The dawn of 2019 ushered in the realization that it is time for me to tell My Story.
I am Matriarch, Elder. I don’t feel like one, or comport myself like an old woman, but it is so. Mother, Daughter, Granddaughter, Great-Granddaughter; Wife, Friend, Worker. I am the sum total. It has been an interesting ride. My Story may not seem unique: born female, black, middle class in Harlem, New York City; coming of age during the 1950s-60s and so on... But it is MY story. As Michelle Obama puts it, “Your story is what you have, what you will always have. It is something to own.”
My Then Truth, as viewed from the protective, rose-colored lens carefully crafted by my doting parents - has over time morphed into THE Truth. In the space between them lies My Story.
My memories have been downloaded into journals. My dreams dutifully signal the importance of remembering what I’d submerged. It is time. I begin.