Origins: Way Before Not A Monolith
a pic of Baby Tash
They say long-form content is back! Although I wouldn't crown myself with the title of certified yapper, verbally that is. I quite literally always have something I'm writing down and I believe that's where this story begins. Before we get to the pivotal moments that led to my debut poetry book, Not A Monolith: poems and musings of a black woman, I must first lay the literary groundwork that helped shape Baby Tash.
It all started with a diary! And no I do not mean "journal”, I'm talking about good old fashioned "dear diary, etc etc ” entries. I was obsessed with documenting my life as early as 6 years old. Looking back it is clear, that the constant influx of commercials trying to sell kids literally anything and everything had some effect. Do y'all remember those invisible ink diaries, the "high-tech” password protection journals, or the ones with the cute little lock and key, oh yeah I was the ideal target audience those early 2000s toy companies were looking for.
But truly, I didn't need the glitz and glamour, just give me a pen and a notebook, and I'll handle the contents gleefully. It was the narration that buzzed through my fingertips, how excited I was to debrief the day's events, often in the third person. Yes, she is an unapologetic third-person user and advocate! Through my diary, I managed to explore, unload, and distance myself, especially from unfavorable events in life. Whether it was a bad day at school or a bad day at home. I was able to tell my story as is! In hindsight, it was the only place I didn't feel the need to people-please, authentically, and always Shantasha. I could be rude, nasty, and downright evil at times, but between those sheets of paper, I celebrated the freedom it granted- to release it all. More often than not, I was anxious and concerned about the world at large. One day I'm squealing about my little schoolgirl crush (these entries required at least a 3-page minimum) then I'm discussing my gripes about American immigration after a brief yet disruptive day in court where the solution was always "let's postpone this for another day”. While being accurately aware of your illegal status in this country as third grader is not a unique experience, it's still a sobering one.
I had a lot of heavy thoughts at a young age, as there were a lot of heavy things I experienced. The older I got and the more siblings that came signified the more material I was destined to blab about. Even though there were months and sometimes years when I missed my diary entries usually due to moving homes or overwhelming extracurricular schedules; my preferred communication has always been with words. What 1st grader do you know… printed and organized anti-smoking slides with personal notes to convince their mother to stop smoking cigarettes. I mean? Point her to me, we have much to discuss and I'd love to compare notes (never underestimate the power of the early 2000's D.A.R.E program). And as for me and poetry at this time, well… she was always there… gently in the background. I dabbled with prose and rhyme in my journals but mostly wrote poetry for school projects, absolutely enthralled with manipulating words into rhyme. More often I played with songwriting rather than straight-up poetry, which looking back, tomato-tomatoe, right? And man, did I enjoy (and still do) giving a handwritten birthday card. All my day 1s for sure have a long drawn-out sappy card, proudly written and signed by me.
In the end, words have always been the mode I chose to express myself to the world. It's how I like best to discuss feelings that couldn't bring themselves to find actual sound (which is a often occurrence for me). So from anti-smoking campaigns to writing an essay for my granny in the seventh grade listing the reasons why she should buy me a phone (this is the same lady that had me doing book reports in the middle of the summer just cause) to dare I say the inevitable “girly right of passage” of sending a much too long text to an undeserving ex (we all have the right to express, just don't be out here begging). It's always been all about the WORD, babes!
So I’m a diary enthusiast, full-time fantasy book adventurer (not previously mentioned but notably important), and overall a language arts-loving little girl. Seems like the signs were pretty clear, in hindsight… they were quite crystal. But alas, let us put on our Jamaican upbringing lenses. Growing up I was expected to read and write well- like yes, of course, duh. It didn't mean you went and made a career out of it. It gave don't applaud a fish for swimming kinda vibes at home, you know? You do something sensible, and if you're gonna read or write make sure it's connected to health, science, or law. This isn't groundbreaking stuff and this story is not unique to me, any Caribbean, minority, or anyone who grew up with strict parents knows this tune. While usually well-intentioned (looking half glass full on this one) we know that a one-size-fit approach to parenting ends with frustration and silenced voices. Painfully knowing what is not watered cannot grow. So throughout my youth, I wrote for myself and school assignments, it wasn't the worst fate and perhaps I've watched too many episodes of Marvel's "What If” series but… I wonder what it would have been like if creative careers were celebrated in our childhood homes. How might I move if I thought writing was a respectable career? But we turn our heads to the future and keep our feet firmly rooted in the present as we acknowledge and learn from our past (cause at some point, it is what it is).
So yeah, these are my earliest moments and my best attempt at a snapshot. How I've always felt drawn to write for expression without the need for any external validation... Because, aren't we often rediscovering what we enjoyed most or what came naturally to us as children is still true in adulthood, I find myself squarely on this journey as I shimmy towards 30.
Despite my natural inclinations, my writing ended up on the back burner as I started my sensible pursuits. From obsessing over A's and B's to being accepted into the International Baccalaureate program in high school, going to The University of Florida, and majoring in communication sciences and disorders (love the degree but not many chances for creative writing) not to mention my short stint as a higher education professional and most recently a fulltime corporate baddie, I found myself trying to fit into a mold that was never meant for me. But that spark for writing, specifically poetry, would be back circa late 2018. That was the moment I set off to teach English in China. A year that altered me emotionally and mentally. A year of triumphs and deep loneliness. An amazing journey that fully deserves its own blog, until next time.
xoxo,
Shantasha Naomi Laing
image via https://www.amazon.com/Password-Journal-Discontinued-by-manufacturer/dp/B009F7OXCA
