My Rediscovery of Me

I was born at home, in my sister’s bed, on a day she almost died.

At 2, I arrived in America.

Sometime, through my mother, I learned to create. I also hula-hooped, with basketball breaks.

At 9, a boy took a metal baseball bat to my head after I beat his brother in a game of kickball. I may’ve been wearing a dress.

I was 10 the first time I remember someone trying to convert me to Christianity. I never made it to her church.

I haven’t seen my mother since I was 11. The night before she left I started bleeding.

At 13, I lost faith in purity.

At 15, fearing my own sexuality, I called my sister a dyke.

At 16, I killed a snake and didn’t feel remorse.

Somewhere I misplaced the language of my birth.

At 17, I kissed a girl.

At some point, but not for that reason, I wanted to die.

At 18, 19, 20, 21, I was told I was “really nice for a black girl,” “really smart for a black girl,” “too smart for a black girl.”

In the middle of that, I got married.

At 23, I adopted a 13-year-old cat named Iris. I renamed her Sara. Sara preferred Iris. She died two years later.

Before 24, I was no longer married.

Somewhere, I relearned to say “yalla, y’all.”

Before 25, a chronic disease exposed itself.

Along the way, I kissed some boys, too.

By 26, I couldn’t define home, or myself. I know that I am more than my parts. I am more than my past or my future but I must know them. I must know my privilege, be aware of it, beware of its showing itself or its expectations.

To this day, I’m trying to perfect a hummus recipe.

(This was scribbled on the subway today. If you desire elaboration, please ask.)

I keep thinking about how it’s December, about how it was a year ago thatwhen I found out something might be wrong with my kidneys, about how it was two years ago thatwhen my marriage ended, about how it was 23 years ago when my family moved to this country, about how it was 14 years ago when I last saw my mother in person, about how I hate being cold, about how there’s 97 days until spring, about how my Little Sis called two days ago and how I felt when she said, “I love you; bye,” about how I’m becoming an expert at understanding my capacity to love and for loving, about how I feel about my feelings, about how wonderful cuddling is, about how conversations with Jupiter damn near mirror those with the moon in clarity and in relevance, about how amazing that orgasm was last night, about how I’m beginning to care less about the rules of grammar and how I’m unsure of how I feel about my feeling OK with that, about how serious I am when I say poetry saved my life, about how “I place my ear / on the belly of this moment” is a great line in a poem I just read, about how scared I have been this year, about how alone I have felt this year, about how happy I was this year simultaneously somehow, about how I set a goal to read 40 books this year and I’ve read only 22 so far, about how I’ve helped, about how I’ve prayed, about how I sit.

Him: “What is your favorite color?”

Her: “13.”

Him: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Sometimes, I want to say some things but I don’t.

This:

Do sparrows speak when spoken to, or of, or do they simply see and fly?

This:

To the miracle I saw on the subway platform, at Wall St., waiting for the 2 — or the 3 — with the dreads and the eyes that followed my following eyes: I think I loved you then, when — in a shared below-surface glance — we spoke in spirituals.

This:

Your eyes speak like silence, of how no one really knows what that feels like but how we use speak it to say that no words are spoken. It is in this un-speech that I learned you. Do you not remember all that time we spent not speaking? Notice I didn’t say “in silence.” Sweetie, say something; I know when your lips are full with wanting. I recognize the unsaid that is in you.

This:

How is it that, with your tongue on her clitoris, my taste is still in your mouth? I must insist on flossing.

This:

What does hurt the most: the decay or the exposed nerve? It has been months; I am still lost searching for light in the caves of your body forgetting.

This:

يا ربي — dear god — يا ربي — dear god — يا ربي — dear god — يا ربي — dear god — يا ربي — How can your people’s eyes shine so unholy?

This:

Not all gaps grow bigger.

This:

[Write something from the perspective of a dead ant to its murderer. Call it "I am an ant. Wait, now, I'm dead."]

–

Yeah.

[Note: يا ربي probably translates more into "Oh, lord" than "dear god" but whatevs.]

Oh, and at one point I Googled [sparrows] and I found myself here http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Four_Pests_Campaign. Remind me to read all of that and look into it more, Internet. Please and thank you.

–

One of many photos from my drive from Mississippi to New York. I'll package all online at some point, in some way.

Am I the only person who watches 19 Kids & Counting and gets jealous?

Things I wrote today:

“My ears witness wrecks long before my eyes do.”

“Sometimes, I can block my mindless overthinking and, in that silent stillness, patiently listen to myself. I wish it were more frequent. My hearing heart is crowded with loneliness that can be cleared only with the calm honesty of clarity.”

Things I overheard today:

“I don’t think I’ve used the word ‘eager’ without following it with ‘beaver’ in, like, two years.”

“You spell so great.”

“I’m not a bad person. I swear I’m not a bad person.”

Things I read today:

“We cannot afford to remain in ignorance because the stakes are now too high. It is vital to know who our enemies are, but it is equally important to know who they are not.” [Source]

“No one lives his life.

Disguised since childhood,
haphazardly assembled
from voices and fears and little pleasures,

we come of age as masks
Our true face never speaks.

Somewhere there must be storehouses
where all these lives are laid away
like suits of armor or old carriages
or clothes hanging limply on the walls.

Maybe all paths lead there,
to the repository of unlived things.” [Source]

There is something so crack-creating about walking past hundreds of people each day without acknowledging that there was no acknowledgement.

How does one with so many cracks reflect an honest image? I wonder. Do cracks signify an upcoming duration of destruction? Do they, instead or as well, create passageways for light, reversing a blinding?

When I leave voicemails for people, I usually insert, somewhere, “I hope you’re having a great (or an awesome) day.”

Someone returned a call today and, in a voicemail left because I couldn’t answer, said at one point “I hope YOU’RE having a wonderful day.”

She placed a bunch of emphasis on “you’re,” as if we were competing to see who could wish the most good.

It made me laugh some. We should have competitions like that, right?

I was watching Love & Basketball earlier today. It’s one of my favorite movies ever. As much as I love basketball, I know I could never play that way. When she cried after losing a game, I felt so un-there. I can’t understand it. Competitive sports feel kind of like bullying to me — getting joy out of another’s loss.

I know I talk a lot of shit in card games, video games, etc., and maybe that makes me more of a hypocrite, but I don’t know. I just don’t usually get it.

I’ll write more when/if I think more.

…that I will paint in big letters (or hang, if I’m not allowed to paint) the words “WAKE THE FUCK UP, BEAUTIFUL.” on the walls of my New York apartment so that they are among the first things I see every morning (and every other time).

Hold me to it, Universe. Love, eba.