a spiritual literary awakening
why i write...
doesn’t always happen when you expect it. it doesn’t show up as a light bulb event after watching countless episodes of Love Island USA. and it isn’t promised to shimmer after reading Toni Morrison’s entire bibliography. the awakening happens when you realize you can’t think of living in a world without sharing your thoughts on the page. without reckoning with the world’s attempt to seek and snuff you out. without forgiveness etched in the dialogue, the landscape, and the epilogue. i write this now, because looking for any of my books on any of the esteemed lists, and not finding it almost took me away from me. almost silenced me for good. almost made the English AP Lit teacher who told me “you can not write like that” a fortune telling kingdom killer.
all these sentences beginning with no cap (to symbolize what? my imperfection, or my smallness??). all these ideas running around and bumping into one another as i try to squeeze the air back into the lungs of my penmanship. i have always written and shared my stories with high school dropouts, because i was a high school dropout. i have always written my stories for the girls kicked out of their homes at a young age because they were too fast/loud/disorderly/angry. after all, i too know what it feels like to wake up one day and all of your things be ransacked and gone. my body has never been safe in this lifetime or this country. and still, my stories have always held a safe place for Black femmes to unravel, reveal, and recover from the maltreatment packaged as punitive protection.
i am three weeks into my recovery from a total knee replacement surgery and this is the first thing i’ve written. pulling corners of my memories aside like old quilts, an attempt to peek at what is on the other side. before this surgery, i would be out and about — pretending the pain isn’t bigger than my will. but the lack of recovery from my last knee procedure required me to be still (for once) and lean into the silence, where the words in my head run oxy-induced and rampant. it also demanded i lean on the community for support, the one i fear i didn’t have. it doesn’t matter how many meals you have delivered, how many babies you watch through the night, how many poems you edit, how many stages you make possible for the career of others — when you are the one in need, the phone line be cemetery silent.
but the folks who pulled through for me (especially the: yoga ball, ice machine for knee, toilet topper, air circulation boots, pre-massage session, books and film recommendations, art supplies, yoga desk deck, flowers, and texts that remind me i am cared for) made it possible for my body to recover and repair, without my losing sight of my place in this world. my partner shut down his entirety for my well-being and i’m better for it.
today was my last in-house rehab session. it is also the day i woke again to the smell of this country on fire. it is no surprise i couldn’t write until now. this began as a small bop to challenge the critic in your head. the one that determines the value of your existence. the one that whispers “you didn’t make this list or that podcast”. surly bitch that voice of comparison. but i am thankful for every moment i return to the page. i am thankful for every person who has read my work. i am thankful for every person that has written me about it, or began their writing journey because of something i said. the gratitude doesn’t last as long as the doubt, but praise the sky, it returns to me. and i am grateful i write when everything around me says i should not. i better not. every time i return to the blank page, in the beginnng, if i’m honest; there is a pain in my chest. it means i still got time to fight; it means i better write like my life depends on it.