by Micah Watson
In my Best-Man-esq group text, I’m definitely the most likely to be Harper. Of us classmates-turned-lifelong-friends, I’m the dark skinned writer with glasses and a swagger that transcends decades (okay, maybe that last part is Taye-specific). The important and illusive part in that is “writer” (even if I don’t plan on writing a tell-all novel). It’s an identity that I’m learning to claim but has always marked my journey as an artist. My dear friend posed a question to the group, “What do you think you’ll be doing at 35?” Some responded with jokes. Almost all responded with plans of children, jobs, and places they would call home. But for me, in the first days of attending the grad school of my prayers, my attempt to hold back guttural tears while watching this conversation was almost comical.
You see, all I know is that I’m supposed to be a writer. I have desires of being married with kids, repping a city that lets me flourish with my people, and rocking an afro the size of Wakanda. And I know that if I actively love the Lord, he wants to give me the desires of my heart. But the only promise that I’m certain of is that I’m going to tell stories. So far, being an artist is the only thing my heart wants that also seems to align with God’s will. All I want to do is let His promise be enough.
But sometimes I’m really bad at it.
Now that I’m here at NYU, the task of actually writing feels daunting. The pass/fail structure of this magically rigorous course load means that I don’t get praised for being the smartest or the Blackest; my work will have to stand on its own. That’s like learning to love your naked body. Now that I’m here in Manhattan, the task of walking home from my favorite soy chai spot before sunset is frustrating. Singleness is an annoying gift, particularly when I haven’t found a new community to walk and laugh with me through it all. Now that I’m becoming a real adult, I don’t have the external surety that my friends have.
Suffice it to say, I did not succeed in holding back the water works. But somewhere on the floor of my studio, God met me once again in the form of a Kings Kaleidoscope track and a recollection of Truth and reminded me that He’s all the surety I need.
With wavy faith, peppered with facetiousness, I responded that at 35 “I will be somewhere writing and making things, holding on to God’s promise and a dream. Probably somewhere in the US. Learning to walk at Christ’s pace and better at it than I was 12 years ago.”
And yet, I still walk on water like fat-legged toddler.
With my new mantra, courtesy of Transformation Church’s Michael Todd, I’m learning how to “stride” instead of “strive,” meaning that I’ve got to walk at the steady pace that Christ has planned out for my life, instead of strenuously running to make my own moves. The thing about striding, though, is that I have to walk. Like actually keep moving. For someone whose default settings are hyperactive-creative-energizer-bunny and in-my-feelings-debilitated-procrastinator, walking at a steady pace is easier said than done. It takes a particular trust that just because I’m not exerting concerning amounts of energy, doesn’t mean that God ever stopped working on my behalf, stopped loving me, or stopped being the noun good himself. I’m learning how to move within His grace with diligence and even more trust. I spend my days plotting and perfecting scripts—stories of people’s lives and actions towards a greater goal—so sometimes it’s hard not to look at God sideways when he tells me that I don’t get to plot my own. While I’d like to know every turn of my life, the only direction He’s given is “follow me.” He says, “come.” That’s my cue to respond, “yes.” I’m not really an actor anymore, but before these two years are over, I’ll be off book.
And I’m on my way.
Years, maybe even months ago, a text like that, this blow of uncertainty and lie of inadequacy would have kept me down for a few days, if not in my room, at least in my head. The blessing here is that I got up, started my homework (which may or may not have included watching Insecure), woke up the next day, analyzed another TV show, caught up with a college friend (who’s been the blessing that I didn’t know I even needed), wrote a couple of movie pitches, and took a meeting. And not once did I feel like I was out of breath. I didn’t drown.
I finished the day in Sabbath, by taking some time to read from my first Intellectual Lover, Ta-Nehisi Coates. Even in the midst of very real uncertainty, God not only gifted me with a moment of restful floating, but also with cerebral rejuvenation. What I learned from Coates is that writers write, and they read and they stumble. And being the writer that honors my ancestors is going to take curiosity, discipline, and a daily commitment to facing the fears that cause me to question my purpose. I will have to work at articulating my inspiration; that is the joy of the craft. I’m learning that this piece of my journey is about learning how to listen to God, and I mean really listen.
So many times I’ve made fun of Hillsong’s “Oceans” as a white nondenominational cliché. But when they sang “spirit lead me where my trust is without borders, let me walk upon the waters, wherever you may call me” at the church around the corner, I felt that thang. As a young Black woman, the fear of new waters is as real as it was for my ancestors who were crushed by them. Being “twice as good” is and will be a part of my new challenge, but it can’t be the heart of it. Somewhere in the lies of systemic racism, we were told that our value is contingent upon our external success and that our worth comes from proving that we’re not the women that stereotypes say that we are. The weight of that makes it feel like constantly running to shore is the only way that we’ll keep from drowning in a world that doesn’t see us for the complicated gems that we really are. But running is tiring and sea salt was never good for our edges. Walking on water is much more efficient, and peaceful, and scary, and Instagram-worthy, and new. The core of who I am becoming—as a writer, as an artist, as a Black Girl—must be about working towards something that I cannot quantify and cannot see. Walking (not running, sometimes grinding) towards Freedom is mad abstract, but it rests in my soul like an unsettling spiritual. And if it’s true that I wade the same waters as generations of ancestors, then enduring those waters is just as vital. I am committing to letting the Lord shape me into something new, something smelted, something faithful, something fearless, something whole, something ready, through this Atlantic I’m calling New York City.
I’m out of the boat now. Assignments aren’t always easy, because I’m doing things that I’ve never done (literally the whole point), but I know, I mean really know, that I’m meant to do it. In just four weeks, I see my work growing and I feel like I’m closer to hitting my stride. I’m working on a project that feels like a promise and praying for continued sparks of inspiration. I’m approaching my calling as “artist” with specificity, learning how to don my purpose as “writer” with the same internal fierceness as my braided bob.
Now this being a writer thing isn’t just a Dream. It’s the promise that I hold onto as I workshop scripts and eat takeout curry alone. Besides my necessary commitment to paying off these student loans I’m accruing, the real commitment is going to be staying out here in these waters, knowing God wouldn’t put me here without purpose and provision. I’m looking upward and forward, not inward—for His strength is made perfect in my weakness (flex one time God!) I don’t know where the heck I’ll be at 35, but I know that I will have an MFA from NYU and be inside of God’s will and the dreams of my ancestors.
So, how do you walk on water? Girl, I don’t even know. But I’m learning how to trust the One who does.