Living is a soul trip. Life is poetry.
Melanin rich and honeyed, butter brown syrupy — D.B. Mays, Black Lives, Lines, and Lyrics
I was born to two teen parents in Louisiana. They had to figure out parenthood and adulthood early in life. My mom learned quickly and well, it took my biological father a lot longer.
He eventually figured it out but by that time I was an adult and he was a father again. He finally got it right. When the sunset for him on December 18, 2018, I can honestly say he had become a good man and a good father but gone too soon.
Growing up in Louisiana in a small rural town, I lived with my grandparents for a while. They lived in a community where many of the people created homesteads. I saw my first white egg when I was 6 years old. When I visited my cousins in Dallas, Texas, I thought it was strange they didn’t have any fruit trees in their yards.
Yes, like most Louisianians of Color, I have Creole Heritage. Creole is not a race. Creole is an ethnic group and culture. I don’t speak Creole fluently (speak some), write it a bit, but I do understand it when I hear it.
When I knew I wanted to be a Writer
I knew I wanted to be a writer when I was seven. In my second-grade class, we were assigned to do a picture story. You looked at the pictures and wrote a story based on the picture.
My teacher read my story to the class, put a sticker on it, and pinned it to the bulletin board. I’m telling you my story “Rain, Rain, Go Away, Come Again Another Day” was Medium approved!
The same day, on the way home from school I talked my mother’s head off about wanting to write and make books.
“But I want to make the books too,” I said
“Publishers are the ones that kind of make the books. Writers write the books.” My mom explained.
“I can’t do both?” I asked
My mom laughed and said. “You know what? Why not? Do both. But remember, writers, are readers. To be a writer, you’ll have to read a lot.”