I Remember. ..

I remember Mickey Mouse and nursery rhythms. How the library floor and was the only place to catch the Polar Express at Christmas. Back when people didn’t even have to ask if you believed. Each story building what I would need in my life to function. Each story another moment for my mom to hold me, or for my sister to be close to me.
I remember learning prayers verbatim, and songs to sing in church. Sitting in the choir: white shirt, black or blue tie, slacks, polished dress shoes. Waiting for the Priest signal us to stand and sing for the church at the top of my lungs. A star under the bright lights of the ceiling.
I remember when I really learned to love literature. When words and phrases grew beyond their literal meaning. When I learned that not all stories were meant to end happily and that someone in the world could share my desperation and joy in the simple parts of life. “Adam, Eve, and pinch me” and summers not spent in parks or pools but in bedrooms with novels and series.
I remember freshman year and how the classics impacted my life. How learned to appreciate Shakespeare and love the downward spiral of Holden Caulfield. How my English teacher yelled and screamed at my lack of attendance but marveled over my level of understanding and grade point average.
I remember being no older than eight years old and cloth seats of my aunt’s car. How it was the first time I truly felt music far beyond the melody. I understood the emotion in her voice and careful choice of each word.
I remember crying over the death of Angel and internalizing the fact that “you can’t buy love… but know you can rent it.”

I remember how Richard Wright taught me to be a “Black Boy” and I wanted to engross myself in Toni Morrison, Zora Neal Hurston, Toni Cade Bombara, Fitzgerald, and Salinger. I wanted to know what it was like to be “Ex-Colored Man.”
I remember “Back Alley Blues” and how each line came out of me as if the scene were playing right in front of me. The feeling of that body and faint smell of cigarettes in his clothing were all being revived on paper. I remember how it was the perfect snapshot of my life in one page of verse and how I really didn’t care if anyone understood it as long as they read it. I remember writing it to music and to silence but always in solitude. Even if that meant blasting my own music to drown out the world some so I come impart mind to paper.
I don’t remember the exact date or the scene, but I do remember learning to speak for others than myself and that I could build on authors far greater than myself to make others learn their lessons.
I know its growing everyday my hungry for literature in all its forms and under every scope of genre. I know it’s that I truly love.