gri·ot

[gree-oh, gree-oh, gree-ot] noun: a member of a hereditary caste among the peoples of western Africa whose function is to keep an oral history of the tribe or village and to entertain with stories, poems, songs, dances, etc.

I have recently begun to notice my participation in an overwhelming pattern of self-erasure. I erase myself from everything. From experiences; from moments; from situations; from stories. Sometimes knowingly. Sometimes not. Over time, I have grown so comfortable doing it. Self-erasure, I know (and may explain in a later post) is a product of white supremacy and the internalization of racism. For a long time, I was made to believe that my stories weren’t worth sharing. I didn’t believe that I was worthy of taking up the space needed to tell my stories and share myself.

Now, I believe that sharing my experiences and my stories, and telling them as if they are meant to be told is a part of healing. Nobody else is going to tell my stories and my stories are the only things that will link me to this place when I am gone. To tell my stories is a radical reclamation of space. Space that is rightfully mine and that I, for several, politically-laden reasons, have given up.

I have so many memories in my head. I have so many stories to tell. Fun moments and terrible moments; mundane moments; moments when I felt alive. Moments that I remember in vivid detail and moments that I’d rather forget. We all do. My memories are my history; a documentation of my time in this life, and a record of my experience. So this is the place where I will write it down.

I will not erase myself from the landscape of reality. Which I am just so apt to do.

I will write myself and my experiences into existence.