my Bubi taught me
there is power in stories
in shaping what is remembered and what is seen
she died 8 years before my first taste of oxygen
but she left me a matrix of hidden lessons
to be decoded
every twist and turn of my childhood seemed to occasion one of her stories and like chanting prayers, the words and tones, pace and pauses always exactly how my mother learned them from her
my young self couldn’t be bothered with how much “fact” there was in a story, like a painter knows perspective and light can render an object unrecognizable to its own reflection, I always knew truth has as many faces as there are bundles of neurons sculpting it, and knew I was as qualified as any to choose which of her faces to summon forward in each moment
I never needed a story to survive like my Bubi did, crammed into whatever shape would keep her alive another day, never weathered the tide of fact checking cynicism and disbelief she faced
the harmonies of synapses and a quick tongue
she gave me live freer in my mouth
than they ever got to in hers
free to round details, grow sizes and numbers,
fluff up textures, spruce colors, to stick the landing
in seamless synchronicities booming punchlines and
coy unsuspecting twists, free to embellish to my liking,
free to choose
I do know what it is to need my stories, to need to carve away with the precision of a surgeon’s knife the many excuses of those refusing to make a place for me, of those trying but too lost in the thick batting of their fears to see me
I too wouldn’t be here without my stories, my own wild of secret pathways in a labyrinth of truth as I define it cupped in the wisdoms of those who taught me to know myself, their forcefields protecting against any who would pull me apart by my story if I let them
my Bubi taught me that no matter how far someone travels in abusing their power, over your body, your safety, your rhythms of home and familiar, they never have power over how you tell your story, without ever once getting to enclose my young body into her warm weight, she made sure this knowledge crossed the canyon between our living to get to me
she knew there’s a power we hold over those who have hurt us, power to determine the story that is told about them, that most people who hurt people know this, fear this, the power they have given away, it is why they will try to convince you your story doesn’t matter, try to convince those around you not to listen
she knew even when it takes time, to know your story, to speak your story, for your story to be heard clearly, or at all, its power is undiminished
but there are lessons I don’t think she intended for me to learn
how a choreography of repetition
can house a delicate mastery of hiding
can encapsulate the vulnerable center of pain
adding layers of insulation with each re-retelling
insulation from ever having to feel it all fully
from ever offering our wounds to the fresh molecules
of hope that make healing possible
I don’t think she wanted me to see how a cold heart can use powerful stories like ammunition, aimed at those closest and most vulnerable, can use survival as cover for abuse
the blueprint she gave me for shaping reality and changing circumstances with our stories is how i know even small stories in small moments, even those we only tell ourselves, cast their vote,
how i know each voice inside who’s dreaming is tight with fear, who’s wants me snared in their limitations, can be rock to release,
how i know i can chose stories ready to draw down the infinite in our crafting of tomorrow
