Last night I had my first real college breakdown. I was in my dorm room clutching my pillow, crying into the receiver while my Nana and mommy attempted to mollify my incoherent words.
I miss home. Like, I really miss home.
The Mimi I am supposed to be shouldn’t be homesick. That girl is too much of a badass to be missing her mommy and daddy.
But I am no badass.
In my History class on Black Women (fuck yeah!!) we get to do a research paper (paperzzz 4 lyfe). I am writing about black female sexuality during the Harlem Renaissance. Did you know that their was a Jazz singer named Gladys Bentley who perfomed in a tuxedo and sang songs about “women loving women” and that was the 1920’s. And more than 80 years later we praise Mackelmore for giving a voice to the LGBTQIA+ community…
A part of me is happy to be away from home.
Freedom is pretty incredible.
For example, this morning I was feeling very overwhelmed.
In the process of recovering from the events of last night I physically couldn’t look at the walls of my dorm room for one more minute. So, I rode my bike to this breakfast place and had some French toast and over-priced apricot tea.
After, many failed attempts at reading Their Eyes Were Watching God (Ebonics are hard to read tho), I went outside and watched the hipsters pass me by in a stream of Doc Marten’s and thrift-store jeans.
Being my typical eavesdropping self, I listened in on a women discuss how her “FOX obsessed mother is addicted to religion” and her “shitty father is still fucking that 20 year old name Kim”.
Obviously, I driven to create this elaborate image of Kim in my mind, which led to tracing the next 50 years of her life. She will soon become a nun, eventually leaving the convent to follow her dreams of being a country western star and finally find God again after her D-list celebrity status can’t get her a spot on the 17th season of Dancing with the Stars.
But as [nameless hipster-ish 20 something] continued to talk about her shitty parents I found myself calling my dad.
Before I knew it I was awkwardly crying in public, trying to hold my shit together as much as possible.
“Change is good”. God I hate that saying.
Change is hard. Change is beautiful yet terrifying.
I feel like a ball of yarn with all my emotions intertwined.
I just need to unravel.
Even as I write this I am still trying to hold it together.
But aren’t we all.