Somethings are haunting. Tangled against your psyche like a drawer full of cords. Once you get one memory loose. Here comes another. Stuck to another. Trauma seems to me as a lurking monster. With triggers for teeth. The beast of trauma is ready to devour souls. Many wonder why I am. The way I am. Why I analyze. Why do I breakdown things to its least common denominator. Figuring out why has always been an adventure. Crusades of self-discovery.
Equip the weak with strength. The weak become strong. When we take control. Releasing our fear. It boomerangs back as boldness.
We live in an era where the vibe of motivational speeches is fading. People want to be able to feel. Living in a perception of “positive vibes only”. Leaves us out of touch with the soul. Soul, spirit, mind and body. All connected. Battling over your emotions. Chaos to peace. Let go and holding on. On the same road? One just faster than the other? I ponder. Thinking. Beyond, why me. Like I escaped a sacrifice. Through faith, I am a demon slayer. Shadows around corners. Paralyzing sleep. Doors that were open without consent. Ouija wonders. Tools of evil are never compared to prayer. Spiritual gifts to fight for your soul. Or get lost.
Fast is dodging failure. Gossip might lace the lips of strangers. Your family might try and bury you in guilt. But you’re fast. Moving at hyper speed. Fight and Flight. Perception. When others dump theirs on you. Being fast is a plus. Redefining how society thinks may never happen. Are we just doomed to a “lake of fire”? On judgement. Reaching a high score? Cause you thought being fast was disabling. To find out. It’s a gift. Repentance is humility. Worthiness is divine. Taking off what makes you feel filthy. Even being fresh makes others want to cause terror to foul you. Pain. Trauma. Coming to you fast. Dipping through life. Depression and anxiety. Entities. Summoned by pain. Contacted by trauma. A séance of sadness. But you’re too fast for satanic pity parties. Angels like us ain’t fallen. But torn from our pedestals. By the selfish.
Being fast is like raising yourself. Cause kids have no rights. When we find ourselves in trouble. We tend to rely on adults in our spaces. To protect us. When that sense of protection is thrown out the window. Fast tails are forced to handle situations alone. That’s when the mind splits. Most of us who were labeled fast, had two different worlds to interact in. First, was the children’s world. There we took out all our frustration and confusion. Then, the adult world. Being flung into adult situations and expected to handle being violated as if it was our fault. So, our brains transform. Finding ways to cope.
What could I do? Nothing seemed to work. The harder I tried. The more shit got fucked up. Approaching middle age. How could she explain not fitting in? This story was getting old and tired. I guess. Why pour salt on myself? The strength of words hold sturdy. Always pointing out the flaw. Can crust your outlook. Body dysmorphic. Not acting slow. FAST. A notion of the adultification of Black girls. Thrusted into the grown world as a child. Adds saltiness. Not the pink salt. Or the ancient salt. That used to outweigh gold. The salt that causes high blood pressure. The salt that melts ice. Like being Alice in no wonderland. Just wondering how you were chosen to raise yourself.
Let me start from the beginning. This is a cautionary tale of when you are great and do not know it. Being born in the Nineteen Hundred and 70’s was peculiar. The idea of being conceived after the Civil Rights Movement & Hippie era casts a mystical dysfunction. Either or, I came through the firmament. Feet first. And it ain’t been nothing but hyped ever since. Adventure is the thing about having to raise yourself. Like most latch key kids of the Nineteen Hundred and 80’s. I was born to mysterious parents. Mattie and Jimmy Z. As a little girl, they seemed to be the center of their circle. My Pops worked as my Mama took care of home. I remember my Moms always being jazzy. My Dad super cool. Along with two siblings we were living proof of family. Until we wasn’t. Until one day at the age of eight, I was sitting on the couch watching my parents argue. I watched their mouths move. I couldn’t hear a sound. My ears were ringing with pain.
521. Yeah, I believe in galaxy numbers. 5+2=7 + 1=8. 8 symbolizes pride, achievement, experience and empathy. If so, why does everyone think I’m a smart ass? Cause, I can’t seem to conform to get along?
Chapter 1: My name is Vag’
Abundance as you rest in Love, Aunt Lillie. She gave me the name Yoni (pronounced Yon-eye as my parents specified). Of Haitian decent, I assume she picked this name to spur a type of energy possessed of an actual Princess. Had she foreseen? That I would be hood royalty? Lavender. Springing with the weeds. That are not really a hazard.
I have no idea how my parents met. Not even a wedding pic. My imagination haunts me when it comes to them. Before me. This lends to my tendency to have had flimsy love affairs with no deep connections. Until I met Baby. Damn. This is obviously a train wreck. But I know y’all can’t look away. So, grab a seat and get comfy.
Could I chalk this up to being a Black American Woman who descends from chattel slavery? I could blame the villainess Margaret Sanger and her “Negro Project”. But because New Age Guru’s say be accountabl. I’ll just carry the burden of being named after the essential mothership. Who brings life to Mama Earth.
The first time anyone ever acknowledged they knew what my name meant. I was around 18. Me and my crew were hanging at the mall. Per usual. It was the 90’s and being a mall (b)rat held some sort of status. Me and my girls were flirting with guys as our fav’ past time. We even had a name or it. The “You Go Girl” award. We would challenge each other to flirt with the finest guys. Which 9 out 10 times led to MAJOR DRAMA. Smh. So anyway. I said my name like how everybody else uttered it. “Yonee”. Why this teen hood-throb pull out a pocket dictionary and look it up? All in attendance, got a kick out of the discovery. I was named after coochie.
Let me go deep. Yoni holds spiritual weight. Alas, when you let it roll off your lips with a twang cooked up by your strange family. The outside world thinks you’re doing too much. Like I care. 44 years of people mispronouncing my name. I’ve concluded that the mistake is on purpose. Cause, if you can’t respect me enough to address me properly. You probably don’t need to speak to me at all. On periodt.
My name drew me. To study yoga. Before you go there. I have never tried to become Hindu. I was curious. I am no doubt a soldier for Yah. And as I studied Sanskrit. I’m pretty sure these scripts are tied to fallen angels. The sons of Yah. I have a strong sense of spirituality connected to my name which I associate with Wisdom. Wisdom was present from the beginning. With Father Yah in his workshop. Through a namesake. I have only recently felt worthy of it.
Yana. Yoshi. Yannay. Yo-Yo. I’ve heard it all. But there is only 1 Yoni (Yon-Eye)
I’ve always been little aka short. Even with my fairy physique, I’ve always felt at least 5’8. Don’t laugh. I’m serious. Is there anything called PWS (Petite Woman Syndrome)? If not, I just coined the phrase. PWS is when a Woman between the height of 4’11 & 5’4 who lives B-I-G & BOLD. You can’t tell a PWS kind of girl she doesn’t have “It”. This compact Queen exemplifies an outstanding aura that draws people in. The biggest obstacle of having PWS are those Women of a taller stature. Who may try & toss shade. Like Tinkerbell, we fly high on our ability to overcome and where 6inch heels. LOL
Chapter 2: I was my own Worst Enemy
You might have started off reading this like why is she going in on herself? It’s because your mind can be your own worse enemy. Worry which leads to fear can give you a distorted view of your life. Because of childhood abuse, I suffered from undiagnosed depression and anxiety, for many years. Depression is like a shadow that follows you, darkening all the light that Thee Most High placed inside. Depression isolates you. Anxiety is like a voice giving you the worse possible outcome to any situation. It’s hard to embrace love with depression and anxiety as your frenemies. Many used to believe I was a loner when I used to ghost. The reality was I couldn’t stand myself. This self-hatred turned to self-sabotage.
Being a depressed tween was an extremely dangerous place. Running the streets became my escape. I don’t know what I was thinking sneaking out the house late nights when I wasn’t in church. I know from church to the streets back to church may seem like an oxymoron, but I saw it as survival. The streets, church & school were safe havens. Even with my internal battle, I excelled in school. Being in the gifted program should have made me feel like a winner. Yet and still, my lack of support created an anger that exploded on anyone who tried to bully me.
We called ourselves the Hawaiian Punch Posse emphasis on the punch. We had no problem with beating mannish boys. Eventually, “Punks Jump Up to get Beatdown”. Growing up in the Wil’ Wil’ of the Chi’.
Chapter3: “The Lord is my Shepard. I Shall Not Want.”
When I say Yah adopted me when my Pops left, I mean it with every bit of my heart. As a little girl, I didn’t understand divorce. I was confused by his sudden departure. Being introduced to my stepfather seemed strange. His vibe was off. Growing as a Woman, I have for forgiven his violations. Demonic forces were at work. And by Yah’s grace his abuse didn’t lead to my demise.
No one can ever, ever, ever, ever convince me that it ain’t real.
I was numb at 8yrs old. I walked with my head hung low. I barely spoke beyond a whisper. And one day I was standing on the curb, staring into the gutter. In my mind I said I needed to be rescued. Suddenly a Woman dressed in all white walked up to me. She asked me if I wanted to go to church with her. I said, Yes! Anything was better than the portal to hell life, I was living in.
Yah’s abundance. On Sister Regina. She was my designated Earth angel. I started going to Bethels children’s church. Which was fun. I learned a lot. In Sunday school. Then one day I overheard Pastor Arrington in the sanctuary. I felt something pulling me. Instead of going to Children’s Church after Sunday School. I would go in the main room. Front row. I was too young to join the youth choir. The youth choir was everything. Watching them amazed me. I would sit on the side & sing along. After a while, other kids started to join me. We earned the name. The Sugar Lumps.
One Sunday Pastor was doing alter call. He was asking if anybody wanted to be saved. Yep. I believe that Yeshua has the key’s to hell. And resides there with the 12 on judgement duty. I have criticized the church for adopting evangelical Christianity’s cultish traditions. Or how King James purposedly replaced Yah & Yeshua with g-o-d & jesus.
My spirituality has grown. Hoodoo ties me to nature and my lineage. Breaking generational curses is a great part of my healing. A head injury at 2 caused 3rd eye activation. I adore Aziza. Aka Black Fae.
Chapter 4: Gone ‘head Lil Mama Yo”!
The only person the Black community can’t stand more than a crackhead. Is a teen Mom. I got pregnant at 15. My friend’s parents didn’t really like me hanging out with them. After that. Even though MY FRIENDS were having sex before me. I just got caught up the 1st time I did it.
“Neither here nor there.” I jumped into Mamahood. Settled in. Becoming a mogul at 16. In my own mind. I recall reading everything about business. Making plans. And creating vision boards. No one took me seriously. In their eyes. I was a “baby having a baby”. How they underestimated the Queen.
Supporting teen parents isn’t condoning anything. Everyone has a path. Measuring your life based on another’s journey. Will have you coming up short. Every time. Policing a young Mother or Fathers lifestyle. After the fact. Makes no sense.
Living in the Lil Mamahood is wonderful. Whether your spirit Mama is a Wolf, Bear or Owl. It’s all good. I’m a hybrid. Half Mama Bear. Half Wolf Mama. I have two Millenials, a Gen Z and a Gen Alpha. As a yung Mama I learned you must apologize to your children. As adults this can bond you to your children. It shows our humbleness. Our humanity.
Chapter 5: Gen X fyles
I was born in the 1970s. I am not pressed. I’ve come to grips. I’ve embraced the 21st century. I’m aging like fine wine. Baybay. Booboo. Shawty.
Musings:
Why must I be Of Color?
I just woke up one day and Black Women were “of color”. No longer boldly unique? Political correctness once again gains traction. While solid justice is standing still. How did this happen? Why wasn’t I invited to the meeting? Once again, the hierarchy of Womb an hood. Sets new boundaries. I don’t think this is how intersectionality works. How can we become this crew? Indigenous, Hispanic, Asian and Middle Eastern Women haven’t even collectively reckoned with their anti-Blackness.
Comments