(1) I was 4 and now I'm 35. So, my brain has progressed (or regressed, depending on how you view it) over the past 31 years, and I cannot be accurate as to the logistics of kindergarten demographics.
AND
(2) For me, we may have been, at least in my view, the only important 4-year-old Black girls in my little world which was probably in the early stages of being an egocentric person.
But back to her...this one friend that I had in this lowly kindergarten class on the Northeast side of Grand Rapids, Michigan...this one person that shared a unique quality like me that made her my ace boon coon even back then. She had what was considered a strange name. Just like me.
We were in early elementary together, the two girls with the strange names and the creative gift of writing. We both loved books and words. It wasn't until we entered middle school at Northeast Middle School and Creston High School (yay, Polar Bears!) after years of not seeing each other and growing up in different paths that we had some semblance of writing and putting words together. She became my favorite poet, really, having this grasp of words and language and humor that was signature of this young woman with the name that could no longer be considered strange but had to be considered artistic and biblical license by her parents. She wrote things that stirred in me the desire to write.
Even today that is a most difficult thing for anyone to do. My taste in the written word has become much more eclectic now that The Babysitter's Club and Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret has passed into my literary history. No one can effectively make me pick up a pen quite like this woman. When writer's block threatens to invade, I think of something she has said or written. And she doesn't even know that she has been a buoy tossed out to me time and again when words fail and I sink into "thick-brain."
A couple years ago, this woman with the artistic name published a book, a beautiful poetry book entitled Respective Dreamlands. It is the tome I pick up along with The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou. She sits in the picture above at her first book signing for this book that could barely hold her poetic genius, smiling her heart-smile which even today I miss seeing everyday.
Her birthday is the month after mine, a couple weeks before Thanksgiving. Her birth month had to be chosen by God before the foundation of the world. I imagine that when He thought of her, He started smiling too as He considered the exact time and generation that He would present her to the world. She would have to be born in November in the exact generation I was because my life had to be impacted so righteously and artistically by her. She had to be born in a month that would remind me that I have at least one thing to be thankful for...that I ever met her.
To me, Mykal is a woman that cannot be replicated but absolutely must be celebrated for her ability to intertwine God, faith in Him, and life's raw beauty in a uniquely poetic form. And I am thankful for her presence, her love of writing, her truth in my world. She shows me how to not take life so seriously but instead see the poetic humor in it all.
2 comments:
The poetic humor.... I love that! Its so odd to me the way I look at life. Sometimes I'm amazed and appalled simultaneously by my own thought process. I think that it's just a mixture of my earthly parents' impact on me as well a my faith and assurance in my heavenly Father.... Sometimes the conversations I have with myself make me want to shake my head, holler, cry, kick and scream in some sort of adult tantrum, or just truly laugh out loud. So, long story short.... First of all, thank you for this beautiful post. I'm too goofy to ever acknowledge that my writing has any depth, so it means a lot to me to read your words. Isn't it cool how life works.... I think the reason why we write is because we read, and we know what other people's stories (real or fictional) can do. Remember when we used to sit and have our writing sessions at your apartment? Listening to India. Arie, or whoever we felt like inviting to join us.... Poetry Night? Good times.
Oh, man! Do I ever remember the writing sessions and the ventures to Poetry Night. Those times were the best times for me and helped me remember that life should never be taken so seriously. Writing and reading are God-gifts and I thank Him for them. Thank you for gracing my world. It has truly NEVER been the same... :)
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