Take Flight

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Lala, this is a brilliant idea!” Jay’s eyes are shining as they look at me. “Weren’t you just saying that you needed an outlet for your creative expression?! Well, this is it! This, my friend, is God at her finest.”

“I’ll show you God… with a lowercase “G…” Hmm. G, rhymes with free, reality…

I close my eyes.

“G, for gone down, gone away, gone crazy, gone…”

I wiggle my shoulders and move my hands.

“G, you see,

Is what I will use to free

My creativity,

To raise the roof

And praise the truth,

To remove

The grooves

In your mind

Saying that I can find

Resolution in a reality

That doesn’t want me.

Thank you, G.”

I do a little twirl and nearly topple into a passing waiter in the process.

“Dang, man, that was close! And those were some sick rhymes.”

I steady myself and the bustling sounds of the coffee shop return to my senses.

“I—” I start, but the bob of frizzy dark hair is already moving swiftly to a table in the corner of the shop.

“Ooooh. You are hopeless,” Jay smirks. “But, um… that was fire.”

I groan softly. “I am hopeless. So why do you think I should perform? I’d have to cobble something together and memorize it in two days! I can’t seem to do anything right in my life. Forget writing, singing… a poetry slam… hopeless, right? No way.”

Jay snaps a picture of the bright red open mic poster on the announcement board and pockets their phone. They shrug. “Hey, I just said you were fire, and I didn’t say you were perfect. But you don’t need to be perfect to be powerful. And I think the world needs powerful women right now.”

I sigh and grab their hand, pulling them toward the door. “The world needed powerful women a long time ago. What makes you think an uptight, insecure little girl is going to contribute anything of use?”

The door jingles closed behind us. “No one wants to hear about how a nobody became a nobody. Nobody wants to hear about how a little kid became a little kid for the rest of her life. No one is like me. People want a happy story. People want transformation. People want a palatable ending,” I continue as we hop into the car. “I don’t even have a driver’s license!” I gesture at Jay's hands and feet as they maneuver the car out of the parking lot.

“Listen,” they purse their lips at me. “Either stop complaining or do something about it. Scratch that—stop complaining and do something about it. Go to the open mic. Be brave.”

I sigh and lean back as we head toward the highway. The highway to nowhere and everywhere.

***

I think that I live in the middle of nowhere for a reason. I think so. I remember that there were a lot of reasons. I remember that, at the time, it made sense. Remembering moments from three years ago, when we moved out here, makes me remember when mama was still here. Mama. I do not want to remember her right now.

I glance out the window at the grey, turbulent milkshake we call a sky. Hmm… sky… high, die, fly…

My mama didn’t die.

My mama isn’t high.

My mama wanted to try

To rise

Above what other eyes

Might call

“Right.”

My mama’s on a mountain,

Choosing love over spite.

My mama’s on a journey,

A spiral, a path to insight.

It was at this time

That she left me behind.

My mama’s on a mission,

A commitment, a quest,

And she chose to take flight…

“Woah! What is that?!” I crane my neck and smush my face against the window.

“What?” Jay slows down instinctively.

“It looks like an owl.” I squint at the creature flying overhead.

“Maybe it’s a barn owl.”

I grin. “Why, because there is an abundance of barns out here?”

Jay glances out the window. “I could be wrong. But look at its head. Beautiful.”

***

A half-hour later we pull into Larkspurr, population 83. The gravel roads are sparsely maintained, spattering Jay’s car with slick, rust-colored soil. She crawls past the community center and our beloved dance studio at a heart-stopping rate of five miles per hour, mindful of the local kids.

We turn onto Mainstreet and my house saunters into view, its soft, tangerine exterior bursting like a small fire through the surrounding tree line.

“Did you have fun?” Jay leans back into their seat and looks me up and down.

I smile and take their hand. “Yes. Thank you for the date. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We lean into each other for a moment, resting in the soft embrace of a shared connection.

I think that Jay is in love with me. I think that I am in love with Jay.

I watch their car meander East, my hand resting on my door.

I notice the air entering and exiting my lungs, one breath at a time. Spring here is loud, but not with car horns, sirens, and cement trucks. Only insistent birdsong, woodpeckers, and the windmill down the block.

I open my unlocked door and smile. I may as well not have one for all it would do to keep someone out. It’s really just for the raccoons and curious outdoor cats.

I close the door and stare across the single room that I have been living in for the past three months. I traverse the space between the door and the bed in five strides and I want to know if this is it. I want to know if this is where I have truly landed. I want to know if this is where I will stay for the rest of my life; I cannot picture myself living in a big city with a corporate job.

Is small-town Lala the only Lala I will ever be? But where else would I go?

Go, know, flow…

I don’t know

Where I would go

If I had the will to throw

My life into motion,

If I had the devotion

To string the bow,

To trust the flow,

Future in tow.

Clear your throat,

Girl, know

That tomorrow

Will bring another day,

Another moment to borrow,

Another dream to follow.

"Ohhhh. But," I tell myself.

"The paycheck

Is gonna be on the desk,

Forget about the test

That might take me away

From the way

I have played

This existential game.

I have learned to frame

My shame

As resistance to be tamed.

I don't want my name

To become one and the same

With the ones I have blamed

For this pain

That I suffer every day.

Essentially, I am a mess,

Too afraid to test

The best

Of my abilities

On the chess-

Board of life.

My mama raised me.

My mama praised me

For appraising reality,

For contemplating

The truth of things,

The root of what brings

The wings

Out of me.

She told me:

School is a prison

And the only key

That they decree

Will set you free

Is a degree."

I stare at the ceiling as the shadows chase the sun beneath the treetops.

But mama...

I believed you.

So why did you leave me?

I guess the truth is complicated. I know that she didn't leave me, exactly. She was following something important: her inner knowing. But, damn, woman. I am seventeen! And I know that we will both emerge on the other side of this, wherever that may be, more free. I also know that, in the meantime, I will need to grieve. And, of course, write more poetry.

***

I clock in at the site at 9:03 a.m. The sun is already high and promising a sweaty workday. I promise myself that I will love it because it is what puts food in front of me every day. I set my water bottle down and tie back my hair, reminding myself that at least I am in North America, and my mama passed down pieces of her caucasion complexion. "And thank you, too, dad, for the extra sunscreen via melanine," I murmur, tugging off my sleeves.

I sigh and arm myself with a hammer, a long nail, and ear protection. Today, I will be de-nailing reclaimed pallet wood that will eventually become flooring and ceiling boards.

I spend most of the workday thinking about my dad.

I do not blame him for his absence. I understand he was gone, in a way, before I was born.

Maybe it is better that way.

You went overseas

Before I was born.

Maybe you were torn

From me, the war

The key.

Maybe you set me free

Helped me to be

The woman you now see.

Maybe it is better

That you never

Had to weather

All the feathers

I learned to tether

To my wings,

All the pain I learned to string,

Into the instrument I sing.

Maybe it's better that you live

Across the country,

Close enough to leave me

Wondering if you wish you could be

The parent I needed;

But far enough for you to concede

That space between us

Will not kill me.

He has more of a story than that. But sometimes, I don't care. The bottom line is, I'm his first child and he has never lived with me, never seen me cry, never watched me succeed or fail. He has never looked me in the eyes and told me that I would be ok, that the world had my back.

Now, my mama isn't here to remind me of all that. Now, I have to be my own parent.

***

I burst into my house, elated and coated in sweat. My house is bathed in a beautiful ochre light.

I laugh and grab a towel, leaving my work clothes in a sopping trail behind me. I do believe that there is something beautiful in the simplicity of small things. Example A, running water.

As I scrub grime and sawdust from my pores, I laugh. And laugh. And laugh. I think that I am strange. I think that this whole life thing is strange. I think that the sweet relief after persistent effort is strange. I think that what privileges I have are strange. Change is strange, and wouldn't that be a fun combination of forces to improv on: the strangeness of change and the changing strangeness.

The shifting of emotions from one moment to the next is incredibly strange. This whole fear of death and--truly--annihilation is deeply strange.

Why are some days harder than others? Why is fear a guiding principle in my life? Why do I keep telling myself that I am stuck here, in this town, when, really, I am stuck inside of myself?

I stare into the mirror and reach up to the wet mass of chocolate strands and begin to braid…

“Be careful what you weave,

You could trust what will deceive;

Breathe

In what you need,

Plant the seeds that will free you—

You are the maker, are the weaver, are the seeker.

You are the master, the planter,

The keeper of the trees,

Raker of the leaves,

Dancing with the breeze,

Choose what you believe,

Reap but without greed,

Feed the soul inside

And do not hide,

For what’s alive

Is meant to thrive…"

A tear slides down my face. I catch it on one finger.

I know that I chose this. I know that I keep choosing it every day. I know that I am not powerless. I know that I have potential. So why do I get the feeling that the world doesn't want me?

I hang up my towel and wipe my face with the back of my hand. My hand is shaking. A deep ache in my chest urges me to call mama or Jay, or Anita.

I want to tell them that there are monsters in this world. I want to tell them that people have hurt me. I want to tell them that I feel alone. I want to tell them that some small part of me remembers every word of discouragement, every look of disdain, every backbone that walked away from me and left me wondering if there was truly something wrong with me.

There is no eloquent way to put it. I do not want to try to sugarcoat what plagues me. Little Lala was confident. Little Lala was brave. Little Lala fought all of the demons. But I think that there are too many now for her to fight.

What I wish for, and what I think I have always wished for, is one person--only one--to be with me always. Someone who knows me. Someone who cares for me. Someone who magically recognizes my behaviors and can read my mind. Someone that will grasp my face in their hands, look deeply into my eyes and tell me... tell me...

I frown. What? That the world loves me? That I belong on planet Earth?

I stand and look out the window. "Who really knows if I belong here?" I mutter. I mean, really? The school teachers who thought I was a rebel for unschooling myself? The randos I encountered while volunteering that doubted me when I told them about my future plans? My peers that I do not resonate with?

I glance at the calendar. May 31st. Nearly eleven months from the day mama left. And one day away from the open mic event at El Cafe.

I know that mama cannot parent me anymore. Neither can Jay or Anita. I face myself in the bathroom mirror again.

I am stuck with me. I may as well take a shot at it.

I hold my own face.

"Do not mistake fear for danger

Seize the anger,

Release, do not cage her

She is a creator

Face the strangers."

I reach for my phone.

"Hello?"

"Jay, will you drive me to the city tomorrow evening? I want to attend the open mic."

"Attend or participate?"

I can hear the smile in their voice.

"What do you think?" I laugh.

"Let's do it."

I swallow and glance at my laptop. "Now for Lala's magic cocktail of last-minute-poetry-insanity."

I breathe out until my lungs scream at me. "Lala, you take every word someone wielded at you and you turn it from a weapon into wisdom."

***

My heart is in my throat. I puked three times yesterday just from thinking about performing.

El Cafe is crowded with bodies. The two on either side of me press into my arms. The stage lights are massive, like two full moons illuminating the world.

I told the MC I would help clean up for free if she let me go last. She had looked me up and down and grinned. "Honey, you have nothing to worry about. You look like a star in the making."

I glance down the front of my body now and try not to throw up again.

"How do you feel?" Jay's arms rest around me as though they were made for the curves of my torso.

"Do not ask me that!" I say.

"Just don't lose your dinner on the stage. Then, I would have to disown you forever."

"I feel much better now, thank you."

The MC takes the mic, ending the final break of the show.

"And now, last, but certainly not least, give it up for Washteyla Perez!"

I wobble through the crowd and fumble up the three stairs. The audience is a black, amorphous blob, cheering me on.

I look up and close my eyes for a moment. And I begin. There is nothing in front of me but space to hurl my emotions into, nothing behind me but the experiences that have shaped me. I am so lost, so found, so full and empty.

"Do not rearrange

Or change

The names

Of the players on the stage

Of your past—

It is you that will last.

It is you that will cast

The glass

Through which you see

That every catastrophe

Is but a memory."

I remember the barn owl, unencumbered, unconcerned, and focused. I am that bird right now. I can feel my wings slowly, slowly, spreading. The air is sweet and promising.

"I would not know my might

If I never had to fight.

Without the darkness of night,

I would not respect the light,

Without the risk of falling,

Why would I take flight?"