my elephant in the room.

in the past 6 months, i’ve turned 36, become a biological aunt for the first time, got laid off from my full-time role, launched a weekly blog, and am preparing to embark on a new professional chapter that could get me even closer to a life where i’m doing exactly what i want to be doing exactly when i want to be doing it, over and over again – my definition of a dream. in short, i sound like the female main character in a contemporary romance novel. which means, there’s more drama. and there is. in the same 6 months, i’ve also ceased all communication with my parents, fueled by a conversation i initiated and will never forget.

when i decided to start this blog, i knew i’d eventually have to broach the topic of my relationship (or lack thereof) with my parents. my original plan was to write my standard longform post, but as i drafted thoughts, i felt the form would be too indulgent of my ego, an excuse to slip into the role of martyr and share information better saved for a journal, friend, or mental health professional. i mulled over how to share this part of me for weeks – how to convey the feelings without airing out all the facts; tackling the pain without plopping information on the page like a basic plot.

turning to james baldwin for inspiration, or at least information, i recently visited the schomburg center for research in black culture here in harlem during the final days of their latest baldwin exhibition, a collection of his personal papers, manuscripts, and other related historical materials stewarded by the center. i love james baldwin. LOVE. harlem is baldwin’s birthplace, my home for several years in my early 20s, and now my permanent home in my 30s and beyond. the most impactful course i took at duke (and in my life) was solely about baldwin’s poetry and prose, and i’ve since reread all of his collected works and own many of them.

something about the rawness of this exhibition struck me. it revisited some of baldwin’s very early work, including poetry from HS (photo below) — poignant and clear and on-the-nose. a blaring reminder of the critical role of experimentation, playfulness, and risk-taking in art. days later, i also revisited a videotaped conversation between baldwin and maya angelou, a plain and eloquent conversation about the dichotomy of art and success primarily because of that same experimentation, playfulness, and risk-taking. highly recommend watching it.

ultimately, to me, art is not about creating what everyone else wants to see, hear, read; it’s about creating the version of whatever you’re working on that needs to come out. the version of you you’re working on that needs to come out. creating something that says what you want to say however you want to say it.

seeing baldwin’s self-edits, his scribbles and strike-outs and notes, made his writing feel even more real. i could feel the practice and the progress in his words. the behind-the-scenes. the schomburg’s exhibition did a splendid job of showcasing baldwin’s in-between – the constant conversation he was having with himself and his work at all stages. more than an idea but less than a final draft. even JAMES FREAKING BALDWIN was just trying some shit, realizing it wasn’t exactly what he wanted, and shifting it or removing it or editing it. the same process i’m undergoing with my own writing.

coming out of that exhibition, poetry called out to me. a form i haven’t visited with my own writing in at least 15 years. lines came to me as i walked in the park the next morning. words. phrases. language that spoke to the heart of what i’ve always wanted to share about my strained and now estranged relationship with my parents. it felt more like finding the poem on the page versus actively writing it myself.

the piece is still a work in progress, but i’ve had so much fun playing around with the form that made me fall in love with writing from the very start. it’s a risk to leave my words so open or closed to interpretation. it’s a risk to admit my relationship with my family is anything less than rosy. it’s a risk to write a poem when people are used to prose. and yet, i’m taking yet another chance, experimenting with this bit of my story and how i’m deciding to tell it.

while i’ll be giving my new therapist all the deets, this is how i want to share my experience with you. or at the least the rough draft i’m ready to put out there. it’s what i want to say how i want to say it.

letter from an estranged (adult) child.

do you know what it is to grieve the living?

no casket or program

no hymns

mouths still utter words

but none for me

not yet orphan

but orphaned

no condolences

it hurts.

at best a void –

hole in your heart

lifeless spot tender to the touch

or maybe ashes burnt to a crisp 

sooty wisps of memories clinging to clothes as you fled

the only remnants of your beginning

some days a gaping wound, pleading treatment

merciful alcohol to sting like the shame of lost time

salves of kind words, bandages as balms

understanding wrapping around arms like gauze

no such luck

making do with ibuprofen and elusion

it hurts.

former contortionist

bending for acceptance

breaking as self-preservation 

taking any form

to be seen

be invisible

big small hexagon parallelogram

malleable

inside, a desperate alchemist 

silently making thread from tears

stitching self-esteem from scratch 

weaving in silk and steel

inner strength grown from seed

drenched in sobs, photosynthesizing under bright and broken smiles –

not my first but my greatest creation.

“i wash my hands of you” he said.

voice steady;

Outsider.

Stranger, they called me.

words for the child who made them Parent

first-born and first-belittled

discarded Daddy’s girl

Mommy’s regretful twin

honorifics are the currency;

i shove my hands into empty pockets.

it hurts.

martyrdom’s seduction has lifted

dense fog sizzling under the light of morning’s sun.

black is not dark enough for this sheep

obsidian maybe

built and burnt by one molten fire

scorched by shame, hardened by appraisal

jagged

but alive.

pummeled across the land, here and there

roughed up and smoothed down

in search of home

or a place called that;

perhaps warming by the ocean

awaiting a tentative hand and curious mind

to hold

to caress

to wonder

you beautiful thing,

how did you get here?