Personal Essays & Think Pieces

As any lexicographer will tell you, language isn’t about having an extensive or impressive vocabulary. It’s about communication. 

Other than the fact that I was too young to wear crop tops and tight dresses, I was scared of being deemed, well, girly. At the time, being cool and being proudly feminine were mutually exclusive. Most of the aforementioned characters were villainized through their brazen styles and attitudes, and the opposite of who I thought I wanted to be. 

Family and neighbors gathered in our ashtray garage congregation, breaking bread and beer on a scattered group of wooden stools and plastic chairs, cigarette smoke wafting as the incense of our ceremony. My dad’s bulky speaker blared a choir of alternative rock radio and scratched Motown CDs. The storms danced in a cacophony of chaos and vitality, the shouting thunder and soothing rain dynamic and impending yet natural and inviting.

I was still half-asleep when the doctor called. 10 a.m. on a Thursday. I told her the medication was working, not knowing if that meant I should feel happier or just more stable; I told her I was getting enough sleep, while beating myself up for not getting out of bed hours earlier. She asked if I was eating enough, and I recounted my meals of coffee and wine and late-night slices of 99-cent pizza: “I guess.”

When I came back from Germany, the first thing I did was cruise along the wide open highways surrounding Charlotte, and honestly, I’m scared of driving. I make risky left turns and brake too quickly and still depend on a stranger’s “go ahead” wave at four-way stops. But the freedom of roaming the roads alone with no determined destination, no concerns over missing an exit or barely making the yellow light taught me the difference between solitude and independence, traveling and exploring — a freedom from worry. 

Quarter-zip crosses his arms. Quarter socks scrolls through his phone. Ms. quarter-hoarder adjusts the belongings in her Mary Poppins backpack and quarter-pounder waits patiently, rocking in boots as dirty as his work pants. The eclectic group surrounds the counter at a distance, oblivious to the pressure on the other side. Oblivious to Patrice’s growing stress.