Sick and Tired of Erasure

As I sat and watched the final episode of “13 Reasons Why” on Netflix I reflected on the sexual assault culture that is prevalent in many high schools and communities across the globe. I couldn’t help but also look into my own community where rape and molestation remain a constant.

In the show, the students rally together and debate on telling the police about two rapes that took place during the season. One of a drunken girl at a party and the other of a girl who was simply minding her own damn business. What both of these issues highlight is that you don’t have to be anyone in particular for this to happen to you. It doesn’t matter if you’re an outcast or if you’re the popular socialite. Savages are always ready to make a move.

Clay, the main character, plans on telling the police about the rapes. After confronting the rapist and getting him to confess to the rapes, he has enough evidence to get him in serious trouble with the law—especially since one of the victims killed themselves less than a week later. As I watched this all I was truly amazed.

I was amazed because these people weren’t silent. They didn’t shrug it off, at least Clay didn’t. They were vigilant and acted accordingly. They didn’t care about what would happen next. They wanted the abuser off the street so he wouldn’t be able to do it again.

And so, I begin to reflect. What it’s like to be raped or molested as a black woman or girl. There is always shaming and prompt excusal of the perpetrator. You’re told that men are being men. No one reprimands the abuser. They aren’t held accountable. It’s always somehow your fault. You asked for it. You shouldn’t have had a vagina or been a child.

Today, I decided to look for major media outlets that speak about this very prevalent issue and came up with literally nothing. Nada. And yes, I even checked black magazines. This isn’t shocking to me. I expected it. I expected for these businesses to sit on their hands thus proactively being part of the erasure of black women and girls. We are constantly told to give our lives for men who never stand up for us or even respect us enough to not violate our bodies.

Like I said in a previous comment: ‘Black women and girls are the sexual property of men from childbirth.’ These discussions aren’t had because no one cares but they want you to blindly follow into a crowd of people who refuse to speak for you but you’re supposed to support these folks financially, physically, mentally, spiritually and otherwise when there has never been any reciprocity.

And no. The lack of conversation regarding the sexual assault of black women and girls is not the only way we are erased from our own damn narrative. And don’t even get me started on the retarded ‘women’ who support the rape and molestation of black women and girls. Those who offer their daughters to grown men to make him ‘happy.’ Those who pretend they don’t know their boyfriend is a rapist. Those who let their daughters down by not getting their molesters locked up or at the very minimum beating him the fuck up. Those who claim it’s simply a part of our culture and—oh, those who are the molester.

Clouds in my coffee.








I am so sick and tired of the erasure of black women and girls.


©Kyanna Kitt

The Tribute

In honor of the good hearted. Those who’ve always thought to do right in a world of yes-men and women. Those whose eyes have opened wide and wider than before. The spirited folk who withhold conjectures and heavily armor their senses with skepticism in a world where simply thinking is believing and mere assumptions are truth.

To the people who make strides in their community. The givers of all and receivers of none. To the fool who believes that civility can win. The persons who move towards a better world through action—the wise individual who knows that it begins with them.

To the child who thinks boldly but not taken seriously—

This is for people who don’t blindly follow the ‘shepherd.’ Embrace your individuality because being unique, truly unique, is blessing.

©Kyanna Kitt

My Childish Dream

Every night before I went to bed I would pray. I would seldom pray for myself. I lay on my Barbie princess bed and press my hands together and press my eyes tightly shut and just go in. I would hope that Jesus and God would take away the illness and suffering. I hoped that somehow people wouldn’t have to know pain—true pain.

I revisit that childish dream often. Not because I am naïve, on the contrary, I’m a person who is quite skeptical and very in tune with the reality of the situation. I know that romance is nothing like I read in dozens of stories as a child. I know that people hate. I know that abuse, murder and mayhem exist. I know that someone somewhere wants to take their life or the lives of others amongst other things and I also know that most of all there is nothing I can do to immediately stop it all.

I don’t revisit my childish dream for wishful thinking rather because child me, despite knowing of the horrors of the world, still believed that somehow it could change. She thought and desperately believed that somehow the world could be truly beautiful for everyone everywhere. She was very aware but she dared to dream in the impossible. I admire that kid for that.

Do I still believe in that little prayer? The simple answer is yes, the more complicated response is I don’t know how anymore. I don’t know if we can change the direction of the world but what I DO know is that it’s going to take more than prayer and kindness.

How do we turn this world into one children believe in?

© Kyanna Kitt

Learning to Run

I sometimes find myself wondering about true love. I’ve been in a few relationships. None that were worth fighting for. None that made me feel any differently than I do now. It’s kind of funny when you think about it. As a little girl, I read stories about princes. A guy comes along and makes you feel like the most beautiful most important girl in the world. I’ve learned enough about the world to believe with absolute certainty that such story is very far removed from the reality in which I live.

As a woman in her upper 20s, I’ve also learned that no degree of femininity guarantees you fair treatment or a great guy. The truth is every draw is as random as the winning lotto numbers. While I’m not in complete denial that romance and love exist, I’m almost a hundred percent certain that it doesn’t exist for everyone.

What’s a heart for is it’s not for loving? Nobody wants to be alone in life but I think more than anything, nobody wants to feel like they aren’t loved. To feel such a way is truly awful but what if that person does come along? What if they’re right under your nose and still all those negative things are still up at your neck? What would it take to make you move?

Just like that old Smokey Robinson song, “something has to make you run.”

© Kyanna K.

The Climb

I’ve always been a lucid dreamer and my dreams never cease to excite me. Just last night I took a journey to an alternate place where the world had been overran by zombies but humans were not entirely wiped out. We lived amongst each other and the only time they took interest in us was when we were obnoxiously loud. When I was little girl, I’d think that maybe if I held onto something tight enough I could bring it from my dream to show everyone.

Sometimes, when I would dream I’d do things that I’d never have the guts to do in real life. Sing a song—perform with the Spice Girls (I love them unapologetically—you tried it). I would live in a place that wasn’t perfect but felt safe. In my dreams, I have time for everything and everyone I love. I hold on super tight and try to manifest that into my real life as well.

When I fall asleep I’m still back at high school—and I’m always late for literature class. The bell rings and I miss the bus home. When night falls, bad things happen. I’m chased or vampires and monsters begin to appear. It’s crazy how our perception of life can follow us even into the depths of slumber. What amazes me is that I’m constantly on the run from something in my dreams—the monsters are kind of a representation of what I perceive to be my problems.


© Kyanna Kitt


I wonder whether birds fly objectively. When they flap their wings, and charge their path, if they’re moving knowingly. Even when the wind is rough and sun won’t shine and still they fly and fly and fly.

When they glide through and through relentless squalls and still—I’ve become curious about their sweet candor. Daunted by forces beyond their will and still they fly. And they fly like they flew and have flown and always will.

© Kyanna Kitt