Who Am I? Day 1

Who Am I? Day 1

June 7, 2009

You know… when I looked at this question this morning, I didn’t know what to think, how to answer the question, or where in the heck a journal all about asking the question “Who Am I?” could take me. What’s the point? But, now, as I truly think about it, there is much to be gained from thinking in this fashion… and the first thing I’ve come to realize is this: I have been (as of late) defining my me-ness based on “what” I am doing and the positions I fill in life. No longer do I actually look at myself as who I am. What’s sad is that I flat out do not recognize myself anymore. I know who I used to be, and who I used to want to be…. But who I am…. she's there... but where exactly, I don’t know. And that sucks. That’s wack, that’s butt, that’s all the things that are associated with not being good.

Outside of being a teacher, a mom, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a writer, etc….. I can't put into words who I am. What defines me? What matters to me? Who am I? Well, I am an explorer and a learner, a person who likes to just live, watch stuff, learn stuff…. Is that who I am?

Adolescent 6-4-09

Do you ever feel like some random adolescent has taken over your subconscious self? Could be adolescent you, or adolescence in general... but it's like your thoughts go someplace else......

Not All Poems

The words that come aren’t all poems. Don’t always rhyme or keep a time. Don’t fit the definition. Sometimes it’s just thoughts that we have to get down. As I’m driving in to work, or going about my day – returning from some thing I’ve been to… I find them. Or sometimes they find me. I remember I used to write my stuff on napkins, backs of brown paper lunch sacks, and in tiny little notebooks tucked into my purse or, on days when I felt especially inspired, I would even take a small notebook to work (even when I worked at the movie theater concession stand), in hopes of not missing the muse. I have journal upon journal filled with words… and that’s just it…. It’s not just words. It’s life. If I ever have the time, I would so love to take those words on those pages and type them and save them…. They don’t have to ever be published. I just want them organized and preserved. It is, after all, my life – in words.

And, along that note, I’ll say this entry is yet another attempt at staying true to a goal for returning to my self… writing. I feel it might be a slow start, but I must start somewhere.

Here I am - starting

Speak Life

Here is where I hope to begin a journey of sorts. I have been feeling so drawn toward paper, pen, story, revelation, education, and other elements of retrospect and reflection. I have spoken on and written on my desire to return to writing. But I’ve been afraid. And, I’m so tired of this fear. I hear in my head the words which shape much of my life “Do not conform” “Be not afraid” “Lean not unto thy own understanding” “Get out of your boxes” “Keep it simple” and more and more lately, the words of Tori Amos return to me, as though requesting an ear: “sometimes, I said sometimes, I hear my voice and it’s been HERE... silent all these years.” Then there’s the others, shouting at me then staring, expecting a response. There’s Mos Def, Jill Scott, Dave Matthews, Lauryn Hill, Fred Hammond, Maya Angelou, Terri Mcmillan, Langston Hughes, Talib Kweli, hell- there’s even Michael Jackson, Zapp and Roger, my circle of friends from High school, my peeps from Showcase Cinemas, my band camp buddy, there’s the kids on the stage at North East singing with me our rendition of LL. Cool J, changing the title to “Round the Way Boy” and wondering why we were momentarily unafraid of our peculiarities…. There’s India Arie, and my good friend whose walls witnessed many poetry writings and readings, sometimes over a Hot-n-Now cheeseburger kids meal. There’s my mom. There’s my husband, too – wondering what happened to the woman he met… And then there’s me. I’m in here! I want to shout, or even whisper. But until now I’ve been somehow as I said, afraid. What will people think? Who might stumble upon my musings, and what will they say? They surely won’t understand… so I censor my self… and it sucks, and I hate it….

No more. I don’t think I can take it. I cannot keep being this version of me, no matter how fearful I still am of the process of re-opening eyes and heart, expelling life into these lungs once again. I need it.

So- I am buying some journals, starting this blog… and we shall see what comes of it. I’m so done with the quiet.