It’s Juneteenth, and I did a thing. I put on a cute dress and went outside! That’s a major accomplishment for me because my life recently has just been work and more work. This was the first thing I did for myself in a LONG TIME.
And it was cool!
Oakland in the summertime is always a vibe, and last year I was working on Juneteenth so I didn’t get a chance to be outside and enjoy the festivities. This year, I ate some good food, listened to music, and just vibed. Came home and just rested.
Did I have more work to do? Sure. I ain’t do it though.
Tomorrow, I’m back on the clock. But I’m gonna enjoy the rest of today… and my freedom!
Today’s Story…
My notes is a treasure trove of mini short stories and poems and random thoughts that I want to use in scripts one day.
I found this story there. I think many problems in relationships could probably be fixed with better communication, with remembering who the other person is, and letting cooler heads prevail. Put down your weapons, I’m not here to fight you.
“Put down your walls and lay down your weapons. I’m not going to hurt you.”
by Katrina Mitchell
We’re in the same room but we occupy different corners. Shadows cast off from the open blinds on the window give your profile a streaked effect, and in this moment this is how I encounter you— two pieces, dark and light. At one moment soft and open, and at another hard and closed.
We seem to constantly be at war.
And for what? A small misunderstanding devolved into this battle of the wills… both of us want the fighting to end but neither wants to be the one to wave the white flag.
I sit in my corner, utterly exhausted. I just want this to be over.
“Dinner?” I ask. You turn toward me when I speak.
“Huh” you ask.
“Are you hungry?” I say, a little louder.
You nod, unsure if you can trust me. Should you reveal this vulnerability? Should you let me see this need, meet this desire?
“I can make some tacos,” I say, rising to my feet. “You wanna make the guacamole and crema?”
You push away from the wall. We move toward the kitchen, silently, almost side by side.
Ingredients out, stove on. Besides the sounds of chopping, stirring, frying, the space is silent. We make our plates, then move to the table and sit.
We each take hesitant bites, like we aren’t sure if the other poisoned their contribution. Soon, our plates are clean, but neither of us move.
“I’m not your enemy,” I say, barely above a whisper.
“I never said that you were.”
I exhale.
“I don’t want to fight against you.”
“I don’t either.”
“Then why are we—“
I see your shoulders drop, and I stop.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I mean—“ Then I pause. I didn’t mean to say that. But… it’s true. I am sorry.
“What are you sorry for?” You challenge me. You don’t believe me.
“Hurting you. I didn’t realize what I said hurt you, and when you told me, I doubled down instead of just apologizing.” I inhale deeply. “I was wrong for that. I’m sorry.”
You study my face, and I think for the first time in weeks, you’re actually seeing me.
I cross to your side of the table.
“Hey,” I say, locking my eyes onto yours. I place my palm on your cheek. “I’m telling you the truth. We don’t have to be at war. You can put down your walls and lay down your weapons. I’m not going to hurt you anymore.”
You look at me like you want to believe me, but we’ve been at each other’s throats for so long, I get why it’s hard for you to do so.
A few moment pass, then you say, “I forgive you, and I’m sorry too. You’re the best person I know, and I’m sorry I forgot that.”
