There is something caught in me. Caught like a kernel in the throat of a stranger only smoother. Less prevalent. I don’t think I’m supposed to know it’s there and it’s trying to hide.
Today is my 29th birthday. “I am 29.” My conversations from now on will contain just that, perhaps more than anything else. “I am 29.” To many I am still a baby. To others I am too old. To myself, I am stuck in the middle of something I can’t figure out.
Last night, as a gift to myself, I bought a ticket to see Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie speak at Benaroya Hall because a few months ago friend forwarded me her a link to her TED Talk:
Her speech/presentation/talk was interesting. It left me feeling, plain. She was normal. In another world we could be friends. Conversations about shopping and men, society would cram themselves into our skulls wanting to be shared. We could be girlfriends sharing our darkest depths without shame or filter. I was surprised at just how good of girlfriends we could be.
During the question and answer session they asked questions from the audience. I submitted this one, “Do you have any advice for an American young woman of color writer who is afraid her story has already been told?” Her response was simple, ” Every story has already been told. There are what, probably 5 stories? I would ask her to please, please, please write her story.”
I wonder if it’s my story lodged in my throat hiding from the air.
