When I was 5, I made cookies with my mom. While I was trying to help her, a glass bowl of cookie dough slipped from my tiny hands and shattered on the ground. Tears welled in my eyes as I braced for her anger, but I was met with kind eyes and a broom.
“It’s OK girlie, just help me clean it up.” were the simple words she said to me. But in my head, all I could do was replay how I dropped the bowl from a thousand angles. And I was faced with the idea that I’d never be able to undo that action and that I’d permanently become a clumsy fool who dropped a bowl.
When I was 21, at a track meet a few days ago, an official touched my hair twice. Once before my race, and once while I was standing behind the blocks, trying to get my mind right to run a race, I was struggling to find the motivation to run. Both times in front of everyone, both times no one said anything.
Everyone watched and stared in judgment, but no one stepped up.
I had spent hours twisting each strand carefully, my fingers becoming sore and my joints aching. My roommate helped me curl the ends. So much love, care, creativity, and spirit poured into each follicle just to be pet like a dog and watched like a spectacle. And no one stood up for me.
I couldn’t stand up for me.
Mentally, I added that to the ever-growing list of things I couldn’t do. A running list I’ve had since I was a child.
I couldn’t socialize because I was a quiet kid.
I couldn’t be an artist because that wasn’t a real job.
I couldn’t be pretty because I was black.
I couldn’t be smart because I was a girl.
I couldn’t be the best because I had to work twice as hard for half the credit.
I couldn’t deserve my accolades because I was “filling a quota.”
I couldn’t kill myself because there are people that love me.
And I couldn’t stand up for myself because I was representing my school at a meet. I can’t be the reason my school isn’t invited to travel for competitions.
Everyone loves to say what they would’ve done and who they would’ve cursed out. But as I replay the scene in my head repeatedly, all I can think about is tiny Michelle dropping that bowl and crying.
That’s what healing feels like.
Dropping a billion bowls and never quite being able to put the pieces back together.
But having someone with kind eyes, open arms and a broom makes everything feel better.
