What endures?

There are parts of me, parts of my body, parts of my heart, and parts of my essence that I will be proud to show the world and say, “Hey, look at me! Do you see this? How my left foot curves with delightful edges and shines its melanin against the light; how much care I can give you; how my conscience burdens me in the wrong. Yet, my right foot bears the scar of a fracture I had when I was 17; I don’t know when my no means no; my conscience is a victim of circumstance

There goes a story I tell at times. I used to look like a cheetah. Being only 13, my body’s hormones blew me away with it’s capacity for changing the way I looked. My face became the canvas for this change. Each new day an itch would grow on a part of my face, and each day, I would scratch that itch without second thoughts, and continue on doing school work. Each day I would squeeze the hell out of whatever threatened to grow out of my face, clenching my teeth and wiping the blood on the insides of my shirt. On the ride home every school term, my mom would say girls liked boys that looked like me, and I would find my reflection in the mirror and quickly try to forget it. I could worry about other things – holiday reading plans, the movie list in my notebook, what has changed since I was back home.

Thinking about other things that I had control of was my way of saying, my body isn’t important, my face isnt important, my foot isn’t important. There are much more pressing issues. After all, if my mother still loves me then no show of concern to my body will amp up or lower down the degree of love. What endures? Forever means old age is inevitable. Even at 13, new heavenly bodies presented to me some form of respite. I looked to God, to save my from myself, from my face, from all this.


Build some emotional insulation. My physics teacher in high school kept telling us, kept telling me – for somehow I needed to hear that. The ability to brush away any attacks to my body, and my being. What endures? Hard work that overshadows the self. 4 am every day for 4 years became a routine. Easy for me to execute. An attainable goal. Set the alarm and wake – get ahead of the pack and set yourself up for something greater than yourself. I did that. Then when someone loves me I wonder what for? Look past me. Nothing to see here. Go read my blog, and fall in love with that. Go follow my gram and let me take pictures like those. I am half the person you’re looking for, a slice of life – maybe too imperfect.

So what answer do I give when asked who I am. Who am I? Who am I doesn’t matter. Has it? Does it?

I find it hard to confront myself, and these sides of me that are far from perfect. I sometimes don’t know how to deal with them. Sometimes my skin launches a rebellion against my esteem and all I can do is watch myself lose. Dear reader, it’s hard for me to describe myself, and maybe you can understand even now when I tell you I still cannot describe who I am… Fully. But will the knowledge of who I am bring me satisfaction? I may not be who I say I am tomorrow. Tell me, reader – what endures?

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