Living Monologues | Amina
Photo by Dom Aguiar on Unsplash
This monologue is pure fiction and part of my ongoing Living Monologues Series that explores who we are beneath our words.
Move Me More Than Morrison
Mom, you know what I love about Toni Morrison’s work? If you’re a living, breathing, curious human you can’t read her stuff and not be engaged. It’s a literal knee-jerk reaction to read Morrison and get all kinds of involved. She gets in your bloodstream.
I don’t care if I’m confused as hell, I’m always engaged. Especially when I’m confused. You know why, Ma? Because when I have no idea what Toni Morrison is talking about - especially when I have no idea what Toni Morrison is talking about - I go back and reread the sentence or paragraph. I reread like a mofo. I reread until I can semi-confidently put my hand on some part of it. Wrap my brain around even just a little bit of it. That’s the kind of hold she has. That’s the kind of spell she wields. She activates hunger. A whole digestive system process. An internal investment in whatever she’s talking about. I’m invested when I read Morrison. I want to know more, do more, see more.
You know what doesn’t do that for me? Going on dates with the weird, socially awkward, underachieving, painfully inept sons of your church friends. I’ve asked you not to meddle but what do you do? Ya meddle. You meddle high. You meddle low. You wiggle all up and through the mix and you keep coming to me with these...these people…
And every time you suggest a guy, you offer me less than Toni Morrison.
Do these guys make me curious? No. Do they make me want to know more about other time periods? Do they send me running to a dictionary or thesaurus searching meanings and synonyms and root words? No. Do they make me feel like there is no other place I’d rather be than in their presence at that exact moment? No.
So, no. I don’t want to go out with Jacob or Jim or Joel or whatever his name is. If he doesn’t move me more than Morrison on a Saturday night, dressed down in my she’s-good-and-thirty loungewear, mug of lemon ginger tea and Tik Tok-recommended back massager, then no. If he doesn’t know how to get in my bloodstream then no, I don’t want to “just do one dinner.”
Because what is the point of one dinner that yields anything less than Morrison?
And I am happy, Ma. So happy. Right here.