatic Writing at New York University Tisch School of the Arts…and it just got real…

As I write this, I am in the middle of the national Kennedy Center American College Theatre Festival with a bunch of uber talented MFA and undergrad students. I think I’ll mark this as my first grad school experience. I’ve been learning from masters, watching and listening to truly incredible and (bonus word) diverse plays, and meeting some the dopest theatre artists I’ve ever encountered. Actually, the meeting folks part is what’s surprising me the most. You’ll learn that networking and being social is really, really difficult for me. It’s not that I don’t like people; it’s not that I’m quiet. It’s that I never quite believe that people will genuinely care about what I have to say. I’ve seen God growing me this week. As I share my ideas and sustain conversations with strangers with whom I want to collaborate and champion, I feel like I’m having an out of body experience. I feel like I’m getting a glimpse of what God’s been seeing all along.

I’m so excited to get my hands dirty and to write like a madwoman, only to have my words get ripped to shreds. Then build them back up again, love them, and repeat. Sure, maybe I’m being idealistic. Lord knows grad school isn’t going to be chocolate and roses everyday. But, even for just a short while, I’m excited for the work. I think I owe myself this moment.

I feel infinite. And exhausted. And confused, and excited, and scared, and limitless, and full, and unprepared, and regal, and infantile, and hungry, and bubbly, and humble, and hype, and reverent.

And hopeful…

P.S.

Actually, making playlists is the first thing I do when I have an idea for a play or film. So let’s think of this post as one of those, yeah?

  1. Diddy Bop x Noname
  2. All The Time x Swoope
  3. Lover of My Soul x Jonathan McReynolds
  4. Weight of the World x John Bellion
  5. All The Stars x Kendrick
  6. Follow You x Christon Gray
  7. DNA x Kendrick
  8. I Got You x Chris Howland

 


Micah Ariel Watson is a filmmaker and playwright. After graduating with a degree in Drama and African-American Studies at the University of Virginia, she will be attending NYU as an MFA student in Dramatic Writing. Her work focuses on the ways in which historical and contemporary events mirror one another, often employing poetry and hip-hop to tell Black stories. The only thing that she loves more than art and Black people is Jesus “Real One” Christ. Twitter: @micah_ariel11