I had noticed him before. The boy, about our age, peering out of his third story attic window across the street. His face was pressed up against the pane, his hands flattened, palms open, almost as if he wanted to push the glass out to get a better view.
I am a medley. A mixture. A hodgepodge. I was born in the city of Abeokuta, Nigeria and I am a citizen of the United States. I would like to say that being born in a different part of the world makes me special, or the fact that I was born in a hospital room with no doctors present means I’m different...But, really, these events are like stories to me. I have no memory of being born, no memory of being sick, and no memory of living in Nigeria.
What people don’t realize when they wish to be a couple inches taller, is that a certain amount of awkwardness is inherent to the territory. The shift occurs sometime around puberty, when you wake up and your limbs are too big for your body. Suddenly, middle school hallways are an obstacle course for adolescents who don’t understand where their arms end.
Mama’s home had been carved out of the mountain, itself. Even with piñon and firewood burning in the hearth and illuminating the windows, the place was so still that one hardly thought it was more than a rock.
Years and years before Michael Brown’s body bled a raw red river in Missouri, I was learning how to color. My pathetic stick figures were all colored yellow, because as far as I was concerned, that was what skin looked like.