SoulSelf and the World
SoulSelf and the World
My name is……..
I recall the stillness of sirens, where the loudness felt pressing, felt distant but present, felt imminent but avoidable all at once.
I recall my world spinning, the force of my world stopping, the loud thumping of my heart, the sound of captivity, the image of red, filling my room full of darkness, with a ray so bright it felt ethereal, as if earth had been taken over by the brutes of Satans chamber, the red pronounced so loud my skin became enthralled by its shine, combined with its rays. The red so loud, that my head began to pound, a glimpse into my fate, that no matter how hard I’d tried death would proceed me.
Laying in my bed a scared 8 year old boy, my covers became a shield for reality, the protector of my soul, the sunscreen to prevent reds glow from puncturing my spirit.
I layed, and prayed, that this extraterrestrial glow would disappear from the one space I felt safe from terror. My room became illuminated by blue, the feeling of somber, the acceptance of reality, all combining to surround my being with sorrow, as if it were mourning the loss of my youthful innocence. The sight was pronounced with the seemingly forever feeling of doom, all allusion to the collapse of my world as I knew it. The blue bounced off the walls, it flashed past my eyes, light speed meant that I could never catch it but it would wrap itself around me, it would illuminate my skin with gloom, the acceptance of entrapment.
I recall a profound whiteness, but lacking its purity, a microcosm of the human disposition, the corruption of innocence with the stains of conformity and brutish nature. I was bound by the light of nothingness, my sheet could now longer shield from the enclave of attack by the rays of evil that would hold me captive.
I recall my grandmother saying to me “you have to get up” in such a dead tone I believed that heaven had consumed me and I was interacting with a phantom of genteelness. So monotone that it exuded a beam of surrendered disposition, from the spout of usual loudness, now seemed overshadowed by the feeling of impending doom.
I recall the feeling of the satin and cotton of my wear, hugging my body in an attempt to shield it from the barrage of waves puncturing through my window. I recall the tears the flowed down my face, as each drop fell, a feeling of warmth, somber, pain, and suffocation like i’d never felt before. The police officer pleaded for my surrender, but all I wanted was home, an idea that was robbed from me long ago. Home seemed nothing more than a construct of broken connections, torn at its source and corrupted by tremendous loss.
At age 8 that night I was taken from my “home”.
I recall the car ride feeling like a life sentence where tomorrow was certain but unknown. Each neighborhood passed was a reminder of my childhood memories of broken homes, each page of my memoir filled with phantom appearances of protection, the veil of the failure of masculine predisposition to destroy what cannot be understood, the innate male human instinct to fear the loss of control, the fear of patriarchal domination sliding down a never ending slope of tenderness. In my head an imaginary film played constantly, of my Mother, cradling me in her arms, my Father smiling, with the face of pure joy, looking at the life that was. The feeling of her gentle gaze colliding with my rough and innocent soul, the warmth of Fathers love, Mothers love; this could be no more than a dream. A picture of what my life should’ve been, but instead, I had been left with a reality of a broken home. I had been taken to a foreign place, “foster care”, the words clawed at me and awoke me from my vision of fairness, and reiterated my sick, twisted reality.
At age 8, I’d find myself an alien in the very town where generations before me sowed seed for hopeful dreams and realities of nightmares. Lost, wrapped in a sea of generational gloom.
At age 11 I sit in the sterile consolers office begging for guidance, yearning for answers as to why my life had to be this way. It was met with coldness, blue, the feeling of waves of indescribable somber. I stand at the tombstone of life on it reads “Rahmah Sakari BT Hill”, to me this means nothing, but a name. A name that embodies me, a name that proceeds me, a face that fills mine, a reflection of another life. My mother wanted for me, and my sisters to be free, without ever freeing herself. Trapped in an echo chamber of fists, smoke, blood, and cancer, my mother began to write my story, but her name is all I have to finish it.
At age 16, I stand at the tombstone of the woman who gave me life, never knowing her face, I was presented with her name. A name was all that spoke to me as I stood on top of what could’ve been. A name, engraved and carved was all that spoke of my world of broken beauty. Never to be held by the clutches of my protector, never to see my face in yours, all that remains is the stains of red, white and blue that peer through my windowsill. I look for you in everything I encounter, from the dew on the morning grass, to the leaves that collapse and float to its death, I see your face. All I have is the auditory entrapment of your name, but I feel your face, each and every time I look in my reflection in the mirror, I see past 6 feet below, and to my imaginary world of perfection. I often visit the invisible realm where everything goes according to plan, in every corner an image of you, of you walking me to my first day of High School, to my first homecoming, but the vivid projection of red snaps me back to my harsh and heartbreaking reality. I feel the vibrations of your name run through my body, but your name doesn’t resonate. The tombstone below reminds me that red and white is one big metaphor for the human experience. The idea of being born white, clean as snow, to ending with nothing but red, corrupted, and torn. Your tombstone speaks out, it screams your name, but all I can seem to see is the echos of red, the reflection of white, and the waves of blue wash over me. It is now where I find solace in the brutality of earth, a reminder that no matter what characters surround, the show still proceeds, that the departure from this earth is nothing but a permanent whisper of your name. I find solace in the blueness of my existence, blue now meaning tranquility, like the waves that wash over the Pacific, the ocean that crashes onto the beach, the proof that this too shall pass. I find solace in the red of calm, like the fire that burns high, that projects smoke into the sky, shows that our passion is like wildfire that spreads amongst each other like disease. I find solace in the white, the bit of heaven that remains on earth as I stand over your tombstone, knowing that purity returns once self departs, youthfulness returns, and the sheet is washed clean with the bleach of love.
My name is Micah Hill, my name is defined, and I am the writer, my name is Micah Hill, I am more than a statistic, more than a foster care kid, I overcame, I stood tall over my fears, my fears of red, white, and blue entrapping my wonder.
My name is the culmination of all that came before me and a reflection of those who will proceed me, my name is all I have to make life with, I was surrounded by suffering but I chose the solace in the sea of agony, my name is joy and that will never be taken away.
Copyright Micah Hill
