Part I

My name is Chinyere Jones. Personally I like to think of it as a name to keep up with...and yes I do say that in reference to the phrase, “keeping up with the Joneses” for within it implies the characteristic of habitually being exemplary. Now I would say that that's admirable to strive for. In a sense I am living up to my name. That is my endeavor-to embody that in which I am referred to-the way in which I am known. Chinyere, as in “God gives, or God gave, as in a gift from God.” Chinyere as in associated with having a passion for being ahead of the crowd; as in characterized as having the general life pursuit of trying a little bit of everything; as in holder of definite ideas; as in assumer of considerable responsibility; as in direct and straight-to-the-point; as in quick to comprehend. Chinyere as in a gift from God-Nigerian in origin. Chinyere Jones. Jones the widespread English and Welsh surname. Jones the patronymic of the name John or Joan. Jones which essentially means “God is gracious; God is merciful; God has shown favor; gift from God.” This is the definition I choose to claim. Moreover, I pair these meanings with my own interpretation of my title. Chinyere Jones to Chinyere Jones is adorned ingenuity, is enamored with her own potential, is consistently seduced by the new and exciting possibilities, is considerable self-aware, is compelled to deem every individual as gods and goddesses in their own right, is enthused by all facets of the performing arts and creative displays on a whole, is as enchanting as her very name itself. Chinyere Jones to Chinyere Jones is someone to keep up with.

 

Part II

I was born limp, fickle, impressionable, and subject to change. I was a subject to change, a malleable and new opportunity for molding.

What shall she be? What shall be decided? What do we call this?

Gymnast.

Competitive acrobat, balanced, well-adapting, and strong. A showcase of the body’s ability. Me, on a stage. Me, at a stage of high sensitivity

of vulnerability,

of judgement.

We call her, gymnast, so says the world.

Lanky, flexible, and tall, yes we call her gymnast.

& it is our right to decide.

Oh! But oh look at those ankles. Look at that stance. Look at that form.

Yes, look at these ankles. See them shake. Look at this stance, severely unstraight. Oh! My form! It wobbles and sways. Hardly a gymnast, as they have said.

When asked about my life and how I came to be, my initial answer is always, “I was born, and then I was in gymnastics.” My parents threw me in a slur of activities from the very beginning, and I became accustomed to wearing several hats in the process. This is probably why I stretch myself thin in numerous activities today.

Well, well, this hat no longer fits.

So then, what shall we call her? What shall she become? What should be decided?

Dancer.

She picks up quickly, and keeps in time.

Such form, and grace, and

                                                              rhythmic by design.                

& it must be added that she looks like a dancer.

Skinny, so skinny! Look at those disciplined lines.

Yes, we call her dancer, it’s our right to decide.

I broke away from gymnastics around the same time I gave up church choir. I felt tired, I felt bored, and I could no longer remember why I was doing what I doing. I could no longer remember what it was I even truly liked.

One morning, I opened my eyes and acknowledged that I was not at all gymnast.

In retrospect, this should have been obvious to me sooner. I wasn’t any good…

Alright, well I was kind of good…off and on.

I was sixth place good.

My nickname on my team was “noodle,” because of my terribly shaky balance.

Of course, I was better at some things than others, but overall nothing felt quite right.

Overall, I was unhappy.

Quitting was the first moment in which I realized myself with resolve.

But now I am young and empty, and looked expectedly to my parents to provide for me fulfillment.

That is when I became a dancer. I looked like a dancer afterall, and I would eventually get too tall for gymnastics anyway.

I was just the right type and size for a dance career.

Shuffle step and five positions, oh how I missed performing.

My dance instructor praised me,

My peers praised me,

An audience praised me,

 And I became validated in their attention.

Nevertheless, I recognized this identity as costume, and eventually tired of appeasing the bravas and encores.

This autonomous spirit of eleven was growing increasingly outspoken,

And willing to throw off the world’s cloak

Enter the quiet years, age eleven to fourteen, which were never truly quiet.

I was always doing something and going somewhere, ping ponging between looking back and ahead, and never focusing upon the fleeting present moments.

I took upon myself many, many things out of interests that were not necessarily my own.

The hats I continuously stacked and balanced strained my neck, but I endure it all nevertheless.

I do look good in hats, afterall.

My closet is growing exponentially:

basketball team hat, band hat, 4-H hat, geography club hat, model UN hat, chorus hat, youth choir hat, Girl Scout hat, Search class hat, steeple player community theater hat, drama club hat, mock trial team hat, SKILLS USA hat, theatre production hat, beta club hat, national honor society hat, math team hat, academic team hat, future educators of America hat, noh8 club hat, archery team hat, NOAHS promise hat, French club hat…

All with shirts to match.

Costumes! Costumes! Costumes!

They say don’t lose your childlike spirit, so I’ve never stopped pretending.

Even now dress-up is my favorite game to play.

I stretch into this, and fit into that, hoping to achieve some type of congruence between the internal and external.

Thus far, all but I have dressed me. I listened obediently to their fashion sense.

Consequently, to several images I was fashioned hence, but none of them were me.

Hat upon hat upon hat was stacked weighing my mind with the weight of the world.

My neck being so strained the only place I could look was down.

By the time I entered high school I was very well aware of my lost sense of being. I became complacent in identifying as a people pleaser. In retrospect, this was probably out of fear of personal responsibility for the state of my life. What life did I have other than the one I’ve been directed to? This had been the way for so long, and habits are a difficulty to break. Eventually, I stopped caring, bided my time, and slept through my present.

It is surprisingly easy using the world’s expectations as a pillow.

Each day is mechanical, and I am dead inside.

It is a wonder I get through it all.

Weariness slows my very bones.

Yet, I can do it all?

My stature suggests

(that I can do it all).

Curse! Curse, I say,

it drives me insane.

Still, I love to appease (them).

What shall she be? What shall become of her? What shall be decided?

Oh? You’re asking me now…

It is about that time. Off into the world with you! What have you wanted after all this time?

…I only desire to sun bathe and daydream these days.

But how can this be when you’ve done so much?!

I’ve done too much. I only desire to sun bathe and daydream these days.

Here! Here are more hats to choose from! Time is finite, so choose quickly and smartly.

* falls back asleep vexed, unhappy, and unwilling to face realities *

So I am drifting.

So?

Now I admire the world’s colors.

Now I acknowledge the present.

Now I stare.

Now I long.

Now I wonder.

So I am drifting.

So I can’t tell you my next.

So I scrutinize with authority.

So I love with no pretense.

So seeing tomorrow is a renewed miracle.

So I am drifting.

Call it unconventional.

Call it self-destructive.

Call it naïve.

So I am drifting.

So?

I am choking on the vomit of life and responsibility.

All my actions, I feel, are in vain, and I do things for the sake of just doing them.

I am unhappy.

I’m not my self I want.

I lament.

Drained and weak entirely

I walk death in voluntarily.

With every impulsive step after step,

I curse myself.

There is something in me that wants to get out. I can feel it screaming, tearing its hair out and scratching away at my soul. Perhaps, I dare, it is my adult. She’s trapped behind delusion and procrastination. I tantrum, she wraths and her fists are pounding my sides with increasing fervor. I want out. I want out. I want out. I want out. I want.

This isn’t me. Isn’t me. Isn’t me. Anymore.

Done. Done. Done.

Oh.

She means to escape.

I want to let her

Break me to pieces.

When I awoke again I was at Spelman College. This always amused me, because I had swore to myself that I would never live in Atlanta. Yet, I’ve never felt more at home anywhere else.

The college experience: an opportunity for renaissance.

That was the thought that excited me most.

I had the freedom to create myself according to my whim, without ever-watchful and scrutinizing eyes.

Instead, I am empowered as judge. I choose which parts of the world I take up, and what hat I shall where for that day.

Remnants old habits still cling as cobwebs in the corners of my inner self.

I still stretch myself too thin.

However, I am satisfied. I am awake.

Moreover, my costumes fit me comfortably.

Every day I increasingly accept and appreciate my role in my own life.

I am old.

I am young.

I am alive.

I am dead all at the same time.

I am life.

I am love.

I am sorrow.

I am tears.

All at the same time.

I am thought of and created,

and born and born again.

I am buried with my eyes wide open thoughts racing.

I am present.

I am past.

I am and I was.

I ‘ve been again, and again,

And all at the same time.

Lost and found

Mature and naïve,

Skeptical and convicted,

Silently screaming!

Simulatneously.

 

 

--​C.LouiseJ.