Leaves speak to me. It took me a while to figure out what they were saying, but I think they’re trying to tell me it’s okay. When I say speak, I don’t mean audibly—it’s more of a drawing of my attention. They seem to be saying change is inevitable. The process of changing is life. We live. We transition. When seasons change, things fall off in order for new things to grow. Each life, similar to a leaf, is fragile. Insignificant on its own. Often overlooked, stepped on.
I have a memory of being literally stepped on. I was about four years old. I have to giggle a little at the thought of it. I just lay there. My body got real calm, I didn’t fight or protest. Total submission. No sense in fighting the tiny feet running over my body. They were determined to make it out to recess, the excitement of reaching freedom was too powerful to deny. I understood that. I wasn’t even mad. I barely felt a thing—it happened so fast. Once everyone was gone, I just lay there for a bit. Not sure what I was thinking about really, I just remember having this sense of peace. It was nice being still, there, in the quiet after chaos. I’m pretty sure a tear ran down my cheek after I realized what had just transpired. It was amazing realizing that nobody noticed my body underneath their feet. Overall, though, I remember the peace. Being still in the truth felt nice; it felt secure.
I carried that disposition with me, unknowingly, into most of my life experience. Most things that embarrassed or hurt me I would simply swallow. I never wanted to bother anyone with my feelings. My voice would come second to others’ desires or request. I’ve always been pretty easy. Not much of a complainer. Allowing people to run over me became normal. I would laugh to release pressure. It’s impossible to heal when you never allow the process of being broken to take place. Instead of allowing myself to feel angry, or sad, or afraid, I would suppress the feeling. I wasn’t taught that recognizing these feelings were what made me human. The feelings were not designed to control me but to teach me about who I was becoming, but I would have to learn to pay attention.
It took me about ten years to finally graduate college. After I came home from Xavier after Hurricane Katrina, I ended up attending a series of community colleges. I would go for a semester, collect my financial aid, and then drop out. After repeating that pattern so many times, I ended up with a 0.67 GPA. Giving birth to Kenya really forced me to buckle down and get serious about our future. I graduated from Cal State Eastbay exactly ten years after my high school graduation in 2014 with a 3.4 GPA, and a bachelor’s degree in social services. I was determined to open up a service center that offered services for at-risk youth in Oakland. I wanted to help kids like me navigate through life.
After working a few jobs, I ended up landing a really good gig for the county. I had guaranteed pay increases and great benefits for Kenya and me. My grandfather passed away from Alzheimer’s and my grandmother decided she didn’t want to live in the house alone. She ended up giving the house to Kenya and me and living in a condo that they owned in Castro Valley. Twenty-seven, good paying job, secure shelter for me and my son. There was still something missing, though. I couldn’t identify it with words, but my spirit was constantly seeking, desiring to connect with the place God designed for me to thrive.