Ten
The journaling prompt
appeared and sounded simple:
write a letter to your ten-year-old self
but the task was anything but simple
staring at the page,
re-reading the cold, black
words inside the sentence
words that were patiently waiting for,
anticipating my response
instead
I lost my voice
my thoughts became numb
goosebumps rose on my forearms
heart palpitations emerged
between shortness of breaths
fingers trembled in fear
to pick up the pen
for the first time in my life
I felt afraid to write
I felt afraid to confront
my ten-year-old self
because there was much sadness
inside his brown eyes
a traumatic concoction of
depression and grief
whose after effects sometimes haunts
his 50-year-old adult counterpart
four decades later
from being bullied
by a 4th grade classmate
while his homeroom teacher
did nothing to stop the abuse;
to the loss of his maternal grandmother,
his lifeblood, less than a month
after his birthday;
to feelings of rejection
in basketball, baseball,
or football games due to
a lack of athleticism,
always being the last picked
or never chosen at all;
to his family’s happy home
slowly disintegrating away,
less than a year away
from parental separation
with divorce right around
the corner in the next year;
to fears about his fate
in society regarding his race
emotionally disturbed after
seeing the movie Stir Crazy;
no one was aware
that seeds of self-hatred
were planted and begun
to take root inside his
fertile, precocious mind
loathing his racial identity
questioning his purpose
for living at such a young age
sometimes falling asleep
to silent prayers to God
begging Him to not wake up
the next day but finding
disappointment when opening
his eyes in the morning.
There are no words
I can say to
either heal his soul
or alter history
but pushing past the pain
looking on the flip side
of the emotional coin
I see and acknowledge the
joy inside his brown eyes
joy that inspired me
and continues to do so
four decades later
and if there’s anything
I can and want to say
to my ten-year-old self
it is “Thank you, Bill!”
thank you for
finding your voice
through artistic expression
from being influenced by
watching The Empire Strikes Back,
studying Greek mythology,
and reading Marvel Comics;
thank you for
never letting me forget
about our maternal grandmother,
our lifeblood, although she is
with the ancestors, she still
lives inside our spirit
and we are her legacy;
thank you for
coping with both
loneliness and rejection
in your pre-adolescence
through imaginary friends
despite being teased by
family members for
playing with your fingers;
thank you for
gaining strength
through crying many tears
despite your father’s attempt
to stifle your emotions
at his Uncle Fred’s funeral
because Dad didn’t want
to address his agony;
thank you for
discovering pride in yourself
as a Black man
in later adolescent
and early adulthood years
after reading Ralph Ellison’s
Invisible Man and
The Autobiography of Malcolm X;
thank you for
waking up each morning
to unanswered childhood prayers
recognizing there’s a purpose
for living and the best is yet to come…
you, Young Prince, are
and will always be
this King’s hero…
without you,
I would not be
the man I am today.
Copyright © 2020 by Bill Holmes
All rights reserved