Dear Past Me,

 

I saw a picture of you the other day

Smiling wide

Sitting in a reclining chair with space your small body couldn't fill

With curly hair tamed into two puffs on the side of your head.

You were very young

But old enough to notice the bugs on the walls

To peek around the corner as Mom and Dad argued late at night

To think that your friend’s blonde hair might be prettier than yours

To cry when you realized how different you were.

 

You got older

(So sorry about that)

And Dad left

You saw him less.

Mom helped your wild curls fly free and you cried, seeing only an ugly lion

And you begged her for a perm

A little while after a director cast you as the dog in a play

Because to her your hair was perfect for the part.

You tortured your hair into a frayed straightness

You struggled to be white enough for the popular kids

And black enough for your family

And you learnt to hate what you had been given

The body

The skin

The hair

The clothes

The parents

The life

 

I’m eighteen.

I am still young.

A year ago

This guy

Peter

He died

And you

I

We

We still have not stopped crying.

 

I don’t want to lie to you

And tell you that we’re completely happy all the time now

That all we have is joy and prosperity

Because at some point back then
Where you are

We stopped being in the constant state of happy

That youth seems to give.

 

There are words you’ll learn

Like depression

Or suicide

Or anxiety

Or student debt

That will grow close to you

That you won’t forget

But they and the experiences they give

Are not always things you’ll want to give back

Because you wrote a piece

About childhood and sadness and not knowing where to go or who to be

And when you performed it people cried

It was the most honest thing some had ever seen.

The life you’ll live

Gives life to everything you create as the artist we’ll become.

 

You’re afraid

Of money

Of adulthood

Of the future

Of being afraid

But you still keep stepping forward.

 

Your hair isn’t straight

It’s short

(No, not like Halle Berry)
It’s curly

It takes hours to twist and persuade into waves

It’s culture

It’s history

It’s time spent with your mother
And you love it.

You love you.

Sometimes.

Sometimes it’s easier to hate

Or to want something else

Darker or lighter skin

Different hair

Different clothes

But when you love

You love

Because you’re something to be adored.

 

You go to school in the city

In a dorm where mice come dangerously close to your bed

And your roommates drive you crazy

And the chai lattes down the street threaten your wallet

And it terrifies you how big or wide or vast or busy it is

But you love it because this is where you’ll be made into something great.

It’s where you were meant to be

Regardless of the anxiety

Or tears

Or drama.

 

And look, listen, actually pay attention, because I know this is long and you might’ve gotten bored

This is important:
Happiness isn’t constant.

Sometimes it’s temporary

But it always comes back.

At some point you realize the power you have

And the choices you can make

And the roads you can take

To bring it back.

There’s happiness in stress

When you’re stressed making something you love.

There’s happiness in that crappy dorm room

Because it’s crappy in New York.

It’s not your fault

That your parents split

That your mother can’t always make doctors visits

That money seems more and more out of reach

Or where Peter ended up.

There are things you can’t always control.

And there’s value in what you create.

You forget, sometimes.

About love

About control

About choices.

But then you make yourself remember.

It’s hard.

But please

Please

Please

Remember.

 

 

Sincerely,

You

(Just a little older)

P.S. Yeah. It’s still hard to spell sincerely.