“The person who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. The person who walks alone is likely to find himself in places no one has ever seen before.”
-Albert Einstein
We were coming out of shoe store having just spent more time than I appreciated looking for a shoe that fit almost just right. When your twelve year old foot is growing faster than everything else; no dress shoe fits just right. Even gym shoes are sometimes problematic. So, we settled for almost just right just like I did when I was her age.
She exited the store and from nowhere she was accosted by the music in her head. My baby’s hand which had been lovingly intertwined with mine abruptly broke free. She turned into Jimi Hendrix right before me. It started with flailing arms reaching for the sun this way and that, wriggling to a beat only she could hear until her hand found chords to play on her imaginary guitar.
I looked around to see who else was seeing what I was seeing. It was a “what in the entire hell” is my child doing kind of a moment. I hope I can adequately convey my thoughts and feelings in the moments when I chose between letting her freedom ring or shackling her to the comfort of my expectations.
She was doing her thing in a way that only she could. She is my Savannah and Savannah is different. I am proud to say that all of my children are different. Varying personalities and temperaments grow me daily as a parent. They each march to the beat of their own drummer, but Savannah… she is the beat.
She doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her. My chest couldn’t stick out any further in that regard until the opinion she rebuffs is mine. Ha! Oh boy! The times I have had to check my ego on that. As adults we REALLY need to understand… Disagreement does not equal disrespect. They are not the same.
I watch her sometimes. Finding joy in her liberty. Trying desperately to remember how I viewed myself at her age. Looking for glimpses of my twelve year old self in her. Would I have randomly broke out in song in the middle of the sidewalk? How many times did I play my air guitar after leaving Chernin’s? Trying desperately to pinpoint the moment I lost my freedom. Wondering how she already understands a way of living that for many requires years of therapy and reflection to acquire.
She is the beat.
I used to wonder how she got this way. Where did she get the rhythm?
As an adult, you can find me dancing or singing in any moment. Friends are aware that singing and dancing is my thing. Karaoke is a second language and I am fluent. My happy place resides between melodies, reflection magnified within lyrics. Music has been in me since my neck could hold my bopping head. In the past, it would require champagne or any adult beverage to lose my inhibitions and get down. Now, it just takes me.
My girl got it from me. She’s seen me hop on stages and live my best musical life. It doesn’t matter that I’m not that great at it. It only matters that I’m doing it. I’ve explained to her the nuance of courage. Be afraid. Do it anyway.
She’s seen me assert myself in front of folks perceived to be more powerful than me. She visits my website, reads my blog; witnessing that my voice matters. Let your girl… Let your boy… Let them know your voice matters— They will use the breadcrumbs of your voice to find their own.
In the moment when she broke free from my grasp to play a rockin song in silence… when all you could actually hear was the sound of her confidence… I resisted the innate urge to be embarrassed, to grab her back to me— to make her fall in line so people could view her as normal.
In my head I heard all of the times I was minimized because I was smaller. I remembered when my voice was silenced by seniority and a child’s place; antiquated ideals of generations past who reduced children to keep them safe.
I thought of all the times I was afraid to be me. How I worked hard to be acceptable and appropriate and good. Acceptable and appropriate and good do not benefit the folks who are being confined to it. I was bombarded with memories of the struggle to return to me. How it took my whole life to get back to a little girl with almost just right shoes so I could free her from the irrational, suffocating expectations of other people.
My daughter is a unicorn. It sounds funny and maybe even a little silly, but it’s accurate. A unicorn. An anomaly. A quirky little Black girl who plays Minecraft, loves anime and teaches herself how to code on weekends when the rest of the house is asleep to avoid boredom. She is one of a kind. My girl is a diamond. No one would ever hold a diamond to the confines of a piece of gravel.
I’m gonna let her shine.
I won’t ask her to be quiet. When I want to cringe I will swallow my discomfort and let my girl be. I'm done teaching my daughters how to be polite and how to get along. I won’t insist she stop skipping because everyone else is walking. I won’t force her to read Judy Blume. It’s true. Are You There God; It’s Me Margaret is a classic, but it’s not her thing. That’s still a hard one for me, but whatever. I am her mother. She will love, respect and revere me, but it won’t come at the cost of who she is... She is the beat... The music I helped create.
Don’t quiet your girls. Don't ask them to be nice. Don't try to make them fit. Let them be. Even when who they “be” is in direct opposition to your comfort.
I'm not here because I'm an expert. I'm here because I have experiences. -Stephanie