“In Which The Author Trauma Dumps Until They Feel Better” by Wyatt McColough
Illustration by Arts and Literary Journal advisor Mitali Sharma.
My mother raised me to be loving.
She taught me to love another for who they are,
the good, the bad, and the
suicide threats.
My mother raised me to be cautious.
To look both ways when crossing the street to the mall,
to double-take at
every white Toyota Camry with a pink license-plate frame,
every short figure in a full-body coat,
every Jewel Osco,
every suburban sidewalk,
every choir concert.
My mother raised me to be humble.
No matter how big my achievement,
you must not force it down another’s
throat;
no matter how tired,
I promise,
she was more tired.
My mother raised me to be stubborn.
She always says that she was the most stubborn person she’d ever met
until I was
born.
My stubbornness
tethered me to the Earth with roots and nails,
showing me how to hold my ground as the bullets fly,
hurling back ones of my own until one day my stubbornness to survive
outgrew my stubbornness to stay
so I
left.
My mother raised me to survive.
Allowed me the space to prove to myself that I can cut my own nails,
make my own lunch,
find my own face wash,
love my own self,
use scented deodorant,
start a Depop shop,
drive with the windows down,
speak loud enough to be heard,
sleep in boxers,
not cry over spilled blood,
lock my bedroom door,
unlock my bedroom door,
imagine life past eighteen,
imagine life without fear
of the small figure in a full-body coat
who failed to break me down.
I raised myself to be unbreakable.
I put up walls that cause strangers
and friends
and teachers
and family
to deem me “scary,”
because at least scary people don’t fear.
My mother called me scary a few days ago.
Said she was
scared to death of me.
Sometimes I wonder if she fears the loss of the child she raised to
lose.
Wyatt McColough is a queer, non-binary writer from the Chicago suburbs. When they’re not writing, you can find them chronically online @dogmotiif on Instagram.
