By Nia Queen
“Do you know how to be free?” The Mosquito asked,
I had no answer for it.
“I’m terribly hungry and I want you to know how.” It said, preparing itself
I took a breath and rolled up my pant leg, waiting…
A day became a month became a year of sitting on potential I thought had since gone to waste. Life has a way of demanding stillness, and the white man’s saying convinced me that this year of idle time was to my detriment. Now I know as the seasons changed, the flowers bloomed, and the mosquitoes fed, that nothing was idle at all. Now, I know that periods of rest are a gift and a chance to gather the strength to hit the ground running again.
After seeing the poison of corporate work environments wilt the spirits of two young Black women (one being myself), I saw firsthand how all that glitters isn’t gold. Countless days were spent cowering from the daylight, being ashamed of the productivity that was taken from me. These idle hands were of no fault of mine yet the stain of guilt never rubbed off. Until one day, my forever teacher and north star, my Aunt Lala, spent hours pouring into me. Together, we unpacked the past drought and brainstormed next steps — preparing me for the next plentiful harvest season, one crop at a time.
The sign to end the conversation never came, and hours on the phone became a visit to my apartment only minutes after hanging up. Now she was here in the flesh with more advice and brought gifts to give. It was a late evening in July as we sat outside together, and not soon after, I was stomping my legs and swatting my arms, feeling patches of heat arise on my skin. The blood sucking bugs were having a feast as I scratched my limbs while trying to show Aunt Lala I was still listening, desperately waiting for her to get tired so I could go back indoors. Though I am still listening, still. Even while writing this, the bug bites echo her wisdom verbatim.
The bump on my left thigh reminds me to never give up on myself or my people. “I’m sad we got here but I’m not gon just throw in the towel. Imma just keep fighting til I can’t no more, why wouldn’t I?”, I hear as the wound only gets more agitated. I should stop scratching but I keep going, just to hear her voice. “It’s like a relay race, you run and do your part until you can’t anymore. Then take the baton and pass it on til you ready to run again.” And suddenly my feet start moving. I take off running, blindly, with my hand still reaching behind my back.
Mosquitoes always find the most inconvenient places to bite. The back of my right arm itches and reminds me “Who you are, what you love, what you do, that’s not an accident— it’s exactly how God made you. It’s up to us to make it glow, it’s up to us to make it shiny.” and I think to myself what a precious quote that is. I’m in temporary awe until I remember where I get my pen from, Aunt Lala is a writer so of course she’s incredibly eloquent. Shame on me for being shocked.
Sexuality has hardly come up between any of my elders, and I’d like to keep it that way, but she validates mine and eases that tension without us ever talking about it explicitly– another gift. Yet nothing could’ve stuck with me more than this: It’s up to me to shine, and I have all I need. The power of my pen and my need to see things change is my best weapon, so I’ll continue to wield it, I’ll continue to be it. Knowing her, she’s going ‘no I didn’t say nothing about no weapons, stop it.’ But she doesn’t know, or maybe she does, that me being my shiny self is the most dangerous weapon to the systems that harm us. We can only care for the collective if we care for ourselves and I want to be of service, so I have to buff what’s necessary to get the light back in me. I want to be useful. I want to be dangerous. I want to shine.
The trio of welts near my ankle sing as I tend to them, reminding me that having respect and peace are the only ways to live. My trifecta — my Mama, Granny, and Aunt Lala– can be heard, each with varying approaches to work/life balance. Mama’s voice is the loudest, saying, “Don’t let them stress you out, don’t let them people make you mad, it’s not worth it. If you need to, just take a break and walk away.” Next, is Aunt Lala’s voice looking back at her teaching caree,r saying, “It was hard at times, but I’m glad I didn’t have to sell my dignity.” And finally, the last bite in the triangle on my ankle says in my Granny’s voice, “uh uh I don’t do that slave stuff, I’d rather be homeless.” If I had to choose, Granny’s approach would be my favorite as it’s the most true and simple declaration of freedom I’ve heard.
Mama did get to walk away, though, and she hasn’t looked back since. Trading her now-empty nest for a rather full garden, she gifts herself with the time and care going into the food she feeds herself and each of us. Mama spends her days living in ways more radical than I can imagine, planting and gifting us trees that will stay on our land, in our family, forever. They’ll be seeping with branches of fruits that don’t know what it means to be strange, just us and the fruit as God-intended– shiny, boundless, and free.
My lineage is not only infused in me but bound to the Earth in all its forms of life and offerings. My ancestors are with me in every step of this race. I walk slower when outside in case the trees have dirt to spill or any bugs want to leave me reminders. I scratch the bites on my arm to bring me back when I’ve strayed too far. Each hive makes me remember how we stayed out and got ate up by mosquitoes just to spend time with each other when I desperately needed it. Different bites, sizes, and voices but each represented by a lesson I’ve learned. Not a nuisance but a keepsake of time well-spent. These Black August mosquito bites both remind me to be better and demand me to take whatever freedoms are reserved and snatch them for myself– gleefully, gluttonously, indefinitely.
Author’s Note: Black August Mosquitoes uses mosquito bites as a metaphor for souvenirs from our ancestors and talks about the advice I’ve gotten from the women in my life to get me through the tough periods. I took inspiration from Crystal Wilkinson’s Praisesong for the Kitchen Ghosts and how she calls her ancestors’ voices into the page. I used my living family members to reflect on what I’ve learned from them and the best ways to be Free.
This reflection was commissioned by the West End Women’s Collaborative as part of their commitment to remembering and honoring Emancipation Day. Each year, we celebrate the 8th of August to honor our ancestors’ fight for freedom, to uplift the artistry and voices of Black Kentuckians, and to carry these traditions forward for generations to come.
