Identity

The memory of writing my first ever short story is clearly etched in my mind. I remember the setting (an elementary school), the characters (a class of third graders) and the conflict (a radioactive lizard, loose in the classroom). I also remember that all of the characters in that first story, and in my next dozen, were all white. 

In fifth grade, as I sat at a lunch table eating with my classmates, a boy at the table over called me “freakishly tall.” When I reached seventh grade, I towered over even my basketball teammates. As a freshman in high school, I was frequently asked by adults what year I was in college. Suffice it to say, I’ve always been tall. I can point to a number of instances in my life where my height has been the subject of jokes, comments, and passerbys’ mutterings.

As I begin my fourth and final year at the prestigious University of Virginia (thank God), I realize I find myself feeling a combination of three ways:

1. Excited
2. Relieved
3. Terrified

I’m excited because I'm leaving. I’m relieved because I’m leaving. And I am terrified because… I have to leave.

In a few short months, after years and years of stress, I will be graduating from college. I know, I’m not supposed to say ‘graduating’ because I go to UVA and we like to be elitist and use exclusionary language, and learning is supposed to be forever, but I’m sorry TJ. Once I get that diploma, this girl is done learning for a while.

I love weddings, but I didn’t always. 

When I was younger, they left me sitting with my hands over my ears in family photos. I hated the loud music, the pulsing rhythms of dholak beats and voices which seemed to leave all the bones in my body with a slight tremor. I hated the mad crush of people, crammed wall-to-wall in old family houses which are no longer in the family, having been sold or rented or abandoned to America.

The moment I realized I was in love for the first time floats into my memory more often than I’d like it to. It was summer in a small hometown with a boy. But more than that, there was me, frozen with overwhelming self-awareness and recognition of feeling. I had read every teen romance novel and seen every romantic comedy the world had to offer and lived with idyllic impressions of love circling my brain for years. Standing there, with the conscious thought of “you are in love” in my mind, I felt mainly discomfort.

A (brief) introduction to the daily microaggressions faced by black people on campus

Sometimes I take pictures of my books. I pull my favorites from their carefully selected spots on my shelf, and put them on top of my blanket, where the sunlight is shining. Sometimes I put them next to a cup of tea, or a small bundle of fake flowers. After I take my pictures, I edit and post them on my Instagram account dedicated to books, aka bookstagram.

“I found God in myself. And I loved her. I loved her fiercely.” -  Ntozake Shange

I am trying to find the God in myself.

I want love her fiercely. I want to love her so badly I can cry.

I am trying to find the God in myself.

I was at a sleepover for my best friend’s birthday party when I saw my first and last scary movie. It was Orphan, and afterward I had to lie on an uncomfortable couch and try to fall asleep. I knew I never wanted to watch anything like that again.