Tell me a story.

An ode to my mother and her ways of encouraging me to always find a space to explore my craft and tell my story. Thank you for always having my back!

It's in my nature to try to make this perfect.I'd start out with a brain dump, spew out all the topics I would want to discuss and have a plan for every single Wednesday until August 2020. I'd have no regard for the change that could exist at whatever time the universe thinks about changing something around. I would have little to no space, especially not to pause and reflect.Then I'd think about the calendar at work ,and in class, and walking down the block, and in conversation.Deadlines and first drafts would fill my head like a thick cloudy smoke. Can't even see through my own thoughts. But I still try to rush this out by a deadline , self-imposed, no particular reason but to say that I’ve done it by then. Thats how it would go. I would refrain from telling really deep and painful stories until you all go to know me but thats not exactly the way that life works.Every space isn't always comfortable or perfect to feel.

Each word in this post is an ode to sleepless nights and therefore burning eyes at 3 in the afternoon. An ode to wiping tears off of the keys of my laptop and turning to the words in my head to provide comfort to me. An ode to times where my words were all I had and , all I had to give in times of comfort, and all I needed. I would like to share that experience with you .

Thank you for showing up. The art of story telling is one to be cherished. Not to be rushed. Not to be planned or decorated as event. The realness, belly deep , chest cutting , gut wrenching stories that we all hate enough to ignore the existence of come alive here, not to take us over but to explain. Tell us how they really feel .Let us learn them enough to not be afraid anymore .

Thats how I go about it. Story telling is my space to love . Now becoming a space that love is shared between us. A love that was learned about 11 years ago.

My mouth wasn’t nearly as loud as it is now, and quite frankly it was barely even open. I was still observing especially as I began to learn more words in conversation . Growing up on a block where my friends were the daughters of my mom’s friends, I didn’t have to look for any. I didn't have to take the time to reintroduce myself to people . The girls on the block knew who I was, or who they assumed I was and I didn't have anything that I wanted to prove.The first to be done with her homework, huddled over my Junie B Jones Is a Party Animal book floating on day dreams of Junie meeting her new teachers in third grade and not wanting to sit next to the weird kid on the bus , just like I would .Yup. The girls that played double dutch, stepped, and made dances from ipod libraries were my friends. Yes. They did all of that and always included me even in my corner, sitting and reading. I loved stories but what about mine?

Of the adventures that felt like art and a world so closely to be explored was my story and the stories of my friends who I observed all day. The nights out when we ran from tenants who kept hearing explosions in the playgrounds between their apartments due to our late night firecracker frenzy , or maybe the stories of regular days where my friends would be chilling in the hallways with a Life-sized Bratz doll head between their legs braiding singular plaits, three strands with a steady pace from the back of the doll's head talking about who had the best earrings on with their uniform at school. The stories that made me shine, the stories that I wanted to understand but never read for myself.

Some of my books in mya Grandma's bookshelf. The last two rows were mine when I used to live there but it looks like some archaic erotic has slipped through.

As I think more about the traits that I want to take with me into my future the first thing that pops into my head is story telling and respecting different perspectives like the overall loving neighborhood that I was raised in . My life experiences are thank-yous to words and learning new perspectives . Together, we can learn to love each other in our many different ways of expression, in however we get them. A lot of what  social media exudes is commercial emotion,profitable, and up for entertainment and judgement.Its not all that vulnerable, not as real as the emotions you display in every one of the 660,000 seconds of your day. Not Love.

Again, this is not that.

This is a conversation celebration.

An ode to emotional conversation

Let all of the experiences that we share between each other share the same space and liberate you as story sharing does for me. Thank you . I love you <3

If you love ya friends , you'd tell em about ya new loving home. ;)