Where Do Your Words Need To Be?

I’m preparing to submit an original first-person POV essay to a literary journal for black women writers. It’s been about four years since my last submission to a publication. Not that I haven’t been writing during that time. I have. But I haven’t submitted work to places that pulse with the heartbeat of my community and experience as an African American woman writer.

A collection of things can account for the delay in my submissions: the whirlwind of life, work, relationships, new responsibilities, travel, the ending of a romantic relationship, health challenges, new beginnings, putting life into my growth as a runner. Yeah, that’s enough to keep anybody delayed.

As I’ve matured emotionally, physically and mentally, I realize it’s very valuable to me to select places where my words actually need to be.

I don’t want to publish for the sake of being everywhere. I want my words to be in the places and spaces they are meant to be.

Four years ago when I submitted a piece to a website, the publication kindly rejected my work. Reflecting now on what I wrote, I see why it didn’t work for them. And in some ways what I wrote about was prescriptive than reflective and transparent of my own journey.

Ahhh.

I didn’t realize it then but I’ve learned the lesson now. The best type of writing is that which connects in vulnerability and humanity with readers. Yes, there is a place and time for prescriptive words and ‘how to’ lists. But sometimes people just wanna know that you’re human, just like them, and see that you struggle too and you’re trying to navigate your way through this crazy-maker called life, holding onto as many of your marbles as possible.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

There are some gems in that rejected submission four years ago that I want to revist now.

Maybe there’s a new place for these words with a stronger re-write applied. Maybe what I offered in that submission was only a half-completed work (I couldn’t see it then) and it needs to find the proper resolution that will fill it out more. Maybe I need to wrestle with the issues I discussed in the piece more and find out where I am with those questions and even the opinions and judgments I held. Was that piece to judge or was it to invite more human wrestling to help others see where they are in their relationships and identity?

I do feel that good writers consistently keep their readers in mind. We can write for ourselves and never publish, holding all those words to ourselves. But when we do publish, there’s an intention in that because we want to affect others. We want to connect with others, to show them that they are not alone and maybe, just maybe, my words can connect to your story in a way that brings life, laughter and maybe just a bit of healing.

As I sit with the gift of reflection, I’m learning that where I may have thought I wanted my words to be in the past actually isn’t where I want them to be now. Submitting my words to publications that fit my voice accurately is both honoring to myself and a measure of stewardship of my gift. And that’s not only okay, it’s very, very freeing.

Featured Photo by Oladimeji Odunsi on Unsplash.

“I Am From” Poem

I am from red Georgia clay roads that I call home whose dust sweetly greets me like a southern melody.

I am from Southwest Dekalb high school newspapers that changed my destiny and R&B mixtapes made from the radio by an only child in her mother’s brick condo.

I am from Atlanta, Decatur, Manchester, Eatonton, Virginia, Cameroon/Congo, Ivory Coast/Ghana, Benin/Togo, Mali, and sweet magnolia trees that smell like kindness and honeysuckle blossoms that make you feel like summer’s never gonna end.

I am from 80-year-old pecan giants in my grandmother’s country yard, trees who graciously gave me shade to play under and memories that could be kept no matter the seasons.

I am from 1989 roller skates raced in after school in elementary hallways and pink and white hula hoops balanced on little hips, rolled around necks and circled around skinny ankles,

I am from James and Gloria, from love that wanted to work and stay together but the words couldn’t hold tight to explain why they didn’t.

I am from Lena’s deep goodness and Lucille’s honey love,

From Essie Mae’s sugar-baby kisses, grandmamas and great aunts whose smiles and cheekbones keep speaking through me in adulthood and whose resilience caught my tears and made me feel that I was seen and known and beautiful and valuable and special because I  belonged to them.

I am from black-eyed peas and collard greens enjoyed every New Year’s Day,

From peppermint sticks eaten near old southern gas heaters and Auntie’s candied carrot souffle.

I am from Gloria’s confidence that walked integration into Atlanta’s civilian divisions in the decade that followed Dr. King’s Dream,

And from James’ brilliance that fused wild creativity expeditiously, almost instinctively into my blood and bones.

I am from asymmetrical bangs cut into layers and crimped tresses that were so fly in ‘96,

From the moments that sit on the edge of perfect harmonies heard over Sony Discmans when you’re innocent enough to dream about everything,

I am from pens and paper that made poems who won statewide contests,

And faith in Him nurtured nearly 20 years that’s sustained me when I’m beautiful and kept me when I’m broken.

I am from my mother’s smile and my father’s eyes.

I am from red Georgia clay roads that I call home whose dust sweetly greets me like a southern melody.

I hold onto that dust. It brings me closer to myself than I realize as it gives me freedom to be willing to fly.