About Last Night

My heart is always coming up with harebrained ideas with which my mind disagrees.

Read that one, she said. It’s our next step to freedom!

Nah. said my mind. Just nah.

See, my heart is the type that’ll stick her head out of a moving car just to feel the sun on her face. She likes open, warm, free spaces. My mind prefers the cubicle: stacked with structure, formulas, and logic, packed with precaution, reason, and rules.

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We were there for Tyece.  Last night, for the first time ever, she performed as a featured artist at Busboys and Poets. Pretty big deal. I had a front row seat and a camera in my lap, ready to capture this milestone and turn it into something beautiful. Orville The Poet  waved a clipboard in the air asking for volunteers for open mic. When her Jack & Coke arrived, I suggested that Tea, who sat next to me, read a poem. It took some convincing, but we finally came to an agreement: if I did it, she would too.  No biggie. I’d read Truth or Dare or Dear Creative Girl in the Corporate World, get a few snaps and be done. I was ready.

Read that one, my heart said. Freedom. 

Nope. I went to locate Truth or Dare and for the first time, the words of that piece didn’t move me.

Read that one, my heart insisted.

That one. Also known as the realest thing I ever wrote. Also known as my story. Also known as the piece detailing five years of childhood sexual abuse. I feel you cringing. I did too. I was not in the mood to be Ms. Raincloud and piss on everyone’s night. Especially not on Tyece’s first feature night.

But somehow I found myself up at that mic, opening my mouth and introducing Sign Language.

I found myself needing to hear my story in my own words, using my own voice. Not the low, muttering, speed-reading, spell-checking voice. I needed to hear me tell me what happened — on purpose.

“I can’t spell my life without his fingers in my story.”

The first line hurt ’em. Still they had no idea what they were in for.

Keep going.

I got through the list section without crying. I told everyone why I hated Heineken and red and green plaid and why the stain of baby oil on brick will make me vomit on sight.

Keep going.

“The beauty of my story is that he was not the only one to put his hands on me.”

Praise God, the turning point! We all made it out alive and I wouldn’t have to drop any more bombs on them. They wouldn’t have to untangle any more of my sentences and wonder if I really just said penis, mouth, and three years old in the same breath.

“Affect someone else’s story on purpose. Use two hands.”

I was done. I was done. I did it! I did it too fast with no rhythm and shaky knees. I did it with fidgety hips and hunched shoulders. I did it with a caved chest and a bowed head and all of the familiar physical poses that helped me “disappear” as a child. I did it with fear and trembling. But dammit, last night, I did it.