What do you actually own? Who do you actually owe?
I met Mic Crenshaw in Portland, Oregon. I was teaching at a summer institute on the campus of Reed College and he was part of an evening program on hip-hop with my friend, Amer Ahmed.
I immediately wanted to know him. I invited him to be a guest speaker in my intercultural storytelling class. Much more recently, I interviewed him for my Hard Conversations class on racism. It was one of my favorite conversations ever. When he went to South Africa a few years ago, he was sitting in a group of people he had never met, and in this vast world, one of them knew me. It felt like we were meant to know each other. I can’t explain it any other way. I love having him in my life.
This past week on Facebook, he posted a question: “What do you actually own? Who do you actually owe?”
I couldn’t answer right away. I needed to ponder it.
Some people answered by talking about their financial debt and the things they own. Some talked about owing their ancestors. My answer was still unclear. Should I talk about all the things I have bought that I never use? The things I have bought for others? The crooked smile I got from my father? What?
Finally, I wrote about it and in the process, found the beginnings of my answer:
What do I actually own? I don’t own anything but a heart that is broken but keeps pumping. I don’t own anything but a mind that is open except when it is not. I don’t own anything that will go with me to become stardust again except for my love, the people I love and who have loved me, in the form of memories and feelings and knowings that defy the kind of words we use on this planet. I don’t own anything except for small moments of peace, of rest, of creating. The moments of wanting and striving roll off like water drops on leaves. They cannot stay. The gravity is too dense.
Who do I actually owe? I owe people for their love, and never their judgement. I owe the sky at night for the vision it provides me of all the other stars lit up like friends with flashlights on a large ship on a dark sea. I owe my chisel faced grandpa, Lonnie Gold, for my father, Melvin Lonnie, and for me. I owe my heart for staying whole when it could have shattered or shut its doors. I owe my mind for its utter complexity even as the edges get softer. I owe the sun for all the light shows I have felt deep inside me. I owe my family for everything.
What do you actually own? Who do you actually owe?
