Tapestry 03: "7, with 77 Sense"7
My back was straight when I got here. Yours wasn’t.
I peeped it the moment I got the crust out of my eyes.
Something was off—and no one was saying anything about it.
This lady keeps sticking her tittle in my mouth and hasn’t addressed the fact that I’m being coined erroneously and the lighting its giving basic. I’m irked that offense is the first feeling I experience in this form—and she’s out here blithely unaware that the proper accommodations have not been made for me.
I’m 17 seconds old and I’ve already been handed my first problem.
Lord, you said I had an assignment, but I didn’t think it started immediately. I feel like you didn’t brief me on this one, intentionally.
It took until about 3rd grade to realize:
Other people can’t keep up with the velocity of my insight. It became increasingly evident as I watched my co-students fumble through the simplest of instruction. The way they needed to be told things—repeatedly, and in multiple tones, octaves, and moods—before they landed at clarity?
How are we in a world where “raise your hand before speaking” is still a hurdle… and yet we’ve invented dry erase boards?
I told y’all something was off. I peeped it the moment I arrived.
3rd grade at that ratchet school was a colorful nightmare.
I managed—as I always do.
Back straight. Shoulders intact. Skin on espresso.
And more sense than your grandparents.
I tolerated being there because, uhh, what other choice did I have? I did have several suggestions, but my mother was 22, now with five children, all packed into a government-funded vestibule with low ceilings and no central air. I recognized around 2 years 4 months that her tolerance for implementing my changes of what I fundamentally knew needed addressing wasn’t of great probability at this time. I sought her assistance on an as-needed basis.
I barely knew who—or where—she got these girls she kept referring to as my “sisters”. It’s 3rd grade and I’d just come to the realization that fathers are a real thing.
Lord, if I may have a word…
I know your ways are mysterious. I hesitate to question your art.
But something is off, for real.
And I need something beautiful in this weeded field to keep going.
I’m a tender 7, and I’m already carrying the awareness of 77.
Send for me, please.
Lee Black was a boy I sat next to in school. Our desks were paired.
Not friends, per se—but he was the one human I experienced the least annoyance conferring with.
One day, Lee came to school late. After lunch mind you.
The very idea of arriving late was foreign to me—Veronica made sure we received perfect attendance certificates at every awards assembly.
Lee was escorted in by one of them dudes.
“Why did your momma’s boyfriend bring you to school so late?” I asked.
The sentence that came next changed my entire life.
“That’s not my momma’s boyfriend. That’s my daddy.”
If you knew me well, you’d instantly get a distinct picture of my face in your mind: A smoldering pause. Brow furrowed. Lips pursed with true Veronica tease.
And a deeply perplexed stare you couldn’t quite adequately name. He clearly wants to say something and doing us a favor, by not.
Daddies… are real?
As in… not just a TV concept?
As in… Cliff Huxtable could actually walk into a room?
Look. I’ve got enough unreconciled questions already.
Have I mentioned that no one has addressed my misnaming yet?
I don’t know if a 7-year-old with my back posture should be doing this level of investigative work.
And yet—still I rise
Veronica isn’t one for many words.
She speaks only when she realizes you haven’t read the room properly.
She doesn’t keep a large vocabulary in her arsenal—because she never intends to say that much.
Carolyn-bred, darling.
Her texture feels familiar… but you won’t be able to name it.
She’s one to be studied.
Don’t worry—I’ve done the homework for you. Thoroughly.
You’ll get my notes later.
Place a post-it on that one, bruh. You’re going to reference it again.
And again.
The gag?
She’s been here since the moment you walked in.
She greeted you with a smile and a cordial tone. She doesn’t talk much, but she reads religiously.
God always listens and he always delivers. You have to be quiet enough to hear it.
What’s wild is, he speaks your language.
He gives it to you just the way you want it, but you have to recognize what it is that you want. This is how I know yall aren’t doing it right.
Your energy spoke before you arrived. It was clear and the things you ordered were aligned for delivery before you opened your eyes. But, you’ve put on this meat suit and started trying to stake claims and titles on every person and every thing. It’s distorted your view darling. The willows are still there if you open the curtains.
Of course, I needed to address the chanteuse about this “Are daddies a real thing?” business.” Let’s just say… we’re just getting started.
Refresh your latte and nest with me as I lay this thang out.
Christopher.
