Author: Imani Skipwith

Soon, and by soon I mean literally when this blog posts, I’ll be 17. That’s entirely too old for me, haha. In all honesty, I’m not ready. I grew up thinking that I’d stay a child forever but after January 30th, I’ll have only a year left until adulthood. I feel terrible that I’m dreading it. Every year I seem to get more anxious once my birthday comes around and it’s hitting me so hard now. How am I supposed to process this? It’s really crazy to me. I’ve always had an irrational fear of the future. I can’t think about it much without going into a wild panic attack or worrying too much. Adulthood has always been my biggest fear. Now, it’s staring me dead in my face, beckoning me to come towards it and accept it. I probably sound silly but I am genuinely terrified. With age comes so much responsibility and even though my mom has prepared me for that moment, I still don’t know if I can really do that. I’m constantly wondering where I’m going to be in the future or what I’ll be doing. I want to be traveling, going places like Japan and Amsterdam and Australia. I want to live somewhere in Montreal or Quebec, Canada. I want to be able to stay happy with my life and still be able to provide for myself. However, I’m so afraid that those things won’t become possible. It’s crossed my mind so many times that I may just have to settle for some type of mediocre job and that I won’t achieve genuine happiness and I promise that that thought alone is enough to send me into a panic. It sucks when people tell me I should be happier to celebrate my birthday and I am happy because I made another year but it’s so hard for me to enjoy it completely due to that looming fear that’s been shoved to the back of my head so many times. Love that. Happy birthday to me. 

I have a terrible habit of starting things and not finishing things. I’ve stated that in the second to last post, given. I just don’t know what to do anymore. I have little to no motivation and when I do have little motivation, I let things go. Like very quickly. I feel as if the work isn’t the best or that I won’t really get far with it. It’s not that I don’t want to work on things, though. Believe me, my work is typically what I’m most proud of, despite my doubts. I just don’t know how to keep my mind steady on one thing or subject or whatever it may be. I genuinely miss being able to keep my flow and whatnot whenever I wrote or drew something. Ideas would bounce around in my head and it was so great. Now, though, I have such a hard time focusing directly on what I’m working on. I feel like I’m running on empty when I’m doing assignments and I refuse to just do the bare minimum, especially when it’s my discipline work. Turning in mediocre work makes me irritated with myself because I know I can do a lot better than what I’d turned in. I love being happy with what I do. When my motivation started to deplete, I told myself I either do the best that I can, or nothing at all. Nothing mediocre. At the time, I didn’t realize how dumb I sounded but after a couple hours of brainstorming and planning, I realized that I did, in fact, sound crazy. I want to find something that motivates me again and helps me bring back that flowing thought process. I have no clue how to, though, and it actually bothers me. But, I’ll figure it out, of course, and soon I’ll be spewing words fluidly on a page again with no hesitation!

I’ve always been a big reader. I would sleep with books under my pillow when I was a toddler. In elementary, middle school, and even the first year or so of high school, you could never catch me without a book in my hand. That’s always been my luxury get away and I felt incomplete without knowing that a book was under my desk or in my book bag. I still feel incomplete without my books. I typically stuff my book bag with work and like three different books that I don’t even have time to read. I’m aware that I don’t have time to read but, as I said before, the knowledge of them being near me is so comforting. Some of my top favorites are The Book Thief and I Am The Messenger by Markus Zusak, Will Grayson, Will Grayson by John Green, and The House of the Scorpion by Nancy Farmer. I’ve been into so many different genres of books like thrill, horror, comedy, and drama. I was always the top reader in elementary school. Lately, though, I haven’t been reading. I mean, I finished and started a book over the Christmas break but I want to catch up on so much more. I miss reading with all of my heart and I don’t have as much time to go to a bookstore and read all the summaries and skim through the pages. So, it kind of hinders me from being able to find books that I could be interested in. Which brings me to why I’ve written this post. If anyone has any books that they’d think I’d be remotely interested in, please please please give me a list or something!! I really miss reading with all my heart and I’m gonna be packing my summer with reading and catching up on what I’ve been missing. So yeah! Tee-hanks!

Here at MSA, I go by Carter. It’s not a preference; I don’t mind being called Imani because that’s my name. Carter is typically what I want to change my last name to because I genuinely hate my current last name and I’ve always wanted to change it. But, I feel like there’s a difference between Skipwith and Carter. When I say this, I mean Jackson Imani (Skipwith) and MSA Imani (Carter). I started noticing this a couple weeks ago and I was talking to someone the other day about the changes I make when entering these different environments. When I’m Imani, I try to maintain a certain image everywhere I go. Skipwith’s a really smart person who doesn’t have any anxiety, depression, and works hard to maintain a good image. She works hard to make everyone happy; if everyone else is happy, so is she. She has no problems with religion. She’s  an all around happy and fun-loving person and though she has moods, they don’t last very long.

However, Skipwith is just the surface of Imani while Carter is the depth, it seems. Carter is still smart but she’s not as interested in academics like Skipwith. She’d rather be somewhere writing, drawing, or learning an instrument. She really dislikes school because of the previous pressure that was put on her from years back that Skipwith dealt with. And yes, Carter has always been there of course, but her full debut has been here at MSA away from the having to maintain a certain image and be this person everyone that she was. So, when heading back to Jackson, I have to be Skipwith and leave Carter behind at MSA. Lately, she’s been sneaking back to Jackson with me, though. Carter isn’t too worried about religion, either. She doesn’t get too caught up in beliefs or go strictly by the book. Carter isn’t afraid to hide her issues. She will tell you she has anxiety. She most definitely will tell you she has depression if it comes to that. She’s more cautious than Skipwith. She won’t leak out things that she feels will harm her later on. She thinks through so many situations at once. She doesn’t have that mental barrier that Skipwith has either. She did once upon a time but now that it’s down, she wears her heart on her sleeves and it’s more obvious than if it were Skipwith.

It’s just been weighing heavy on my chest lately. The surface of me and the depth of me. That’s just the way I think of it. As Carter and as Skipwith. It’s a topic I don’t talk about much and I had to get it off my chest somehow. Becoming Imani Carter is just interesting, but I feel more comfortable and more myself when I’m not wearing that mask. Honestly, being Imani Skipwith is draining because all I can do is hold it in but Carter doesn’t care. If she has to let it out, she will. If she needs to scream, she will do so. Imani Carter is so natural and more like who I need to be. I will, of course, still have tendencies of my past self, which is just how it is. So, yeah, my name’s Imani Skipwith-Carter and I approve this message.

So, I have an actual problem. I cannot SPEAK! AHHH! Honestly, it just makes me sad and it goes to show how hard I start to push myself when stressing out. I tend to overwork myself a lot and it really burns me out but it’s never been as long term as it’s been now. So far, it’s been a good four days and I’ve never been sadder. I’m a very talkative person. In fact, I probably talk a little too much. It’s all I ever do. However, I love singing. It really sucks now whenever I listen to music or just when I’m to myself and I’m not able to sing to myself. And when I try? Oh buddy boy, I sound like a dying horse. The whole situation just really sucks. I want more than anything for my voice to come back so I can finally get back into my normal routines and not have to go out of my way and do extra things just so that someone can understand what I’m saying. Sometimes I even question why I go out of my way to talk and strain my vocal cords even more. Everyone yells at me for it, so why not be quiet? But, in all honesty, this has made me realize how happy I am while talking to people. Nowadays, I have so much to say that I’m ready to burst and when I try, I just get told to shut up. Which is another amazing perk of losing my voice. I did try to stop talking so that I could rest my voice and I made it through nearly the entire day but by the end, I was about ready to burst. I couldn’t take it. I wanted to have a conversation, and to talk but of course I just got shushed more. I’ve also tried drinking tea, cough drops, and all that basic stuff in order to get my voice to come back but it hasn’t worked just yet. It’s just so darn frustrating. I just want my voice back, is that too much to ask?

they’re a façade,

continuously going through the motions of being that trophy family.

when family is over, 

the gears shift and the smiles appear and their mechanical voices drone “i love you.” 

prized husband wraps his arms around trophy wife, 

he lies through his teeth to those around him.

“i’d give her the universe.”

the gears turn again and she smiles blankly.

everyone smiles.

scholar son is going to Harvard, as it should be.

his record’s clean, unlike his cousin’s,

whose record is filled with arrests for vandalism and his grades aren’t high.

he’s been in the hospital one too many times.

“i wish failure was like scholar son.”

scholar son only laughs and says there’s no way.

the gears shift and his charm increases;

everyone drools over scholar son, they want him as their own.

beauty queen daughter steps down the stairs grabbing everyone’s attention.

she’s the envy of all women for her programming is flawless to them.

less fortunate flood her presence and admiration seeps from their sockets.

a mechanical smile etches it’s way to her carefully structured face,

programming says to muse them.

“no one’s perfect, but everyone’s beautiful in the inside.”

false hope she pours into their souls. 

beauty queen daughter has big bank from modeling gigs. 

the gears turn and she looks down on inferiors.

the gathering leaves and the programs stay for late dinner.

vanity and superiority is served on a platter;

they leave.

the programming shuts down.

trophy wife is in the living room, killing her lungs with cancer sticks and self deprecation.

how much do face lifts cost? how much do tummy tucks cost? how much does his presence cost?

prized husband is sipping a beer miles away with the 12th woman this week. 

“you’re the only woman i love.”

that’s the phrase that gets her love to flare his internal desires.

scholar son is in an alleyway, filling his lungs with hypocrisy.

ignores the calls from the girl who cares for the being that looks just like him who’ll never know his face or touch.

he hopes his cousin is better.

beauty queen daughter is posing as cake face on the corner of the street.

arms are out and exposed so the hungry can help add to the mini needle holes that blanket her arms.

no worry to her, the modeling agency taught her what brands conceal the marks perfectly.

 in the morning, they’ll all return to their mechanical home,

rebooting and recharging until they’re ready to open their doors.

because everyone wants to be inside mechanical homes.

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about my race and what it means to have so much melanin pigmenting my skin this brown-red color. I’m more than proud to be what I am and I claim it to the fullest. I love the culture and learning about my ancestry. However, I was really conflicted when I was younger. I’d grown up in a predominantly black community, but I always felt different from my peers. They would listen to rap music and watch reality TV with their families, while I listened to Katy Perry  and watched anime at night. It didn’t just stop at peers either. I remember going to family gatherings and somewhat feeling a little set apart from everyone else. My aunts would comment on how I talked like a little white girl and as I grew older and developed my own sense of style, they talked about how I dressed like one, as well. It was all poking fun but after a while, I became irritated because I couldn’t be me without seeming not black. I felt kind of self conscious cause I didn’t act black.

How the heck does one act a color though? I wasn’t aware that you could cause if that were the case, I’d definitely act blue. That is one cool color. Literally. I hate to break it to people, but, you can’t. It is not humanly possible to act a color. Acting a race is just another form of saying act your stereotype. Is that really what people want to say? I don’t think so. This isn’t just an issue in the black community, but in many others. A lot of this happens in minority communities and children become conflicted because they feel like they don’t belong in that community unless they listen to certain music, dress a certain way, or talk or certain way. They become misguided and believe that those things actually define their culture. Now, let me say this. There’s a fine line between following your culture and following a stereotype. 

For example, using slang is not culture. So when someone speaks properly, it is not that they’re being “white”. They’re simply just speaking English. It’s so irritating that communities will make members feel cast out or different, whether it be intentionally or unintentionally, just because they don’t fit into the typical stereotype of that ethnicity or race. No. One. Can. Act. A. Color. You can only act a stereotype. Not matter what your race is or the pigment shown on your skin, everyone is different in their own way. We are not meant to be the same. We’re allowed to have our own style or speak our own way. There are no specific standards that we are meant to meet when it comes to being ourselves. So, no. I am not acting white when I speak properly, and he’s not acting or trying to be black when he listens to trap music. We’re just not being a stereotype. 

Okay, so I have this thing. I’m really skilled at it but I wouldn’t call it a talent. Like, I am so successful at this thing and it’s literally one of the only things I don’t want to succeed in. What could this thing be? Procrastination. When it looks at you, you better run as fast as your legs can take you because once you slack, it seems like you can never go back. I wouldn’t say it’s an addiction… But it is. I get back in my dorm from school and I just genuinely can’t do anything. We’re in school for 8 hours everyday and the last thing I want to do is stare at another assignment. I just want to sleep or hang out with friends and oh boy, do I not have the motivation to force myself. It’s frustrating!!! I always find some excuse as I’m sitting in my friends room. They’ll ask, “Carter, have you done Mrs. Blah blah blah’s assignment?” And you’ll simply get a,”I’ll do it later.” or “I’m too tired. I’ll do it in the morning.” Does it actually get done? No. I genuinely need help. And it’s like, well why don’t you remind yourself? I do. I just don’t want to do it. I’ll always say to myself that I’ll do it in an hour and after an hour passes, I’ll say I’ll do it after this hour passes and it continues and becomes a cycle. God forbid someone call me out on it, too. I will have every excuse in the book as to why I didn’t or how I couldn’t do it. Sometimes, it’s true. However, in other cases, that’s just me attempting to save my own butt from chastisement. But, the start to fixing a problem is admitting that you have one. I’m saying this right now that I have a serious problem. I am a procrastinator!!!! Yes. Yes I am.

There’s a plant in the window,

peering out at the world, curiously trying to piece things together.

There hasn’t been much sunlight, lately – just rain.

It pours all day and night, filling the pot until it spills over.

The soil drowns and the plant just sighs.

There’s not much it can do at this point.

There was a time before when the sun flooded through and covered everything inside like a blanket of warmth.

Inside here was order and comfort.

It was covered with life and the little plant had so many friends to talk to and all that resided there was content and filled with so much love and satisfaction.

However, the sun slowly began to hide behind fog.

Clouds towered over, thunder ringing all around.

Then, the storm came.

Many of the inhabitants couldn’t stand it and immediately left, leaving behind chaos and disorder.

Happiness no longer exists here.

It looks around and sees everything in disarray and sadly smiles at all it has left in its home.

The rain continues to get worse and the soil has finally begun to drag the plant down with it.

They both start to take their final breaths when the rain suddenly ceases.

A warmth washes over them,

Drying up the wetness.

Slowly, the duo begin to strengthen as the sunlight starts to peek out from behind the clouds.

It grins wide as if to say, “did you miss me?”

Days pass, and the plant stays doubtful that the sun will stay.

It avoids its spot near the window in fear that the sun will run away again.

Soon, many of it’s friends start to trickle back into the home, helping restore the inside.

The plant continues to remain doubtful.

Finally, the work is complete and the home is completely restored,

filled with weary laughter and nervous talk.

The sun remains.

And it begins to grin.

It grins wider than before and laughs with such immense joy that it startles  everyone.

They all look at each other in confusion and look at each other, whispering amongst themselves.

The plant curiously runs back to its perch to look out of the window.

Standing there is the reflection of its home’s owner and for the first time,

she’s genuinely smiling.

She is happy.