Black Child to Black Woman

Prologue In a Letter to My Daughter, Maya Angelou writes, “I am convinced that most people do not grow up...We marry and dare to have children and call that growing up. I think what we do is mostly grow old. We carry accumulation of years in our bodies, and on our faces, but generally our real selves, the children inside, are innocent and shy as magnolias.” I was slowly becoming a woman, a responsible adult, and someone my parents could continue to be proud of, but the scared little girl inside me still spoke to me in times of duress. In between working a nine to five and a part-time gig on the weekend, I was maintaining a car and apartment, paying real-life bills, and building expertise in my field. Dating was a whole other story. You know how they say opposites attract? Well, that would be a gross understatement when it came to my male selections. From bad boys to playboys; the jobless to homeless; and, even those with addictions. I was going through the motions of life, but inside, the little girl inside of me was worried. The little girl inside of me wanted to save the sick and afflicted. The little girl inside of me was overcome with fear and sadness. I was trying to repress her worries, but the ghosts of my ‘childhood past’ kept rising to the surface in a blur of faces and emotions. It wasn’t until a trip back home for a tragic death in the family that it all became clear. The house was full of family members and the soft whisper of empathetic voices, all trying to console one another. My mother’s throaty sobs had now faded into the background. It was a sound I thought I would never hear again, after my grandmother (her mother) passed away. I headed to my childhood room in the back of the house. It was exactly how I had left it years ago when I left for college. The four-poster canopy bed greeting me at the door always made me feel like a princess. The matching white oak bookshelf-dressers were lined with books, porcelain dolls and trinkets from every phase of my life, all the way up to the day I left. As I rifled through the drawers I came across a small lined notebook. It was covered with doodles, but in the center of the front cover, was the word ‘Journal’. The memories suddenly came flooding back. This was not just a book of poetry or short stories; these were the words of the little girl inside of me. This was what she wanted me to confront, to remember, to overcome. I closed the door, sat down in the rocking chair by the window, and began to read.