See--
Here’s what you don’t know.

Every
word or phrase,
essay or poem,
story or musing
that I write
is
a stab with a
double-edged sword
to defeat
an indelible recording
of the recurring command
I received while growing up.
The message was a simple
‘shut-up’.

They say I’m quiet,
and that I don’t have
much to say.
Well,
let me tell you
about the
Diary of a
Potential Chatterbox:
a Smothered Extravert.

Anytime a
‘How are you today?’
left my lips
that
got me a
‘shut up’.
During
car rides
to and from
long distance
destinations, songs
and words
passing my lips--
they
got me the
gift of a
‘shut up’.

I heard the chronic ill
of the ‘shut up’--
an incessant
nasty response
toward anyone.
But that—that there
coming from her,
was for me.
The ‘shut up’
was all
mine.

For years …
out of unawareness,
I nursed the ‘shut up’;
replaying her words,
journeying through life,
meeting the expectations
of others,
speaking only when necessary,
remaining as silent as an
old used rusty nail,
and holding onto the
sightless-ness
of a dried up
black-eyed pea.

Mute
held my
fantasies,
dreams, and
expressions hostage.
Blind
hid the stop button.
Numb
sugared what the
‘shut up’
was really
doing to me.

Now, I fight
the ‘shut up’
everyday with
a freedom to frolic
in language,
with a
freedom to speak and say,
with a
freedom to wallow
in the words and wisdom
gained from observing
while voiceless.

Now--
Just know that
every
word or phrase,
essay or poem,
story or musing
that I write
is a stab with a
a double-edged sword
defeating
an indelible recording
of the recurring command
I received while growing up.
The message was a simple
‘shut-up’.

And--
today,
I thank you
for hearing
the words
and
phrases
of a little
black girl
telling the
‘shut up’
to
shut the fuck up!