The Start of Something New (it feels just right…?)

On Thursday, I graduated from high school.

I left the world of high school, supposedly governed by grades and papers galore. I left the world of high school, supposedly governed by late nights and stress. And to a degree, that was true for me. In high school, I developed 24/7 migraines, as a result of stress; I stayed up many a night completing papers; and I did battle the vicious rule of numbers in a gradebook.

Primarily though, I was fortunate enough, blessed enough, to have a high school experience that was good, and good in the deepest way that I can mean it. Good because it grew me.

I went to a school populated by teachers who cared about me; they wanted to see me thrive and they tried to diminish the power of grades, as much was in their power.

I went to a school full of people who love one another and strive to encourage love as much as humanly possible.

I was surrounded by a group of friends who taught me a new way of moving in the world, a new way of walking through the garden that is my life. I was surrounded by hard-working, honest, determined, dedicated, and intelligent people.

That said, my overwhelming feeling is sadness. I am sad to be leaving high school. I am sad. I don’t know how to make this a less cliché or less vulnerable of a statement, but I am leaving this place a changed person.

As I move on to the next stage of my life, a new year and a new culture and a new continent, I hope you can join me. I hope you can join, because God only knows how much guidance and love I will need from every corner of this globe.

Welcome to this journey. In the words of the Shrunken Head on the most humble of vehicles, the Knight Bus, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!”


PS: If you don’t know what the Knight Bus is, please find out before you join the joureny. 😉


{A Memory}

There was a day I saw a man flat on the ground
in the red dirt beside the rutted road.
Foaming at the mouth, his whole body shaking 
I can still remember his wrecked form.

I’ve been told that people will fake a seizure,
to get help, to get money, to be pitied.
I wonder how one teaches their limbs
to rattle and their mouth to fall open, gurgling with saliva.

How desperate one must be to make
themselves vulnerable enough to collapse
on the dust-ridden side of a Nairobi street
and utter guttural noises until a person,
conflicted as I am now,
falls on their knees, a kind of
compassion in their eyes.

There are no answers here, friend.
Only an observation ― a paying of respect
to someone, somewhere, maybe.