The Chosen One, page 19
“Before I turn on the lights, I want you to imagine that you are a newborn baby seeing yourself for the first time. Fresh eyes. A new way of witnessing. So take a deep breath and close your eyes. When I tell you to open them, do your best to let go of any judgments, critiques, assumptions, or beliefs and just see.”
I try and inhale as much oxygen as possible, but my chest is so constricted with fear I only manage to pull in small gulps. When the lights come on, I watch myself struggle to breathe, which is exactly what a newborn would be doing anyways. I can only look at my reflection for a few seconds before I have to look away in disgust. Why am I like this?
“You can sit or stand, but keep breathing. Keep looking. Let the layers of who you thought you were fall away like autumn leaves.”
I have done the work. I have killed the monster in my psyche, yet all I see when I look forward is a beast. An unlovable creature of the night. What’s the point of having a “precious human life” if my experience will be filled with so much suffering?
“Let pass whatever emotions may arise. Shame, fear, anger, sadness. Treat them as you would a guest who is here for a short time to teach you something, but ultimately moving on. Say to your reflection: ‘I accept you. I love you. I believe in you.’”
Has she lost her mind? No way. The words refuse to even come near my lips. This is so dumb.
I glance around and see that I am not the only one struggling with this activity. Several people can barely look at themselves. I am so deeply uncomfortable, I contemplate leaving the room altogether.
“You may be wanting to escape. I invite you to stay with us. Dig deeper. This work is hard. If you can’t make those statements, simply say, ‘I see you.’”
My dark brown eyes plead for a validation I cannot provide. I say it, but without looking at myself.
“Maybe you are waiting for someone to come and tell you that you matter, or are beautiful, smart, a good person. Or maybe you’re waiting for someone to come rescue you. I want to tell you that after fifty-seven years on Earth, I’ve learned that nobody saves you. We only save ourselves. Can you find the courage to go get yourself, again? I know you’ve done it in the past after each disappointment. I can only imagine the things that have happened to you. The deep well of pain that must be throbbing in the center. You are not your pain. Take a moment to let that marinate. You are not your pain. What are you, then, beyond suffering?”
I have never considered that I might be something other than an aggregate of all the bad things that have happened to me. That’s what I see when I look in the mirror, an inventory of dreadful experiences. The realization destroys me. How sad, I think to myself. I don’t want to go to my grave having only seen myself this way.
I try to find strength. I recite a few Bible verses in my head, attempting to conjure my mother’s presence or the Keepers, but it doesn’t work. I feel dead inside and totally alone until I hear Shaquanda say, I have always loved you. Since you were a little girl. I remember how you shined, the luminosity of your being. You still shine, even now, after everything that happened to you. Nobody can take your light from you. The Defiance, sitting behind me like proud parents. Shaquanda, softer than I’ve ever seen her. I didn’t know she could be this gentle. Yea, and I said this girl is something special, you feel me? This girl right here got a special purpose, Damon says. How the heavens rippled, hah, with your arrival, hah, Terrell chimes in. How existence itself bowed to your majesty.
I blush. A wave of airy elation washes over me. I feel full, enlivened. You ready to meet your true essence? Shaquanda asks. She puts her hands on my shoulders. Terrell and Damon both place supportive palms on my back. I take a deep breath and look into the mirror.
A me unlike any me I’ve ever seen. My higher self, who is wise even when I’m not. The best possible version of me buried beneath all the shit. Stunning. Glowing. Ethereal, with otherworldly beauty. My energy looks perfectly balanced: femininity, power, and softness all integrated. The inner turmoil that has driven my life, quieted.
She uncurls, my reflection, and smiles so lovingly I can barely behold her compassion. She raises her right hand and folds her fingers into Gyan Mudra. Finally, she speaks. “Holy are you and all who live. Part of the path is forgetting. I am your home. Only self-love can save you. Come as often as you need to be reminded. The heart knows the way.” She returns to her celestial position. The Defiance clap gleefully behind me. They play “At Last,” by Etta James, to commemorate the moment. I mumble along with them: “At last, my love has come along… and life is like a song.”
I am not the only one singing. Several other students hum, some dance, and two shed tears. A few participants seem to be unmoved and unchanged, glaring around the room at an awakening they don’t share. Maybe next time, I wish for them. Still, the shift in energy across the room as a whole is dramatic and overwhelming.
“Yes!” Professor Nielson cries out joyfully. “Embrace yourself! Sing, dance, twirl. You have found the fountain of life… at last.”
True homecomings are like this. A joyful reunion with what was in you all along. The path back may be muddied and overgrown with weeds, but have faith that your heart, like the camel in the desert, will never lead you astray. A Jedi’s greatest asset then is not magic but self-love.
Fairies ice-skate across the arena. Even I have feathery white wings tonight for the forty-fifth annual Winter Carnival. Who knew late February could be so enjoyable. The campus has been converted into a snowy paradise complete with snow sculptures on the Green, white angels hanging from light poles, and white lights that dance with glee as soon as the sun goes down. Unlike everything else, this looks exactly like it did in the brochure: magical. Christmas was seven weeks ago, but the speakers blast all my favorite holiday songs: “Santa Baby,” by Eartha Kitt; “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” by Andy Williams; and “This Christmas,” by Destiny’s Child, to add a little spice to the mix. I blow a kiss at the DJ to show my appreciation.
“Well, aren’t you suddenly flirty?” Keli says, holding on to my arm to steady herself on the skates.
“I don’t know why you grabbing me, I can’t skate neither,” I respond.
“Yea, but we can use each other for balance.”
Earnell, who took ice-skating classes when he was younger at the local YMCA, whirls around the rink, spinning and elegantly extending his limbs like a snow king. He keeps yelling over to us, “Watch this, ladies,” before each of his tricks. We can’t clap since we are holding on to each other for dear life.
Gabby sips hot chocolate and waves eagerly every time we pass by. “Outdoor activities in the freezing cold are not my forte,” she reminds us when we all agree to attend the festivities together.
“But I mean,” Keli continues, “you’ve got a different energy. Walking across campus winking at cute boys. I saw you. Now blowing kisses. Give me some of whatever you’re taking. I wanna be an easy, breezy Cover Girl too.”
Keli is right, I have been aglow since meeting my higher self in theater class. I feel like I’m floating through the world and everyone is a friend. I can’t believe how different I am inside compared to when I first got here. It’s like my self-image was a deformed monster, but now it’s a sparkling siren who can’t stop singing love songs. Charm suddenly oozes from my pores. I’ve never had this experience in my entire life. I keep waiting for it to pass, for my familiar brooding nature to return, but so far it hasn’t. I’m elevated. Am I enlightened? I wonder after Professor Demeton discusses this state of mind in religion class. “Imagine a state of being so profound, you become one with all life. Your thoughts dissolve, and you live in bliss.” I still have thoughts so I guess I haven’t arrived, but I do feel blissful. Maybe I’m one step away from Buddhahood.
Ice-skating is followed by a lovely walk across campus to the snow sculptures. Unlike the wooden joker for homecoming, the snow creations are glitzy and dazzling. There’s Tinkerbell, an ice castle, a frozen forest of ancient trees, dancing elves, and a nativity scene.
“How come nobody ever built stuff like this in Chicago?” Keli remarks. “Winter there would have been so much better.”
“’Cause poor people too busy trying to survive,” Earnell replies bitterly. “Don’t have the time or energy to play in the snow when dem bills gotta be paid and dem babies gotta be fed.”
“I know that’s right,” Gabby agrees. “They stay making sure joy is limited for poor Black folks, but we always manage to find a way to cultivate it in our souls. Like this one over here”—she says, pointing to me—“have you ever seen her so vibrant and free? You really need to tell us if your wild oats have been sowed.”
“Oh my God, shut up!” I say playfully. “Why is everyone so concerned about my lady parts all of a sudden? I am unsowed!” Earnell gleams at my confession, touching my arm, softly suggesting he might be the one to get the gold. He won’t, but I’m overflowing with love and want to be deeply connected to others around me, so I turn around and hug him. I press my entire body into his chest. He is slightly disappointed when I do the same thing to Gabby and Keli.
“OK, now I know this heffa is on one, freely loving up on us as if she’s a white,” Keli says.
“I just love y’all. That’s it,” I say, smiling radiantly.
The Dartmouth Aires, an all-male a cappella group, frame the moment perfectly with their smooth, harmonic voices. They begin their first song, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” by Elton John, as a crowd gathers. The moment overwhelms me. This is what I’ve always wanted. To be connected and loved. I have yearned for so long. I don’t understand why I had to grow up in a sea of abuse when this was possible all along.
“Harden yourself to stand it,” they said. “Obey the rules of society. Save money. Exercise and eat right. Try to achieve something important.” They don’t tell you that you’ll need to be loved. That it’s the building block of your very humanity. You can’t survive without it. So you come up with clever schemes to get it. Everyone’s tactics are different, but if you winnow it down to the root, you’ll find the same driving impulse: the need to be loved. Deeper than a need. Woven into the fabric of your DNA.
They don’t tell you that yes, you’ll use defenses sometimes, but everything you need for your soul is on the other side of those walls. How come no one ever told me?
Earnell and I continue our flirting. I know I don’t like him romantically but I am enjoying the attention. “Wanna take a walk?” he asks. “Without Ren and Stimpy over there?”
“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”
We grab some cotton candy and linger through the sculptures. The Dartmouth Aires continue their melodic crooning in the background. It’s the most romantic moment I’ve ever had and I don’t want to leave it, even if this isn’t my prince. Earnell grabs my hand and I don’t pull away. I know I’m going to have to put a stop to this eventually, but I’m just not ready to release the enchantment yet.
“So, I was thinking.”
“Oh boy, what were you thinking in that brilliant mind of yours, Earnell Jackson?” He blushes at my unhidden flirtation.
“Just how we have so much in common. We come from similar environments. Have the same values.”
“Yes, very true. Hard to find people with whom you connect so well.”
“Exactly! Nearly impossible, I’d say. Out of all the campuses in the world, she had to walk onto mine.”
Silence, too much.
He stops and stands in front of me.
Onlookers probably think we are a couple smitten by the magic of the night. They would be justified in their observations. Both of us are enthralled, but for different reasons. Him because he thinks he finally got the girl and me as a result of tapping the well of unconditional love inside myself. We are on the same train, but for different reasons.
He leans forward, closes his eyes, and lingers.
The line that divides friends asks if I will cross it further. I consider the invitation. My desire to be intimate with someone in this moment is enormous. So compelling, I consider crossing over and meeting him in the throes of a passion I do not share. Yearning can make you act in such ways. His unkissed lips waiting right there. I stand outside the door of desire, hoping it opens for this caring, intelligent, good-natured human in front of me. I urge it to open, but it doesn’t and neither does my heart for him. It would be like kissing my brother. I can’t. Attraction is a mysterious force that can’t be feigned.
I am devastated. I know what it’s like to be rejected. I don’t want to be responsible for that.
“Earnell,” I say softly, and he sees his interest is not shared.
“Earnell, I need you to listen carefully to what I’m about to say. I want you to understand that it doesn’t mean you aren’t worthy. The right person will be able to appreciate everything you have to offer. You are one of the best people I’ve ever met. Anyone would be…”
Earnell’s face drops. He steps away from me, bursting the bubble of euphoria I’ve been living in. My defenses prepare to remount. He storms off before turning around and saying, “Anyone but you, right? Why am I never good enough?”
There is nothing that can be done in this moment. No way to rectify it. It’s the nature of relating. I stand forlornly for a few more minutes, hurting for Earnell and myself. I reach down and draw a heart in the snow with an X through it, a warning for others on the cliff of romantic uncertainty. I mill aimlessly, trying to stay out of view of Keli and Gabby, not wanting them to see my fall from grace. I walk, then sit on snow-covered stairs, before beholding the illuminated night sky. Comfort doesn’t come. The Dartmouth Aires finish their last song, “Ain’t No Sunshine,” by Bill Withers, a melancholy number about burning and loss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The next four weeks of the semester advance at warp speed. I feel like I traveled astrally from the Winter Carnival to midterms. When the dreaded exams finally arrive, I greet them like a houseguest I don’t like but tolerate. Oh, welcome back. So nice to see you again. Look at that, you brought a fruitcake this time. How lovely. Not. When I unwrap the other hostess gifts a week later in the form of graded exams, I’m thrilled to see that I’ve gotten three A’s, one B+, and a B-. Luke Skywalker continues to slay with her pencil lightsabers.
Now with two months left in the semester, the pressure to complete everything intensifies.
I feel like a headless chicken running madly in all directions. Before the end of the year, I will have to take final exams, write and memorize my monologue for the final theater performance, attend the end-of-year freshman retreat, and finalize my financial aid paperwork for next year. My never-ending checklist grows daily. As soon as I cross one thing off, something else gets added. It’s daunting, but I’m managing.
The people around me also worship the ritual of busyness. I haven’t seen Gabby or Keli in over a week, and Earnell is avoiding me. Whenever I see him, he turns and quickly walks the other way. He also wears ridiculous disguises. Ironic. He was right, I still know it’s him no matter what he’s wearing. I wonder how long he will keep it up.
Tray Tray has canceled two of our recent tutoring sessions. Econ threatens to knock me off the high academic horse I’ve been riding if I don’t reconnect with her soon. I’m definitely not going to let that happen.
Yoda continues teaching me the ways of the other realm. She says bliss is common when making contact with such a deep, profound part of ourselves. “Don’t be disappointed when the state fades. Only a master can maintain that energy for the duration of their corporeal lives.
“No, you are not a master.”
“Hey! Stop reading my thoughts,” I say playfully. I don’t actually mind when she peeks into my head since I trust her completely.
“One day,” she says. “Just answer one call at a time.”
“Are you not entertained?!” I shout amusedly at my empty bed, imitating Russell Crowe in Gladiator. “Have I not given you my all?”
Except nothing about my rehearsal is outstanding. Mediocre at best. I’m practicing for our final theater performance at the end of the year. Our task is to act out various scenes from scripts with depth and emotion, attempting to project that sensitivity onto an audience. We have finally started rehearsing actual theater seven weeks before the semester ends. I am alone in my room, standing in front of the mirror watching my painful attempts at acting. I beg my higher self to make a reappearance and teach me how to give to others what she gave to me, but she’s nowhere to be found. I’m still connected to my heart, but I feel like a robot every time I try to act. There is too much pressure to summon feelings, which are supposed to be private and only shared with people you trust.
Professor Nielson makes it look easy. She performs moving renditions of scenes from plays. I want to cry every time I watch her. “Vulnerability,” she says, “is the doorway to transformation. We as artists seek to provide the audience with a transformational experience, which can only come from an open heart.”
I look up the meaning of vulnerability. “The quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally.” If that’s what it means, I’ve rarely been vulnerable in my life. I’ve seen glimpses of who I can be without all my defenses, but I don’t live in that reality yet. Professor Nielson is asking me to perform without my guards. I don’t know if I can. I’ve been behind a shield for so long, it’s still difficult for me to take down my protections. “Give your heart,” she says, “and you will find your power onstage.”
Professor Nielson suggests we read poetry, listen to music, or watch movies that move us in order to facilitate the opening of our hearts for our final monologues. I decide to watch movies. I rent Cold Mountain and Titanic from the library, two movies that always make me cry my eyes out. I watch the movies when I know Manda Panda won’t be home. I don’t want her to see me crying.
