Time is a container

Or, the 1-year anniversary of Jessica Unnamed

There is something beautiful about the passage of time. Whatever you put inside of it matters, is transformed, in that sacred container. When I first dreamt of this blog, I had become accustomed to the abrupt arrival of tears; this was my inconvenient response to a chain reaction of difficult things. While talking to friends, shopping at the grocery store or walking alone through the park, those tears would always find me one way or another. Yet through those tears was a window to an inner determination I was yet to discover. I had realized—for the first time—that I had rarely dreamed of anything for myself—not deeply. Not intentionally. I had been caught in the gray of living and not really questioning or interrogating its interior. I had developed the skill of adapting early on and just being here felt like, seemed like enough. But when everything felt like it was crumbling around me, I had to decide two very important things—what I truly wanted and who I wanted to be. So the tears, in some way, washed the canvas of my life and that shit was very, very scary.

I cannot tell you the exact moment that I decided that I would try my hand at writing again, for real, with another blog. Before the pandemic and my pregnancy, I had written for a music outlet created by my one of my closest friends, but this time I would mostly be the subject. I wouldn’t be able to hide behind a quick post-concert review or charismatic frontman. To make matters worse, I had what I thought at the time the gall to have a photoshoot with arguably one of THE best photographers in the city, and a relatively new friend, Kendra Lee. Day of the shoot, I remember this so vividly—rushing to Target to buy last minute supplies to save a botched makeup job I have booked for the occasion, talking to myself aloud as I zoomed (responsibly) on the highway to my best-friend Kelli’s home, where it would take place. Whose great idea was it to take pictures for my blog away?! Oh, me.

Despite apologizing profusely about my awkwardness and inexperience, something did turn on inside me that day. As Kendra patiently helped me experiment with different poses with my body (like the saint she is) and Kelli eagerly helped with random tasks, like adjusting the lighting or finding a prop, I was touched by this generosity—this community of women— and it ignited a fire in me. Maybe I could do this. Maybe this was going to happen, after all.

Photos by Hannah Shoemaker

I recently got a copy of Audre Lorde’s “Sister Outsider” from the library. For the past couple of years I have been on an odyssey of discovery; of loving myself, my baby, my family/friends, my community more deeply, with the pages of Black writers as my sail. In the 2020 edition, author and organizer Mahogany L. Browne, teed up the collection of essays penned by Lorde magnificently, juxtaposing Lorde’s brilliance and wisdom which had emerged from her politicized identities as a Black, queer woman and succinctly captured the kind of suppressive social auditing Brown/Black bodies are forced to undergo in the public eye daily. One quote especially resonated with me:

The body can be an echo chamber full of chaotic noise. We vibrate energies, push back into the space given to us, both light and dark, grief and joy. The Black woman body can tremor resilience and remorse, trauma suppression and survival; joy as resistance, and liberation as fashion. The Black woman aesthetic is trendsetting in its ability to endure. Hence “Black don’t crack” and other elements of Black folklore that sing praise of a restored body that appears youth, despite the systematic pitfalls designed to create a future of hopelessness.

Looking back, when I created this blog I knew, without fully knowing, that I would make it to the other side of my tears (a lay off, the ending of a marriage, and other moments of hopelessness). As I committed myself more seriously to healing (and to writing), I felt the gentle blow of my ancestors on my back. I leaned into their stories, their wisdom as I began to create a new one of my own. Becoming a mother myself had strengthened this eternal chain of mothers. Becoming Malcolm’s mother, taught me that my body could be a shelter. I have since fortified its walls to protect me too—through the love of family, friendship, deep belly laughs, good meals, hard lessons. And writing. This, too, strengthens and liberates me and this body, and that is why I must keep going. And if it’s true that the body keeps the score, then maybe, just maybe, I am finally winning.

Just my luck, I have since befriended another insanely beautiful and talented photographer, Hannah Shoemaker, and had the opportunity to do a shoot in an incredible artist loft a few months ago. I am STILL pinching myself that I got to work with her, learn from her. She has a way of orchestrating desire, vulnerability, and elegance in still poses that draws the photo to a powerful crescendo. I felt sensual! Grown! A glowing human orb of healing! Being shot by another woman I admire creatively and personally made it even more powerful for me. Like with Kendra, I felt the best parts of me were being mirrored back.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of launching of Jessica Unnamed. Waiting to share these photos to commemorate this accomplishment just felt right. Some of y’all know the way I can agonize to catch a beautiful phrase the way a child stumbles after a butterfly. I don’t want be complicated and strain (as I sometimes do) to say the right thing. How I feel in this moment is beautiful all on its own! I am grateful of how much I have grown as a writer, as a woman, as so many things that I call myself and call to me. And I want to celebrate these past 365 days. With you.