On Legacy & Taking Risks

2022 is over. What a year. I am one of those people who can’t tell what happened in the last three years because it has all been a blur. I had to google whether certain events happened last year or 2021. I was surprised to be reminded that A Marriage Story and its public discourse happened in pre-pandemic times, while Malcolm & Marie was released in 2021. And Grey’s Anatomy is still on the air, so I really have no idea what is going on. And to be honest, I don’t even know how to describe such a year. 

I turned 30 years old in April. There is a lot that I imagined about my life, but I never quite saw myself making it to this age. I decided in 2021 that I would take four weeks off work to celebrate. The first week, I cleaned the apartment and re-organized closets and furniture, and even completed dance exercises through Apple Fitness. I was gaining a sense of clarity when I learned that my 37-year-old cousin died. 

There has been what seems to be a recurring season of grief—perhaps another indicator that I am in fact getting older—and I am searching for more tools to navigate it. 

The unexpected passing of my cousin Kristina Harris made her the third Black creative and visionary I’ve lost in the past two years. She was the one I’ve admired the longest, since she was a teenager who let eight-year-old me sneak into her room when our parents chatted away in the den for hours. Even when I was young, she always made a point to make sure I was seen and heard. I mourn Kristina’s passing not just with my family, but the wider community who did not get to fully witness her beauty, grace, authenticity, and creativity.

Uncle Charles passed away in the month after my cousin’s funeral. There is a lot that I was just starting to learn about our uncle, and what I always knew was the love and pride he had for our family. His funeral was held at Pilgrim Rest Missionary Baptist Church, which was co-founded by his grandfather, my great-grandfather. 

This is the first year that I fully understand what it means to carry a legacy, and to leave one behind. I am also learning that creating one often comes with taking risks. 

In July, I was sitting in a hotel room in Chicago when my therapist—I have one of those now—told me that I should take more risks. She also wanted me to write more because writing and risk go hand in hand. (Speaking of which, you should watch this video of Ashley C. Ford talking about what it means to take a risk.) Three days later, Byul and I stumbled upon The People’s Karaoke in Ping Tom Memorial Park. We went on stage and sang Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way.” I should say Byul did most of the singing while I passionately mumbled the lyrics into my microphone. But I did it with a whole lot of heart. My therapist was surprised to learn that I am someone who either rejects the assignment or puts in the extra credit—there’s no in between.

Be more present. Be more creative. Feel more like myself. A few of my goals for therapy when I started six months ago. Reducing work stress was another one but we’ll leave that alone for now. 

My organization was closed for staff wellness week in August, and I wrote a book. Okay, to be fair, the initial draft consisted of iPhone notes, these letters, Livejournal posts from 12 years ago, and previously written essays that I thought were finished but had another few rounds in them. And now, it is a book? I have over 44,000 words and counting. I didn’t even write that much for my graduate thesis. There is already a tentative title that I came up with in 2016. Six years later, it still seems to work. As I wrote in the introduction, This collection of essays is titled Negotiation because I never fully knew what I was getting myself into. There were times that I took calculated risks and many others when I threw caution to the wind.

I took an accounting class over summer and planned to take two more that I’ve been told serve as a great foundation for financial management. Surprisingly, I was looking forward to learning more, but writing broke something inside me, in a good way. Instead of taking another accounting class last semester, I enrolled in my first creative nonfiction writing workshop. 

I wanted to take a workshop during undergrad, but the courses were always reserved for students enrolled in the writing program. I desperately wanted to change my major to creative writing but didn’t want to take the risk. A degree in Cultural Studies wouldn’t exactly lead to a lot of job prospects, but somehow it felt more concrete than being a writer. (I was too naive to realize that the title “Writer” would be one of many jobs that fellow graduates would hold, because capitalism!) I also didn’t feel artsy enough to be a writer. Was I in touch with my emotions enough? Were these stories actually worth telling? 

Admittedly, being virtual made it easier to let strangers critique my work. It also helped that the workshop was hosted at a community college, and we were a group of people who were returning to writing or taking writing seriously for the first time or wanted to improve writing skills to accomplish goals that have nothing to do with a writing career. It was a lovely combination that made me grateful that this was my first workshop experience. 

Taking that risk felt worthwhile, and it was. My final portfolio included a writer’s statement, the first that I’ve ever completed because I never felt that I had a good grasp on my writing, until now. The grades don’t necessarily matter, but I have to admit seeing 100% across the board was satisfying as hell. The feedback was better than I expected, and I am excited to keep going.

My brain feels like it is getting back to normal. Nine months of pregnancy, three years of parenting, and nearly three years of a global pandemic changed a few things up there. I am still adjusting and feeling closer to the version of myself that feels the most truthful.