The Window Was Open, Mama

There’s a difference between intelligence, common sense, and wisdom.
They’re not steps on a staircase—more like tools in a box.
Each one has its place. Each one serves a different purpose.
But use the wrong one at the wrong time, and things still fall apart.

I grew up in a house without air conditioning.
Heat. Humid. Heavy. Unforgiving.
But I was clever. I figured out that if I parked myself next to the window with a good book, I could catch a breeze. I’d sit in my favorite chair, the wind ruffling the pages like a lazy fan, and let stories carry me somewhere cooler.

Enter my mother’s voice, sharp and sudden:
“Go outside and get some fresh air!”

Now, I was intelligent enough to recognize the absurdity.
What do you think I’m breathing, woman?
This is fresh air. I’m sitting beside the open window.

I had the common sense to understand what she meant: she didn’t really care about my lungs.
She wanted me out of the house. Out of her way.
She wanted space, silence, and the dignity of not having a kid sprawled around while she carried dealt with not being comfortable in her own skin and having too little peace.

And so, I responded. As kids with sharp minds and sharper tongues tend to do:
“I am getting fresh air. The window’s open.”

That’s when I learned something important:
Truth, delivered without wisdom, can cost you.

I got hit.

Not abused. Not beaten. But slapped—for what she called “having a smart mouth.”
Because I had the nerve to point out the logic she was dodging.
Because I named the thing she didn’t want to admit: that she just wanted me gone.

So yes, I surrendered the chair.
But not quietly. Not blindly.
I gave up the comfort after trying to explain myself, and for my honesty, I got punished.

That’s when I learned that being right doesn’t always make you safe.
And that adults aren’t always fair.

Wisdom would’ve said:
This was about me.
It wasn’t about air. It wasn’t about health.
It was about me being around when she wanted solitude and didn’t know how to ask for it.
It was about presence feeling like pressure to someone barely holding it together.
And wisdom would’ve helped me see the difference between honesty and challenge.
Would’ve taught me how to hold my ground without lighting the fuse.

But I hadn’t earned that wisdom yet.

So I went outside. Sat on the porch. Heated and silenced.
Not because I wanted to, but because that’s what surviving in someone else’s storm looks like.
You adapt. You get quiet. You learn when truth is too heavy for the room it's in.

Now?
I sit by windows all the time.
In peace. In choice.
And when I hear echoes of that old screech in my mind—“Get out, move on, don’t make waves”—I pause.
I check the air.

If the window’s open and the breeze is kind, I stay.
Because I no longer trade comfort for compliance.
Because I know the difference now—between obedience and wisdom.