I’ve been researching my ancestry recently, picking back up where I left off a few years prior with a different goal in mind. The first go of it included me trying to piece together what my extended family looked like on my father’s side, which resulted in some major wins like learning about and even meeting one of my cousins who reminds me so much of myself, it hurts a little. The pain comes from knowing I missed out on a completely different life. I don’t want to sound ungrateful for the goodness my life has given me so far, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t actively daydream about being born with “normal” parents. Sometimes my siblings and I would ask amongst ourselves “what do you think we’d be doing right now if Mom and Dad were married, and we only ever lived in one house and stuff?” We loved to dream of soft alternatives. I have so many cousins, I often think of how I would view and hold space for my Blackness if I spent more time with them.

I did not think that my father was my father until AncestryDNA confirmed the percentage of Black came onto the screen. The story goes, that Mom kept Dad away from the five children he had with her because he was easy to anger, violent when he was angry and inconsistent with his love. The last part is my own addition - no one has said that to me - but how can consistent love wither as he did for his children? Mom moved us into a new home with a new man named Steve, who longed for me and my siblings to call him Dad. Why are men like this?

I didn’t know my dad’s family growing up and I wish I did. To have grown up listening to and learning about the stories from which I derived is something I know would fill my cup in a way nothing else can. Feeling anchored in experiences and lives lived is a luxury I want.

How do I speak to the beings that are supposedly looking out for me or guiding me? I don’t mean that disrespectfully, but I really know how to start this process authentically. Who am I even talking to when I sit at my altar? Who am I asking for help? Maybe that’s why committing to this practice has had a troubling start.

Georgia, Emmette, Macaria, Natalia, Carmen, and Paula, your names are the ones I found. You are the matriarchs I’m going to be speaking to as I try to come to peace with myself. I firmly believe you try to speak to me each morning, though I’m certain one of you is always there. Thank you so much for keeping me alive.

i’m tired of having to save myself

when will i be able to let go

fall free

long

and hard

forever

and ever

amen