Down the River by Mahogany Imani
Down the River
Gearing up my computer for my therapy session,
I am excited. Sara asks me how I am,
and before I say anything else,
the words that spill out are:
I think I've met a genuinely nice guy.
One with pretty teeth and a sparkly personality,
skin glistens ‘cause he knows Mama Fenty,
and he cooks for me,
even when he don't feel like it
because he knows I can’t.
He is kind,
considerate,
wants to spend time with me,
and is,
I believe, something quite special.
Therapist pauses.
Smiles cautiously through computer screen
and says she is happy for me.
Excited, even…
However,
she says, tipping her pen in a
downward like motion,
her way of letting me know the
other shoe is going to drop soon,
I'm a bit worried about your standards.
I blink.
Twice.
Again.
Ask her what she means.
Sara again,
smiles,
says you have described the bare minimum, Mahogany.
Congratulations on getting there,
now we just have to work on building your
self-esteem so this isn't such a surprise in the future.
And again.
I blink.
Twice.
Three times.
Ask her the fuck she means by low self esteem,
cause this confidence is unshakable.
Tell her I have full control over my life,
who I am,
what I can do,
etc, etc, etc,
long story longer,
Sara,
I believe you've got the wrong file in hand.
She shakes her head,
says no,
I've got you clocked.
Tells me that I said it myself,
my confidence is fine,
but my self-esteem,
as in my self love,
as in what I believe I'm worthy of,
is most definitely shakeable.
Much less so than in past years,
but old relationships and internalizing their failures as personal shortcomings,
as well as gained weight caused by medications for an ailing body,
with a fat-phobic mother to tie a bow on everything,
my self-esteem has always been the brunt of the
work I have to do.
Denial is suddenly not just in Egypt,
but in my bedroom rocking a bright red poncho
like Moses designed it himself.
She is loud
and in my face,
and I try to tell Sara that no,
he really is amazing-
She stops me.
Says I don't doubt that,
not in the slightest,
this man must be something
special if he broke through my misandrist dating habits,
however, she states again,
you are describing care and affection you should've been receiving eons ago.
And I think she can I've had enough,
so she stops,
tells me to think on what she's said
and we'll meet up next week for a debrief.
I don't know if any of you have ever
been told you don't have something fundamental like you
thought you did, but shit is like grief.
Like, you've built your entire identity on
something that never really held weight to begin with,
something that wasn't only not there,
but the polar opposite of it was sitting in its place.
And it is through this grief I realize Sara and I are both right.
He is something special, and so am I,
even if I don't feel like it.
Suddenly think back to those times when he told me I was lovely
and I rolled eyes down the river.
When he told me he liked spending time with
me and I asked why; realize, once again,
white therapist has me clocked.
The next week,
I sit with Sara.
She asks if I've thought about what she's said.
I reluctantly tell her about my shit
and she smiles in a way I'm beginning to genuinely
dislike and says good job, kid,
let's dive in.
Hello friends, I'm Mahogany Imani, a Denver slam poet with a passion for making attempts to explain the unexplainable, pretty words who call me pretty back, and hunting down the best Cuban food in the city. While my work may be unorthodox or explicit at times, it is always my goal to connect with the larger audience of those who are like (BIPOC, queer, disabled, femme) and unlike myself.
