There are many beginnings to this story of becoming, or perhaps many becomings in this story of beginnings.

There is a moment that occurred in the summer of 2011 that has never slipped my mind. In fact, it has held fast to the deepest crevices in my memory.

I was born on a Spring Wednesday in 1997. Many things become in springtime. This was a significant becoming for me, as birth is for most people. Becoming an embodied spirit by the miracle of birth and, in my case, a little bit of help from science. Becoming a sister and a daughter by virtue of the love of those who welcomed me to this world. Becoming a United States citizen by statute of the law of the land. Becoming a Black girl in the US, with all of its accompanying weight, by virtue of policy and history, and simple reality.

On a Spring day in 2005, I abruptly became a huérfana de padre. The Spanish language uses the word for orphan, huérfano, even for the loss of one parent, and I appreciate that. My orfandad was obviously life-shifting. In hindsight, it was around this time that I realized life required becoming, an active search and reckoning as opposed to blissful, passive being.

My first migration transformed me in ways I could not have imagined at the time and in ways I am still reckoning with to this day. This was in the Fall of 2016, fitting I guess, as I changed along with the leaves. I moved to the Caribbean and embarked on a journey that was and has been both shorter and longer than I could have possibly imagined. It was there that I found self and began to become me.

These becomings and beginnings were somewhat linear. Leading me down a trajectory on which I continue to advance. But the Summer of 2011 was the beginning of a somewhat circular becoming. A moment in time from which I’ve long since left yet continue to return to.

As we neared the entrance to our compound, my beloved uncle was on his way out. We stopped, and asked, “Where are you going?” “I dey come,” he said nonchalantly with a wave.

As a diasporan, oftentimes two truths cohabitate a single moment. “I dey come.” I understood the intended sentiment: I’ll be right back. But I also remember thinking, you say you’re coming but it kinda looks like you’re going.

Surely enough, he was back within the hour and I spent a few more days under his loving gaze before returning across the Atlantic. I haven’t seen my beloved uncle since then, and I won’t until the next life, the transition to which will be another all-important beginning and becoming.

My uncle’s death was a circular becoming in that it began the return to my orfandad. When I heard the news, I immediately crumbled under the gravity of what I had lost. Not only was he my sweet uncle whose deep bass voice always put a smile on my face, he also seemed my last human connection to my father and my father’s home, to my home.

My uncle’s death was a circular becoming in that it began my return to my search for self. Who am I without these connections he singlehandedly maintained?

There are many beginnings to my story of becoming, and many becomings in my story of beginnings.

But I often return to the moment when I was looking at his face and hearing his voice: “I dey come.” The words ring true.

There are many beginnings to my story of becoming, but, perhaps most importantly, there is no end to my becoming.

Signed,

N.A.