To do the things that no one else had time to do, that no one else could do.
Because surviving was more important than this writing
I was born into a different mode of continuance
Dependent on the need to express my complexities.
And it’s this entangled reality that is scary to even formulate into words, to draw and exhibit, to dance and let go of.
I do it anyways.
If I couldn’t write, if I couldn’t paint, if I didn’t dance, surely, I would cease to be.
To exist in these ways is intimidating.
But who am I to stop, all that must be generated.
To be let free, the ancestors before me stretch the walls of my skin.
They pound and they scratch, so I listen, carefully, to find a way to give them voice.
To let their pain be heard, to let their struggle continue, to let their hopes live on.
I acknowledge our inheritance and change what we make of it.
To laugh to what we once cried about, to love when we were once bruised and humiliated.
To birth when they ventured to extinguish us. And to rise when they expected to defeat us.
Every thought conveyed to words, every brush stroke that is shaped, every step that I spin, it isn’t even me.
I’m just a vessel of ancient wants and needs that are fighting to be.
It isn’t me. It is everyone before me.
I believe in myself.
Otherwise, I risk the dangers of our children, following a repentance that simply doesn’t belong | to them |anymore.
This piece was inspired after reading “An Open Letter to Women Writers of Color”, by Gloria Anzaldua. Bt it was posted because i was told by my friend (who use to pick on me in middle school /who now follows my blog) , “you should at least write something once a month”. Done.