Help Me While I'm Alive

This Is My Personal Nightmare

One of the last Twitter posts by Shafiqah Hudson before her death at age 46.

*A reminder that the updated resource guide for Palestine can be dowloaded here.*

I’ll be 50 next year.

I thought I was having a heart attack last week.

If you think I’m dramatic then you’re the worst. Please spare me your judgment and promptly unsubscribe.

• I am tired.

• I have decades of chronic unmet basic.

• The unrelenting financial and racial stress I live with takes my breath away.

As I scrolled through Twitter recently, I came across this post.

At first glance, I read it as an accolade - a Black woman actually receiving her flowers while she was alive. A quick Google search and I learned that it was, instead, another Black woman whose contributions were only acknowledged after her death. Typical. This was a regular reminder of how this society does not value our existence. Shafiqah was another one of us who screamed for her life over and over and barely received support.

As I read her words, I realized how similar our stories are. We even shared the same scathing view of society and bitter sense of humor.

My heart sank as I came across her final pleas for help.

On Friday, I was overcome with a wave of anxiety that wouldn’t ease. On Saturday, my chest was tight and it took me ten minutes to climb three flights of stairs. On Sunday, my hands went numb and I slipped in and out of consciousness throughout the day.

Fuck.

I steadied myself and went to the kitchen to leave extra food for my animals - a precaution in case it takes a while for them (and me) to be found.

This is the reality for someone without in person community.

As for the hospital? I’m Black. I live in Ohio. I don’t have an advocate.

Nah fam, that’s a hard pass for me.

These are a handful of Shafiqah’s last post - I could have written each one.

I relate to her terror about survival. Her meager $250 need was unmet.

I crowdfund (often monthly) for my own survival on Linkedin. I always emphasize that when it comes to collective community care, every amount makes a difference. She was scared for her life and needed 10 kind hearted people to send $25 - she couldn’t even raise that. She was scared for her life.

We often censor our true feelings and thoughts in an attempt to “not ruin our chances” with a person who might be able to help us not die.

Our ability to joke at our despair is one way we’ve learned to survive.

“I have bigger problems than hunger.” I felt this. Hard.

If someone you know crowdfunds for survival and you’re able to give beyond their ask, please do it. We often understate the depth of our need out of shame, despair or pure exhaustion. We are tired. We just want to live.

If I deserve my life of poverty then I accept it. However, I don’t believe I do. Shafiqah didn’t either. No one deserves to live this way.

“I hope I’m still alive that day.” Same sis, same.

This was Shafiqah’s last post. She died alone on February 15th at an extended stay hotel.

I try my damndest to make each post I share impactful because I’m hyper-aware of the fact that it could be my last.

If I don’t survive, I have one ask of my community - please take care of my little ones. My sweet old lady cats (Nalo & Mila) will adjust, but please keep them together. This is the only home they’ve known for the past ten years.

As for Nico the anxious rescue pup, he doesn’t need an owner - he needs a kahu. In Hawaii, you don't call yourself your pet's owner, you are their kahu - a protector, steward and beloved attendant. My traumatized boy needs gentleness.

All that to say, please help people while they’re alive.

We won’t care once we’re gone.

Your support here is helping me make my own way out of poverty, one subscriber at a time - thank you.

I’m unclear what life has ahead but I hope I’m here to see it.

#PovertySucks

Nico - The unhelpful emotional support animal but always the best boy