How I Found my Freedom

In the drab cramped two bedroom duplex there was nothing to be proud of. There was too many people and not enough space. No privacy to think or grope or cry or pout. Nothing. It had to be at the age of five when I realized that the only beacon of light which shone in the dark atmosphere of that duplex was the bookshelf built into the wall.

I would run my brown chubby finger over the dusty books until I touched one that caught my eye, pull it from the shelf, and prop it up on the floor between my legs. The words had no meaning, but I wanted to imitate Mommy who after fixing dinner, chastising me, and preparing us for the following day would still find time to read one of those Danielle Steel novels. As I grew older I learned this was the world into which she disappeared which gave her some relief. It was then, at those magical moments, when I wanted to be just like her: propped up in bed, rollers in hair, glasses on the tip of her nose, with one of those novels in her hands.

I believe that the love of reading was handed down to me from my mother. While my friends were reading teen magazines I was engulfed in books by Alice Walker who gave me an empowerment of African-American women. After reading In Search of Our Mother’s Gardens I valued my grandmother, mother, and aunt in a different way. It was my 12th grade English teacher who introduced me to the works of Zora Neale Hurston.

After reading chapter one of Their Eyes Were Watching God our teacher gave us a writing assignment. We had to explore in some form or fashion our personal horizon. I scratched my head in disbelief because at the age of 17 I was still unsure of what I wanted to do with my life. Going to college was not an option, but I did not know what I wanted to study or what direction I wanted my dreams to lead me to. I realized I had to search within myself and focus on what was within me and the gifts that God had given me. I wanted a life so much different from my mother’s. Instead of living my life like a book I wanted to write the book. Let other people live inside of my words. That essay won me a scholarship from the United Negro College Fund.

No matter if it’s the “The Weary Blues” by Langston Hughes tapping inside my head or Nikki Giovanni’s Love Poems or the hips of the sassy “Sula” causing laughter in the back of my throat, I know one thing for sure; if it wasn’t for reading and writing the freedom in which I express myself would never exist.