Entries from my lifelong series: The Diary of a Biracial Girl.
Sofia meets World
Meditation. Contemplation. Implementation. These have been the keys to my recovery. To find Sofia, whoever she is, is a lifelong journey. I have visions of her: her smile, her laugh, the way she loves herself wholeheartedly. The way she dances, and shrieks and coos with glee. How she cares for others, even if she just met them. Her patience and tolerance in frustrating moments. Her warmth in a hug and softness of her voice. I can’t wait to look into her eyes one day, soon, and see the young woman my Daddio always knew.
Secondhand Child: The Heroine
How do you define a secondhand child? Is it like smoke: your childhood home a blazing sight and gushing fumes that obscure the pale moonlight? Or maybe a liquid: overflowing cups, reversed and downed to drown Passion’s organ in an ocean of irreversible regrets? Can it be taken in a pill or a needle: a gratuitous rush to the head that leaves the mind and body in a state of gluttonous bliss? I’ve heard it’s generational: and like a trauma response it’s triggered by a subconscious action, a kind of curse from Life.
There are things I wish I could change. I wish I could change my past, my hurt, my suffering. I wish I could change my smile, the way I laugh, the way I frown. To change my ego, my psyche and the way I think. To change: is it always good? The things I wish I could change have been chiseled into the fine marble of who I am. The things I can are what I haven’t released.
The Death Dealer
You’ve heard it all before. “Praying for those who’ve lost a loved one this year and this is their first Holiday without them” or “praying for those who are estranged from their family” or “praying for those going through hard time”. I would like to start out by saying I am not a complete Scrooge; I do not turn away prayers or the Good Will of Hearts. But I will say it is exhausting.