Randomly, when bouts of insomnia hit, I’ll stare at the same spot on the wall and wonder, what am I doing? Not focused on the immediate, but a more delicate delve into the unknown and big picture. Will I have a mark on the world? If I died today, what would people remember about me?
(Same Ms. Jay, same)
Heart rate increasing, I don’t really have an answer. Will it be the outburst I had in A’s dorm room, summer 2011, convinced I was going to beat up Dany? Will it be how I used to shoot hoops to de-stress or the dance parties in the basement? Learning how to twerk to Lil Wayne’s verse on Back that Azz Up, as Cash Money took over for the 99 and the 2000? Submissive? Stubborn? Questioner? I have no idea.
The notion that I won’t leave a legacy of sorts haunts me. That there are so many chapters and parts of me causes extended moments of insecurity, worried that I’ll revert back to a former version of myself I thought I evolved from.
That’s what I really want to know. What will my legacy be?
A sleepless night found me Googling definitions of legacy. Turning my phone over, deciding to return to this deep dive a different day, I remember the beginning lines of a poem I started but never finished. Fishing through the memos on my phone (where most of my writing starts, fragmented sentences and ideas coming together much later) I find it:
My truth will be the foundation my legacy
Is built on.
My story will curl over and unfold as I’m
That poem is still unfinished and may never get written. But the first line resonates with me and provides some clarity. It is my veracity, told through blog posts, stories, prose, that showcases the blueprint of who I am.
I am my own legacy.
There is nothing more freeing than being on the precipice of caging parts of my identity, but becoming unleashed instead. Nervous, awkward, scared of what the reception may or may not be, stories will still be told.
Being an authentic example of living your truth. That helps me sleep at night.