I found (a better) cure to growing older
TW/CW for the piece: Allegories/Imagery related to cheating, self-harm/suicide, Mention of victim-blaming/dehumanizing language
Don’t be the daughter of immigrants, African ones at that.
If you are, pray that the fair tone you are born with never tans.
If it does, be prepared to constantly fight your mother about not wanting to put the lightening cream your dad brought from Ghana to “fix your face.”
And if you give in, just know that you’ll probably end up writing poetry about loving
your skin tone while you rub the lotion across your face,
since you became numb to the itchiness and burns of what is essentially
an unregulated chemical peel treatment.
“I found the cure to growing older”
Don’t grow up in a family where you are forced to learn
how to tune out sounds at age five.
Do you best to hyper fixate on the latest case the gang in Cyberchase are trying to solve, and
the sound of your parents arguing over bills, tramps and your education are simply white noise.
If you do, be prepared to hit a breaking point in this ability and internalize every word that is
said from the noise that was once used as a lullaby
and begin to question if your existence was more of a
burden
than you once thought.
“I found the cure to growing older”
Don’t be the daughter of low-income immigrants,
Ghanaian ones to be specific,
and have panic attacks about asking for lunch money for school, because you have a clear
understanding why your cousins can buy the latest converse shoes,
but most of your clothes are three sizes larger because
they are bought for when you get bigger,
and it’s cheaper now than to buy you the clothes you need now.
“I found the cure to growing older”
Don’t grow up as an only child,
be the daughter of low-income Ghanaian immigrants,
where you are often left in the house by yourself
which will inevitably create an unhealthy attachment style.
If you do, don’t be surprised when every time you think you find friends who thought would be
with you on some of your biggest days,
They will simply ghost and block you, never giving you a reason,
or the reason being that you’re simply too much;
so that now, even though you do find yourself longing friendship,
you’re scared that you’ll continue to scare everyone away,
and so you now have built up walls like never before and need to learn how to add some cracks
to that foundation.
“I found the cure to growing older”
Don’t attend that elementary and middle school
that will cause you to become close acquaintances with pencil sharpeners and experimenting
with how many pills of Tylenol it takes before you can touch heaven,
allowing you to finally get answers to the curiosity you’ve had about the afterlife at an age most
people are not supposed to.
If you do, just know that by 7th grade,
you’ll stop crying after every insult, punch and kick;
minus that one comment in eighth grade
where the now soon to be nurse and her friends told you that “girls like you get raped”
you’ll never forget about that line, and you’ll have a document titled that,
waiting for an editorial or creative non-fiction piece to fill the page when
you finally confront the implications that phrase has.
The pain of that time will never really leave you.
It will simply transform to a degradation kink that will terrify and leave your boyfriend confused
because he doesn’t fully understand how hurting you is loving you.
probably because you don’t either.
But, when you talk about that time to your parents
nearly twelve years later from when it finally ended,
you’ll be able to talk about it openly, make jokes,
still flip off the school when you drive past it on the Lakeshore.
Though you still softly place a kiss on your dad’s cheek,
because that’s the only thing you can do to try and soften the guilt
you know they feel about that time,
because they tried everything but there was
never anything they could really do to stop those kids.
Or themselves.
You could never be saved.
“I found the cure to growing older, and you’re the only place that feels like h—“
Swipes out of Spotify.
About the author:
Naa Asheley Ashitey (She/Her/Hers) is a writer and aspiring physician-scientist from Chicago, currently living In Madison, Wisconsin. She is interested in the intersection between scientific research, medicine and the humanities. Her works have been published in Broken Antler Magazine, fifth wheel press, Euphony Journal, and The Xylom. She is currently a 1st year, MD-PhD Student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison
More at NaaAshitey.com
In the artist’s words:
Léni Paquet-Morante (1962) is a New Jersey based painter of contemporary landscapes. With a BFA from Mason Gross School of Art, her work since the mid 1980’s has conveyed an abstraction of light and form, and focused on bodies of water and the forces and forms that define and alter them. Her work suggests metaphors for the human experience, especially regarding privacy and safety. She is listed in the Woman Artists of America National Directory, New Jersey Artists Directory, and is registered with the Canada Arts Council.
www.lenimorante.com
ANNOUNCEMENT:
The Princeton University Art Museum is currently presenting
“Léni Paquet-Morante: Extract/Abstract”
at The Bainbridge House in Princeton, New Jersey
158 Nassau Street
Princeton, NJ 08540
from July 19, 2025 to November 9, 2025
