Wake Up Baby: A Call To Re-member You


You can do this. You must do this. You will do this. There are no ifs. You are the master of your destiny. You possess the ability and power to triumph, always. You are success. There are no failures residing here. Speak to your tears. Speak to them. Speak firmly. Tell them who you are. Tell of them your destiny. They do not come to foreshadow bad things; but instead mourn where you have been believed to be taken. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Calm your heart. Calm it. Love on it. It needn’t work so hard, for, what can be taken from  you but this life you’ve died to fashion? Would that be so bad? Would it really? Aren’t you tired of toiling so hard just to beaten into something you don’t recognize, to eat foods that gnaw at your innards, to drink crow and smile as if you are filled and not parched? There is nothing to fear beyond the veil, beyond the rules and regiments of cruelty. You have been surviving. You fear the dissolution of that calculus. You fear miscalculating the algorithim of your life, of your dodging, of your agility in these times of death and delusion. You fear living. You cannot fathom just living, being unbothered, truly unbothered, and chasing nothing but the breeze that flits between your weaves. You fear it, you do. But you cannot speak that because to speak the fear of freedom is to almost disinvite it, to you, as if you, little fearsome BlaQueer, could fun off freedom with your mind? HA!? Even in your fear you see yourself as cunning and omnipotent. Yet you fear dying. Yet you fear what they can do to you, these little half humans, with their essence stuffed into pantsuits and bowties. You have forgotten–or worse–fear who you are. Beyond the degree. Beyond the so-called accomplishments. Beyond your name, your love(rs), your beauty, your potential…at the meeting of your nakedness at dawn and in the bright moonlight of silence…you fear You and that is tragic. That is why you have me. Your Spirit. Your Soul. Your Reckoning. To remind you of You. If they take it all tomorrow; your house, your dog, your car, your clothes, your graduation, your degrees, your job, your love interests…you will still have You, and oh what a wonderful gift and power You is. Don’t you remember You? The one who survived so much and died three times as babe only to face the world again? You, who was fed empty lies and still refused to starve when they bounced and You, owner of the body that did not once become sick from weeks of Miracle Whip sandwiches. You know how to survive, yet you are more than survivor. You have promised and continued and produced Love. You, from rapist to rapist, from violent, well-intended family love, still promise promise Love. Still practice Love. You, you smile so sweet, finally embracing that gay, allowing that chipped tooth to remain even after the pain of having it knocked out with a Mason Jar all those years ago, You, have the power to recollect piece of yours spread about time and place and space, regardless of You got there. You are a Cosmos. You are large. You contain galaxies of Whitman’s multitudes and drink from the fountain of the wisdom of your ancestors and waymakers like your great grandmother Ella Mae, and your hero Maya Angelou, You, move, forward. Stop, stopping to breathe. You are no longer small. You are not little. You are large. You are Queer. You are Black. You are Free and you are You. Never forget. You are a love song. I sing it from my being. If ever You forget that You are You; just quiet your mind and listen to me, because I am You, too.

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