Introspective Encounters

Revelation

Who am I? I am me. I am black. I am ethnic. I am young. I am confident, mostly. I am sensitive. I am strong. I am weak. But who made me? This question is bold, it's unfair, it's tough like the bark of a willow tree to answer. Life shapes you like it shapes forests. It starts with individual trees. The short ones with weak spines. The tall ones with strong confident roots. Or the willowy ones that have been broken with regrets and sharp tongues.It cuts you down like the short stumps left by lumberjacks who had a purpose to kill. My forest makes me, my trees stretch out and high for life. But some are broken, on the floor snapped in two. My leaves are not all there. They go through the continuous cycle of regrowth and death. But I have gardeners to heal me. I have people in my life to make it a life. They make sure my undergrowth is clear of debris and negativity. They clear out the bad weeds of rotten thoughts and spoiled memories. They are my trees huggers, willing to live in me and move me to greatness. Julia butterfly hill has nothing on them.

I believe the moment I graduated from high school really solidified my becoming a woman and made me appreciate the people who made me who I am today. I thought of the people who have affected me. All of the pros and cons of my gardeners flooded into me as I sat under light gray clouds. I couldn't fathom how people could be sad at this moment. A sea of black and red sat all around me with anticipation of their name. Some with eyes glued to their phones, others half asleep and a small few paying attention in silence. The plastic chair beneath me started to get uncomfortable through the long list of names being announced to the field of people. No longer could I sit still. It started with my leg which fidgeted, then my head, then my mouth started to move with syllables. The quiet was killing me, I turned to my left and spoke with someone I've never seen before out of the 4000 gross adultescents of my school. She had red-rimmed eyes and her makeup was running from the humidity. We got acquainted and by the end, I could say she was nice. But something struck me about our conversation. She asked me "Would I miss anyone?", my answer was drowned out by the crescendo of cheers and claps due to my name. I semi-ran for my diploma almost missing the one stop photoshoot and proceeded back to my chair. It was over. I was done, but "Damn." I thought "What now ?" I thought of the question from before "Would I miss anyone?". Of course, I would.

Specific people raised me with compassion, love, hate, wisdom, greed, jealousy, confidence and life.They gave me my experiences to create me. These people were there for my winters of depression and hate, but also for my spring of self-love and self-acceptance. It takes a village to grow. That might not be the saying, but I'll continue to say it. Almost everyone you encounter is apart of that village, teachers, mentors, the bus driver, family friends and yourself. There are so many of them in your village, however, you cannot always get them down on paper or recall every person. But it's the important ones the ones that stick with you that make you. My friends make me. Friends burrow themselves in your life, like birds or squirrels. Not everyone stays, some leave for the dark and cold months. But those that stay make you feel at home. My friends are there for me at this imaginary home. These special people I choose know about the forest, maybe not every tree but more than what I share with strangers. They water me with friendship and love. The moments we share are what makes me grow not the sun. I can remember countless nights of feeling alive with them. I can remember the gasping of air like I was dehydrated and desperate for the water molecules in oxygen, but I wasn't suffocating. The laughter we share makes the near-death experience worth it.My friends have shown me that I am tall yet I'm slightly twisted with inner turmoil like a topiary tree. They tell me how I impress myself upon them and they help me become a better person socially and mentally.They tell me I have a lot of leaves and branches on the ground but stronger and healthier ones will grow. I learn from their mistakes and successes and find that the universe will always change if you need it to.

Family can sometimes hurt accidentally, kind of like when the sun burns colorado bark into ash with simply heat. Members are made up of ink from a needlepoint pen or DNA passed down from eons before. We love our families, but they can be difficult. They can ridicule you like you are a dirt on their shoe but will tell to watch life with them on a fake screen. But everyone always says you can only give them credit in the end because they planted you. Yes, they might have torn many petals in your youth and stepped on you with heavy duty boots but they planted you. Forgive and forget is the saying. I'll forgive in a heartbeat but I won't forget, not ever. A tree might be cut with a lack of appreciation but the stump stays as a reminder. I cannot be harsh however, these people are apart of my forest. They direct me, teach me how to form myself, show me where to reach for opportunity. I will bend in unnatural forms with the frames they put against to me. I see this is in the long arguments with my mother about appreciation and how a parent can sometimes be wrong. I see in the way I feel after fighting with her about school. About how I lie about going to school my senior year. She will tug on my branches left and right with chores and school work and responsibilities. Sometimes she will pull too much and the branches brake, but according to my family it's the way has to be. The love for them comes at the sacrifice of my well-being. It might be tough love in a sense. My watery sap will spill occasionally, it's only till I have achieved the final shape that I realize I wouldn't be as I am without it. I wouldn't be as determined to please and responsible as I am now. Although my family is harsh I see the parts of myself in them. I am my mother's hyena laugh that makes you forget she is hurting and I am my father's crooked smile ruined from cigarette smoke. I am in my twenty-seven-year-old sister's youthful joy of Disney films that remind that she's scared of getting older and in my brother's quirky collection of art that show he is deeper than he looks.

My hardship makes me. My friends, my family, my introspect make me. My daily internal struggle shows me how strong I am. Sometime I will look in the mirror and talk to myself. I'll stare at my face first, taking the detail of my dark oak colored eyes, inspecting the detail the veins in my eyeballs make. I see the little black specks in my sclera and wonder maybe it's the cause of my 15/17 vision. I continue down my brown skin; skin that I hate and love at the same time. I take note of my physique slowly, so I notice my flaws like you would notice a street light turn green; quickly. I finish my analysis the same way I always do, suck up my hurt and tell myself it only affects you if you let or only you can change yourself. I give myself a piece of a backbone every time and I put back my bark where it should be.Then I remind myself of what got me here and the people who hurt me before and the people who helped me continue. All of it which makes my life. My life of growing into myself and filling the forest of me with love and experience because you are what you surround yourself with.