The Pieces I Am
I recently rewatched the documentary The Pieces I Am by an empress of the written word the remarkable Toni Morrison. As the screen faded to black, I sat in solitude left to wonder what are the pieces of me? This year has seasoned the atmosphere for such a reckoning.
It’s given us time to analyze what makes us; what has broken us; what has healed us.
What has built us.
Let us start from birth.
I am my parents
And I am not.
I am my ancestors.
And I am not.
Well….
I guess I am simply me.
But I am not.
I always believed we have 3 origin stories. One given to us by our parents, one of unfurled whispers of who we were before and one we are given the choice to actively write. Some of us only acknowledge one, some of us only know of one, some of us know of none, and there are those who choose to funnel the power of all three.
I guess the last one could possibly be me. I was born premature, taught to smile as soon as my face hit the air — wouldn’t you be a bit upset if you were forced to wake early into this madness? I was launched into a world that would sneer and campaign against my existence. It might be the reason I battle against my internal…
