As a child, words always intrigued me. I loved reading and writing. I grew up in a country where a television in the household was not a staple, and at a time when Disney didn’t produce a new movie every week (insert eyeroll). So words were the foundation for my imagination. Whether I was listening to them on the radio during Sunshine Corner – my favorite radio show growing up, reading them in Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys mysteries, or writing them in my own made up stories, words were my safe space.
In spite of being made to read Beowulf and Chaucer in high school (insert second eyeroll), I still enjoyed English so much that I chose it as my college major. And in college, I chose to study Black women writers. I immersed myself in bell hooks, Alice Walker, Gloria Naylor and Audre Lorde to name a few. There, in the midst of their writing, words affirmed me. The cadence of the words on the pages were familiar and validating and my love for words deepened. I wrote more, and me and words enjoyed a long relationship.
And then grad school happened. In grad school, words were no longer affirming. They became poly-syllabic and pretentious and instead of being an invitation to another world, words became a hurdle that I was constantly trying to clear. They felt stiff in my mouth, and appeared unpleasant to my eyes. I was forced to read academic writing and worse – I had to produce it. Oh how my fingers and my brain protested at the thought of using a poly-syllabic word when a simple word would do. And if that wasn’t bad enough APA formatting made the experience all the more arduous. There were rules that made no sense to me, fonts I had to use, space recommendations I had to adhere to, and references that must be attached to every one of my thoughts because if someone else had not thought or said it before me it didn’t matter.
Words were no longer a safe space. So I relegated myself to my journal. At least in my journal I didn’t have to edit myself. I could write in any color I wanted and ignore every single rule and although it felt confining to limit the words that often came dancing out of my head to my journal, at least I had a space. But one day, someone read my journals without my permission. All of my private thoughts and my precious words were no longer just mine. The betrayal was deep. And try as I might, I could no longer trust the page with my words.
So I wrote for work, wrote for degrees, wrote for specific purposes but no longer for pleasure. It was not a great time for me. Without the lilting and melodious words that had been my safe space for so long, I felt like a flat piece of cardboard. I was functional, but I was definitely not the technicolor three dimensional version of myself that I was created to be.
The thing is I love writing and reading, I just don’t like academic reading and writing. I don’t want to force my precious words into APA format. I don’t want to validate everything I have to say to someone else’s thought. I want to be free to just be with my words as they pour out of my mouth and fingers. Black women have a history of being confined and restricted, I want to connect back to what gives me peace and joy. I want some Chocolate Serenity. Words are just one part of it, there are so many things I revel in, my blackness, womanhood, sunrises, sunsets, good food, authenticity, healthy relationships and so much more. The chronicle of the journey begins today.
