“We mineswell get married.” Sitting in the emergency room staring at the wall, my back facing you. How did I get here? How did we get to this moment? See, love has no boundaries. Many times I tried to shut you out. Determined to hide my truths. There’s a healing power that I wanted so badly to share, but I was waiting for you to show me that you cared. How selfish could I be? It was never about me. You’ve been fighting for a long time. I watched you relentlessly drive up and down 285. Looking for what they couldn’t find. Never contemplating suicide, for most in your predicament it would’ve been an easy ride.“Mr. T you look good and healthy,” they didn’t see him last night hugging a porcelain throne. They didn’t know what it was like when the sun went down and darkness filled its place. Almost instantaneously your muscles began to facilitate. It was like clockwork. Pillows holding you up, fearful you wouldn’t wake. They see what appears to be a modelesque man. Well spoken, wearing a designer outfit. “Mr. T it could be HIV,” said one doctor once, interrupting him as he tried to speak. They don’t see what I see. We, your village, because you are not alone, have gotten good at playing their game. Your community of nurses, CDC employees, nutritionists, hood herbalists, physical therapists, mothers, sisters, cousins, and uncles. A combination of college education, wisdom, strong faith, and life experience did more than the doctors were willing to do. Coaching you on medical terminology, advocating for yourself, not allowing you to go through those cold doors unattended.

Temperance is what you exercised in those moments when they looked at you. They see a thug.With a thick Southern accent, covered in tattoos. An internal war was raging. I was watching you die. Something was attacking you from the inside. An infection. Your body becoming catabolic with the passing of every summer night. You needed more from me. Overnight trips to the emergency room, fighting back tears trying to be strong for you. The doctors weren’t listening when you brought your list of tests they needed to run. A referral to a specialist was what we needed. With every emergency visit, at times, we exaggerated your condition. It was as if you weren’t bleeding out or in a wheelchair you were not a priority. But, what happens when the illness is invisible to the naked eye? Discharged after extreme dosages of tramadol. Spending days waiting in agony for an appointment two months out. By then, you could be dead. It was hard to watch the White men get called to the back and walk out of the ER smiling. While my Black man hadn’t a clue why his body was shutting down. Whispering in your ear, “the spirit of a man will sustain his infirmity, but a wounded spirit who can bear?” This situation felt so otherworldly, spiritual. In every specialist referral received, there was a glimmer of hope. Before learning that they specialized in deflecting and prescribing placebos. I had no idea so many types of medical practices existed. There were cardiologists, traditional Chinese medicine doctors, gastroenterologists, acupuncturists, rheumatologists, neurologists, oncologists, and naturopaths. All of them provided no solutions, telling us what we all knew. That your body was under attack. You allowed me to see you in your truth – bare, indisposed, and defeated. Just three months before, we weren’t speaking. When we first began our situationship, the abuse of time and energy without full commitment. Intimacy without responsibility. Refusal to work through traumas and confront truths while still expecting a whole person. You would shut me out every month leaving me confused. Trying to understand what it was you were running from or hiding. Was there someone else? I was wrestling with my pride, trying to survive. But I couldn’t deny that it runs through my veins. Keeps me comforted at night. Amplifies my spirit, brings me closer to the light. Beyond the dates at Cheesecake and our cheap talks on why we can’t escape. It’s a game we play. You move, I move. A rhythm. We’re unable to separate. An eternal flame that leads me back to you. Sometimes I look at you and I see me. I look into your eyes and it’s love that I see. You came back to me. Asking to take you to an appointment you underplayed, unintentionally. You didn’t realize the gravity of your illness. As I helped you clean up, in your own way, you told me you were fond of me. It was the first moment of vulnerability. That’s when I knew you were going to need me. Like a thief in the night you came in and stole my broken antiques. In the blink of an eye I was falling deep. Googling natural remedies for muscle facilitation and detoxes for your lymphatic system. Learning about the magical powers of oregano oil, Jamaican sarsaparilla, burdock root, st john’s wort, duck flower, hawthorn berries, and so many more. Relying on the power of plants to do what Western medicine couldn’t do. I became a hood herbalist. Using old folk remedies, religious teachings, urban practices, and the study of traditional plants to heal you. Asking for discernment in which tea to make. Rubbing on your body hoping my finger tips would ease the pain. “You’ve been an angel in my life,” the credit is not mine, but the glory is divine. Guided to the works of herbalists, medicine women/men, naturopaths, wild crafters, harvesters, holistic medical doctors, inyangas, root workers, healers, grandmothers, grandfathers, and a slew of other names given to the one who believes. Listening to the emergency physician say, “our textbooks are unclear and AI believes…” Tuning them out instantly. In sickness we found what felt like a crime, true love. Sometimes I look at you and see me. I made a promise that I would never leave. Now I’m somewhere, staring at the glow pouring into this hospital room. I’m in love. The missing key to my pandora’s box. Got me open, curious to see where your love will take me. To traditional Chinese medical doctors inquiring about rhus chinensis as I use Google Translate to explain your condition. Then back home to figure out how many gallons to boil and praying I don’t kill you. Sometimes I look at you and I see me. Especially when you peek into the mug to see the contents of the foreign liquid. Or when you call me to show me that small insects are floating in your cup. And I laugh and tell you what you see are aphids. Explaining that what you’re drinking are the plant galls, growths, triggered by the feedings of certain aphid species on the sumac tree. Sometimes I look at you and see me. Especially when you march into the Chinese herbal shop to make sure what you ingested wouldn’t harm you. While unlearning and decentralizing colonial ways of understanding the basic need for community. In healing, we found that love is the key. 

She wakes up at 6 am, tired from yesterday’s journey. She gets dressed, makes a bowl of cream of wheat, and opens the front door of her three-story row home. The air smells heavy as if last night’s trauma has not completely faded away. As she starts her journey to school, she waves at the lady on her porch smoking a joint, “You are so pretty, such a nice young girl,” she says. As the girl heads to the bus stop ready to embark on today’s journey, she thinks that it has to be more. She is Jalyn Jo Parker, a multi-hyphenated creative. Through narrative and visual storytelling, her work is rooted in historical research, personal narrative, and visual culture. Using her gifts to impact lives, change perspectives, and ignite those who feel powerless.