I am a writer.

It has taken me years to believe in my own declaration. I have had a hard time accepting that I am qualified to partake in the art of storytelling and that my efforts are not only valiant but enormously valid. There are still supreme storytellers that cause me to cower into my notes and deny my voice its induction. There are linguists who would deem me unfit to conduct myself as their equivalent. And while I am aware that there will always be better writers and people that strongly disagree with my choice to identify myself as one of them, I discovered that there are aspirations I am purposed to arouse and I would be doing many (including myself) a disservice by offering my obedience to some faux opposition.

There are also times when I am among the naysayers and can become my own opposition. I become torn between stability and liberation, easily tiring of one thing because it lacks the other. I also become torn between settling for the embodiment of someone my mother thinks that she will be proud of or deciding, instead, to tell the truth with my life, which is not always something that can be digested in one sitting. It is not always something that can be condensed to playful banter and bragging among her counterparts.

It is imperative for you to understand that when I refer to my mother, I am referring to the village. I am referring to all of the hands that have touched the malleable mass of a soul that I am. It is familial, it is relational, and it is societal. It is about searching an entire planet for a set of eyes that would affirm my worthiness and my ability to abide by the constructs handed to me. It is about the relief of validation, this manmade authenticity that we spend the whole of our lives trying to secure. So when I say that I am torn about being something that would make her proud, I might as well be saying that I’ve considered settling for anything that would grant me access to a highly sought-after veiled existence.

At this point it would be safe for you to assume that I could not find peace in that place and am still struggling to achieve a balance between those realities. That is not said to condemn anything that doesn’t resemble my alleged free-falling, but to choose not to engage in that which I know I was called to do felt like its own kind of death and I am tired of perishing in that way.

On the other hand, there are times that I encounter blockages or I am just left to my own devices and brimming with doubt and negative self-talk. There is an ache that surfaces. I feel guilty about my idleness. Improvisation tempts my intent and I become desperate for output.

At one point I spent all of my efforts trying to absorb the work that made me feel worthy and replicate its influence. I dizzied myself with attempts to be at home in the body of the artists that I love. Surpassing a healthy appreciation. Anything not to belong to myself. In my mind, my language was not honeyed enough, not agile, nor sprightly enough to move forward with what had been sitting in my belly leaping with the vigor of victory, begging for release. I stuffed this otherness into myself until my existence was entirely diluted. I could not see the way my story had been deflowered by my own efforts. I just waded in darkness with an anchor for a tongue and a jilted testimony. Who, then, was I serving? Not self, or spectator.

I am a writer, but this is not about writing.

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Tyesia
Blog // FAWF posts featuring Tyesia