I don’t know how to swim. And funny enough, a little under 70% of Black people don’t. To make things interesting, my family hails from Jamaica. But none of us really swim. Interesting irony. My family, both sides, lay on the shores of rivers and gullies surrounded by lush greenery. Our backs are to the ground and our faces are toward the sky. That’s us. That’s me. I come from realists. We remain planted on the ground somehow, while floating.
But not me. My mother says I’m “own way.” I do acts of randomness all the time.
Instead of playing it safe laying by the streams and gullies of life during a worldwide pandemic, I placed my feet in the cool waters of a young man who was, in many ways, fearless like me.
I didn’t bother to venture to where his water was opaquely blue like Jamaica’s Blue Lagoon. I stayed along his shore. It was transparent and calm. The bottom was smooth and sandy with beautifully placed smooth rocks. It was like those smooth stones the bougie gardeners use to dress up their fancy potted plants at the local nursery. He was smooth and easygoing. His conversations were delightful for his age. It was different than the “So, what do you do?” “Where do you live?” questions from the “getting to know you” Greatest Hits album. He wasn’t like the uppity career or “keep it too real” blue-collar men I was used to dealing with. He pulled me in swiftly by taunting my seriousness while being allured by the confidence that can capture a room full of people.
My ankles are surrounded at this point. I felt safe to walk further.
I don’t know how to swim, but his calm, glass-like water soothed me and soon surrounded my knees. I felt safe enough to rest in his nuances. Stuff like: toy cars, anime movies, weird mind-bending sci-fi, and plenty of Ed Sheeran music. I wasn’t going to insert my insatiable love for Coltrane, Davis, and old-school 90’s Hip Hop into the mix. I get that all the time from my clique’. I dance to it all the time at day parties that end right before my bedtime, and with the imaginary man of my dreams who exists only in my head because he is nowhere to be found in real life.
I listened to stories of him aimlessly passing through life’s creases with ease. He is an athlete who spent years playing hopscotch in different countries. There were plenty of stories. I closed my eyes, laid back flat, and floated through them all. I levitated on the gullies and streams of his life. In moments of trepidation, I’d glance at the shoreline for safety. I was still nearby just in case I needed to pull a Jesus-style move and run on water back to dry land. We saw sunrises and sunsets together while we laid on our backs suspended in time.
I don’t know how to swim, but I was doing what they call “the dead man’s float.”
I called it “the alive woman’s flight.”
The flight meant to have the courage to truly let go and fly, even when you should be holding on for dear life because women can’t afford to truly let go of their hearts on a carefree whim.
On a sunny, orange-kissed late Friday afternoon, like so many others when I knew he’d be spending the weekend with me, I was on my way to the store to buy things to make his meals. Athletes are nutritionally regimented creatures. No Friday night pizza or anything like that, but meticulously prepared meals to nourish them. By this time, I’d given him so much more than he had given me. I’m a nurturer. I’m a woman, for crying out loud. I soon began to contemplate building a home on his waters like the beautiful bungalows that sat on pristine blue waters in vacation advertisements. I can crush diamonds in the palm of my hands and turn them into stars, or whatever it was Nikki Giovanni said in that famous poem of hers. I had the strength. A woman can build anything, given the material.
I turned on the radio between thoughts and traffic, and a brilliant collection of haunting words sung over a thick backdrop of music on which an equally haunting voice sat on top of it all filled the car.
to float in your river
it hurts inside me
it’s all a fever
in the midst of time
I float in your river
now I’m missing in mine
I looked at the display screen for the title: “In your river” by Snoh Aalegra. I didn’t know sis, but she was singing my life with her words, as if she had a bird’s eye view of all that was happening while I was in his river.
The floating stopped immediately.
When I opened my eyes, I was in the middle of his ocean. I was indeed missing from my own river, as her words said. Nothing looked familiar.
They say you aren’t supposed to panic in the water. You can drown.
What did it mean when he told me, “You need to stop being so open” and “Tone yourself down a bit and so you get a better experience?”
What did it mean when he began to point out the perfection in other women’s bodies and the imperfections in mine?
What did it mean when I saw a strange woman at the places he and I would be? Or when I saw the same woman backstroke in his ocean while I only floated? My breathing became shallow. My body felt heavy. I was sinking.
Sorry, I’m not her
And now that I’ve learned
That my best is not enough
I’m close to giving up
I don’t know how to swim, but my legs were strong enough to walk through the untimely deaths of my father and older brother. My legs were strong enough to walk in and through many difficult times alone. This juncture would be no different. My legs would have to carry me back to shore. I remembered a quick swimming lesson: put your head down, push your arms forward, and kick your legs. Beneath his water, on the ocean floor, I saw the sunken wreckage of his brokenness, shadows of motives, and the remains of women who sank to their demise.
If I didn’t move fast enough, my remains would soon be there too.
I never mind
I never know what to do but
To float in your river
It hurts inside me
It’s all a fever
In the midst of time
I float in your river
Now I’m missing in mine
I don’t know how to swim, but I reached the shore wet and disoriented. I didn’t arrive at the same place where I stepped into his waters; I was somewhere different. It looked like I emerged into another chapter of my life. I looked behind myself and saw dark river water. It wasn’t gloriously clear, smooth, and inviting like before.
I saw him in the distance, standing in the middle of it all.
He was no longer inviting, but troubled. Our adventure, or at least, my journey with him, was over. He wasn’t the guy I fell for anymore. His countenance took on another form. Maybe he was some mythical being from a “Lord of The Rings”-type movie, whose sole purpose is to take you to the next stop in your assigned journey. Or maybe he was just another man with flaws that thwarted the arrival of a complete woman.
I still don’t know how to swim, but his brokenness unbroke me. I can freely travel the shorelines of my own river and oceans. Maybe my imaginary man will greet me with a ship for us to sail (with direction) into a new life together. If not, I’ll be content with my back to the ground and my face to sky, where I can see my dreams eye to eye.
It’s safer.
I won’t drown.
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