Dear God,

I doubt that any of us deserve the “utmost” of anything. When I researched the term, it meant “of the greatest or highest degree.” Hmm. What have I done to deserve, by definition, the highest level of respect? Consequently, what haven’t I done to deserve it? How do I qualify for more respect? And who’s supposed to give it to me?

When I started this letter, I wrote:

“I am deserving of the utmost respect because I walk with it. My strut makes bystanders stop to watch me or get out of my way. The bottom of my chin rests parallel to the floor 85% of the time, and I don’t let many people see it drop.”

What about the other 15%? Is there respect reserved for weakness? For pouting? If I stumble, do I deserve less than if I were to step firmly? Does showing respect entitle me to being respected? The more I inquired, the more holes I poked through the concept. Even as Your child, I’ve failed in gifting You high levels of appreciation until now. And still, I’m no Jesus Christ; actually, I’m a shred of DNA away from Eve herself. So, I guess my question is: What would compel someone to give me the utmost respect? How can I convince them? What makes me special enough to receive it?

My mom died the summer before my 23rd birthday. I wrote her eulogy myself and read it during her ascension ceremony. I designed her programs and sifted through albums to digitize our family in color. I ensured that the photos represented everyone well, regardless of how falsely they portrayed our broken family. I stayed as stoic and tactful as possible out of sheer disbelief of my mother’s passing.

I buried her soul deep inside mine and kept my mouth shut after lowering a casket she didn’t belong in. I kept our family home from foreclosure and our family dog from chasing mice through the walls after midnight. I abandoned my dreams to complete hers. I quieted my rage and contempt for a family she headed, which had no real interest in helping her comfortably transition. I assumed their debt, as she did, and organized it. I assumed her responsibility to lead and led. I wrote to You as often as I could within the fog of her afterlife, even when my substance abuse triggered suicidal thoughts. I abruptly stopped grief therapy to quit my first “big girl” job; I suffocated under the mountain of responsibility for weeks. That was my second resignation in three years.

I took the last year of my mom’s death anniversary (2023) to feel nothing but self-induced pity. After rummaging through our late queen’s clothes and heirlooms, I put her palace up for sale. As an heir with a shrinking cash wad, I had the most unpredictable spring and summer known to man. I wrote down every task I wanted to do before turning 30 and factored in the time it’d take to complete them. I galloped between DC night clubs with my friends for free. I started graduate school; luckily, and with no real discipline left, I received a B in my first class. I’ll find the discipline to finish strong, as I always do.

Most of this was expected of me. As the eldest twin, if you can conceptualize such a thing, I was expected to attend my mother’s alma mater. I was expected to make a name there for myself and her legacy. I was expected to graduate from college on time. I was expected to seek higher education, too. I was expected to be more than some spoiled, trust fund kid who can’t pay her rent and rides the bus at 26.
So, do I deserve the utmost respect? And why?

I am a brilliant conversationalist; I ask good questions and deduce strong conclusions. I make phone calls often, even when anxiously anticipating hard conversations and unpleasant news. I look people in their eyes when they have something to say, and often, deeper. I tithe what I can and when I can’t, I do something nice for the lady sitting outside of our grocery store. She asked me for chicken wings once. The concrete beneath her is hard, but good food softens everyone.

I write, sing, and speak from the heart, especially when frustration deafens reasoning. I love people, despite trusting them. I have a fascination with joy and life, in addition to pain and death. I like my outfits just as colorful as my stories. I invite wallflowers to detach from awkward silences and bloom next to me. I like people for reasons no one can configure and still find ways to show everyone equity. I love the different smells of water. I leave debris in my pocket and scold myself after laundry day. Without drowning in obligations of survival, I watch the humanness of living: the changing intensities of sun mid-season, the colloquial embraces of affection after long-awaited greetings, and notes comprised of melodies too beautiful to sing to anyone but a lover.

I deserve the utmost respect because… I’ve shown it. Grief is quite the beast to slay on your own. For the sake of my healing and deliverance, my sword has been drawn to it annually. I sharpen it with vulnerability, grace, and tough love. I cross t’s and dot i’s like the noble daughter I must embody. I fight to water myself until I die. I love and I lose, yet I never cease to honor either outcome as it arises. I’ve shown the utmost respect as a villain and a victim. I guess I finally believe I deserve it back.