For the Sonorous

File

 

I said no, I won't go. “Once you go in, you won't come out,” is what I've heard. No you can't come in. Just leave me to my voices, they will guide me to the end. Then you won't have anymore “mess,” to clean off of the country club's polished gold floor. Oh no, Ms. Favorite, corrected me once again. “It's silver with a tad bit of gold wither.” Sigh, is all my angels and devils can say as the car makes its way up to my grave. Shh, we have to whisper. If they hear, there will be another year of family pictures taken without me. But don't sweat it. The angels say, "you can always try and look at this as vacation from the messed up aliens you've been living with for ten ages.” Wait, no, this is real. I just thought they wanted to test my fair, not give yet another disturbed kid my trial. This is an error. This window, this safe house, this everything is not real. We come up with a plan. Ding, beg for forgiveness, plea for mercy, blame it all on the man I'm forced to call dad that couldn't help but force his hands every night onto my doorknob. Call my elders, “Sir” and “Ma'am,” fix your clothes and hair, “don't randomly dance everywhere,” and just be what they want! Then they will want you. Although mom now has sympathetic eyes, I blew my cover, should've had an episode out front, not in this meeting with Dr. Sir Fixer who's seen enough for more notes placed in my file. That is all I am now. The devils say throughout the luxurious tour, “You’re just a file,” in more offices than one. Each has in common, “aggressive expressions of emotional pain and disorder.” But no, the angels and I have agreed, I will continue painting my canvas and illustrating this blank room, where no echoes of clicked heels and scurried sniffles occurred. Spotting a pretty girl at a table across from me around my age, eating her hair for dinner, softened my static hands and I finally could pick up the fork after eighteen days of trying. That same night no crying. No fuss between me and my roommate. That night the dusty white pills truthfully slid down to no angels and devils. Temporarily. Finally after years of fear, I lay my hair on the sewn pillow and my mind stills to wake. Once my expiration date is up,  I will fold up my sheets, make my hair sparkle and brush my wardrobe of my ashes. Maybe if I’m up to it, I’ll even guide Dr. Sir Fixer through each page of my soul. But I wake up to yelling stop, I said no. Stop. I won't go. These white walls feel like home. So no, no I won't go back.

Chanelle Ferguson is born, raised and still currently lives in the Bronx. She is West Indian and currently a senior at Herbert H. Lehman HS. Chanelle supports natural hair and all-natural lifestyles. She learned that writing was her passion when she realized that she can’t draw, sing or dance, but could move people with her words and thoughts. Chanelle finds daily inspiration in strangers and quotes. This is her second year in Girls Write Now and first year as a member of the Youth Board and she is really looking forward to a great year! Chanelle loves and respects the way women are empowered and interact through writing at Girls Write Now. She considers herself a writer because she believes writing is the greatest form of art. Her favorite book always seems to vary, but one of her favorite authors is Maya Angelou. Chanelle enjoys writing realistic fiction, journalism and poetry. This summer she participated in a Advanced Writing Workshop at Columbia University and ​​was published in Columbia's Literary Magazine. Along with Girls Write Now, Chanelle is also a member of the Urban Word NYC Youth Board and volunteers as a tutor every week.