Changing the Narrative!

Annie Spratt on Unsplash

I once wrote a poem about succulents. But the truth is I was writing about myself and my story. Indeed, I had come a long way and progress looked good on me. (Poem can be found in my book Bonfire available on Amazon.com)

As we celebrated the stories of many women and how they changed the narrative, I began thinking of my story. Many will try to convince you that they know me or know my story. But albeit, I beg to differ. The truth is no one knows my story like I know my story. And no one can tell my story like I can tell my story. 

I never wanted to become a teacher; that was my mother's dream and pretty soon it became mine. I handled that dream like it was an heirloom or a rite of passage. Something handed down to me and by all means, it would enable me to lift the family name, rinse it from the mud and hold it towards the sun. 

Teaching would be easy. Everyone would be proud. They would all be happy for me. These were my thoughts.

This was not so and Murphy's Law had a lot to say about that. 

At first, I did not get the job. "Apply again in the next year," they said.

When I got the job it turned a lot of heads in my village. They thought their children deserved a job as prestigious as this one but not me. Not anyone from my grandparent's lineage. We had been too poor to dream so big. To be very frank, it stung a bit since these were people who had seen my parents struggle and often smiled with them. I was changing my family's narrative and that upset a lot of folks. What a shame!

I would struggle to keep a permanent position in that job for more than five years. It was not because I was not good at my job. My plans were meticulous. At one point, I was the first to arrive and the last to leave. I found joy in going to the classroom to pass on knowledge. But I was too young and too queer for the job. When nepotism and gossip had slipped into the workplace too, I decided that enough was enough. 

It was okay to run from the village but to run from a job that brought me joy was out of the question. Home and work. Two places I had to endure the most bee stings and droughts. 

When anyone asks me why I still choose to work there or why I even bother to go home, my answer is always waiting. I am changing the narrative. I choose to return to places I have cried, so I can laugh there now. So I can rejoice. So I can sing a new song, tell a new story, and dance a new dance. 

Who cares what bitter people have to say? What kind of people get upset as others progress anyway?

    Autumn Goodman on Unsplash

It is important that as we heal and we come to grips with how powerful we are, that we return to the ruins; places that were meant to break us but did not, just to say "I am still here. You did not kill me."

David Charles Schuett on Unsplash

How are you changing the narrative? Which places do you need to go back and laugh or grin? Which ruins need to see your shine, your glow, and your tenacity? 

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