Adulthood

Discuss an accomplishment or event, formal or informal, that marked your transition from childhood to adulthood within your culture, community, or family.

People say reflections come through many of sorts: water, music, memoirs, love, and sometimes actions. A lot of mine come through poetry. This paper is almost like a childhood reminisces for me. It is going to dedicate itself to pain, misery, and small accomplishments as I write to reflect on images and words in my hippocampus that allowed a transition from childhood to adulthood.

How do I give myself a name other than freshman, underclass men, or new meat? Well, according to the rules placed in high school, I can not. That is okay because I have plenty of other things going on. I was boiling with passion. No, this passion was not made for pleasure — it was made from it. No, this pleasure was not a good one, but one I wanted erased and did not quite know how to complete. I had taken a step out of middle school and not even for a split second the joy I was grazing upon had completely turned into a salty wind that I could no longer title a zephyr. In spite of my howling heart, this wind was howling louder. In spite of my strength, his weight was stronger. In spite of a repetitive torment from the word, “no”! I received no justification in what I wanted. I got justification in what he needed. He got away with the dignity I respected in me. Taken and never to be replaced without my guidance to recovery. I gained my passion after that. When I touched things my passion erupted. When I spoke my passion foamed out. My life had a base scripted with this passion. My passion was growing and I needed a better way to get all of it out. As for now, I had to accept the truth. I had to say, “Ja’Leezia, baby girl, you were raped. There is no other way to put it. You have to be blunt and gain control because no one will give that to you.” Although, I had put a small amount of weight off of me, I still had grounds to cover. For instance, this passion was still nudging at me. It would not stop. As if there were a closed gate on my soul and I had automatically locked it without realizing I had done so. I reckon it was because it was another part of the truth I had to discover. The most incredible thing happened as I took this lock off. I was holding a private conversation between my heart and a college-ruled piece of notebook paper. Almost like sound waves that only these two could do. Almost like a vision they both had that allowed me to see after they were done. The time line reminded me that three months had elapsed. My poetry told me something different. How could words become so in depth? How could words show me so much of my pain? So much of my sorrow? So much of my attitude? I was zealous to find out where this new talent of mine could take me. I was zealous to find me and gain her back. I never did. I found something better. I found my adulthood.

Every so often I go back to that memory. I do not know how or why? I simply do. It is a second pulse in me. A blood line that has sets of veins I never knew existed. It may be the reason I smell the salty wind faster. It may be the reason I listen out for cries of help and hear pain in a voice better than I would if it were a tone of joy. May be it is meant that I enjoy the taste of chocolate for my acceptance of pain and not my denial of it . There is a reason for everything; although, no one said “everything” included being destroyed, but then again being destroyed never mentioned growing.