[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." data-large-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." src="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." alt="" class="wp-image-3291" />Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.comFirst, I want to thank the Creator for being my guide. I want to thank IZ, for not abandoning when I mistook what man said about them as who they were. Thank you for a father who beamed whenever I entered a room, like I was famous—he was my saving grace. Thank you for a mother who searches for joy strangled by her wounds. Thank you to Claudia, for editing me with commentary sharp enough to make me better. Thank you to the friends who text me lines from my own poems, so I remember I’m worth reading, and profound when I surrender my humanness to spirit.Our gifts are supposed to make room for us. I thank God for this moment—the chance to write every day. I hope, before my time is done, someone reads me at mass, or at a kitchen table, or in the quiet just before dawn. I think about what a blessing it was for Phylicia Rashad and Debbie Allen to be born to parents in the arts. Someone I grew up with is sending their child to an Ivy League school to study acting. I’m proud to live in a time when the arts are respected and supported—but I carry the memory of being doubted, even by the people closest to me.Tyler Perry is a millionaire, and it's other Blaq people in line to tear him down. This is a strange world. Where people spend so much time hating people and things, rather than loving whatever it is they love until they are no longer here to love.I have been human. I have taken breathing for granted. I’ve doubted my gift, let people call it a hobby or therapy, or ask who said I needed to make “real” career goals. I"ve abandoned it to be anyone but myself and was still myself. I long to belong without loving myself first. So this is speech is to me too, hopefully I'll finally listen.I want to be mad at all the people I expected to have my back, and throw them a middle finger for all the ways they disappointed me... But, I've fucked myself enough to know you can't say fuck on primetime, so this award must be on a fringe channel... So I am grateful for that too... A place to say how you feel however it comes to your mind. Also, I was the person who least supported my dream. Approval won't write stories. I have to show up for myself. I am here. This acceptance speech is metaphysical work. (Audience screams)I use to say math was my worst subject. That I was lost. Turns out, I have a bad memory and I don't like repetition and I've got some kind of number dislexia. Since I'm am my longest art project, I've learned I’m actually amazing with numbers—they’re simple compared to words. There are rules for math. If you’ve got a good memory, you do the steps and you’re a genius. But words—words shift, slip, play any part I can justify with context. I speak different versions: Blaq dialect, the king’s English, southern drawl, street, Midwest. Midwest is slower than a southern drawl, but more seductive. People put their whole vibration in every word. "What time you coming by." Is said with real curiosity and maybe a bit of long and making space for your visit. If you don’t pay attention, it sounds like they’re tired. When you do, you realize they’re wired to their thoughts, using sound the way it was meant to be used—to connect in some metaphysical realm.My mother always thought I loved my father more. I was just tired of hating myself with her. I forgive her—people who hate themselves can’t love others without cutting them. I count the wounds she gave me as gifts, even though I try to avoid being available for their deliver. My dad, he knew how to love with his whole self. His love was big, forgiving, curious, hopeful. He believed in me deeply, expected me to be great, but died before I made a dent in the world. I pray I become something for him, more than I want to end this ache of failure.I write in spite of my doubt. In spite of not having an audience. In spite of my mom telling me not to write Black, but to do something mainstream. I ask her what mainstream is. She can’t answer. Then I thank Toni Morrison for reminding us that people always ask you to write about someone else. When you’re thirteen percent of the population and you don’t see yourself reflected anywhere, writing the people already seen is a type of self abandonment. Blaq writers have been suffering at networks forever.Cognitive dissonance is wild. People celebrate Denzel, but tell the boy practicing his craft in the mirror to stop acting like a faggot. I know some amazing faggot actors—the most intense, the most alive. I think about Don Cornelius, who made it and still didn’t make it out. Luther Vandross, whose truth is out now, whose music is no less loved. I hate that he didn’t get to be all of himself in a world that finally sees him wholly and loves him still.We make the world hard for each other. I’m guilty, too. I wish I could take back every way I did the thing I hate. I want to be a victim, but I’m such a good villain.Thank you for letting me be seen, for letting me be all of this—spirit, contradiction, courage, ache, and flame.[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." data-large-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." src="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." alt="" class="wp-image-3292" />Photo by Engin Akyurt on Pexels.com

I have been human. I have taken breathing for granted. I have doubted my gift. Let people call it a hobby, therapy or who said I needed to make real career goals. All the people I expected to support me doubted me, including myself.

[image error]Pexels.com" data-medium-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." data-large-file="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." src="https://niknicholson.wordpress.com/wp..." alt="" class="wp-image-3294" />Photo by Luis Quintero on Pexels.com

I wished I was good with math, and then I learned I am actually amazing with numbers and they are far easier than writing. There are set rules for math and if you have a good memory, you will be a genius. Words shift and can play any part I can justify with context. I speak different versions of it. Blaq dialect, the king’s English, the southern drawl, street, Midwest… Midwest is slower than a southern drawl but more seductive. People put their whole vibration in every word… If you don’t pay attention it sounds like they are tired… When you pay attention, you realize they are wired to their thoughts and using sound the way it was originally intended, to relate in a metaphysical realm.

My mother always thought I loved my father more. I was just tired of hating myself with her… And I forgive her, because people who hate themselves can’t love others without cutting them regularly. My dad knew how to love with his whole self. His love was big, forgiving, curious, hopeful. He believed in me deeply and expected me to be great but died before I made a dent in the world. I pray I am something for him, more than I want to end this ache of failure.

I write inspite of my doubt. Inspite of not really having an audience. Inspite of my mom telling me not to write black but do something main stream. I ask her what is main stream. It’s a question she can’t answer. Then I thank tony morrison for discussing how people asked her to write about other people. When you are 13 percent of the population and you don’t see your reflected anywhere, to write the people already seen is to stand in front of a brick wall expecting it to mirror you.

Cognitive dissonance is so crazy. People celebrate Denzel, but tell the boy perfecting his acting skills in the mirror to stop acting like a faggot. I know some amazing faggot actors. They are the most intense. I’m all over the place. I’m thinking about Don Cornelius making it and killing himself. Luther Vandross whose truth is out and his music no less loved. I hate that he didn’t get to be all of himself in a world that sees him wholly now and loves him still.

I think about how as humans, we make the world a hard place for others. I’m definitely guilty of this and wish I could take back all the ways I did the very thing I hate. I want to be a victim, but I’m such a good villian.

Thank you