Sarah

My name is Patricia. I like my name. I think it suits me. I was nearly called Sarah. Nice name, it means Princess. If I was Sarah I'd have been a much more well behaved teenager. I probably would have worn thick woolly jumpers and wouldn't smile so much. I'd be a habitual huffer and puffer. That person that huffs and puffs when you sit on the free seat next to them or when you enter the library not on tip toes. I'd be real cute when I huffed and puffed, but the label of 'angry black girl' would feed my insecurities and I would find myself holding my breath instead. I'd hold my breath on the tube or the bus, I'd hold my breath in the work place and even with my friends. "She's a quiet one, that Sarah" they'd say. Sarah would only be able to hold her breath for so long, eventually she'd break, and learn to breathe again. She'd discover the magic of breathing to the beat of her ancestors, and so she would huff and puff whenever she wanted to, soulfully and unapologetically. Now her anger looks like a dance.