Splinters in Your Ass

I remember anti-drug campaign ads in the early 2000s that had a picture of dandelions with a caption that said “Weed to a sixth grader” and a picture of a joint with a caption that read “Weed to a seventh grader”. I’m sure there’s research about the pivotal social, emotional, and physical changes that take place in these years. Anecdotally, it was definitely a time of transition for me.

Though three and a half years apart, my older sister and I were the same height for most of our girlhood. In that transition from tween to preteen, I grew 9 inches, towering over her and most of my peers. I started my period, grew curves, and had my first boyfriend- who was also significantly shorter than me. I started developing my own style. I got my ears re-pierced for the third and final time (the first as a baby, the second around seven years old). And I discovered Flyy Girl.

A coming of age story of a young Black girl in Philadelphia, the book was a rite of passage for Black girls growing up in the 90s. Omar Tyree’s tale was accessible but still adventurous: precautionary without being preachy, and explicit without being too erotic.

The pink paperback changed hands many times between me and my friends, swearing we’d never let one another get played, and wishing for the days we’d be old enough to go on dates and have cars.

There are many scenes, quotes, and lessons that stick out, but one in particular came to mind recently. Tracy, the titular character, is sitting at the basketball court during the summer, waiting for her love interest to return as he’d promised. It’s clear she’s young, naive, and slowly being baited onto his older, mature, and sexually experienced hook. It reads,

“Are you waiting for somebody?” one of the glamorous older girls asked her. They were all beginning to fade away. Why don’t you mind your business, Tracy wanted to snap. “No, not really. I just like watching basketball,” she said instead. The girl’s friends snickered at Tracy as they began to walk off. “Don’t get no splinters in your ass, waiting for no nigga, girl. ‘Cause aint none of ’em worth it,” she said to Tracy as she walked off behind her friends.

When I read that as a tween and again as a teen, I only received part of the message. I saw it as a critique of the watching, not the waiting itself. Instead being a hopeless spectator, Tracy should have had her own games, her own interests, her own thing. So in middle school, I played volleyball, basketball, and soccer- all quite terribly. I danced and sang in the youth ministries at church. By high school there were countless clubs, jobs, and activities from babysitting to community service to color guard to gospel choir to athletic training.

I transitioned to adulthood with a more mature lens on the same understanding. Save up, give back, work on yourself, do your own thing. I avoided the splinters in my ass, but waiting remained a thorn in my side.

Now in my thirties, I’ve developed a deeper understansing. At 11, I understood the advice to mean I could live my life while I waited. At 31, I understand there is no life in waiting at all.

It’s like waiting at the airport waiting to board a standy flight on a busy weekend. You know where you want to go, but you have no control over whether you’ll be able to get on a flight or when you’ll arrive at your destination. In the meantime, you have to entertain and distract yourself from a constant attack on all of your senses. The seats are uncomfortable and the lighting is bad. It’s noisy and it smells weird. The air is cold and sticky. Every time a flight boards, you get your hopes up. Every time you’re passed over, your spirits sink and you’re back at square one. It’s fine if you have time to waste, but depening on your destination, you may be better off driving. Waiting takes effort I could be exerting elsewhere, and energy I’m no longer willing to expend.

For many, waiting means holding off on things you want to share with a partner like traveling or hosting holidays. My colleague shared that her good friend had been waiting until she had a family to buy nice dinnerware. For many straight women in particular, it also means holding off on things that might deter a potential partner like owning a home or having children.

I’m done holding off. I’m holding on. To myself, my joy, my energy, and my peace. After a series of longterm, long distance relationships and the rigidity of a PhD program, I’m not interested in surrendering any of my newfound flexibility. I’m not structuring my life around who or what may be next when I have little to no control over if and when they show up.

I’m leaving the waiting room, and dedicating every part of my self, my joy, my energy, and my peace that were stranded there to maintaining my self, my joy, my energy, and my peace. I’m in the driver’s seat, and I’m excited for the journey.