Aya Collective Publishing

I woke up one morning thinking about how my day was going to play out. As I prepared for the day ahead, getting myself dressed and making sure that I dropped my children off at school on time, I initially thought I could spend some time at my 12 year old daughter’s school since there was something going on for parents that I could be involved in or briefly go into the office before my 10 am hair appointment. But  then I thought I needed to spend time writing, getting lost in my own thoughts and dreams. So I dropped my kids off at school and made my way to my favorite Black-owned coffee shop in St. Paul, MN. I ordered the loaded hash browns with veggies and apple vegan sausage,  gluten free toast, and of course, a cup of chai made with oat milk. The only way I drink it.

With me, I carried my journal, my computer, work things, all of the lip gloss a Black  woman could hold, and the book of poetry that I had been reading by Nikki Giovanni called, A Good Cry. I didn’t read this book as quickly as I read through Bicycles earlier that year, but I read it just the same, getting more familiar with this artist, who if I am honest, I hadn’t  paid that much attention to before. It was Bicycles and the levity of the title, and her stunning image on the cover page, that brought me into her world.

I opened Nikki’s book and picked up where I left off the night before. Last night, I closed the book reading her piece called Surveillance. In Surveillance, she told the truth about her father’s violence toward her  mother that she was forced to keep silent about. I suppose she has worked through her emotions and the nightmares, or at least, attempted to work through them in the space of  writing. Even though we are on a first name basis now, I do not know if while writing, she wept, or screamed, or shouted curses at the Divine, or blamed herself, or…

I ended the night with that piece and the rawness of its vulnerability, which brought me  to my own tears, and I think, is what prompted me to come to this sacred space this morning. I settled into my cup of chai, and began to read. I read Nikki’s “Autumn Soup” followed by the  “Introduction for Tim O’Brien.” And it is in reading the introduction that I paused as she stated:

“Sometimes you are made aware of something  
That you know you alone cannot change 

… 

Sometimes though you understand  
You cannot make the tragedy go whole  
You cannot make the hurt heal 
You can do nothing but embrace  
The best within yourself 
And you 
Write a novel a song, play a poem, a short story… 
You write because it is the honorable thing to do 
You write because you seek the words to help all of us understand” (2017, p. 85).

And as I read her words, I immediately said within myself, yes. Ase.’ This is why we write,  why I write―to change what I cannot on my own. To hold what seems too heavy to pick up. To  make sense of the unsensible. To create what doesn’t exist. 

I sat and began to reflect on Nikki’s call to write and the relationship between her  parents. Did she begin writing because she felt that this is where she held the most power? I  thought back to my own journey with writing over the years; in particular, feeling as if it was in  the sacred space of writing that I was able to reconcile with my own memories because it was  here where I felt the most powerful. It was in the space of writing where I felt the most heard,  and the most validated, and the most free to give voice to my own pain, as well as the pain I witnessed. 

In doing so, I began to really understand the power of writing. Writing for me is alchemy. It is magic. With my paper and pen (or computer), I weave together a story, lines of a poem, or  a prayer, that I am convinced will free us from whatever hell we find ourselves in. Can we make  the tragedy disappear? I don’t think so. But maybe, if we approach it right, we can make sure  that the tragedies don’t destroy us.  

Writing isn’t just honorable; it is absolutely necessary to heal ourselves. We have the  capacity to heal ourselves and apply balm to the places we have hidden from the public eye. Writing opens us up like that, and then gives space for those who take part in our healing, to also  be healed through their witnessing of our transformation. But like Nikki, we must tell the truth. Even when it hurts and brings up memories we would care to forget. 

This is why I keep writing. I’ve been at this for 17 years of my life. And I will be at it 50 more as long as God gives me breath and life and sight. Lord, I want to see into my nineties! And  in eternity, give me a room full of paper and pens, and incense and chai tea, and flowers, and  love, so I can continue to write from the great beyond and inspire others who will take this  alchemical work seriously.  

I want to be counted among those who use the magic of writing as a force for creativity  and good, and never misuse the power for evil. This is what I hope. For Nikki, our now beloved ancestor. For me. And for everyone else brave enough to take the utterances of their heart, and expose them for the  world to see. 

By Ebony Aya
*A version of this story was originally hosted on St. Paul Almanac’s Online Magazine Issue