I know you’re not supposed to ask people how old they are but at this age and stage in life, people guessing my age is my newest favorite party trick!
First thing’s first, red has was always my color! I mean, I know there are only so many colors in the rainbow but red is mine. And purple. And green. Anything vibrant and rich and deep and full. Anything that goes with honey and gold, which is how my skin reflects the warmth of the sun.
Red is my color. My car now is even red, too!
Anywho, 40… Someone recently asked me how old I was because she “couldn’t tell”. I know the feeling– when you’re searching their face for a clue to guess their age or maybe it’s something they’ve said. But Blue ain’t no where nearby (Blue’s Clues, you get it?!).
“I’m 40!” The words roll off my lips with a hint of laughter and a lingering a smile.
This is the verse I meditated on when welcoming this new decade. The one I think of when I hear “40”:
Every time I say it, “I’m 40”, it’s with gratitude… My sisterfriend Lakia didn’t live til 40. Many people don’t. She taught me how to live fully and well, so it’s only right I honor her life by living as she’d be living now. Actually, as she lived when she was dying.
“You can live the life everyone is telling you to live, or you can live the life you dreamed of.”
Lakia’s nurse
After being diagnosed with cancer, she was given a 6 month prognosis and lived for 4 years.
So the people who disagreed with her life choices took a backseat while she put the pedal to the metal and lived out loud! We’re all going to die, you know. We’re all dying, we don’t all behave like it is all. Each breath brings us one step closer to death and yet we carry on as though we have everlasting life. We do, just not like how you think, you know?!
Every time I say it, “I’m 40”, it’s with surprise. I was just this sweet lickle pickney at 4! But somehow, now I’m the 40 year old?!
I have a confession to make: When my oldest brother turned 21, I started calling him gramps. Yes, as in grandpa! I see the error of my ways.
Red was always my color, just like beauty.
Looking back at these pictures bring up so much.
At 16, I always had a big bag over my shoulder hoping it would hide some parts of my body. Much like the shawls I wore because I was told to hide my arms. Not explicitly told but always sure there was one within arm’s reach. As if my arms, which were bigger than some but smaller than others, didn’t deserve to be seen in the light of day. Didn’t deserved to be kissed by the sun. Didn’t deserve to be touched by the blowing breeze.
I was always hiding in plain sight.
Hiding to try to take up less space. Out of sight, out of mind, but also for your body?! It took me a while before I realized that my arms weren’t the problem, the people who were upset by the existence of my arms were.
At 17, I was eating 3 or 4 bananas a day to stay slim and trim. Or only ate veggies in front of company. It was a terrible facade. I was hongry and miserable! No sah, you haffi choose one struggle! It was always short-lived because eventually, I always chose not hungry. I liked the compliments I got on my smaller body, but I dag on sure didn’t like the inner turmoil that came with it. The pangs of self betrayal. I just couldn’t deal.
My life was consumed by the calories I did and didn’t consume. By the tantalizing smells that caressed my nose and awakened my hunger cues, the very ones I restricted.
Red was always my color. My hair was so long I’d sometimes sit on it. “Your beauty is your crown” I often heard. Fearful of being like the women in my family who cut their hair and it never grew back, I began to be fearful to cut my own. Began to fear that I might be ugly if I had short hair, with nothing to hide beside or behind. I knew the safety of hiding behind my long flowing hair. Bangs framed my face, and sometimes draped it.
Until, of course, I realized that I didn’t have to own their fears. I didn’t have to embody who they are. I didn’t have to be who they could’ve been if they made different choices.
As people looked me over from head to toe to head again, they’d start with “You’re so beautiful” and their voice trailed off, alerting me to the weight of their judgment when their eyes met my full chest or wide belly or thick thighs that perhaps, just maybe, I wasn’t as beautiful as they’d thought. It could’ve been said 4 times or 444, but it’s seared into my memory with enough stories to support that I was not beautiful.
Like when my hair stylist asked me to be in her hair show, only to learn that I was a size 13/14. “Oh that’s too big, I can only get clothes up to a 9/10.” My invitation was rescinded just as quickly as it had been extended.
The older I got, the less I wanted to spend half a day washing and nurturing my hair, a full 24 hours for it to air dry.
I stopped washing and loving my hair as often. And as my hair stylist spent an hour detangling my hair, she’d remind me that I could just cut it. She had to convince me. She worked hordt doing it, too. After month of hemming and hawing and being a bit jealous of the bold, courageous women who cut their hair, we started to cut it. With each visit, a few more inches were removed.
The older I got, the shorter my hair became. Actually, the more mature I got, the more I started living my for myself and less for others.
Until one day, I went to my hair stylist and realized I didn’t have enough hair to justify her triple digit prices! Ha! She did meticulous work, but when I learned she wasn’t as talented with the clippers as she was with the scissors, I dipped out.
Red was always my color. I wish I knew at 17 what I know now at 40:
I’d tell 17 year old Joval to take up space. To be kind to yourself. To love yourself first. To not be jealous of the people who look like they have it together because they’re hurting bad, their pain buried so far from the surface its appearance is an optical elusion of non-existence. To accept responsibility for yourself. To expect to be disappointed by people who love you. To trust that no matter what comes your way, you’re stronger and more powerful than you know, and you’ll overcome whatever else comes your way, too.
Red was always my color. At 40, I take up space. With my body, by books, my journals, my pens, my water bottle, my coffee mug, my snacks. With my thoughts and peace and strength and gifts and talents and wisdom and knowledge. At 40, I take up space. Not because it’s always easy to, but because I know I deserve to take up space, too. I deserve to reach and stretch and be. I deserve to be limited by no one, not even me.
