Tuesday, April 17, 2018

The words don't flow as easily.

"The words don't flow as easily,
But the tears don't either."

Why?

I've been reflecting on these words for a while now, and I still don't know.

They came to me after I learned that best-selling author and Lesley professor, Jason Reynolds, would be speaking at my commencement in May (Side note: he's an excellent author and seems like he would be an all-around great person to hang out with.) Based on the little I've learned about him and read from his books, some of his inspiration for his writing, if not all, comes from the adversity that he's experienced - and it's some damn good writing.

That's when I thought to myself: I aspire to be a published author who produces work that serves a purpose and a gives a message to its readers. In order to be an accomplished author, do I have to suffer?

It's a legitimate question, though - do you have to suffer in order to produce greatness? There's a reason why some of our most renowned authors and artists are "tortured souls," right?

And it seems true in my own writing. I usually write when I'm hurt, and when I look back at it, it looks pretty good. But when I really think about it, when I think about the impact that I want my writing to make on people, I feel pretty...privileged?

Like, who am I, the educated, middle-class Black girl from White suburbia supposed to know about adversity? How am I going to relate to marginalized readers? Sounds like a pretty okay upbringing to you, right?

But then I really think...Well, that thing when I was seven was pretty hard...and when my parents did that, that sucked too...

And the more I think about it, there's bits and pieces of trauma and hardship strewn into my life story.
But it's negligible, right? How many times do we minimize our stories, not make it a big deal?

What would our stories look like if we owned each and every part of it - good, bad, ugly? 
Then what?

Because I'm sure every one of us has had pain.
But what we decide to make of it after is what really sets us apart.

I'm still working on it, meditating on it, as I'm sure many of us are.


'Til next time,
Christina

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

For the loner.

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.
Sometimes it's a blessing, living in the shadows.
Sometimes it's a blessing to live out of the spotlight.
But that's only sometimes.

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.
When was the last time they thought of you?
Tasted your name on their tongue, or heard it in their ear?
They don't call. They don't need to.
Why call when they know?
Know that there's no use.
Know that there's no response coming.
Know that there's no plan to be had.

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.
Why don't they call again?
They should know.
Know that there's still love.
Know that there's still warmth.
Know that there's still yearning.
Yearning to connect, without a knowledge of "how."

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.
It can be hard, transforming "me" to "we."
What if you stumble?
What if you choke?
What if you realize that you are just as unworthy as they make you out to be?

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.
Maybe it's okay. Maybe you can get used to this.
Maybe you're better off in isolation.
No one can hurt you there.

Often overlooked, easily forgotten.

No. No. No.
Maybe it's not okay. Maybe you can't get used to this.
Maybe the isolation is the kiss of death, the last nail in the coffin.
You can hurt you there.

What if they remember?
What if they decide to call?
What if they do, and there's no response coming?

No. No. No.
They might know. Not understand, but know.
Know that there's still love.
Know that there's still warmth.
Know that there's still yearning.

No. No. No.

They do know. We all know.
Sometimes it's a blessing, being human.
Sometimes it's a blessing, knowing they've been there, too.




'Til next time,
Christina