RSS

Category Archives: Uncategorized

Capricorn in Cuba

 

I was almost to my casa particular, the Cuban home I was staying at while in Trinidad.

I went out. Listen to Cuban music and watch beautiful Cuban men flirt with white foreigners.

I even had a drink, although I nursed it for an hour and did not finish it.

But the point remained, I went out for my 30th birthday.

As I approached the street my casa particular was on. I saw Andres. Andres hair was in a long ponytail and they wore a short dress showing off their legs. I had been on an unofficial search for queer people in Cuba.

I had not seen many in Havana and when I did I was not in a place where I could approach them. But here alone at 10:30pm on an empty street in Trinidad, I ventured to speak.

Andres walked past me and I turned around and stop them. My Spanish was not helped by the nervousness that is accompanied by stopping a stranger and assuming them queer. I am from the U.S. it is not always safe for people that are perceived as masculine to express femininity in clothing and in acts.

“Hola. Yo estoy in Cuba para tres dias, no mirrar mucho gente de diferente. Pero tu. Tu es muy bonita. Como se illama?”

That was me shooting my shot. It worked. Andres then responded to me in English. They asked me where I was going and told me that it was too early to go back home. There were many parties in Trinidad, they invited me to join. As we walked back to the party era we met up with one of Andres friends. He was a young cutie who later told me that he was 19. As we walked Andres asked me was I gay? Andres seemed determined to find me a Cuban girlfriend. We return to the House of Music, the venue I had just left. Andres introduced me to all the queer folks there. The crowd had grown since I left.

I was struck by how popular Andres was as we walked through the city. Everyone greeted Andres. I did not apprehend mean looks or stares. Andres took me to 3 clubs. Reminding me to stay quiet as he paid (with my money). Cubans paid less than foreigners and I look Cuban. I just do not sound Cuban. Pero mi Buenos Dias es muy perfecto. Hence, I saved money.

At the end of the night Andres and the friend. Walked me back to my casa and we made plans to meet the next day to go to the beach.

I am Black and Queer.

Consequently I seek out other Black, Brown and Queer Folks.

I tend to travel to countries where the majority of the population is Black or Brown.

I have not cared enough to travel to Europe. I can stay in the US and see white folks in power.

Over the past 4 months, I have traveled to Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Bahamas and Cuba. Without a doubt Cuba appears to be the most hospitable place for queer folk.

I ask the 19 year old was it easy being gay in Cuba.

Si, es muy facil.

But easy is relative. His 19 years looked and felt very different from Andres 33 years. Cuba is complicated in ways my Black American self will never understand. The next day at the beach Andres told me more about their life and what it meant to be queer in Cuba. I was reminded that life for queer people of color is rarely a crystal stairs.

My time in Cuba forced me search beneath the surface and remember that things are rarely as they appear to be. In this next decade, I plan to be more intentional about taking time to listen to other’s stories.

~JustTab

 

Also Andres is also a Capricorn, the best sign out there

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Gender, Travel, Uncategorized

 

Tags: ,

Without a home

 

Homeless.

As I left Ohio, I looked down at my three new keys. Two storage units and a P.O. Box.

Tab you are without a home. To say that I am homeless does not mean I do not have a place to stay. As many of you know, I am teaching at a summer program in Michigan. While here I am subletting someone’s apartment.

But this is not my home. It is temporary. It is filled with another person’s stuff. This stuff includes lots of religious iconography. I sleep underneath a cross.

I am a girl without a home.

In the next week I will begin a search for housing in Ohio. This will certainly be my last year. Three years longer than I initially anticipated.

The place I find will be comfortable but not a home. It will be temporary. I will resist putting too many things like pictures around the house. I will know that shortly I will be leaving. I will not get too comfortable or attached. The place will not be my home.

For the first time in three years, I face the reality of moving into a space alone. Of being the one person responsible for the upkeep and whatever love that will enter the house. I won’t have to share a bathroom or compromise.

As thrilling as this should be, I am also dealing with anger. I do not want to have to do this alone.

The writing of this is steeped in privilege. I do not fear not having a place to sleep at night. I have the money to pay a deposit on whatever residence I decide to lease. I do not fear not being able to afford utilities or any essentials.

I am aware that while homeless LGBT youth represents 7% of the youth population, they account for 40% of the homeless youth.

That for many queer kids in this country finding a safe place to rest their head each and every night is a struggle.

“They are always getting kicked out the house. They never have homes.” This was one of the many reasons I told myself I did not like being around lesbians as a teen. They just seem to have so much drama. It is always easier to look at the LGBT youth as the problem and not the society we live in.

They are children without homes.

I have been in community and in relationships with adults who were kicked out of their homes as a child for being queer. That kind of pain never really heals. When she tells me about her 16-year old self being called a dyke. Her mother throwing plates at her and her brother assaulting her per their mother’s request because she was dating a girl- my heart breaks. Knowing her story is one that is too common.

Many years have passed, yet her greatest fear remains being homeless.

She is a girl without home.

She was a girl I try to be home for. To give a home to.

But I was also just a girl without a home.

“I cannot go home as who I am It seems. Unredeemed by what blood? Unsaved by what grace? Unnatural by whose standard?”

A young male poet performs this in Marlon Riggs’ 1995 documentary on Black identity Black is….Black Aint. This poem introduces the section where sexuality, religion,  and Blackness are explored.

This poem always resonates with me. People often ask me when I will go home again. They mean to my hometown. They mean to my father’s church. They mean to my parent’s house.

Some days I respond not anytime soon. Other days I tell them I do not have a home.

No one ever talks about the queer kids who grow up to be queer adults. Who come into their adultness and their queerness away from their family and the community they grew up in.  No one ever talks about the pieces of themselves they are encouraged to hide- explicitly and implicitly in order to be welcomed home. No one talks about the parents who might never overtly demonize your queerness with words, yet their actions creates the same results. The attention and favor they bestow on the performances of heteronormativity present in their other children produces just as much pain. Pain that is often hard to put in words because no one ever beats you up, no one ever calls you a dyke. They just pretend that aspects of you and your life do not exist.

Home denotes a place of safety, of care and permanence.

I am a girl without a home.

 

~JustTab

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 20, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

Boots Tuesday

4-5-2016, 11:00am

“Do you have a hard time asking people for things?”

“I don’t really need to ask people for things. I am pretty self-sufficient.” That’s the response that first came to my head. I didn’t respond. I sat with it. This woman stays trying to see me. To read me. Demanding I drop whatever mask I think I am wearing. This  annoys me. This makes me uncomfortable. So I fade away.

I met her last summer at the Movement for Black Lives. While the conference was officially over, we just had an impromptu action against the Cleveland Police.  Afterwards- in victory we chanted, “we gonna be alright,” in unison with over a hundred Black people. Someone started a healing circle. Others dealt with those who were pepper sprayed. I noticed her boots before I noticed her. Cowboy boots and shorts. She stood out. She was cute and different. As you might already know, I am smoother than freshly churned butter. I went to her and asked her about her boots. Somehow this turned into a whole conversation, where she gave me the origins of her boots. She got them on a trip to Arizona with her ex-girlfriend. She was quick and witty. We exchanged info, for you know community building, the revolution and what not.

Power to the people.

7-27-2015  Facebook messages

Me: Nice meeting your boots as well as you yesterday. Stay in touch. I’m sure you have great stories about the places the boots been.

Her: Ha! So many stories.

Me: Maybe you should do Boots Tuesday and tell me a new story about you and those boots i lusted after. (I’m good now, I have accepted they are yours :))

 

And just like that, she started sending me weekly stories. She never told me which ones were fiction. Her stories were great. Moving. Interesting. Insightful. All keeping with the theme of the boots. I found out later that she majored in creative writing. So yes, she had skills.

Eventually, I asked what I could give her in return. I was enjoying the experience of a weekly story so much. I didn’t want to take and not give. There is beauty in exchange.

I was going thru a Tab love crisis at this point. Feeling like I was fucking up with multiple people. I abruptly ended a relationship that I had been cultivating. You know Tab shit. She wanted me to write through this. Sometimes she gave me a prompt sometimes she didn’t. I would write about my journey of being a better person.

This went on for almost 2 months. In retrospect, this impromptu writing exchange/collective was pretty amazing. It gave us both an audience and reason to plan writing into our busy lives. She was always on a plane flying somewhere. I never knew what city she would be in.

Maybe it was one too many ignored questions that made me call her secretive. Maybe I am. I just don’t like questions. I like the control of the information. I will tell you everything if you just don’t ask.

She told me that sharing was invasive. She wasn’t willing to be vulnerable and share aspects of her when it wasn’t reciprocal. She heard my confession that I struggled to be open and honest. She pushed me to know why (more for myself than for her knowledge), She asked did it help with others are open and honest with me? She pushed me on my evasiveness.  I answered briefly. And then stopped answering. You know Tab shit.

In the last two months, I have spoken to her more. Thanks to the snapchat and a new phone that makes texting easier. She mentioned my disappearance early on in our “reunion.” I think I briefly addressed it. But we continued. No stories tho. And not many questions from her.

This morning I was reminiscing on Boots Tuesday. Sent her an email inquiring about restarting Boots Tuesday.

She replied “Dr. Chester, don’t you believe in assessment and reflection before repeating a course.”

Guess who didn’t respond.

She texted me about a favor I asked her to do for my class. I told her never mind. That we can try for another time. Maybe next semester. Some shit about me knowing she had a lot on her plate.

She responded: “Do you have a hard time asking people for things?”

I remembered how much I hated her questions and her ability to not only see me but ask me the questions I hate to answer. She doesn’t know me but she knows me. She is a reminder of how transparent I am even when I believe I am performing cryptic and complex.

 

~JustTab

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: , ,

Marshawn was a Freedom Fighter

12697242_10107199875738153_2093185782492999473_o

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

When I clicked on the link and saw the name. I jumped out of my seat, screamed and grabbed my heart. The pain I felt was so intense I felt it physically throughout my chest. I cried. I could not understand how barely two hours ago I was building with another activist. Talking about our friend in common, Marshawn. How proud we were of him, how much he has grown. We laughed and danced to Formation out of Denison together. 24 hours later I would be at a candlelight vigil with her for Marshawn.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

I met Marshawn in August of 2014. We were a part of the Ohio crew that traveled to Ferguson after Michael Brown’s death. He was tall and skinny with a real cool swag. He reminded me of Snoop or Wiz. All skinny tall Black men remind me of them. That trip ended with me giving a very long side eye to Marshawn. Thankfully, I was able to see other sides of Marshawn. One of my favorite memories of Marshawn occurred last fall. I organized a teach-in about Ferguson/ Racial Justice at my university. Marshawn came as a representative of Ohio Student Association and lead a breakout session after the panel part of the event. As I prepared to leave I found him and two of my other organizer friends with a couple of students just sitting, talking and organizing. I told them it was after 9 and I was going home. Shawn was the type of person who liked to make people to people connection. He stayed in contact with at least one of the students he built with that night. He showed up for people. He showed up for Black women last summer at the #sayhername action in Columbus I helped plan. I remember how articulate yet vulnerable the words he spoke about his responsibility as a Black men to show up for all Black women.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

I have so many great memories with him. I am realizing just how many actions, marches and protests I participated in since coming to Ohio and he was at every single one. People keep asking me do I know why he did it. I resent the ways the conversation, particularly with people who don’t know him- center on questions about what was wrong with him. Was he suffering from any mental problems? I don’t deny that there are conversations that need to be had about mental health issues as it pertains to the Black community and Black masculinity.  I do not pretend to know what Marshawn was thinking or feeling.  However those are not things I concern myself with in this moment. He made a decision, a decision about his life and how and where he wanted to end.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

If we are looking for a why- there is no better answer than systemic oppression. The ways that we are devalued by the state on a constant basis.  The knowledge that these inequalities are so ingrained in our society, that despite our organizing we often fail to change the material reality of those close to us.  What happens when we march, organize and touch people yet we and those we love still experience the harsh reality of life as people with marginalized identities.  I think a perfectly sane person can make a decision to end their life in this insane world.  I think suicide can be and has been a form of resistance against oppression.  How many enslaved Africans jumped into the water, desiring to face death on their terms rather than live and see the grim realities that would become them.  As much as living can be a form of resistance so death is also resistance.  I’m thinking of Margaret Garner and many other women who ended their children lives rather than allowing them to be enslaved.  I have long been an advocate for the right to die for people with terminal/chronic illness. I think there is power in saying I decide when I leave this earth and I won’t wait until cancer or whatever else destroys my body. I am reminded of Buddhist monks practice of self-immolation, the act of sacrificing one’s body as a form of radical political protest, intentional suicide for a collective cause. I think death can force people to deal with uncomfortable truths and act as a rallying cry. Suicide is often seen as the easy way out or for weak people, but the truth is suicide has a long history as a form of resistance.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

There is power in saying the state will not be able to claim my body.  There is power in laying your body on the steps of the state and forcing them to deal with you.  Forcing them to recognize your life even if it’s through your death. I have protested and marched at the Ohio State. I have heard Marshawn voice ring from those same steps crying for justice for John Crawford. I have seen him fight to change laws and policy.  The state of Ohio must account for his body in the same ways they must account for Tamir, Taniesha, John and countless others. The city government of Columbus once told organizers that they need a body in order to enact the type of police reforms needed, well they got a body on their doorsteps now. I witness him building power with community.  At his vigil someone said that he is one young person that would have followed where ever.  If we trusted him to lead us in life, I believe we have to also trust him to lead us in death.  We don’t have to understand or agree.  I believe he had much more work to do alive, but I also respect his laying down his life.  Having agency.  Deciding that he will not wait until for some officer of the state to take his life or become so demoralized that he might as well be dead. Deciding he will leave this world on his own terms.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he taught me how to fight. We gon’ fight all day and night until we get it right.

I also think a lot about heaven and hell. I have stop believing in hell. Not sure if I believe in heaven. We create both in this world.  I believe that there is no finite line between the living and dead.  I believe our ancestors are all around us.  Even if we can’t see it.  I believe in being transformed. I believe the end isn’t really the end like we think. I believe in a circular and not linear life cycle.  I believe that there is no shame in what and how Marshawn chose to live and how he chose to die. That time comes for everyone and we all must resist. Who are we to judge the means someone chooses to resist? Rather we must focus on their need to resist in the first place.

Marshawn was a freedom fighter who taught us how to fight and we gon fight all day and night until we get it right.

This life is hard.  This work is hard.  Remember there are people placing their body, mind, spirit, life and relationships on the line every day to fight for us.  To make the world know and understand that we matter.  In a world that is also telling us that we  don’t matter.

We got to fight.  We got to check up on each other. Most, importantly we gotta love each other and support each other.

How do we imagine a world where we don’t have to choose that type resistance? How do we create a world that suicide is not an understandable choice? How do fight the state and systematic oppression when they can’t see or care about our humanity? How do we make them heard us? How do we radically imagine the future?

We fight all day and night until we get it right.  Marshawn was a freedom fighter and he is teaching us how to fight.

This week I have been reminded to love harder, hold on tighter to the things and people that give me joy. But most of all it reminded me why I fight. In my heart I know Marshawn sacrifice his life for us. So today when I attend his funeral I will celebrate his light, his love and his legacy.

~justTab

 

12697372_10153823663910336_1030505765332653484_o

 

12747446_10153823663415336_3214152776486117210_o.jpg

Marshall L. Jr. Shorts photo credit

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on February 13, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: ,

Lovers. Friends. A Story.

A story.

As I remember it.

Eight years later.

We had met before. She was “hanging” with a classmate of mine.

I had recently moved to Philly to start grad school.

She was tall. Very tall. 6 feet tall.

I was 20. Head-strong. Bold. And Christian. Very Christian. More than I even realized at the time.

On this particular night- her, the classmate and this really zealous girl I had met at lesbian club my first night out in Philly. How that experience scared the hell out of me is a story for another day.

But they were over my house. We went to get barbeque. Those were the days I was in love with pork. I wrote poems about this love.

This night stands out to me for several reasons. 1. The overzealous girl called God a she. I was Christian remember, very Christian. The type of Christian that thought calling God a girl was blasphemy. I don’t remember what she said, but I remember telling them (all three of them some type of queer-identified) that they were going to hell for being gay. I was righteous with my condemnation. Because I was Christian, very Christian. Of course, I had gay friends….I grew up and in the theatre and church. I also went gay clubs, but that was them and not me. And I mostly kicked it with gay men. Lesbians scared me. I thought they were all predators. I made sure to keep my distance from lesbian women.

I had never kissed a girl. Because that was gay. And a sin.

Times passed. I learned more about Philly. Dated some guy. He took me on my first $100+ date. I was 20 and easily impressed. He was sweet. I should gave him some. But not because he paid for dinner or because he offered to buy me a winter coat.

Anyway she stopped “hanging” out with my classmate. I say “hanging” in quotes because they were dating. Something she still refuses to admit.

I would see her around. I think she invited me to a sex toy party. And we were Facebook friends. Sometime over Christmas Break we started interacting via the FaceBook heavily and decided to hang out when I got back.

This a good point to mention I flirt. A lot. Most of the time I don’t even know I am flirting until the person is trying to pull me into the restroom for a quickie. (That has never happened, but you get the point.)

She liked men as well. So we would go out and scoop out dudes. I know…anyway she wasn’t really a threat because we would talk about boys. And she wasn’t one of those scary lesbians. I told you, I had issues with lesbians. Thought they were all predators. Over the course of the next couple of months we hung out. Heavy.

I remember one time we made plans for a sleepover and cuddle sessions. All this sounds very gay. I promise you the gayness escaped me at the time. Cause I was straight. But everyone loves to cuddle.

For Spring Break that year I went to Jamaica. I came back with a hickey. Some drunken night with some guy who worked at Dunns River Fall…who still calls me. But that is another story.

She was so mad about the hickey. I did not understand why. Cause me and her was friends and I was straight.

One day when I left her place. She asked me why I never kissed her.

I thought that was the most ridiculous question ever.

“Because I don’t kiss girls!”

She knew this, remember I been told her all the gays were going to hell. I went to church every Sunday so clearly I wasn’t going to hell.

But all the next day I would wonder…”Hmmm…why don’t I ever kiss her. Her lips are pretty nice.”

I figure I can like a girl and not be gay. Looking back I don’t understand how the fact that we were basically dating the whole spring escaped me.

The next time I saw her. I fixed the not kissing her thing.

What came after is none of your noisy ass business. We begin dating consciously.

We begin dating…consciously.

But you remember I was Christian. Very Christian.

So this did not work well for my consciousness. I was a wreck. I would have to take shots to be intimate with her. I was on the “Jesus don’t love me” ride. Blasting Tonex’s “Lord Make Me Over” and crying. Would not hold her hand in public. Would jump when she touched me. All that self-hate shit.  Plus I did not know anything about dating a girl. Did not understand why she expected me to open the door for her cause she was a girl….I was a girl too. Very confused about so much.

We had good times but this did not bode well for starting a relationship. To add to this one of my closest friends was dying from cancer. I was an emotional wreck.

I was getting better though…I might have been down to one shot before. And I only jumped sometimes when she touched me.

I understand now why she eventually ended things. It was a lot. I had my own experience being some extra-Christian woman’s first. I understood even more after that.

(I am almost to the point.)

I spent weeks trying to win her back. Maybe I wasn’t in love, maybe it was deep infatuation. I would write her poetry weekly. They are still saved in my email…some are better than others. But Lorde, I was serious.

She was the closest to love my young heart had experienced. The months that follow was rough. I could not see a place for her in my life as anything other than my lover. Part of this was me not be comfortable with my sexuality. If she was the only girl I ever dated, I could convince myself it was just her and that in general I wasn’t into women. So somehow not as big of a sinner. This is my 21-year old logic.

She taught and showed me how to form a friendship with someone you were so intimately connected with. Eight years later, I can text her at 1am about how ____has moved on and doesn’t want me no more. (This happened last week, I been in my lightskinned feelings). I can go on trips with her. I can hear about her relationships and not feel jealous. Legit be her friend. This took time I got the (email receipts to prove it). This also meant time away from each other. Open communication.

She is finally (kinda) over the fact that she had the Tab who didn’t hold hands in public with girls in public and not the Tab who makes out with women in Baby Gap. (This has not happen but I would be open to it).

I read a facebook post the other day from a friend from college.

“For those of you who have break-ups, just know that love is not limited to a particular person or situation. If you have patience, love will find you again (and again if necessary lol).

For those of you who have a hard time celebrating the successes and happiness of those who you have dated and loved…maybe you did not love them in the first place…maybe you just loved what they were to you.

For those of you who are battling to make a relationship work, because you have invested time, you love the person, and it seems like the both of you are good people outside of the pressures and confines of a relationship… it is possible, though unconventional, to resort back to a friendship, and it may be healthier for you both.

It takes a different way of thinking, a greater understanding of life and love, and an appreciation for the person beyond the relationship once shared…but in the end, “friends can become lovers, and lovers can become friends”.

When I am feeling like I can only be in someone life as their lover. I am reminded of her. I am reminded of her teaching me how to be friends with a former lover. I might have to take time to mourn the person as a lover and have patience imagining what new space we will occupy in each other lives.  The love does not have to go away, like energy it can just be transferred or transform until a new shape. Another type of love.  Transitions. Love has the ability and power to help transform us. When I say I love you I mean that forever. Anyone I have ever loved is still in my life.

I am not very Christian anymore. I am still not gay though.

I wrote this for me. I might currently be in the phase of ceasing communication to stop myself from writing a poem a week to proclaim my love to someone and remind their new boo ain’t got nothing on Tab.  I wrote this to remember what it was like making a lover a friend. You know…a friend that I don’t have sex with. I wrote this because I needed to affirm that things will be ok. I’m be ok.

Oh and just because you waded through this long ass story. Here is an excerpt of a poem I sent during my poem a week to reclaim the love phase. Hey, before you judge let me remind you I was 21.

If you had never ask why I didn’t kiss you
I would have never kissed you
If I had never kissed you
I wouldn’t have wanted to taste you
If I would have never tasted you
I wouldn’t have desired all of you
If I didn’t desire all of you
I would have never ask you to be my girl
If I never asked you to be my girl
It could have never been over
If it had never been over
I would have never try to forget you
If I never tried to forget you
I would have never known how much I valued you
If I never knew how much I valued you
Then I would never had the inspiration to write a poem a week for you
If I never wrote a poem a week for you
Would you have ever known how much I cared for you?

~Just Tab

 

Tags: , , , ,

Latch-Dance

My alarm went off at 5am. It was 6:15am before I got up.

Checked the weather…way colder than I expected. Needed to change my outfit. Tragic because I looked really cute.

Tired. Too much grading to do and not prepared for the day,

I got to campus. Did some work. Still Tired.

With 15 minutes left to class time. Decided to close my door and dance.

Energized. Ready to go.

The point of this…don’t forget to dance.

~JustTab

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on October 29, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

Goodbye at 17 and 27 (a melodrama)

I remember leaving the Sunday School Convention with a car packed with all my stuff. I remember move in. Shopping at Wal-mart (before I knew it was the devil) and Target for all the things I thought I would need. I remember Sanchia, Dorian, Fabian and Kristin and the excitement that we all had to start classes. Meeting my roommate Layla, who would later go on to fuck my crush and accuse me of being racist. Going to church with my parents and hanging in their hotel room. Buying books and eating in the union.

It’s been almost a decade since I started college and consequently my journey into adulthood. Despite my memories of the excitement leading up to that first summer semester, what stands out to me right now- is the feeling that I felt when they left. I was having so much fun those first few days I never really thought about the fact my parents wouldn’t be in a hotel down the street forever. They hugged me, climbed into the green Ford Explorer and left.

They left me. Their baby. All alone in Tallahassee. The eager and cocky 17 year old girl suddenly stopped feeling so eager and cocky. I went back into Dorman Hall and cried. What was I to do now?

At 20… the same feeling came when he left me in Philadelphia. And at 23 when they left me in Arizona. Despite the fact that it was my decision to move those places…I still felt abandon.

Years later I leave them way more than they leave me. I guess I am grown and that’s the way it is supposed to be, but I would be lying if I told ya’ll that I didn’t break down and cry every time I leave and not know when I will see my parents again. They worry about me and I don’t blame them. I worry about them too. They are the loves of life. The phone maintains our bond. As much as I miss them I know I can’t grow living in the same city as them.

I miss them so much I don’t see them. I don’t want to be reminded how comforting a hug from my mom is or how much I enjoy just being in my dad’s presence. So I stay away until I forget how much I miss them and how much they are a part of me.

I am not 17 anymore. I know eventually things will change and they will leave me again….at some point it won’t be back to West Palm but it will be a permanent departure.  Mercedes tells me despite my attempts I can never prepare myself for their final departure. 

What I am trying to say is I went home this weekend. I saw my parents. Good-byes are hard at 17 or 27.

~JustTab

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on May 13, 2014 in Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , , , ,