Sankofa is Me, I am She

 Sankofa the majestic bird, Sankofa the reminder, Sankofa the very essence of my being. As I stand in the middle of this field with the wind blowing so elaborately. I stretch out my arms like our beloved savior did on the cross and I wish the wind would sweep me off of my feet. Sweep me away from here. Let me fly in the clouds let me be the Sankofa. I feel it. I feel the pain of my ancestors. It is so intense it cripples me when I speak about it. I feel it. This pain is intertwined with my character, my body, my brain, my mind and my soul. Depictions of my ancestor's struggles with freedom and dehumanization scare me. I feel  like I am there. I feel like I am the one being abused, mistreated and forgotten about. 

I stand in the field projecting my requests to the tall grass as if it were my deciding jury. “Just take me wind! Let me be the Sankofa!” I wait with my eyes closed as if I wished upon a shooting star. My wish seems to have fallen on deaf ears. The Sankofa keeps us rooted in our history. In order to prevail we must know our history. I desire to be the Sankofa because I am always rooted in my history. It never stops. I would much rather be able to fly and remind instead of being a human attempting to remind those that do not wish to remember.

Sankofa is me, I am she.

The Emotionally Starved vs The Emotionally Nourished

 

Loving you fully, takes a part of me. Some say it takes a small slice which in turn nourishes your partners heart. As Jesus fed the multitude it is up to me to give a piece of myself to feed you. For you it may be a piece small enough to patch your quilt of love. This quilt holds you as you sleep at night knowing that you have a piece of me holding you tight. For me, this piece can’t be folded. This piece can’t fit in your pocket. This piece is not so finite that you forget about it when you wash your jeans. This piece cannot complete your three hundred piece quilt. This piece is not a souvenir you can easily pack into your carryon. My piece is grand. My piece has weight. My piece is painful to give away. 

Loving you fully...

 I say I love you. Which I do. I just find it difficult for me to carve up myself to give to you as a present wrapped neatly with a bow. What if it’s a present you didn’t want? Will it just sit in the box on the floor collecting dust? Will you finally remember the box when you’re rearranging your room? What would you say? “Oh right i forgot she gave me that..” real love is painful. Real love is complex. I realize this but you don’t. You still require me to give you more and more and more.... 

Now I have scars. Now I am deformed because 

 I have carved myself to feed you. Now I am smaller because you have failed to feed me. I care about you so I continue to carve myself..

Look how you thrive as you receive endless emotional nourishment.