Your voice is meant to heard even if you’ve been made to feel otherwise. I pray that you allow yourself the rest necessary to dream up bold worlds and even timid, cowering ones.
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No, I wanted to die young and beautiful and moving, lean and mean. My mother and daddy looked at each other and chuckled. They knew my folly when I did not.
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She was deflating the notion that women must box and bury their aspirations because they birthed babies. She did not give up her life for us. She taught us how to thrive in the world she was creating.
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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 knee-jerk reaction to read Morrison and get all kinds of involved. She gets in your bloodstream.
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You think because them wingtips 'a yours shine like moonshine that you different from all these other cottonmouths crawling up behind us every night? No, baby. The side ‘a the tracks don’t matter, y’all all slither the same.
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I shouldn’t have had to relive any of it for him. I know that. But it just rolled off my tongue like too much water from the hose in summertime. It’s heartbreaking how trauma has its own tragic, jagged flow, like a scripted horror.
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He doesn’t even acknowledge me and I’m the one who said the thing. I’m the one who laid all his stuff bare in front of his two other children who were either too young or not even born to remember him at his worst. Long before he became a grandfather and started doing everything he could to make up with God.
I’m the one who just leveled the shrine the family built to him.
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God’s in this gift I’ve had since I was a kid. He’s in every note I sing and every step I dance. He’s in every prayer we pray before those curtains open and every breath of gratitude I breathe when the house lights come up.
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